The Danger of Destiny (22 page)

“All the traps in the Oldbrooke Woods are your brother's.”

That's when my knees turned to water. Trowbridge grabbed me, and before I could puddle beside my brother's sprawled form he'd lifted me into his arms.

“It doesn't hurt,” I said again.

Not my leg, anyhow.

He gazed down at me and his expression tightened. Then he pressed a hard kiss to my brow and carried me out of there. He walked fast. The loose end of my bandage fluttered, ghost white, as he brought me out of the dank darkness.

Outside the cave's mouth, there was a single soft wedge of emerald green grass on which Trowbridge placed me with acute care. He touched my face. “You going to be all right if I leave you here for a moment?”

I nodded.

“Be right back.”

I looked up at the sky and reckoned it was mid-morning, or thereabouts. Mouse sat crouched on the backs of his heels, the pony's reins looped through his hand, at the edge of the ward. The Gatekeeper glowered, her arms still tightly clamped by her hips, thanks to my oddly well-behaved magical donut.

All the traps in the Oldbrooke Woods are Lexi's.

Trowbridge dragged my brother out by his suspenders. Once clear of the cave, my mate rolled Lexi onto his back, so that my twin, the trap setter and wolf hunter, lay faceup. Then Trowbridge turned for me, crouching by my outstretched injured leg. He gently tugged my pant leg upward to expose Mouse's makeshift field dressing. It was dirty and covered in brownish stains.

Trowbridge sucked in a breath. “I need to see what's happening under this.”

I found the peak of my ear and rubbed my thumb over it. “You're not going to like what you find. What's under the bandage is going to scar and it's going to be ugly.”

“Do you think that makes a difference to me?”

He used to love my skin. And now it was marked. I had a bumpy, puckered piece of ugliness left on my shoulder compliments of a close encounter with a crossbow bolt, and my ankle would never be pretty again. When I crossed my leg, he'd notice the scar. When he draped my leg over his shoulder, he'd see it. I'd wear the evidence of my brother's actions for the rest of my life. It would be a constant reminder.

“Scars will never change how I feel about you,” Trowbridge told me as he rolled up the denim. “I've got scars; do you hate them?”

“No, I mourn them.”

“Don't. They're reminders of shit I survived. That's the whole deal, Tink—I lived to see the scar. So, I'll take yours and I'll be grateful for them.”

I watched his hands, noting how well he used them, even though his pinkie and ring finger were nothing more than stubs.

Trowbridge set to work on unwrapping the makeshift bandage from my leg. Within two revolutions, the air turned ripe with his anger. The linen and the wound had become one, an unfortunate consequence of dried blood and Were healing properties. “We're going to need water to soak it off,” he said grimly. “That prick of a bastard better not have sealed us off from any water source.”

“Mouse has sun potion,” I said. “He used it to rinse some of the juka off.”

“Did he get all of it?”

“I don't think so. Some of it had a chance to get into my system.”

Trowbridge's gaze swept to the boy who held Seabiscuit's reins. “You!” he said, switching to Merenwynian. Trowbridge and I had been speaking English, which had left Mouse in the dark, though not the Gatekeeper. She understood the language of Earth. How much could she hear from where she stood?

Mouse slowly straightened. “Yes?”

“You have more sun potion?”

“Aye,” he said warily.

“Bring it.”

Mouse tied Seabiscuit's reins to a branch, then unhooked his sack from her pommel. From its depths he brought out one of his burlap-wrapped bottles. He unwrapped it as he walked to us, his body language a manifesto of reluctance.

Trowbridge carefully stretched out my leg. “Hurts?” he asked in English.

“No.”

“Heads-up—it will. It's going to hurt like a bitch when I remove these dirty bindings.” He shook his head at the wrappings. “I hope your skin hasn't grafted to this.” When Mouse approached, Trowbridge asked, “How much juice do you have?”

“I have a full bottle, Son of Lukynae,” said the boy in Merenwynian.

I raised my eyebrows meaningfully.

Mouse chewed his lip. “And two more in my sack.”

Trowbridge stopped picking at the strip of linen. After a pause, he said, “Don't call me Alpha.”

Body braced as if he were expecting a backhand, Mouse offered the potion. Trowbridge took it from him with a gruff nod.

“I have to take it,” Mouse blurted.

My mate looked up.

“If I live with the Fae, I have to take my ration,” Mouse continued. “There's nothing else I can do. Even if I leave the castle and take my chances by running, there's nothing to run
to
. I might find a village where they need an extra pair of hands and weren't too fussy about my blood, but I couldn't chance meeting my wolf … I'd
still
have to take it. Anyone who wants to pass as Fae has to. That's why I took it. But if I knew I had a place where I could be a wolf, then I wouldn't take it.”

Trowbridge regarded Mouse for a long moment. “A man's got to do what a man's got to do.”

“I wouldn't take it unless I had to,” Mouse whispered.

“I got that,” said Trowbridge. “Go see if there's still a stream on the other side of the rock. I'll need enough water to wash my hands and rinse her leg.”

“Aye, Alpha.”

*   *   *

“Your brother looks like shit.” Trowbridge pulled the cork from the bottle of sun potion. The scent of the elixir streamed from the small bottle's neck: flowers a day before the rot.

Though Lexi was still out cold, his nostrils flared.

I looked away.

Grim-faced, Trowbridge drizzled the juice over my dressing until the fabric bled. He studied the small rust puddle beneath my leg, then looked up at me. “I want you to take a mouthful of the juice before I go any further.”

That shocked me. “You hate sun potion. It subdues our wolf.”

“You're going to bleed, sweetheart.” Trowbridge's knuckles had grime embedded in their creases. “And it's going to be god-awful when I tear this thing off. Your skin has already partially healed around it.”

“It won't hurt. I can barely feel my leg.”

Alarmed, he pressed lightly on my foot. “Do you feel this?”

“No, but—”

“Shit,” he muttered. “Can you move your toes? How long were you in the trap?”

“Five hours? Six?” I wiggled my toes. “I'm not sure. I was in and out.”

“You will take the juice,” he announced.

“Trowbridge, listen. I—”

“Don't argue with me.” He brought the bottle to my mouth. “I hate what this stuff stands for, but don't ask me to watch you hurt when I don't have to. Take the fucking potion.”

Would it help with the pain inside my chest? Would it lift that heavy weight that made me feel a hundred years old? Take away this nagging emotional misery?

His trap.

I took a mouthful. Let it bathe my tongue, fizzing slightly, then swallowed. Trowbridge watched me keenly, his head cocked, but the familiar buoyancy that generally followed a sip of juice didn't turn my world all soft and muzzy.

After a few seconds, he raised his right hand. “How many fingers have I got?”

“A thumb, half of your index finger, a quarter of your ring finger, and—”

Scowling, he sat back on his heels. “A few fucking hits over a couple lousy days and you're already building up a resistance. This shit is worse than fucking crack.”

“You're cussing a lot,” I said mildly.

“Get used to it. I swear more when I'm tired.”

And even more still when worried,
I thought, watching him irritably scratch at the mud flakes on his muscular forearm.

“The juice will kick in.” His fingers moved to his leg, where they began to drum a restless tattoo. “It always does. That's why the Fae love this stuff.” He tipped back his head to squint at the ward. “At least the cloud won't find us through the ward.”

“Jinxes.”

“What?”

“The clouds are called jinxes. According to Mouse, Helzekiel conjured up the first one about ten days ago.”

“But I was…”

 

Chapter Thirteen

Trowbridge was going to say that he was here in Merenwyn ten days ago, but he hadn't been, not really. In the interim, he'd spent time in Creemore, and that muddled up time calculations beyond comprehension.

The two worlds' time lines simply could not be stitched together.

Trowbridge scrubbed his face. “It is messing with my mind—knowing that only an hour or so has gone by in Creemore while meanwhile we've been…”

On the run for more than a day.

“I can't do it anymore,” he said. “We're here now. We need to live by Merenwyn's clock and forget the rest.”

I nodded, albeit slowly.

He smiled at me, the weary curve of his mouth telling me that he recognized my reluctance to forget home. He changed the subject with more determination than finesse. “So, what else did the mutt say about the frickin' cloud?”

“Mouse said that every morning the mother jinx gives birth to four small ones. They're sent out to hunt wolves and they don't return until they've found their prey.” I lifted my shoulders. “That's it.”

“Only wolves?”

“It can't track mutts. Only the full-blooded Rahae'lls and Kuskadors.”

“So it hunts by scent.”

“I think so.”

Mouse returned carrying his dripping shirt and a drenched wad of what looked like the wrappings he'd used to protect his sun potion bottles. “We have no cup nor bucket. But I thought you could use this lot to wash the crud off you.”

Trowbridge took the sodden shirt with a nod. Mouse stayed, shifting his weight on his feet, as Trowbridge began to clean his hands.

Without looking up, my mate said, “That will be all.”

Mouse nodded. “Yes, Alpha.”

Trowbridge waited until the boy was back beside Seabiscuit before he muttered, “I told him not to call me that.”

“He's very curious about us.”

“He's looking for a pack.” Trowbridge worked the cloth over his palms, then dropped the shirt. Gently, he retested the bandages wrapped around my ankle. “These wrappings are looser, but not by much.” His expression turned regretful. “Tink, we got to get this done. These dressings have got to come off and we can't wait for the juice to kick in. We have to leave here. This ward might protect us from the cloud, but it also keeps us trapped. If Qae's found my trail, I've led him right to you. You never stay long in one spot when you're being tracked. I don't want to walk out of this bowl of magic and find a surprise waiting for us.”

“Do what you have to do. I won't feel a twinge of pain. Lexi took all of it last night.”

Trowbridge lifted startled eyes.

“No, that's not the juice talking.” I gave him a bittersweet smile. It was time to tell him of the trap, and Mad-one and Lexi's visit. “My brother came to me last night while I was in the trap and he assumed my pain.”

“He
came
to you?” repeated Trowbridge, his voice dipping into a dangerous drawl. “And he left you there? I'll—”

“No!” I said, catching his arm before he could lunge for my comatose twin. “Not like that. He wasn't really there. Not in body and form.” I winced, knowing I was going to have to try to explain something that I didn't have a handle on.

Trowbridge looked up to determine if the Gatekeeper was within hearing distance. She'd been fluent enough in English to spew insults at me back at the Peach Pit, on our first introduction, before she'd turned on her heels and hauled her ass back to Merenwnyn. He jerked his chin at the boy who stood nearby, worrying the edge of a hangnail. “Mouse,” he called, “take the pony and the woman to the stream. Water the animal and watch the woman. Got it?”

Mouse brightened. “Yes, Alpha.”

When we were alone except for my comatose twin, Trowbridge resumed the interrogation as if it had never been paused. “Was the dickhead there or not?”

“Lexi's voice was there; his body was not.” I crinkled my brow, remembering. “Though I could feel his hands, stroking my fur, and that was more than a little weird.”

“If he touched you, he was there.”

“Ghost hands, Trowbridge. That's what it felt like.”

He swore under his breath.

“I don't know how to explain what happened, but Lexi was able to talk to me through Mad-one. The important part is that he came when I called. And that he tried to make it better for me. I was … not good.”

“Big of him,” Trowbridge snarled. “Did the ghost-bastard happen to mention that the trap mauling your leg was his?”

“No.”

“Ball-less wonder.”

“I want you to listen to me, okay? Because what I'm going to say is important.” I waited for his glare to turn from Lexi to me, then said, “Once we've done what we need to do here, I need to believe that we're going home to Creemore. And I want the life that we should have had: you have your pack and me, and I have you and what's left of my family.” I drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I want peace, Trowbridge. I never thought I'd want a quiet life again, but that's what I want. And if you can't put aside how you feel about Lexi … if you and he are fighting all the time … Creemore will turn into a new battleground.”

“He traps his own kind.”

“I know!” I hissed. “My leg is proof of it!” I stopped to swallow again, pushing down the knot that kept rising. Then I said, more calmly, “But when I needed him, Lexi tried to help me. He gave me the language—I understand Merenwynian now; didn't you notice that?” I nodded in the direction of the Gatekeeper and Mouse. “And he sent those two to set me free.”