I dress quickly, easing into the soft pants and perfectly fitting vest. I place the gifts from Morgan in the vest pockets; the small pouch and the book. I shove my feet into the boots, lacing them tight, then attach the sheath to my thigh. The blade’s magic hums with energy.
A quick glance in the mirror startles me. I see the woman I once was before all of this; before Andi died, before the Morrigan, before grief and despair. I’m no longer posing as a girl in the Academy, I’m a woman, a Valkyrie, a warrior.
And it’s time to kick some ass.
I linger outside the bedroom door, possibly more afraid of this first battle than any others.
Marshal.
Is he an enemy? A spy? Is this all a trick?
I push open the door and look at the wounded Immortal. He doesn’t look like any of those at the moment. Although his body is still magnificent--lean, hard muscle--it’s obvious that he’s weak from the severity of his injury. The cut on his lower abdomen is deep—disturbing. The poison eats at his flesh. A bowl of hot, steaming water sits on a table at his bedside, a stack of clean cloths next to it.
Standing over him, I reach out and touch his cheek. He’s still feverish. I run my fingers down his arm until I reach his hand, which I take in my own. He’s unresponsive, lost somewhere in deep sleep. The ache in my heart tells me this is the first of many challenges. If I could do this without him, I would—but Morgan made it clear. Marshal is part of this, and I have to wake him—heal him.
I muster the courage to do what I need to do.
“I try to imagine what you were like back then,” I say, my voice shaky in the quiet room. “A powerful knight, smug and sure. I think of you riding into your village on the back of a horse. Armor shining, sword on your back, eyes glinting with mischief.”
I place a hand over his heart. It thumps evenly, but slowly.
“Gods, I would have hated you. Pillaging for fun. Attacking for the thrill. You told me you never took from a woman unless she wanted for you to. I want to believe that, but I also know for you it’s all about the conquest, about taking what isn’t yours.”
Back at the Nead, he’d coaxed me with his wicked smile, his lithe body, and gave me a way to feel when I’d been lost to despair. I’d wanted it—and it made me consider that I could have been just like those women from centuries before. I’d wanted him. And he wanted me to want him.
Maybe they were the same?
I push down the sheet, revealing the severity of the wound. It’s awful. Red and swollen. It’s a testimony that whoever gave it to him wanted him dead. I take the cloth and dip it into the water, then without hesitation, I press the heat over the wound. His body trembles, the muscles tensing as he quakes. On instinct, I use two fingers and touch the puckered skin, pressing down. Thick, yellowish infection oozes out. It’s foul and reeks of death. I wipe it away with the towel and repeat the action over and over. Heat, pressure, clean.
The process goes on for a long time—the infection deep, possibly down to the bone. With every emission his color returns. His heart beats a little faster and the fever wanes. At some point the nurse returns, carrying clean water and fresh cloths. I use them all.
I’m not exactly sure when the skin starts to repair itself. Sometime after the fluid stops. I continue cleaning, wiping, occasionally feeling his forehead. Pressing my lips against the smooth skin to feel for fever and a different kind of spark flickers between us.
I hover my mouth over his, lips nearly touching, our breath mingling. “It’s time to wake up, lover. The boys need us, and I need you. We’ve got a war to win.”
Slight movement on my back draws my attention and I see his hand raised, fingers touching the exposed skin above my hip. I look back at him and his eyelids flutter.
“Is that you, Valkyrie?” he asks, voice strained. “Or did the gods send me an angel to carry me off to death?”
“Same thing, dumbass,” I reply, choking on my emotion. “But it’s not time to take you to Valhalla, even if you did manage to earn your place.”
“Are you sure? Because this feels a lot like my idea of heaven.” His eyes dart down to my chest and he licks his lips. At least we know he didn’t suffer a personality change during his illness. “Although, you’d definitely be wearing less clothes.”
I slide my hand down his side and push a thumb into his still-healing wound.
“Mother—” he shouts, wincing in real pain. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please never do that again.”
“Don’t be a dick, especially when I just healed you.”
His forehead creases. “You what?”
“Nothing.” I stand, needing a little space from him. I pour him a cup of tea—something the nurse left and told me to serve him if, and when, he woke. It’s brimming with heat, but I carry it over. “Can you sit up?”
He struggles but manages, sweat appearing on his brow. His chest heaves from the exertion and I worry—I worry that he won’t get better fast enough.
“Drink this.” He eyes me and the cup warily. I sigh. “If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it while you were unconscious.”
His lips curve somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “But where’s the fun in that?”