Why wasn’t he in the cells?
Clara shrugged. “I don’t know why they helped him. He said your name, that’s all I know.”
The pool of blood beneath Cormac was still spreading.
Questions of how and why would have to wait.
Aoife shifted him slightly, searching, and found another hole, on his back this time, larger and uglier. Panic clawed at her throat. She grabbed more cloth, pressing from both sides.
Cormac groaned.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I know it hurts. Stay with me.”
His head lolled, eyes fluttering. “Aoife…?”
“I’m here,” she said. “Stay awake.”
He tried to focus on her face, but he was fading. She shook him, and he opened his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, eyebrows knitting in confusion.
“Trying to save your life. Now stay awake.”
Aoife forced herself to think. Panic wouldn’t help him. Stop the bleeding. Protect the wound from evil spirits. That was what mattered. “I need towels, water, alcohol, and a flathead chisel.”
Clara hesitated, hand on the door. “Aoife… if Lord Halverton finds out—”
“If you don’t help me now,” Aoife said sharply, “he’ll die here, in my bed, and we’ll both have to explain how.” Her voicesoftened. “Please. Help me, and I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”
Clara met her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “All right.”
She turned to go, then paused. “What’s the chisel for?”
“To stop the bleeding,” Aoife said. “I’ll heat it in the fire and use it to seal the wound.”
Clara went pale. “We don’t have chisels in the house, but we have a poker.” She hurried to the hearth and seized the iron tool from its stand. It was broader than Aoife would have liked.
“It’ll do,” Aoife said grimly.
Clara struck flint and coaxed the fire to life, then laid the poker across the flames.
Aoife pressed harder on the wound, whispering a prayer to the Sheedar under her breath. Cormac groaned again, his breath shallow.
“Hold on,” she murmured. “Please hold on.”
Clara dashed out of the room to gather the other things they would need.
Aoife tried to keep Cormac awake, talking to him and asking questions. His answers came as a tangled mix of nonsense and delirium.
At one point he tried to sit up, mumbling that he was putting them in danger. Aoife pressed him down gently. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said.
For a moment he was lucid. His hand gripped her arm, eyes finding hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wanted to see you. To know you were all right.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered. “But you’re here now.”
His breathing hitched. “Promise me you’ll get away from here. Halverton’s dangerous.”
The words caught in her throat. “Did he do this?”
