Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
I also know I shouldn’t watch him like this.
But when I close my own lids briefly, I see only the burned houses, the bloodstains in the children’s beds and the symbol markings, the S and the P intertwined by the doors that were still standing.
Salvation and Protection.
Innocent people slaughtered because others thought they were cursed by demons. Whole families gone out of the same fear that hunted me.
Glancing over to the door, I realize Merc hasn’t followed his own rule.
In silence, I pad across the gray floorboards and bolt us in. Then I go back into the water closet. It’s easier to undress knowing he’s sleeping, and as I start to undo the fastenings on the navy blue coat, I can’t help but think of where I was when I put these borrowed men’s clothes on me. That glen of trees and Julion’s request feel like it happened to someone else, a lifetime ago—
The first hint of the problem that’s developed reveals itself as I try to pull my right arm out of the sleeve.
Pain lances up my forearm and I hiss a curse.
Persisting through the discomfort, I have to grit my teeth to keep from crying out, and when my outer layer is off, I catch my breath like I’ve been running. As I put the folds down, I see the ragged tear through the silver detailing.
I don’t know if I have the courage to inspect what was done to me by that giant black bird. But like I have the choice?
The inhale I take is rough, and then I look down at the red cloth that Merc wrapped the injury in. The makeshift bandage is damp. I tell myself it’s from my dip in the stream, except in this dim water closet, I can’t tell if I’ve just been slow-bleeding for hours. Heart pounding, I begin to unwrap things, and when I’m done, the room is spinning. Trembling, I step over to the slant of lantern light that pierces through the crack at the doorjamb—
“Oh … no.”
The periphery of the jagged slice is already turning red and puffing up, and the inside is heading for purple. It’s a deep cut, nearly to the bone in places, and very long, running from my wrist bone nearly to my elbow. If it looks like this now? By the morning, I’m going to have a fever.
I look longingly at the tub. And turn the water off.
Going back out into the room, I rewrap things as I clear my throat. “Merc? I have a problem.”
Forty-Two
The Herbist.
I’ve never seen water fall from the sky horizontally before. You’d think that’s impossible, but current conditions prove the contrary. The storm’s pour is traveling parallel to the ground, like a herd of horses on a bolt. Sheets of droplets peel my eyes back, push into my nose, and muffle my ears even as I have the wrap around my face. I do what I can to protect myself, putting both my arms up, but nothing seems to help—
Merc shifts me in behind him, his big body offering a lee. I grab on to his broadsword holster, and hang on, but the deluge seems to be falling up from the ground, too. By the time we’ve crossed the muddy lane where the pair of drunken men fumble-fought, I’m soaked all the way through—and we still have to go down a couple of buildings.
When we finally arrive on the shallow porch of the store with the HERBIST sign, there’s little shelter to be had beneath the overhang. It’s so dark inside that I expect things to be locked up tight, but when Merc tries the door, the entry opens readily, a little bell tinkling.
We bring the storm inside with us, and Merc cuts it off by putting his shoulder into the door, like he’s keeping out a rude guest. For me, the instant I take a proper breath, the smell of prepared roots, leaves, and bark returns me to my home under the stairs and my eyes water in a way that has nothing to do with everything that’s dripping into my face.
“We’re almost closed,” comes a male voice out of the back.
Forcing myself to focus, I feel instantly at ease. It’s a small shop, but there are so many glass jars on the counters and the shelves, I can’t count them. I do recognize some of what’s in the containers, however, even though the signs are in a language I can’t decipher.
A man enters from a door behind the counter by the register of cash. Taking one look at us, he shakes his head. “I said, we’re closed.”
He’s on the young side of maturity, with dark skin, a shaved head, and a set of silver spectacles perched on the end of his long nose. Dressed in the brown felt of a villager, he has a white apron tied around his waist, and the way he’s wringing his hands together makes me think he’s either washed them or compulsively wishes he could.