Page 99 of Claws of Death

I don’t ask Silas if he has enough in him to seal a deep arrow wound—he wouldn’t be sitting here if he didn’t—and slowly, with utmost care, I pull on the arrow, keeping the angle steady so I don’t rip on the tissues. One inch, another. It’s deeper than I thought, but we’re almost there. Thank Shaelak, Myron’s not awake. I hate it when they scream.

That thought lingers in my mind longer than it should. There was a time when I enjoyed a good scream of pain. Nowadays, it’s only that of pleasure in the bedroom. I haven’t heard that one in forever, though, so how can I be sure it still does thetrick?

One more inch, and—plop!—the arrow comes free. Alongside a gush of blood.

“Your turn.” I take over, reaching for Myron’s shoulders and rolling him to his back once more. Now that the arrow is out, I no longer care about what angle he lies in. Silas can send his healing power into him from any angle while pulling out the arrow demands for the best possible one where the puller has the least likelihood of shaking.

I count my breaths—slow, steady breaths—until the wrinkles on Silas’s forehead disappear and the sweat collecting on his brow no longer taunts me to wipe it away.

Myron blinks, and a mountain crumbles from my chest. “Fuck you, my king. You could have waited with the magic-nullifying drug crap until Royad and I were ready to see you kneel.”

It sounds not even half as funny as I imagined, but Myron’s lips tilt upward in a weak grin. It’s the best sight in the world. Except for Kaira’s smile, of course, but that’s a whole different thing.

“Good to have you back, Myron.” Silas says it much better. Then, he doesn’t need to keep everyone at arm’s length because of a horrible lapse in judgment leading to an unbreakable oath to a traitor.Fuck me.

Myron’s gaze wanders to Silas then to Recienne, who got his puking under control. Now he can compare notes with his mate. If Askarean fairies are anything like Crows, the females will experience the most unfortunate of stomach situations at every other turn during pregnancy.

Also, I can’t believe he left her alone at the palace.

I frown at the Fairy King over my shoulder.

“Is he all right?”

Of course, Myron wants to know if the male who used to make our lives the equivalent of the dark corners of Hel’s realm is all right.

But I can consider that only for a heartbeat because his gaze searches the sky, and I know who he’s looking for. “Where is Ayna?”

Silas’s gaze skips to mine and mine to the uneven grounds behind the wagon. “She’s with Royad.”

Myron

I’m running.How I’m running with the remains of an arrow wound in my chest, I don’t know, but I’m on my feet, palm pressing against the hole between my ribs as I leap off the wagon and stumble in the direction Herinor pointed.

Royad is kneeling in the dirt, staring at something together with Tata whose back is blocking my Ayna from view.

“You’ll tear that wound right open again, and I don’t think I have any magic left to heal you all over again,” Silas warns. It’s the least sarcastic I’ve heard him in ages, and it scares the shit out of me.

I don’t slow, though. The thin thread that is our bond is pulling me directly toward her. In my shoulder, a dull throbreminds me of the times when we were connected through the tattoo, when Herinor had used it to set me on the right track to find her. I haven’t thanked him for that questionable kindness. Maybe, one day, if he ever follows up on his promise to kneel to Ayna and me, I’ll speak those words of gratitude. But for now, I wave a dismissive hand over my shoulder at Silas.

A few squishy steps and I’m there, mud splattering my leathers as my knees hit the ground.

“Where is she?” I’m expecting to find my queen sprawled on the ground, but when Royad pulls back his hand, exposing a small, black, feathered body, my heart stills in my chest.

Mud covers her, beak to claws. Mud … and blood. I swallow the momentary relief at the sound of her heartbeat.

“What happened?” I’m not certain I want the answer when Royad opens his mouth and a long, deep sigh preempts his response.

“We’re not exactly sure. One moment, she was clawing out Jeseida’s eyes, and the next, she was up in the air. An arrow hit her in the wing. It went straight through, and Tata mended the damage, but she’s not waking up.

She fell. The onslaught of panic should feel familiar by now, but I’d rather face the Flames all over again than fret for Ayna’s life. Any number of bones could have snapped in a fall mid-flight. I don’t want to even think about what damage an uncushioned impact on the hard ground could have done to her inner organs, her brain?—

It’s a delicate organism, that of a Crow. In both forms, we have the same vital organs, but the difference in size andour overall physique changes the way we react to injuries in either form.

“Why didn’t she shift?” That’s what a Crow would normally do, try to carry the weight on the wings until the last possible moment, then shift and run the final steps or roll to ease the impact.

Royad shakes his head, and Tata shrugs.

“She might have already blacked out from the arrow wound,” Tata suggests. “It wasbad.” She shudders. And this is a seasoned warrior used to battle injuries of all sorts. “It’s a Guardians-damned miracle her bones aligned that easily when I healed her.”

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