Knight of the Wolf

8: The Crescent Moon

Dev had suffered worse injuries before. A sword was messier than a bullet, as can be judged by the size comparison. A bullet, though it came in a variety of sizes, was overall narrower than a sword was flat. The hole they each left behind, then, determined how much flesh was needed to close the gap, and with the pinpoint direction of a bullet, a sword was unpredictable often covered more surface area (in Dev's professional and experienced opinion).

That is to say, the stitches on her side amounted to a quarter of the ones on her opposite oblique, and a half of the one on her calf. She could still feel the pinch of skin pulling taunt whenever she walked with that last scar.

This is also to say that she was awake. For all of it—from the look on Crew's face when she tore the two halves of Dev's shirt apart, to Zoyla, returning with the sewing supplies and screaming like Dev had a spider on her chest instead of two—

"Breasts?" Crew said in a warped mix of shock and amazement that would have offended Dev if she wasn't busy throwing her head back against the rock in hopes of knocking herself out.

Bo spared Crew a dull look. "That's what you notice, aye? The lad's got a perfect set of abs and you—"

"S-Stop!" Zoyla cried, mortified by it all. She covered her eyes and blindly waved the kit at Bo. "Fix him, please!"

Indeed, Bo fixed her up and did so with the precision of someone who had never sewn in their entire life. He was, though, familiar with butchery and therefore, less squeamish than Zoyla and less ravenous than Crew, who walked away shortly after Zoyla's white thread turned red.

Zoyla stared after Crew who, for all she knew, was here to help kill Princess Morrow. To Dev, she couldn't imagine why the bounty hunter spared a second to defend her.

On the exit hole, Bo pushed Dev to her side, and with a bit more strength in her muscles, she was able to recline like, as another world might say, "one of your French girls."

By that point, Dev had re-clasped the front of her brassiere, of which Crew had mistaken for something between a corset and a vest and undone as well. She winced at the final pinch at her skin. Her head felt light again, but at least this time, she was alert enough to keep her focus up lest she pass out.

Zoyla stood at a distance from her, a hand to her face. From Dev's perspective, she was averting her eyes, but that didn't stop Zoyla from grimacing in her direction every now and then.

Even further off was Crew, who was now kicking rocks around the fire and being a general hazard to the forest. The fire was blazing now, despite Bo telling her to put it out twice already.

"You three should be sticking to the roads, ye know," Bo said, snipping the thread and tossing the bloodied scrap away. He wiped the needle down on Dev's shirt before returning it to Zoyla's kit. "Lotta folks around here'll think you're Wyns otherwise—though, that fur coat of yours helps deter that notion."

Dev's coat with its fur-lined collar was now soiled in the dirt in front of her. Inveralwyns were the closest country this far north of the Empire to begrudgingly accept creatures of all kind—vampire, werewolf, or otherwise.

"Though, my bad eyes made ya look like a wolf," he continued. "And if ye aren't Wyn, you're trespassing."

"The road's not too far from here," Dev said. She pulled her shirt down and tucked it in her trousers before bothering to lace up the front. It was tedious work, lounging on her side and all, so Bo helped steady her. Her core strength had vanished after the piercing prod of Zoyla's needle strained every last one of her muscles.