Thief With No Shadow (38 page)

Liana.

Bastian scrambled frantically to sit. Dead grass crunched beneath his hands, rough limestone, dirt.

He groped for Endal. The dog’s fur was almost dry.

There was a scream in his chest:
Liana!

Bastian fell when he tried to stand. His left leg crumpled. He was on his knees and there was a blank instant of agony.

Endal whined. He felt the dog’s breath against his cheek.

His head spun dizzily. He gritted his teeth against pain and nausea and explored with clumsy fingers. Blood soaked his trousers and trickled warm down his leg. He found a gash at his knee, deep and gaping.

Bastian clenched his fingers into the torn, blood-soaked fabric.
Endal, I’m sorry. You must take the necklace for me.

He heard a soft whimper.

Please, Endal.
He reached out and touched the dog’s fur.
You’re almost dry now. The voices won’t be so bad.

Endal quivered beneath his hand, taut and fearful.

Please
, Bastian begged, clenching his fingers in the dog’s fur.

Endal’s acquiescence was silent, a dipping of his head. He trembled.

Bastian hugged the dog roughly.
Thank you.
He felt in his pocket. It was empty.

Utter panic leapt inside him. There was another scream in his chest. He couldn’t have lost it,
couldn’t—

Here, Bas.
Endal scratched at the ground.

Bastian’s heart beat loud and fast as his fingers scrabbled in the brittle grass. Dirt, chips of limestone—and psaaron tears, smooth and coated in dust.

He held them in his hand, almost sobbing.

The stones were cool and dry. No voices whispered in his ears or over his skin.

Stay with Liana
, he said as he placed the necklace carefully around the dog’s neck.
Keep her safe.

I will.

He held Endal close for a moment. He heard no voices, only the thump of Endal’s heart.
Is it all right?

Yes.

Bastian released the dog.
Then run, Endal. Run.

He felt no hope as he listened to the dog’s swift paws. The necklace wouldn’t save Liana. She was broken.

Bastian closed his eyes. He’d made too many mistakes.

He wanted to bury himself in the dirt, to stay here in the dark forever, to never open his eyes again. But if Liana survived this night, she would need him.

He had to walk. Had to
.
And if that was impossible, he’d crawl.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

D
AWN.
H
ANTJE LAY
on the floor, his cheek pressed to the fraying carpet. His breath came in gasps and broken sobs.
Get up. Get up, before Liana comes.

He pushed himself away from the floor and staggered to his feet. Pain was unimportant. Just let him hide his injuries before Liana—

Someone knocked softly on the door.

Hantje snatched a sheet off the bed. His hands shook as he wrapped it around himself. He turned his back to the door.

“Hantje?”

“I’m fine.” His voice was hoarse. There was blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten through his lower lip. “Go away.”

But he heard the sound of the door opening wider, of hesitant footsteps inside the room.

“No,” Liana said. “Hantje, let me see. Let me help.”

“Get out!”

“No.”

Her hand was on his arm. The shaking inside him wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t hide it from her.

“Let me see.”

He turned his head away and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “Please, Liana, go away.”

But she didn’t. He felt her fingertips on his chin where blood caked the skin, thick and sticky.

He pulled away from her touch, stumbling, trembling, his eyes still tightly closed. “Please go away. I need to wash.” The words came thickly from his torn lip.

“I’ll help you.”

“No.”

“Yes!” The word was fierce.

He opened his eyes.

She was Asta, beautiful and sweet. And she was more than that. Beauty and sweetness, and also ferocity. He saw tears in her eyes and beneath the tears determination, strong and unyielding.

Tears. She cried for him.

“Liana.” He reached out a hand to her but she was already gone, running across the room.

She brought back warm water and soft cloths.

Hantje clutched the sheet more tightly to him. “I can do it myself.” Speech brought fresh blood to his mouth. The shuddering of his body wouldn’t stop.

Liana ignored the words. “Your mouth first. I’ll stop the bleeding. Can you sit on the bed or is it easier to stand?”

Hantje swallowed. “Easier to stand,” he whispered. He’d let her clean his mouth, just his mouth, so that he didn’t taste blood on his tongue, didn’t swallow it, didn’t want to vomit quite so much.

“Bend your head.”

He closed his eyes while she washed the blood from his chin. He couldn’t look at her face, so close, so lovely. He couldn’t look at her hair as white as starlight.

He felt a cloth, wiping, wet, and then gentle fingertips where he’d bitten through his lip. Coolness flowed from her touch, a faint lessening of pain.

“There,” a soft whisper. “That will stop the bleeding for now.”

He opened his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Shhh.” Liana laid a finger over his mouth. “Don’t talk.”

She reached up and smoothed the hair away from his face. Hantje hadn’t the strength to stay standing and to argue. One or the other, but not both, and so he closed his eyes again and let her knot his hair at the back of his head, let her clean his face with warm water and a soft cloth and exquisite gentleness.

“Let me see your shoulders. There’s blood.”

Hantje tightened his grip on the sheet. “No.” He opened his eyes.

“You think I haven’t seen you before? I have!”

He shook his head. “This is different.”

“Curse you, Hantje!” There was anger in Liana’s voice and tears in her eyes. “Don’t be such a fool!”

Tears again. He was helpless when he saw them.

He loosened his grip and let the sheet fall slightly.

Breath hissed between Liana’s teeth when she saw what the psaaron had done to his shoulders. Her cheeks paled.

Hantje lifted the sheet again with clumsy haste. He turned away from her, stumbling on shaking legs.

“No!” She caught his arm, halting him, and pulled the fabric back from his shoulders. “Oh, Hantje...”

He stood, trembling, and let her clean the wounds.

She didn’t ask what had happened and he didn’t tell her. It was too bestial; the psaaron biting as it mounted him, sinking its teeth into his flesh, enjoying the sounds of pain he tried to choke back.

Something in her touch, a quiet magic, calmed the deep shuddering inside him. The touch was so gentle and soothing that his eyelids closed. Memory of the psaaron retreated and became hazy. It hurt a little less in his mind, in his body.

Liana had the sheet down to his waist, briskly, before he was aware of her intent. He opened his eyes, opened his mouth, but her glare stopped his protest. “Don’t,” she said, sweet and fierce.

Hantje held the sheet tightly at his hips and submitted, ashamed to be standing in front of her with the marks of his punishment on him. She cleaned his chest and arms, his back. Blood trickled from countless rips and ragged cuts. Liana traced a tiny wound with her fingertip. “What did this?”

“Scales.”

She healed him, then. Where her fingers touched his skin, the pain and heat and rawness faded and became cool.

At last she lowered her hands and stepped back. “Hantje—”

He met her eyes. “No.”

“But—”

“No!”

She bit her lip and turned away. “I’ll get some salve. If you wish to clean yourself while I’m gone...”

He did, quickly, washing blood from his legs, wiping away the creature’s touch with trembling hands. He had his underbreeches on when Liana returned, although his shaking fingers couldn’t tie the drawstring.

“I’ll put this on your shoulders,” she said, showing him the pot of salve.

“l can do it.”

“I will. Lie down, Hantje. I’ll help you to sleep.”

“I don’t need—”

“Please, Hantje.” Liana moved closer as she spoke. He was aware of the warmth of her body, the soft touch of her breath on his skin. The quiet plea in her voice made him close his eyes briefly.

He deserved pain and punishment, not what she was giving him: care and tears, healing. But he couldn’t find the words to tell her or the strength to argue.

It hurt inside him, deep and jagged, as he lowered himself to the bed. The pain caught his breath in his throat and almost made him cry out. He choked the sound back and lay down, his limbs clumsy. He couldn’t look at Liana’s face. His shame was too intense.

The mattress sank as she sat beside him. Her fingers touched his skin. He felt the coolness of salve and smelled the clean scent of herbs. “Sleep,” she whispered.

But it was impossible to sleep. There was too much tightness in his chest, too much grief. Melke.

“Hush,” Liana whispered, as if he wept. “Sleep.”

Hantje closed his eyes, squeezing back the tears. Such shuddering inside him, such aching grief.

“Shhh.”

Her fingers and voice soothed him towards sleep. But how could he sleep when Melke... The pain faded, there was no shaking inside him. There was only warmth and darkness. But Melke...
Shhh, sleep.
There was coolness between his buttocks, where he was torn in two, where the psaaron had hurt him most.
No
, he struggled to say the word aloud, to push her hand away.
Shhh, sleep.
Someone was singing softly, a familiar song. “Mel?”

“Not yet. She’ll be back.”

But she’d never be back. He’d killed his sister.

“Hush. Sleep.”

The tears came, wrenching and choking. Someone held him, cradled him.
Shhh, sleep...
Kisses in his hair, as light as butterflies’ wings...
Hush, don’t cry...
And he wasn’t the only one weeping, he heard someone else’s tears...
Shhh, sleep...
And he cried for Melke while someone held him and rocked him to sleep.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

I
T WAS ALMOST
noon when Bastian staggered into the yard, leaning heavily on the lame colt. Emptiness and silence greeted him.

“Come on, boy.” He urged the horse gently with his voice, softly, as he’d done all morning, when all he wanted to do was scream, to howl as Endal had howled.
Liana.