“If there’s anything I’ve learned from spending time with you,” he continued, “it’s that fighting on the front lines isn’t the only way to make a difference.” He closed the distance between them, laying a gentle touch on the back of her hand. He moved slowly enough that Ivy had time to pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t. “I know you want to be out there with Echo. From what I’ve seen, she is more than just a friend, she’s your sister. And I know that telling you not to worry about her would be a waste of breath, but she isn’t alone and neither are you. For what it’s worth—which probably isn’t much—you have my help, whenever and however you may need it.”
Ivy was hyperaware of the points of contact between them, of the fact that they were not quite alone, of the castle tower windows that overlooked the herb garden. Anyone who peered out one of those windows would be able to see Ivy sitting beside someone she once would have considered her enemy, his hand on hers, her eyes on him. Being around Dorian and Caius had changed Ivy. She found that she could hate individuals just fine—Tanith was proof of that—but hating entire groups of people took entirely too much effort.
Helios was looking at her as if he expected her to say something, but the words that had come so freely before now seemed to escape her. “I…Thank you.” It felt inadequate, but it was all she had. Helios barely knew her, and yet he placed enough faith in her to say something like that.
“Your people need you now more than ever,” Helios insisted. “As you said, so much has been lost, and that includes the people they relied on to take care of them. But you can do that for them now. I am confident you can.”
“How?” Ivy asked. “How can you possibly know that?”
“I know that you put yourself in harm’s way to do the right thing, that you walked into the lion’s den, head held high, even though you had to be terrified that you might not walk out. What you did at the keep required an extraordinary amount of bravery, and not once did you falter. I know everything I need to know.”
Helios stood, brushing the dirt off his knees and retrieving their gloves. The power of speech had entirely failed Ivy. She watched, silently, as he picked up his basket of herbs with one hand and held out the other to her. She accepted it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. His hand was so warm in hers, warmer than an Avicen’s, warmer than a human’s. The people of the Dragon seemed to run hotter than everyone else. His grip lingered for a few moments longer than necessary. His back was to the tower, but Helios knew as well as Ivy did that they were probably being watched. She fought the overwhelming urge to hug him.
“Thank you,” she said quietly so not even the keenest ears could overhear. “I needed to hear that.”
Helios grinned, and something fluttered in Ivy’s chest. “Like I said, I’ve got your back.” He bent down to pick up Ivy’s basket as well. He seemed to enjoy doing things like that, although such gestures seemed slightly old-fashioned to Ivy. She was perfectly capable of carrying her own baskets and boxes and bags, but it was nice to have someone who wanted to help her. She felt lighter now that she had shared her burdens, that she had let Helios carry some of the weight.
“What’s next on the agenda?” Helios asked. He looked unbearably charming with his arms full of flowers.
They’d distill elixir from the bloodweed they’d just gathered. Then they’d go to the hospital, where the human victims of the ku?edra were being kept, and administer the elixir. Ivy hoped it worked as well on the humans as it had on the Avicen. Their biology was similar, though not identical. But then, magical healing wasn’t as exact as modern medicine. It was always a bit of a guessing game.
Ivy drew a steadying breath, inhaling the powerful scent of herbs. Helios was right. People needed her, and she knew what she could do to help them. “First we brew some magic potion. Then we save some lives.”
CHAPTER TEN
There was nothing to do but wait.
The log cabin to which the Ala had given them directions stood alone in the forest, its walls half devoured by crawling ivy. On the roof sat a squat chimney, which, during daylight hours, would look perfectly charming belching up woodsmoke. The cabin was modestly appointed: two bedrooms, a small sitting room with a fireplace, and a kitchen that was empty save for a few pots and pans and a lonely box of baking soda in one of the cabinets. The Ala had possessed the foresight to send them with food, all of it healthy. The cabin provided a most picturesque place to wait.
Echo hated waiting. She hated it more than most things she hated: spiders, the texture of oatmeal, people who dog-eared pages in library books. Waiting rankled her in a way few things did. Especially when she had no option but to do it.
The wards that kept Avalon safe prevented the type of magic they were about to attempt. Locator spells didn’t work on the island for the same reason the in-between was inaccessible. The wards jammed the magical frequencies, and the new cloaking spells the mages had erected under the Ala’s supervision added an even stronger layer of protection. It was like painting a window black. No one could peek in, but you couldn’t look out, either.
“Don’t worry. They’ll be back soon enough,” Rowan said. With a wooden spoon, he pushed around the chopped vegetables frying in the pan he’d scoured for ten minutes before deciding it was fit for use. Rowan knew how to cook precisely one thing—stir-fry—and only because it required little more than throwing a medley of edible items into a pan and applying heat. He took an inordinate amount of pride in this feat.
Echo watched him cook. There was an ease to his posture she hadn’t expected, not after everything he’d been through. Not after being displaced by the in-between like that. Before they’d stepped through the gateway that led them to the cabin, he’d hesitated, but he hadn’t said anything. He’d simply gritted his teeth and plunged into the void, his hand clammy in Echo’s. Now he hummed a jaunty tune, one that Echo only vaguely recognized as a pop song popular last summer, as if nothing had happened.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Echo asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, words clipped. But his shoulders crept slightly upward. He kept his back to her, but she saw the relaxation drain from him, replaced by taut strings of tension. Rowan had been fine, and Echo had gone and ruined it.
Shit.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just—”
“It’s fine,” Rowan interrupted. “I just don’t want to talk about it.” With a sigh, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “It was scary, and I don’t like being scared.”
“Okay,” Echo said, nodding.
Rowan turned back to the pan, wooden spoon pushing the diced vegetables around. Echo wished he’d start humming again. He didn’t. Seconds ticked by in silence. Then minutes.
“I have a new word for you,” said Rowan. The statement had the air of a peace offering.
Echo accepted it. “Hit me.”
“Shash biza’azis hólóní.” Rowan enunciated each syllable with the careful precision that came only from practice.
“That’s a mouthful. What does it mean?”
“It’s the Navajo word for koala. It literally means ‘bear with a pocket.’?”
Echo’s fingers ceased their restless drumming on the kitchen table. “I love it.”
And she did. But it was only a temporary balm. The restlessness returned. She got up. Paced. Sat back down. Chewed on a half-broken nail. Got up again.
She really did hate waiting.