Page 74 of Hungry Like a Wolf
She moaned quietly and became aware of her temple throbbing, as though the beat of her pulse were trying to get out. She swallowed, her throat scratched and thick, as though it had clogged up with spiky moss.
She sat on the side of the bed. Her head spun and she swallowed again. Her throat was so sore and dry. She needed fluid.
Standing, she reached for the table, but disoriented all of a sudden, she bumped into a storage box and then lunged forward. “Oh!” Her shins hit something hard and unyielding, sending shooting pains through the bones. Her body doubled over something solid and her ribs screamed a complaint. Then as she hit the earth floor, her wrist took the impact.
“Carmel!”
Ravn was at her side, reaching for her, his arms beneath her scooping her up.
“What is the matter?” he asked, going back to her language despite the fact that for one week, they’d only spoken his.
“I… I don’t know…” She curled her fingers around her throat. “It hurts. I hurt.”
“Let’s get you back on the bed.”
Seemingly without effort, he laid her on the bed, her head sinking into the pillow. “I’ll get you a drink.”
Within seconds, a mug of fresh stream water was at her lips. She sipped then winced when it felt as though there was thorns in it.
“You are burning up,” he said, resting the back of his hand on her forehead. “You are sick.”
“I know.” She looked up into his worried eyes. “I feel… I feel…”
“Rest. Do not speak. I will care for you.”
She could hear the anxiety in his tone. He was no medicine woman and they were not in the village, where he could have quickly gotten help.
“I’ll be well by morn,” she said, managing to smile weakly.
“I will pray to the gods that you are.” He took her wrist in his hand. “This is bruising. I will make a paste to put on this.”
“And my…” She paused and shivered uncontrollably. “My legs, my… I banged the box.” Her shins were throbbing, adding insult to injury.
He lifted the blanket and frowned. “They are bruising already. You should have woken me.”
“I just wanted a drink…”
“Here, have some more. My mother always said when the sweats come, you need to drink to replace the water dripping from your skin.”
She sipped some more, then a feeling of absolute exhaustion came over her and she melted into the pillow, eyes closing, blackness coming over her.
*
Ravn could feelhis soul twisting as though it were being made into a rope and pulled long and taut. He set the mug aside and stared at his pale, sleeping wife.
She’d been perfectly fine all day. They’d fucked as soon as they’d woken, then together, they’d collected shellfish and cooked them with fresh garlic and herbs. She’d repaired some linen blankets and he’d made arrowheads ready for hunting, then he’d brought her to climax with his tongue when the sun had dipped and they’d sat around the fire.
Yet now she lay with the sweats, her voice croaking, her wrist and shins bruised and swollen, and her skin as white as lily of the valley.
Dread took hold. A gripping fist around his heart.
He’d seen this before in the village. A swift, brutal illness that took loved ones from families between dawn and dusk.
“Please, no. Let her be well. All Father, I beg you.” He leaned forward and kissed her clammy forehead then dashed from the pit house. The plants he needed were by the copse of trees near the stream. Quickly, he paced past the horses, who raised their heads to watch him, then he splashed through the water and stooped to snag up the cropleek. When he had a fistful, he grabbed garlic and wormwood, enough to make a tincture.
That would help the bruising, but what about her sweats and obvious pain in her throat?
As he rushed back, he had a sudden longing for his sister. Astrid would have known what to do. She was good at staying calm in a crisis and thinking straight—and her thoughts were full of herbs and medicines, runes and what offerings to make to the gods.
