Stars of Fortune (The Guardians Trilogy 1)

It felt as if she scored him with a flaming blade, both burn and cut sliced deep, and hot.

Then the fire was in him, a burning-hot wire through his blood. His skin quivered; his knees shook and wanted to buckle.

Her voice came through the throbbing in his head.

“Just hold on. Hold on. It’s nearly done.”

He focused on her voice—it quivered as well, but she continued to talk him through.

“The redness is fading. How much more?”

“Not done. It’s better, not finished, but better.” He could breathe now, and as the dizziness passed, loosened his vise grip on the bedpost.

“It looks clear now.”

“Nearly,” he told her. “Very nearly.”

“How will I know when—” The three candle flames flashed, a quick, hard burst of light, then glowed quiet. “Oh.”

“That should do it.”

“Let me get a towel to— You’ve stopped bleeding. Just stopped.”

“Well, three healing deities should be able to staunch blood if they’ve a mind to. Especially with some fine assistance.” He turned, took the bowl from her.

“It’s black. It came out black until . . .” It made her stomach roil to look at the blood. “What should I do now?”

“If you can manage it, you could coat the punctures with the salve. I can reach the rest. And that should take care of things.”

She took it from the top of her dresser, coated her fingers, spread it as gently as she could on the punctures. Then moved on to the scoring along his ribs.

“You should take this,” she told him.

“I’ll make more.”

“How long does it take to make?”

“A bit of time.” She’d helped him, he reminded himself, so he owed her honesty. “And a day to cure.”

Nodding, she took more salve, coated her injured arm with it, closed the jar, and then to his amused surprise, dropped it in one of the pockets of his cargoes.

“If I need more, I’ll ask for it.”

“All right.”

She looked at the bowl, the way his healthy red blood lay over the sick and black. “What will you do with it?”

“I’ve some ideas to work out. For now, seal it up. You’ve a steady hand, Sasha. And I’m grateful.”

“Then don’t be careless again.” She bent down for the candles, handed them to him. “I’m going to finish Riley’s painting, then I’m really going to be ready for one of her famous margaritas.”

“I could do with one myself.” He set the candles down, slid the knife in his belt, then picked them up again. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

He started to the door, stopped to turn back to her. “I’ve never thought you weak, not for a moment. I hope you’ve stopped thinking of yourself that way.”

“I have.”

“I’m glad of it.”