Grim crossed his arms. “I should take that thing away from you. All it’s bringing you is closer to death.”
“You could try,” she said, her voice as threatening as she could make it.
Grim looked at her and said nothing.
“So. You have a harem?” she asked. Since that night, she had wondered who those women were. Their function was clear.
“No.”
Isla laughed, disbelieving. “So, women just line up to sleep with you? They volunteer for the honor?”
Grim glared at her.
He had the reputation of an accomplished killer. There was no way the women didn’t know about it. “Who would want to sleep with you?”
Grim stood from the chair, until he was right in front of her. He towered over her, his shadow even bigger behind him, filling her wall. “I don’t know, Hearteater,” he said. “You seemed pretty willing.”
Isla swallowed. He was so close. She was breathing too quickly, and it only made her wound more painful. “No. I was disgusted.”
Grim grinned. “Is that so?”
She nodded, even as he placed his hands on either side of her on the bed and leaned down so his face was right in front of hers.
“I can feel flashes of emotions,” he said. He could? Now that she thought about it, it was a rumored Nightshade ability, one only the most powerful possessed. The blood drained from her face. “And yours were very, very clear—”
She wasn’t breathing.
“—just as they are now.”
Her heart was beating wildly. She told herself it was because she could feel the power rolling from him in waves. She told herself she was afraid. “Your powers are wrong.”
He tilted his head at her. She watched his eyes move from her collarbones to her neck to her lips. “No. I don’t think so.”
Then he went back to his chair. “Go to sleep,” he said.
She crawled back to her place and covered herself in bedding so he wouldn’t see the heat of her face.
LINE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH
Isla blinked. She had just had a memory. It didn’t seem as though any time had passed, however.
Was it because her Nightshade abilities were getting stronger? Had it always been this way?
The Vinderland warrior was frozen in front of her. She had just demolished his weapon with a single touch. “What are you?” he asked. “You’re . . . Wildling.”
“I’m more than that,” she said, stepping forward. Suddenly, she had Enya’s confidence. She had seen her own death too.
She would not die today.
“You are going to join us in battle, or we are going to all perish,” she said, her voice taking on an edge. “It’s as simple as that.”
He looked down at the pile of ashes that had once been his weapon. They mixed with the snow, then blew away in a flurry. The warriors at his sides spoke to each other in low voices. Their eyes were wide. They looked stunned.
“A Wildling who is also Nightshade,” the man in front of her said, his tone completely different than before . . . almost reverent. He seemed to turn the words around in his mind before he reached for another weapon—a sword this time—and held it high in the air.
Isla might have been afraid that he would try to behead her, but she knew the positioning of his sword. She raised her own, and the swords clanked together loudly—a warrior’s handshake.
“Singrid,” he said, sheathing his weapon.
Isla shot a look at Enya, who shrugged.
“You . . . you will fight with us?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. We will fight with you.”
Isla should have celebrated, or left while she was ahead, but she didn’t understand. “You . . . you tried to kill me. Just moments ago.”
Did her being Wildling and Nightshade really mean that much?
“Apologies,” he said, looking like he truly meant it. “I should have known. You survived an arrow to the heart . . . we have stories about people like you. Those who stand on the line between life and death.”
Isla shifted in the snow. If only he knew that she had seen her own demise.
She wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead, she said, “How many of you are there?”
Their numbers didn’t seem significant the last time she had encountered them, but she hadn’t seen their base or full population.
“Hundreds,” he said, and hope swelled. “Most cannot fight, however.”
Hope withered. “Why?”
“They have a sickness,” he said. “The last few decades, it has spread. Incapacitated most of us.”
A sickness? Isla almost asked why they hadn’t seen a healer, but she stopped herself. No Moonling would ever treat part of the Vinderland. They were known for their viciousness and appetite for human flesh.
“What if we could heal them?” Isla asked.
She felt Enya staring at her.
Singrid took a step forward. “You have a healer?”
“Yes,” she said, avoiding Enya’s look. “If they could recover in time . . . could they fight?”
Singrid nodded. “We are all trained.”
Good. “I’ll be back, then,” she said. She raised her sword and clashed it with a weapon from every one of the Vinderland in front of her.
She had a legion, she thought. If she could just find a way to heal them.
“Please tell me you can help,” Isla said to Calder. The Moonling frowned as she told him about the sickness. “You . . . you are a healer, right?”
He gave a weak smile.
“The worst,” Zed said. “He’s the worst healer.”
Enya shot him a look. She turned to Calder. “We know you’re not the best . . . but you’re who we have. And Isla here might have exaggerated your skill set.”
She had a thought. “Oro’s a healer, isn’t he?” He had healed her injuries before, during the Centennial.
Enya moved her hand back and forth in front of her. “He can heal physical wounds, but only straightforward ones. As far as I’m aware, he’s never tried sicknesses.” She looked at Calder again. “You have, though, Cal. Right?”
Calder swallowed. “I . . . I have, but—”
“I’ll bring you to the Wildling newland,” Isla said. “Our healing elixir is made from a flower. Perhaps if it was boiled, made into a tea, that could help them as well. I can show you.”
Calder agreed, and that was when she told him and Zed about her starstick. The look the Skyling gave her could only be described as withering.
The three of them went through the puddle of stars.
At Isla’s request, Wren showed them the patch of flowers where the healing elixirs came from.
“These are magnificent,” Calder said. Isla hadn’t ever seen them in their original form before. They were deep violet in color, with sharp petals. Beautiful. Vicious.
“The flowers are so rare, we use them only in emergencies. We’ve never tried them for sickness,” Wren said. Her eyes darted to Isla. “We . . . we have only been able to find a few more additional patches.”
They didn’t have many to spare.
Isla sighed. This was the hard part of ruling, she decided. Was it better to use a portion of the flowers now, to ensure the help of the Vinderland warriors, knowing there would be less healing elixir later, which could save lives?