In the Wake of the Ruined (The Siren Mage, #2)(15)

I gave a scream as pain flashed through me. The sounds and sensations of the world collided and blurred. Lachlan lunging, grunting curses and protests. Metal rang, a guttural bellow sounded, then I heard the thick, wet sound of punctured flesh. The music still played.

When my awareness finally cleared, my taloned hand was clamped around the sailor’s throat. Rounded eyes were locked with mine. He gave a gurgling choke as his blood gushed over my fingers in bright red ribbons of sticky heat.

Lachlan stood beside the sailor, dagger mere inches from the man’s throat, breaths heaving. He blinked. “You beat me to it.”

My heart lurched as I took in all the blood, and the way his eyes began to drain of their light. There was no rationale in my shock—he was not the first person I’d killed. But the speed with which I’d done it, the ease. I had no recollection of choosing to, I’d simply needed to keep myself safe and my body had seen it done.

I fell back against the crate as the sailor swayed. “I killed him.”

Lachlan reached for the man’s collar. “Almost.” The sailor took short, watery gasps as Lachlan forced him toward the forecastle’s rail. He pulled the silver pin that signified his rank from his chest, then searched his pockets. He pulled out a brass key before he shoved him overboard. “There.”

Lachlan spun where he stood, and through the dim lantern light, our eyes locked. Our hands were smeared with red. Our breaths raced, but neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to. A certainty sat between us now. Our remorse was clear and yet a mutual desperate madness had transformed even the most despicable actions into necessary ones. We’d never get to Agatha otherwise.

The musicians finished just in time for the sound of languid whistling to reach our ears.

“Shit.” Lachlan pinned the badge he’d stolen to his coat and tucked his red-stained hands behind his back. I wiped the blood on mine across my black trousers.

The ship’s healer—for that was all they could be—stopped at the top of the forecastle’s ladder, lantern in hand and suspicious gaze bouncing between the two of us. They wore the same thick white cap that the healers in Theodore’s palace did. A heavy canvas bag was slung across their stout chest, and there were soft creases at the edges of their pale eyes. Their olive skin was spangled with a dense layer of freckles that matched the rusty strands of hair that shot out of the edges of their cap.

They nodded at me. “Your sister, I take it, officer?”

Lachlan stood at attention, convincingly insouciant. “In all her glory, healer.”

I was slumped and grimacing. A sweat had broken out over my skin from exertion, and shock, and pain. The healer stepped toward me, gingerly, and lowered themself to a knee. They met my eye with a kind look, but beneath I could sense their mettle. They seemed a person who would be shocked by little and tricked by even less.

“I am Healer Carras. Your brother pulled me from my meal to tell me you’d been a ‘bold idiot’ and have landed in some trouble.” Their gaze cut to my stomach, where I held my unbuttoned shirt closed with a hand. “And just in time for your first voyage too.”

I cut Lachlan a glare. “My dear brother is correct.”

Healer Carras took their bag from their shoulders. “Let’s see, then.”

My fingers tightened on my shirt. “You won’t be able to help.”

Lachlan made a sound that was close to a growl. “I swear to the bloody Gods, Imogen—”

“Fine.” I yanked open my shirt, revealing the putrid wound. “Here.”

The healer’s eyes bulged as they took in the dying skin and mottled kelp. “You stand guard there,” they commanded Lachlan, pointing a finger at the forecastle’s ladder. “Be sure no one comes up.” Then they rifled through their bag, mumbling to themself. “By my Gods. That’s a spell.”

I could hardly move now. “You’ve seen one before?”

Healer Carras still rummaged, nodding vigorously. “You won’t tell me how you acquired this wound, cadet.” Their tone grew rigid. “It’s festered, so clearly you acquired it before your service began. But you’re in the king’s navy now, so the next time you find yourself in illicit trouble, you’ll have the captain and the crown to help hold you to your duty. You understand me?”

My eyes stung. “I understand.”

They gave me a dubious look. “It started as a stab wound?”

I nodded.

The healer’s cold fingers pressed into the tender flesh around the edges of the kelp, where the skin looked like it had been burned.

They set a little bottle to my lips. “For the infection.” I drank it in one gulp. Then another vial was pressed into my hand. “And for the pain.”

“Nepenthe?” I asked, remembering the haunting image of Nemea that the last vial of nepenthe had summoned.

“Aye. Down the hatch.” Their fingers pressed into my hurting skin once more, this time deeper. I jumped and swilled the vial’s contents at once. Then I felt the warm bloom of Healer Carras’s power. It was nearly like Theodore’s—a radiating sensation that dove straight through my skin, down toward my bones—but it possessed a fraction of the heat, like the sun fighting to shine on a cloud-laden day.

“Now,” Healer Carras said, a deep furrow between their russet brows. “I can only remove the pestilence—not the spell. I’ve seen people live with spell-healed wounds just fine.” There was a troubled note to their voice as they continued to prod and poke and send their power through me. “Though never one this large. I expect it will continue to give you a good deal of pain.”