Page 41 of The Warrior's Captive

The black gave way suddenly. He swam through a thick fog, his limbs leaden and weighed down. He thought he glimpsed Briar May, but her face was all wrong. Contorted with fear and agony. She had one fist stuck at her mouth. She was biting her own knuckles until they bled.

“B…” He tried to say her name, but language was no longer a commodity he could trade in. He was still all fire. Consumed with it. Hellfire. Starfire. His skin was burning and melting off his body. He’d be nothing but bleached bones soon. Ash, like his twin.

Briar May couldn’t see that. She couldn’t watch it happen. He had to get away. He had to run. He had to spare her, save her, protect her. His pack would come for her if he was near her. They’d already killed him, but it wasn’t enough.

Wetness on his cheeks. That burned too. And then, something on his lips. He opened his mouth and tried to suck. His tongue was just flames. They dried the water instantly, his skin cracking and sizzling as the droplets rained down. His throat worked, spasming. His whole body wrenched with it, but some of the water went down. The relief was so great that he turned his face into the soft earth and rained down his tears, watering it, like he’d done with his blood.

His life’s blood. All of it, gone. Briar May, gone.

“I’m so sorry, my darling. It’ll be over soon. Drink a little more so you can rest.”

Herbs. Spice. Tang. Water on the cracked surface of him. Dry dust in his throat.

That voice, so like the woman he knew he’d never see again, a woman he’d never touch or lay down beside, a woman he’d never hold or love, even if he ever proved capable. He could never do those things because he was gone. Gone to a land of scalding sand and hot sun and flames. The tiny grains blew under his skin, grating against him with every breath. It was all pain, white hot and enduring. It seared through him like he was the firepit, the hearth, the kitchen stove. The coals were lit inside.

He was the source of all that heat.

He was the star.

He wouldn’t make a sound. Not a sound. Not even now that he was dead. He was still a warrior, and warriors didn’t cry out. They didn’t utter the one name they thought could have saved them, broken and guttural, tossed up from the very pit at the heart of them. They didn’t write that name with blood upon the mantle of their soul. A warrior knew he was nothing and would die as nothing.

A featherlight touch, almost like a wisp of wind across his brow, cold and soothing, nearly drew him from the darkness, but he was eager to go to it. Most people walked to the light, but he’d had enough torture, enough fire. If his star was set to burn bright and then burn out, then so be it.

But for just the briefest instant before the dark void welcomed him home, he heard that sweet, gentle voice again and smelled the saltwater tang of an ocean’s worth of spent tears.

Chapter 16

Briar May

Brooke Wind stayed for three days. She never once seemed afraid or let her fear of defeat show. She never hesitated or wavered, not even when Castor’s fever refused to break and rose dangerously high. She stayed right beside Briar May, bathing his brow, draping cool cloths over his body, spooning what herbs he could take in his barely conscious state into his mouth. They salved his wounds together. Bandaged and rebandaged.

After the first few hours, after she’d assessed how bad the situation was, she’d shocked Briar May by taking an IV and a bag out of her large black bag. Antibiotics. Because they didn’t live in the dark ages, and she had a contact who would sell her almost anything she asked for. Herbs only went so far, and while she liked to rely on them, that was how they lost people. They might not be able to go to a hospital unless it was the most extreme of circumstances, and even then, many of them would rather die than risk it, but she did what she could to bring the hospital to them. Often, it was only her standing between death and life, and she damn well wasn’t going to let death win without one hell of a fight.

Castor wasn’t going to die. Brooke said she forbid it.

Briar May believed her. The woman was called a witch by some, and even though she’d stated time and again that she was no such thing, and Zora had also reiterated the fact, Brooke had an eerie sort of inner light that seemed to shine from her petite human body. She seemed not to age. Her hands and face were smooth even though she had to be nearing seventy.

Brooke and Zora both said that her mother’s knowledge of herbs came from her own mother’s prodigious knowledge. Zora’s grandmother kept meticulous records. She could grow anything, just like Brooke. She’d learned the ancient arts of herbs and plants through hard work, not witchcraft.

Briar May didn’t know what she believed. Brooke was magic. She knew that with her whole heart. She still had the childish belief inside her that the older woman could make anything better, even though she knew that to be false. They’d lost members of their pack from old age, disease, and accidents. She hadn’t been able to bring Rome’s beloved back to life. She couldn’t really defy life and death. She just had knowledge that had long ago been forgotten and that was her secret weapon. Knowledge of healing. Not black arts.

Though as far as Briar May was concerned, Brooke Wind could have been the worst sort of demon that ever plagued all the nine hells and she would have happily sold her soul to her for those words she longed to hear.

Castor would not die. His fever would break. His wounds would heal.

All of it came true on the third day. Three days of barely being conscious of doing anything other than lending her strength to the wounded man hanging on by what seemed to her such a perilous thread. Three days of food tasting of nothing, of forcing herself to swallow water and tea, of dragging herself to the bathroom down the hall only when she needed to use it.

She gave herself no respite, but as though the new life growing in her sensed that she needed all her energy and strength for the task at hand, she hadn’t felt ill or tired. Not in the way that she needed to sleep. Though she hardly did that at all, drifting lightly on the bed beside Castor for only a few short breaks when she knew Brooke was right there keeping watch.

Castor’s fever broke at five in the morning. Brooke was sitting immobile in the hard antique chair at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t asked for anything softer. If she’d eaten or even had a sip of water in all those long days, Briar May wasn’t aware of it. Brooke always seemed to be keeping watch. Her eyes glowed as they swept to Briar May. She was on her side, hands tucked beneath the pillow, watching Castor. There was something different about the way he seemed to rest easier and breathe easier, but she thought she was imagining it until she saw Brooke rise and walk over.

Instead of hovering her hand above Castor’s face—she’d never touched him other than to apply bandages and salve, and even then, Briar May did most of it under her careful instruction—she smoothed a tangled lock of Briar May’s hair.

“It’s always the calm ones who turn out to be the fiercest mothers and protectors. It’s always there at the heart, cushioned by that outward softness until it’s needed. Don’t push all the gentleness away from you, child. Let it come. Let it flow back into you.” She nodded to Castor. “His fever is broken. He’ll be awake in a few hours. I’ll make sure that I have something made up for the pain. Tell him it’s for the wounds still festering and poisoning him. He won’t drink it otherwise. He’s been taught that pain is a sanctuary, but he’ll find no peace there.”

“Where are you going?” She felt suddenly helpless, now when Castor’s fever had finally broken, and he was breathing regularly for the first time in days.

“I have to get back to my cottage. Not because I want to leave you, dear, but because there are others who need me, and my work here is done.”

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