For the Wolf by Hannah Whitten (freda ebook reader .txt) 📕

“We’re going to try to heal him.” Red made her voice as confident as she could. “Eammon and I.”

Valdrek didn’t hide his surprise. He sat back in his seat, brow climbing. “Can you do such a thing now, Wolf?” Ragged hope in his voice. “I wasn’t going to ask, with the Wilderwood so weak, but if you’re strong enough with the Lady’s help . . .”

“We can try,” Eammon said shortly.

An assessing look darted between the two of them before Valdrek threw back the rest of his ale. “Differences abound.” He snorted. “Marriage changes a man.”

Eammon’s jaw tensed. He stood in a rush, pushing his chair in behind him. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

Outside the shop, Valdrek told Asheyla the plan in a low voice. “I’d wait there,” he told her, pointing toward the tavern. “Just in case. If you want wine, let Ari know, and tell him to skip the watered-down stuff.”

Behind Red, Eammon stood still as the stone tree. He’d given Fife’s list to Loreth, Asheyla’s shopgirl, with instructions to have their supplies waiting with Lear at the gate.

“Healing someone shadow-infected is different from healing a sentinel.” He used the same low, even tone he did at their lessons, though every line of his body was held bowstring-tight. “You have to direct power specifically to the affected places, rather than just letting it all go.”

“Humans are somewhat more complex than trees,” Red said. She held out her palm so he could check it for wounds, a now-familiar routine.

Eammon took the proffered hand but didn’t inspect it, instead giving her a stern look from under lowered brows. “Don’t touch him.”

Red frowned. “Then how am I supposed to—”

“You touch me, I touch him.” Scars brushed against her knuckles as he lightly squeezed her outstretched hand. “I told you, it’s deft work, and it could be dangerous. You let your power go into me, I’ll let it go into him.”

Her lips twisted, but after a moment, she nodded. Eammon gave her hand one more squeeze, then dropped it, turning to follow Valdrek to the basement door.

It was thrice-locked, with a board nailed over it for good measure. Eammon and Valdrek hauled the board away, and Valdrek fished a key ring from his pocket.

“Restraints?” Eammon asked.

“All four limbs. Torso, too.” Valdrek said it like it pained him, a visceral reminder they were speaking of his kin. Red thought of the name Asheyla mentioned— Elia, who must be Valdrek’s daughter, Bormain’s wife. Her eyes flicked to Eammon, still and stoic next to her, and sympathy speared through her chest.

The last lock fell away. Valdrek sighed. “It isn’t pretty. Be prepared.”

The room was dim. Tiny slats in the walls high above provided the only light, dust motes dancing in the glow. A harsh smell hit Red like a wall as she stepped over the threshold after Eammon and Valdrek, acidic and cold, intense enough to make her press her arm against her nose. The room was small, barely big enough for the three of them to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and the short ceiling nearly brushed the top of Eammon’s head.

In front of her, Eammon went rigid, stepping to the side as if trying to hide her in his shadow. Red pushed at his shoulder. After a moment of resistance, he moved enough for her to see.

They’d tried to make it as comfortable as possible, and that somehow made it worse. Bormain lay in a bed covered with thick blankets and surrounded by pillows, almost enough to hide the lengths of chain running from beneath the bedding to shackles set into the stone floor. One for each limb, and another that appeared to wrap around his middle, attached first to the bed frame and then to metal rings on the walls. Despite the restraints, there were gouges in the floor where he’d managed to scoot the bed from side to side. Red remembered the noises they’d heard above in Asheyla’s shop, and shuddered.

Bormain didn’t move. His eyes were closed, swollen black veins spidering from his eyelids to stretch down his face. The shadow-infected arm lay outside the blankets, at least twice its normal size and with skin fragile as a rotting fruit, staining the bedding dark and damp. The nails on his hands were hooked and overlong, the bones in his face too sharp.

The shadow-rot wasn’t just making Bormain sick. It was . . . remaking him.

The grit of Valdrek’s teeth was audible. “I haven’t let Elia down here in a week, since he started . . .” He didn’t finish.

Eammon’s expression was unreadable. He put out his hand, gently maneuvered Red back behind his shoulder.

She let him this time. Red leaned close, standing with Eammon before her like a shield. “Is he asleep?”

“Not sleeping.” The voice sounded like it came through a cut throat, thready and ragged. “The shadows stole my sleeping.”

Slowly, Bormain lifted his head. The angle of it had to be painful, restrained as he was, but he showed no discomfort. His smile stretched too wide, nearly ear-to-ear, and he closed his milk-blind eyes to take a long, exaggerated inhale. “Smells so sweet. Barren soil, rootless soil.” His eyes opened, snapped to Red, unnaturally quick. “There’s blood on the wood, rootless Second Daughter. Blood to open and blood to close, old things awakened. Eons of patience rewarded.”

Red fought the urge to press her face against Eammon’s shoulder, to block out the whole scene in his warmth and library scent. Instead she fumbled for his hand. “We’re here to help you,” she said, and the words came out clear even if they were quiet.

“Help me?” Bormain threw his head back, braying at the ceiling. The dark, swollen veins in his throat pulsed. “Sweet Wolves, poor Wolves, I’m not the one who needs saving. He’s waiting, they’re waiting, everyone will get their chance.” His head, still held at that unnatural angle, swung back and forth as he sang under his breath. “They