P.C. Cast - Burned

She must have seen it in my eyes, because the queen bowed her head, ever so slightly, and then stepped aside.

I walked over to the man she’d called her Guardian. Sweat slicked his muscular chest. He was completely focused on Stark. It seemed he didn’t see or hear anyone else in the room. As he lifted the knife, obviously getting ready to make another cut, the torchlight glinted off a golden bracelet that was fashioned to twist around his wrist. I understood then where the golden thread that had led Stark to me had come from, and I felt a rush of warmth for the queen’s Guardian. I touched his wrist gently, beside the piece of gold, and said, “Guardian, you can stop now. It’s time for him to come back.”

His hand stopped instantly. A tremor went through the Guardian’s body. When he looked at me, I saw that the pupils of his blue eyes were fully dilated.

“You can stop now,” I repeated gently. “And thank you for helping Stark get to me.”

He blinked, and his eyes cleared. His voice was gravelly, and I almost smiled when I recognized the Scottish accent Stark had mimicked for me. “Aye, wumman . . . as yie wish.” He staggered back. I knew that the queen had taken him in her arms, and I could hear her murmuring things to him. I knew other Warriors were in the room, too, and I could feel Aphrodite and Darius watching me—but I ignored them all.

To me, Stark was the only person in the room. The only thing that mattered.

I went to him where he was lying on the stone in his pooling blood. This time the scent of it came to me, and it did affect me. Sweet and heady, it made my mouth water. But it had to stop. Now was not the time for my head to be messed up by Stark’s blood and the desire that lingered in me for it.

I lifted my hand. “Water, come to me.” When the soft dampness of the element surrounded me, I waved my hand over Stark’s bloody body. “Wash this from him.” The element did as I asked, raining gently on him. I watched it clean the blood from his chest, pour over the stone, follow the intricate knotwork all down the sides of the huge boulder and fill the two grooves that cut into the floor on either side of it. Horns, I realized. They remind me of super big horns.

Weirdly enough, when the blood was all washed away, the grooves weren’t white like the rest of the floor. Instead, they shimmered a beautiful, mystical black, reminding me of the night sky.

But I didn’t take time to wonder at the magic I felt there. I went to Stark. His body was clean now. The wounds weren’t bleeding anymore, but they were raw and red. And then I realized what I was seeing and I drew in a deep breath. On each side of Stark’s chest the slash work formed arrows, complete with feathers and pointed, triangular tips. They made a perfect balance to the burned broken arrow over his heart.

I put my hand out then and rested it on top of that scar, the one from the time he’d saved my life—the first time he’d saved my life. I was surprised to find that I still clutched the golden thread. Gently, I lifted Stark’s wrist and wrapped the thread of gold around there. The silky length hardened, twisted, and closed, looking much like the old Guardian’s, except on Stark’s bracelet I could see caved images of three arrows—one of them broken.

“Thank you, Goddess,” I whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

Then I placed my hand over Stark’s heart and leaned down. Just before I pressed my lips to his, I said, “Come back to your queen, Guardian. It’s all over now.” Then I kissed him.

As his eyelids fluttered and opened, I heard Nyx’s musical laughter fill my mind, and her voice saying:

No, daughter, it’s not all over. It’s just beginning . . .