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Would she heal? Or was Ari just trying to soothe her because he knew this was the end? If so, how long would that take? Surely blood loss would take her much faster than infection.
“What did he say?” Arkimedes asked.
“He said I’ll heal f-faster if I stay in the forest by his side. And yours.” She groaned in pain. Her skin felt so hot, but the heat didn’t reach her.
“She needs a healer,” Arkimedes argued, looking straight into Aristaeus’s eyes.
“You are a Beekeeper with the gift of healing. When we met, the Zorren had hurt me, and you were the one to heal me. No human potion, healer, or fae could have saved me that day. Only you, dear one.” Ari paused and glanced at Arkimedes. “It’s why you could heal your mate back on the island when he was a prisoner.”
“Ari says I’m able to heal.” Could it be? That it had never been the alchemist potions her father had taught her, but always her magic? She’d denied it for so long.
“You’re like Gavin?” Arkimedes blinked rapidly and pressed his hand to her wound, making the sharp stabs of pain worse.
She swatted his hand away. “I don’t know.”
Arkimedes’s frown eased. He settled into a crouch and opened his hands, closing his eyes. His magic swirled, as she had seen thousands of times before, and a small wooden box materialized on his outstretched palms. What could it be? Her mind was too sluggish to ask.
He opened the lid, huffing as he removed a curved needle and rummaged through glass vials that clanked against each other. “If that’s true, then we need to close the wound now, and then go there.” He shot a cautious glance at the clearing over his shoulder.
“What’s happening?” she asked, although she already knew. Before her, Arkimedes lit a dry branch with a fire spell and used it to sterilize the needle.
Then he dropped the contents of the potion—no, alcohol—on her wound without warning. Nava screamed, her heart hammering in her chest. She scrambled for his arm, stopping him before he could lower the sharp point to her injured skin.
“What the hell are you doing?” She swallowed, searching his panicked face.
Arkimedes caressed the side of her face. “You’re losing a lot of blood, Nava. I’ve seen this kind of wound before. It will hurt just for a bit, but this way we can carry you to safety.”
He peeked over his shoulder again when the wind rustled the leaves around them. The rain was falling harder now. Thunder rolled above.
“Why do you keep looking back there? Ari said there aren’t any demons left?”
“It’s not the demons I’m worried about…” He shook his head, and then without pausing, he pierced her skin and looped the first ring of black thread, pulling her skin tightly closed.
Nava barely suppressed another scream.
“The forest is not a safe place during the night.” Ari knelt by her side. The absolute blackness of his eyes distracted her from the pain. He studied Nava like she did him, inspecting her for any other hurts the Zorren might have caused her.
Soot and mild charring darkened the bark of his body. The moss, once green and alive with mushrooms, had turned brown and now stuck to his side, shriveled and dry. “I have a home of my own. It will keep us safe. “
“You h-have a home?” Her breath stuttered as Arkimedes closed two more stitches.
Ari tilted his head, and while he lacked any human expressions, she could have sworn he raised one of his wooden brows at her. “Where else would I rest and recover?”
Damn. Of course. She’d always thought he slept in the trees.
Soon, her wound was closed and tightly wrapped. Aristaeus picked her up, and they set off for safe shelter.
This was an older part of the forest, untouched by civilization, and with trees so enormous that she couldn’t see the tops. Not that she could make out anything clearly right now. Her vision was far too blurry. All she could focus on was the bandage around her ribs and how it kept slipping with each step Ari took farther into the forest. Nava pressed a hand to it to hold it in place.
Stray rays of sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing like the sparkles on precious stones over the moss-covered ground. The trees looming over them rivaled even those on Grey Island.
Arkimedes trudged behind them in silence. He didn’t need to say a word, for everything he felt howled at her through their bond. All his worry. All his love.
“I’m fine…” she slurred, cursing her stupid mouth and tongue. “Ark, I’m not even in pain.”
The words wouldn’t ease his concerns, and her rough voice did little to sell the lie.
“I met the emissary when I was trying to get to you,” he said.
