Kinked

  Quentin was no healer, but he thought Aryal’s wings might call for some complicated healing or surgeries. He resisted the urge to smash his fist into the wall, as any possible damage he might do to his fist might not heal. He muttered, “We need to get the hell away from these damn bars.”

  Caerreth said somewhat pedantically, “Yes, we do, but in regards to healing, we’ve had a long time to think about things, and we don’t think that the dampening spell in the bars down here had anything to do with Cemalla bleeding out. After all, healing is a natural physical process, not a magical one. We think it has something to do with the wolf shadows themselves.”

  The younger Elf made a good point. It sounded like they had used their imprisonment to try to think things through.

  “Have you seen anything like them before?” Quentin asked.

  “No, so we don’t know anything for sure.” Caerreth sounded like Linwe did, very tired. “All we have is supposition. Have you seen anything like them before?”

  “No. Do you think their bites are poison?” Quentin didn’t feel poisoned. He just felt in pain. He stalked back and forth, pacing laps.

  “The wounds haven’t acted as though they were poisoned,” said Caerreth. “I think it has more to do with the nature of the creatures themselves.”

  “I thought they were spirits, or ghosts,” Quentin said. He completed another lap and spun. How much blood had Aryal lost? Was she close to bleeding out?

  “If they are,” Caerreth said, “and they can still affect the physical world, what if the wounds they inflict are spiritual in nature?”

  Quentin thought about that as he prowled every inch of his cage. Spiritual, the way that Caerreth meant it, didn’t mean feelings or emotions, or some kind of religious experience. Instead it meant of the soul, or the incorporeal, as opposed to the physical. Magic had the same distinction, as it was spiritual in nature—incorporeal—but still had the Power to impact the physical world.

  “If you’re right,” he said, “then magical healing might work.”

  “Which we can’t do in here,” said Caerreth. He sounded as dispirited and listless as Linwe had.

  Quentin wasn’t dispirited or listless. He burned with rage and determination.

  He said, “That’s all the more reason why we have to get out of here. But then we already knew that.”

  With that, he turned all the considerable force of his attention onto one thing: escape.

  To test the dampening spell in the prison bars, he ran through a series of practice spells that were akin to a musician playing scales. The dampening spell activated, and he could feel it acting in counterpart to his. It was more sophisticated than anything he had encountered before. He cast a stronger spell and felt the dampener adjust to the shift, an equal weight of null to his magic.

  The one dampening spell that he knew was more simple and oppressive, pressing the null as a dead weight throughout the air of the prison or cage, so that the magic user could not even summon Power to cast a spell in the first place.

  That kind of dampener needed to be recast periodically because it expended Power all of the time. The spell on these bars would have been much more difficult to cast, but it would last much longer, perhaps indefinitely, only becoming active when needed and providing only enough Power necessary to block each surge of Power.

  He studied the construction of his cell. He was not surprised to find that it was as well constructed as the dampening spell had been. Perhaps he could dig furrows between the stones if he had a sharp implement and years of time to do it. But even then, he didn’t think he would achieve much more than a couple of deep holes in the thick walls.

  Now to try his ace in the hole. Holding his breath, he attempted the minimal shapeshift that would bring out his panther’s retractable claws.

  He had heard a lot of argument over the years about whether the Wyr’s ability to shapeshift should be classified as magic or as a natural attribute. The real answer was that it was both, but it was also a kind of magic that was fundamentally different from other magic structures. Sometimes spells that were cast in counter to other magics didn’t affect the Wyr’s shapeshift ability at all.

  Sometimes … luck did swing his way.

  The claws on his right hand appeared, more slowly than he could flick them into existence outside of the cell, but they were there. He concentrated on his left hand, and five more retractable claws materialized. He stretched the fingers on both hands out and looked at them in satisfaction.

  It was like nature just wanted him to have all these lock picks readily at hand, so to speak, and available. And Quentin had explored all kinds of training for his natural talents.

  He walked over to the bars and set to work, arms through the bars and wrists bent so that he could get at the lock from inside the cell.

  Sometimes magical locks required the matching magical key to unlock them. He hoped that wasn’t the case for these cells. After all, the dampening spell and the excellent construction of the cells were barriers enough if the prisoner were stripped of any possible tools. He held his breath and prayed that the builders of the prison were as logical about the construction of the lock as they had been about everything else, as he used the two curved claws of his forefingers to probe for the hidden tumblers inside the lock. When he felt the slight resistance that indicated he had engaged them, he twisted carefully.

  The lock clicked open. He pushed open the door to his cell and walked out.

  The prison block was a simple one. It appeared to be U-shaped, with an iron-reinforced oak door at the bottom of the U. The Elves were held in cells just around the corner from the door, on the other leg from where he and Aryal were held. They were talking, their voices slow and tired, and didn’t appear to notice the slight sound his cell door made as it swung open. He caught a glimpse of still bodies in some of the other cells neighboring his and Aryal’s, but he turned his attention away from the sight. There was nothing he could do for any of them.

  Listening warily for any sounds outside the cell block, he moved quickly over to Aryal’s cell, picked the lock and eased the door open. He rushed to her prone figure and kneeled at her head.

  She lay on her stomach and showed no reaction to his sudden presence. He stroked her black hair to one side and felt for a pulse. Relief blew through him as he found one. It was thready and too rapid, but it was there.

  “Hey, sunshine,” he said softly. “You in there? Feel free to get snarky and cuss me out anytime now.”

  She didn’t say anything. Maybe she was unconscious.

  Gods, she was a wreck. He was appalled at the state she was in. Those magnificent wings of hers were sprawled awkwardly on either side of her body, torn and broken. That last shadow wolf had known exactly what to do when it attacked her. It had very clearly intended to ground her, and that was what it had achieved.

  If she hadn’t hesitated to take off, she might have gotten clean away. She had waited for him, and when he couldn’t get to her, she had said she would come for him.

  A burning knot sank into his chest, like the same emotion that gripped him in the tragic nursery, only this time it was even hotter, more painful. Avian Wyr typically did not survive well if they lost the ability to fly.

  This couldn’t cripple her. That was all there was to it.

  First, though, he had to make sure it didn’t kill her.

  Carefully he moved her. He didn’t try to turn her onto her stomach, because that would shift her wings too much. Instead he lifted her up until he could hold her, putting her head on his shoulder. She lay against his torso in a dead weight.

  He tilted his head sideways and looked into the harpy’s wild face. Her eyes were half-open. Did that mean she was still conscious?

  “I’m going to give this to you straight up, sunshine,” he whispered into her ear. “You look like hell. Our wounds aren’t closing over. We need to get out of this cell block and away from the dampening spell in here. Then maybe we can see about getting some
magical healing. But to do that, you either need to be ambulatory or you need to be portable, and right now you’re neither.”

  He looked down at her again. Was that a flicker in her half-closed eyes?

  “You have to shapeshift,” he told her. “That might slow down your bleeding some, since—since so many of your wounds are on your wings. And if you can’t walk, at least I’ll be able to carry you.”

  “My wings are bad,” she whispered.

  The burning in his chest grew more intense. He steeled himself against it. “Yeah,” he said. “Your wings are bad. You’ll probably need surgery. Maybe even a couple of surgeries. The sooner we finish here and get home, the sooner we can get to that and you can take to the air again. But you’ve got to move first.”

  There was no self-pity on that feral, beautiful face. There was no emotion at all. “The thing is, Quentin,” she said in a perfectly rational-sounding voice, “I don’t know that I can do that.”

  If she was too injured to shapeshift, if she had lost too much blood, she might really be dying.

  “No,” he said. He shook his head. “No. I do not accept that.”

  “Gods forbid something might happen that you don’t accept,” she said dryly. Her eyes closed.

  “Stop it!” He shook her, not caring if it hurt or not. Hell, if it hurt, it might be just the jolt she needed. Her eyes flared open again, and she glared at him. Anger was good. It was awesome. He smiled at her. “I’m going to pinch you until you shapeshift.”

  One corner of her mouth twitched. “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?”

  “You say that like it’s news. Or even a bad thing.” He found a place under her arm where she wasn’t injured, and he pinched her hard.

  A spark lit her dull gaze. “Ouch.”

  “Come on, sunshine,” he growled. “I’m not leaving without you, and I haven’t got all day. And if I have to drag you by the foot, you’re going to be a hell of a lot more uncomfortable than you are right now. Shift!”

  Her breathing quickened, and her face twisted. He could feel the struggle in her body as she strained. His heart started to pound as he waited. A low, shaking moan came from her lips.

  He shouted in her face, “COME ON!”

  She bared her teeth and screamed back at him, an infuriated harpy’s shriek. And her wings slowly disappeared from sight. The alien quality of her features smoothed into the more human-looking Aryal. Her features were too pale and damp with sweat, and the area around her eyes was hollow with dark shadows.

  Relief made him almost giddy. Who the hell could have ever guessed that he would come to care about what happened to this prickly pain in the ass he held in his arms? “There you are,” he said. He hugged her. “Good job.”

  She glared at him and pinched him back, hard. “You suck.”

  He barked out a short laugh, hugged her tighter and pressed a kiss to her temple for good measure. One of her arms crept around his waist, and she held him back.

  A cautious-sounding Linwe said, “Is everything okay over there?”

  “Everything’s okay,” Quentin said firmly. He looked into Aryal’s bitter gaze, and though he answered Linwe, he spoke directly to Aryal. “Or it will be.”

  It had to be okay. He wouldn’t let it be anything else.

  FIFTEEN

  If Aryal thought about the damage that had been done to her wings, panic set in, so she tried not to think about it.

  That wasn’t going so well.

  She’d had a lot of time for what-ifs in her life, and if she couldn’t fly, she didn’t know that she could live. Flight was sewn into her nature. It marked the shape of her body. It went deeper than her sense of her own identity, into her state of being.

  After she shapeshifted back into her human form, for all intents and purposes her wings appeared to be gone. But that wasn’t true. They were still there, still a part of her, and she could still feel the pain from the broken bones and the bite wounds.

  She could still remember the agonizing grip of the shadow wolf as it crushed the critical carpal joint, and she knew at that point that the wolf might have already killed her, and everything else that happened after that point would be just her waiting to die.

  The shapeshifting had been so hard, afterward she shook like a drug addict going through withdrawal. Quentin gripped her tightly. He sat back on his heels as he held her, and at first she couldn’t even lift her head off of his shoulder.

  Belatedly she realized she was resting against his bare, warm skin. She focused on the steady, strong heartbeat against her cheek. Concentrating on something outside of herself helped to stave off the panic.

  He rested his cheek against her temple, and the light dusting of whiskers along his jaw felt good. She didn’t often like men’s beards, as sometimes the bristles felt prickly, but Quentin’s beard was as silken as the rest of his hair. In contrast, his wide, tanned chest had very little hair on it, just a light dusting of gold.

  A sluggish curiosity stirred. Her voice sounded rusty as she said, “Your shirt’s gone.”

  “I used it to bandage my leg and arm.” His arms eased. “Speaking of which, we need to bind your wounds. You’ve already lost too much blood.”

  She pulled away and helped him to tear strips of her tank top off at the waist, which he used to wrap her visible wounds tightly. It wouldn’t stop the bleeding, but it would slow it down. As she watched him tie the ends of the cotton on her thigh, she asked, “How did you pick the lock?”

  He smirked at her. “I have talented claws.”

  Despite his lighthearted rejoinder, his gaze was sharp and assessing as he looked down her bloody figure. She looked down at herself too. They had left enough of her tank top so that it covered her breasts, and her jeans were torn and grimy with blood and dirt.

  “You are one post-apocalyptic babe,” he said. “If only you had a padded bra to make you a C-cup.”

  “Keep up with the wisecracks, why don’t you?” she told him. “I’ve started a tally. Help me to my feet.”

  He put an arm around her waist and lifted her up. She held herself stiffly, unable to do anything to ease the pain of unseen wounds. When he let her go, he did so carefully.

  At his unspoken question, she jerked her head to the open cell door and said, “Go on, help the others. I’ll manage.”

  She was going to try to walk down that hall, and she didn’t want him to see her struggle. He hesitated and his eyes narrowed, but when she waved a hand irritably at him, he turned and walked out of the cell.

  She limped slowly down the hall. Her thigh held up under her weight, just barely, but her entire back felt like it was on fire. Even taking a deep breath hurt.

  The Elves greeted Quentin with sharp exclamations that were quickly hushed. She left him to his reunion. There was a barred window at one end of the short hallway that held the door to the cell block. She limped over to it.

  The window wasn’t big enough for a grown person to fit through, and it was the only source of fresh air for the whole block. When she looked out, the window opened over the water, so the prison area had to be carved into the cliff itself.

  A gust of air blew in, hitting her in the face. It felt cool and damp. She put a hand to the sill to lean on it as she sucked in fresh air and looked out. The island was just visible, and she felt the constriction ease somewhat in her chest. The light was fading fast from the day, and the water was a deeply shadowed blue. Soon the daylight would be completely gone.

  She focused on the island. She had meant to fly over there, at least briefly.

  Razor teeth fastening on her wing. Her carpal joint crushed. Muscles torn.

  Dread flooded her limbs, and she breathed shallowly through a wave of nausea. She had to find some sort of short-term goal, or the panic was going to drive her crazy.

  Galya Andreyev might not have anything against the Wyr from America, but now Aryal sure as hell had something against the Russian bitch.

  “I owe you one,” she whispered.
“And I always pay my debts.”

  Aryal owed the witch a bad one. Focusing on payback was a good enough goal for now.

  Behind her, the others were talking. “Aryal and I need healing, and we need to leave the cell block as fast as we can,” Quentin said. “But we need to do it smart. Do you know if the witch sets any of her shadow wolves to guard outside this block?”

  “No,” Linwe said. “We haven’t seen them since she locked us up.”

  “The witch didn’t need them when she came in here,” said one of the Elven males. “We were already captured. Besides, if they’re magic, they couldn’t come in anyway.”

  “Interesting point,” said Quentin, with that tone of voice he used whenever something had particularly caught his attention. “Do you think they are a creation of hers from some kind of spell?”

  Aryal answered him. She said over her shoulder, “I think they may be spelled or magical in some way, but they are not the product of a spell—at least not wholly. I think they are individual entities.”

  “Why?”

  “Their behavior was too sophisticated for one person to orchestrate. They exhibited pack behavior and lured us to where they wanted us to be before they attacked. And the twelve wolves kept us occupied so that the thirteenth—the alpha—could take me by surprise.” She forced a swallow down her dry throat. “It was quite efficiently executed.”

  A short silence greeted her words. Then Quentin said, “That makes a lot of sense.”

  “I’ll tell you something else that makes sense,” Aryal said. “That first shadow wolf I saw on the bridge back in the forest—I think that was a sentry. When we crossed over into Numenlaur, it must have tracked us for a while and then ran on ahead to alert the others. At least that’s what it looks like.”

  “They did something very similar to us,” said one of the Elven males. “We found the witch’s trail leading into Numenlaur. There was plenty of snow cover on the ground, and her trail was unmistakable. Our orders were to stop anyone from looting, so we crossed over to track her down. We didn’t bother to leave anyone on guard—after all, it was just one set of footprints, and we thought we would be back over to the Bohemian Forest quickly.”