Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(31)

A venom-crazed dog attack would be bad. I should insist on putting him down. Only my brain’s message doesn’t reach my feet, and now I’m kneeling beside the dog, wishing to help.

“I’m sorry,” I say, for lack of anything more, confused by my own reaction. In either her sadness or shock, she has allowed me to be near her animal.

A tear runs a straight path down the woman’s face. “My husband died a year ago, my eldest boy six months later.” Her hand lingers, making slow strokes from the dog’s head to back. “He’s watched over my family, kept us safe. He tends the herd and the chicken coop.” She wipes her eyes. “He’s just a dog. But to us, he’s family.”

I let my hands take the place of hers on the dog’s head. If the animal’s fear and pain were visible, I’m certain it would look like steam wafting off a boiling kettle.

“Even Beannach water didn’t help,” she says in a choked voice.

“Beannach water?”

“Blessed water.”

Must be another Shaerdan custom. For snake venom, an antidote would’ve been a better choice. I don’t tell her this, though.

Usually when an animal is on the edge of death, it’s because I brought it to that point, and so my blessing is one of peace and thanks. A strong, compelling urge to help the dog drives me to act, but I don’t know what to do other than offer a similar blessing.

Moving from throat to trunk, my hands sweep in a soothing stroke. Beneath my palms, I sense the strangest bit of darkness, the snake’s venom, slithering through the animal’s veins. This is insane. And yet I know it’s true. I know it’ll soon spread through his vitals, a shadow stealing the last bits of light. With every second that passes, alarm rushes through me as he falls further victim to the poison.

My prayer starts like all the others I’ve muttered over the years, soothing, calming words, but I cannot bring myself to finish the same. The woman’s sniffles escalate into full-blown wails. Her misery draws something different from me. They make me want to somehow fight against the venom. My shapeless words turn to a silent plea, asking the weakened life to remain. To be strong. To fight the toxin.

My palms make upward strokes from the dog’s torso to his mouth.

Be strong.

The dog quakes and the darkness in his veins moves, leaving me amazed and frightened and baffled. I could be mad. Delusional. But the motion of my hands seems to be drawing the sickness up and out of his body. Numbness spreads from my trembling fingers to my elbows. Little beads of sweat break out across my brow. The well and the woman and the woods whirl around me. I tilt my head side to side to clear the echo in my ears and stop my vision from dimming when all I really want to do is lie down and sleep.

The injured dog is suddenly on his feet, shaking me off. He makes it half a dozen paces before his body racks itself, ribs pushing in and out as he vomits.

The foul stench snaps me out of the head fog. Staggering to my feet, I gag and then dry heave.

The woman appears at my side, sobbing and saying something that makes no sense because the fog returns. She is endless tears over a stream of unintelligible mumbling, and I’m terrified that I’ve killed her dog.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I repeat as I stumble away, toes tripping over tree roots. Cohen’s deep tenor echoes nearby, but it’s overshadowed by the woman’s chatter. Her words mesh together. I stumble forward. Blink against the splotches overtaking my vision. I am an hourglass, my energy seeping out fast, fast, faster.

I walk into a wall.

“Britta, stop!” The wall is Cohen.

I’m in his arms. Mine flop by my side while Cohen is speaking; only his words slip away before I can catch them.

Warm water trickles over my lips. Down my chin.

Cohen’s face hides behind the splotches in my sight.

His grip bites into my arms. It jars me awake. “What’s happened? You were at the well. I stepped back so the woman wouldn’t see me. Then you’re crashing through the trees.” He sounds afraid, though Cohen is never afraid. “Where are you hurt?”

Hands start moving, touching.

“Dog . . . needed help,” I force out.

This time when the blackness slips in, Cohen cannot keep me from it.





Chapter

15


“WAKE UP, DOVE.” WARMTH BRUSHES MY EAR. The rough curls of a beard graze my forehead before lips press against my temple. Ah, that’s nice.

Though I wouldn’t mind staying in the dark warmth a moment more, I open my eyes. Cohen is holding me, his face a sliver from mine. I’m limp, boneless. Beyond the haziness, a low animal whine sounds again and again. Disoriented, I slowly take in more of the scene—?Cohen sitting on a rock, supporting me with one arm under my back and another under my knees; a whitish golden dog beside us, nudging my leg with his snout; a dark-haired woman a few paces off, waiting with a careful expression.

She’s the woman from the well. And her dog. Tail-wagging, tongue-lolling, happy dog.

“You left so quickly.” The woman shuffles closer, bucket in hand. “Forgive me for not giving you water when you asked before.”

“She needs more than water. She needs rest.” Cohen sounds different, strained and angry. I wish I could curl into him more, but my noodle body doesn’t respond how I want.