Kinked (Elder Races, #6)(91)

He put an arm around her waist and helped her hop to the water. Then they both submerged, clothes and all, and rubbed at themselves and each other to clean off as best they could. Aryal scooped up handfuls of sand to scrub the worst of the dried blood out of her hair and skin.

They didn’t take long at the task. He didn’t want to risk losing his scabs again if they got too soaked with the salt water, and neither one of them had any business being on their feet for long. If they had been home in New York, they would have been in a hospital.

Afterward they helped each other back to their “tent.” Quentin was so exhausted he could barely stay on his feet, and from her pale, set expression, she wasn’t any better. Probably, given the state of her injured wings, she was a lot worse.

I hurt so bad, and I’m so tired, and all I want is another hug from you.

He swallowed, stroking her wet hair, and kissed her forehead. She hopped into a turn and leaned on his good shoulder while he held her. He whispered, “I should try to find wood for a fire.”

“Don’t bother,” she mumbled. “It’s warm enough and we’ll air-dry. I just don’t want to lie in the sand again in these wet clothes.”

He pulled at the half-unfolded sail so that it lay spread out on the sand. He said sourly, “Behold, a bed.”

“It’s better than the cell.”

“Maybe, but not by much.” He helped her ease down onto it and then joined her, making sure that she was on his good side. Groaning, he lay back and held out his uninjured arm. “Come here.”

She eased over gingerly and fit herself against him, and he hugged her tight as his world settled into rightness. Her body shook with a deep sigh. She pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder and draped her arm across his waist.

“We should be okay enough by morning to sail back,” she muttered. “Maybe avoid the path up the bluff altogether. Don’t you think?”

“I do.” But they didn’t have to face that right now.

The sun had set and the worst of the heat had gone out of the day. A steady breeze still blew off the water, and his trousers felt cool and clammy while his burns felt fiery hot. The sand felt hard and lumpy underneath him, and he had rarely been so uncomfortable.

While he had never been so happy.

Still, despite Aryal’s reassurances, he was worried about her. The more time passed, the more likely it was that she would sustain permanent damage to her wings. He was ready to start back home and anxious to see what help they could get for her. But that was another task for tomorrow. For now, as her body grew lax against him and her breathing deepened, he was just thankful they had survived another day. He pulled a corner of the sail over their legs to block off the breeze and fell into another profoundly deep sleep.

Something roused him. A sound, or a great movement in the air. He blinked his eyes open, or tried to anyway, and ended up squinting as his healing eye had gummed up again.

The sky had paled with the beginning of dawn. A large, winged form angled down and landed, along with another. Then another. Wyr gathered around them, shapeshifting into their human forms. Each of them carried backpacks and bristled with weapons.

Quentin poked Aryal gently in the shoulder. She woke and lifted her head to look around.

Almost all the sentinels had come. Alex, Bayne, Constantine. Grym. No Graydon, who must have been the one to draw the short straw to stay on duty in New York.

Dragos had come too, along with Pia and Eva. Pia carried Liam in a baby harness. Linwe was also with the group.

Quentin had never seen Dragos look so flummoxed. Despite the many differences in temperament and personality in the group, every one of them wore an identical expression of blank incredulity as they drew close and stared down at the couple entwined on the beach.

Quentin drew a deep breath. Yeah, well. There was that.

Aryal offered in a helpful tone, “He has issues.”

“Shut up,” Quentin grumbled.

As some kind of crisis of expression bolted over Pia’s face, he pulled a corner of the sail over his and Aryal’s heads.





TWENTY-ONE


After taking in the mess strewn all over the beach, everyone leaped into action. Something happened to Galya’s body and detached head. Someday Aryal meant to ask what they did with it, although they probably just did the predictable, boring thing and buried her somewhere. All she knew was that the witch’s remains disappeared.

Others collected Quentin’s supply sack, their borrowed Elven weapons, the empty healing potion vials and the brandy bottle, and folded up the sail they had used for shelter, while Pia and Alex, who was the most accomplished field medic in the sentinels, examined Quentin and tried to examine her.

“Don’t touch me,” Aryal told them hoarsely. They both hesitated, clearly unwilling to listen when she was so injured.

“Do as she says,” Quentin snapped at them. “She needs to see a specialist as quickly as we can get her to one, not another round of blanket healing.”

His tone was so harsh that both Pia and Alex recoiled. Pia’s expression was tight and closed off with some kind of suppressed emotion as she handed Liam over to Eva. Aryal watched dully as Pia talked with Quentin in a low voice. Then, still talking, they both walked away.

When they returned several minutes later, Quentin was healed. Completely.

During the confrontation two months ago in January, Dragos had been hurt badly—worse than Aryal had ever seen or believed was possible—yet somehow after Pia had reached him, he had risen to his feet, apparently unscathed.