Page 53 of To Love a Dark Lord

Maewenn shoved herself into the room, checking the guards aside with her shoulders as she came in like a hurricane, barking orders at the servants and waving her hand about. In the other, she was carrying a basket of supplies. “You—we have to stitch those wounds shut before we dress them—you’re not stringing up a roast, we’re trying to save him!”

Tim was standing in the door, shifting his weight from one side to the other. He must have gone to fetch her the moment they arrived.

“Mae?” Gwen blinked. Then she remembered something from history class—that ships’ cooks were often their surgeons. Maybe it was true in this case.

“Best with a needle.” Mae didn’t waste much time on pleasantries, and immediately went to work. “I don’t suppose you can heal him, can you? With your magic?”

“I—I don’t know. I can try.” It was worth a shot. “Zoe is the…is the healer, with her being the elemental of life, and all.”

“Oh, is that what she does?” Mae let out a distracted huh as she began stitching Mordred’s back up. Gwen had to keep from looking. “I never could quite figure it out. Never cared enough to ask either, I suppose. But that woman is an arse, if you ask me.”

“Yeah. I’m coming around to that way of thinking.” Gwen knelt beside the bed, facing Mordred, and stroked some hair out of his face. She had to try. Placing her hand on his bare chest, she felt his heart racing. It was struggling to keep his blood pressure up—she remembered that from one of her mom’s favorite medical drama shows.

She dug deep. As deep as she could. Shutting her eyes, she took a breath, held it, and slowly let it out. Please, Ancients. Save him. Help me save him. Give me the strength to heal him—to save his life. I need him. I can’t do this without him.

I want to save Avalon from all the death that’s coming. I’ll stop the monster who is nipping at its heels. I’ll find a way.

But I need the monster.

I need him.

Please.

She felt something.

A presence.

Hope filled her heart.

And then the world fell out from beneath her.

Screaming, she fell into darkness.

When Gwen finally stopped falling, she…honestly didn’t know what was happening or where she was. Or, when, exactly, she had stopped falling.

She was somewhere pitch black. Nothing was around her, no speck of light. It smelled vaguely like a cave, but not moist—it smelled like dust and rock and dirt. She had been falling, screaming her head off, and then she…just wasn’t.

She was lying, face down, on something smooth and hard and cold. She assumed it was a stone floor. So, she was somewhere. The question was where. And why.

“Note to self,” she muttered. “Don’t pray to the Ancients. They’re dicks.”

Man, she hoped they took that as a jab, and not a real insult. Or else she’d probably wind up going back to falling, and that was way worse. Pushing herself up to her knees, she was distinctly glad to find that she had knees. And limbs. And fingers.

Lifting up her hand, she set it ablaze like a makeshift torch.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

It was Arthur’s tomb. She was on the floor next to the dais that held the sarcophagus of the dead king. Sighing, she rubbed her other hand down her face. She didn’t really want to set her shirt on fire, she had just made it. The Ancients had brought her here. Why?

Or, maybe she brought herself here. She had been trying to use her magic. Maybe she misfired. But…why? Why the tomb? Why now?

Then it hit her. It didn’t matter. She was hours away from the keep—hours that Mordred didn’t have. By the time she flew there, it’d be the early morning, and he’d be dead. She wouldn’t even be there when it happened. Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t fight them. Sitting on the edge of the steps that led to the dais, she leaned back against the marble sarcophagus, and let herself cry.

Mordred was dying. And she had failed. She sat there and wept until she didn’t have tears anymore. Until she was just too tired to cry. It had been a long, long day. Now, it had gotten worse. Why?

Because now she was alone.

Staring at the far wall, surrounded by the tombs, she choked up at the idea of bringing Mordred’s body—or whatever would remain of him—to rest down here. How was she supposed to go on without him?

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