The first thing she noticed when she stood on solid ground was the smell--of ash and decay and death; the second, the faint flickering of two lives inside the ruin. She found them both lying in the middle of a sea of rubble, Ceidrin's hand outstretched, as if in supplication, the other elf barely breathing.
"What did you do?" Sennet muttered, and knelt beside him. "I left you alone for an hour!"
Ceidrin's eyes flickered open when she touched the bolt in his arm. "Oh. You came."
"Of course I came," Sennet said softly. "I had a warning, although if you hadn't called me, I would have been hard-pressed to find you."
He actually managed a wheezing laugh. "This was a warning."
"You could have died from this," Sennet said, wondering if he realized how close he had come. "The bolts are iron, Ceidrin."
"'Could have' sounds promising," Ceidrin whispered. "Don't let Lucien die."
Sennet glanced at the other elf, then reached across Ceidrin's body to touch his hand. She fed enough of her talent into him to stabilize his condition, then concentrated on Ceidrin again.
"I'm going to have to pull out this bolt," she said. "It will hurt."
He didn't scream, but he bit through his lip. "A warning," he whispered, his eyes sliding shut.
Sennet touched his knee. That was the worst wound; the bolt had shattered both bone and cartilage. Even with her help, it would take weeks to fully heal. If it fully healed at all. "You're going to walk with a limp for a while."
Some knot of tension left his bearing. "But I will walk?"
"You will if I have anything to say about it," Sennet said. "Lie still. I'm taking both of you to my house."
Ceidrin bit his lip. "Will you call Gene?"
"Yes. I'll call him."
"Thank you."
He did not speak again. And by the time she'd transported both of them to her house, set them up in spare bedrooms, and set her talent to work on both of them, he was unconscious.
Which was probably a blessing, since she had to straighten out his leg to try to heal the damage done to his knee, and he wouldn't have lasted through that at all.
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* * *
Chapter Nine
Edward opened his eyes to find he lay on the floor of the front parlor, covered with a blanket he did not recognize and weary beyond belief. He lay still for a long moment, trying to remember why he should be so tired, only realizing after he shifted sideways that someone had put a pillow beneath his head and that the floor itself was slightly warm, belying the coolness of the air.
For a long moment, all he wanted to do was curl up under the blanket and listen to the crackle of flames in the fireplace.
Flames?
He felt the heat from the fire--a welcome warmth from the cold outside--but there was no smell of burning wood; no smoke. Spellfire, he thought, and wondered if he had cast it in his sleep.
But that didn't feel right. He--his mind flashed through the blizzard, the car; the sound of a voice. The dog. Edward closed his eyes. "Elinor?"
When she didn't reply, he struggled to sit up, pushing the weariness away. As far as he could tell, the parlor was empty, its dusty furniture showing no sign of Elinor's presence. He used that furniture to help him walk; his left leg was stiff and aching--his mind supplied that it had been broken. It wasn't now.
When he reached the doorway that led into the kitchen, he realized that he could smell something cooking. That scent awoke a monster in his stomach--a yawning chasm that threatened to devour any tiny bit of strength he had mustered for the trip across the room. He sagged against the door.
She had found candles somewhere, or else had filled a myriad of dusty glasses with spellfire; either way, the resulting light illuminated the kitchen and made it into something welcoming, not forgotten. The old cookstove exuded heat that reached out and wrapped Edward into its embrace--he hadn't fired it up in years. Where had she found the wood to burn? Or was this spellfire, too?
A cast iron skillet sizzled on the stovetop--he recognized that, since it had hung in his kitchen since before his curse existed. A smaller pot sat beside it, steaming, and another pot sat behind it, boiling merrily; there were bags and boxes of things he didn't recognize on the old scarred table that had served as both a preparation place and an eating space for many, many years.
The dog lay in front of the stove, drowsing, and her eyes barely opened at his presence.
He knew from experience that there were no stores nearby, and his closest neighbor was miles away. Where had she found the food?
"There's a hunter's cabin not far from here," Elinor said from where she sat at the table. "I took a walk while you were unconscious." She glanced up at him, as if expecting him to protest her use of his kitchen, but he made no mention of it. The tantalizing scents from the skillet and the pot were too strong. "He left some food behind; I figured it would be bad by spring anyway, so--"
Edward sat down so he wouldn't fall over, then picked up one of the boxes on the table. "He left tea?"
Elinor flushed. "No. I found the tea in the car. Your teapot was rusty, though, so I boiled some snow in another pot--do you drink tea?"
"I would if I had some," Edward said. "As you can see, my--my stores are rather low." It was almost a joke, at that, since he had no stores. It was a bit difficult to gather them when he spent the majority of the month as a wolf.
"How--" She sniffed, then, and rubbed her eyes. "How do you live like this?" She pushed away from the table, and poured hot water into a chipped mug.
Edward waited until he had taken a sip of tea--which did nothing to dampen his hunger--before choosing his reply. "It is the only way that I can live," he said, and wondered if it would just be easier to tell her. If she stayed long enough, she would know anyway.
Without speaking, Elinor pushed a bag of something towards him. He smelled smoke--smoke and salt and meat. With shaking fingers, he fished out a piece of dried jerky and bit into it. The hunger roared.
"There were onions and potatoes and some garlic in the cabin," Elinor said, watching him with an odd look on her face. "So I chopped up everything and it will be ready in a few minutes."
Hot food. When was the last time he had eaten something cooked? He ate another piece of jerky, then another, and washed it down with tea. "And the water?"
"Boiled snow," Elinor said with that same strange look on her face. "I said that, earlier."
Edward closed his eyes. "Perhaps I am not as recovered as I thought." If he had been, he would have been treating her with more suspicion and less acceptance, since he did not know her true motivations. "Did I thank you for healing me?"
"No. Not yet," she said, and a moment later, his stomach cramped when she placed a plate full of fried potatoes under his nose.
He opened his eyes and inhaled the steam, only noticing after he took the first bite that she didn't have a plate in front of her. "You're not eating?"
"I already ate," she said quickly--almost too quickly. "And anyway, you--you only have one plate."
How many years had it been since he'd opened that cupboard? He had no idea if she spoke the truth. "Oh."
He watched her, in between bites, as she scraped the skillet out into an empty bag, and then cleaned it with a cup of water and a handful of what looked like sand. She dried it with a scrap of cloth and hung it back above the stove, then stirred whatever boiled in the other pot. By the time his plate was clean and his cup was empty, some of that desperate emptiness had faded from the corners of his awareness.
"What's your dog's name?" she asked.
Edward glanced at the dog, who hadn't moved from her place in front of the stove. "I–-I don't know."
"You don't know?" Elinor frowned, and turned back to the stove. "But–-"
"We've only just met," Edward said, and realized that wasn't a very good explanation. "She followed me."
"She seems to be very well-trained," Elinor said. "Where did she follow you from?"
&n
bsp; She followed up that question by ladling some sort of stew into a bowl he did not recognize, and set it in front of him. When she moved to pick up his cup to refill it, he put his hand over hers.
"I did not ask you to serve me," he said softly, ignoring her question.
Elinor hesitated, her gaze flicking down to his hand, then back up to his face. He wasn't sure what she expected to see there, but she did not pull her hand away.
"No, you didn't," she finally said. "And I have no say in how you live your life, but you were starving to death."
She said this so plainly that he shivered, staring down at the bowl full of stew. "It's been difficult to find food this winter," he whispered. "I--usually I can find a rabbit hole or perhaps a deer--but this winter has been brutal."
And it wasn't over yet.
"I don't understand." Elinor filled his cup up with tea again, and then topped off her own. "Don't you have anyone you can call?"
Edward almost choked on a mouthful of stew. "No, not really." he said before he realized that telling her this would awaken a dozen more questions in her mind.
"My aunt wants me dead," Elinor said, as if hoping that by giving him a nugget of information, he would give her one of his own.
"And this is related to your mother's death?" Edward had to think about what she had said before; his mind had tucked that conversation into the back of his mind.
"Yes." Now it was Elinor's turn to close her eyes, but only briefly. "I usually go home–to my mother's house–for the winter, but when I arrived, I found her dead. And the hunters followed me here." She turned away again, wiping her eyes. "I couldn't even bury her!"
"I'm sorry," Edward said.
"Thank you," Elinor whispered. Edward watched her as she stirred the rest of her stew, then put her hand on the stovetop, which had to be hot; he could feel the heat even from his place at the table. When she lowered the flame and lifted the pot off the burner, she held the pot with bare hands.
Bare hands. He waited, expecting her to scream, but nothing happened. She set the pot down, stared at it, then at him, and rubbed her hands together.
They were unmarked.
"I have--I have a special affinity with fire," Elinor whispered, but Edward had the feeling that this wasn't the entire truth.
"I gathered that," he said, remembering the warmth of her spellfire.
She tried to smile. "My father was a wizard." After a moment, she sat down again with a cup of tea in front of her.
Edward nodded and ate more stew--it was really quite good. Much better than he could have ever managed himself, even with a store of supplies. When he was finished eating, he drank the rest of his tea and savored the warmth that spread through his body. He had not felt quite so warm in a long time.
"Would you like some more?" Elinor asked. "There's plenty--"
"No," Edward said. "But thank you. That's the second time you saved my life." He tried to smile, but the suspicion had raised its scaly head now, and he couldn't help but wonder what she wanted from him in return.
"You--" Elinor wouldn't meet his gaze. "You've invited me into your home. It's the least I can do." Did he sense a surge of guilt in her voice now? Had she--
Edward stared at his empty bowl, suddenly sick to his stomach. "What did you put in the food?"
She stared at him, her face so still and blank that it seemed carved from stone. "Nothing," she whispered, but from her tone of voice, he could tell that it wasn't nothing at all. "I have no reason to poison you, and I haven't. I'd swear--on anything you choose--"
The wards responded to Edward's sudden alarm, and Elinor flinched as if she felt the slow reversal of their welcome.
"Please--I swear." She pushed back her chair, but didn't rise. "I have no reason to hurt you."
"Except, perhaps, for covering your tracks," Edward whispered. "So your aunt doesn't find you."
"If I wanted to kill you, then why would I bother healing you?" Elinor twisted her hands together, her face closed now, emotionless. As if she could not bear to have him guess whatever secret she was hiding. "I would have--I would have saved my strength."
She spoke the truth. Why would she have healed him if her intentions weren't pure? And even if they weren't wholly pure, she had saved his life. Twice.
Edward rested his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. Call it a century of paranoia, or just my usual run of luck--"
"A century?" Elinor whispered.
For a moment, Edward considered denying what he had said, or refusing to elaborate. But she had gifted him of the reason for her flight; surely that meant he owed her a story of his own.
"Yes," he said slowly. "A century."
"But you--" She stood then, and paced around the table--not close to him, but everywhere else, touching the hot stove, the chair, the cabinet--as if trying to convince herself that they were real. "You tasted human."
As soon as she said it, she froze in place and covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide.
Edward sat very still for a moment, his mind struggling to hear some sort of threat in her words. But she had spoken without thinking, just as he had spoken, and now her eyes--her eyes shone with tears.
"You said you were--" What had she said? He struggled to keep both his wards and his voice calm. "Your mother was an elf. Your father was a wizard." She had needed shelter until dusk. Until dusk. He remembered that.
And he knew of only one--for want of a better word--creature who would need to hide from the sunlight.
"My mother was born an elf," Elinor said, her voice wooden. "Right before she met my father, she was–attacked. By a--"
"Vampire?" Edward asked, his voice matching hers in tone.
She flinched, despite his efforts. "Yes. My father saved her life."
"I see," Edward said.
Elinor shivered. "My father died a year ago, and I inherited his house. But I always joined my mother for the winter, and I was on my way to do that when I found her." She squeezed her eyes shut. "They burned her house down, too."
"And is your house in danger?" Edward asked.
"I–I don't know," Elinor replied. "I didn't know where to go. They were right behind me, and I just–just ran away." She buried her face in her hands. "I still don't know what to do."
"Why was she killed?" Edward asked.
Elinor sighed. "Because my mother was related to royalty, the Queen is dead, and I'm now fourth in line to the throne. Although technically, depending on whom you ask, I'm farther back than that, since--" She sighed again. "It's complicated."
"I–" All at once, Edward wasn't sure what he wanted to say about that. "I see."
She managed a watery smile. "It doesn't help that I'm blind in the sunlight," she said. "I have a pair of glasses, but I tend not to need them in Faerie, and I didn't bring them with me."
"So you can go out," Edward said. "In sunlight, I mean." Sunlight was a vampire's main adversary, at least as far as he knew. He thought, perhaps, that being a hybrid would be an advantage instead of a drawback.
What, then, were the disadvantages?
You tasted human. He heard her voice in his mind.
"You're half human," he said slowly. "So does that mean you--you have to drink someone's blood to survive?" By the flush on her cheeks, he knew he'd hit fairly close to the mark. "You drank my blood?"
"Only enough so I could finish healing you," Elinor whispered, staring at him as if she expected him to drive her out at any moment. "I've been driving all night, and before that--before that--" Her face crumpled, and she turned away. "I'm sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen."
Edward's lips twitched. He couldn't help it. She was the picture of misery, a waif, lost and alone, but she had no idea-- "You said I tasted human."
"You did," Elinor said, her voice firming when he didn't order her out. "Well, mostly, at least. I thought you weren't, at first, but--"
"I'm not," Edward said. "At least not anymore." He decided not to tell her about his mother, or the fact th
at he'd never been wholly human.
"I don't understand," Elinor said. She wiped her eyes, still standing on the other side of the table. "I'm sorry."
"You said I tasted human," Edward repeated, not quite knowing how to tell her. "If you had tasted my blood tomorrow, you would have tasted wolf."
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* * *
Chapter Ten
Ceidrin awoke with a gasp, his mind only half-believing that he lay safe in Sennet's house and that the blankets covering his body–and the fact that he was still alive–was not some strange sort of dream.
He moved his arm first, hesitantly, and it responded with only a small amount of pain. That was encouraging, considering he hadn't been able to move it before.
But when he tried to move his leg--
"Don't get up," Sennet said from the doorway. "And I don't want to see you try to put weight on that yet."
Ceidrin sank down into the softness of his pillows and closed his eyes. "They've crippled me," he whispered.
"They would have if I hadn't found you," Sennet said, and he caught the scent of mint tea from the tray she carried. And then, almost casually, she asked, "Where was Gene supposed to be today, Ceidrin? Do you know?"
Coldness settled in his chest and constricted his throat. He stared at her, his eyes wide. "He's not home?" Would it be too much to ask to keep him out of this?
"He's not answering the phone," Sennet said. "With your permission, of course, I can go check on him." Her voice and manner suggested that she would hate to find the worst-case scenario, and Ceidrin did not even want her to suggest it.
"Please," he whispered. "I've not been gone for weeks, only a handful of days. He lives his own life. He could–just–be out."
"Then stay in bed," Sennet said. "Drink your tea. I'll be right back."
She left the mug on the table beside his bed and helped him sit up, but he had no stomach for tea at a time like this.
"Under no circumstances do I want you to stand up, okay?" Sennet asked. "I couldn't heal all of it. Not now. When the tea I gave you earlier wears off, it's going to hurt."
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