Page 10 of The Second Death of Locke

She stayed quiet. They were sitting on hard-packed ground in a stone room. A basement. It smelled like salt and ash. When she snuffled, raised her fist to wipe her nose, the boy caught her hand. It did not burn, but it should’ve.

There was pounding overhead. She was covered in blood, drenched in it. She remembered whose it was, but she did not let herself think of it.

“Do you promise,” the fire-boy whispered, “to let us go?”

“No,” she whimpered. She wanted to hug him, but she was afraid; she was so afraid that her heart pounded rabbity in her chest and her hands were sweaty and her teeth ached from clenching her jaw.

Just an hour ago, she and the boy were at the big table, squabbling over dessert.

She could still taste the sour tang of sugar between her teeth.

He gripped both of her hands so hard, and this time, it hurt.

“You have to,” he said, leaning his fire-head close to hers. She remembered the color of his eyes under all that licking flame: they were silt-brown, shell-brown, sargassum-brown. “I can’t hold it much longer, but I will until you promise.”

She sobbed, and he let her, even though it made so much noise. There was a shout overhead, then the pounding of feet down the stairs and someone at the door.

“I promise,” she said. The fire-boy kissed her, once, on the forehead, and held her hands so very tight.

The world around her exploded.

Grey woke to an empty room and a dry mouth. Across from her, Kier’s bed was terribly devoid of Kier, and for one half-second of unremembering, her heart flew to her throat.

Then she realized her shirt was still stained with his blood, and now her blankets were too, and that was enough to remind her. She sat up, folding her legs under her, and stared out at nothing.

The fire wasn’t burning. The cold was good; it made the anxiety in her chest dull to a low-level thrum.

She hurriedly changed into a clean shirt from Kier’s trunk and her own trousers—she’d need to wash properly soon, but it could wait—and laced her still-damp boots over a pilfered pair of Kier’s socks.

She swung her cloak over her shoulders and set out into the frigid morning.

There was no note pinned to her tent, no letter of dismissal waiting for her, so her interaction with Concord was apparently not enough for immediate action.

When she reached the infirmary, Leonie was at the herbalist’s desk near the door, filling a tray with measured-out herbal tablets and salves.

She took in the half-scrubbed traces of blood on Grey’s hands, the shadows under her eyes, and sighed, the breath blowing her curling fringe up over her face.

Unlike Grey, Leonie looked a bit better rested today, her deep brown skin shining with a healthy glow, the shadows under her eyes less pronounced.

“Is it too much,” she asked mildly, “to ask you to take care of yourself?”

“Yes,” Grey said, pulling the little booklet of overnight notes from Leonie’s apron pocket and searching for Kier’s name.

The only reason she was able to do it without a disapproving look was because Leonie already knew that if Kier was in the infirmary for a few days, she’d at least have Grey’s help to lessen the load. “How is he?”

“Alive. How are you ?”

“Alive,” Grey muttered, reading over the notes from the overnight healer. It was helpful, at least, to know she’d only been out for approximately twelve hours.

“Have you eaten, Hand Captain?”

Grey didn’t hazard that with a response. It wasn’t anything personal—she liked Leonie. In fact, she’d more than liked Leonie on one frantic fever-dream of a night three months ago when Kier was in the infirmary, recovering from a broken rib.

As if to bring that memory into stronger relief, Leonie laid a hand on Grey’s arm. She had short fingers, but they were nimble and strong, trim and clean, capable to a fault.

“You smell like old blood and you’re still wearing the battlefield,” she said. “Eat. Clean yourself up. He will be here when you’re back.”

She met Grey’s gaze, held it for an immeasurable moment and muttered something uncomplimentary about the obsessive nature of Hands under her breath when Grey swept past her into the depths of the infirmary.

She stopped on the way to his bed, briefly, to check on the three others from their company who were still here with injuries from the day before. If Kier was awake, he would check if she’d done it first.

Satisfied once she’d completed her due diligence, she made her way to his bedside.

His skin, usually a medium olive tone, was nearly as pale as the sheets.

He was shirtless, the sheets pulled up over his chest. She pulled off her cloak and considered throwing it on the empty cot to Kier’s side for a moment, but that would just make more work for Leonie, so she folded it over his feet instead.

She took the time to check his heartbeat and the frequency of his breathing, only pausing for a moment of relief when he flinched at her frigid hands on his skin.

He was dry, not clammy with fever. When she pulled the blanket down and lifted the gauze, the area was not inflamed.

She found her well of power restored, so she let herself unspool, a tether attached to him, nudging the power to the wound.

She kept her eyes open in case Mare Concord happened by—in case she actually was being watched.

In these moments, when he was incapacitated, she allowed herself to be tender.

It always came easy to Kier to brush her hair behind her ear or grab her hand, possibly because even the slightest touch came with a rush of power, but she didn’t have the same freedom.

It never seemed to mean anything to him when he took her hand, when skin met skin. Not like it did for her.

She glanced around—Leonie was near the front of the ward, treating an injured person with a salve, and everyone else around was sleeping. No sign of Mare.

She skimmed her fingers over his cheekbone. Under her touch, the scratch across his cheek healed. She took another quick glance around, tracking Leonie’s progress, and let her hand snake under the covers, palm pressed to the uneven stitching of his wound.

“Hand.”

She glanced down at him. Her other hand was still pressed to his cheek, thumb skimming over his eyebrow without her telling it to. She withdrew both hands. He winced at the loss of contact, so she pushed a bit more power in his direction.

“You’re doing the thing again,” he murmured, eyes sliding shut.

“Keep that to yourself,” she chided—but she put her hand back over the wound, watching as he instantly relaxed.

“You look like shit,” Kier said.

“You’ve got your eyes closed.”

“So I don’t have to see you looking like shit.”

“Unfair. I’m the reason you’re alive.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

Grey sighed, pulling her hand away. She had to stop—any further healing and people would start asking questions. Kier’s eyes rolled back open. “Thank you,” he said.

“A draft to ease the pain, Captain,” Leonie said.

Grey’s gaze snapped up to her, her apron, her tray, her neutral expression.

She was favoring her right leg again—always did, in the rain, and there was near-constant rain here—but it would do no good for Grey to ask how she was feeling.

Leonie’s left leg had been amputated from the knee down years before, replaced with a wooden materialist-crafted prosthetic, and she’d confessed to Grey once that the rain made her badly healed hip throb.

“Thank you,” Kier said, taking the draft like a good patient. Grey and Leonie exchanged a glance. Both of them would’ve refused. Neither of them were good patients.

“And as soon as you’re able to get up, Attis has requested you.”

“He is unable to get up,” Grey said quickly, which didn’t stop Kier from trying. A firm push to his shoulder was effective enough.

“Noted,” Leonie said. “It can wait.”

“Did she say why?” Grey asked.

Leonie shook her head. “Something to do with the prisoner you recovered, I think.”

It wasn’t a guarantee, but perhaps Grey wasn’t completely fucked for her behavior the other day. Maybe Concord still owed her for saving her life. Maybe—though Grey very much doubted it—she would get off easy this time.

Leonie took note of her fidgeting. “Hand Captain, if you’re going to be loitering here, I’d appreciate your help if you have time to spare—but I will require you to clean up and eat first.”

“And that’s an order,” Kier said.

“You still don’t outrank me,” Grey said, but she conceded anyway.