Page 41 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Lincoln.The quiet scared her.Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln.You’re here, I know you’re here, you have to be here, you didn’t leave me, you wouldn’t leave me, don’t leave me—
“Shit,” Lincoln barked, turning her roughly.
“You didn’t leave,” she said, bewildered.
Blood speckled his sweater and coated his hands. His mouth dripped crimson.
Beautiful beast,she thought.Still mine.
“Leave?What?Look, don’t…” He exhaled through a frustrated growl and reached timidly for the knife. “This’ll hurt like a bitch, okay? Just stay still. I can…” He inhaled through his nose and narrowed his eyes. “I can heal you, but this has to come out first.”
As he wrapped his hand around the hilt of the knife, she realized she’d never seen him afraid before. She laughed, one singlehah, and cried out when he pulled the blade free. He yelped, too, and plastered his palm over his stomach, concealing a matching wound.
Tehlor’s knees buckled. She swayed into him, but Lincoln did not let her fall.
“Where’s my rat,” she mumbled.
The darkness thickened. She heard Lincoln’s heartbeat, pounding, dwindling.
Lincoln cradled her in his lap, fumbling for the knife, muttering something in a language she didn’t know. Latin. Aramaic, maybe. Demon-speak.
“Where’s my rat,” she said again, louder.
“In my fucking pocket,” he snapped. “Can you stay still? Jesus Christ, Tehlor. You…” He blew out an annoyed breath, rolled his sleeve to his elbow, and picked up the knife, setting the blade against his forearm. “You went nuclear, you know that? Old-world shit.”
She snorted, staring at his perked ears, pretty snout, and stern eyes. Her vision doubled, tripled. She clung tohereandnow, tothenandthere, coughing through labored breath.
“Breathe,” Lincoln said. His two-toned eyes glinted.
Lincoln flattened his palm over the puncture.
“You first,” she said, glancing at his leaking stomach.
Lincoln ignored her.
“You first,” she hollered, choking on coppery ichor.
Lincoln hushed her. She didn’t hear what else he said, couldn’t parse the incantation tumbling past his sharp teeth, but she felt her flesh catch fire.
As wicked heat chewed her skin, cauterizing the wound, Tehlor threw her head back. She screeched, digging her heels into the bloody snow, and fisted her weak hands in Lincoln’s shirt. Before her mind clicked off, consciousness shooed by immeasurable pain, she caught a glimpse of Sophia De’voreaux crouched in the darkness, hand poised like a puppeteer, staring back at her.
Chapter twelve
CHURCH MASSACRE IN WILDERNESS PRESERVE
INVESTIGATED AS MURDER-SUICIDE
The headline scrolled past the bottom of the muted flatscreen.
Seven days ago, enthusiastic news anchors had reported on a brutal incident in the Gideon backcountry. The local sheriff refused to name suspects, and the investigation was under lock and key, but Tehlor still tuned in every morning, waiting for her picture to appear, for the headline to change:Local woman identified as prime suspect in Haven slaughter.She shifted on the couch, laid out in an unfamiliar place with her shirt bundled beneath her armpits, flinching as Lincoln peeled a bandage off her stomach.
“It’s getting better,” he said, tipping his head to inspect her charred skin.
A blackened handprint replaced the nasty gash. For seven days, she’d limped around, hissing and complaining, begging Freya for mercy, and for seven days, her ruined flesh sizzled with every breath. He was right, though. It was happening slowly, but hellfire be damned, she was healing.
The house on Staghorn Way was not home, but they’d needed shelter after the revival, and staying at her townhouse had been too risky. Somehow, they’d circled back to their origin, waiting for the person they’d mutually betrayed to walk through the front door again. She tracked slow-falling snow through the window while Lincoln dabbed at the burn with a damp cloth, and tried not to flinch when he applied a cooling ointment. She’d mashed the salve together herself, imbuing it with blessings and hope.Do not leave me, she’d whispered to each herb, imagining godkin poised on the beach in her dream,do not forsake me. Each night, she envisioned the preserve—candles, prayer, bloodshed—and each night, she found another missing piece, collected another lost memory.
Lincoln, carrying her into the townhouse, hoisting her into the bathtub, holding her face between his reddened hands.Don’t you fuckin’ dare, Tehlor. Look at me, c’mon, hey!Something shattering, footsteps hurrying, voices carrying.Listen, kid, I saw what you can do, okay? Bring her back. Do it, or I’ll—Sophia De’voreaux’s blotchy face. How badly Tehlor had wanted to sayI’m still alive, I’m still here, and how impossible that simple action had been. Sophia, stitching Tehlor’s flighty soul into place. Agony, agony, agony. Lincoln, standing in the doorway, holding the matching wound on his stomach with one hand and swatting at a stubborn tear with the other. And before that—before, before—how the night had turned vicious, and she had, too. Lincoln, lifting a man by the throat. Bodies bending backward, breaking. Death, how it sounded, how it smelled. How life sputtered out in her palm. Amy’s arm loosed from the socket. Her eyes gouged, her teeth cracked—
