Chapter 30 Cookies And Blood
Morning crept into the infirmary pale and reluctant, the kind of light that slipped through cracks in the shutters and apologized for existing. Frost feathered every windowpane, and the air smelled of bitter herbs, warm water, and the faint sweetness of honey cakes.
Mira sat on a low stool beside Alberto’s cot, wringing out a linen cloth in a bowl of steaming water. The cloth dripped softly as she lifted it, folded it once, and laid it across Alberto’s brow. He lay on fresh sheets for the first time in weeks, skin still too pale, ribs too sharp beneath the blanket, but his breathing had steadied and the worst of the silver burns had begun to scab. The bond thrummed quietly between him and the tower room above, a silver thread stretched taut yet unbroken.
She worked gently, wiping dried blood from his collarbones, tracing the path of faded black veins with the warm cloth. Every touch was careful, as though he might shatter. He watched her with the one eye that still opened fully, exhaustion softening the sharp edges of his face.
The door opened without a knock.
Samael filled the doorway, broad shoulders brushing both sides of the frame. Snow still clung to his boots and the hem of his cloak. In one huge hand he carried a small cloth-wrapped bundle that smelled of cinnamon and warm ovens. He crossed the room in three strides and crouched beside the cot, armor creaking.
“I brought these,” he said gruffly, unfolding the cloth to reveal six honey cakes studded with nuts. “Cook said they were your favorite when you were small.”
Alberto stared at the cakes, then at Samael, as though the sight of the gamma playing delivery boy was more astonishing than anything else that had happened in the past month.
“I am… better,” he managed, voice rough from disuse. “Thank you.”
Samael set the bundle on the bedside table and stayed crouched, forearms resting on his knees. His gaze flicked to the empty sleeve where his own cloak had been cut away the night before, then back to Alberto.
“When will Fernando wake?” he asked, quieter now.
Mira wrung out the cloth again, water pattering into the bowl.
“When his wolf decides the fight is worth finishing,” she said. “The poison is almost gone from Alberto. What remains is stubbornness on both sides. Fernando’s body could rise tomorrow or next moon. The bond listens to will now, not medicine.”
Samael grunted, a sound that might have been acceptance or frustration. He reached out as though to ruffle Alberto’s hair, then thought better of it and let his hand fall.
Mira watched him with a small, knowing smile. She rose, dried her hands on her apron, and nudged Samael’s shoulder with two fingers, playful and light.
“Look at you,” she teased. “Big bad gamma who swore he would drag this boy to the cells in chains, bringing him honey cakes and asking after his health. And cutting off Elder Torin’s arm in front of half the pack. The laws say that is death, you know.”
Samael flinched at the nudge, a sharp intake of breath he tried to hide behind a scowl. His hand went instinctively to his left side, pressing just beneath the ribs.
“I was protecting the Alpha,” he muttered. “The bond makes them one. Hurt the boy, hurt Fernando. Simple.”
He stood abruptly, turning toward the door.
Mira’s eyes narrowed. She stepped around him and caught the edge of his cloak before he could leave.
“Hold still.”
She tugged the fabric aside. A dark stain had spread across the linen beneath his armor, widening with every heartbeat.
“You are bleeding,” she said, voice suddenly sharp.
Samael tried to shrug her off. “It is nothing. Darius and I sparred at dawn. He got lucky.”
Mira’s fingers were already working the buckles of his leather jerkin, pulling it open despite his protests. The linen shirt beneath clung wetly to his skin. She peeled it away and revealed a clean, deep slice just below the ribs, edges gaping like a red mouth.
“This is no practice cut,” she said quietly. “This is a dagger wound. Narrow. Deliberate. Someone meant to kill you slowly.”
Samael’s jaw tightened. “I said we sparred with daggers. He was angry. I let him win a round.”
Mira gave him a long look that said she believed exactly none of it. She pushed him down onto the stool with surprising strength.
“Sit. Shirt off.”
He obeyed, grumbling, peeling the ruined linen over his head. The wound ran four inches long, ugly and weeping. Blood still seeped in slow pulses.
Alberto watched from the cot, eyes wide. Samael avoided his gaze.
Mira threaded a bone needle with gut string, dipped it in strong spirits, and began stitching with the same calm precision she used on every battlefield she had ever walked. Samael hissed once when the needle first pierced skin, then sat silent, staring at the far wall while she worked.
“You should have come to me immediately,” she scolded under her breath. “If this had nicked an organ you would be dead by now.”
“Would have saved everyone trouble,” Samael muttered.
Mira tied off the last knot and bit the thread. She pressed a thick pad of moss and honey over the stitches and bound it tight with clean linen.
“There. Try not to tear my work before supper.”
Samael rose, pulling his jerkin back on with careful movements. He gave Alberto a short nod, almost shy, then headed for the door.
Before he reached it, the door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall.
A young border guard stood panting in the frame, face white with shock.
“Healer Mira! Lord Samael!” he gasped. “Elder Corvin has called the council! Elder Torin is dead! Murdered! They found him at dawn in the old mill, pinned to the floor with a sword through the heart!”
The honey cakes sat forgotten on the bedside table.
Blood from Samael’s fresh stitches seeped slowly through the bandage, a dark flower blooming beneath his ribs.
Mira’s needle clattered to the floor.
And somewhere high in the north tower, Fernando’s fingers twitched against the quilt as though reaching for a sword that was no longer there.