Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

The evil Bloodwitch did not look so evil with sunset to warm his sleeping face. Even the demon-child looked sweet in this light. Neither awoke when Iseult crept in with her satchel full of supplies. Nor when she eased down the items and grabbed the pitcher beside the washbasin. Nor even when she left the room to fill said pitcher at the Waterwitched faucet at the end of the hall.

A man was already there, water splashing as he filled his room’s pitcher and three canteens. His bored Threads shifted to grassy interest at the sight of Iseult. He saw a feminine shape; he was keen. Iseult checked her hood, her sleeves, then she slouched as far back against the wall as she could without risking losing her place in line, should anyone else arrive.

This was a mistake. It only increased the man’s curiosity. It was so predictable: a man feeling entitled to a woman’s attention. He craned, he rocked, he stretched—all subtle at first, and all with the intent of peeking under her hood. He gave up on subtlety once he had finished getting water, and when he shuffled by, he darted in close, jutting his head low and peering straight into Iseult’s face.

The result was instant. Iron gray hostility hit his Threads. His face crumpled into a sneer. At least he was blessedly silent as he left, offering no slurs or threats. Yet Iseult didn’t like how she could still sense his Threads, even once he had entered his room—or how the two other sets of Threads with him shivered into aggressive hate. She did not bother filling her pitcher all the way before hurrying back to Aeduan and Owl. And once ensconced in their room again, she checked and double-checked the lock.

On the bright side, she supposed, Trickster was nowhere near.

Quietly as she could, Iseult poured the freshly retrieved water into the basin, but when a small cry broke the silence, she snapped toward the bed.

No one had awoken, though. The cry had come from Aeduan. He flinched and flinched, as if being hit. Over and over. Flinch. Flinch. Flinch. His face …

Iseult blinked. This was not the curse that struck Aeduan. This was grief. It was despair, as if the one thing he loved most in the world had been taken away from him.

And it was horrible to watch. Iseult wanted to stop it. She wanted to rush to him and jolt him awake. Wanted to cup his face and tell him it was going to be all right and that whatever ghosts haunted him had now passed. It was a visceral desire, not a logical one, and she crossed the room in two long steps.

She knelt, reaching for his face. Heat curled off his skin, strong as an inferno. Flinch, flinch, flinch. Sweat shone on his brow.

A fever, she thought distantly, glad she had bought a tonic against that.

Then Aeduan stopped flinching.

And Iseult froze, her fingers a hairsbreadth from his jaw. Her breath held. Heartbeat by thudding heartbeat, the lines on his face smoothed away, slipping once more into the innocence of dreamless sleep. Part of her wanted to keep going. A tiny secret corner of her chest, tucked just in front of her left lung—it wanted to keep going, to feel the edges of his jaw and watch as he woke up.

But that was a part of her she refused to acknowledge, for as long as she pretended it wasn’t there, then she didn’t have to consider what it might mean.

She drew back her hands. For some reason, they were shaking, as if she had never done this before. As if she had not hovered beside an unconscious Aeduan only yesterday, observing the high curve of his cheeks and the thick frill of his lashes. In sleep, he was so easy to touch. To tend. No crystal eyes to bore into her. In waking …

This room is too hot. She was the one sweating now, she was the one feeling feverish. And it was not the heat of the Firewitch, either, but something else. Something that made her stomach cinch and her rib cage feel too small.

Quiet as a cat, just like Habim had taught her, Iseult backed away until she was to the washbasin once more. If she was lucky, Aeduan would not awaken until she had laid out everything he needed to tend his wounds. Then she could tiptoe from the room, and perhaps find a shadowy spot to hide in the common room below. Somewhere she could mull over what had happened with Trickster, somewhere she could order food for Aeduan and Owl without being seen by other guests.

And without being seen by Aeduan. His command from before still scoured against her ears. No. He did not want her help. No. He did not want her touch. Yet fanciful fool that she was, she had almost done exactly that …

And still wanted to.

She could only imagine the horror on his face if he had woken to find her fingers on him. It would have been so much worse than earlier.

No.

But the Moon Mother, it turned out, was against Iseult tonight. While Iseult managed to place clean linen strips, two different Earthwitch healer salves, a Firewitch healer powder, and the Waterwitch healer tonic beside Aeduan without disturbing him, when she tried to carry the full washbasin over, water sloshed onto his leg.

His eyes snapped wide. So blue. So lost. “You are back.” Hoarse words. Scarcely a whisper.

The temperature in the room doubled. Iseult’s tongue doubled too. “S-sorry to wake you.” She scooted away.

Or she tried to. Aeduan latched onto her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. “Stay,” he breathed, and there was that penetrating stare. The one that made her whole world fall away.

Moments trickled past. His grip weakened; his gaze did not. Iseult could pull free if she wanted to. An easy move, an easy twist.

She didn’t.

“Scar,” he said at last.

She had no idea what he meant. “I don’t—” she began.

“Scar,” he repeated, more emphatic, and though his gaze didn’t move, his thumb did. It grazed—slightly, slightly—over her wrist. Then onto her palm to where, yes, there was a faint scar. Earned from a fisherman’s hook in Ve?aza City.

“My fault.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

His thumb moved, back up her palm toward her wrist. His skin was rough. His touch was not.

And Iseult’s entire body shut down. There was no other way to describe it. No other words for how still everything inside of her went. No breath, no heartbeat, no vision beyond Aeduan’s thumb tracing along her hand.

“Why?” he murmured eventually, finger finally slowing at her pulse point.

“Why … what?” She had no idea how she got those words out.

Aeduan swallowed, the muscles of his neck, his throat strong, even if his body was weak. “Why are you still here?”

She blinked, surprise briefly shrinking her tongue. Briefly calming her mind. “Where else would I go? Did … did you need me to get something else for you?”

“No. Not that—” He broke off, coughing, and his fingers finally released Iseult. Suddenly, the skin around her wrist felt too cold. At odds with the rest of her body, which was blistering from the inside out.

“With Owl,” Aeduan rasped once the coughing had passed. “And … me. Why do you stay?”