Rodan grabbed that throat and, with a savage snarl, hurled the man to the ground, flinging him far from her.
“Maeve,” he cried, his hands slick with blood and shaking as they hovered over her injuries. She slid to the floor, her eyes glassy and distant. “Stay with me, Maeve.”
He reached for the flask inside his vest, whispering words over the open mouth of it before tipping the concoction into her mouth. She moaned and tried to turn her face away, but he held her, forcing the liquid down her throat. She swallowed and coughed, spraying blood.
Rodan stared as the creases eased from around her eyes and her body began to knit itself shut once more. He breathed a sigh of relief, witnessing the skin around her stomach close, cutting off the parts of her that had been torn out. Within her, new organs would form, whole and unmolested.
Her head rolled over, her amber eyes fixing on his, blood staining her face. “Am I dying?”
He shook his head. “No. No, you’ll be fine. Give the potion time to work.” Maeve moved, flinched, and seemed to notice her state of undress and awkwardly tried to cover her body with the torn fragments of her clothes. Rodan reached for the matter around him and pulled a cloak from the air, wrapping her body in it, covering her. “You’ll be alright, Maeve.”
Rodan saw Captain Price stride forward out of the crowd, his long coat open and his hair in disarray. “What is happening here?” he demanded.
Rodan did not take his eyes off Maeve. “Your peer attacked my companion,” he said. “She fought him off.”
Captain Price, a tall, lean man with a shaggy head of hair and sharp gray eyes, stepped forward and swept his eyes over the dying man, with the wounds to his throat, arm, and back, and the blood pooling under him. His face paled, and he looked at Maeve, also covered in red. “Will she be alright?” he asked, his voice soft enough that only Maeve and Rodan heard.
Rodan nodded, “I got to her in time.”
“Throw the body overboard,” the captain called to his crew. “Let the sharks have him.”
A half dozen men broke off from the others and came forward, hauling up the still moving body of Maeve’s attacker. Rodan’s blood boiled as they dumped the creature over the rails of the ship, wishing he had been able to do more to hurt the man, to prolong the pain of his death.
But there were other things to worry about now.
A low moan brought his attention around, and he turned to see Maeve struggle to sit up, wincing as she did so. He leaned over her, his hair sliding forward to shield her as much as possible from view. “Let’s get you to your cabin,” he said, his voice as gentle as he could manage while his blood still boiled for Conroy. “Can you stand?”
Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head, hard, not raising her eyes to him. “I can’t.”
Without asking, Rodan bent lower and scooped her up, tucking the cloak in around her so that she was as covered as possible. She made a little pained gasp as he did so, but she did not shy from his touch, for which he thanked the gods.
“I’m taking her to her cabin,” he said, looking pointedly at Captain Price and his crew. “Do not disturb us.”
The captain bowed, and he and his men stepped aside, allowing Rodan to move below decks to the row of cabins set before the galley. His, right next to Maeve’s, was a bit larger, but she needed her own things. Her own space. So he opened the door to her cramped quarters and set her on the bed before kneeling down next to it.
With the door closed and the two of them in such proximity, he smelled the other man on her. His musky aroma, the scent of old alcohol and beer. More than that, however, was the iron tang of blood in the air.
Maeve’s face swelled on one side from what must have been multiple strikes, and her neck purpled. The potion tended to the most life threatening of her injuries, but she would need more to be fully healed.
He brought the flask out and moved to press it to her lips, but she turned her head away. “Maeve,” he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it without letting his fury show through. “I need you to drink this. You’re hurt. It’ll heal you.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks and on to her nose, but she stared at the side of the ship and the little window that allowed the light of the moon to shine through. He tried again, moving to tilt the flask into her mouth, but she shook her head, lifting her hands to bat him away, her motions sluggish and weak.
He settled back on his haunches, unsure of how to proceed. She needed to heal, but he could not force anything on her, especially now. He wanted to take her pain away.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm and settled down cross-legged on the floor by her bed. He looked down at his hands, encased in leather, and balled them into fists. “You brought up in the dream walking that you wished I could touch you without gloves,” he said, his voice soft but carrying. She did not respond, only continued to stare at the wall. He cleared his throat and continued. “We don’t know how it started, exactly, but back when the Fae were first created or evolved, there was a gift bestowed upon them: the ability to blend their own magic with the magic of another, creating a stronger force.
“The only drawback to this process is that it only works once. We call it the bond.” He paused and stared at her. He thought he had seen her move, if only a little. “You cannot bond until you have grown. When a Fae reaches thirty years of age, they are given the gift. At that point, any unbonded Fae or other species that they can touch palm-to-palm will become their bond-mate.”
He shifted a little, watching her. “Some bond with their siblings, some with their friends, but more often it is a union of romance. Not one to be undertaken lightly.” He flexed his fingers. “So far as I know, I have taken the longest out of our species to find my bond-mate. Almost two thousand years. It was not for lack of chances. I knew some skilled people with whom it would have been beneficial to bond. I came close to doing so, a time or two.
“There has always been something holding me back. Keeping me from wanting to commit to a person in such a way. But you?” He took a deep breath, noting that Maeve turned enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. “Maeve, if I bond with you, I can help you in more ways than one. I can take away your pain, but I can also help relieve you of the memory of this night. I can take it all away.”
She licked her lips. “Would you remember?” Her voice was like sandpaper, cutting and raw.
He nodded, “Yes, but you would not.”
Her eyes closed and tears slipped down her cheeks. “No,” she rasped. “No. We can’t.”
“We can,” he insisted. “Maeve, I—I care for you. I do not wish to see you in such pain.”
She laughed. It was so unexpected that he blinked, unsure he heard correctly. She laughed again, and wiped at the tears coursing down her face, sniffling as she chuckled. “Rodan,” she said, her tone patronizing, “would you take away memories of years of my life? Do you think this was the first time?”
His lips parted, “What do you mean?”
She turned to him, finally. “You read the books, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What did it say about my childhood?”
“You lost your parents when you were very young.”
She nodded. “And I went into foster care. I was too old for most people to want to adopt me, you see. I was five. So, I bounced from house to house. When I was eight, I was raped for the first time.”
He flinched, but she pressed on.
“That went on for some time, until he got caught. Then I was sullied goods. Each of the fosters after that heard about it. When I was fourteen, it started to happen again. This time because I was already such a dirty girl that I deserved it,” she spat. “And then I found the Realms.”
He felt overcome with the urge to hold her, but he could not bear to feel her move away. Unused to this impotence, his stomach clenched.
“Those soldiers that you sent after us? What do you think some of them did, once they found me, alone? I was
sixteen by then, but I had my friends, and my friends killed for me.” She swallowed hard. “Sebastian and Pike and Troy, they killed those men. Cut pieces off them. Sebastian told me that you must have ordered it—”
“Maeve, I never—”
“I know,” she said, her voice terrible in its calmness. “I knew even then, I think.” Her breath hitched. “Why does this keep happening to me, Rodan? Do I have some sign above my head that says, ‘Rape me, hurt me?’ Is there some signal I’m giving out that—”
“No,” he said, his voice insistent. “No, of course not.”
“Then why,” she pressed. “Why does this keep happening? I—” she gulped for air and sat up, clutching at the stained fabric over her breast. “I can’t breathe.”
He rose to his knees, but she flinched, and he pulled back, ashamed at himself for thinking she would want his touch now. He shot his eyes around the room as she gasped for breath and saw nothing that would calm her. Cursing, he tore at the surrounding matter, rearranging the space of her cabin and his so that they merged. Maeve watched with wide, frantic eyes as this happened, her gulping, gasping breaths coming faster and faster.
“Maeve,” he soothed, “calm down. Breathe. You’re alright. You’re safe now. I won’t let anything—”
“You—” She panted between each word. “You. Can’t. Promise. That.”
He pressed his lips together, and for the first time in his long life he was small compared to the overwhelming grief that poured out of her. Grief for a stolen childhood. Grief over the violation of her body, again and again.
His hands in fists, he rose and strode over to where he created a small washroom. He checked the deep copper tub and made the water run hot and steaming. He added oils to it, the motions mechanical. He could not touch her. He could not help her. He could provide the things that might make a small difference, and that would have to be enough.
She hiccupped as he returned to the cabin, made enormous now with beds far removed from each other. If she would accept it, he would not leave her alone again, not for a long while. He would be her watchdog if he had to be. He would not let anyone touch her in this manner again, not ever. He would die before letting it happen.
“I have drawn you a bath,” he said, his voice gentle. “There’s a lock on the door. Fresh clothing. Everything you need.”
“Water,” she begged.
He summoned a goblet, and she gulped it down, the water running in rivulets out of the corners of her mouth, her lips swollen and the bottom one split. “Please, Maeve, drink the potion,” he asked. “You should heal.”
She shoved the water back into his hands and continued to clutch at her shirt. “Fine,” she said. “Fine, give it to me.”
He passed her the flask, and she drank deep of its contents. She pulled a face as she finished, handing it back to him. “That’s foul.”
Even as she said the words, he saw the purpling bruises begin to fade to green, yellow, and then to the regular tanned tone of her skin. The swelling of her lip went down, and the cut vanished. Her face relaxed, and he recognized that other parts of her healed as well.
She swung her legs off the bed and wrapped the cloak around her chest, careful not to let it slip and expose her torn clothes. Without speaking another word, she went to the washroom, closed the door, and bolted the lock.
He was left standing there, holding the empty flask and hearing the creak of the ship as it moved and the gentle murmur of the crew talking from the galley.
He stared at the flask, his suspicions confirmed.
He knew only one potion for healing, and it only worked when interacting with Fae biology. The last time he gave it to her, he administered it to her from his mouth, sure it to be the only way to save her life. This time, however, he gave it to her directly. Ready at a moment’s notice to return to the original way of application, but he wanted to know. Know for sure.
Now he did.
Maeve was not human.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Maeve
FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE VOYAGE Maeve remained, most of the time, in the cabin.
Rodan did not leave her side. He brought her food, brought her books, and brought her stories of his life. She started to crack the enigma and glimpse the person beneath the imperial Fae shell. Sometimes they spoke of what happened, in quiet voices so no one overheard.
“I thought him attractive,” she admitted to him one night, sat curled up on her bed with the covers cocooning her body, a mug of herbal tea and honey in hand. “That’s almost the worst part. He made a pass at me before, when we sailed aboard his ship, and I remember thinking, He would be someone I’d look twice at on Earth.”
“You couldn’t guess what he planned.”
She rolled her eyes. “All men are capable of it, just some more than others.”
Rodan frowned. “I disagree. I would never—”
“You don’t count, you’re not human.” she said with a smile. “Maybe that’s why I don’t mind you around, still.”
She bathed at least twice a day, sometimes more. No matter how she scrubbed or how hot the water, she kept remembering Conroy’s hands on her body.
She avoided the men on board, and they respected it with quick glances and scurrying footsteps. Captain Price came to visit the cabin once, giving the newly opened space a wide-eyed look-around without comment. “Maeve,” he’d said, “if there is anything, I can do for you, anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”
She shook her head. “Just get us where we’re going.” She wanted as little to do with this ship as possible after she departed.
When not in the cabin or on deck to take some air, Maeve would duck down to the bellow decks and visit Leona. She and Ender, stabled along with the chickens, the Captain’s horse, and three vocal goats, were tended to several times a day by the Captain’s men. As she increased her visitation, however, the men made themselves scarce. She petted and groomed the palfrey, brushing her until she shined. She even tended to Ender, when he let her, the stallion tossing his great black main when he tired of her attentions.
Maeve talked to Leona about what happened. She confessed her secrets, and the horse’s liquid brown eyes were gentle, like the most patient of friends. Maeve grew to love the scent of hay and horse sweat. It left the impression of earthy cleanliness.
She gathered some things she found down in the lower decks and brought them up to the cabin. Maeve sensed the magic of the Realms clearer now than she had in weeks. It swirled around where the water met the hull, and pulsed from every scrap of life she came in contact with. She took clippings of Leona’s hair, bits of straw and alfalfa, a chicken egg, and a brimming cup of seawater and combined them in a pot, stirring the mixture first one way and then the other. A puff of green smoke billowed out of it, stinking of sulfur, but when Maeve drank the contents, her stomach settled and the rolling motion of the ship affected her less.
Rodan’s eyes fixed on her as she did this, silent, the sunlight streaming through the portal or the dull orange glow of the lanterns reflecting off his skin. She experimented with more and more complex potions as their journey continued. She sensed the properties and effects of the items she found, and made potions to help a toothache for one of the sailors, or one to increase the strength of the wind. One she poured into the sea, and it brought fish leaping up on deck, the sailors scrabbling to catch hold of the silver creatures as they thrashed and glittered on the hard wood.
But even with her potions to occupy her, thoughts still strayed to the events of the first night on board.
On the last night, Rodan sitting up in bed reading a book and her staring out the window at the waning moon, she said, “He wondered if I was going to be with you. That was the trigger.”
There was the flutter of pages as Rodan put a finger into the book and set it down. “Be with me?”
“He,” she did not want to say his name, “said that you would trample over me to get to your goal. Said he wanted to prove
to me you didn’t give a shit. Wanted to ruin me so you wouldn’t want me.” Her breath hitched on the last, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. “But you’re still here.”
“Of course,” he said, his voice soft and melodic. She closed her eyes at the sound, a tear slipping down one cheek. “Maeve, I will not abandon you.”
Her chest hurt at the words, and she shook her head. “I can’t believe that.”
There was a rustling, and she turned her head enough to see he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and his chin in his palm. “What would it take to prove it to you?”
Maeve sighed. “You and I both understand you aren’t free to—” She swallowed and stared at him. “Could you, though?”
“Could I what, Maeve?”
Tears threatened to overflow, and she, afraid to blink and let them spill, allowed them to cloud her vision instead. “Could you ever want me? Not let me go? Or—” She choked back the emotion threatening to strangle her. “Or are you like Sebastian? Using me to get to the throne, then casting me back into my world without a second thought?” She swiped at her eyes, babbling over the silence which greeted her from his side of the room. “Never mind. It’s stupid. I’m just—I’m just tired.”
She did not notice he had risen until he knelt next to her bed, his hands gripping the little rail that would keep her in place if the ship rocked too much in a storm. “Do you not remember what I said to you, all those years ago?”
“You were afraid. That’s why you said those things.”
He shook his head, and she stared at him. “I am more than two thousand years old. It was not the first time I feared for my throne. No, Maeve.” His hand lay on the mattress between them, a silent entreat. “I desired you then as I desire you now. If you accepted my proposal, I would have regretted nothing.”
“Why?” She shook, overcome with his words. “I’m nothing. I—”
“You’re everything,” he whispered. “Maeve, what I said remains true. If you will stay, rule by my side, I would want you. Always.”
Catching Pathways Page 18
