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“Your arm?”
She shook her head, but then nodded.
Crimson. There might be wounds too deep to comprehend.
“Is it broken?” he asked, pointing to it. “Can I see? I’m not a great healer like your Aunt Ada, but I know injuries. I can take a look. I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
Unable to meet his eyes, she gingerly twisted toward him. The wrist was bruised and purple. Her shoulder sank at an odd angle, the bone popping.
“Looks like your shoulder is dislocated,” he said, indicating where the shape was wrong at her shoulder. “The wrist could be broken. Where does it hurt more?”
“Shoulder,” she whispered.
“Right. I think it’s dislocated. If I pop your arm back into the joint, it will alleviate that shoulder pain. But the wrist will have to wait until a healer sees you.”
River got down on a knee, and tested her arm and shoulder. She cried out sharply, but he had to do this. He didn’t know if anyone noticed him leave. Damn it. He should have said something before shooting off after Cloud.
“I’m going to sit behind you and then push the arm in. It’s going to hurt like a motherfucker. But then it will feel better almost instantly.”
She nodded. Fuck, she was brave. Or she just had no idea how much it would hurt. Oh well. Better get it done. He positioned himself, supported her, and popped her arm back in.
No sound came out of her mouth when she screamed. He held her tight and said, “Feels better now, right?”
She whimpered but nodded.
“Good. That’s good.” He reached for her other hand, intending to check it for injuries because her fist was clenched, but she opened her hand, and a black feather fell out. His blood turned to ice.
Was that Cloud’s?
Was she trying to hide it, or was she clutching at it?
It started to rain. Big drops fell, hitting the sand with loud plops. Willow squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, refusing to budge. River spread his wings to shield her from the rain and glanced up, but a drop splashed in his eye. Wincing, he wiped it off, and a familiar coppery scent bloomed. He forced his trembling, wet fingers before his face.Blood.
No.
He looked up and squinted against the falling blood rain. Amongst the storm, lightning arced behind an airship drifting idly, swaying in the breeze as if no one piloted the craft. Each time the airship tilted, blood sloshed from the deck, and showered down.
“Fuck me,” he breathed as the realization dawned on him. It wasn’t a storm. It was Cloud.
Movement in River’s periphery. He withdrew his dagger and spun as a familiar wolpertinger in tiny form emerged from the forest and hopped toward Willow. Tinger froze upon seeing River’s blade glint in the lightning. The little fur ball trembled, but River hardened his jaw and waved it closer. The wolpertinger had lost the ability to shift when Maebh stole most of his mana.
“Stay with Willow until her parents get here,” he ordered, as if the animal could understand him. “Protect her.”
It was only a tiny thing, but hopefully, it would comfort her until the cavalry arrived. Then he crouched, spread his wings, and took to the sky. He weaved through the blood rain, arming himself with mana, ready to put his life on the line to save his friend. But when he landed on the deck, he slipped in blood.
“Holy Well,” he murmured as he scanned the destruction with wide eyes. Nothing moved beyond the hum of an engine, the flap of sails, and smoke and small fires from the lightning strikes.
The entire crew was dead. Perhaps even fae. It was impossible to identify the mess. River tracked the destruction across scorched wood and nonsensical gouge marks to where movement caught his eye on the upper deck.
Cloud was crouched and digging around somewhere near his feet. The wind caused his wet hair to whip his face, but he paid it no mind; such was the concentration on his face as he worked. River quickly took stock of the area, checking for any threats he might have missed. But the only living thing was the tattooed Guardian in his leather uniform, his wilted wings resting on the bloody deck behind him.
Alarm prickled River’s skin. Something wasn’t right. Cloud should have looked up by now, but he attacked his subject with single-minded tenacity until he finally tossed his dagger over his shoulder. It skidded down to the quarterdeck with a clang. He scrubbed his face, cleaning it. Then used three fingers to paint a stripe of blood from his temple to his clenched jaw, and the same for the other side.
River always asked Cloud why he left his face clean of power-enhancing tattoos when every other inch of him was covered. He was obsessed with gaining power, never to be vulnerable again—but it always seemed a missed opportunity. Was it vanity? Or refusal to mar the handsome features so many females drooled over?
But as Cloud stood, his blue eyes stark amongst the red, River finally understood why.
He had saved that canvas for this special moment—so no one mistook the V of blood on his face.
