by Jocelyn Fox
You are strong-willed, Tyr said. She thought that she could hear echoes of pain in his voice. It is not a bad thing.
“Why didn’t you just do this before? Talk to me like this instead of letting Corsica speak for you?”
I did not drink your blood before.
The scabbed shallow cut on her forearm prickled, but she didn’t look away from Tyr’s eyes.
After drinking a mortal’s blood, especially if it is a good amount or all that we have had in a while, we have a certain…connection with them.
“This isn’t like the creepy vampire ‘I can sense when you’re in danger but also when you’re having sex’ connection we’re talking about here, is it?” Vivian said.
The inspiration had to come from somewhere. Tyr raised one eyebrow slightly.
“Well, isn’t that just peachy,” she muttered.
It will fade with time, he replied. Unless I have more of your blood.
“Is that the only way to keep the…connection…active?” she asked.
The full connection. Speaking like this is a skill you can learn, though few have tried.
She thought she heard a tinge of wistfulness in Tyr’s voice, and for a moment she wanted to reassure him that she’d let him drink her blood again, or she’d learn this form of mental speaking. After all, he’d been unable to speak to anyone but Corsica for hundreds of years. Then she frowned. “Why haven’t you learned sign language?”
To her amazement, Tyr gave his answer in rapid sign language, his hands flashing nimbly through the gestures. I have. But you do not know it.
“Oh. That’s true. And Corsica never bothered to learn?”
She did not need to learn. His face darkened.
“Do you…do you want to talk about what happened last night?” she asked. “Or this morning, I guess, to be more accurate,” she amended quickly.
Tyr looked away and Vivian felt something like a door slamming inside her head.
“Rude,” she muttered. “You could have just said no.”
The Exiled fixed her with a disbelieving look. She sighed and threw up her hand.
“Okay, okay, true, I did kind of knock you unconscious, but I didn’t know my own strength!” she pointed out.
After a moment, Tyr gave a little nod, but he didn’t raise his eyes to hers or extend the invitation. Vivian clambered to her feet and retrieved the glass of water.
“I spilled half of it,” she confessed as she handed it to him. “Sorry.”
His hand brushed hers as he took the cold glass, and she felt the connection between their minds snap back into place. It made her dizzy, and she sat down suddenly in the messy nest of blankets, afraid that she would fall.
It is disorienting sometimes. I will help you as best as I can, Tyr said.
“So, skin to skin contact and eye contact,” said Vivian as she waited for the world to stop spinning.
Those are the simplest and most reliable methods, said Tyr. But if you wish, I will help you practice so that we can speak without either of those things.
She watched his white throat as he drank the water. “Why do you still drink? Do you eat, too?”
I do not eat as much as I once did, no, Tyr said, his voice sounding thoughtful now. Blood was the price for our survival. For a time, we did not eat or drink anything else.
She swallowed. “Did you kill people when you drank their blood?”
He set the cup aside, the remaining ice cubes clinking against the glass. Yes.
This time her voice came out almost as a whisper. “Do you kill people now?”
He raised his eyes to hers. Only when I must, and never only to drink their blood.
She nodded.
I do not know whether this will comfort you, he continued. You saved my life, and I owe you a debt. Therefore, you are under my protection.
“Why do you owe me a debt? If you owed everyone that gave you blood a debt…well, then I guess you wouldn’t have killed any of them,” she said. Then she pressed her lips together, amazed at her own audacity and wondering if Tyr would take offense again.
You offered your blood freely. With others…I took their blood, he replied unflinchingly.
“So, you forced them? All of them?” Vivian shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. You know so many runes and everything…why not seduce them with magic?”
Sometimes, he said, nodding. But as the years have passed, our power in this world waned. And our goal became survival.
Vivian shivered a little. “That’s…okay, I’m going to be really honest, that creeps me out. The whole taking blood without consent. I get that it’s been a mainstay of pop culture in our world for…well, centuries, I guess, but there was an element of, I don’t know, sexiness to it, which I guess when you think about it really is just more an element of seduction, like I said before…a metaphor for interactions between men and women in some instances, I think, with the vampires standing in for men with power, whether it’s political or money or…sorry, I’m rambling, I’ll stop, I just think out loud sometimes.” She shifted uncomfortably.
You can speak silently too, if you concentrate, said Tyr. His voice sounded amused.
“You don’t have to patronize me,” Vivian said, looking down at her sling. “That’s already happened today and I rather not repeat the experience.”
That is not my intent. Now, his voice sounded a bit gentler.
She’d already alienated Niall less than an hour before…maybe she should tread a little lighter this time, she thought. Then she realized that Tyr could probably hear that anyway, so she sighed and concentrated, trying to focus her words in her thoughts. Like this? Can you hear me?
Tyr jumped with the expression of someone who’d been startled by a loud noise. But then a smile broke across his face and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Vivian found herself smiling too.
Perhaps not so loud, he said.
She bit her lip and tried to focus her thoughts at about half the intensity she had before. So that means you can hear me, right?
Tyr’s smile widened into a genuine grin. Yes. Yes, I can hear you.
Vivian sat back on her heels. The can of ginger ale glinted at the corner of her vision; she leaned over and retrieved the soda, careful not to shake it. She gingerly popped the tab and took a sip, letting the sweet bubbles play over her tongue. Will you tell me more about you?
Tyr looked surprised. You…want to know more?
Vivian took a longer pull of the ginger ale. Why wouldn’t I? You’ve lived in our world for centuries. Do you know exactly when you came through?
As best we can figure, Tyr said slowly, we arrived in your world almost four hundred years ago.
She choked on her swallow of soda and coughed. Four hundred years?
Time started slipping and skipping between this world and the Fae world when the Great Gate was closed, Tyr said. Just over two centuries has passed in Faeortalam, I believe.
Is it still going to work that way? Like two to one time? How would that work for Tess and everyone?
I do not have the answers to your questions, and I am not sure about my own calculations, confessed Tyr.
Well, said Vivian, clearing her throat, you still have about three hundred seventy five years more experience in this world than I do, and I’m a nerd, so I want to know everything…
Tyr smiled. I hardly think I remember everything.
Vivian smiled at him. We can certainly see.
Aye, he agreed, we can.
And as Vivian drank her ginger ale and thought of questions to ask Tyr about the seventeenth century, she thought that, even in light of recent events, this was shaping up to be one of the most interesting days of her life.
Chapter 10
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to this?” Quinn asked as he picked up a stool from beside Niamh’s bed.
The Valkyrie fighter turned and glared at him from where she stood at the foot of her bed. “I thought you…at least…would have
been above that question,” she said.
“I know you’re getting better, and I don’t doubt your strength,” Quinn replied, careful not to let his voice veer into a placating tone. He hefted the stool and walked over to her side. He knew losing weight while recovering from a significant injury was inevitable; he’d seen it firsthand with a few teammates who’d been blown up or shot, and even the most athletic frame wasted away confined to a bed. But it was still like a punch to the gut sometimes, seeing Niamh so thin. Frail wasn’t the right word, because her ferocity still flashed in her eyes, but she had lost the sleek, rippling muscles on her frame. “I know you’re a warrior. I’m still allowed to be a bit concerned.”
She looked up at him, her white-gold hair cut neatly to her chin. Most of her glorious braid had been burned away by a splash of the enchanted fire that the Valkyrie had used against Malravenar’s creatures in the battle for the White City. Her skin had lost its deathly pallor but angry red scars dappled the skin of her neck and shoulder; he knew that particular burn extended over her shoulder and the left side of her chest. Her armor had protected most of her torso and most of her face had been spared at the expense of her left arm, which she said she must have thrown over her face. Though Quinn had waited patiently for her to talk about the battle, she hadn’t said much since awakening. He didn’t know if she remembered anything at all.
“You are allowed…to be concerned,” she said, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. “But you are not allowed…to talk about it.”
Quinn chuckled and gently kissed her neck, careful to place his lips on an unburned patch of skin. “All right then, let’s go.” He offered her his right arm.
“So…gallant,” she said.
“Only for you,” he said. “With everyone else, I’m still an uncultured savage.”
She made a little sound of amusement; she avoided chuckling or laughing because that inevitably turned into a coughing fit that left her struggling to breathe. Quinn missed hearing her silvery laugh. Maeve had settled on a treatment that finally seemed to be helping Niamh’s damaged lungs: she powdered a certain set of herbs and poured boiling water over them, added some oils and made Niamh sit with her face over the steaming bowl and a blanket over her head, sealing in the steam. It left Niamh’s shorn hair smelling thoroughly medicinal, almost like eucalyptus but with a sharper edge, and her healing burns turned an angry purple after long bouts breathing in the steam. But Quinn thought it was helping, and Niamh must have felt better as well, because even though she complained occasionally to him, she submitted to the treatments with grudging acceptance.
Niamh tucked her hand into the crease of his elbow, and they made their way down the center aisle of the healing ward. All the healers who passed them smiled at Niamh, happy to see her progress; she spared them a smile in return, but most of her attention was focused on her movements. Quinn carefully let her set the pace. She walked slowly but gracefully, the line of her body taut with concentration as she forced her atrophied muscles to function.
“I can only hope…you will be this patient…when it comes to a blade,” she said as they approached the long tables at the front of the healing ward where all the healers laid out their supplies and the apprentices replenished each kit after the conclusion of a shift. Only two apprentices, both Seelie, worked the table now; Quinn remembered when it had been normal to see a dozen or more apprentices and volunteers working at a frantic pace to keep the healers supplied in the days just after the battle.
“I’m sure you can still kick my ass, so don’t worry about that,” he replied lightly to Niamh.
“You are a terrible liar,” she said without pausing for breath. They both stopped and looked at each other, she in surprise and he grinning widely.
“Slow but steady progress,” he said encouragingly.
“Better than being dead,” she replied drily as she turned back to the task of walking.
“Ah, my dear, you have come to sit with me,” said Maeve, rising from her seat behind a separate, smaller table at the entrance to the healing ward. She kept her own set of notes in a small leather-bound book, and the schedule for the healers was written out on a clay tablet set in a frame along one side of the table. When Maeve needed to make a change, she softened the clay with a damp cloth, wiped away the carved writing with a small, flat blade made especially for the task, and wrote the new information with a little stylus tipped with sharpened bone. The head healer also had her own personal healing kit in a sturdy carrying case. She kept careful track of the more dangerous medicines that were used in serious cases. Some herbs could be a sedative or a pain reliever if used correctly, but a poison if administered in too great a dosage. Quinn had learned a lot from Maeve in the weeks after the battle when he’d sat by Niamh’s side and read aloud to her, book after book, until he lost his voice.
Niamh took a breath and spoke deliberately, again without pausing. “It feels good to be out of bed for once.”
Maeve smiled. “Very good. The steam treatments are working.” She walked around her table and embraced her daughter. Diminutive Maeve’s head barely reached past Niamh’s shoulder; not for the first time, Quinn wondered how tall the twins’ father had been.
When she drew back from Niamh, Maeve nodded at Quinn. “I see your doendhal has still not left your side.”
“Mother, his name is Quinn, and you know that,” said Niamh, but she couldn’t help but smile as her speech continued unimpeded by the need to pause for breath.
“If you keep talking like that, I don’t care what she calls me,” said Quinn with a grin.
Before Niamh could reply, two columns of grim-faced Unseelie men strode into the healing ward, wearing armor and swords at their belts. Niamh stiffened and Quinn felt himself tense. The expression on their faces and the organized way they marched into the space told him that they weren’t there just to visit friends. He had a knife in his boot – he never traveled anywhere without something sharp – but that wouldn’t be much use against a dozen Sidhe swordsmen.
Maeve drew back her shoulders and approached the men, standing directly in their path. She addressed the Unseelie at the front of the columns, a man that Quinn vaguely recognized as someone important in their Court.
“Vaelanmavar, what brings you to the healing ward? May I assist you in any way?” she said, a hard edge to her courteous words as her eyes swept over the group.
“Healer Maeve,” said the Unseelie Vaelanmavar, his voice flat. “We are here to retrieve all Unseelie wounded.”
Maeve raised her chin. “There are eight of your brethren still here in the healing ward, by my last count, and none of them are well enough to be safely moved.”
“It is by order of our Queen,” said the Vaelanmavar, the red stone in the hilt of his sword gleaming like fresh blood.
“I respectfully remind you that your Queen is not my Queen,” said Maeve with icy courtesy, her slender figure straight and steady as she faced the Unseelie Knights.
“And I remind you that my Queen dictates the fates of those in her Court,” replied the Vaelanmavar, one black-gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Step aside, healer.”
Maeve’s voice went as flat as that of the Vaelanmavar. The tension in the air tightened. “I am the Head Healer in this ward, and you will not kill any of those in my charge by moving them when they are still too injured to be moved.”
“Do not force me to remove you unwillingly,” said the Vaelanmavar, his eyes glittering icily.
Quinn gripped the leg of the stool tightly, trying to watch all the men at once. And then Niamh stepped forward.
“Do not threaten my mother,” she said in a low voice, her eyes burning with anger.
“Enough,” said the Vaelanmavar.
Quinn couldn’t move quickly enough. Damn the Sidhe and their superhuman speed. The Vaelanmavar grabbed Maeve by the shoulder and Niamh leapt at him. The Unseelie Knight didn’t release his grip on the healer as he swung his other arm and sent Niamh crashing into Ma
eve’s desk. The Vaelanmavar shoved Maeve to one side, the older woman stumbling but not falling. Quinn coldly assessed the distance between him and the Vaelanmavar, hefted the solidly built wooden stool in both hands, and smashed it violently into the Vaelanmavar’s face.
Wood met bone with a resounding crack, and the Unseelie Knight staggered backward. Quinn heard his muffled sound of surprise and pain with grim satisfaction. The impact of the hit had shattered the stool, but he still held one of the legs like a club and he advanced on the Vaelanmavar in righteous fury even as he heard swords being drawn.
The Vaelanmavar staggered to his feet and managed to block the next swing of the makeshift weapon. Quinn growled low in his throat and caught the bastard with a hard knee to the family jewels. “No armor there,” he said as the Vaelanmavar doubled over, feeling the heady rush of a fight swirling through his veins, better than any drug. He kicked the Vaelanmavar square in the breastplate, landing him on the ground again, but before he could jump on him, he felt the cold prick of a blade held against his throat. Quinn paused, evaluating the stance of the younger Knight who held the sword. These Unseelie assholes were fast, but they expected a fair fight. In one quick motion, Quinn stepped back, knocked aside the blade with his wooden club and kicked the Knight’s knee, feeling something crunch beneath his foot, validated by the Knight’s collapse to his uninjured knee.
“Sorry, kid,” he growled as he leapt onto the Vaelanmavar and got in two resoundingly good elbow strikes to the handsome Unseelie’s unprotected face before two more of the Unseelie Knights grabbed him by the arms and dragged him off the Vaelanmavar. One of them punched him in the face with a gauntleted hand; he spit blood at the Vaelanmavar, who was once again regaining his feet.
“You touch my girl again and I’ll kill you,” Quinn said clearly, forcing himself to speak with a calm he certainly didn’t feel. He wanted to keep dropping elbows until the guy’s face was a bloody pulp. The Knight on the other side of Quinn punched him. He heard Maeve sternly order them to stop, but they didn’t release him. He braced himself for another hit, raising his head and grinning at the Vaelanmavar. Blood trickled down the side of the Unseelie Knight’s face and a spectacular bruise enveloped one side of his face, already blooming across his cheekbone and around his eye. Quinn hoped vengefully that he’d broken the asshole’s nose.