by Eva Chase
Panic bubbles at the base of my throat. I shove myself toward the headboard and jerk my hand at the lantern orb fixed to the wall over my reading chair. After a few desperate waves, the amber light washes the room. I wrench back the sheets, and a strangled cry escapes my throat.
Blood. There’s blood streaked all across my thighs, blood soaking through the pale fabric of the sheets.
The smell of it thickens, and my stomach lurches. So much blood—I must be dying—oh God—
The bedroom door flies open, Whitt barging past it. His face is flushed, his eyes gleaming with an odd erratic light as he takes in me hunched on the bed. He stops just over the threshold, abruptly uncertain.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “I was coming up the stairs—I heard a yelp.”
He can’t see the blood from where he’s standing. I have the absurd impulse to shoo him away, to claim everything’s fine, to not have to admit that I’ve somehow mortally wounded myself while sleeping as if the embarrassment of it is worse than bleeding out.
Even if I would have attempted that tactic, Whitt has his wolfish senses. Before I can form any words at all, he inhales sharply and strides straight to the side of the bed. But when he comes up next to me, the concern that tensed his features relaxes. He looks at the mess and then at me.
“I—I don’t know how—” I stammer, and it occurs to me that I feel reasonably okay for someone on the verge of bleeding to death, no pain anywhere except that dull knot in my gut.
Whitt blinks and then chuckles softly, stroking his hand over my hair to rest on my shoulder. “It’s your monthly bleed. Have you never had it before? I had the impression it was common knowledge in the human world.”
Oh. A rush of embarrassment twice as scorching washes away the chill of my fear. Of course. Of course. The cramps, the blood in that specific spot…
I drop my flaming face into my hands. “It’s been so long since I had one—I forgot.” And waking up to it out of a nightmare, I guess I wasn’t thinking all that clearly. I had a few periods back home before Aerik took me. But never one after he tossed me into that cage. I’d remember the shame of trying to deal with it if there’d been even one.
Whitt makes a rough sound that’s almost a growl. “It doesn’t come to a body that’s been starved or put through too much trauma. All those years…” His hand drops back to his side, his teeth baring as if he’d rip Aerik to pieces out right now if the man were standing in front of him. With visible effort, he reins in his anger. “Having it come now is a good sign—that you’re healing. Everything’s working as it’s meant to.”
That is a relief in some way, but still, my stomach flips when I look at the sheets again. “I made such a mess.”
“Easily dealt with,” Whitt says briskly, back to his usual blasé self. “I believe human servants—well, the females—are given cloths with approximately the same enchantment we use on bandages to absorb the blood. I should be able to manage that. And magic will clean your sheets just fine as well. Hold on a moment.”
He sweeps out of the room and returns a minute later with a folded cloth he must have grabbed from the kitchen, apparently already enchanted, because he hands it straight to me. “I assume you can determine where to put this.”
I scramble out of the bed, wobbling when I put too much weight on my warped foot. “I—yes.” I glance toward the wardrobe, unsure about fiddling with my undergarments right in front of him.
He motions to the door. “I’d imagine you’ll want to get cleaned up. You can bring your things to the lavatory while I handle the bed.”
He’s going to—? But then, would I rather he woke up the others or called in someone from the pack to clean up after me? It isn’t as if I’ve got any magic that could take care of it myself. Whitt must have a fair amount of experience with other sorts of blood, so maybe it’s not that uncomfortable for him.
I’ve limped to the wardrobe and retrieved a new nightgown and a pair of panties when a strange sort of inspiration strikes. I spin around.
“Could the blood from this—if I’m going to bleed every month anyway—”
Whitt can clearly follow my thinking even though I’m having trouble getting the full idea out. He cocks his head and leans closer to the bed. His mouth twists. “I’m afraid the answer isn’t likely to be that simple, mite. Even if we could line up the timing, this sort of bleeding isn’t pure blood like from the vein. The scent is altered. I suspect we’d see the same result as when we tried to hoard some of the tonic to use after it’d gotten old.”
A pang of disappointment hits me, but I hadn’t had time to get all that hopeful about it anyway. It’s not as if I even mind the thought of letting these men take my blood from my arm as long as I’m treated like I have the right to decide whether I do. Getting it this way might have sat easier on Sylas’s conscience, though.
I scurry down the hall to the lavatory and wipe myself off as well as I can, cringing at the reddish streaks flowing from the sponge down the tub’s drain. The folded cloth fits into my panties without any trouble. I pull them on and my fresh nightgown, then rinse the ruddy streaks from the nightie I was wearing as well as I can.
When I return to my bedroom, Whitt appears to have finished whatever magic he worked. The sour tang has left the air. My sheets lie neatly on the bed without a hint of a stain. When I set my hand in the area it was worst, they’re not even slightly damp.
“Hurray for magic,” I say with a laugh that comes out a bit shaky.
Whitt grins, taking his striking face from handsome to breathtaking. “It does make a great many things a great deal easier.”
“Thank you.” I tear my eyes away from him and climb back into the bed. Sitting there, I tug the sheet to my waist, feeling abruptly shy. The fae man might be hard to read at the best of times, but he’s been patient with me, kind even, in between his wry remarks. Not just now but throughout the past couple of weeks, even when I intruded on his work—answering my questions, taking my ignorance and uncertainties in stride.
I wish I could express how much I appreciate that, but I’m not sure how, at least not in any way that wouldn’t come across as awkward. I settle for focusing on the moment at hand. “Thank you—for checking on me and everything else. I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you were doing. I should have realized what was going on instead of panicking.”
Whitt dismisses my attempt at an apology with a flick of his hand. “I was merely turning in for the night after our revel. It’d probably have taken me at least this long to clear my head for sleep anyway. This way I was able to use that time productively.” He pauses, and his expression gentles again. “Will you be able to get back to sleep now?”
The image darts into my mind of him sweeping me out of the bed and carting me off to his own like Sylas has after other nightmares. A weird thrill shoots through me, as much unnerved as excited by the thought. Maybe some small part of me wonders what it’d feel like to be caught in this inscrutable man’s embrace, but that’s definitely a bit of curiosity I’m not looking to indulge.
I exhale slowly, releasing as much of my lingering tension as I can. “I think so.” And yet I don’t feel quite ready to return to the darkness and the dreams that might emerge from it. I fidget with the edge of the sheet. I could at least show a little more friendliness. “Was it a good revel?”
“I’d say it was. Much love made and very little war. Spirits were high; complaints were few.”
His tone is so carefree that the final prickles of uneasiness leave me. How could anything be all that wrong when he’s that at ease? I find myself unexpectedly smiling back at him.
A sly twinkle lights in Whitt’s eyes. “A few of my pack-kin inquired about you. I told them you were busy pining for August.”
I glower half-heartedly at him, and he chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the whelp will be home where he belongs soon.” Whitt turns to go, with a final remark tossed over his shoulder. “There’s no shame in leaving a lantern on. Some
times the best way to fend off darkness is to keep it at bay in the most literal sense.”
He steps out with a light click of the door, leaving me wondering what darkness he’s had to fend off that he could say that so confidently.
Chapter Fourteen
August
A damp breeze greets me when I clamber out of the carriage, the grass dewy beneath my boots. I drag in the cool air of the dawn, tasting daisies and clover, and let it settle against my skin for a moment before I head toward the keep.
Oh, how glad I am to be home. And oh, how I wish I was bringing better news with me.
Unsurprisingly, no one in the keep is up yet. I hesitate at the base of the staircase, debating whether to wake Sylas to deliver my report immediately, but the bad news isn’t urgent, at least. I’d rather pass it on to him when he’s fully rested.
I haven’t gotten a whole lot of sleep myself over the past week and only managed a couple of hours during the carriage journey. Tired as that’s left me, there’s too much uneasy energy thrumming through me for me to think I’ll be able to doze off any time soon. I head into the kitchen to reacquaint myself with the part of the keep that falls the most under my domain.
The pack members who took over cooking duty have left it clean and tidy—almost too much so. A little mess would have given me something to focus on, would have made me feel missed. Well, I’ll just have to remind my family how good the cooking is when I am here. A decadent breakfast might help my report go down smoother. I can always hope so, anyway.
I fall into the familiar rhythm of measuring flour and cracking eggs, the motions grounding me. Out by the border, even without any attacks, the meal situation was pretty dire. We generally ended up eating whatever the warriors could hunt down or scavenge in their brief treks away from the line of defense, charred over an open fire. When I had the chance, I managed to scrounge up a few savory herbs to add some flavor. With all the sacrifices my pack-kin out there are making for us, the least I could do was ensure they got a few good dinners into them.
I’m just shoving the first batch of pancakes into the warmer to keep them hot when Sylas appears in the doorway. “I thought I heard something unusual going on down here. Although given that it’s you, I suppose this isn’t unusual behavior. Welcome home, August.”
His smile is typically reserved, but there’s no mistaking the happiness—and maybe a little relief—in his tone. “Glad to be back,” I say. “I take it no one starved without me around.”
He chuckles. “We managed, but that’s not to say we won’t appreciate your culinary talents now that you’ve returned. Have you been up to see Talia yet?”
My heart leaps and pangs at the same time, picturing my lover’s sweet face, how she’ll feel in my arms when I get to embrace her again. “I didn’t want to wake her.”
“She worried about you. Somehow I don’t think she’d mind the intrusion.”
I imagine walking upstairs and climbing right into her bed next to her, tucking her into my arms and inhaling her sweet scent. Yes, I’ll do that—but I have my duty to my lord to fulfill first. I can’t let my desires distract from that.
“I assume you’ll want my report too,” I say.
He walks in and leans against the island across from me. “Naturally. Although it’d appear the situation isn’t incredibly dire, since you returned alone rather than escorting the rest of our warriors with you.”
I take a moment to flip the next batch of pancakes, gathering myself and taking comfort in the ease with which the spatula moves to my will. Then I look at Sylas again. “It wasn’t bad enough to call the whole effort off, but—it wasn’t good either. All around, not just for our pack.”
Sylas’s smile fades. “Go on.”
“What Whitt has heard about our situation is true. The nine warriors we have out there are essentially shunned by the packs stationed nearby. I saw no Unseelie attacks while I was with them, but it’s clear they’re on their own when one occurs, and that if the enemy broke through the area they’re protecting, they’d be blamed for failing, not the others for refusing to support them.”
“Unfortunate but unsurprising. Was there something else?”
I think he already knows there is. I balk instinctively. My nature demands loyalty to the arch-lords—the fae who rule over all the packs, above even my own lord. But I don’t obscure the truth for them, not to the man I directly serve.
I turn to check the frying pan. “The arch-lords came out to check on the squadrons along the northern stretch while I was there. Their leadership… was not as I’d have hoped.”
Sylas hums to himself. “In what way?”
In every way? I restrain a grimace. “They seemed very tense, to the point that they couldn’t hide it, which made the squadron leaders restless too. I didn’t speak to them directly—none of them were particularly interested in our small group—but I followed the proceedings as well as I could, to try to find out more, and I overheard a few squabbles between them over the best way to proceed, within hearing of many others as well. I would have expected them to present a united front at least in public.”
When I glance over my shoulder at Sylas, he’s outright frowning. “As would I. That doesn’t bode well. What did they argue about?”
“It wasn’t totally clear. They didn’t give any details, and parts of the conversations they kept hushed. All I gathered was that they feel some urgency about coming up with a new strategy soon. Maybe they’ve gotten wind of some new development they don’t want to share widely yet. In any case, after they finished their inspection, they each left one of their cadre-chosen to continue patrolling that whole stretch at the far north, overseeing the squadrons’ operations.”
Sylas’s eyebrows rise. “They spared cadre-chosen on a permanent post away from their domains? Whitt hasn’t mentioned hearing of that sort of presence before.”
“It hasn’t happened before. Our warriors said this was the first time in years that the arch-lords themselves have come so far along the border, and the first time they’ve ever left anyone that high ranking posted there.” I toss the pancakes onto a new tray and reach for the bowl with the remaining batter. “I didn’t like it.”
“No, I can’t blame you. It definitely sounds as though they’re anticipating some new, larger offensive. Did you leave our squadron as they were, then, or did you come up with some advice to improve their situation?”
The hiss of the batter hitting the hot pan gives me a moment’s reprieve before I have to answer. “I made a pretty major adjustment to their approach, one you may not be completely pleased with… I didn’t think we were likely to make much of an impact or, honestly, become anything other than corpses and scapegoats by acting as though we could hold an entire section of the border. So I had our warriors pull back behind some of the other squadrons where they can take a supportive role. The other packs may not want to come to our aid, but they’re unlikely to shun help from us in the middle of an attack.”
I shoot Sylas a quick grin. “I did tell them to be especially alert to any opportunities to shield one of the arch-lords’ cadre-chosen. That could win us some points.”
He rumbles in apparent agreement, but his expression stays gloomy. As I get started on the next batch of pancakes, my stomach clenches. “If you don’t think that was the right call—”
“No, it sounds like a wise decision. Possibly even wiser than I’d have expected of you, so clearly I haven’t been giving you enough credit.” Sylas’s smile comes back, but only for a moment. “I’m just considering how we proceed from here… and I’m not liking any of the options.”
The portent in his voice casts a shadow over the pride I took in his compliment. “Do you think we need to do something else right away?”
“Soon, in any case. If the arch-lords are becoming that invested, we may be on the cusp of a major shift in this war—it might be coming up on the point where we have to throw ourselves all in not only to regain our good names but to protect the
entire summer realm.”
Uneasiness ripples through me at his words. Could the Unseelie really take over enough of our lands to make a difference? What would they do with us—slaughter us? Enslave us?
It’s difficult to wrap my head around the idea. I’ve barely even seen any of the raven-shifting winter fae across my lifetime. For them to suddenly become an unavoidable part of our lives seems impossible, but Sylas clearly believes there’s a chance they could take things that far.
Before I can ask him what he means by throwing ourselves all in, a faint tapping on the stairs reaches my ears. My head snaps around with a joyful skip of my heart. I’d know the patter of Talia’s feet anywhere.
I drop the bowl on the counter and hurry past Sylas into the hall. My sweet woman is just reaching the bottom of the stairs. The moment she sees me, her face lights up so bright it’s almost magic.
“You’re back!” she says, and anything she might have added is lost when I sweep her up into my arms. She hugs me back with a strength in those slim arms that still surprises me, her face burrowing into my shoulder, and lets out a quavering sigh that tells me everything I need to know about how relieved she is. A strangely delighted ache fills my chest, pained at the thought of how she must have worried but undeniably pleased that she cared so much about my safe return.
How can it be that less than two months ago I didn’t even know this woman existed, and now I can’t imagine my life without her?
“And I’m perfectly fine, as promised,” I tell her. “I didn’t even see an Unseelie warrior the whole time I was out there.”
Her arms tighten around me, and then she loosens her grasp so I can return her to her feet. As she gazes up at me, her mouth slants downward. “All the pack members still out there will have to fight them again, though. How much longer is this war going to go on? I still don’t understand why the Unseelie won’t just talk to all of you about what they want.”
