Asylum (Causal Enchantment #2)(59)

“I’m in no rush to let them do anything,” I mumbled, my attention flitting from one set of jaundiced eyes to the next.

The man who sat on top of the platform—whose hat was made of colorful peacock feathers, I now saw—barked out something in that strange tongue that I didn’t understand. A dozen spears were instantly leveled—most of them at Max, one at me. No one bothered with Julian. He was no threat to anyone.

“Wait!” I held my hands up in the most non-threatening manner I could. None of them moved. “What the hell do I say, Max?” I hissed.

I doubt it matters.

The man’s eyes darted to Max, then back to me, his eyes narrowing as if he understood our ability to communicate and he didn’t like it. He uttered another string of gibberish. One of the men lowered his spear and stepped forward, his arm outstretched toward Max.

Max’s teeth bared in response. A warning. The reaction was several spears to his back and legs. His cry of agony pierced the night air.

“No!” I cried, watching in horror as they forced my werebeast to the ground. I dove to wrap my arms protectively around his neck, bracing myself for a painful stab to my back. “Fight back, Max!” I whispered in his ear.

No. They’ll kill me.

Kill an immortal werebeast? Hopelessness washed over me. “Why would Leo send us here, Max?” I whispered, gripping the dog tightly and burying my face in his fur, sensing the crowd closing in on us.

The feather-capped man barked a word that sounded like an order. No one moved. Again, he barked.

He wants you to stand, Max translated.

“No! They may stab you again,” I moaned.

If you don’t, they will definitely stab the both of us. I like my odds better with you standing.

With that in mind, I scrambled to my feet. The leader descended from the platform and moved forward through the crowd, his sickly eyes scanning my face as if reading something on it. Suddenly he threw his arm out to the side, palm raised. A spear was placed in it.

I sucked in a mouthful of air, terrified.

Your necklace, Max whispered. Show it to him.

For a moment I didn’t move, too paralyzed with doubt. Then my hand flew to my neck to fish out the pendant. The abrupt movement caused a commotion in the group and spears rose. “Wait!” I exclaimed, holding my palms out again. Featherman shouted an order and the spears immediately dropped. Moving slowly this time, I reached back up to my coat and tugged the zipper down. Sliding my hand inside, I grabbed hold of the chain and pulled the dull black pendant out from under layers of winter clothes.

My breath caught as Featherman’s spear tip approached my chest. Without stepping any closer, he gently hooked the end of the spear around the chain and stretched the pendant toward him, his eyes narrowing as if to analyze it. With a look up at my face and back down, he nodded and mumbled something to himself.

Julian moaned then. Dropping the spear, Featherman turned to look down at the young dying man, then stooped to inspect the wound.

“We need to get him to a hospital,” I said without thinking. Taking in their loincloths and mud huts, I realized how absurd that statement was. Yet I couldn’t just let him die. “Help him, please.”

Featherman waved his hand in a circular motion, then pointed to Julian. The crowd immediately parted to allow in men and women holding long sticks with loops of rope attached at the ends. They each hooked one around Julian’s arm or leg without touching him. With surprising grace, they lifted Julian in unison, earning a gasp from him.

“Max, what are they doing?” I whispered anxiously as we watched them carry Julian toward the fire.

I don’t know. Honestly.

Something dug into my back. Turning, I found one of the tribesmen nudging us to follow with the blunt end of his spear. I obliged, walking hesitantly forward. When we were about fifteen feet away from one of the little huts where the bearers had stopped with Julian, another spear suddenly appeared to block our path. Close enough, they were saying.

Max and I watched in silence as a woman appeared from the hut, pulling on a pair of dark, elbow-length gloves as I imagined a surgeon would do in preparing for an operation. Other tribeswomen followed behind her with wooden trays holding various objects—bowls, leaves, ominous-looking tools. The procession wordlessly circled Julian, whose eyes remained closed.

The woman with the gloves leaned toward Julian, a sharp object gripped in her hand. “Oh my God, Max!” I whispered, grabbing a fistful of Max’s fur and squeezing. It earned a small grunt from him but I didn’t care. What was she going to do to Julian?

We watched as she stretched the collar of Julian’s shirt away from his neck with one hand. She then pulled the sharp object along the material, slicing it in half and spreading the sides open to reveal his chest and the worrying gash. I breathed the tiniest sigh of relief.

Next she took a wooden spoon and bowl from a tray, dipped the spoon into the bowl, and began gently slathering a pale gray, mud-like paste over the wound. When the area was completely covered, she dropped the tools and knelt down beside him to smooth over the application with her hand. Julian’s face tightened briefly in pain, but no noise escaped him.

“Max!” I hissed. “What are they doing?”

I don’t know, but as long as they don’t touch him with their skin, they’re likely trying to help.

“What’s wrong with their skin?” I took a few steps closer, but a spear swung toward me in warning. I cautiously backed up again.