“A soldier? Why a soldier?”
“Because the king of Arden uses his mages to kill people, not to heal them. Plus, you have the body of a soldier.” She reached out and squeezed his muscled arm, then quickly let go, flustered. “I mean, you didn’t get those muscles stitching up wounds or mixing potions.”
“I don’t do much of that around here. I scrub a lot of floors, I’m a demon with a mortar and pestle, and I’ve been shoveling a lot of horse dung, too.”
“There’s never any shortage of that,” Jenna said.
The healer laughed. “No,” he said. “Especially not at court.” He tipped back his head and drank again, his long throat jumping as he swallowed. “Now,” he said, setting the flask aside and pulling his healing kit closer. “Before I drink too much, I want to take a look at that wound.”
Jenna sat on the edge of the bed, her blanket draped around her hips. She lifted her shirt up, out of the way.
Adam leaned forward, reaching around her to unwrap the linen. Her skin prickled at his closeness, the warmth of his breath, the scent of soap that she was beginning to associate with him. Looking at the top of his head, she could see a faint line where the natural red of his hair met the brown dye. She resisted the temptation to trace it with her fingers, to let him know she wasn’t fooled.
I know you, Wolf, she thought. Even though you try and keep your secrets.
Adam pulled the linen away and set it aside. Jenna’s skin pebbled as the air hit her bare middle. Then she felt the warmth of his hands under her rib cage as he examined the wound. Her heart began to thump so hard it seemed he would notice.
She fought a sudden urge to slide off the bed and onto his lap, wrap her legs around his middle, and—
Stop it! Still. That idea, once kindled, was hard to put out.
Think of something else. Name the saints of the Church of Malthus—that would kill anybody’s desire.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, the healer’s mind was on other things. “Blood and bones,” he muttered, sitting back. “That’s impossible.”
“What?” Jenna said, breaking out of her fog. She craned her neck, trying to see.
“Your wound is all but healed. Overnight.” He looked up at her, his expression bewildered, as if expecting her to explain.
“Well, they said you were a damned good healer, Wolf,” Jenna said.
“I’m good, but I’m not that good.” Adam shook his head, biting his lower lip. “The area over the wound is hard, like—like armor. Or scales. I’ve not seen anything like it.”
“That always happens when I get hurt,” Jenna said. “It . . . crusts over like that at first, then goes back to normal.” She shrugged. “Strange.”
The healer ran his fingers over the wound. “I don’t see any reason to wrap it up again. It’s better protected than anything I could do.” He pulled a jug of water from his kit and warmed it between his hands, then washed the area and allowed it to air-dry. When he finished repacking his kit, he set it between his feet, but made no move to leave. He seemed to be wrestling with himself.
“What?” Jenna leaned forward so she could look into his face.
“Would it be all right if I took a look at your magemark?”
“Why not?” she said with a sigh. “Everyone else has.” She turned half sideways, scooping her hair up and arching her neck so he could see. He sat next to her on the bed and leaned in close to look, brushing his fingers over the symbol, raising instant gooseflesh.
“Can you feel that?” he asked.
She nodded. “Maybe I’m just used to it, but it feels like my own skin.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said. “Like . . . like metal and jewels set into the skin. Did you have an injury there in the past?”
“It’s been there as long as I can remember,” Jenna said. “I’ve tried to—to pry it off, but it’s as permanent as any other part of me.”
“Do you know what the symbol means?”
“Everybody keeps asking me, and I don’t know. Based on what’s happened so far, I’d say it means trouble and bad luck.”
“And you were born with this?”
“So I’m told.”
The healer was studying her, eyes narrowed, rubbing his chin, as if she was a puzzle that he couldn’t work out.
“What?” she said, brushing at herself, thinking maybe she’d dropped something.
“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked bluntly. “You don’t know me. Why should you trust me?”
Jenna could tell that he was asking himself the same question—if he should trust her. He’s a wary wolf. As well as lonely. I wonder why.
She reached out and took one of his hands in both of hers, feeling the buzz of connection between them. “You’re wrong. I saw you yesterday. I saw the red-haired boy and the man lying dead in the snow and the gray wolves.” When he said nothing, doubt trickled in. “Are you saying that you didn’t see me?”
When he stiffened and shifted his eyes away, she knew that he had.