Page 32 of Wicked Endeavors

“Your Highness!” Marisol exclaimed, shocked into formality by the rust-red stain spreading across his tunic. “What happened?”

“I—I didn’t mean—the—” The crafter held his hands up in surrender, his empty crossbow abandoned at his feet.

“You shot him,” Bas said coldly. “With a crossbow bolt.”

He pointed at a stained bolt that jutted from the ground. Based on the angle, Marisol assumed it had grazed the prince’s side. Based on the blood, it might have hit something vital.

“One of… the deer… was a fawn,” Teo whispered.

“The animals aren’t real,” said the crafter. “Why would you jump between us like that? I—”

“What happened?”

Magister Ozalla had arrived. Her coven mark was dark, but her eyes were bright with a fury that made Marisol freeze in place, trapped in memories of darkness and magic and blood. It was an effort to drag herself back to the present, where Ozalla would not, could not, hurt her. The crafter was not so lucky. His pale face had gone even paler at the sight of his head of House, and he looked as if he wanted to turn the crossbow on himself to get out of this confrontation.

“We need to get him to a healer,” said the Magister. “I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

The crafter swallowed. Marisol almost felt sorry for him.

Magister Ozalla waved her hand, and a cot rose from the forest floor beside Bas. He carefully shifted Teo’s body onto it, eyes soft as he brushed the prince’s hair from his damp forehead.

“He’ll be all right,” Bas whispered. “It looks worse than it is.”

“Help them,” said Magister Ozalla. The crafter scrambled to grab one end of the cot while Bas lifted the other. “Get them to the carriage and return to the House. I’ll round up everyone else and end the hunt.”

Marisol followed them in a haze of worry, wondering how the event had gone so wrong so quickly. She’d meant to return home with a spirits-blessed orange blossom in hand, an easy and early victory. But, as she climbed into the carriage behind Teo and Bas, all she saw when she blinked was the blood.

As they raced out of the Hinterlands, the prince began taking shallow breaths, his hand on his side and his head pressed against the window of the carriage. His color was faded, his lashes a half-moon sweep of black above his sallow cheeks. She couldn’t tell if he could hear them or not, but she lowered her voice anyway to let him rest.

“Was it an accident?” she whispered. “Or was this an attempt on his life?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t.” Bas seemed seconds from tipping back his head, eyes closed, to stave off a headache. Instead, he watched Teo with a deepening frown. “It wouldn’t be in the witches’ best interest for a Castellan to be killed in their country, but we haven’t figured out yet who wants him dead in Domingo. For all we know, they could have ties to Coventry… or the power to promise the Trident things they can’t get from Teo.”

Marisol paused in the middle of nodding as the implications of that set in. There were only two people in Domingo with that kind of influence, and Teo was related to both of them. Bas wasn’t looking at her, so he didn’t see her surprise before she managed to smother it. If the prince believed that his own family was trying to kill him, how did he always manage to smile so freely?

No. No, no, no.

The more important question was this: If King Alvaro and Prince Itzal wanted Teo dead, could she murder him and blame them?

Teo was trembling, his breathing evening out as he fell asleep. It had only been three weeks, and already it was strange to see him so quiet. He was a creature of bright eyes and playful smiles. An incorrigible flirt, a shrewd politician, a voracious reader, and a soft heart that persisted despite the cracks he’d shown her. This wan, crumpled version of him was almost painful to look at.

Careful.

“May I see?” Marisol asked, scooting to the edge of her seat so she could reach for her new bag. She hesitated for only a moment before extracting the water, pushing away the thought of her stolen one to focus on the task at hand. “We need to clean the wound so it doesn’t get infected before we get him to a physician.”

Bas slid past her to allow her to take his seat next to Teo. Her hands worked automatically, familiar as she was with patching up scrapes—her own and those of others—back at Kindred. She lifted Teo’s shirt, revealing a toned stomach and crimson-stained ribs, and used her now-damp handkerchief to gently wipe the blood away.

It didn’t take long to realize that Bas had been right; the wound was long but not deep. With the grime cleared away, she doubted he would even need stitches. She rinsed it two more times with water, then took a fresh handkerchief and pressed it against his side. Blood began to bead through the fabric almost immediately, but it would hold until they arrived home.

Through it all, Teo didn’t stir.

It would be easy, so easy, to kill him. Water wasn’t alcohol, and it still left him at risk of infection. Even with Bas watching her, she could drive a dagger into the wound, making it larger before there was a proper examination. She could let him bleed out beneath her bandage, act surprised when his heart stopped, and then kill Bas shortly after when he collapsed in her arms.

She could.

She could.

She could—and then what?