I kept my eyes on the knight, despite the nagging temptation to look at Phelan. I heard him hit the flagstones behind me, and I coaxed the light of my hands to flood the knight’s helm. His focus shifted to me, and I suddenly became aware that I was too close to him. I was within his striking range, and I had no choice but to flee to where Phelan was sprawled in the center of the street, his blood blooming like a rose across his torn waistcoat.
“Phelan,” I breathed. “Phelan, can you stand?”
We only had moments before the knight reached us. His heavy tread began to sound again, and I reached down to haul Phelan up to his feet.
His eyes were glazed, but he responded as I supported his weight, his arm draped over my shoulders.
“To the house, Miss Neven,” he said, his voice wispy as if he was about to faint. “If you please.”
I wildly searched for his house, my bearings lost in the fray. I knew it must be nearby—we hadn’t strayed far from it when the nightmare manifested. And then I saw house eleven, with its gray brick and climbing ivy, three doors away, and my relief nearly crushed me as I began to haul him to the front gate, the knight hounding us.
Don’t look behind you, I ordered myself, even though I wanted to see how close the knight was to catching us. Don’t look down, even though I wanted to see how much blood Phelan was losing.
My eyes on the door, Phelan limping at my side, the knight hounding us. This new moon was unraveling around me.
I dragged us through the gate, up the path and porch steps, the lantern light flickering as if beckoning us to hurry, hurry, hurry . . .
“The key,” Phelan moaned. Of course, he had locked the front door when we had departed, and I frantically searched his pockets. He was steadily bleeding, and it coated my hand as my fingers darted from pocket to pocket.
The front gate creaked behind us; the knight was in the yard. Cold air washed over my back, like winter had arrived early. The ivy on the trellis withered; frost spangled the shutters. At last, I found the iron key, tucked within the inner pocket of Phelan’s jacket, and I struggled to unlock the door, my hands numb, trembling.
“Miss Neven,” Phelan whispered into my hair. “Anna . . .”
He was begging me to rush, because the knight was only steps away from cutting us both down.
I kicked the door open and heaved Phelan inside. Every fiber within me burned from exertion; I had to let Phelan go. He slid to the hardwood floor, groaning, and I turned to see the knight ascending the porch stairs, four steps away from us. From me as I stood on the threshold, watching his approach. An unspoken challenge glimmered like an enchantment between us, waiting to be inhaled and spoken.
Who are you? I wanted to ask, but my voice was a splinter in my throat.
“Anna,” Phelan panted. “Anna, lock the door.”
My ears roared. The floor seemed to tilt as the knight stared at me, as I stared at him. I thought I saw the sheen of his eyes in the slits of his helm. The sheen of something alive and angry and ravenous. The knight lifted his sword in one hand, but with the other he reached for me.
“ANNA.”
Phelan’s desperation dashed my suspended thoughts. I didn’t know when I would have this chance again, when I would encounter this knight and his mysteries face-to-face. And that uncertainty was a thorn in my pride.
We couldn’t beat him; we had lost this battle.
I slammed the door shut.
22
I closed my eyes, sweat dripping down my temples, and I pressed my ear to the door. The knight hadn’t moved. He stood at the threshold, unable to pass over it since the door was locked.
I struggled with my desire to remain in safety and my hunger to oppose the knight again.
Someone wheezed behind me.
I turned to behold Phelan, lying on the foyer floor. He was watching me, his face blanched and furrowed with pain. His hand was pressed over his abdomen, where his blood was pooling.
A slender, cold part of me was satisfied to see him brought low, wounded, and humbled.
But then I knelt at his side and I took hold of his hand, drawing his bloodied fingers away, and those jaded feelings in me were eclipsed by worry.
“Can you help me up the stairs?” he rasped. “To my bedroom?”
I nodded and pulled him up to his feet. With me supporting his weight, we laboriously ascended the stairs with the assistance of my magic.
A lone candle burned in his bedroom. The fire in his hearth had died into embers, and I walked Phelan to his bed and eased him down on the mattress. I swiftly roused the fire back to a crackling dance and lit a few more candelabras, so I could examine him in better light.
I inevitably glanced at the mirror that hung over his wash station. If he sat up in bed, the glass would catch his reflection. And I would have to walk past it to leave the room. I felt trapped and annoyed, and struggled with my temptation to shatter the mirror.
A moan slipped from Phelan.
It drew my attention, to where he was lying in bed, his back slightly arched as he struggled to unbutton his waistcoat with one hand. I needed to leave now while he was preoccupied, to harvest an herb from the library and make a potent tonic that would render him unconscious. Then I would tend to his wound and my own, which I had all but forgotten about in the cascade of adrenaline.
I started for the door.
“Where are you going?”
I halted on the rug, just before the mirror, and met his gaze. “To the library, to make you an herbal tonic.”
“I don’t want an herbal tonic. I need you to stitch me up.”
“Then you’re going to want something for the pain. Lie back down. I’ll return in a moment.”
Phelan stared at me. “I don’t trust you.”
“What?” His words caught me by surprise.
“Come here, Anna.”
I had no choice. He was watching me like a hawk, as if he could see through me, and I took a wide berth to his bedside, staying just out of reach of him and his mirror on the opposing wall.
“Why don’t you trust me?” I asked, my voice low and far rougher than I intended.
“Because you want to slip away,” he said. “You want to open the door and face the knight again without me.”
I let out a huff of breath. “Fine. I was tempted to, yes.”
“I forbid it.”
“You forbid it?” I echoed with a hint of laughter. “And how do you propose to do that, lying in bed, wounded like a fair nobleman in war?”
“All right,” he said. “I can’t forbid you, but I ask that you stay here and help me. The knight will no doubt challenge us another new moon, but in this moment . . . I need you.”
I need you.
His candor softened the hard edges that hid within me.
“Lie back down,” I whispered, and he obeyed. I waited until his head rested on his pillow before I moved to stand at his bedside. Gently, I undressed him. I slid his arms from his jacket. I unbuttoned his tattered waistcoat, unknotted his cravat, and eased him out of his shirt. Once his chest was naked, I surveyed the damage.
His wound wasn’t deep, but it was long, cutting across his stomach. I saw another scar, one that ran from his heart down to his hip, as if he had once been sliced open, and I couldn’t help myself. I traced it with my fingertips.
“Did he do this?” I asked. “The knight?”