Death of a Darklord by Laurell K. Hamilton

It was Blaine who said, ”It’s not her blood.”
    Konrad didn’t even look up. His healer’s hands still searched for the wound he was sure was there.
    Blaine touched his shoulder. ”She’s not hurt.” Then it was Blaine’s turn to frown at her. ”You aren’t hurt?”

    Elaine looked at Konrad’s serious face, so close, but finally said, ”I don’t think so.”
    Konrad blinked as if just now paying attention. ”You aren’t hurt?” He sounded like he didn’t believe it.
    Elaine wished she were hurt. Some small wound that would bleed a great deal and look more serious than it was. She started to say no, then realized she was. There were lines of dull, burning ache on her cheek, arms, ribs. She raised a hand to her cheek, rubbing at the wolf’s Wood. She gave a soft hiss.
    Konrad turned her head to one side. ”Scratches.” He glanced down at the headless wolf. ”This?”
    ”Yes.”
    His fingers held her chin firmly, but not hard enough to hurt. He poured water on a rag and rubbed the wound, trying to clean it. The rag’s cold water was still warmer than the surrounding air. It stung. ”What happened to the beastie you were chasing?” Thordin asked. ”I lost it in the trees.” He never took his eyes from Elaine, from his work. His concentration was pure; fighting, healing, whatever, he was totally absorbed in it, as he had been in his love for his wife, as he was consumed in grieving for her.
    Elaine realized with an almost physical jolt that the very trait she loved most about Konrad was the one that made him oblivious to her. His grief would live forever, as his love would have.
    She stared into his green eyes, and he did not truly see her. He might never truly see her. That one thought hurt more than any wound. Konrad lifted her arm. The claws had scratched through the cloth here and there.
    It was hard to tell if the wounds bled, for she was covered in wolf blood.
    ”Were you lying under the thing when it was beheaded?” he asked.
    ”Yes.”
    He made an exasperated sound low in his throat. ”Who killed the wolf?” He looked up for the first time.
    ”Blaine?”
    ”It wasn’t me. I was too busy killing my wolf. In fact, after you see to Elaine, I’ve got a bite in my shoulder.”
    ”Is anyone else hurt?” He bent back to Elaine. He’d unlaced her sleeve and was pushing the cloth back to reveal the white undersleeve. He traced the scratches. The cloth had protected her arms for the most part—no deep wounds. ”I’m living a charmed life of late,” Thordin said. ”Two encounters with evil and not a scratch.”
    ”I slew the wolf,” Tereza said.
    Konrad rubbed salve into all the scratches he could find. ”Why did you have to behead the blasted thing on top of her?”
    ”It was about to kill her,” Tereza said. Her voice was warm with the first stirrings of anger. ”If you hadn’t gone off chasing boggles, you might have been here to help.”
    Konrad’s shoulders hunched as if she’d struck him. Elaine stared at him. What was happening? What was he thinking to make that one remark hurt so much? His hands were smoothing salve on her cheek, touching her, the thought was enough. His mind opened to her like a door swinging wide. He’d chased the great beast as though it had slain his wife, though Elaine didn’t understand why. Beatrice hadn’t been killed by wolves of any kind. He felt guilty for leaving them all, for failing them, as he’d failed his wife.
    Why failed?
    His green eyes looked at her at last. They searched her face, seeing her, truly seeing her, as she had always wanted him to. But it was pity, not love. His thoughts filled his eyes like water and spilled into Elaine. She’d swallowed the wolf’s blood. It was no natural wolf, and one way to become a werewolf was to drink the blood of one.
    Elaine stared at him, mouth slowly opening in horror. Her eyes widened. ”No, it wasn’t.”
    The sudden tenderness on Konrad’s face was too much. His pity was