Jonathan swore and stormed out of the bedroom. When he returned, he held a plastic bag full of ice, along with a washcloth.

Hæra gingerly held the ice to her wrist. The sharp cold, which normally wouldn’t trouble her, stung. It should slow the swelling, at least.

Madeleine had ibuprofen in the bathroom, but human medicine never had much of an effect on Hæra. That wasn’t the only difference, though. After she’d washed up on Jorsay, Jonathan had hustled her out of the doctor’s office as quickly as possible, but Sue Kilbright had noticed how fast she’d begun to heal.

While Hæra held the ice bag, Jonathan wiped Asgall’s blood from her face. Then he looked at the red-black smears on the cloth without saying anything.

“That night, you asked me if I was in love with Madeleine,” Hæra said. “You asked if it could happen so quickly to my kind.”

Jonathan closed his eyes. His face screwed up as if he were about to weep.

“Did you...” He’d told Hæra that, on their last day together, Asgall had taken on human form. “Did you and he…”

“Don’t,” Jonathan choked. “Fuck’s sake, don’t ask, or I’ll go as far as I need to for a drink.”

By now, she knew Jonathan better than to take that as a yes, as it might have been for another human. He might mean yes, he and Asgall had lain together on that day. He might mean no, and the possibility now was too much for him to bear.

They sat together in silence. Hæra could think of nothing to say as Jonathan’s shoulders rose and fell unevenly while he kept his eyes shut. His lips pressed together. A tear crept from the corner of his eye and ran down his weathered cheek into his beard.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Sorry for everything he did.”

“Don’t say that either. The hell do you know about it?” Jonathan dashed a hand across his face and wiped the tear away. He sniffled and coughed.

Fair question. Hæra knew little, only that Asgall had hurt Jonathan for decades—Jonathan had said he’d ruined his life—and she couldn’t risk doing the same thing to Madeleine. She couldn’t give Jonathan his life back, but she could spare the other person she loved from sharing his fate.

“You should have left me to him,” she said. “Now he’ll return and put you in danger.”

“He was hurt too.” Jonathan cleared his throat and looked at the gun again. “Next time, I’ll—I’ll be able to do it.” The promise seemed to lack conviction. “And if he waits long enough, you’ll be well enough to help me. Let’s clean you up.”