I clung to him and believed his words because I needed to, not caring whether or not they were realistic.
And now I’d become one of those people who, like Zabriel’s father, should have known better. But that insight had arrived too late, leaving me at the age of sixteen trapped outside my home, wingless, broken, and very, very alone.
* * *
I was calm when next I broke through the fog of my misery and came to full wakefulness; perhaps my subconscious mind remembered the pain that movement had caused me earlier. I glanced around the room, still lying on my stomach, again taking in the simple, almost meager furnishings. Hand-knitted throws and pillow covers were the only bursts of color, and the blankets that warmed me were threadbare in places.
It took me a moment to notice the young woman sitting in the rocking chair near the foot of the bed. She looked to be about my age, her dark brown hair tied into a ponytail with a ribbon of navy blue to match her tunic. One leg was tucked up beside her, and she was holding a book, its cover obscured by a paper wrap. I wondered what she was reading—and from whom she was hiding the title.
“What are you going to do with me?” I rasped. I didn’t know how long I’d been slipping in and out of awareness, but the dryness in my throat and mouth suggested I hadn’t had a good drink in days.
My visitor startled and looked up.
“Nothing, unless you have something to suggest?” With a wry smile, she stood from the rocker and approached, nestling her book in the crook of one arm. “How do you feel?”
“Like you’re lying.”
I couldn’t afford to be civil. The human world was a notorious place, and for all I knew, she could be the woman who’d stroked my hair, condescending to offer me comfort after my wings had been taken.
“My father found you when he was hunting,” she patiently explained.
“Is that the story he told you?”
My eyes darted toward the door. It was evening, and faint light drifted through the cracks between it and the frame. This young woman’s father might be waiting for me in the next room with his halberd. I tensed, yearning for the Anlace, for the power I felt when I held it. But my body was so weak I doubted it would have provided me with a viable defense.
She laughed. “It’s not just a story. My father hunts deer and rabbits. For food.” Noting my glare, she sobered. “Sorry. I shouldn’t make fun.”
She was looking at my back, though the blankets and the light fabric of a nightgown hid my skin. The humans must have removed my jerkin and shirt to cleanse my wounds. Where were they now? Where were the Anlace and my satchel?
“I’ll get you some water.” The young woman turned to the bedside table and filled a glass from a pitcher, and I gingerly propped myself up, though water wasn’t the drink I desired. What I needed was Sale. “You must be hungry, too.”
I didn’t have much of an appetite, taut as my nerves were, but I let her think what she wanted. I downed the water, however, which felt like sand as it made its way through my constricted throat.
“May I have a look?” she asked, taking the glass from me. She meant at my back, where my wings had been, and she was hesitant about her question.
“Why? Curious?”
“No. My mother and I have been caring for you since my father dragged you home.”
She was curt, and I lay down again, feeling rebuked. After setting her book on the table, she peeled back my coverlet, lifted the nightgown and removed a bandage moist with blood, pus, and, from the smell of it, alcohol.
“It’s not as bad as it could be,” she announced, not a hint of revulsion in her voice, slightly increasing my confidence in her skills as a healer. “Let me get a new bandage.”
She left the room, but I hoped she would return and light the lamp on the bedside table. The sun was setting and would soon leave me in darkness, something I didn’t want to face, not with my heart and body feeling so unwieldy. I clenched my jaw as apprehension filled me, bubbling toward panic at my circumstances, and I sat up, not wanting to suffer the pain but needing something upon which to fixate. While the hot flare that shot through my body was enough to make me gasp, I was thankful to discover that this time it did not bring me close to tears. My caretakers knew what they were doing. Grasping the blanket, I held it in front of me to cover my breasts, and consciously slowed my breathing.
The moments ticked past, and I glanced at the bedside table and the book with the paper wrapping. I picked it up, lifted the paper cover and glanced at the title: Crime and Punishment in the Warckum Territory. Not what I’d been expecting, and probably “borrowed” from the man of the house. For some reason, humans tended to view women as less capable than men, while Nature—and by extension Fae—made few such distinctions. Hearing the creak of the floorboards as someone approached the room, I replaced the cover and returned the book to its former position.
When the young woman entered with a basket of medical supplies, she was not alone. A girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, carried an armful of wood, which she stacked next to the hearth. She wore a constrictive dress that was not conducive to such work, reaffirming my previous thoughts on human conventions.
“My name is Shea,” the older of the two girls said to me. Their matching brown hair and brown eyes left no doubt they were sisters. “And this little helper is Marissa.”
Marissa smiled at me as she stirred the flames back to life...flames that Davic could have summoned to his palm in an instant, that would have glowed before his sharp features; added hints of gold to the silvery color of his eyes; created a halo around his head of black hair. Hair through which I loved to run my fingers. Hair that I might never touch again.
“If you’re feeling well enough,” Shea resumed, oblivious to the deep sense of loss that was coursing through me, “we can wrap these bandages around your chest and you can join us for dinner. What do you say, um...?”
“Anya.”
“Anya. What do you say?”
I needed to eat before I withered away. With the depletion of my magic, my body felt heavier, more cumbersome, and even this short period of alertness had sapped my energy. But I shook my head, huddling against the wall.
“I won’t go out there. And I’ll hurt anyone who enters this room aside from you.”
Marissa froze, then finished her work by the fireplace and scurried out the door. Shea examined me, eyes dark as flint.
“I understand you have no reason to trust me, but no one in this house wants to harm you. You would be dead if it weren’t for my father, Anya.”
She said my name like a challenge, and we continued our staring contest until she broke eye contact to set down the basket, her hard words and attitude in stark contrast to her youthful appearance. She lit the lamp at last, illuminating the side of the room where I sat, then pulled up a chair and silently rewrapped my wounds. The alcohol stung, but thankfully the process was short.
“I’ll bring your meal to you,” she offered, coming to her feet. Before I could decide on the right words to thank her, she retrieved her book and departed.
The room was somehow colder without her, and lonely, even though it was only minutes before she reentered to deliver my food. Still, I did not ask her to stay. The humans didn’t need to know that I was mentally as well as physically weak.
Shea left to join her family, and I ate. Then with the feeble burst of strength the food provided, I stumbled to the wardrobe. My footsteps felt thunderous, and every time my body swayed, its momentum felt impossible to stop. It yearned for the floor, and a near-silent moan of misery escaped from me. Catching the door of the wardrobe, I hauled myself out of my hunchbacked posture, my arm smarting where Falk’s bullet had struck me. It was by far the lesser of my injuries, but it felt like barbs hid beneath the skin regardless.
I swung open the wooden armoire door and fell to my knees before my pack. Reaching farther back, I found what remained of my bloodstained clothes. Beneath the washed but warped cloth lay the Queen’s Royal Anlace, solid, sharp, eight inches long and easy to conceal. I took it with me as I crawled to the bed, dragging along my satchel, and I tucked the blade under my pillow. Then I sorted through my possessions to see what supplies, if any, the humans had left untouched. Except for my travel papers, which I would need to venture farther into the Warckum Territory, everything was in its place: my jerky, my medical supplies, my long-knife...and my flask of Sale. I held it in a shaky hand, watching the firelight take stabs at the small container’s metal exterior as if attempting to drain what it contained. Sale—the drink that rejuvenated my people, speeded our healing and made us warm inside and strong out. I struggled with the cork, then put the bottle to my mouth, ready to endure whatever it took to regain my vitality. But at the last instant, I stopped and frantically scrubbed my lips clean of the amber liquid. Sale killed humans. The elemental magic of the Faerie drink overpowered their systems and poisoned them. Without my wings, was I now human? Would Sale kill me, too?
Wanting to test my nature, I held my hand over the pitcher on the bedside table and concentrated my life force, reaching for the water it contained, trying to connect with it; but there was no kinetic tingle in my fingers, and no accordant ripple on the water’s surface. If it weren’t for my eyes, I would have believed the pitcher empty.
“I’m right here,” I keened, my voice an urgent whisper. The liquid continued sleeping, as though I didn’t exist. Was this how it felt to be dead? Not a part of anything, cut off from your soul? Was this what it was like to be human?
Biting my lip, I buried the flask of Sale in the bottom of my pack, trembling at the possibilities it held. That drink could either heal me or leave me dead, and I wasn’t yet willing to take that bargain.
I lay down in bed, my fist clenched around the hilt of the Anlace in readiness to attack or defend. The vile thing—it was the reason I’d left Chrior. It had frightened me away. Hot tears stung my eyes. I never cried. I never cried.
I needed to return to the Road, now stained with my blood as well as the blood of the humans and Fae who had died in that final battle. I didn’t know how many precious drops of magic might still be inside me, but I had to try to get home before all of it was gone.
* * *
I woke after only a few hours with a pounding head and a body-wide ache—even in sleep, my muscles had been tensed to fight. I unclenched my jaw, rubbing my cheeks and temples, and scanned the humble room. Everything was gray in the morning light. It was so early even the colors were asleep.
A clock was ticking somewhere in the house, but there were no other noises. To all intents and purposes, I was alone. Reflexively, I tried to unfurl my wings to hover to the wardrobe, only to be met with intense pain—the nerves in my back were reaching out to make contact with appendages that no longer existed, and the resulting spasms, while they could probably have been called phantom pain, felt as real as the stabs from any blade.
I stepped softly, not wanting to wake anyone. My balance remained uncertain, forcing me to concentrate on my footing as though I were a young child. Teasing open the wardrobe door, I shuffled through the clothing stored inside—dresses of wool and linen in bland colors hung side by side, none of which would do for traveling. I knelt and slid open a drawer to find leggings and warm woolen tunics.
I threw off the nightgown the humans had lent me, thinking too late of my injuries as my shoulder blades protested the movement. Nausea undulated through me, and I swallowed hard, closing my eyes and steeling myself to vomit. Luckily, not enough remained in my stomach from the previous evening’s meal for me to suffer this indignity. I heaved a few deep breaths, then stood before the mirror to get dressed.
Bandages still swathed my chest and back, bandages I nervously unraveled before the looking glass. Part of me thought it would be wiser not to know, but the dominant part wanted to see the evidence, to see what those hunters had done to me, as though my fortitude in facing the reality of their actions might be some revenge against them. But at the first glimpse of my stitched and broken skin, the sickening proof of an involuntary amputation, I hurriedly rewrapped the wounds. Not now. I couldn’t deal with it now. Getting home was all that mattered.
