White Heart of Justice by Jill Archer Page A

Instantly it felt like my bones had just been pulverized and turned to dust. If felt like the simple act of moving me off the train had reduced me to nothing more than a sack of skin that Rafe was going to drop in a grave somewhere. My eyes rolled up in my head and I let the darkness take me. My last thought was that Rafe was saying the wrong prayer. Instead of a healing spell, he should have been saying the Final Blessing:
breath to ember, ember to flame, flame to fire, fire to ember, ember to ashes . . .
    *   *   *
    W hen I woke for the third time, I knew I wasn’t dead and likely wouldn’t be anytime soon. But then, the very next moment, I almost wished I was. It hurt
that much
.
    I lay in bed, in a darkened room with log walls, a vaulted ceiling, and a large glass window that overlooked ice-covered evergreens and a blanket of unbroken moonlit snow. Inside, an oil lamp flickered on a small bedside table and beside me, in a large armchair, Rafe slept. For a single moment I wondered if maybe I
had
died. If maybe, in death, I was caught in some vicious never-ending cycle where I would relive the last moments of my life by waking and sleeping and waking again next to the man who’d tried to save me.
    â€œRafe,” I said. My voice was a scary surprise even to me. It sounded as if someone had shot an arrow down my throat, not into my heart.
    Instantly, Rafe was awake. He bolted out of the chair and over to the bed. His eyes weren’t quite as wild as the last time I’d seen them, but they were pretty close. But as soon as his gaze met mine, his expression softened and some of my fear fled. His shoulder-length, straw-colored hair was tangled and clumpy and he had the beginnings of a beard, but he smiled when he saw me.
    â€œFor a while there I was worried you might follow in Crae Ibeimorth’s footsteps.”
    Crae Ibeimorth had been a minor demon, but she was firmly entrenched in the public’s affection. She was the Patron Demon of Sleep. It was said when her lover first kissed her, she swooned and fell into a deep sleep for days. Her lover had finally revived her in a most ungentlemanly way, by throwing a bucket of ice-cold water on her.
    â€œWere you tempted to throw a bucket of water on me?” I said. I laughed then but the pain in my chest brought tears to my eyes and I stopped.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I do know a spell called Bucket of Ice-Cold Water,” he said softly, “but I think you’ve had enough of my spellcasting for now.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked, my voice croaking like a frog’s.
    â€œYou were shot in the chest with an arrow.”
    I wanted to scoff at him but didn’t have the energy. “I know
that
,” I said, coughing. But it came out as a sick-sounding bark. Rafe got up and walked over to a dresser. He poured some water into a glass and came back over. Thankfully, the glass had a straw because sitting up to drink it suddenly seemed like it would be as difficult as hiking to the moon. While I drank, Rafe brought me up to speed.
    Apparently, the arrow had lodged in my chest right next to my heart. There hadn’t been a lot of time to decide what to do, but Rafe, Karanos, and Aurelia had all thought heading straight for Maize was best, so my brother Night could heal me. Karanos contacted Demeter’s monarch via the tribe’s one electro-harmonic machine and then arranged for our unscheduled train trip south.
    During surgery, Night had been able to remove most of the arrow, but he was forced to leave its tiny, barbed tip inside my chest. He suspected the arrow might have been ensorcelled. My brother then stabilized me with waxing magic and I’d been resting ever since. Night was also resting, in the other room, and I’d been here—at Demeter’s springhouse—for a day and a half.
    I breathed an inward sigh of relief. A day and a half meant it was only Wednesday night. I could