The Wicked Born

Chapter 15

Dacre's eyes fluttered open for the first time in what felt like days, although the invisible weights that bogged down his eyelids protested angrily against this action. His eyesight was blurry, and his blood pumped furiously in his veins as he rose from where he must have fallen asleep. Tabitha's concerned face loomed over him, the red Mark on her temple crinkled in one of her few outward displays of worry. He searched around, trying to piece together the events that took place shortly before he ended up where he laid then.

"What is going on?" His voice was raspy with lack of drink and usage. Lack of remembrance scattered his mind.

The surrounding scenery looked the same as he'd last remembered it--the mares grazed the surrounding grasslands, a long since-used campfire lay forgotten in the middle of the site, wool blankets were strewn on the ground for sleeping. It didn't go unnoticed that one of them lay perfectly straight, as if it hadn't been used at all. Recollection of an explosive fight with Tabitha crowded the forefront of his mind, followed by a swift and all-consuming confusion when he remembered that they were supposed to leave immediately afterward.

Why hadn't we left yet?  Dacre thought in a daze.

Dacre's curious green gaze finally fell on the piled bodies of the wolf-like creatures that were stacked near the edge of the clearing. A shudder ran up and down his spine as he scrambled away from the strewn-out bodies on his hands and quickly got to his feet. All memories that were a blur moments ago came back in drowning rush. He remembered everything.

The attack. Tabitha being injured. Tackling the one that was sure to kill Tabitha while she was attacking another. The creature's jaws clamping down on his throat. Hearing his own bones snap in protest of the action. Tabitha's terror-filled eyes as she forced something richly-tasting down his throat, all while desperately whispering something in a language he didn't recognize and couldn't even begin to understand.

Dacre's mind spun as he quickly raised his hands to his throat to check that it was still, indeed, intact. He was utterly shocked when his calloused palms met smooth skin--not a single scratch or inkling of blood remained from the attack. He began to sputter out an incoherent string of words, trying to ask them what the hell had happened when Tabitha took a timid step toward him, her palms upward in an attempt to show that she was of no threat. His chest burned quickly with the idea that she thought Dacre's fear was geared toward her. It was only then that he noticed the rag tied tightly around her forearm--a make-shift bandage of sorts--that was soaked through and through with her own witchly blood. Why hadn't her wounds healed themselves yet? he wondered.

"I have some explaining to do. We need to talk." Her voice was calm, but he thought he could hear a small and barely recognizable underlying tone of nerves in her words. He simply nodded vigorously in response, not trusting his voice or his brain to produce any worthwhile response.

"Alone," she said in a curt tone, all warmth from her voice lost as she cast a glare over her shoulder where their other two companions lingered.

Ellias sent her a look full of loathing, the deep frown his typically-handsome features a stark contrast against his mocha-colored skin. He grumbled something that Dacre didn't quite pick up on but made Tabitha growl in response. He slowly walked away with his shoulders slumped, a look of defeat marring his face until he was out of sight.

Dacre hadn't paid much attention to Laurel until the moment when he realized that her eyes were rimmed with a redness that could only mean she'd spent the majority of the time recently crying. She eyed Tabitha warily, still sniffling lightly from her previous fit of grief, before finally deciding to simply turn and follow Ellias to where he'd taken off into the woods. It only occurred to Dacre after she'd gone that he should have checked to make sure that she was okay. That was what best friends do, right?