“Great.” Quintus pulled the leaky bucket from the well and scowled. He’d finally found a water source behind one house, and of course the damn bucket was broken. He slammed it against the side of the well and it splintered into a million pieces like the useless piece of garbage it was.

He’d left Gavrael in the house with a fire going in the hearth to keep him toasty. There weren’t many supplies there beyond a few pots and pans. Which meant Quintus had to venture out in the neighbourhood to scavenge. Two hours in and this hero shtick was already more annoying than he’d like. Octavia and Celesta had the patience of the sun goddess.

He tossed down what was left of the bucket and stomped off to search the houses. The one nearest to the well was unlocked and the back door coughed out a cloud of dust and splinters when he pushed it open. Beyond it lied the kitchen. Dust had overtaken the counters, and the jars of spices and preserves were barely visible behind the layer of cobwebs. It the far corner he spied a barrel and sent up a silent prayer before inspecting it.

No holes, just some dust. Thank the gods. Quintus set it out the back door and went to search the rest of the house. He still needed to find some clothes for Gav and a few blankets to keep him warm through the night.

Quintus went into the living room and stopped short at the tree growing from the couch. Its roots clung to the back and the cushions with one offshoot on the armrest and two more cascading along the cushions before disappearing in the floorboards. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out the vague shape of a person in the knotted clusters.

The trunk was bent in the middle, and branches spread out towards the broken window. Dots of green and blue dappled their brown surfaces where new leaves and flowers were sprouting. Quintus gave a long, low whistle and rubbed the back of his neck. At least they didn’t turn into a nightwalker.

He slipped out of the living room and into the bedroom. And found yet another tree. The human shape was more obvious with this one—the roots grew in the shape of a silhouette curled in fetal position on the bed, while the trunk rose from the head. It was almost a piece of art. But he wasn’t here for the scenery.

The bedroom was just as dusty and neglected as the rest of the city. He found little knickknacks on the dresser, some dolls and a metronome. Clothes hung in the garderobe, most eaten into holes by insects, the rest so threadbare the nigh disintegrated in his hand. He tossed it aside and moved to the back of the closet where an old trunk sat.

Quintus fiddled with the latched and popped it open. Clothes were folded down inside, some women’s some men’s, and interspersed with dried flowers to keep the must away. He picked out some slacks, some tunics, a jacket and a cloak. They looked a little too big for Gav, but he’d make it work. As he dug deeper, his hand brushed against a soft, knitted blanket. At last fate favoured him.

And Gavrael wouldn’t freeze to death. He rolled the clothes up in the blanket and tied it around his body. Daylight was fading fast, and with the setting sun came a faint rustling from deep within the city—a sound Quintus was too familiar with. Nightwalkers.

Quintus went back outside, where the nocturnal insects filled the air with their chirping. He secured the rope around the belly of the barrel and tossed it mouth-first into the well. It sank into the murky depths and he pulled it up, silently hoping the rope would hold. Meanwhile, the rustling in the city grew louder, as more nightwalker came out of hiding. He’d have to use his necromancy periodically through the night to keep them away. He pulled the barrel up onto the wall surrounding the well, then hoisted it onto his shoulder and carried it back to the house.

“Honey, I’m home,” he announced as he ambled through the front door. It wasn’t as funny without someone to laugh or at least give him a withering look. He set the barrel in the corner and stoked the fire in the hearth. Water, clothes, warm blankets, fire. Check, check, check and check. He just needed to clean up Gavrael.

Gods knew if he was in such a sorry state, he’d at least want to look pretty. Quintus fished a comb and a clump of soap from his cross and set a pot of water on to boil. While that was going, he checked over Gav again. His skin felt warmer, and his colour looked a touch better. There may be hope for him yet.

Quintus took the comb and sat at Gav’s head. As he worked out the knots and the sand, he wondered what this poor guy had done to end up in such a state. Perhaps he’d been running from the netherborne and they wore him out. But he’d been soaked from head to toe. Perhaps he got lost at sea and washed up on the beach.

Quintus took one of Gav’s hands and turned it over. His palms were soft, smooth, too smooth for a sailor. No, this guy was some kind of pampered noble. A blue blood they’d call him in the south. Which meant someone may be out there looking for him.

He’d have a lot to answer for once he woke up. But what if he didn’t? Quintus couldn’t stay holed up here with him indefinitely, but he also couldn’t leave Gav here at the mercy of the nightwalkers. Well, he could, but he’d committed to this hero shtick, and how could he abandon such a pretty face. Then again, he couldn’t lug him around over his shoulder. The next populated town was at least a week away—if it was even still there.

Quintus groaned. “You better wake up, Gavrael. You hear me? Wake up.”

Three days was all he’d give him, and then… Well… He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.