Where was that damn mage?
Esme ripped the owl mask from her face and threw it into the bed of the wagon, turning to scan the crowd for any sign of Caro’s distinctive costume. The horses shuffled nervously in place; eyes rolling, skin shivering. Alred had them under control for now. She and the sculptor wasted precious seconds, each trying to hand the other up onto the bench. Cursing and shoving the man toward the back, she frowned up at Alred’s worried face.
“Emmi dear – we ought to go.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Caro would meet them later. That was always the back up plan, in case they got separated. Even so, she hesitated before scrambling up.
Bolts flew, flints striking sparks off the cobbles. Her hair stood on end as a failed spell changed the pitch and tone of the fleeing partygoers to something altogether worse. Mindless, instinctual, anything to get away. The rising glow of spreading fire made eerily lit monsters of Starkhaven’s masked nobles. Bending, she produced a handful of velvet-wrapped vials from the hidden space in her false leg.
She still felt grossly under armed, tossing a few smoke bombs to cover their escape. The sculptor suddenly pulled her over the bench and into the wagon bed, leaving wet handprints on her sleeve. A man was slumped forward on the back rail, barely holding on.
“Byrne?” Together, Esme and the fox masked stranger dragged Caro up and in. Crouching bedside him, she pulled off Caro’s mask – he’d busted his lip or his nose or both and was pale as a corpse beneath the gore. Shit, that couldn’t account for all of this. Maker’s tits, she couldn’t see a damn thing …
Esme’s hands skimmed down Caro’s front, finding the bolt by feel. Oh. Her left – his right, ribs palpable above and below. He'd been stuck in the liver.
“Fox man, I need you to press here. Both hands and don’t let go for anything.” She placed his hands on Caro and watched a moment to make sure before crawling back toward the driver. Twenty minutes of solid pressure should slow the bleeding. “Get us back to Harlin’s.” There was nowhere else to go. He would die for sure on the road.
She’d never done surgery in an inn room before. It was hardly ideal – but then, what was? Esme had stopped the bleeding that first sleepless night but she thought it would be some time before Byrne would be well enough to travel. Heaps of coin had changed hands – buying the eponymous Harlin’s silence – and Monsieur Fox had departed with the Dogs.
There was little to do now but wait and clean and watch for fever. Esme rested the back of her hand on Caro’s forehead, studying his bruised face before moving on. She flicked open his shirt to check his wound, a small part of her regretting how she’d challenged and flirted with him in the recent past.
If only because he’d be quite scandalized if he’d been fully conscious.
Esme ripped the owl mask from her face and threw it into the bed of the wagon, turning to scan the crowd for any sign of Caro’s distinctive costume. The horses shuffled nervously in place; eyes rolling, skin shivering. Alred had them under control for now. She and the sculptor wasted precious seconds, each trying to hand the other up onto the bench. Cursing and shoving the man toward the back, she frowned up at Alred’s worried face.
“Emmi dear – we ought to go.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Caro would meet them later. That was always the back up plan, in case they got separated. Even so, she hesitated before scrambling up.
Bolts flew, flints striking sparks off the cobbles. Her hair stood on end as a failed spell changed the pitch and tone of the fleeing partygoers to something altogether worse. Mindless, instinctual, anything to get away. The rising glow of spreading fire made eerily lit monsters of Starkhaven’s masked nobles. Bending, she produced a handful of velvet-wrapped vials from the hidden space in her false leg.
She still felt grossly under armed, tossing a few smoke bombs to cover their escape. The sculptor suddenly pulled her over the bench and into the wagon bed, leaving wet handprints on her sleeve. A man was slumped forward on the back rail, barely holding on.
“Byrne?” Together, Esme and the fox masked stranger dragged Caro up and in. Crouching bedside him, she pulled off Caro’s mask – he’d busted his lip or his nose or both and was pale as a corpse beneath the gore. Shit, that couldn’t account for all of this. Maker’s tits, she couldn’t see a damn thing …
Esme’s hands skimmed down Caro’s front, finding the bolt by feel. Oh. Her left – his right, ribs palpable above and below. He'd been stuck in the liver.
“Fox man, I need you to press here. Both hands and don’t let go for anything.” She placed his hands on Caro and watched a moment to make sure before crawling back toward the driver. Twenty minutes of solid pressure should slow the bleeding. “Get us back to Harlin’s.” There was nowhere else to go. He would die for sure on the road.
She’d never done surgery in an inn room before. It was hardly ideal – but then, what was? Esme had stopped the bleeding that first sleepless night but she thought it would be some time before Byrne would be well enough to travel. Heaps of coin had changed hands – buying the eponymous Harlin’s silence – and Monsieur Fox had departed with the Dogs.
There was little to do now but wait and clean and watch for fever. Esme rested the back of her hand on Caro’s forehead, studying his bruised face before moving on. She flicked open his shirt to check his wound, a small part of her regretting how she’d challenged and flirted with him in the recent past.
If only because he’d be quite scandalized if he’d been fully conscious.
10-02-2024, 11:56 AM
