Page 28 of Dream Reaper

“She’s a healer. She’ll know what to do.”

“She stays at the camp.” She emphasized each word with brittle clarity.

Jerrid’s fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. He’d never been so tempted to hit a woman in his life. Didn’t she realize that she could be sentencing his dragon to death?

The anger inside him ignited and grew, Dragon stirring restlessly.

I’ll show her the error of her ways…

He turned away and mentally told Dragon to shut up. He would handle this. He could handle it without ripping anyone limb from limb.

“I’ll speak to the elf,” Brynja said at last, her words gruff. “If your wife has any suggestions, I’ll come back with whatever you’ll need to feed the dragon. It’s the best I can do.”

Jerrid lifted his head and swallowed his disappointment. “I can stay?”

“I’m not completely heartless,” she muttered. “With all the blood she has lost, I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t been picked off by now. She’s a sitting duck out here. She’ll need you if she stands a chance of survival. I’ll be back when I can. If I’m not back before nightfall, I suggest you start a fire. It may make the more cautious predators think twice before attacking.”

“And the ones that aren’t cautious?”

She shrugged, her face devoid of all expression. “Then you’re on your own.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode back toward the ruins. Jerrid watched her go, the sliver of hope inside him a taut, fragile thread.

He spent the afternoon collecting wood for his bonfire. His stomach gnawed with hunger, but he didn’t dare eat anything from the forest. It could all be poisonous, and it wasn’t worth the risk.

Not yet anyway. Hopefully Brynja would bring food and water back with her. If not, he’d have to delve into his limited store of supplies.

Echo stirred for about ten minutes and licked some water from his cupped palm. He gave her the last drops from his skin. Maybe there was some water north of that mud pit Ava had stumbled into. But investigating meant leaving Echo unprotected again.

Twilight fell early in the Shadewood, the sun sinking behind the trees in the west and casting long shadows across the clearing. He used the flint and stone from his pack and started a fire, gently blowing on the infantile flame and feeding it dry moss until it grew strong enough to lick at the rotting wood he’d found.

A thin wisp of smoke curled upward into the darkening sky.

He sat down with his back against Echo’s side, the warmth of her scales heating his back while the fire began to warm the front side of him. Shades, was he tired.

But he didn’t dare go to sleep. Not until Brynja came back at least. Maybe he could convince her to stay the night to help him out. Surely, she wouldn’t want to walk back through the forest in the dark. If she was even coming today at all.

Maybe she had decided to come tomorrow morning instead. Or maybe she had decided not to come back at all. He crossed his arms over his chest, not putting it past her to have abandoned him and Echo to their fate.

He shuddered to think what she might have planned for Ava. He shouldn’t have left her alone at the camp, but Brynja hadn’t given him much choice.

A branch snapped in the woods.

Jerrid’s head snapped back. He crouched before the fire, lifting a stick that he’d whittled to a sharp point earlier in the day. Easing to his feet, he scanned the forest and searched the shadows for signs of an attack. Was it dire wolves? Myrk hounds?

He gripped the stick hard and breathed in slowly through his nose and out through his mouth, keeping himself calm. Composed. Prepared.

Another branch snapped in the darkness, and something crackled through the brittle undergrowth. He inhaled sharply as he turned toward the sound, keeping himself between Echo and the incoming danger.

Movement rustled again in the darkness, and then…

Something melted from the shadows on the other side of the clearing. It was too small to be a myrk hound—a young dire wolf, then? But no, it didn’t move like a wolf. In fact, it seemed to be walking on two legs…

Jerrid lowered his stick, frowning as the figure slipped closer to him. It looked way too small to be Brynja.

“Who’s there?” he called. “Brynja?”

The rustling stopped.