He was panting now, clutching at his arm.
“Shouldn’t have what? That child revenant was seconds away from attacking. I was trying to protect you.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head forcefully, “you were trying to prove you could. If we had left them alone—they don’t always chase.”
“How do you know that?” Wren demanded.
He sighed, expression bleak as the anger seemed to leech out of him. “That’s not the first time I’ve seen them. Sometimes our patrols…” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Avoiding them is our only hope, and when that fails, we run. Sometimes it works.”
Wren faltered. Was he right? Could she have backed down? Could they have simply walked away?
Yes, a voice said in the back of her mind. Yes, they could have if she hadn’t been so curious about their behavior. If she hadn’t needed to figure it out, to test it. But what the undead did and how they acted—it was important to their survival that she understand. She couldn’t keep them alive in the Haunted Territory if she didn’t know what to expect.
She pressed her hands into her eyes.
“Let me see your arm,” she said, ignoring his comment because she was being mature—not because she didn’t have a response.
He recoiled. “Don’t.”
“You have to let me see! If the ghost touched your bare skin…”
“It didn’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s just—it’s cold. Just cold.”
Extreme cold was a precursor to—and often a symptom of—deathrot. Julian’s flesh was covered, from his leather gloves to his long-sleeve shirt, coat, and armor, but it wouldn’t protect him against a ghost.
“Please,” Wren said softly, making her voice as nonconfrontational as she could.
“No,” he said back, equally gently.
Something was up with him and those gloves, but she didn’t have the time to unpack it right now. The earliest stages of deathrot could be treated, and a person could potentially make a full recovery.
A fire would be ideal, but they didn’t have time to waste—plus there was nowhere to safely build it, as the floor was wood.
A fire was not necessary, though. What was necessary was heat.
Trembles had begun to rack Julian’s frame, and there was a sheen of incongruous sweat across his brow.
“Get over here,” she muttered, though there were scant inches between them. She unbuckled her armor, belt, and bandolier before reaching for his. He stiffened, drawing back. “I’m not—I need to get you warm. If we don’t, the cold will only spread, and come morning…”
His eyes, usually cool with disdain, were slightly wild. He nodded warily, watching her every move with bowstring tension.
She hastily removed his armor plate—he helped, using his good hand to unsnap buttons and loosen clasps. The pieces were heavy enough to make her grunt with effort as she did her best not to drop them, laying them aside until his jacket was revealed. She undid the buttons, then pulled the exposed arm out of its sleeve. His underlayers were drenched with icy sweat, and he shivered worse than ever, his chest heaving.
“Trust me,” Wren murmured, tugging on his second arm, its sleeve catching on his glove. She worried about the damp sweat trapped within the fabric, but they couldn’t afford any more arguing.
“Trust?” he repeated faintly.
Wren looked up at him. “I’m all you’ve got.”
His gaze was searching for a moment. Then he nodded, letting her get back to work.
With both arms released, Wren crossed them and pressed his hands against his chest, the left hand—the one that had made contact with the ghost—underneath the other, directly overtop his heart. She could see the way he curled in on it, grateful at the wave of warmth permeating his skin. Wren recalled her first brush with exposure to deathrot, how a ghost had slipped past her guard, and though she had sworn it touched her, there had been no marks on her skin. Still, the cold had lingered, and even after treatment and a hot bath, she’d trembled all night in bed.
She tugged his coat more tightly around his shoulders, securing it—but she didn’t fasten the buttons.
Instead, she turned to her own.
Julian’s expression was soft with temporary relief, his eyes closed as he leaned against the wall—until he heard the first button on Wren’s coat pop.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, standing upright, his eyes wide open once more.
“Do you want to lose your hand?” she snapped. Bending over their bags, she unearthed a blanket and spread it across the cold floor, shoving him down so he was lying on his side, staring up at her as she proceeded to undo her jacket, the cold air creeping in against her shirt.
Rather than protest outright, Julian gave her a weird smile, as if he’d thought of something funny. “No,” he murmured, eyes fluttering closed again. “No, I do not.”
“Then shut up and count yourself lucky. It usually takes at least a few drinks and some pretty words to get this close to me.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
He was not entirely wrong. Wren had tumbled around with boys, with or without the drinks—and with or without the pretty words.
“Are you saying I’m easy?” she asked.
He huffed. “I’m saying you have no interest in pretty words.”
For some reason, that statement made Wren’s throat tighten. “It’s a good thing, too, since I haven’t gotten a civil one from you since we met.”
“I’m not in the habit of lying.”
Wren scowled—not that he saw—and removed her coat. “Good. Then I don’t want to hear you complain about this.”
“Complain about—” Wren lay down beside him, and he gasped as she slipped inside his open jacket and pressed herself against his crossed arms, enveloping him in what was essentially a hug, her hands sliding under his jacket to meet around his back. Her coat, still clinging to her shoulders, fit under his, creating a barrier to keep the heat in, just as his did for him.
Julian went instantly rigid, spine straightening and pulling away from her.
“Stop it,” she murmured, her mouth landing somewhere in the space near his collarbone. She tightened her grip on his back, waiting for the chill of her intrusion to dissipate, for heat to build between them.
It didn’t take long. Silent, tense seconds turned into languid ones, each muscle in Julian’s back unlocking beneath her hands. She rubbed up and down tentatively, creating more heat, while his hand—which had been cold against Wren’s chest—started to steadily warm.
His breathing went from shallow and tight to deep and slow. His cheek lowered, propping itself on the top of Wren’s head.
“Sleep,” Wren ordered. He needed to gather his strength, and there was no better way.
He muttered something into her hair.
“What?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
“Thank you.”
TWENTY
Wren remained wrapped up in Julian for an hour at least, waiting until every twitch and tremble receded, his muscles heavy and his chest rising and falling in the rhythms of deepest sleep.
He had rolled over slightly, taking Wren with him, so she was essentially sprawled on top of him. She squinted toward the hatch, anxiously looking for the telltale glow of the undead, but all was darkness. Her breath misted before her, but she remained warm in the ironsmith’s embrace.