I took a step forward, squinting to focus, and thought the lump was more fleshy than furry. Several more steps and it started to take a more pronounced shape. A heel, toes, half covered in a torn wool sock. One I had washed, one I knew.

I was in a full run then, reaching the foot quickly and finding the rest of Jamie attached to it. He was stretched out along the ground on his left side, one leg elongated while the other was bent closer to his middle. Arms cupped up around his head, his shoulders shaking, his mouth muttering incoherently.

I fell to my knees beside him. “Jamie!”

He gave no indication that he’d heard me. His clothes were torn, body bloody under a tattered shirt and slacks. Several large gashes ran the length of his curled leg. His blood had soaked the ground.

How much had he lost?

“Jamie,” I said again, and reached out my fingers to brush his shoulder.

He shrank away, face tucked in the crook of his elbow as though deeply ashamed.

I grabbed his shoulder, keeping my touch tender. “Jamie, it’s me. It’s Grace.”

He was shivering and mumbling. I took his wrist and gently pulled at his arm, needing to see his face, hushing him when he objected.

“It’s okay, Jamie, it’s all going to be okay. I’m here now.” I spoke through sniffled tears.

He was stiff, but he moved. The moment his arm cleared his face, my heart dropped. The right side of his face was deep purple, swollen and badly bruised. A gash ran the length of his other cheek. Dirt and dried grass stuck to bloody areas. Dried mucus and saliva caked his swollen, trembling lips.

“Oh, Jamie,” I whispered.

He squinted up through puffy eyes. Recognition flashed in his gaze, and he began to weep. Deep and mournful sobs shook his whole body. He reached for me and pulled his head onto my thighs, clutching me like a frightened child.

The rules of what constituted proper contact between a man and a woman, woven into the very fabric of my mind, meant nothing to me in that moment. This broken brother laying his head in my lap stirred a powerful instinct that I refused to fight. So I wrapped myself around him and held him close. I whispered kind words as he wept and trembled in my arms. And in his muttering a single phrase came through. A phrase he repeated over and over.

“They’re real. They’re real. The Fury are real.”

Chapter
Eight

JAMIE AND I REMAINED ON THE FOREST FLOOR, tucked behind the trees, for a full hour. He finally started to calm, and as he did I helped him into a sitting position.

His injuries seemed primarily external—dozens of minor cuts and bruises—but he’d also received two gashes. We needed to get back to Haven Valley.