Page 55 of A Kiss of Flame

Barith spotted her purse, snatched it up, and fumbled through it. He found two vibrantly colored stepping stones, two of Vane’s severed fingers, and another flash bomb. He took one of the stones in his fingers, threw the vile Dökk blade in her bag, and placed it in her lap. The dragon hauled the mage into his arms, holding her fragile body close.

He flew out the shattered window into the cold rain, the icy drops pelting his face. Levian’s breathing was shallow, her body limp in his arms. He ducked down to the first door he could find down the next block. “Just hold on,” he murmured, his voice cracking as he saw her eyes begin to grow heavy, the blood flowing freely down her grey gown from the wound in her chest. “Láta bren otium lor padra diutius quam nó,” he chanted.

The vibrantly colored stone began to glow as he clumsily smashed it into the door’s surface while holding Levian. The stone burst into flame, and the door beneath splintered and cracked, glowing in vibrant colors. Barith waited, impatience clawing at him until the cracks reached the handle. “Thol Roath,” he said—Ember Hall in the fae tongue—and yanked the door open.

Barith kicked open the terrace doors to Ember Hall just as Levian went limp in his arms, her weight sagging against him. “No, no, no, dinnae fall asleep,” he muttered, his heart pounding with fear. He couldn’t lose her, not like this. Catrìona flew out from the hallway, her hand still in a box of chocolate biscuits, ready to rip into him for running away. When she caught sight of him, his sister cursed, tossing the biscuits aside and rushing to help, her face hardening as she took in the amount of blood.

“What happened?” Cat asked as Barith carried Levian into a small sitting room, laying her on the settee. His hands were covered in blood, and his heart ached at the sight of the mage so fragile. Her usually vibrant, rich caramel skin was growing pale.

“A Dökk blade,” he growled, tossing Levian’s purse aside to examine her wound. Cat cursed. Barith pulled aside the strap of her blood-soaked dress, and his stomach lurched. The deep cut was turning an ugly shade of black and bleeding heavily. Cat handed him a blanket, and he pressed it against the wound, his hands trembling as he tried to stop the flow of blood.

“Barith, what in the—” Jude began to snarl from the doorway but froze at the scene. Her eyes widened in shock.

“A Dökk blade,” Cat repeated, her voice shaky.

“How?” Flòraidh asked with worry, coming to Levian’s side. Barith met his eldest sister’s warm and worried gaze. Flòra was a decade younger but the closest to him in age. Close enough that the two of them had come to Ember Hall with their father often when they were wee things. She looked and acted like the perfect combination of their parents, which was fitting since she was frequently the family’s peacemaker. The fact that his othersisters were still at Ember Hall and she’d joined them meant his mother must be raging.

“I've no time tae explain,” he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve got to find a doctor.” Levian had always been the one doing the mending, not the other way around.

Barith stood, fumbling over his soaked pockets to find his phone. Cat bent over Levian, her hands pressing against the wound. Cat was far from a nursemaid, so seeing his sister trying to help filled him with an affectionate ache.

The tender feeling evaporated the moment Jude spoke. “Find her a doctor,” his baby sister declared from behind him, her voice sharp with urgency, “but then yer comin’ home wi’ us.”

“Git awa,” Barith snarled, pulling his waterlogged phone from his pocket. It was dead. He threw it across the room, shattering it against the wall, his frustration boiling over. How was he supposed to save Levian if he couldn’t call for help? A different phone appeared in his hand—Flòra’s.

“Find her a doctor,” his sister told him firmly. “But Jude's right, Barith. Mum didnae send me. I came 'cause you didnae come back with Cat an’ Jude, so now she's swearin' tae send the guard after you next.”

“I dinnae give a shite if she sends the whole bloody horde!” Barith roared, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m no’ leavin’ her here to die!”

He tried to search on Flòra’s phone for a doctor, but he didn’t know where to begin. There were healers and doctors for the Folk if you knew how to look, but he needed someone who knew how to deal with a wound from a Dökk blade. He wished Levian was awake to tell him what to do. He tried to call Gwen, but it went to voicemail, so he hung up with a snarl. Barith couldn’t remember Carvatticus’s number.

“What about Ismay?” Cat chimed in.

“What about bloody Ismay?” Barith growled, panic still clawing at his chest. He turned to check on Levian, who shifted uneasily, her breaths ragged.

“It’s a bad idea,” Jude grumbled.

Flòra dropped a box labeled “Healing” onto the rug next to the settee, threw her thick auburn hair over her shoulder, and began rifling through the vials marked with the mage’s indiscernible shorthand. Barith hadn’t even noticed she’d gone.

“I found these in the library,” she told him. “Maybe one can help.” She handed him a vial. “This one’s for bleedin’, I think,” she said, then gave him another. “An’ this one’s for pain.”

Barith popped the tops off both vials as Cat pulled back the blood-soaked blanket. He poured the contents over the wound without a second thought. Levian’s skin sizzled, and she groaned, her face straining with pain, her forehead damp with sweat. The bleeding slowed, and Barith felt a slight sense of relief, but it wasn’t enough.

“Ismay is an amazing healer,” Cat said, continuing her earlier thought. “I’m sure she can help, dinnae ye think, Flòra?”

“Aye,” Flòra agreed. “Mum says she’s as gifted as great granny was with healin’.”

“I cannae take her to the island— it’s too far,” Barith growled. “I need to find a doctor here.“

“Aye, I agree,” Jude added, some tiny sliver of empathy slipping in. “She cannae fly that far like tha’.”

“No’ if ye’ve got a Stepping Stone,” Cat argued. “It only takes twenty minutes tae fly to the island from Orkney if we’ve a stone. She’s a mage—she must have one?”

“Ye figured that out easy enough,” Jude said, eyeing Cat down.

Cat grunted. “Dinnae worry yer wee head about it,” she snarked back.

Barith tensed, his mind racing as his sisters squabbled. He spun around, searching for Levian’s purse, and snatched it up from the chair where he’d thrown it. His stomach turned, looking at the blood-soaked Dökk blade, but he fished past it and found one more Stepping Stone nestled among Vane’s severed fingers.

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