30. Isolde
CHAPTER THIRTY
ISOLDE
W hen the other Wolves had hauled Bastian away, the last one finally released Isolde.
“Stay put, bloodsucker,” he barked, shoving Isolde onto Bastian’s bed.
She wasted no time scrambling for her discarded knives, snatching them off the floor and wrenching them out of their sheaths.
“Come up with a better insult,” she hissed, whirling on the Wolf with the daggers raised before her. I’ll do a lot worse than bloodsucking if you kill him with your primitive fucking Punishment, she wanted to snarl. The words were on the tip of her tongue.
Until she caught sight of the Wolf’s face.
His pupils were blown wide, his nostrils flaring as he stared at her.
He didn’t seem to notice the razor sharp blades she brandished at him—or else he didn’t care.
Blond hair fell into his eyes as he inhaled deeply.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he took a step toward Isolde—almost involuntarily.
Isolde’s fangs slid free with the burst of adrenaline that flooded her body.
She bared them at the Wolf, lifting her daggers even higher.
“I’ve been granted clemency,” she hissed, horribly conscious of the fact that the Wolf had her cornered, trapped between the wall and the bed. “Anselm decreed it.”
At Anselm’s name, the Wolf blinked. He swiped the back of his hand beneath his nose, as if to wipe it clean of Isolde’s scent. He shot her a look that suggested she was no better than a pox-ridden harlot and stomped out of the room.
Isolde bolted into the common room after him, but he was gone before she even reached the bedroom door. On the other side of the space, Selene stood in her own doorway, clad in her nightgown with a disapproving frown on her face.
“Care to explain what all your wailing is about?” she demanded.
“Everett,” Isolde blurted, staggering across the space toward Selene.
Her heart was slamming painfully against her ribs, flying at a speed she hadn’t felt since she was human.
Not even the night she’d been poisoned with nightsbane.
“He— they came and took Bastian. They’re going to deal him the Punishment, and?—”
“That’s Wolf business, girl,” Selene chided, interrupting her. “That’s what they do here, the barbaric, unevolved dogs.”
“But Bastian said the Punishment can be deadly.” Isolde forced herself to take a deep breath, on the verge of hyperventilating. “If he?—”
“Our clemency will stand if Bastian dies, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Selene interrupted again. “Once it’s granted, not even death of the protector can override it until we leave the territory. I know Wolf law quite well, you know.”
Isolde, in fact, did not know. Selene had never mentioned that she knew anything about Wolves beyond a hundred different ways to kill them. At that exact moment, though, she didn’t care. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” Isolde bit out. “They could kill him, Selene.”
“And if they do, I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” Selene said sharply. “He’s a Wolf , Isolde. If I hadn’t trained you better, I’d start to think you had feelings for the bastard.”
With that, Selene retreated into her bedroom and slammed the door.
Isolde stared after her Sire. She hates Wolves, she reminded herself, trying to ignore the stab of pain Selene’s words had caused in her chest. She always has. Of course she was going to react that way.
With shaking hands, Isolde returned to Bastian’s room to retrieve her pants.
She didn’t bother with her boots, but she did strap the daggers back to her thighs.
Then she went to her own room and laid down on her bed to wait.
At some point, she dozed off, and jolted awake to what she thought was the sound of a door closing.
She vaulted to her feet, darting into the common room?—
Only to find it dark and empty.
Instead of going back to bed, she sunk into one of the dining chairs, locked her gaze on the door, and tried to remember how to breathe.
Isolde had fallen asleep again, her cheek pressed to the cold surface of the dining table, when the door really did open.
The scent of blood registered before she was fully awake, spicy and familiar and so strong that her canines slid free and punctured the inside of her lip. She bolted upright at the powerful scent, blinking sleep from her eyes?—
And found Bastian clinging to the doorframe, standing in a puddle of his own blood.
Isolde had never moved so quickly as she did right then. Bastian managed two staggering steps toward her before his knees gave out, but Isolde was there, catching the brunt of his weight and guiding him to the floor.
“Oh, Bastian,” she gasped, taking in his battered features. One eye was swollen shut, the skin of his left cheekbone torn to shreds, and both sides of his face were already black with bruises. “What did they—oh, shit. ”
His back. Oh, God, his back .
The entire expanse of it, from his shoulders to the top of his bloody pants, was shredded.
Strips of skin hung in ribbons, leaving muscle exposed, and—hell, that was bone, glinting white through the mess.
The trail of blood leading out into the hall was thick and dark, and here, spreading around them on the gray stones of the floor…
Isolde didn’t know how Bastian was still alive, let alone conscious.
“Get,” he rasped, staring blearily up at her through the eye that wasn’t swollen, “Aggie.”
“Aggie?” Isolde repeated. “Who... where do I find?—”
But Bastian had gone limp, his eye falling closed.
She groped frantically for his throat, her bloodied fingers slipping over his skin as she felt for his pulse. She knew right where to find it, always with unerring accuracy, like a sixth sense, but right now…
“Bastian?” Isolde’s voice cracked. “Bastian. Oh, no, no. No. Please don’t?—”
There . She felt it—faint, but there, fluttering against her fingertips.
She let out a string of half-relieved, half-panicked curses. Bastian was completely limp in her lap, unconscious but alive—though for how long he might stay that way if she didn’t do something , she had very little clue and even less faith.
She could attempt to turn him, but she didn’t even know if it would work on a Wolf, nor did she think she could bring herself to do that to him if it would. Not after everything he’d just told her about the sun and the lake and his childhood at Lake Hall.
Aggie. That’s what Bastian had said. Get Aggie.
“Hold on,” she murmured, shifting him as gently as she could off her lap. “Don’t you dare die on me.”
Even in unconsciousness, a pained grunt slipped out of Bastian as she eased him onto the floor.
Isolde tried to tell herself that seemed like a good sign, but her heart was still slamming against her sternum with unfettered panic.
She shoved to her feet, rivers of blood pouring from her own clothes?—
“Bastian!”
Isolde’s hands flew to the daggers at her thighs as the door to the suite banged open once more.
She planted herself between Bastian and the newcomers just as he’d done for her, a snarl tearing its way past her elongated fangs.
She’d be damned if she let anyone come in here and lay another fucking finger on Bastian.
But it was Anselm, his dark eyes wide with panic. On his heels was the old woman from the feast hall, clutching a bulging leather satchel in her gnarled hands.
Anselm shoved past Isolde, dropping to his knees beside Bastian. “Damn it all to hell,” he swore, taking in the state of Bastian’s back. “Damn it, Everett. Aggie, now. ”
Aggie . Relief flooded Isolde’s veins as the old woman hurried forward, tearing open the flap of her satchel.
“Table,” she ordered gruffly, pointing at the dining table.
Isolde didn’t have to be told twice. She snatched the candelabra from the center of the table and pitched it in the direction of the sideboard.
By the time she turned back around, Anselm was hoisting Bastian up.
Isolde ran to help, heedless of the blood that soaked her clothes as they lifted Bastian onto the table.
Aggie extracted a bottle of clear liquid from her satchel and uncorked it. A sharp, astringent smell prickled in Isolde’s nose—the same substance Bastian had used to clean her nightsbane wound. Aggie turned the bottle over and began to pour it onto Bastian’s ravaged back.
“Good thing he’s unconscious,” Anselm muttered, watching with unfocused eyes.
Isolde managed a small nod of agreement. It had been nearly unbearable, having that substance poured over her small cut. With wounds like Bastian had…
Next, Aggie pulled out a cloth and began sponging away the blood. As she got a better look at the mess of ravaged flesh, she clicked her tongue.
“Brutal,” she muttered. “Unfit to lead.”
Isolde had a feeling she wasn’t talking about Bastian. Anselm, either.
“Will he...” Isolde started, trailing off when she couldn’t bring herself to ask the rest of the question.
“He’ll live,” Aggie said gruffly. She fished around in her satchel and pulled out another jar—this one some kind of salve.
Isolde forced herself not to look away as Aggie began to spread the salve, which smelled just as sharp as the first liquid, into Bastian’s wounds. Anselm had retreated to stand against the wall, his eyes still not quite seeing.
Aggie paused, her gray stare narrowing as she leaned down to peer more closely at Bastian’s back. “Broken claws left behind,” she announced. “Have to get them out.”
Then she plunged her fingers into the wound.
Bastian came to, and began to scream.
Isolde shot forward, throwing herself into the chair closest to Bastian’s head.
“It’s alright,” she assured him, though those words sounded like an empty promise. “You’re okay. Aggie just has to?—”
Bastian’s screaming only mounted as Aggie puled the first claw out, then set in on another. He began to thrash, fresh blood spilling free and pooling on the table beneath him.
“Hold him,” Aggie barked.
Isolde grabbed onto Bastian’s arms. “Hold still,” she begged him, afraid to cause any more pain by gripping him too forcefully. “You have to hold still, Bastian.”
“She said hold him ,” Anselm snapped at her from the other end of the table, where he had pinned Bastian’s legs. “I know you’re strong enough to pin a Wolf. So do it!”
Biting back a sob, Isolde did. She rose up and laid her weight against Bastian’s biceps, using all her strength to hold him down.
“Almost done,” she lied against his ear, the scent of his blood stuffing itself up her nose. “It’s okay. You’re alright.”
Over and over again, she whispered those empty promises until Bastian’s screams turned hoarse, and finally, just as Aggie pulled the last claw from his back, he slumped into unconsciousness.
Isolde sunk back into her chair, breathing hard.
Anselm staggered back to his place against the wall—alongside Selene, who had come out of her room at some point during the commotion.
The three of them watched as Aggie took out a needle and a spool of thread and began to stitch Bastian’s wounds closed.
It took what felt like hours for Aggie to finish. Finally, she pulled out a cloth doused in something that smelled like mint and licorice and laid it across Bastian’s back, covering the wounds.
“Should only take a few days for him to heal,” Aggie said, wiping her hands clean. “Don’t move him.”
With that, she shuffled out, the glass bottles in her satchel clinking as she went.
“Well, then,” Selene sighed when Aggie was gone. “If the crisis is averted, I think I’ll go back to bed.” She gave Isolde a long look, one she didn’t particularly care to read, and disappeared into her room once again.
That left only Anselm, who was staring at Bastian with that haunted look in his eyes. When Isolde shifted in her chair, he jerked, his head snapping around like he’d forgotten she was there.
He stared at her for a moment—at the hand Isolde rested on the back of Bastian’s neck, her fingers smoothing absently though the bloodied ends of his hair—before saying, “I gather you’re more than up to the task of watching over him.”
Just like with Selene, Isolde didn’t care to read too deeply into the implication behind those words. “Yes. Where are you going?”
“To deal with my other son,” he said with a grimace, and stalked out.
Thoroughly exhausted, Isolde turned back to Bastian. His eyes were closed, his brow creased with pain, even in sleep. She kept her palm flattened against the back of his neck, letting the familiar heat of his skin reassure her that he was still alive.
With the other hand, she scooped up one of his and clutched it in hers until night fell.