The Kwisling [The Isbjørn book 2]

Thirty-five

Daire had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, like that moment when his feet would drop into the snow and he expected to feel something solid, but the snow is deeper than he thought and for just a moment he thought he would fall through the earth itself. It was dread and it plagued him.

Only when he heard the gunshots did he give in to it. As he ran back to the tavern he would have given anything for time to speed up but instead it felt like he was sprinting through molasses.

The panic crawled throughout his limbs and he cursed his imagination as he drew to all the worst conclusions. John was hurt. A Dodvanti was ripping him to pieces. John wad dead. His greatest unraveling was his propensity to panic when confronting the pealing silence after the gunshots called over the tundra.

Daire skidded to a halt behind the tavern. He saw Niche first, his agitated face, and then John laying barely conscious in his arms.

"What--" he was out of breath from his manic sprint. They had no time to discuss what had gone wrong. Over head, the sky was cast in pale indigo and orange as the sun began to set. Daire bit his tongue, taking John's heated form on his back, holding back his questions for the length of a multi-mile sprint until Gohliteli was far behind.

They fell to a trot, and Daire immediately pressed John for what went wrong.

"Are you hurt?"

He felt the man shift awkwardly on his back, clutching to his cloak in a shakey the grasp as he drew to sit up from his position. "No. . . I don't--"

"So what the hell happened back there?" His voice echoed through the wasteland. John had to clutch on harder as Daire's booming voice almost caused him to slide off the Isbjørn's shoulders.

"I just. . . snapped. Bad judgement. I--"

"Snapped? You risked everything, John!" Daire growled. "Neither of us got the root! What were you thinking?"

His ears were ringing, drawing more agitation from the pounding that had settled in his head, working in time with his heart rate. "I'm sorry, I--"

Daire could feel the heat radiating off of his body. The man was sweating and flush. "Are you sure you're not hurt?" John was too warm to be regular. John was too warm.

"No." He tightened his hold on Daire with his thighs, feeling like he was about to slip off. "I-- I don't think so."

Niche stole a glance John's way. "It's the fever, look at him, he's about to keel over."

A growl curled out of Daire's chest. "John, are you sick?"

He grumbled his response, leaning back into Daire's back. Daire tightened as the man pressed his forehead into the nape of his neck. John was more than warm, it felt like hot plate had been set on the back of his neck.

"I don't know how it came on so suddenly," Daire grumbled, leaving a snow-soaked drop cloth on the man's forehead.

John had drifted off in a cocoon of pelts not long after reaching the shelter. He was lucky, if he was conscious Daire would have chewed his head off.

"Keep the fire going,” Daire said. “I'm still going after that root. I want you to stay here.”

“Stay here?” Niche echoed.

“Yes!”

“You’re serious.”

“No, it’s my idea of a joke,” he snapped. “I find this life or death situation hilarious."

Niche snapped his mouth shut and tended the low burning fire.

Daire sighed. "We need those roots."