Chapter 20 The Blood
Cherry is fourteen, I am nineteen, and I have just killed my first man.
There is blood on my hands, blood on my legs, my stomach, blood running down my face and throat.
I've shifted back into human form, trying to leave my killer form behind.
To hide from my actions. But the blood comes with me, and the killer comes too.
She is still there, on the inside.
It is a thing I will never be able to unknow: what I am capable of.
The face of the dead man gapes up at me from the dusty stone of the ruined hall.
His face, his head, which is chewed and bloody.
Lying several feet away from the rest of his body.
All around, the stones are red and wet with his blood.
The inside of my throat is coated with it as well.
My stomach, roiling with it. Blood, blood, blood.
You never imagine how much blood is inside a person until you see it spilt.
All at once, the sight and the knowledge are too much for me.
I fall to my knees, heaving. I vomit up a gushing river of blood and bile, my heaves eventually turning to sobs.
And then I am just sobbing on my hands and knees with the blood all around me.
A single thought keeps me together, holds the fibers of my trembling soul in place, preventing them from shivering into the ether.
Cherry. My promise to keep her safe.
My sacred charge.
I crawl to my feet, my naked body coated with the worst kinds of human filth—sweat and blood and bile, along with the dust of centuries I have brought up from the floor with me.
I cannot go back to Cherry like this.
I must wash. As I take two steps towards the exit—and the old horse trough that sits out in the gardens, collecting rain—I pause.
My right foot is in a puddle of blood, and there are body parts and viscera strewn about the hall.
I must clean this up first. Cherry must not see this, either.
Breathing deep, I summon a wave of cleansing heat inside me, and let it out in a breath of fire, burning away the man's corpse.
Wishing to burn away the memory of this day.
The blood sizzles on the stones, and then that is gone, too, leaving behind only a faint brownish stain.
The man's bones and scorched armor are left behind too, and I decide I will bury them.
Tomorrow. I cannot bear to do more this day.
Outside, I splash water from the trough onto my arms and legs and stomach.
Then I dunk my head under the surface to clean my face and hair.
Afterwards, I am smooth and clean as if born anew.
But my insides feel the same. This stain, I know, will never wash out.
It takes me a time to will my dragon form to return.
My body wants to resist the shift, to stay human and small and innocent.
Dainty as my human mother.
But I know what my mother would say, for all that she was fine-boned and petite.
There is work to be done, Tarah. And when there is work to be done, we must do it.
No time to tarry, no reason to whine.
Steeling myself with the memory of her dogged, determined strength, I leave my human skin behind and take on my dragon scales.
I heave myself into the sky, and within moments I am back in the tower, in my old dress, making my way up the steps toward Cherry's chamber.
She is just where I left her, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.
But the game of chess we had been playing, with our homemade board and whittled chess pieces, has been shoved aside.
Cherry's face is pale as the grave, her hair plated into anxious twists where her hands have been worrying at it.
It is a few months since I removed all the sharp objects from the tower, and her hair has grown out long and unruly.
I have hardly left her side for more than a moment at a time since that day—the day I found her in a puddle of her own blood.
But today I have been gone for what feels like hours, and I can see the signs of strain in Cherry's eyes.
Yes, there is work to be done.
No time to think about myself. I must comfort her.
I must make sure she is alright, staying busy, keeping her spirits up.
I must not leave her alone. And I must not share my own burdens with her.
I force a smile on my face, going over to her.
I touch her cheek. Squeeze her shoulder.
"All is well," I promise. "You are safe.
"
"But—what was that?
I heard a shouting—screaming, almost."
"There was a man," I say tightly.
"But he is gone now."
"A-a man?
" Her eyes are big.
"He was a bad man.
I don't know what he wanted, but this is what your father warned us of—the danger that was after you.
"
Cherry begins to tremble, and I wrap her in my arms, promising fiercely, "I would not have let him near you, Cherry.
I would not let anyone hurt you. I never will.
"
"I know," whispers Cherry, burying her face in the front of my dress.
"I know you won't."
"I have you," I tell her. "I have you."
Even if I don't have anything else.
I wake to the light of dawn and the warm weight of another body pressed against my own.
Not Cherry, I know immediately. Cherry is tall, but light and insubstantial as a bird.
This body is thick with muscle and smells of books.
Marton.
For a moment I just breath him in, turning my face to the side so that my nose is buried against his shoulder.
The fabric of his tunic is chilled, and I realize that the air does feel rather brisk, the wind nipping at my exposed skin.
I am perfectly comfortable, though barely dressed, but Marton shivers ever so slightly in his sleep.
My eyes open, my mind coming fully awake.
We should get moving. That will warm him up.
And tonight we will keep the fire going all night so he will not be cold.
Decided, I sit up, and Marton makes a groggy murmuring noise, fingers reaching across the blanket for my absent warmth.
I build a wall around my heart to keep this sight from touching me.
Cherry, I remind myself.
Vakhrin. I will keep all of my friends safe, and it does not matter if there is nothing left of me at the end.
I am not what matters.
"Wake up," I tell Marton, climbing to my feet.
When he doesn't stir, I nudge him in the side with my bare toes.
And squeak in a most undignified manner when his hand darts out to grab my ankle, holding it captive.
He squints his eyes open, narrowing his gaze on me.
"We're you pretending to be asleep?
" I'm indignant, balancing on one foot. Trying decide if I should kick him.
One corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile in answer, and I decide that I really should kick him.
But this is not the time for games, especially not the kind that could hurt him if I'm not careful.
Thoughts grave, I extract my foot from his hold and pivot on a heal.
"We need to get going soon." I move about the camp, restocking our meager supplies.
I pause, looking around for our pack, and remember that Marton is lying on it.
"Get up."
Marton climbs to his feet, yawning and rubbing at his eyes.
He does seem genuinely tired, but my ungenerous mood suggests silently that he should have been sleeping instead of pretending to sleep.
As our bag is remade and repacked, I notice a crumpled ball of fabric stashed behind a stone at the edge of camp.
Curious, I cross to it and pick it up, shaking it out.
And stare.
It is the child's tunic from days ago.
The one I said we should not take, though Marton said we should.
I distinctly remember having won that argument, though.
"What is this?" I ask, turning around with the item held threateningly in one hand.
Marton eyes it dispassionately, polishing an apple on the front of his shirt.
"Tunic."
"It is the tunic I told you not to take," I spit.
Marton shrugs, taking a bite out of the apple.
He speaks around his mouthful, "It is just in case you get cold.
"
"In case I... In case I get cold!
?"
"Yes."
"I.
Don't. Get. Cold."
"No," Marton speaks slowly, chewing and swallowing.
A bit of heat comes into his eyes. "You said you don't often get cold.
That it takes extreme, frigid tempers to overcome the fire in your body.
" He gestures to the tunic with his apple.
"In case. We're going into the mountains, after all, with autumn snows on the way.
"
"I don't need you making decisions for me!
" I'm incensed at the thought.
"No, you don't need anyone taking care of you, isn't that right?
"
"That's right," I snap.
To prove my point, I fling the tunic to the ground.
"Well that's why I didn't ask you.
That's why I didn't listen to you.
You do what you want. Take care of Cherry and everyone else.
Fine. Good. But you can't stop me from—" Marton breaks off.
I'm practically trembling with outrage.
I can't quite explain why. Why this makes me feel so awful and out of control.
Like I might die, or just stop being who I am all of the sudden.
Because if someone is taking care of me, then what am I supposed to do?
But I clench my jaw tight, fighting down the restless dragon that moves within me.
She wants to shift and get far away from here, get somewhere she's safe, and alone, and in charge.
I'm the protector. The caretaker. I. Am.
No one else.
A growl rips out of my chest, and I clamp my hands over my mouth immediately, turning my back on Marton.
Dammit. Dammit, damn, damn, damn. Do not be a monster in front of him right now. Or ever. Don't.