Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(86)

“Wassail?” Jenna leaned forward, making no attempt to hide her excitement. “You brought wassail?”

The healer unwrapped another bundle to reveal fancy Solstice cakes, and set them next to her on the bed. Then he handed her the flask and a cup.

“Ah,” Jenna said. She expertly uncorked the flask with her teeth and poured, then wound her fingers about the cup and closed her eyes, breathing deeply. “Everybody makes wassail his own way. Cinnamon. Cloves. Hard cider.” She took a sip. “Rum,” she added.

“It’s strong,” he warned her.

“Good,” she said, and drained the cup. Adam stared at her as she picked up a sugar cake and bit off a corner.

“I’d go easy on that,” he said. “Poison and alcohol don’t mix.”

“I disagree,” Jenna said. “This is just what I need. My da owned a tavern. I used to make the wassail on Solstice, and on the Day of the Dead. He always said I made it best.” She paused, lost in wistful memory for a moment. When she focused in on Adam again, he seemed to be staring at her lips. Which made her stare at his, and wonder what it would be like to . . .

Stop it. You’ve probably got peach juice running down your chin and that’s why he’s staring. She mopped her sleeve across it, just in case. Now he probably thinks you were raised in a barn.

She refilled her cup, trying to cover her embarrassment. “Are you feeling better?”

“I am,” Adam said, taking a swallow from the flask. “It always takes a while to recover from a healing. Believe it or not, I’m faring better than usual, since I couldn’t use magic to heal you.”

Jenna frowned, confused. “Isn’t that what you did?”

“It’s a subtle difference. In most people, I can use magic to close up a wound or cure an infection or minimize pain—to treat disorder of whatever kind. In your case, that didn’t seem to work. But what I could do was remove the toxic magic that was causing damage, because that wasn’t part of you.” He paused, grimacing. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t know when I’ve crossed the line from a conversation into a lecture.”

“No, it’s all very . . . interesting,” Jenna said. “You do seem like you’ve had a lot of practice, and some schooling, too, which surprises me. When I first met you, I took you for a soldier.”

“A soldier? Why a soldier?”

“Because the king of Arden uses his mages to kill people, not to heal them. Plus, you have the body of a soldier.” She reached out and squeezed his muscled arm, then quickly let go, flustered. “I mean, you didn’t get those muscles stitching up wounds or mixing potions.”

“I don’t do much of that around here. I scrub a lot of floors, I’m a demon with a mortar and pestle, and I’ve been shoveling a lot of horse dung, too.”

“There’s never any shortage of that,” Jenna said.

The healer laughed. “No,” he said. “Especially not at court.” He tipped back his head and drank again, his long throat jumping as he swallowed. “Now,” he said, setting the flask aside and pulling his healing kit closer. “Before I drink too much, I want to take a look at that wound.”

Jenna sat on the edge of the bed, her blanket draped around her hips. She lifted her shirt up, out of the way.

Adam leaned forward, reaching around her to unwrap the linen. Her skin prickled at his closeness, the warmth of his breath, the scent of soap that she was beginning to associate with him. Looking at the top of his head, she could see a faint line where the natural red of his hair met the brown dye. She resisted the temptation to trace it with her fingers, to let him know she wasn’t fooled.

I know you, Wolf, she thought. Even though you try and keep your secrets.

Adam pulled the linen away and set it aside. Jenna’s skin pebbled as the air hit her bare middle. Then she felt the warmth of his hands under her rib cage as he examined the wound. Her heart began to thump so hard it seemed he would notice.

She fought a sudden urge to slide off the bed and onto his lap, wrap her legs around his middle, and—

Stop it! Still. That idea, once kindled, was hard to put out.

Think of something else. Name the saints of the Church of Malthus—that would kill anybody’s desire.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, the healer’s mind was on other things. “Blood and bones,” he muttered, sitting back. “That’s impossible.”

“What?” Jenna said, breaking out of her fog. She craned her neck, trying to see.

“Your wound is all but healed. Overnight.” He looked up at her, his expression bewildered, as if expecting her to explain.

“Well, they said you were a damned good healer, Wolf,” Jenna said.

“I’m good, but I’m not that good.” Adam shook his head, biting his lower lip. “The area over the wound is hard, like—like armor. Or scales. I’ve not seen anything like it.”

“That always happens when I get hurt,” Jenna said. “It . . . crusts over like that at first, then goes back to normal.” She shrugged. “Strange.”

The healer ran his fingers over the wound. “I don’t see any reason to wrap it up again. It’s better protected than anything I could do.” He pulled a jug of water from his kit and warmed it between his hands, then washed the area and allowed it to air-dry. When he finished repacking his kit, he set it between his feet, but made no move to leave. He seemed to be wrestling with himself.