"You barely know me at all," Diana said. I shouldn't be affected by his words. I shouldn't want this. But she did, in a way she had tried to bury long ago.
"I saw who you are in your eyes the night I came to the Institute," said Gwyn. "Your bravery."
"Bravery," echoed Diana. "The kind that kills demons, yes. Yet there are many kinds of bravery."
His deep eyes flashed. "Diana-"
But she was on her feet, walking to the edge of the glade, more for the relief of movement than anything else. Gwyn's horse whinnied as she neared it, backing away.
"Be careful," Gwyn said. He had risen, but was not following her. "My Wild Hunt horses can be uneasy around women. They have little experience with them."
Diana paused for a moment, then stepped around the horse, giving it a wide berth. As she neared the edge of the wood, she caught a flash of something pale out of the corner of her eye.
She moved closer, realizing suddenly how vulnerable she was, here in the open without her weapons, wearing only pajamas. How had she agreed to this? What had Gwyn said to convince her?
I saw who you are.
She pushed the words to the back of her mind, reaching a hand out to steady herself on the slender trunk of a linden. Her eyes saw before her mind could process: a bizarre sight, a circle of blasted nothingness in the center of Brocelind. Land like ash, trees burned to stumps, as if acid had charred away everything living.
"By the Angel," she whispered.
"It is blight." Gwyn spoke from behind her, his big shoulders taut with tension, his jaw set. "I have seen this before only in Faerie. It is the mark of a great dark magic."
There were burned places, white as ash, like the surface of the moon.
Diana gripped the tree trunk harder. "Take me back," she said. "I need to return to Alicante."
21
THE EYE UNCLOSED
Mark sat on the edge of his bed, examining his wrist. The wound that wrapped it appeared darker, crusted with blood at the edges, and the bruises that radiated out from it shaded from deep red to purple.
"Let me bandage it," Kieran said. He sat on the nightstand, his feet half pulled up under him. His hair was tangled and he was barefoot. It looked as if a wild creature had alighted on some piece of civilization: a hawk balancing on the head of a statue. "At least let me do that for you."
"Bandaging it won't help," Mark said. "Like Magnus said-it won't heal until the spell's off."
"Then do it for me. I cannot bear looking at it."
Mark looked at Kieran in surprise. In the Wild Hunt, they had seen their fair share of injuries and blood, and Kieran had never been squeamish.
"There are bandages in there." Mark indicated the drawer of the nightstand. He watched as Kieran hopped down and retrieved what he needed, then returned to the bed and to him.
Kieran sat down and took Mark's wrist. His hands were clever and capable, blunt-nailed, calloused from years of fighting and riding. (Cristina's hands were calloused, too, but her wrists and fingertips were smooth and soft. Mark remembered the feel of them against his cheek in the faerie grove.)
"You are so distant, Mark," Kieran said. "Further from me now than you were when I was in Faerie and you were in the human world."
Mark looked steadfastly at his wrist, now wrapped in a bracelet of bandage. Kieran tied the knot expertly and set the box aside. "You can't stay here forever, Kier," Mark said. "And when you go, we will be separated. I can't not think about that."
Kieran gave a soft, impatient noise and flopped down on the bed, among the sheets. The blankets were already flung onto the floor. With his black hair tangled against the white linen, his body sprawled out with no regard for human modesty-his shirt had ridden up to the bottom of his rib cage, and his legs were flung wide apart-Kieran looked even more of a wild creature. "Come with me, then," he said. "Stay with me. I saw the look on your face when you saw the horses of the Hunt. You would do anything to ride again."
Suddenly furious, Mark leaned down over him. "Not anything," he said. His voice throbbed with low anger.
Kieran gave a slight hiss. He caught at Mark's shirt. "There," he said. "Be angry with me, Mark Blackthorn. Shout at me. Feel something."
Mark stayed where he was, frozen, just above Kieran. "You think I don't feel?" he said, incredulously.
Something flickered in Kieran's eyes. "Put your hands on me," he said, and Mark did, feeling helpless to stop himself. Kieran clutched at the sheets as Mark touched him, pulling at his shirt, snapping the buttons. He moved his hands over Kieran's body, as he had done on countless nights before, and a slow flame began in his own chest, the memory of desire becoming the immediate present.