Kinked (Elder Races, #6)(62)

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?”