Chapter 32
The trek to Phulan’s medic tent at the edge of the upcoming battlefield was more solemn than Emillie remembered it being in Monsumbra.
In Eastwood, their camp bordered on the vampire city, and no move was necessary to ensure they were close enough to the fight to care for injured soldiers.
Now in Central Province, their main camp lay leagues behind her.
The march from the southern reaches of the Keonis Valley had been slow and quiet.
Tense. Most soldiers who walked alongside her horse laden with medical supplies had made it through Monsumbra, but not without bringing a certain level of trauma with them.
It did not matter how often or hard any soldier trained; they could not escape the inevitable pain of loss or the guilt that would haunt them.
Even Emillie could not close her eyes without hearing the screams of the injured and dying.
When she arrived at the medic tent, set far enough south to make the walls of the Hub barely visible on the horizon to the north, snow began to fall from heavy clouds that blanketed the night sky.
Pausing outside, she turned her face up so that the small frozen flakes gathered on her lashes.
It was too early in the year for snow, but something about the turn in the weather felt right—felt prophetic.
Shivering, Emillie pushed through the tent entrance to where Phulan barked orders at the dhemon women who had become something of trauma-bonded friends to her.
Though they barely understood one another, they knew one thing was certain: they would all work their hardest to ensure the survival of their soldiers, be it dhemon or vampire, fae or lycan.
Without needing to be asked, she swept into action to prepare the stations with bandages, salves, and stitching supplies.
“I have a task for you, girl.” Phulan’s switch from the dhemon tongue to common snapped Emillie’s attention to her, ready for the orders she now knew would come with such a quick transition.
Setting down the roll of bandages, Emillie hurried to the mage. “Yes?”
A heavy basket was shoved into her arms and another into the arms of a dhemon woman she now knew was called Vhin. Phulan looked between them and said, “Gret speaks very little common, but between the two of you, you’ll be able to communicate with just about everyone in the camp.”
Emillie peered into the basket to find several pitchers of a steaming liquid within. “What is this?”
“Don’t ask silly questions.” Phulan waved her off. “I want every fae soldier to take a sip of this before they leave. It will…bolster them for the battle.”
That seemed like a very short period of time to reach every single dhemon, high fae, and lycan. Surely they would be marching out sooner rather than later. Nonetheless, Emillie knew better than to talk back to the mage when she was in one of her flurries.
Emillie nodded and turned away with Vhin. Behind them, Phulan called, “Do not give any of it to vampires and do not even think of drinking it yourself, Emillie Harlow.”
Now she cast the mage a quizzical look, but rather than argue with her, she merely said, “My name is Emillie Nightingale and you will do well to remember that.”
There was no world in which she would live that she would allow Alek’s name to die after all he had done for her.
“Harlow. Nightingale. I care not.” Phulan’s mouth quirked into a small smile, and she winked an amethyst eye. “Go do what I said.”
Back out in the late autumn cold, Emillie was shocked by the sheer amount of snow that piled up in small drifts over the grass and shrubs.
It had not seemed quite so heavy when she had entered the tent, yet it had built so much that she was certain it would make the forthcoming battle a mess.
After what happened to Madan against the incensed dhemon in the mountains, she had no doubt there would be enough slipping to cause more injuries than they would want.
Trying not to think about the possibilities, she followed Vhin with her basket toward the dhemons and fae troops as they fixed their armor and checked their blades.
The dhemon woman offered her drink to the dhemons one by one, and Emillie turned toward the high fae to explain her mission.
They sipped from the pitchers without complaint, their brows furrowing a bit as the taste hit their tongue.
Only when she ran out of high fae to whom she could deliver the potion did she turn to the dhemons and pause.
Most were unfamiliar and, quite frankly, dour.
Not that she expected any of them to be excited about walking into a battle.
One, however, stood out with her long black braid and severe expression.
What was her name? Sylvia? Samara? Sara?
The dhemon’s red eyes fixed on her, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Vampii?”
Now if that did not send a shiver down Emillie’s spine, she did not know what would. Rather than allow the woman to stare at her as though she were her next meal—and not in the way Luce did—Emillie stepped closer and held up the pitcher. “From Phulan.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, then she leaned forward, sniffed the steaming drink, and shook her head as she rocked back on her heels. “No.”
Biting back a sharp retort, she held it out a bit more. “For the battle.”
“Sasja no fight.” The dhemon shook her head and held out her arms to show her lack of weapons. “No drink.”
Sasja. Right. The woman who had been with Azriel in Algorath and protected Madan by going with Ehrun.
Emillie once believed she had been forced to remember too many names when it came to the Society.
Expanding her circles as she had in recent months had her memorizing more faces and names than she would have previously deemed possible.
“Why are you out here, then?” Emillie asked.
Another dhemon woman stepped up beside her, though this one was covered in blades and even had a crossbow on her back. She whispered something to Sasja, then frowned at Emillie in wonder.
“Cinisja fight,” Sasja said with a grin spreading across her face. Then she directed the other woman’s attention to the pitcher. “Drink.”
Emillie held the pitcher aloft and, after grumbling something to Sasja in their language, took a sip of the steaming liquid. She sputtered a curse and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, glaring at a laughing Sasja who waved Emillie on.
No need to tell her twice.
It was not until Emillie came upon the lycans that a true knot formed in her belly. An entire pitcher had been emptied, and she wondered if she had enough to continue her task. What would happen to them if they did not sip from Phulan’s potion?
Moreso…what would happen if vampires did?
“Em?” Luce’s voice carried over the quiet huffs and low barks from the lycans in their wolf forms. She turned to find the beautiful woman standing naked in the snow before blinking, and clothes appeared on her body from that strange pocket realm.
“What are you doing out here? I thought you were in the medic tent.”
Emillie wove through the wolves. “Phulan gave me a potion to make sure you all sip from.”
Suspicion crept into those gold eyes, and Luce held out her hand. Emillie lifted the basket, allowing the lycan to take the pitcher and sip its contents. A beat later, her nose wrinkled. “Have you drunk this?”
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “Phulan said it is not for vampires.”
Luce hummed, licking her lips as though to gather more of the taste before taking Emillie’s gloved hands, one by one, to inspect the fabric, then the skin hidden beneath. “Do not let it drip on you.”
That uncomfortable knot twisted a little more. “What is it?”
“I can’t be sure,” Luce said slowly. “Just be careful with it. There is likely a reason that vampires are not meant to try it.”
“Well, now that you have had some,” Emillie said, stepping closer and eyeing her partner’s glistening lips, “am I not allowed to kiss you?”
Another contemplative hum, and Luce swiped her bare hand through the snow atop a nearby bush. She plopped the handful in her mouth, swished the melted ice around, then spat it on the ground. “I can’t taste it anymore, so I believe you are safe.”
“That does not sound very reassuring,” Emillie said, but closed the distance between them nonetheless and pressed her lips to Luce’s.
Burying her fingers beneath Emillie’s braided and twisted bun, Luce deepened the kiss, pressing her body tight against hers. “You have become quite the risk-taker.”
Emillie grinned against her mouth. “Hard not to be when the woman you love is a dangerous Lycan Queen.”
Luce chuckled, kissing her again, this time more possessively. “This battle will be quick, I think.”
Heart lurching, Emillie pulled back a bit. “When we are done here, I would like to go to L’Oden with you and…perform Silve’s ritual.”
Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say, for Luce pulled back and frowned at her. “Why would you say something like that right now?”
At first, Emillie gaped. She bit her lip and flipped through her memories before saying, “I did not mean to upset you. After watching the dhemons and everything with Ariadne and Revelie, I thought that, perhaps, you would want the same with me.”
The growl that escaped Luce’s throat was pure wolf. She pulled Emillie back to her again and, lips a breath from hers as they locked eyes, said, “You can’t say shit like that right before I go off to battle.”
“Why not?” An honest question as Emillie tried with all her might to piece together Luce’s sudden distress.
“People always die in stories after making such grand proclamations,” Luce murmured. “And I refuse to accept that either one of us will die tonight.”
It was Emillie’s turn to laugh. She wrapped her free arm around the lycan’s waist and brushed their lips together. “It is a good thing, then, that I do not put much stock in such silly stories. I live in reality where I know you will come back to me.”