Elijah. Jacquelyn Frank

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ it. She fussed long enough to lick clean a stain of Demon blood from her fur, but left the rest of her grooming until later. She stood up to her full height this time as she lightly leapt over the Demon and headed into the depths of the cavern.

      The soft click of her claws on stone heralded her return. She dropped a sack on the floor and then filled a bottle with water from the lake before turning at last to kneel beside him and tend him.

      She ripped his shirt off, what was left of it, even being forced to carefully pull out shredded bits of it from scorched skin. The worst wound, the one over his heart, was already cared for and healing. Clotting and anesthetizing agents were naturally present in Lycanthrope hair. The blood that leaked from the shorn ends of the warm, living tendrils had acted like a disinfectant and a healing balm. However, she could not use her hair for all of his wounds. It would damage her too much. Siena glanced at the raw patch of missing fur on her scalp that had occurred as a result of using what she already had.

      Instead, she satisfied herself with cleansing his cuts and burns with water and dressing them with bandages from a first aid kit she withdrew from the sack. Demons healed very quickly and most of his wounds ought to be gone by evening. But the chest wound would take more time, as would a series of others that pierced his shoulder, hip, and thigh down his right side.

      He had been lanced through with bolts made out of iron in these three wounds, no doubt missiles from crossbows or some other propellant-type weapon. One had gone clear through the muscle of his thigh, but there were metal rods protruding from the other two injuries. Iron burned Demons just by its touch, often scarring and disfiguring them quickly. These invading weapons must be excruciating for him, although, unconscious and in shock as he was, he was hopefully feeling no pain.

      Siena took a small bit of cloth from what was left of the warrior’s shirt and used it to get a better grip on the end of the iron dart protruding from his shoulder. She yanked hard and fast, feeling the tear of his flesh as the barbed tip did more destruction on its way out. The wound was black—amazingly enough, the burn of the iron had pretty much cauterized it—but she had begun fresh bleeding by removing it and now pressed balled pieces of his shirt to it, tying them tightly around for pressure.

      She bathed his entire torso, inspecting every wound and treating them with the herbs and bandages she had brought with her in the sack as she did so. She found herself impressed by his physical fitness. This was naturally true for many of the Nightwalker races. Born with high metabolisms and the innate sense to regulate caloric intake with activity, overweight members of their various species were rare.

      But this, she thought to herself as she traced one golden claw over the defined cut of his right pectoral muscle, this was the body of a being who had trained and honed himself into an artful weapon. He was brawny, yes, but he had the wisdom not to overbuild his stature in a way that would hinder his flexibility and streamlined body movements. She had seen this male move in battle, so quick and lethal, and she remembered it had left her quite breathless with fascination then as well.

      Siena caught herself in the realization and immediately withdrew from the unproductive touch and the sensations that went with it. She turned her attention back to his urgent need of healing. She gently probed the bolt that pierced his hip and found it difficult to determine its placement through the denim he wore. Strangely, the denim amused her.

      This warrior was a strange one. Most of his people wore clothing that reflected the eras they had passed through rather than the era they were in. It was rare to see such a modern fashion gracing one of their bodies. Then again, denim had been around for well over a century, so if the designer label had been removed, it could have easily been excused as being as much of an anachronism as any other Demon clothing.

      Siena reached to unbutton the fly of the pants, tugging a little at the loosened denim in an attempt to see the damage better. Finally, she simply gave in to the inevitable and tore through the tough cloth with razor-sharp claws, stripping him completely. Free to work now, she extracted the second missile and bathed all injuries on his thickly muscled legs. She washed blood out of the hairs that curled over them in a light dusting of gold, using medicaments on the wound burned so deeply into his hip from the poisonous iron.

      These were the wounds that would not heal so quickly. She suspected the wound over his heart had been made by an iron weapon as well. Some sort of archaic mace or morning star, perhaps. Whatever it had been, it had crushed and torn the area, leaving telltale burns, but nothing black enough to indicate a missile that might still be festering and smoldering within the now-closed injury.

      Once she had bathed him completely in the soothing mineral water, anointed and wrapped every wound she could find, and assessed him for ones she perhaps could not see, she took the time to wash his blood from his hair. She felt more relaxed as she did this. The scent that had been so mind-numbingly appealing was thankfully washed into the lake as the water rolled down the stone and back to where it had come from. Beast she may be, but she was one that struggled for her civilization with a singular conscience. If she had not earned that distinction, this weakened and wounded member of his herd would have received something other than help from her.

      When his hair was clean, streaked with a thousand different shades of gold and white and tan now that it was wet, she quickly brushed and licked her own fur clean. When she had finished her ablutions, she once more lifted the Demon into her tired arms and carried him farther back into the cave structure.

      It might have surprised the Demon to find furnishings in this place, but the Lycanthrope Queen had fully expected it. This cavern was the Lycanthrope version of a summer cabin. Actually, a winter retreat was possibly a better term. Lycanthropes were not above hibernation, and so these distant caves deep in the bellies of mountains and earth were often supplied for such things. The furniture was an enigma, perhaps, but one of the effects of civilization was the unabashed preference for living in a great deal of comfort. Even if it meant comfort in the incongruous setting of a cave.

      This cavern belonged to one of the Queen’s advisors, a woman of impeccable taste and the means to see them suited. Siena had been disappointed upon entering the living area to realize Jinaeri had not yet begun to prepare for the coming winter and there were no signs that she had been coming and going recently in order to do so. When the Queen had last held court, Jinaeri had been present and had mentioned she would soon begin those preparations. Siena had hoped to leave the warrior under her care while she fetched help.

      Now she would have to stay and tend to him herself as best she could. She simply could not leave a Demon alone in a Lycanthrope lodging with no protection, no aid. She had no idea how long it took for wounds caused by iron to heal on a Demon. She also knew he had lost so much blood that the healing would be further hindered, if he even yet survived. He was hardly out of danger just because she had dressed his wounds.

      A series of steps carved into the cavern led downward far more safely than the original slope had at the entrance to the cave itself. Plus, this far back everything was cool and dry. She stepped down into the living area, a parlor of soft couches and shelved books. There was a fireplace, the chimney of which probably exited out of the mountainside some distance above them. Siena passed rows of bookshelves draped with fabric to keep the must off them, and headed into the second room. This was the bedroom. On the far wall there was a dark, naturally formed alcove with a large handmade bedstead set within it.

      Siena moved to it and carefully laid her burden down onto the mattress that appeared to be handmade as well, and very likely filled with the softest tick the owner could find. The giant male sank deeply into the soft comfort of it, and she immediately covered him with a quilt from the bottom of the bed to keep the constant chill of these underground caverns off him as he healed. The parlor fireplace backed up to a fireplace in this room, so one could see through into the next room if one was not easily blinded by a blaze.

      She СКАЧАТЬ