Page 45 of The Curse of Ophelia

I reached behind my head and wrapped my fingers around the spear. The weapon warmed in my hand, begging to be used for this moment of vengeance. That familiar energy shot up my arm. Taking aim was significantly harder while Sapphire moved, so I pulled her reins to stop her. In one swift movement, I balanced the spear, aimed, pulled my arm back, and let the fated weapon fly toward my retreating target.

It shot straight through the back of his head with a squelch that I could hear across the clearing. I released a sigh at the sound. My breathing steadied as the enormity of what I had done hit me: struck a moving target from fifty yards with a spear. A feat by any warrior’s standards—especially mine.

But that mystery would have to wait.

“Tol,” I breathed, remembering why I had chased the enemy down.

I retrieved Malakai’s spear and raced back to where Tolek had collapsed. The gentle rise and fall of his chest lodged a sob in my throat. He was alive. Sprawled in the grass with his head in Cypherion’s lap, pale and blood-soaked and shaking—but alive.

Santorina inspected his leg, giving Jezebel directions of what to pull from her backpack.

I threw myself down beside them, wrapping both of my hands around Tol’s. Tears stung my eyes as I looked at the damp stain surrounding the ax still lodged in his thigh. Crimson pooled around the wound—splattered his face, leathers, and hair, tinted the grass red. Spirits, there was so much blood.

He cried out as Rina prodded the skin next to his wound.

“Sorry, sorry,” she murmured. She sounded much calmer than I felt. “Hell, I can’t tell what the damage is with the ax still in there. We’re going to have to remove it quickly.”

Tolek nodded without opening his eyes, but his grip tightened on my hand until his knuckles turned white and my bones ground together.

“Here.” Cypherion removed the leather band around his arm, emptied the blades, and forced it between Tolek’s teeth for him to bite on.

Santorina’s face was hard, eyes narrowed in concentration as her slender fingers gripped the weapon. She met my gaze for a brief second, then tightened her grasp and pulled. The blood flowed fast, but Jezebel was there with a dressing, applying pressure.

“It didn’t hit an artery.” Rina sounded relieved.

“How do you know?” I asked.

She looked up. “Because he’d already be dead.”

I swallowed, fear swooping through my stomach at the understanding that removing the weapon from his thigh could have been the end of Tolek.

The ax had sliced cleanly through his leathers. My stomach turned further at the consideration of what poison must have coated the Engrossian weapons in order to penetrate our reinforced garments. They were out to kill.

I was glad I’d ended them.

As if reading my mind, Rina said, “The magic worked into these training leathers may be the only thing that saved you, Tolek.” Gently, excruciatingly, she cleaned the wound using vials and linen strips that I hadn’t even been aware she had packed but could not have been happier for. Then, she stitched his skin back together using a Bodymelder thread that would fade into his skin as the wound healed.

I couldn’t look away from the needle and thread that pierced Tolek’s flesh, weaving in and out as if through mere cloth, each puncture thickening the sweat pouring down his face.

“This should have gone deep enough to either take your leg off or cause you to bleed out. But it didn’t. You’re lucky.” Rina made the final stitch and tied off the thread with one skilled motion.

Tolek spit out the leather strip that his teeth had nearly gnawed through and grimaced. “I must be blessed,” he panted. His face was too pale. Though the pain was evident, he looked to me, and his eyes softened.

As Jezebel and Santorina searched for materials that might help support the injury, I reached a hand to his hair. It was standing in disarray around his face, dark brown strands sticking up and out. I brushed my fingers across each sun-kissed highlight, his chocolate eyes melting in his blood-splattered face as he calmed with my touch.

“You’re an idiot, Vincienzo.” I shook my head. “Why did you do it?”

“Ophelia,” he whispered, breathing through the pain. He fought to get the words out, his voice low and labored. “Why did you do it?”

Cyph glanced up from his friend’s pained expression, but I avoided his eyes. A gash bled steadily from his forehead, staining his auburn waves. He didn’t seem to notice.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat—the truth fighting to get out. “It was the only option.” I couldn’t let any of them die, but I could sacrifice myself.

“No.” A modicum of energy returned to Tolek’s voice as he repeated, “No, Ophelia. Never.” His squeeze of my hand was merely a flutter, but it was reassuring and admonishing and concerned all at once.

I looked at the now-wrapped wound, wiping tears from my eyes.

“Tolek Vincienzo,” I said, voice cracking, “never do anything like that again.”

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