His grin flashed, though that spark of annoyance gleamed once more in his eyes. “Gwen was doing perfectly fine by herself.”
“Gwen’s barely out of her deathbed.”
She stepped off the rock and splashed toward us. Her wall shone behind her, a haze of magic so complex and powerful it momentarily left me speechless. A couple of minor threads of magic remained tangled around her fingers, but they had a very different intent to the wall.
When she was close enough, she cast them toward Max. Oddly enough, he didn’t seem to notice.
I resisted the temptation to follow their progress, not wanting to draw his attention to them, and kept my gaze on Mo. Her cheeks were sunken and her skin an odd gray color; she really did look like death warmed up. And though I knew she’d recover quickly enough, it nevertheless sent a chill through me. I didn’t want to lose her and, for the first time in a long time, I realized that was a definite possibility. She might have a god gene, but that didn’t make her immortal.
“Hey,” Max retorted. “You and Gwen were the ones who told me to keep my head down and lie low. Don’t pile shit on me for obeying.”
“I wasn’t talking about recent events,” Mo said, “but now is neither the time nor the place to be arguing—”
“On that, at least, we agree.” He waved a hand toward her wall. “Will that be enough to protect the gateway from the sword?”
“For a while, yes.”
“Against all comers, no matter how powerful?”
“Your tone suggests you believe otherwise,” I said.
“Oh, for fucks’ sake Gwen, what’s that supposed to mean?” He motioned at the bodies surrounding us. “You think I’d choose them over my own damn family?”
I wanted to believe he wouldn’t. I really did. But he had been in contact with Tris, and Tris had been up to his ears involved in this whole thing.
Before I could actually say anything, Mo said, “Gwen, some of those wounds are already starting to fester, but I haven’t the strength to heal them right now—is there any holy water in your backpack?”
“Yeah.” I waded across and pulled out several bottles. “Max, can you treat the wounds on my back?”
He splashed over and plucked one of the bottles from my grip. His fingers briefly brushed mine, and just for an instant something felt off-kilter. Out of place. But before I could pin down the sensation, he pulled back and motioned with one finger for me to turn around. I hesitated and then obeyed. He poured the water over several wounds, and I gritted my teeth against a scream. Holy water on demon-caused cuts and bites reacted in much the same manner as acid did on skin, although—unlike acid—holy water at least only burned the badness away. I sucked in several breaths then repeated the process on the wounds on my stomach and thighs; thankfully, none of them looked particularly deep. After several very painful minutes, the holy water’s effect eased. I wiped the wounds dry with a clean cloth and then applied Mo’s sealing concoction. The thick green goop hardened within seconds, forming a waterproof seal that would allow the wound to heal from the inside out while protecting it from infection.
Max applied it to the wounds on my back, then grabbed the pack from the rock and swung it over his shoulder. “You’ll tear open the bite wound if you wear it.”
“Fine, but I need my phone.”
He handed both it and the charger to me, then glanced at Mo. “Do you want me to call Kiri? Sunrise is hours away, and these bodies are going to stain the water downstream pretty badly in the meantime. At the very least, she can filter the demon bits and blood from the water.”
Kiri Okoro wasn’t a relative of ours, but she’d attended the Okoro Academy at the same time as Max and now worked with him at the Department of Weather Guidance. Her skill set was the control of running water, which was extremely handy when it came to flood situations.
“If she’s close, that would be good,” Mo said. “The last thing we need is the environmental bods coming down on us for fouling the waters and killing the fish further downstream.”
The environmental bods would actually have a hard time pinning these deaths on us, given neither elemental nor personal magic had been involved, but I guess it was better not to take any chances.
“I’ll ring her now,” Max said. “You heading home?”
Mo shook her head. “I need to rest, and if Gwen flies too far with those wounds, it’ll just hasten the spread of any remaining infection. We’ll head over to Kirby Stephen and stay there for the night. You want me to book you a room?”
“No.” He hesitated. “I only flew back to England to attend Gareth’s and Henry’s funerals tomorrow.”
Mo frowned. “I’m not sure that’s wise, Max.”
“Why? If the sword’s been claimed, there’s no longer any point in hiding.”
“Unless the heir wants to ensure there’s nobody else to contest his claim.”
Max snorted. “And how would he do that? He drew the damn sword out of the stone—the throne is his. Besides, he can just smite any challenger with the sword’s power.”
“That depends on whether he can access it without first being crowned. There’s some conjecture that he can’t.”
His brows furrowed. “Says who? Nothing I’ve ever read mentions that.”
“There’s a lot of things they don’t mention in history books, my boy, in part because many were written by scholars after the event.”
He rolled his eyes. “I went to the Okoro Academy, remember? They’ve one of the finest history archives in the country. Nothing I ever read there said anything about the crown being necessary to access the sword’s power.”
“And yet Darkside has been searching for the crown,” I said, “and in fact stole the fake one kept in the Tower of London.”
“That wasn’t fake—it’s the crown Layton wore when he married Elizabeth.”
Layton Aquitaine had been the very last Witch King. Not only had his marriage to Elizabeth of York combined human and witch royalty and signaled the end of true witch rule in England, it had also handed his descendants a means of curtailing any magical attacks on human monarchs—one that was still in force today.
Whether it would protect them from a mad Witch King and the sword of power was a question no one could currently answer.
“True,” Mo said, “but said theory also suggests that the coronation needs to be with Uhtric’s crown, not Layton’s.”
“Why on earth would that even matter? The crown’s just a symbol—”
“In theory, yes. In reality?” She shrugged.
He raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident. “I take it these theories are yours?”
“Mine and a number of others. And you’d better pray that we’re right, otherwise this country is in deep trouble. Are you sure you don’t want us to book you a room tonight?”
He shook his head. “Given your advice not to attend the funeral, I might as well head back and enjoy the evening’s entertainment. Will you be home tomorrow?”
She nodded. “We’ve a builder coming at eleven for a quote on repairs.”
He grunted. “Then I’ll meet you there and pick through the ruins. I might as well see what survived and what didn’t.”