Jaime

There's so much blood -- too much blood. I can't stop it. My hands are sodden, drenched in its warmth, as I press down on where the arrow protrudes from her body. The girl stares up at me, disoriented and confused.
   "Agatha, go! Quickly! Find help or she's going to die." Desperation rips my voice.
   Agatha takes one more look at her, then stumbles away, shouting for help to anyone who might hear. The girl in my arms starts choking, so I shift her body toward me. From this angle, I have a clear view of the tattoo that stretches from her neck, over her jawline, and onto her cheek. It's some sort of raven or crow, but its neck is at an awkward angle, as if it's been snapped. The tattoo makes it clear she's a deamhan, but she seems different from the others.
 I am friend. I help you.
   That's what she said, right before the arrow punctured her chest. Why is she here? What does she want from us?
   Then there's the other deamhan -- the one who shot her. The one who thundered toward us on his giant elk as Agatha and I hurried the girl into the enclave, then roared in frustration when we shut the gate on him. Whatever this girl came here to tell us, he was determined for us not to find out.
   "It's okay," I say to the girl. "You're going to be all right." But even as I say it, I know it's not true. She's lost too much blood. With every moment that passes, she slips further away. She tries to say something but can't form the words. Speckles of blood pop from her lips, and she scrunches her eyes in pain.
   Beside me, the horse she rode here on keeps stamping its feet as it watches the girl slowly die in my arms. It slipped into the enclave straight after we did, not wanting to leave the girl's side. It towers over me, wild and beautiful. The wind whips its hair around its glossy black head.
   There are muffled shouts to my right as a small group emerges from behind the nearest bothan. At the front is Lenox -- the Hawk who's been a temporary clan elder since we returned from Norveg -- and I also recognize one of Clann-na-Bruthaich's Herbists, a broad lady called Una. Agatha is with them, her cheeks puffing as she struggles to keep pace.
   "She's been shot," I say as they draw near, although that much is obvious. "I've been trying to stop the bleeding, but I don't know how."
   "We'll take it from here," says Una, replacing my hands with her own and pressing hard on the wound. The girl's head flops to one side, and Una lets out an audible gasp at the sight of the tattoo. "She's a deamhan," she says.
   "Yes, but she's not the enemy," I say. "At least, I don't think she is. There's another one outside, though. He's the one who shot her."
   "Get to the wall," Lenox says to a couple of Hawks who've joined us. They leave at once. "What makes you think this girl is different?" Lenox asks me.
   "She came here to warn us about something. She said she's a friend and that bad men are coming."
   "How did she get in here? Did you let her in?" asks Una, her face stiff with scorn. I open my mouth but can't reply. "Did it not cross your mind that it could be a trap?"
   "It's not," I say. I don't know how I know it, but I do. "She has something important to tell us. You have to save her."
   Una looks at Lenox, who gives an almost imperceptible nod.
   "Fine," she says. "We need to get her to the sickboth. Although I fear it may already be too late. . . . Lenox, take her legs. And the two of you," she says to two other members of Clann-na-Bruthaich, "one under each arm. On my count, we lift. Three, two, one."
   Without releasing the pressure on the girl's wound, the four of them lift her limp body and carry it across the enclave. Her head lolls, first to one side and then to the other, as she slips in and out of consciousness.
   "Out of our way," Una barks at the small crowd that's gathered.
   Agatha and I follow them all the way to the sickboth, sidestepping the trail of blood that spatters the grass. Once there, the Herbists refuse to let me and Agatha in, claiming they need space to work, so we're left outside, pressing our ears against the door. The wait is agonizing.
   "Is she going to d-die?" Agatha asks me.
   "I don't know," I reply. "She's lost a lot of blood."
 Blood. Of course. If the Herbists can't save her, maybe there's someone else who can.
   I turn away from the sickboth and start sprinting toward the loch.
   "Where are you-- going?" Agatha shouts after me.
   "I'll be back soon," I say.
   The loch in Clann-na-Bruthaich's enclave is huge, but I spot the Badhbh right away. He's in the same position he's been in since last night, after we won the battle against the sgàilean: sitting cross-legged on a large rock that overlooks the water. I still haven't forgiven him for abandoning us during the fight -- for choosing to cower in the nursery instead -- but maybe he can redeem himself now.

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Excerpted from The Burning Swift (Shadow Skye, Book Three) by Joseph Elliott
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