The Keep: The Watchers (28 page)

“Don’t get mad at
me
,” I told him. “If you didn’t want to row me out here, you didn’t have to.”

He raised his brows. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. It’s so.”

He was grimly quiet as he rowed on, giving me ample time to consider his reaction. I’d threatened to take the boat out myself, and he believed he had no other choice but to help me. The bigness and trueness of that impulse sank in. Blew me away.

I’d need to be more careful—I didn’t have enough friends left to be risking them so.

Back in sight of Crispin’s Cove, Ronan once again dragged the oars along the water’s surface, pulling us to a stop. The boat bobbed, and he waited, but I didn’t budge. Our eyes met in a moment’s standoff. He really was going to make me do deep-water exercises.

I huffed. “Fine.”

I reached for a mask, but he stayed my hand. “No,” he said.

“No?” I curled my fingers more tightly around the plastic.

“You were studying the sea gate.”

“The what?” I asked in my best innocent voice.

He only shook his head and snatched the mask from my hand. “No mask.” He met my eyes again, only this time he was the one with the feigned innocence. “You’re the one who wants difficult conditions, Annelise. I’m simply preparing you for ‘difficult conditions.’”

I had to laugh despite myself. “Touché.”

But my agreement didn’t mean acquiescence. In a moment of defiance, I heaved my weight as I stood, making the boat lurch, and bit back a grin to see Ronan startle and grab the side against the sudden rocking. But I was enjoying it a bit too much and, stupidly disregarding the wound in my belly, I flung myself over
the side in a way that’d create maximum splash. As I hit the water, I knew instantly I’d done wrong. The fragile seam in my skin tore open further, and salt water slashed like a blade, searing into my tender flesh like I was being stabbed all over again.

I could barely get my head above the surface before I hissed and curled into the pain. Salt in my wound was like a hot brand, and I had to grit my teeth and pant away the pain. “Whoa,” I said as I finally caught my breath. I shook my head, releasing a weird adrenaline-charged sound that was half sob, half laugh. “Holy crap.” I opened my eyes, but Ronan wavered in my vision, so I wiped away tears and then laughed for real, seeing the expression on his face. “What are you looking at?”

“Get out,” he said.

“What?” Mindlessly, I massaged my side, feeling my smile fade.

“Get out of the water.” He reached a demanding hand down to me.

“I just got in.” I shoved away. I’d have loved to get back in the boat, but I needed to buy time—I didn’t think I’d be able to exert myself again without bringing on a fresh wave of agony. My wound was pounding. I was certain I was bleeding into my suit. Were there sharks here? Could they sense blood through my thick neoprene armor?

Normally, I would’ve healed by now. But
normally
, I’d have been taking Carden’s blood. I’d been sneaking extra shots of the drink when I could, but if I were to survive at this pace, it was clear I’d need to up my dosage even more.

Ronan stretched his hand farther. “Annelise,” he said sternly.

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Then that’s your prerogative.” He scanned the horizon with
a nonchalant shrug. “How many sharks do you reckon are in the North Sea this time of year? As I understand it, they prefer the colder waters.”

Two quick scissors kicks, and I whooshed back to the side of the boat, my extended hand begging for a pull up. “You win.”

The look on his face was pretend bafflement. “What’s that you say?”

“Ronan. Help me up.” I began to haul myself over and grimaced at a fresh stab of pain. “Please.”

His hands were under my arms in an instant, lifting me back into the boat. “Jesus, Ann.”

My wound had really torn back open now, and I crumpled onto the bench, doubled over. “Stop calling me that.”

“All right, then,” he said stiffly. “Just tell me, what did you do this time?”

“
I
didn’t do anything.”

“Take off your suit.” He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I flinched away. “
Ronan
. I’m not that kind of girl.” I chuffed a little laugh, trying to rid myself of the feeling that I might vomit at any moment.

“This is no laughing matter, Annelise.”

I glanced up. He wasn’t smiling. “How did you know I was bleeding?”

“I’ve seen you burnt, broken, and near death. You’re as stoic as they come.” He helped me sit up. “Your eyes, they went distant…. I’ve seen it happen but once before.”

He was referring to my fight with Lilac—that had to be it. Then, I’d longed to get as far from my charred body as I could. “It’s not nearly that bad.” I blew out a breath, regaining my composure.

“I can tell you’re injured.”

I sighed. “It’s not that big a deal.” And it was true—now that I was out of the water, the pain was not as bad, though the wet, salt-soaked suit chafed something terrible.

“Then it won’t be a big deal for you to show me.”

He was right: It wasn’t a big deal. I wore a swimsuit, the two-piece I always wore under my wetsuit. The top covered me more than a jog bra would. So then why did it feel like a big deal?

“Can’t we just head back?” I hedged.

“Annelise.” His tone told me that, no, we couldn’t.

“Fine.” I stretched up to unzip the back, and hissed as the movement tore some other part of my flesh open.

“Stop.” He snatched my elbow, halting me in midair. “What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Then show me.” He waved his hand, ordering me to turn, so he could do my zipper.

I presented him my back, and the next sounds came loudly to me. There was the rip of Velcro, the crisp snick of the chunky, plastic zipper. The thud of my heart in my ears.

I turned back around and pulled my arms free of the suit. It was a single, fluid movement, torquing my body, but I welcomed the pain now. Anything to stop this feeling of hyper-self-awareness.

Before, Ronan had been my teacher and
only
my teacher. By the time our friendship had deepened, Carden was in the picture.

Carden, who loomed so large in my heart. Hell, he loomed in my
bloodstream
.

Carden and any breathless thoughts of Ronan were completely mutually exclusive.

But where was Carden now?

I knew where Ronan was. He was right here, helping me. Making my pulse hop in a way that had me woozy. A little woozy and a lot confused.

I still didn’t get
why
Ronan was here. Or where Carden had gone. Or why he’d gone.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around any of it. So I didn’t. Instead, I went through the motions, watching Ronan—and me with Ronan—as though from afar. Trying to figure out what on earth was going on. He was looking at my belly,
hmm
ing and poking. A fresh zing of pain brought me back quick enough.

I flinched away. “Easy.”

He ignored me…of course. “The salt water would be painful—”

I shifted away to give him a good glare. “You think?”

“Aye.” As he knelt closer, he tried to hide his smirk, but I spotted it. “The salt burns, but it has antibacterial properties.” He poked and prodded a bit more, testing the edges of the gash, pushing together, pressing down.

“Ow.” I hated the tone of my voice, but something about this blatant attention made me peevish. I didn’t care about my injury. I didn’t want to hear about it. I wanted him to explain what he was doing, like, in a fundamental way. “Do you have to do that?”

“It needs to close back up. How well did you clean this?”

“I cleaned it.” As best I could, stealing solitary moments in the girls’ room without anyone seeing. People seeing me with bruises was one thing, but I’d become very secretive about anything that might betray a weakness. I could’ve gone to the infirmary—there was such a thing—but seeking help was yet
another way to mark yourself as vulnerable. We studied combat medicine for this very reason. We were trained to be tough. To endure extreme conditions. Extreme pain. We should be tending our wounds ourselves.

I wouldn’t need to be tending my wounds if
Carden
were around. I felt a flicker of resentment and snatched on to it. Anger was so much easier than loneliness or sadness. I pushed Ronan’s hand aside and felt around the wound. It was cool. Not swollen. “It’s not infected.”

“Keep direct pressure on it.” He put my hands over my belly, then took my shoulders and guided me off my seat. “Move.” He opened the bench storage and began digging through. “You need to keep it dressed.” He pulled out a first-aid kit—it looked ancient, the red plastic box faded almost pink—and fished through it till he found a yellowed roll of gauze and a sterile cotton pad. “Hands up.” His voice was devoid of emotion as he staunched the wound with the cotton and began to wind the ribbon of gauze around and around my belly.

A silence followed, and it became unbearable. With nothing more clever to say, I finally told him, “Thanks.”

Weak. Lame.

“You should’ve just told me,” he said flatly. “You didn’t have to do this today. Why do you continually insist on putting yourself in harm’s way?” His hands stilled on my belly. “Have you ever once considered telling me the truth without hesitation?”

“I tell you the truth all the time,” I protested.

He looked up and pierced me with those green eyes.

“
Most
of the time,” I amended. “Think about it, Ronan. If I told you I wanted to get a look at that gate, you would’ve hidden the oars and made me swim out here myself.”

He’d been fighting it, but a reluctant smile finally quirked one corner of his mouth. “Probably true.”

“And, anyway, you were right to challenge me.”

The other corner of his mouth curled until it became an actual symmetrical smile. He tied off the gauze. “Indeed?”

My eyes swept past him as I considered, taking in the vast sea. It was the color of a spilled inkpot. Or a bruise.

But not the sky. The sky was so bled of color, the white band of the horizon seemed barely able to touch down.

My gaze returned to Ronan. Drawn to him, as I’d been drawn on that first day we met. He’d been an anchor for me since I’d arrived. “I needed this now more than ever,” I told him.

Little did he know, my words referred to so much more than swimming.

I
needed to get into that sea gate. Tom had said boats pull up to unload. Surely it wasn’t just vampires and Trainees who used it. I doubted those vampires did anything so banal as unload cargo. I had a great big picture in my head of Master Dagursson hauling crates like a dockworker.

Not.

Surely they had cooks and maids and scullions and whomever else people employed in castles. I thought of the vampires I’d seen on the other island. They had an army of servants. I didn’t believe these vamps mopped their own floors. Someone did it for us girls; someone had to be doing it for them, too. And that vampires’ keep was way bigger than any Acari dorm—they had to employ dozens of someones.

Villagers. It had to be villagers.

I thought of the few I’d met. It was village men who managed the airstrip. Villagers who’d ferried us to the other island. They
had to have villagers who helped in the castle, too. How did they enter? I doubted they sashayed through the front door.

Good old Tom. He’d know. Which is how I ended up poking around the Draug pens, but he was nowhere to be seen. The Draug were there, though, snarling and moaning in their cages as I neared. It must’ve been the scent of my healing wound. I pulled off my gloves, and something about winter’s bite helped me clear my head. Staved off the fear. It must’ve worked, because the Draug made no more than those basic complaints.

My feet crunched through day-old snow as I searched all over, but there was no sign of Tom. Could he be out feeding the animals? He had goats—apparently, their blood was enough to keep the Draug sated—and he kept a paddock of them behind his cottage. I didn’t know what was involved in keeping livestock. Did he have to exercise them? Take them someplace for milking? I’d grown up in suburban Florida—how should I know?

I wandered to the paddock, climbing onto the fence for a bird’s-eye view, but there was no sign of anyone.

No sign, that is, until Toby appeared. I hopped down and instinctively grabbed a long-handled tool that’d been leaning against the fence. “Hey.”

My farm boy. Toby-the-Trainee. My assignment. He looked as perplexed as I felt. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I could ask the same of you.” I tightened my grip on the wooden handle, grateful I’d already removed my gloves. My hands were growing numb, but if it came to a fight, numbed fingers were a lot more nimble than gloved ones.

He didn’t attack, though. He just gave me a dopey smile. “You look like a witch.”

“Huh?” I glanced at my impromptu weapon. It was an old pitchfork, with three long, thin, rusted prongs.

“Holding that dung fork,” he said. “You look like a witch.” His tone was easy, not aggressive at all. Was this a trick? Was my dim farmhand actually a conniving supergenius who was fooling me into dropping my guard?