“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

I keep my eyes on the dirt under my feet. He’s not what I expected either, but I won’t admit to that.

“I thought you’d be heartless,” he continues. “Cold, like Sword-master Taltrayn. You’re not.”

“The sword-master isn’t cold,” I say before I think better of it.

He pauses with the needle sticking through his skin. “Do you ever get tired of defending the Court?”

I shrug off the question. He almost has the wound closed, but his blood-slick fingers struggle to hold the needle and he can’t see what he’s doing anymore, no matter how far down he tries to tilt his chin. He won’t be able to sew up his back either.

“Here,” I growl and take the needle. Before I can back out, I stab it through his skin. I tug the thread tight, slip it under a few of the other stitches, then tie it off. “Turn around.” I grab his arm and spin him to face the car again. A few minutes later, he’s all stitched up. I wipe as much of the blood off him as I can before I tape gauze over the bullet’s entry and exit points.

Aren smiles. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“It was horrible,” I say, letting my gaze travel over him. He’s lost a lot of blood. Surely that’ll weaken him, slow him down some. “You sure you can make it to the gate?”

“I’m sure.” He leans inside the car, grabs my backpack, and then clucks to Sosch. The kimki darts inside the bag.

I step to the side and motion for Aren to lead the way. He slips one strap of the backpack over his good shoulder, then holds out his hand.

“I don’t need my hand held.”

“McKenzie,” he says, his tone ever so patient.

I grind my teeth when I realize what he wants. Rolling my eyes, I take the keys out of my back pocket and chuck them at his chest.

ELEVEN

WITHIN THE HOUR, I’m wearing the Sosch-filled backpack and half carrying Aren through the forest. He resisted my help at first, and I watched him stumble along our weed-clogged “trail.” When the underbrush became too thick to pass, he used his sword to carve us a path. It wasn’t until he overswung and almost hit me that I finally ignored his protests and took the sword from him. He managed a weak laugh and said he was worried I’d strike him down with it. He’s not laughing anymore. He hasn’t said a word in more than twenty minutes, and I’m too exhausted to attempt conversation.

He rests his weight across my shoulders. My arm encircles his waist. His body is hot. I can’t tell if that’s from his edarratae leaping to my skin or from a fever. Most likely, it’s the latter. How long does it take for an infection to set in? His lips are pale and he’s sweating. I’m sweating, too, and my back aches from supporting his weight. My boots sink into the wet earth and I’m seriously regretting not taking the time to put on socks. I feel like I’m shuffling ankle-deep in broken glass, my feet hurt so badly. Aren’s not complaining about the hole in his shoulder, though, so I endure the pain.

Sometime later, I hear the murmur of a river. Sosch must hear it, too. He shifts in the backpack; then, with his signature chirp-squeak, he climbs onto my shoulder before leaping to the ground.

The forest thins enough to see the morning sun glittering across the river’s surface. Sosch scurries to its edge and then laps at the water.

“Is it safe to drink?” I ask, hobbling to the bank.

“It shouldn’t hurt him,” Aren says, but he doesn’t look anxious to try it himself. Is he not as thirsty as I am? I’m absolutely parched.

He takes his arm off my shoulder, stands on his own. “We’re not far from the gate. Once we fissure, we’ll have water.”

I plop down on the damp ground beside the river. It might not be a good idea to drink the water, but I can’t pass up the opportunity to dip my feet beneath its surface.

“Which way is the gate?” I ask as I unzip my left boot.

He looks downriver. “That way.” He doesn’t sound certain.

“How far was it on a . . .” Jesus, my foot looks worse than I thought. Oozing red blisters cover my heel and almost all my toes. The fresh air makes them sting and now I’m not so sure I want to plunge them into the water.

“Nom Sidhe, McKenzie,” Aren says, staring down at my foot. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t know it was this bad.”

He sinks to the ground beside me. When he reaches toward my toes, I pull my foot back.

“You don’t have the energy to heal me.”

“You can’t walk like this.”

“You won’t be able to fissure.”

Silver eyes meet mine. “And that’s bad for you because?” Good point.

“Fine,” I say.

He encases my foot between his palms. Chaos lusters quiver over his hands, flow into my toes, the arch of my foot. I tense and hold my breath, but I can’t help it. I giggle like a schoolgirl.

Aren looks up from his magic, eyebrows raised, and Sosch perks his ears forward.

“Tickles,” I explain. My leg jerks when an edarratae darts from my heel to my pinky toe and another snicker escapes me.

The weariness leaves Aren’s face and the left edge of his mouth curves up.

“What?” I demand.

“I’ve never seen you smile before,” he says.

I plaster on a frown despite the butterflies rioting in my stomach. “Don’t get used to it.” I pull my foot out of his hand. Damn this Stockholm syndrome. There’s got to be some cure for it.

“You haven’t tried to run,” he says quietly.

“You see my feet?” I wisecrack, but I’m gritting my teeth. I don’t need him to point out my lapse in judgment, my inconsistency. Maybe I should leave him now? I’m sure I can outrun him, but he obviously still has the ability to use some magic. He might be able to fissure short distances or stop me some other way. He’s a healer, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have other skills.

Oh, who am I kidding? None of that stopped me before. I’m making excuses to stay by his side. Weak excuses. The real reason I’m still here is because I don’t want him to die. Plus, if I abandon him, it’ll be like I’m sliding a sword through his chest, and executing someone who’s injured and in need of help isn’t something I can do.

“Take off your other boot.”

I swallow back my frustration and comply. Crap, this foot is worse than the other one.

Aren just shakes his head and sends his magic into me. I bite my lip to prevent another giggle from escaping. Thank God, he finishes his work quickly. Laughing makes me feel too vulnerable.

I pull my foot out of his grasp and then submerge both my blisterless feet in the river. Its cool current is invigorating.

Beside me, Aren awkwardly tilts back until he’s lying flat. He closes his eyes. I watch his chest rise and fall. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes betray how much his shoulder hurts. I’m worried about it. He’s not bleeding anymore, but maybe we shouldn’t have stitched it shut. Maybe it needs to drain or have air or something.

“Talk to me,” he says. “It’ll distract me from my shoulder.”

I doubt that, but say, “What do you want to talk about?”