Nightbane (Lightlark, #2)(86)

She shook her head. “It must be exhausting carrying around such a magnificent ego.”

He laughed faintly as she began applying the serum. The first press of the liquid to his skin, and he hissed. His normally cold body was feverish.

“Your leg,” he said, even as he was bleeding from a dozen places.

“Is already bandaged,” she said before moving on to the next wound. She worked quickly and diligently, brow creased with focus as she made sure all the splinters were out of his skin and that each place was thoroughly cleaned. Through it all, she could feel him studying her.

“What?” she finally said.

Even in what must have been knee-wobbling pain, the demon still managed to sound pleased. He smirked. “I just think it’s ironic that the hearteater who stabbed me through the chest is now tending to my injuries.”

She gave him a look. “I think it’s ironic that the demon who claims he has no shred of humanity left used himself as a blockade against an army of arrows to save me.”

He said nothing.

When she was finished with the last injury, the healing elixir was halfway gone. The gauze was on its last few rounds.

Now that he was taken care of, Isla looked at the mess in front of her: his blood-soaked shirt, the pile of broken arrows. She threw up her hands. “Seriously. Why did you do that?” she said, exasperated.

Grim’s head was lolling to the side. He looked half a moment away from passing out. “That’s an interesting way of saying thank you,” he drawled.

One of his bandages was already soaked in blood, so she moved to make it tighter, to stop the flow. Once she got it in the right position, she went to remove her hands, but one of his own came over both of hers, pressing her fingers to his chest. “The cold, Hearteater,” he said before closing his eyes. His head fell back against the wall. “It helps the pain.”

She sat like that for a few minutes, the only movement the steady beating of Grim’s heart somewhere near her hand. His eyes remained closed the entire time. After her hand warmed against him, she took it back and sat against the wall next to him.

“What happened?” she asked. The arrows had come from nowhere. “I didn’t see anyone, or even where they were coming from—”

“It wasn’t a person; it was a weapon. A mechanism designed to go off against intruders. I’ve seen it before.”

“Where?”

“My own castle.”

Isla turned to look at him. His eyes were still closed, and the crown of his head was still leaned against the wall. “You believe the thief stole it from your castle?”

Grim shrugged a shoulder. “If she did, she really is the best.”

“I take it there aren’t any ways around it.”

He shook his head. “Infallible, unfortunately.”

She sighed. “What do we do now?” There had been yards between them and the sword. Even if they could lure the dragon out of the cave, who knew how many other enchantments the thief had protecting her bounty?

Grim groaned as he straightened himself. “Tonight? I drink my entire store of liquor. Later? I suppose I continue to play shield until we get past all the protections.”





PAIN


Power was metal in her mouth, in her nostrils, down her throat, in her stomach. It lit every inch of her up and through; she was a shining beacon, a blade of power carving the world to her desired shape and measurements.

In her memories, Grim had taught her something no one else had bothered to. To win, she needed more power.

Grim claimed pain was the strongest emotion.

Pain could be useful.

Trees rose from the soil in bursts of dirt. Ground broke and built until it formed the beginnings of mountains. Flowers blanketed in front of her, so many, so quickly, they fell right off the side of the island.

More. She needed more.

Barbed plants, the same ones that had stabbed her everywhere during the Centennial, rose up in thick brambles. Plants with poisoned leaves sprouted. She painted the Mainland in them both, all the parts they needed to block off.

Isla sank her hands into the dirt, fingers in wild shapes, and bellowed, until the ground broke open and more plants formed all around her. Thorn-covered, monstrous plants that would fight back and defend themselves.

It might have been minutes or hours later, but she felt him, a ray of sunlight landing behind her. “Isla?” he said. Her name was a question.

“I finished it,” she said. It had seemed almost impossible to create so much nature in nine days, but she had done it in a single night. “Look, I made walls to block their paths. I covered all the open spaces. Grim can only portal them where you and Zed decided.” She was beaming.

He did not look proud.

He looked . . . horrified. She didn’t think she would ever forget the way he now looked at her. Like she was something wrong.

Like she was a monster.

“What have you done?” he asked.

She tracked the direction of his gaze and saw it. Blood dripped down the front of her dress. Her hands reached up and touched it, coming from her eyes, her nose, the sides of her mouth, her ears.

Power . . . tasted like blood.

It tasted like blood.

She was saying it over and over, or maybe it was just in her head, or maybe she lived in her head, maybe she never had to leave, maybe she should open herself completely up to the world and let everything in her finally pour out—