Roar (Stormheart #1)(25)
He leaned over her, listening for her breathing. The soft caress of warm air touched his ear, and he jerked back, swallowing. Bandages. He needed to stanch the bleeding. He searched for the pack of medical supplies they took on hunts. Duke had the most medical knowledge of anyone in the group, but Locke was more than capable himself. He returned to Roar’s side with a pile of supplies—bandages, a salve made from some of Jinx’s magically enhanced herbs, and a full canteen of water. He peeled back the bloodied strips of cloth, and his stomach turned. The wound was deep. One of her stitches was torn.
He pressed a new bandage down, and in a few moments dots of red began to show through. He cursed. Digging through the supplies again he found a plant called battle moss that soaked up blood like a sponge. According to legend, it grew on the site of ancient battlefields where the blood of the old gods soaked into the soil. But this particular batch had been grown by Jinx in under an hour. The benefits of having an earth witch on the crew.
He pressed the moss against the wound, and then wrapped a new bandage around it to hold the plant in place. He began checking the rest of her for injuries. He pulled up her cloak, intending to remove it, but hesitated when he found her legs bare and the lacy hem of what appeared to be a nightgown. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He couldn’t think about why she might be wearing only that beneath her cloak. Instead, he focused on the most pressing task. Pulling her cloak back down into place, he settled for a slow inventory of her body over her clothes. Starting at her feet, he patted his hands up her legs, searching for any more spots that might be wet with blood. He pushed up the sleeve on her other arm and found her skin pale and unmarked. She felt a little clammy, but otherwise he could find no other injuries.
He stood to wait for Duke, and paced the small area of the tent.
There was no keeping the memories of his sister at bay now. It was always harder when he was stressed, and seeing Roar lying there, pale and unconscious, had him more than a little on edge. They didn’t look alike. The girl lying on the rug was fair and lean and willowy, while his sister had been much younger and looked like him: dark olive skin, brown hair, brown eyes. It was not appearances that made him connect the two but … their spirits.
He had precious few memories of his sister. The day she died remained fuzzy in his mind, and he was all too happy to let it stay that way. The grief had stolen bad and good memories alike. But he remembered the feel of his sister, the timbre of her soul, the bravado with which she had lived. Roar had that same strange mix of vulnerability and strength.
He had not been able to help his sister. He had been too young, too weak. But he could help Roar. Whatever she was into, he would help her get out of it. And maybe helping Roar would let him find some measure of peace that he had been missing all these years.
The flap of the tent opened, letting in the dull noise from the market. He saw gray hair and sighed in relief. Duke was his mentor. Locke might have considered Duke like a father if he let himself grow that attached to anyone. But he didn’t, never could. Life taught him early that to love something was to tempt fate to take it away. The old man moved closer and knelt with a grace that belied his age. His long gray hair was braided and tossed over his shoulder, and his hand tangled in his beard for a moment before he touched the bandage work Locke had done.
“How’s the wound?” Duke asked. “Any sign of infection?”
“No. It looked fresh. Had to use battle moss to soak up the blood.”
The old man frowned. “Did it happen in the market?”
He shook his head. “Doubtful. She bled through a previous bandage, so I think the wound reopened.” The old man’s knowing green eyes fixed on Locke now, and even though he kept his expression blank, he knew his mentor saw much more than Locke wanted.
“You all right, son?”
Locke had been eleven when Duke had taken him in. He had hit a growth spurt, and could no longer depend on childhood cuteness to gain him sympathy and coins when he begged in the markets. Instead of looking at him with compassion, people saw a gangly boy—dark skinned and dirty and undoubtedly trouble. When you live on the streets for five years without parents or authority figures, you’re bound to end up with some rough edges. But Duke saw past the attitude to a potential beneath that not even Locke had believed existed.
“I’m fine,” Locke said. “Just make sure she’s okay.”
“Tell me what happened before she fainted. Was she agitated? Did she seem ill?”
Quickly, Locke recounted the last hour. “It was strange,” he said. “She was in the market, so she had to know of the storm trade, but she was shocked to find out that Jinx and I had magic.”
Duke hummed and smoothed a hand over her forehead. “There is something familiar about her, but I can’t place it. She might have stumbled upon the market by accident. It does happen.” He touched both sides of her neck, then her wrist. “Clammy. But her pulse is normal.” He peeked beneath the bandage to study the skin around the wound. “I don’t see any swelling or bruising or rashes, nothing that could indicate an infection or poisoning. She likely fainted from the blood loss. And exhaustion by the looks of it. Some rest and food, and she’ll be fine.”
“You think she’s hungry?” The thought sent another riot of agitation through him. “Is she on her own?”
“I doubt it. She’s too well groomed and clean. She’s fatigued, to be certain. But there are no signs of prolonged malnourishment. Whoever she is, she takes decent care of herself. Or someone else does.”