Page 83 of The Artist and the Dragon

That seemed to snap her out of her stupor. “I’m fine.” She tried to pull her arm away, but he held tight. “Please, you’re much worse than me.”

True. The wound was agonizing, and he’d lost more blood than he cared to think about, but she was his priority. “Not until I heal you first.”

“Malik—” She squirmed in his grip to no avail.

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” He tsked. “This will only take a moment.”

“Why do you?” she countered with a scowl.

“Perhaps I just enjoy getting under your skin.” He used the blood from her wound to trace the healing pattern across her arm.

She frowned but stopped wiggling. “Like a damn splinter.”

“Mmm,” he acknowledged, quickly painting the spell again and watching it sink into her skin. “And even harder to get rid of.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“I think you like my particular brand of prodding, and may like another kind I could show you even more.”

She snapped her head up, eyes wide. A deep flush raced to her cheeks. “Malik!”

The smile on his lips died. Her blood had vanished, but the wound failed to close, the angry red line still running across her forearm.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It … failed.” He shook his head, dumbfounded. “The spell didn’t… It took, but it did not heal you.”

“It’s really no problem,” she said, jerking her arm away successfully this time. “Please, focus on yourself. You’re ruining the rug, and Wynni is already going to kill us both for this mess.”

He did need to do something about it. “Fine. But I need to get this jacket off first.” It would be hard to work the spell through the tattered slit in his clothing.

Bronwyn hopped to her feet immediately. “Here, let me help.”

“So eager to undress me?”

She swatted his healthy arm. “I swear, if you weren’t injured…”

Malik stifled a laugh at the frustration in her voice. Then he gritted his teeth in pain as he rolled up the sleeve of his once-white—now heavily stained crimson—shirt.

Bronwyn gasped, then under her breath muttered, “Idiot. Never thinking of yourself.” He thought he might see the sheen of tears in her eyes but couldn’t be sure, and she wouldn’t quite look at him then.

Just as well. It gave him a moment to work the healing designs on his own arm. Once again, they faded into the mess of his arm, but the soothing wave of relief he expected didn’t come. “Fuck.”

Bronwyn gaped. “It didn’t work on you, either?”

It was then he recalled the sheen on the blade Lord Lewis had wielded. “There was something on the blade I was stuck with. It may have been rubbed with oil infused with the diaval plant. It’s a rare weed. Powerful, if you know what you’re doing. It would be enough to block the use of magic on the area it touched for a short time.” Long enough for someone to bleed out if the wound were bad enough, which was likely exactly what the dragons had had in mind.

Either they were being overly prepared and willing to waste precious resources, or they had expected someone to try to stop them. The latter notion sent a chill of foreboding creeping down his spine.

“We need to get you help at once!” Bronwyn tried to gently steer him to the door.

“You are worried about me,” he all but crooned.

She wacked his good arm again—more lightly this time. “You know I am. Wynni must have a medic on hand somewhere,” she mused.

“I have a salve at my apartment that should counter this.” He’d stored some away years ago, worried that his father might think to teach him a lesson using the diaval plant. He hadn’t needed it then, thank the Goddess. “I’ll treat myself and bring some to the castle for you. I’m sure you’ll want to check on your sister just in case she…”

The energy seemed to go out of her all at once, and she looked at the ground.

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