Chapter 9
For the rest of the evening, I can’t escape my father’s eyes.
After rejoining my fainting fiancé, I scan the crowd for an opportunity to slip away, but it never comes up.
The King’s Guards seem to have tripled since the party began, their copper-colored armor speckles the ballroom like cinnamon on black tea.
Their eyes, like my father’s, never leave me, tracking my every move.
Hunter squeezes my hand as we dance. I miss several steps in a row before a troubled look crosses his face.
He leans in close, his warm breath against my ear.
“I take it you did something naughty while I pretended to be indisposed.” There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, but I can hear the underlying concern.
I shake my head slightly. To my relief, Hunter doesn’t press further, though I can see the questions forming behind his eyes. No doubt he’ll corner me tomorrow, when we’re away from prying eyes.
When dawn breaks, most of the guests have dispersed. Those who remain are barely standing, drunk on wine and palace gossip. I grit my teeth and curtsey to my father. He nods, granting me permission to escape.
Hunter takes my hand and presses a chaste kiss to my knuckles. Several nearby nobles cuddle closer to their partners, as if Hunter’s affection toward me is contagious. I play the part of a lovesick lady and feign a pretty blush. They can’t see the growing darkness in my heart.
When Hunter looks up at me with those dark brown eyes, I see exhaustion etched into his face. I’m sure he’s as relieved the night is over as I am, though you’d never know it to look at him. His pleasant smile never cracks.
As I leave, several guards step forward to follow me. It’s hardly a surprise; I expected as much. I won’t be able to go anywhere without these copper-colored shadows until the wedding.
The revelers are still dancing, drunk and sloppy, as I weave through the ballroom. When I step into the quiet dawn, the clawing need to escape eases. Once we reach the gardens beyond the great hall, I can finally breathe again.
The world is pale with twinkling, golden sunlight. As I walk through the grass on my way toward my rooms, my dress leaves a trail of disturbed dewdrops, like a paintbrush across a portrait.
My copper tails follow at a respectful distance.
When I reach the sanctuary of my room, I pause at the threshold, turning to face them.
Without a word, I close the heavy doors, shutting them out.
They’ll remain out in the hall until I emerge again.
Their armor clanks as they shift beyond the door, settling in for a long wait.
They assume I’m off to bed, like everyone else.
My dress is heavy, and the hem soaked. It’s a struggle to unlace and take it off alone, but I don’t want to call for servants.
Finally, the gown sinks to the ground at my feet and I take a deep breath.
My ribs ache from the structured corset, and all I want to do is fall into the plush bed to sleep.
But I can’t rest now. The Wolf in the kennels could be dead already, taking the answers to my questions along with him.
From the bottom of my wardrobe, I pull out the simple stained gown I wore in the borderlands.
I knew better than to trust it to the maids, who no doubt would’ve thrown it into the fire.
I washed it myself in the bath, then hung it to dry in front of the fireplace, just like I had back at the encampment.
It’s wrinkled and stained, but all the better to blend in.
After changing, I clamber out the window and down the thick wisteria vines that climb up the stone face of the palace. The old habit feels good, like I’m just a silly girl again, playing at rebellion just to spite my father.
The hood of my brown cloak hangs low over my face as I cross the castle grounds for the third time in less than a day.
Near the stables, I dodge hungry chickens pecking at the worms in the dew-soaked ground.
I grab two filthy pails filled with water from the well.
The stable hands seem slow and groggy after their night of toasting my impending marriage.
One of them winces when a horse bangs his stall door with an impatient kick, eager for his breakfast.
My arms tremble as I approach the thick wooden door of the kennels, and not just from the weight of the pails. The guards barely notice me at all. To them, I’m just a lowly servant girl, sent to clean the kennels. They open the doors for me without question.
I hurry inside, afraid one of them might recognize me, but why would they? The heir they know has beautiful gowns and walks with the confidence only the highest nobles possess. My auburn hair is tucked under my cloak and I’m dressed like a woman to be ignored.
The guards close the doors behind me with a deafening clang. The first foxhound hisses in the darkness. I mentally reach for my power, where it rests in my core. The glow of my light helps ease the growing panic, but the stench chokes me when I take a deep, steadying breath.
I hurry down into the depths, water splashing from the pails as I go. Foxhounds leap at the doors of their prisons, chains rattling. Above the noise, I don’t hear any sounds from the dying man. I might be too late.
An enormous ring of keys hangs on a nearby hook, so I pull it down.
They rattle in my hands as I search for the correct number to unlock the Wolf’s door.
When I open it, my light illuminates the shadows within.
The man hasn’t moved from where the guards tossed him last night.
Iron shackles bind his hands and ankles where he lies in a pool of filth. His face is as pale as death.
When I kneel on the ground next to him, my knees sink into the putrid, bloody mud. My hand reaches out to touch his pale face. He’s breathing, but just barely.
He’s also warm. Too warm. Fever has set in.
With a start, I realize the arrow is still lodged in his chest. Miraculously, it missed his lungs and heart, otherwise, he’d have been dead hours ago. I take a deep breath and think. My power is next to useless with the weapon still lodged in his chest.
This is just like the borderlands, I tell myself. Except there, when a patient died, it was tragic, but it wasn’t personal. I have to keep this man alive.
Since the arrow entered through his back, I need to remove it through the exit wound in his chest. I rip open his soiled shirt, exposing pale skin mottled with bruises and caked with dried blood. The arrow tip isn’t sticking out far enough for me to grasp.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the restless shifting of the foxhounds in nearby cells. I pull the Wolf onto his side and reach behind him, feeling for the wooden shaft. It juts out several inches where the guard broke it off last night, rough and splintered.
I can’t push it through with just my hands; I need leverage. My eyes dart around the bare cell, finding nothing useful. In desperation, I remove my shoe, testing its firm sole. It’s far from ideal, but it’s all I have.
Thankfully, the Wolf is unconscious. I take another steadying breath and press the sole of my shoe into the arrow shaft. Slowly, agonizingly, the tip emerges from his chest.
The Wolf lets out a bone-chilling groan that echoes off the stone walls.
I stumble backward. My heart leaps into my throat.
His face twists in pain and sweat prickles his pale forehead, but he isn’t conscious.
Gritting my teeth, I press the shoe harder.
The shaft slides through until I can’t push any further.
With effort, I roll him onto his back, the arrow’s tip now protruding upward like a macabre flag.
The scent of fresh blood sends the foxhounds into a frenzy. Their chains rattle in the nearby cells as they scramble to get closer. I try to block out the mental image of them slathering and drooling in hopes of fresh meat.
My hands shake as I grab the shaft below the arrowhead and pull up. Blood squelches out of the wound and the Wolf groans again, but thankfully doesn’t move. As I work, I can’t help but wonder if this brush with death will give the Wolf a new perspective on the powers his kind wield so carelessly.
I toss the blood-slicked arrow aside. Stumbling to one of the grimy buckets, I rinse my hands with water that’s tinged with rust. Then I pour some over his wound, washing away gore and grime to better assess the damage.
What I see makes my stomach churn. The flesh around the hole is dark with poisoned blood. The Wolf is nearly dead.
With great effort, I roll him onto his side again.
Placing one hand on each of his open wounds, I focus and reach for the power that’s deep inside me.
A faint, ethereal glow pools in my palms, casting a soft light that dances across the rough stone walls.
I guide my gift toward the Wolf, feeling the familiar tug of energy as I heal him.
This isn’t so different from healing an amputated limb or soothing a fever gone too far.
I draw out the impurities, knit flesh back to flesh.
He’s lucky that no organs were pierced. Exhaustion makes the edges of my vision fuzzy.
It’s never good to heal without proper rest, but we don’t have that kind of time.
Finally, his flesh is mended. I check both sides to be sure, pouring water over them to clean the Wolf’s skin as much as I can. The black veins of blood poisoning have vanished. There isn’t even a bruise.
Rolling him onto his back, I take stock of my situation.
I’m alone in a cage with a Wolf. A Wolf who has every right to hate me when he wakes up.
Judging by the shadow power he used in my father’s rooms, he could be a very powerful Annwyn noble.
If he can make shadows, he could kill with little more than a glance.
Or, so the stories are told. I’ve never actually met anyone from Annwyn.
Even so, a strange calm settles over me. I’m not afraid to die.