Page 16

I pause in the last cover, listening ahead, but my own breathing is too loud.

When I move again, I keep her face turned into my chest, out of the wind.

Halfway up, my thigh begins to tremble with every step. I ease down on a ledge, taking her weight across my lap.

She lies against me while I rest. I can feel the shivering now, small movements that stop and start beneath the cloth. Her mouth opens against my pelt, and her eyes stay closed.

Don’t you die on this ledge.

I keep my hand behind her head until I can stand again.

The upper slope is bare stone, and my claws can’t help me while both hands are under her. At the last rise, I lean forward and wait until my bent knee will straighten.

The fold in the mountainside is ahead.

I’ve brought a wolf this far.

I move under the growth, shielding her face with my shoulder, and turn into the slot.

The first bend takes us out of the night air.

She hasn’t opened her eyes once.

I carry her into the living chamber and lower her onto my sleeping furs. My arms shake after I let go. I rest them against my thighs, watching her breathe while the worst of it passes.

The hearth still has coals beneath the ash. I set water to warm. The wall beside it stays warm longest. I drag the spare furs there and fold a cloth where her head will rest.

Then I go back for her.

She’s stopped shivering by the time I settle her near the hearth. I check her pulse again and bring the cloak over her chest, leaving the injured shoulder bare.

Blood has soaked through where I held her.

I kneel on her left, laying clean cloth within reach. The fire gives me enough light to see the wood. Its broken end has worn a raw patch into her skin.

I wash the dirt from around it first.

The moonbright smells sharper under the wet cloth, and my teeth press together. Water drips from the cloth into the bowl. A piece of wood splits in the fire. Every small sound in the chamber grates.

I breathe through my mouth and keep washing, and my hands stay steady when I brace them against her pallet.

I close my fingers around the shaft, keeping the claws clear of her skin. The head holds when I first ease it back. I stop at once.

Torn muscle has tightened around one edge. I work it free a little at a time, pausing whenever her breathing catches. She turns her face into the folded cloth, but her eyes stay shut.

“Almost out.”

I support the flesh beside the wound and ease the last edge through.

Fresh blood follows it. I set the head and its stub in an empty bowl, then press folded linen to her shoulder.

The bolt-head can wait. I want a better look at what they’ve put on it once I’ve stopped the bleeding.

I hold the linen until the bleeding slows. My knees ache, and I shift one at a time without taking pressure off the wound. When I lift the cloth to check, her skin is still open underneath. It stays open while I watch. Nothing in her to close it.

I cover it again.

The water has warmed enough to clean her. I start with the river silt in her hair, working the stones loose with the backs of my claws and spreading the wet strands beside her head. She makes a small sound when the cloth reaches the scrape along her cheek, so I lighten it and wait, then finish.