Page 78 of Demon Touched

My heart aches a little, and I give him a smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, it makes sense now. Kind of. I still don’t really understand why you were asking about black magic last time I saw you.”

“I’ll tell you the whole story someday,” I promise.

He raises his eyebrows. “You mean I’ll see you again?”

“Yes, because you’re going to look after Filippa until she heals.”

He tries to take a step backward, but there’s nowhere for him to go, the backs of his legs hitting his nightstand as he puts his hands up.

“Oh no, no way.”

“I can’t take her back, Hodges,” I say firmly. “You don’t know what it’s like in Aradis. They have barely any healers, and sick or injured people are expected to just suck it up or die. If she gets an infection, I can’t guarantee they’d do anything to help her.”

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks, but I can already tell he’s teetering on the edge of giving in, looking for advice rather than trying to argue with me. “Just keep a winger here, in secret, day and night?”

“Yes,” I say simply. “I’ll pay you properly for it. You can have every piece of Filippa’s armor, and most of mine too. That’ll set you and the family up for nearly a year. And…”

I glance over my shoulder, thinking. “I’ll give you some of my feathers.”

His face crumples with outrage. “What the fuck, Leah? I’m not going to make you pluck out a part of yourself.” Then he deflates, the fight going out of him. “I’ll do it, of course. But the armor is more than payment enough—don’t you dare touch your wings.”

“Good,” I say, smiling. “Because from what I’ve seen, it really fucking hurts plucking feathers.”

Then I step forward and pull him into a hug. He accepts it awkwardly, not seeming to know where to put his hands with my wings rising up behind me. Finally, he settles for patting me lightly on my shoulder.

“You can send me updates through the rift. Leah Illidore at Artos Academy. There’s a regular messaging service that runs from Aradis to Strata every day. I doubt anyone will pay much attention to a nephilim who grew up in Strata getting the odd letter from here, but don’t write anything incriminating, just in case.”

I should send a letter to Evie, I realize. I kept myself from contacting her when I was avoiding Syrus—he knew about Evie and I didn’t want her to become a way for him to get to me. But now we’re working together again, there’s no reason I can’t give my little sister some reassurance I’m alive and okay.

When Hodges and I emerge from his room, Martha’s packing up her things.

“I’ve never treated her kind before,” she says. “But it didn’t seem so different. I hope she heals well.” She examines Filippa’s face. “She’s so young.”

“About a hundred and twenty, actually,” I say with a small smile. “But yes, she’s basically about as mature as Hodges here, which is to say, not very mature at all.”

“Hey,” he elbows me in the side just like he used to, the awkwardness of my new ephilium form forgotten for a moment.

“Now, about payment,” I say. “I don’t have any coin. But I can give you my helmet. That would go for a good price at the Three Bridges.”

Martha looks unenthused—trading winger objects like that is more of a scavenger thing, I guess—and then I remember one of our exchanges from many months ago, when I bartered with her for my allergy medicine.

“Hold on a moment,” I say, ducking back into Hodges’s room and closing the door behind me. I crouch down to the box under the bed and pull out six jars from my satchel. I always kept extras here ready.

It takes a few minutes, but soon I’m opening the door again, jars balanced in my arms.

“Here,” I say, placing them on the table, now dark with swirling shadow. The shadow itself will dissipate soon, but I know the mist it leaves behind is very useful in Martha’s medicines.

Hodges’s eyes narrow. He knows I wasn’t doing any collecting on the battlefield. Wisely, he doesn’t say anything.

“Will that be enough to cover your labor?” I ask.

Martha eyes the jars excitedly. “Oh yes. I can do so much with these! Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” I say sincerely. “I don’t know what we would’ve done without you.”

“She should wake up in the next twelve hours. If she doesn’t, come find me,” she says, opening up her bag and loading the jars in carefully so they don’t bang against each other. Her hand hovers over something, and then she pulls out a familiar vial and a jar of balm.