(FREE TO READ) Bad Moon

chapter 60; nightmares

Eventually, Jaylinwas wrapped in a towel and carried inside by one of the patrols who'd arrived late to Quentin's call. He would be bathed by the maids so that the clerics could look him over properly, and then he was due for rest. The sentinels were sent off. All but Lizzy, who—being the fastest runner, according to Quentin—was sent off to a clinic in the city to fetch the only cleric he trusted with the situation.

The wounded stayed, but the rest went home. It was strange, the silence that followed after that.

Tisper sat on the edge of the veranda, watching Imani care for the wound in Quentin's shoulder. He'd have to be looked at by the medics as well, but it seemed Imani was all too intrigued by the injury itself to let anyone else sew it up. Matt had retreated to the couch, fallen asleep on Sadie's shoulder—who fell asleep on Alex's shoulder, who fell asleep on one of many of Lisa's decorative throws.And there was only one wolf who remained wolf. Bailey. He'd been resting beside Quentin—loyal, or in love, or just cursed to think he was.

Maybe time passed her by quicker than she realized, but in the blink of an eye, Tisper was the only one still awake with nothing to bide her time. She couldn't sleep—not after tonight. She wasn't sure she'd ever sleep at all. She'd dream of those yellow eyes and that horrible red moon—nightmares that it would be back again tomorrow. That Jaylin would never be free of the curse. That she'd have to hear his agonizing cries again as every bone in his body bent and broke itself to the will of the lichund.

"Take this advice, yeah? Don't think too much. It'll drive ye mad." She blinked up to Felix—to the emerald of his eyes, honest jewels beneath the porch light.

She took the open beer he offered and savored the cold under her fingers. "Whose advice is that?"

"That of a mad man." Felix took a seat beside her, popped off the cap of his own with the quick bunt of his palm. "My own."

Tisper felt too sick to drink, but she held the bottle in her palms. "Who was she? That woman with the black hair?"

"Qamar. Our queen."

"That was your queen? That girl? She looked like she was maybe sixteen. That was who we've spent all this time trying to locate? But she didn't do anything. She didn't give us any kind of resolve. I don't understand—"

"Do admit she's strange," Felix said, "not much for words, but she'll take care of it all."

"And if she doesn't? If Ziya comes back—tomorrow or the next day?"

"Comes back for what? A boy? Because that's all he'll be then."

Tisper inhaled deeply and exhaled louder than she meant to. A thick exhaust of uncertainty.

"Ay," Felix nipped. "Kid's one of us now. Quentin always takes care of his own."

Tisper nodded, though she wasn't sure if it was enough to convince her. If that promise alone would help her sleep tonight. "What about the body?" she asked.

Felix's eyes rose to the mound, hidden beneath a tarp at the far corner of the house. "Men are coming. She'll be gone by morning." Then he tipped back his bottle, and after a deep swig, laughed out a somewhat-drunken chuckle. "That bloody shot you made. A true Hail Mary, by the way." He rose, the bottle dangling from his fingertips. "Remind me never to test you."

And as he left, Tisper couldn't help her smile. She reached for the quill by her feet and plucked an arrow from its basket—the wooden ones Quentin had given her. Traditional, weighty arrows. They felt so right under her grip, and she brought the fletching to her mouth, relished in the ghostly way the feathers kissed her lips.