Fifty-Eight

Nore

The gentleman’s robes suggested he had quite a high station in the Order. But the fine handle of the dagger protruding from his chest bore a coat of arms with each House sigil and a Dragun talon. Commotion roared in the distance; she gazed over her shoulder in the direction of the graveyard where she had just fled the confrontation with her brother. After gaping at the Sphere and the fight ensuing beneath it, Nore fled. Staying as far from the chaos as she could, she followed trails around to the opposite end of the estate, where there were courtyards instead of graveyards.

How did he get here?

She eyed the man again, took another wary glance over her shoulder, and dismounted. His skin was slick with sweat and blood.

“Excuse me. Are you—” She turned him from his side to his back, laying him flat on the ground. He groaned but opened his eyes. The wound in his chest was fresh. She knew where he’d come from.

“What exactly is the status of the Sphere?” She needed whatever information she could get on whether it would break. The moment it did, her mother would be dead and she would be Headmistress, which complicated everything. But the gentleman only moaned in pain, his eyes rolling in their sockets. She tapped her foot. Ellery could be on her tail. She pushed away Daring’s reins, then whistled, and he ran off. The misdirection should buy her some time.

She sat the man up as best she could, trying to keep him from slouching and deepening the wound. “I need answers, and you’re going to give them to me.” Her mind raced with all she knew from her reading about healing magic. Back when she hoped Shifter magic would favor her. His eyes opened fully. They were green but dark. Like a hurricane ripping apart a meadow.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice weak. She eyed the blade in his chest again. The knife must have hit bone because its tip was stiffly wedged in place.

“We can’t take that out of you without massive blood loss.” Her tongue poked her cheek. He grabbed her hand with a shocking amount of strength, given his state.

“Who are you?”

She straightened, considering how she should answer. She didn’t need Red’s face to be bold. She was talking to a dead man. “I’m Nore Emilie—”

“Ambrose.” His grip tightened. “The red hair and inquisitive determination. I should have known.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m Jordan Wexton.”

“The Dragunheart.” She eyed the blade again.

“You thought you’d captured a vigilante.”

“You have no heart pendant.” Red ran from the tear in his chest, and his grip on her slacked. “This blade is exquisitely crafted.” It wasn’t a fire dagger, which had a wider hilt to protect the hand from flames. If it were, Jordan Wexton would be dead. The blade was a honing-style dagger, but a fine one, with intricate detailing and the brotherhood’s sigil burned into its handle. There was no doubt in her mind who it belonged to. “The Dragunhead stabbed you, his Dragunheart. Why?” It sounded preposterous. But nothing the Order did surprised her.

“My best guess is that he and Beaulah Perl are working together to bring down the Sphere.”

Her eyes grew.

He shifted, grimacing, his hand moving to his wound.

“Careful!”

“Do you know any Shifter magic? Healer specialty would be great.”

She swallowed. The truth came devilishly close to leaving her lips. “I don’t. Sorry.” She wasn’t sure why she apologized. This wasn’t her fault. But she’d stumbled upon someone very high up in the Order, with much power, who was fresh out of help. She gnawed her lip and whistled for Daring. “If we can get you to my cottage, I may have something that could help.”

“I can’t move, and you’d never be able to lift me up from here.”

“Let me try.”

“Out of my way,” someone yelled. A girl with a cropped dark haircut and an irritated scowl shoved her aside. With magic streaming from her hand, she smoothed over Jordan Wexton’s wounds. At the same time she gripped the dagger’s handle and tugged carefully. The dagger came out in a rush of blood. She worked both hands over him now. His exposed skin tugged together, but the area soaked with blood failed to move. The girl tried again. Nore stood to get out of her way and backed into someone else.

“Oh, excuse me.” She turned, and Yagrin stared back at her.

Nore couldn’t move. Her heart squeezed. The sounds of the forest blared in her ears and the entire world faded. His dark hair hung loosely over his shoulders; it was longer than she remembered. The angles in his face had thinned with fatigue or something. But his dark eyes glittered as they always had, the right one more golden than brown. His strong, lean frame filled her with memories of them lying together, basking in the sunshine. She released a tight breath, relieved to see him alive and unhurt, and a lump of joy rose in her throat. Her heart pattered in a way she hadn’t thought it ever would again. She stepped forward in disbelief. He was a dream. This wasn’t real. But when he set his bag down, he stared at her with brows slashed downward. Like she was a stranger.

And then she remembered: she was.

“Who the hell are you?” he said, and it felt like her heart would rip in two. She choked down her feelings and put more distance between them.

“Show some manners, brother. That’s the heir to House Ambrose. Nore.”

She took another step backward. The last year by his side, as Red, flew through her mind, and it unsteadied her. She looked for Daring. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t look at him and accept that, though she stood right there, he had no idea she even existed.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m Yagrin Richard Wexton, House of Perl, Dragun. Well, ex, I suppose. The brotherhood doesn’t want anything to do with me now.”

“What brotherhood?” Jordan said.

Nore still could not move.

“Are you alright?” Yagrin asked.

No, no, I’m not. She wanted to scream. But if she told him the truth, he would either not believe her or see that she was a fraud, a liar, a pretender—another dishonest cog in their toxic, broken world. If he knew her lie, he would write her off as being just like the rest of them. And that would shatter whatever fragments of her that were left.

First her brother, now this. Her knees felt weak beneath her. She needed to get out of there. Where is— She turned and her shire was galloping toward her through the trees.

Daring nudged her and she gripped his reins.

“He looked like he needed help, but you all have it handled.” She turned quickly to hide the tears burning her eyes. She stepped into one stirrup, hoisted herself up, and then swung into the saddle.

“Nore, please stay,” Jordan rasped. “The Order. Fracturing.”

“We can use all the help we can get is what he’s trying to say,” Yagrin cut in.

The girl worked over Jordan’s wounds still, but there was too much blood.

“I don’t think I can,” she said, with more honesty than they even realized. She could not be near Yagrin another second without crying.

“Where could you possibly have to go?” The girl stopped working, exasperated.

“Abby, please,” Jordan said. “This is the heir of the House you insult.”

“No, I’m sick of ’Rosers acting like they’re superior. Is there an encyclopedia that’s going to cry if you don’t get back to it immediately?” She cut a glare at Nore, and for the first time, it occurred to her that Abby and Yagrin could be an item. She felt sicker. Too sick to even respond to the girl’s retort.

“I didn’t mean to upset your lady friend. I apologize,” she said.

Yagrin cocked his brow.

“What? No. Abby just, um—doesn’t deal with Ambrosers, not anymore.”

“Trash, all of them,” Abby grumbled to herself, still working furiously over Jordan’s wound while ranting how awful ’Rosers were. It was almost endearing. Nore’s heart squeezed. It shouldn’t, but the tiniest beacon of hope shone in the darkest crevices of her soul. It didn’t mean anything. But knowing that Yagrin and Abby weren’t an item calmed the raging storm inside her. She watched Abby frustrate herself again.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Nore said. “That’s why the bleeding won’t stop.”

“Excuse me?” Abby stared.

“Move.” Nore joined Abby on the ground. Jordan was pale and he took longer to blink. “Give me your sweater.”

Abby did. Nore balled it up and pressed it against Jordan’s chest. She leaned, laying the full weight of her body against his. “It needs pressure. The wound was gushing faster than the magic could keep up. You have to slow the bleeding.” She held him there, counting, checking the wound intermittently. And sure enough, though Jordan’s head lolled backward, the wound wasn’t swimming in blood as it had earlier.

“Now try to heal it.”

Abby spread her hands across the tear in his chest, and the air between them wrinkled. His skin responded beautifully to her command, pulling itself back together. The bone beneath his chest shifted. He sucked in a huge breath and his eyes shot open.

“Shallow breaths,” Nore told him. He listened. And in a few moments, his chest was moving normally; the wound was smooth skin, with only a faint scar. He was going to be okay. Jordan’s fingers felt his chest. He pulled himself up on timid elbows.

“I’m…sorry for what I said about Ambrose,” Abby said.

“I don’t like them much either, if I can be honest.”

Mirth creased around Abby’s eyes. “What kind of Healer are you?”

“I’m not a Healer.”

“Well, whatever you are, we could use your help,” Jordan said. “Will you stay?”

They watched her, waiting for her answer.