Page 99 of Blood Fist
Schok was in a similar state. Soaked, with eyes wide open. He blinked for a moment before recognitionfilled his grey eyes. “Corric?” he mouthed, voice nothing more than a rasp of air after being silent so long.
Corric nodded as he reached for him. Cold fingers entwined. Relief flooded through Corric. He dropped his head to Jonen’s shoulder. They were handed a mug of hot broth that reeked of medicine.
Corric took it in his free hand, holding it to his chest as he locked eyes with Ridan. “Sinestrus is awake.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ABOUT DAMN TIME
A cat wound its way through stacked crates. The tabby occasionally paused, lifting its delicate spotted nose to a sack or crate, taking its time to smell the contents. His tiny paws didn’t make a sound as he rubbed his pretty face against corners and occasionally sharpened his claws against the materials.
Ridan watched the cat, though he wasn’t really seeing. He didn’t have the same affection for felines that Corric did, but he could appreciate the animal’s inherent grace. It was hard to believe that the furry thing with upright ears and twitching whiskers could take down a jack rabbit twice its size. But he’d seen it.
It had been three days since Corric dove into Schok’s mind and Ridan still didn’t understand what had happened. To him, it had been like watching Corric in a restless sleep. Not unlike when he was in heat. But to Corric it had been grueling. Once he was rested and warm, he told them everything he’d seen.
After going through it a few times, Corric seemed content to forget it ever happened. To focus on Schok and his recovery. Ridan could respect that.
But he couldn’t forget what Corric said. He couldn’t afford to.
They knew Krait was trying to free Sinestrus. Foolishly, Ridan had believed he was operating alone. Greed fueling him to do what they hoped to be impossible. But if Corric’s visions were to be believed, then Sinestrus was aiding their quest.
Which made things far more complicated. Krait was one of the most prolific magic users alive. With someone like Cyrill helping, they were a formidable enemy. But with Sinestrus pulling the strings?
His ancestors barely survived fighting him the last time. And they had dragons on their side.
Huffing, he leaned back on the crate he was resting on. The sun dipped in the sky and took his shade with it. Now he had to squint to see. Not that there was much to see.
Ridan, in a stroke of inane idiocy, decided what his clan needed was a feast. With the festival cut short, Halm officially joining the clan, and morale low going into the season of shorter days, he thought they could use a distraction. Predictably, the clan reacted well to this. They’d been hustling for days to put something together.
Thankfully, with little input from their chief.
He’d never been good at these things, choosing to allow others to take over. Which was just as well. Since the day he woke up from his heat, he’d been in meetings with his advisors. But just because there was a war looming didn’t mean the day to day running of the clan could be put on hold. Crops had to be collected and distributed. Hunting parties had to be sent out to get what they could before the bigger game moved to better climates for the incoming frosts. The meat theycollected had to be preserved, and the pelts tanned and made ready.
Not to mention he still had relations with the other clans to think about. Thewn had made his opinion of Ridan very clear, but he still needed the Steel Jaw clan’s cooperation—something that wasn’t guaranteed after the disastrous festival. And taking in Halm.
Ridan hoped the vein in Thewn’s forehead popped out in rage.
And of course, he was left doing it all alone. Corric busy with his brother and Jonen, the little fink, running off to who knows where the first chance he got.
The Stone Blade were blissfully unaware of Schok or Buzzard’s presence. Not that he wanted to keep them hidden, it’s just…he wanted to keep them hidden. How could he justify keeping a magical murderer and a harpy? Not just sheltering them, but actively helping them? It would insult those who lost loved ones at the festival. They’d be enraged, and Ridan wouldn’t blame them.
Hiding them wasn’t difficult. Schok and Buzzard weren’t interested in leaving the tent. They much preferred to lick their wounds in privacy.
Buzzard was a mess, but Schok was worse. He had almost no memory from the last ten years of his life. And when he did remember, they were often so traumatizing he exploded into flames and Buzzard had to douse him in the buckets they kept nearby. The runes inked onto his skin were permanent, as were the burns beneath. Schok was born an alpha, but he had no scent glands left undamaged. Iylah had finally been in to see both. The old woman had seen her fair share, and Ridan trusted her to keep her vow of secrecy. At her core, all she wanted was to heal people.
She took one look at the two misfits and nearly droppedher kit. For the first time in her life, she had no idea where to start. She treated what she could of their physical wounds—including forcing Buzzard to drink some teas for the pain in his wings—but the wounds in their minds were not something she had a balm or tonic for. She confided in Ridan that his lack of scent glands might not be an issue now, but they would be.
The two were getting used to their isolation when Momma Sehleh caught wind of their existence. It was like the beta woman had a nose for those that needed a hug. She ripped open the tent one day, took one look at them, and tsked.
“Unless you two are mushrooms, you need sunlight to survive. Come, come. We have things to do.” And with that, Sehleh could get them to do what Corric couldn’t.
She dragged the poor boys throughout the camp, finding thick cloaks to hide Buzzard’s wings and Schok’s scars. The thin men followed the diminutive woman without so much as a snicker.
Sehleh was delighted to discover that Schok always ran warm, something her arthritic hands appreciated. And she insisted that Buzzard’s talons were perfect for picking tangles out of yarn. She always fed them, never asked them questions about themselves, and serenaded them with stories from his pack’s childhood, delighting in the particularly embarrassing ones.
Of all Iylahs medicines, Sehleh was by far the most effective.
Ridan smiled as he recalled seeing Schok bent over a half completed blanket, tongue between his teeth, as Sehleh instructed him on how to patch an old shirt.