Aria Blackwing's Arc

Chapter 6 of 24

The knock came near midnight. Not a knock. A weight, dragging along the outer wall of the cabin. Aria sat up under the black blanket she had thrown over her shoulders by the hearth. The owl was awake in its basket, eyes wide, head turning toward the sound. Derek was already on his feet. He pulled the knife from his boot in one motion. The rainbow-banded grip caught the firelight. He crossed to the door and lifted the bar an inch, listening. "It's circling," he said. "Same side as before." Aria pushed the blanket off and stood. "I'll come with you." "No." He turned. His voice stayed low, but it did not bend. "Stay with the bird. Bar the door behind me. If I call, you keep it shut." "Derek—" "I mean it." He softened. "You built this place for hurt things. Not for you to bleed on the porch. Let me look." She wanted to argue. She did not. She nodded once. He lifted the bar the rest of the way and slipped out. The door thudded shut. She dropped the bar into its brackets. Then she stood in the middle of the room and listened. Her heart went faster than the fire. She pressed a hand flat to her chest and felt it hammer under the wool of her dress. She had been afraid before, in this cabin, many nights. This was different. This fear had his name on it. She counted his footsteps around the wall. One side. The back. She lost them past the woodpile. The owl made a small sound. She reached into the basket and steadied a finger against its warm feathers without looking. Outside, a branch cracked. Something heavy shifted in the brush. Then a low, wet growl, close enough to shake the shutter. Derek shouted. Not a scream. A command, thrown at the animal. She heard him strike something. A hard grunt. A second crack. Then quiet. She was at the bar with both hands on it before she stopped herself. He had told her to keep it shut. She kept it shut. Her palms shook against the wood. "Derek," she called. A pause. Then his voice, ragged. "I'm here. Open up." She threw the bar. He stepped in, breathing hard. His sleeve was torn at the shoulder. Blood ran down his forearm and dripped from the knife. Not much. His own, she saw. A gash, not deep. "I cut it," he said. "Across the flank. It ran." She pulled him to the hearth and pushed him onto the stool. She reached for the linen and salve without thinking. Her hands finally stopped shaking once they had work to do. "You're hurt," she said. "I'm fine." "You're not fine. You're bleeding in my kitchen." He laughed, a small broken sound. She did not laugh back. She pressed the cloth to his arm and understood, with her hand on him, that the sanctuary she wanted to build now had two patients she could not bear to lose.