Nightbane (Lightlark, #2)(94)

“I don’t care,” she said, baring her teeth. “I won’t do anything that requires the king dying.”

Maren just looked at her. “Even if it means potentially saving thousands of people?”

She knew how it looked. How could she possibly choose one life over thousands?

Perhaps she wasn’t as good as she thought she was, because she said, “Yes. Even then.”

Without another glance at the rebels, she carved stairs out of the side of the cliff with her power and climbed out of the cave.


That night in bed, Isla wondered if she should tell Oro about them, or ask about the nexus. She quickly decided against it. They were days away from battle. There was enough to deal with.

Isla shifted in the bed and startled when a loud thud broke through the silence.





BEFORE


The noise had come from the center of her room. It was the middle of the night, and something heavy had just thumped against her floor.

She was up in an instant, the long dagger she kept between her bed frame and mattress fisted in her hand.

Squinting through the darkness, she found someone slumped over in front of her bed, their blood staining the stone.

“Hearteater,” he said.

She threw her dagger down and rushed to his side. “Grim?” It had been days since the ball.

He grinned. “I believe you’ll be pleased,” he said, his words labored.

“Will I?” she said, eyes searching his body for where he was bleeding the most, for signs of what could have possibly happened.

“Something got very close to killing me.”

The sinking feeling in her stomach was like a boulder dropping into a river. This information did not please her at all, and she knew he could feel it. “Oh? That is wonderful news,” she whispered.

He nodded. “It is with great regret that I share it did not succeed.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Not yet, at least.”

He barked out a laugh, then groaned.

Her arms circled his body, and she pressed him against the floor with all the strength she could muster. Shaking hands—from worry, of course from worry—began unbuttoning his shirt.

He made half-sensical comments about her undressing him, but she shushed him, eyes studying the constellation of wounds across his torso. They weren’t like anything she had ever seen before. His skin had turned ashen; the marks were dark. Black veins like roots from a decaying tree wove across him.

“What is this?” she asked. He glanced down at her hands pressed against his chest, and she slowly removed them.

Grim ignored her question. “The elixir, Hearteater. The Wildling flower,” he said.

Then his head fell into her lap and he ceased speaking.

Isla tried to undress Grim properly, but he was too heavy to move all that gently. Instead, she took her knives and cut the clothes off him. She could only imagine what he would say about that.

She nearly gagged at the sight of him. The wounds were eating through his skin and bone, ruinous and sinuous. It was as if the darkness was still feasting, even now.

“What is this?” she said to herself. And why wasn’t Grim healing quickly, the way he did with typical injuries?

Isla hoped the elixir would help. If it didn’t, would the shadows spread until Grim was nothing more than ash? Was the entire fate of the Nightshade realm in her hands right now?

With determination, Isla applied the elixir to every wound. On his neck. His chest. His stomach. His arms. His thighs. When she was done, her vial contained only a few more drops.

She sat next to him as he slept and was there when he gained a sliver of consciousness. “Isla,” he said.

She nearly jumped, looking to see what he needed. But his eyes were closed.

It was only a little while later, knees to her chest as she watched him, that she realized what he had called her. Isla. He had sworn never to call her by her first name . . .

Yet there it was again, falling so effortlessly from his lips.


. . .

Isla portaled them both to his room, where he soon dozed off again. Luckily, she was able to transport them to his bed in his groggy state, or he would have woken up on the floor. His ruined clothes were a tattered pile nearby. Isla toyed with the idea of dressing him again as he rested but settled on simply covering most of his body with one of his dark sheets.

Slowly, like clouds clearing after a storm, the elixir had eaten through the wounds. His skin had grown back. He still wasn’t in perfect condition, but he would live, and for that, Isla found, she was grateful.

Strange. Months ago, she’d wished him dead.

Now, the thought of him dying—

She was sitting at the edge of the bed, legs crossed in front of her, when his eyes snapped open. This time, they were more alert and found her immediately. “You healed me.”

Then he studied himself. Lifted the sheet. Raised an eyebrow.

“It isn’t the first time,” she said. “And . . . you have healed me too.”

“Thank you,” he said then. He leaned forward before she could stop him, wincing from the effort . . . and did something so unexpected, she didn’t move a muscle. He kissed her on the forehead, then leaned back against the pillow.

Watching him shift uncomfortably, her expression turned serious.

“What happened?” she asked. Then, her eyes narrowed. “Are you—are you looking for the sword without me?” Were those somehow wounds from the dragon? Had he awakened it?