Ewan took a leisurely ride over the hills, assuming that Alice would need time to settle. A horse that bolted needed to run itself out before it could be turned. Through the rolling paddocks, man and horse wandered. He gave the gelding its head, and it snatched at tufts of grass as they walked. This part of Northamptonshire was quite picturesque if one was fond of rural life, being landlocked, and the complete lack of civilisation. Ewan suspected there wasn’t a decent tailor for nearly a hundred miles. Or however far it was to London.
He forded the water at a shallow point and then followed its course back towards the hills. As the water turned a corner, a bark signalled that he neared his quarry. Halting the horse, he slid from its back, balancing on its neck as he let his feet touch the ground and waited to see if his damaged leg would take his weight.
Then he tied the horse’s reins to a low hanging branch and approached the waterfall. Ewan walked carefully on the uneven ground and untrustworthy right leg. He didn’t want to fall over and end up in the river. He found Alice by a large pool formed by the river tumbling down a rock face. The water gushed and gurgled as it hit the rocks below and then flowed out through the valley.
She turned her head as he approached, a wary expression in her sad green eyes. He halted a few paces from her. She was such a wild and flighty animal, and he didn’t want to startle her further. Yet he saw no fear in her gaze, just an aching emptiness that echoed through his own chest.
“Would you hold me, please?” Her voice was so hesitant, lost, as though she expected him to laugh and say no.
In truth, he didn’t know what to say. Her request was the last thing he had expected to hear. He assumed she would berate him for being a man and then banish him from her sight forever.
He was somewhat confused by the request for physical contact. “Are you sure that is what you want?”
“Yes.” Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and if Ewan had possessed a heart, it would have broken at the sight. The beast within him roused from its lethargy and strained against its bonds, urging him to comfort the woman.
He eased himself down on the damp grass next to her and tried not to think of the damage the lush green surface would do to his pale breeches. Was there even a laundress out here who could remove stains? Another week and his cravats would desperately need a wash and fresh starch. He slipped his damaged right arm around Alice, still sure he must have misheard and he was taking a terrible liberty with the fragile woman.
As he embraced her, Alice sighed and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her head settled on his chest. For a long time, they sat like that. The shudder in Alice’s body abated and her breathing became deeper.
Without meaning to, Ewan lowered his head until his cheek rested against her silken hair. He inhaled the fresh scent with the faint richness of lavender. The wolf inside him breathed her in and laid its head on the ground. A shudder ran through its broken body, and for the first time in six months, a moment of peace washed over it.
With nothing else to do to pass the time, Ewan ventured a quiet question. “Explain this to me. I would have thought the last thing you would want would be for a man to touch you.”
“You know my history?” With a fingertip, she traced a silver button on his jacket.
“Yes.” It still troubled him that no one in society had batted an eyelid as the young courtesan was abused.
It kept him awake at night that he and his fellow wolves were too late to save the other women Hoth had killed by devouring their souls. Only Alice’s mage blood had kept her alive; otherwise she too would have been a sad pile of bones tied with ribbon in Hoth’s basement.
“When he wasn’t whittling at my soul or parading me at soirees, he kept me isolated. He had a small dark room, like a closet, that he called ‘the box.’ I spent my time in there, alone. The whole time with Hoth and then in Bedlam, all I wanted was someone to hold me. He starved me of touch, but I desperately craved the feel of another person.”
It was such a small thing, to hold a woman. If only it were enough to heal her.
After a while, she unwound her arms and wiped her face with the heel of her palms. “Thank you.”
Strangely, Ewan was the one who now felt bereft as she moved away a fraction, his arms empty and the spot on his chest cooled. The wolf whimpered then fell back into its unconscious state. It disappeared beneath his surface like a rock thrown into water vanishes from view.
Odd—as though in the process of giving Alice comfort, a tiny piece of her had seeped into his soul and comforted him.
Alice stretched out her legs and watched the water. Eilidh sat at her mistress’s ankles and snuffled at the grass. “Ianthe thinks I can be fixed, but she doesn’t understand. I have found most of my pieces, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot make them fit back together. I can never be fixed.”
“No,” Ewan agreed with her, “you can’t be fixed.”
Only someone who had experienced their world exploding into hot shards understood how impossible it was to simply pick up the pieces and rebuild. You must mourn what died, bury it deep, and then emerge reborn. That’s what he had done long ago, and it was what Alice needed to do if she had any hope of moving forward and rebuilding her life.
She angled her head to the side, and a worn smile flitted over her lips. “At least you are honest.”
He shrugged. What was obvious to him was often a mystery to others. People who had seen the worst in others understood human nature better than those who lived blessed lives. The damaged ones learned to recognise warning signs in others. It was a sad statement about both their lives. “You can’t be fixed, but you can be made anew.”
She mulled over his words. “How?”
“You take all your broken pieces, you melt them down, and you forge something new.” He trod a dangerous path with this woman. None of them understood how she had used her mage-blood gift in a moment of terror to rend her soul into pieces and hide them from the soul eater.
While he didn’t want to give her false hope, some gut instinct told him she needed a different approach than the one Ianthe had applied. Alice certainly looked much healthier for her time running wild, but her gaze was haunted.
Yesterday he had witnessed a sliver of steel working its way down her spine. He suspected all she needed was a direction. If she had something to navigate by, she might find the way to escape her nightmare.
She nodded as though he had triggered a deeper thought. “Create something new like the caterpillar does. He spins his chrysalis and transforms his body into the butterfly.”
“Yes. The choice is yours. You hold all your shattered pieces, and they have the potential to become whatever you desire. What would you become, Alice?” He was curious what this young woman would pick as her path.
She laid a land on the small dog at her side. Her elegant fingers stroked tufts of silken hair as she considered what she was and what she could be.
“A blade,” she whispered.
Yes, she understood. She didn’t need to heal and return to exactly who she used to be; she needed to become something fiercer.
“Excellent choice,” Ewan said. “A weapon forged in fire. You will be stronger than before.”
Green eyes turned to him, and the glint of resolve crept into her gaze. “No man or Unnatural will ever hurt me again. I will become the blade, and you will teach me how.”
The wild creature had claws and she sought his help to use them. This was the sort of challenge he needed to forget his maimed body and lack of a future. He would enjoy seeing Alice stretch and grow.
Her fingers stilled on Eilidh’s fur. “You will teach me how to use a knife, and in return, I will work on your damaged arm.”
“That is not necessary. My fate is in the hands of the mages and whatever solution they can conjure. Tell me Alice, how do you find things?”
Her hand brushed through the grass until she found a pebble, then she tossed it into the pond. “How would you find where the pebble hit the water
?”
He stared at the concentric circles that broke the surface of the water. “I would follow the ripples. They are narrower, or closer together, at the point of origin.”
“That is how I find things. When I concentrate on an object, it is as though the air has ripples and I can follow them back to where the item resides. The ripples are tighter when I am closer but further apart if I stray off course.”
“Could use your gift to find the bullet?” He dared not hope it could be so easy. Could this broken creature remove the silver from his bone?
She tilted her head, as though considering the idea. “No. I find the lost. The bullet in your leg is not lost. You know exactly where it is. You want to know whether I could retrieve it, which is a different gift to mine.”
His face remained impassive while disappointment plunged through him.
“But there is still much that can be done. Massage and exercise will help stretch the tendons and regain the movement and strength in your hand. There are also herbal infusions which would reduce the pain.” She met his gaze and, for once, didn’t hide or duck her head.
As if on cue, an ache ran over his palm and up his arm. If the lass knew some remedy to ease the pain, then what harm was there? Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who craved touch. What would it be like to have her hands on his body? He was as unused to comfort as Alice.
“A trade then. We shall help each other piece together our broken lives,” he said.
She held out her hand and he took it. Their fates were now bound together.
5
Alice
* * *
The next morning, Alice followed her usual routine. She rose early, put the bread on to rise, and completed her rounds of the horses in the barn. Then she made quite different preparations in the kitchen while Ewan silently ate his porridge. He tracked her movements in the warm space, but he didn’t speak.
Alice had learned that magic was not the answer to every question. Millions of souls managed to live without spells or enchantments to solve their daily problems. Her family had supplemented their mage-blood gifts with herbal lore, and today she drew upon the knowledge she learned as a girl.
She found oil and poured some off into a pot before setting the kettle to boil for tea. From her small store of herbs she added peppermint, camomile, and thyme and placed the pot on the range. She made tea while the oil infused, then wrapped a towel around the handle of the copper pot and carried it to the table. Carefully, she poured the fragrant mix into a pottery bowl with a moulded spout. Returning the pot to the range, she at last took a seat next to Ewan.
“You will need to roll up your shirt please, Captain Shaw.” She tried to ignore how close they sat, despite her skin prickling at the proximity. She had to touch him after all, but a fraction closer and their knees would rub.
“Will you call me Ewan?” He undid the button at his wrist and then rolled the linen shirt up past his elbow. He laid the arm flat, or as flat as it would lie, on the table between them. Angry red lines criss-crossed his forearm where the bones had protruded from his flesh. His fingers curled inward, as though they no longer obeyed his command to straighten.
In wolf form he would limp quite badly. She doubted the forearm would carry the animal’s weight, especially when coupled with a damaged hind leg. In nature, a creature with such injuries wouldn’t last long.
“Using your Christian name would be improper, Captain.” She poured a little oil into her palm, rubbed her hands together, and then she began. With long strokes, she ran her thumbs from wrist to elbow, distributing the oil and feeling his muscles and tendons under the skin.
“I think creatures like you and I are excused from matters of propriety.” He sucked in the last syllable.
She glanced up at his tight jaw and eased back the pressure. But not much. To be effective, she had to convince the tight tendons to release their burden so they could stretch back into their former position and relinquish the grip that curled his fingers closed.
Alice was a country girl from a small village who had ventured into London to seek out excitement. The captain was from a noble family who moved among the upper classes. His Christian name shouldn’t pass her lips in ordinary circumstances.
But then neither of them was ordinary. He was a lycanthrope and she was mage-blooded. The same pairing as Ianthe and Quinn, who had found an extraordinary type of love with each other. Was that why Alice’s blood tugged her towards Ewan? Thinking of what might connect them made up Alice’s mind to break the etiquette rule.
“Very well, Ewan.” She liked the sound of his name in her mouth, the way it gathered on her tongue before escaping as a whisper over her lips. How many women had gasped his name in pleasure?
She was aware of the captain’s reputation. He was a far more successful courtesan than she had ever been. When she had been one of the demimonde, she heard of husbands who paid him handsomely to ensure their wives were kept satisfied and therefore less likely to question their own dalliances.
His breathing evened out as she worked and she glanced up, assessing his reactions to her massage.
“Pain is good,” she murmured.
“How so?” he asked. “Surely it’s better not to feel pain?”
In many ways he seemed so like her—broken. But in other ways he was so different. He presented such a façade of indifference, as though he felt nothing at all. Could someone be broken in body and spirit, but push it aside and not let it affect them? Questions swirled deep in her mind as she wondered what had broken him and how had he found the strength to survive it.
“If it hurts, it means you feel something,” she said.
He was silent for a long moment. “There are things I would rather not feel. I keep such things locked away so as not to disturb my peace. Life is easier that way.”
He made it sound so simple; as if all she had to do was a shut a door and her mind would settle. She lived a life constantly bombarded by pain, fear, and anguish. What would it be like to experience peace again? Having dwelt so long in a nightmare land, she couldn’t even imagine that peace was possible. “Is that how you manage, by shutting everything away?”
They conversed in hushed whispers. With their heads bowed together, there was no need to speak loudly. The quietest word was heard, passed between them with each breath.
“Do you feel everything, Alice?”
Those blue eyes saw into her fractured soul. She didn’t need to answer; he plucked the response straight from her mind. She could never hide her pain because there was so much of it. Some days she drowned in agony. As though Ewan were her confessor, she unburdened her soul to the one man who would understand.
“Yes. I feel it all, and it overwhelms me. That’s why I run. I hope one day I can run fast enough to leave it far behind.” She hit a knot where the tendon contracted the worst.
Ewan sucked in a breath, only letting it out as the tension eased under her fingers. He made a noise in his throat, but she didn’t know if it was in response to the pain or her answer. Silence fell for a while before he spoke again.
“Where did you learn this?” he asked. His breath stirred a strand of hair that fell around her face.
She hid a smile behind the fall of hair. “My mother was a very talented witch.”
When he didn’t reply, she glanced up and found curiosity in his blue gaze. Once a mage was born into a family, the trace of power would flow for seven generations. Since Alice was mage-blooded, it only followed that either her mother or father was likewise gifted. People paid extra in Bedlam to stare at the mad witches, as though they expected them to fly around the room on broomsticks or to sprout curly pig tails.
“Why do you call her a witch and not mage-blooded?” he asked.
“While mages and their offspring have walked this Earth for over a thousand years, many people still hold to old beliefs and believe our gifts ungodly. Not so long ago, mage-blooded women were burned at the stake, when fear made men lash out at what they d
idn't understand. In centuries past, your kind would have been hunted and their fur spread on a floor while their heads were mounted on walls as trophies. ” She spoke softly as she worked. “My kind are often called witch behind our backs as country folk make the sign of the cross. They fear us, yet creep to our doors at night to seek cures only we can dispense. My mother’s mage-blood taint made her a powerful healer. Yet there is nothing magical in knowledge. Like knowing willow eases pain, or to turn a breech babe so a mother doesn’t die in birthing, or how to relax a cramped muscle.”
One black eyebrow arched. “Magical or mundane, I will take whatever ease you can offer.”
She wondered how the silver bullet affected him. As Alice worked, she let her mage-blood gift reach out, searching. She gasped—the taint of silver permeated every part of him. “Your veins flow with silver. How do you endure it?”
He ground his jaw. “Simple. I have no choice. Not until I allow our mages to experiment on me, to see if they can find a cure. Until then, you may have at me.”
She tapped his forearm. “This was no simple break, especially for a wolf.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I believe it more shattered than broke. Half a ton of horse landing on you will do that. Quinn does the surgeon a disservice though. He put my arm back together, and he did a good enough job that I escaped a fatal infection.”
She scoffed; it looked like butchery to her. Even if the bone had been broken in several places, the doctor responsible could still have tried harder to line everything up, to give it the best chance of healing straight. But her attention was needed for what was happening under her fingers. With her eyes closed, she tried to convince the muscles to remember their task. He would need weeks or months of such therapy, but change would occur.
His fingers curled inward and then released outward a fraction more than before.
Souls to Heal Page 5