This Poisoned Tide: The Last Water Witch Book One

CHAPTER 17

He swallowed and looked away, anger spiking hard, his stomach clenching.

If you don't help her, you'll die, Juda, Aleina whispered.

And if I help her, I'll die anyway.

Too slow. Everything was moving too slow. He was under the water, fighting a current that held him back, held him under the surface. Fuck it.

"Come on, come on," he hissed, rushing back to her and lifting her to her feet, yanking at the top of her britches and pulling them up over her hips. She swayed and leant against him, her head drooping, her hands weakly grasping his cloak. Her hair smelt of bath oil— hints of sweet musk and redberry. Her skin was still damp as he clutched her back, soft against his palm. Too soft.

It was all too soft and too sweet.

Move, you fucking fool, move.

"Here now," he said, reaching for her tunic and pulling it over her head. When she didn't raise her arms, her gripped her shoulders and shook her, not hard, but enough to rouse her.

"Look at me," he whispered. "Look at me."

Her eyes met his, still glassy, but there was just enough cold awareness for him to see her still in there. He cupped her face, holding her steady.

"You want to die because of him? Is that what you want? Because you will if you don't wake the fuck up, get yourself dressed and help me get you out of here. Now you went to all this trouble to come here and kill him, and I don't particularly give a shit why, but I do know you didn't come here to die too. Or did I get that wrong? Do you want to die, witch?"

Her grip tightened on his cloak, her spine stiffening under his touch.

"Elara," she said, through gritted teeth. "My name is Elara. Not fucking witch."

Juda had no idea why it thrilled him to hear her say it. Why it made his heart jolt for her to tell him.

"Well, I knew it wasn't Zera bloody Kalise. Now, Elara, I'm going to leave. Are you coming with me or did you like him that much that you want stay here with his corpse?"

Elara pressed her lips together, but slipped her arms into her vest tunic, her hard gaze not dropping from Juda's.

Good girl. Hate me enough and I might just get us both out of here alive.

Sinking to his knees, he grabbed her boots, trying to ignore the grip of her hands on his shoulders as he pulled them on one by one. She had delicate ankles. Tiny, intricate etchings of indigo ink over bone.

Draping her cloak over her shoulders, he fastened it at the neck, tucking her wet hair into her hood as he pulled it over her head and still she stared at him, and he gladly drowned in her poison.

"You can walk, yes?" he said, and she nodded. "Good, because I'm not fucking carrying you." But he would, and he knew that he would.

Grasping her hand, he led her into the adjoining chamber and through the servant's door into the next hallway. Everything was quiet but Juda—who usually preferred the cold embrace of silence more than anything—didn't much feel like the silence was their friend right at that moment. If it was just him, he might have felt different. He could mould into it as seamlessly as he did with death and pain, but the witch was unsteady on her feet, stumbling into him, her gait worrisome.

He stopped, hearing the sharp step of boots coming from somewhere below. Elara leant into him again, pressing a pained groan into his chest. The hush that crept up the staircase felt ominous, as if someone waited below, straining to hear them just as Juda's ears pricked to listen.