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Sixteen

W ick woke up in more pain than he had ever known.

One of his eyes would only open halfway. It felt strange and swollen, throbbing with the same unbearable heat as so much of his body.

He groaned, struggling to sit up. He had an arrow in his shoulder, and the last shards of net twisted around his horns. Burns coated his body, thick stripes sinking into the bone.

It was dark. He was lying at the bottom of a ravine.

Dim memories ran through his mind: the bounty hunter Renault, stinking of lipseed as he shot an arrow into Wick’s shoulder.

A net of Malblosom, making him blister. Mortal skin opening under his claws.

A neck parting under his fangs. Telling a bloodied Briar to run while tears dripped down her cheeks.

She was with him here, at the bottom of the ravine.

He could not remember watching her escape.

He did remember a voice. That cold, rocky voice that had snuck in during Marigold’s spell. Under the blood frenzy, the voice was a whisper no longer. This had been a low hiss that swelled into a scream, telling him to fight, telling him to kill .

He forced the memory away, focusing instead on the memory of Briar’s terrified face.

“Briar,” he rasped.

He looked around. A savaged mortal body made his slow heartbeat stutter, but upon closer inspection, it was not Briar. It was one of the bounty hunters who had foolishly engaged them.

He looked up.

The town side of the ravine was naked and rocky. The forbidden side of the ravine—the side none of them were allowed to cross—was covered in vines, leading up to a thicket of flowers.

But the vines ended abruptly above Wick’s head. They had been torn out, the rock underneath them savaged with claw marks. Wick must have tried to climb out, then slid back down to the bottom of the ravine.

Wick blinked blearily. Why did I not just fly?

He attempted to stretch his wings. A bolt of agony ran through him, making him roar.

He groped behind him. Another jagged bolt of pain confirmed what his fingers told him: his left wing was gone.

A tremulous voice came from the top of the ravine. “Wick?”

Wick craned his head.

Briar’s tearful face poked out from the top of the ravine. She saw him and made a soft, wounded noise.

“Gods, you look…” She swallowed hard. “Are you okay?”

“I am fine,” Wick replied instantly. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Briar laughed wetly. “I’m great! You didn’t hurt me .”

The intention behind her words was obvious. Her voice was heavy with guilt, tears dripping down her chin. She was wearing the fur coat she had been wearing before the ritual, her borrowed clothes underneath it. She had her pack strapped to her back, her fingers white around the straps.

Wick flexed his wings, or more accurately, one wing and one torn stub. It sent another stab of agony through him. His flightless existence stretched before him, strange and daunting. But it was worth it if it made Briar safe.

Briar sniffed. “You can climb up. The stone is brittle, don’t dig your claws in too far.”

Wick looked up at the claw marks he had gouged into the cliff. He had been too feral to realize he should have changed his climbing technique. He had never been grateful to be completely feral. If he had any intelligence left, he would have climbed the ravine properly, and Briar would be dead.

“Wait,” Briar called as he hooked his claws carefully into the rock. “The amulet is down there with you!”

Wick stopped and looked around. The amulet was lying near the dead bounty hunter, its chain broken and the metal cracked.

“No,” Wick whispered.

He picked up the amulet and rubbed it hopefully. It flickered, white light spasming into his palm before dying a swift death.

Wick picked up his loincloth next, which was tangled on a rock nearby. “Perhaps I should stay down here.”

“To the void with that ,” Briar said harshly. “Get up here right now or I’ll climb down!”

“Do not ,” Wick growled. There was nowhere to run in this ravine. At least she would have a chance on the forbidden side of the ravine.

He jerked the arrow out of his shoulder and licked the wound carefully. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the last arrow wound on his other shoulder.

He tied his loincloth around his waist, careful against the painful burns. “Has the village bothered you?”

“They haven’t been back.” Briar wiped her cheeks and stared across the ravine, presumably at the stone altar. “I thought I saw Renault earlier. But I can’t be sure.”

Wick braced himself against the cliff. “Did he smell of lipseed?”

Briar stared at him. “What? I—I suppose he would, he uses it in his hair. But I wasn’t close enough to get a sniff.”

Wick nodded. He had temporarily forgotten that mortal noses were so weak.

He began to climb, the amulet tucked into his palm. Every small movement made his burned skin scream. He gritted his fangs and forced himself to reach for the next rock, digging his claws in as hard as he dared.

But not too hard. He had control. In this moment, anyhow, he was himself again.

Briar watched him climb, her eyes still wet. She clutched the side of the ravine, crushing several of the flowers they had been sent to collect.

“You have found the flowers,” Wick said, attempting to make her smile.

Briar did. It was small and tremulous, but she smiled enough that, for a moment, Wick barely noticed his injuries. Then he lifted his arm to haul himself up further, and every agony came wailing back with an intensity that made him lock up against the wall.

“Wick?” Briar shifted like she was going to reach for him.

“I am fine,” Wick called. “Stay there.”

Briar sat back, frowning. Her face and hands were covered in tiny marks that made Wick imagine her making this very same climb, her fragile human skin giving way so easily to the unforgiving rocks.

He neared the top of the ravine. Briar started pulling at his arm to help him the rest of the way, a move so useless and sweet that Wick huffed a pained laugh and let her continue.

He heaved himself over the top of the ravine and braced himself against the ground, panting.

“Shit,” Briar whispered. She tugged the remaining shards of net off his horns, throwing them away. “Wick. Gods .”

Wick held out the amulet. “Take it.”

Briar took it. It gleamed stronger than before, but Briar barely looked at it before stuffing it into her fur coat.

“Hey, look at me.” She cupped his face carefully, avoiding the burns. “It’s not actually that bad! I think your eye is already better; it was all the way shut yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” Wick repeated. He looked up at the dark sky. He had assumed it had only been a few hours. But a day?

He looked down at Briar and inhaled. There was pain in her scent, mixing with the worry.

“Your curse is taking hold,” he said. “You are hurting.”

“ I’m hurting?” Briar barked a laugh so loud and harsh that it truly did sound like a bark, a snarling animal noise deep in her throat.

She smacked him in the arm. “You are impossible , you know that? Huh, gentleman monster? You’re just?—”

She gnashed her teeth and turned, blinking hard. When she looked back at him, her eyes were very nearly dry.

“Come on,” she said. “I found a cave.”

Tucked safely out of sight was a tall, thin cave. Wick barely had to duck when Briar led him into it. He did not even have to pull his wings in, although that was most likely because he only had one now. It scraped the stone as he shuffled inside.

It should have hurt. But he was in so much pain he barely felt it—deep burns and the blunt loss of his wing, which ached deeper than a wound. He would never fly again. He had not known how much he enjoyed flying before it was gone.

Briar came to a stop in front of a strange, tangled lump. Unfamiliar items of clothing lay in a misshapen pile: coats and shirts and other items of clothing that Wick did not know the name of, soft and billowy.

“Here,” Briar said. “This is yours.”

It took Wick a moment to realize what he was looking at.

“You made me a nest,” he realized.

Briar shrugged and sat down next to the nest. She hauled her pack into her lap and cradled it like he had once seen a mortal child hold a stuffed toy.

“Best I could do,” she said, muffled into the pack. “I stole people’s shit when I snuck back into the village for supplies. Got you food, too.”

She nodded at the back of the cave. A dead rabbit was lying on a rock, already skinned. The fur had been added to the nest, Wick noted with surprise. It was lying on the top, as Wick did with his own nest.

He stroked the rabbit fur. Then he sat down, ignoring the pain from his burns as they came into contact with the nest. It was admittedly very soft, even if it was structurally useless.

Everything squashed out underneath him as soon as he lowered himself.

And yet, Wick was almost content. If he were not in such pain, it might have been a deeply lovely night.

“This is the nicest thing any creature has ever done for me,” Wick told her.

Briar stared at him, her bright eyes gleaming. For a moment, Wick feared she would burst into tears.

“Fuck you,” she said instead.

Wick blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” Briar’s mouth twisted horribly, and she buried her face in her hands. “You’re so… ugh! And it’s all the time! Every day! Every void-damned second, and now you’re hurt, I hurt you, and you’re still like this !”

The last words were a wail into her hands. Wick’s tail flicked uncertainly. The movement jarred several burns. He stilled.

“I do not understand why you’re angry at me,” he said honestly. “But it must wait. Your curse is burning hotter.”

He sniffed the air. The fire was encroaching on her heart, fierce and unyielding.

He took her wrist and pulled her into his lap, watching her eyes widen.

“You want to do this now? You’re covered in burns!”

“I will survive,” he assured her. “You would not.”

She readjusted herself on his lap. She was holding herself strangely, like she wanted to place the least amount of pressure on him as possible.