“No. No. No.” Polina gathered Logan into her arms. His blood smeared the front of her dress. A sickening crunch told her his shoulder was seriously injured. His left arm dangled as if the bones were shattered. Logan was a tall man, muscular, and heavy as a slab of stone, but she needed to get him home and treat his wounds before he bled to death.
“Don’t you die, you bastard.”
She dug in her satchel for a pinch of gold dust. There was hardly any left after her escape from Alex. Just enough to carry them both, she hoped. She sprinkled it over her head and focused on Aurorean House. They came apart. He was human and she was exhausted. The process was sluggish and jerky. His composition fought the elemental change, and she begged the goddess that she hadn’t made a serious mistake trying to move him by gold dust in his condition. Ultimately, the dust gave out in her front yard.
With supernatural effort, she carried him inside, into her room of reflections, her most personal and sacred magical space. The mirrors repositioned themselves to make room for her, and a soft bed was first reflected in them and then physically appeared in front of her. She laid him down, tried to make him comfortable.
His breath came in tiny sips and his complexion was a frightening shade of gray. It reminded her too much of his condition the first time she’d found him on the side of the road. Fisting his shirt, she tore it from the ugly wound with a resounding rip. Half his chest was a gaping, bloody hole. Shoulder crushed. Lung punctured.
Healing spells were slow and draining. She was not an accomplished healer. Neither her life, nor her element, had afforded her much opportunity for practice in the art. But by the goddess, she intended to become one if it would heal this man. At the shoulder, the site of the most damage, she pressed the crystal of her wand to his chest and repeated, “Reinchide velecluse moribidatae vialanium.” The chant had no English translation, but in the old language it was a plea for the goddess to rebuild his body from the inside out. She’d used it once before to keep Logan alive. Could she do it again?
She felt his soul rise to the surface. He was dying, on the cusp of giving up the ghost. “Don’t you dare!” she yelled through tears. With one hand she pressed his spirit back into his body and held it there.
The bleeding stopped. Unfortunately, as she continued her healing spell, his face took on a worrisome shade of red. He was burning up. Sweat beaded across his forehead.
Swaying on her feet, she repeated the spell. Bones snapped into place and his shoulder filled from within. Panting, she retracted her wand. She didn’t have much power left, even here with the mirrors focusing her energy. Something was wrong. If anything, he seemed worse. His red face had gone as white as the sheets and his fever had turned to shivering. She took a step back, supporting herself with her hands on her knees. Her eyes scanned Logan’s body from head to foot.
Fresh blood. His calf was shredded. Gathering herself, she rolled the bleeding leg slightly and parted the shredded jeans. “By the goddess, it’s a miracle you’re still alive.” She touched her wand to the shredded flesh and repeated her incantation. The bleeding stopped. She hoped it was enough. She wouldn’t let him die. She couldn’t.
Up until then, she’d told herself she could live without him. She was prepared to walk away if that’s what he wanted. But the fact that he came here, at night, when he knew the risks, must mean he still cared. And she couldn’t let him go without knowing how he felt. Without knowing why he’d come.
She stumbled toward one of the mirrors with a singular purpose. The reflection of the box appeared in front of her and then manifested in the space before her. She flipped open the small square to reveal the balm inside and carried it to the bed with shaking hands.
The caretaker spell was a three-step process. First came the mark, the spell was cast on the host. Second, the trigger, the spell was activated. Third, an element was given, binding the two souls. Polina told herself she would not complete the spell, but compulsively she dipped her finger in the balm, scooped out a generous dose and smeared it over his heart in the shape of a scythe. The spell would bind him to her life force if it came to that. She hoped it wouldn’t. He might never forgive her if it did.
Exhausted, she stepped back and surveyed her patient. He didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She rolled him on his side and checked his back, ran her hands down each leg. She found no further wounds.
What was he doing here?
Thankfully, he was breathing more evenly now, although his skin was still frighteningly pale. Too exhausted to use magic, she removed his bloody clothing by hand. She stumbled, catching herself on the bed. Immortal or not, she was drained.
She collapsed on the bed next to him and everything went black.