If I weren’t feeling detached from my body, I would have laughed at the sight of us all sniffing the air. After a moment of audible sniffing, we shook our heads. The room, with its fireplace and food and strange dwarfish musk, was overpowering our ability to smell properly anyway.
“Get out.”
The command was so abrupt, we gawked, uncomprehending.
The innkeeper’s face reddened. “You have Wendigo tracking you. You are not welcome in this inn. Or in our town. Out. Now.” He disappeared through the back door.
For several moments, shuffling and clanking reached our ears—the only sounds in the dumbfounded room. Then he was back, almost sprinting in his haste. He shoved a wad of supplies into Sebastian’s arms. “Take these, free of charge. Tents and bedrolls. And a silver stake. It won’t kill them, but silver is the only way to injure a Wendigo—maybe long enough for you to get away. This is all I can do. Now go.”
“B-but . . .” Caspar stuttered.
“You’re cursed. Possessed,” he shouted, baring his teeth. “Go!”
My body finally responded, straightening to a stand. I pulled Reagan with me, nudging a stunned Malachi toward the exit. “We’re leaving. We don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
The Dwarf was shaking now, stark terror making his eyes bulge. As we left the inn, I looked back at him one last time. His finger was pointing directly at me. “Those in love, the Wendigo seek. Beware the fever. Once it takes you, it never leaves. Driven insane, you will be. In the end, only pain and misery.”
I wished I hadn’t looked back.
Only pain and misery . . .
I shivered. The Dwarf’s words echoed in my thoughts but none of us could discern his meaning. Not definitively, anyway. I kept my hands busy to quiet my mind, thankful that we had a few small first aid necessities. Unfortunately, these didn’t include anything to stitch wounds with. In hindsight, those should have been some of the first things packed.
At least we still carried some luck with us. I had spare safety pins—bonus points for questionable fashion choices—and tore a strip from the bottom of my t-shirt to pull threads from.
Sebastian and Akeno had prodded the twins to raise tents, I suspected to keep them out of my way, but my priority was Tarik. As soon as a tent was erected, I helped him inside, insisting he didn’t move once he was comfortable.
He wasn’t a fan of the request.
I cast a glance over my shoulder. A knot twisted in my chest. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and ragged. The thin sheen of sweat on his forehead glittered in the firelight—I had propped open the tent flaps so I could see what I was doing.
Inhaling a long breath, I crawled to Tarik’s side, resting the supplies on my leg. “Are you ready for this?”
“I could use a drink first,” he mumbled.
“Where’s your water bottle?” I glanced around. Mine was drained.
He chuckled, then winced, inhaling slowly. “I don’t mean water. Is my pack in here?”
I nodded, pulling the bag toward me. While shuffling through the contents, I shot a deadpan glare in Tarik’s direction. “Really?”
He crooked his fingers. “Hand it over.”
A metal flask sat tucked into the bottom of the bag and I tugged it free, loosening the cap. I almost handed it over, but an idea struck me.
“What’s in here?” I raised the cask, taking a whiff. Whiskey. I grinned. “Oh, this is perfect.”
His brows pulled together. “Yes, it is. For drinking. Why, do you want some?”
I tapped a finger to the side of the metal, considering for a moment. Jumping to my feet, I said, “Sure, drinking. Hold that thought.”
His incoherent grumbles followed me into the campsite, where I stole some of the white gauze tucked in Caspar’s bag. The Fae raised an eyebrow in my direction. “Everything okay?”
I nodded. “Tarik might not think so here in a second.”
Slipping back into the tent, I balled the gauze and pressed it to the flask. Honeyed yellow liquid spread through the white cloth. “And here I was worried I wouldn’t be able to clean you up before I start . . . This might sting a bit.”
Tarik struggled into a sitting position, air hissing between his teeth. “Woman, give me a shot of whiskey before you come near me with that thing.”
“Oh you can have the flask. I got what I needed.” I tried to keep my tone light, teasing, but even I didn’t buy the fake confidence. He was losing too much blood. I held out the flask, dropping back to my seat beside him. “And . . . I’m sorry. Ahead of time.”
“Yeah, me too.” He grabbed the flask and took a long pull before finishing with, “Because I don’t know what words will come out of my mouth while you stitch me up.”
I shrugged, tying a makeshift knot in the thread looping through the safety pin. Leaning forward I brushed my lips to his cheek before I slid closer. A frown tugged my lips down as I trailed a thumb along the scar-flecked skin of his stomach. Delaying, not really wanting to hurt him further. Inhaling deeply, I said, “Brace yourself.”
He laid back, taking another swig from the flask. His hiss of pain when I ran the whiskey-soaked cloth over his skin shot a pang of agony through my chest. This was the easy part.
Tarik had smaller wounds, but I went straight for the deepest and tried to seal that one first. My fingers were clumsy, soaked in blood. The needle wasn’t made for this, either. I knew it was causing more pain than necessary. My stomach roiled at the thought. I pushed my fingers to move a bit faster, carefully ensuring that each stitch was secure before I moved on.
“Wait, wait.” Tarik laid a hand over mine, stilling my movements. I glanced up at him. The usual spark in his eyes was dull, pained. “I just need . . . a little more help here. Or I’m gonna scream like Malachi does when someone sneaks up behind him. Come here.”
His fingers wrapped around my wrist and tugged weakly. He kept pulling, guiding my face toward him with his other hand, then brushed a featherlight kiss to my lips.
A humming sound came from deep in his throat, then he dropped his hands. “Better. Proceed.”
Warmth bloomed in my stomach and I slid him a small smile, but I didn’t speak. My growing apprehension forced any words I might have had away. He needed to eat something . . . mushrooms, nuts, something with iron. Something that would revive the color missing in his cheeks.
“One down,” I breathed, trailing a light caress over his arm. “Two to go.”
With my fingers occupied, I tugged at my lip ring with my teeth. Now that I had found a rhythm the stitches went faster, and I finished the second wound, and the third, in a matter of minutes. I slipped from the tent long enough to borrow water from Caspar, trickling a thin stream of it over my hands. Then I snatched more gauze.
I stole another splash of whiskey to clean the blood from his stomach and Tarik frowned at the loss. When he was cleaned to the best of my ability, I helped him sit and wrapped his stomach. I wanted to take my time, melt into his nearness and coax my lingering fears away—but Tarik needed rest. Whether he wanted it or not.
He laid back again while I gathered all the soiled cloth into a wad, and as I turned to leave the tent, I heard a soft, “Reagan.”