In the cellar they set up a healing bed, used herbs and incense, covered the mattress in three inches of earth. Once again Raven and Mikhail settled together, her head on his chest, his arms holding her close. Jacques packed the soil beneath her so that it contoured to the curves of her body. They formed a thin blanket of it to lay over them, added a sheet so she would be able to feel the reassuring comfort of cotton against her neck, her face.
“Keep her still, Mikhail,” Jacques encouraged. “The wounds are closing, but she is still losing blood. Not much, and we can give her more blood in a couple of hours.”
Mikhail rested his cheek against her silky head, allowed his eyes to close. “Go feed, Jacques, before you drop,” he murmured wearily.
“I will go when the others return. We will not leave you and your woman unprotected.”
Mikhail stirred as if he might protest, but then a grin tugged at the hard edges of his mouth. “Remind me to take you out back and teach you a lesson or two when I am feeling more myself.” He fell asleep with the sound of Jacques’s laughter in his ears and Raven wrapped tightly in his arms.
Outside, the rain eased to a fine drizzle, and the winds died down, taking the thunderclouds with them. The earth was silent after the series of quakes. Cats and dogs and livestock settled down to their normal behavior. Wild animals sought shelter finally from the storm.
Raven awoke slowly, painfully. Before she opened her eyes, she assessed the situation. She was hurt; she should be dead. She was in Mikhail’s arms, their mental bond stronger than ever. He had dragged her back from death, then offered to let her go—if he went with her. She could hear the sounds of the house creaking over her head, the soothing sound of rain beating a tattoo on the roof, at the windows. Someone moved in the house. If she worked at it, she would be able to figure out exactly who it was and where in the house he was, but it seemed far too much trouble.
Slowly she allowed the horror of what had happened to replay in her head. The trapped woman about to give birth, the ugly fanaticism that led to such brutal murder and insanity. Jacob’s face as he slapped her, ripped her clothing.
Raven’s low cry of alarm brought Mikhail’s arms tighter around her, his chin nuzzling her head. “Do not think of such things. Let me send you back to sleep.”
She curled her fingers against his throat, needing the reassurance of his steady pulse. “No. I want to remember, to get it over.”
His uneasiness was instantaneous. It disturbed her as nothing else could. “You are weak, Raven. You will need more blood, more sleep. Your wounds were very serious.”
She moved then, just shifted her weight slightly. Pain clawed at her. “I couldn’t reach you. I tried, Mikhail, for that woman.”
He brought her fingers to the warmth of his mouth, pressed them there. “Never again, Raven, will I fail you.”
There was more pain in his heart and mind than in her body. “I chose to follow them, Mikhail. I chose to involve myself and help the woman. I knew exactly what those people were capable of. I didn’t just walk into the situation blindly. I don’t blame you; please don’t think you failed me.” It was such an effort to talk. She wanted to sleep, wanted the blessed oblivion of a numb mind and body.
“Let me send you to sleep,” he whispered softly, his voice a caress, his mouth brushing across her fingers an added enticement.
Raven swallowed her assent; she would not be a coward. How could she possibly still be alive? How? She remembered the terrible moment when Jacob’s hands had clawed at her breasts. Unclean. Her skin crawled at the memory. She wanted to scrub until she had no skin. His face, so evil, maniacal, malevolent. Every tearing stab a mortal wound.
The storm, the earthquakes, lightning, thunder. Wolves leaping at the Summerses, at Hans. How did she know, see it in her mind so clearly? Jacob’s face dissolving into fear, his eyes wide with terror, a knife protruding from his throat. Why wasn’t she dead? How did she know everything?