The Hawkweed Prophecy by Irena Brignull

“I got you. Can you stand?”
    â€œI’m okay,” mumbled Poppy.
    As she stood, she felt a creeping sensation on her left leg. The instant she recognized that it was blood trickling along her skin, it started to sting. She forced herself to ignore the hurt and straighten. Looking up for the first time, she saw the face before her and the pain disappeared. Just like that.
    The boy helped her to a low wall and sat her down.
    Poppy felt helpless and didn’t like it, but sort of liked it all at the same time. “I can look after myself, you know,” she said gruffly.
    The boy regarded her thoughtfully with night-dark eyes. Poppy looked away. He was thin and scruffy, with matted hair and torn jeans that seemed authentic, not just for effect like some of the boys at school. But, most of all, he was handsome. Too handsome for her to look at.
    â€œIexpect you can,” he replied. The same voice that had intimidated and menaced with such authority was softer now, protective.
    â€œThank you,” Poppy whispered, glancing back at him.
    The boy smiled as if he knew how unused she was to saying that. “Where does it hurt?”
    Poppy remembered her knee and opened her coat. Her tights were ripped and soaked with blood. The boy gently pushed the material away. Then with one quick movement, he tore the rest so he could peel it down to her boot. Then his fingers touched around the wound as he examined it. Every nerve ending in Poppy’s leg was firing . . . cold, hot, pain, pleasure.
    â€œThe cut’s deep. You might need stitches.”
    â€œNo,” Poppy retorted quickly. It would mean her dad knowing, and she couldn’t face that. The boy looked surprised but didn’t argue. “My bag, could you get it?” she asked.
    Her bag was lying close to where she fell. Some of the contents were scattered around, and Poppy watched as the boy carefully picked up each item, returning them to the bag. While he was distracted, she took her chance to study him, her eyes straining to make out his features in the darkness. He was much taller than her, but it was hard to judge his age. His appearance made him look older, but she felt instinctively it was only by a year or two. His hair was long and shaggy, his cheeks hollow, and his cheekbones high, and he was olive skinned, his face glowing gold and bronze when caught in the glimmer of the street light.
    The boy turned and Poppy quickly looked away, wondering if he’d felt her stare. As he walked back toward her, Poppy glanced at him, and his eyes locked on hers and she felt herself flush. Then she realized—there was no fear in him. His eyes lookedstraight at her, freely, without inhibition. Silently the boy handed over the bag and Poppy looked inside until she found the jar with the poultice she had made. He raised his eyebrows, and Poppy shrugged as she scooped on the paste, then covered it with a leaf that she pressed to her knee. She felt a tinge of pride as it actually began to work, the relief spreading through her knee and down her leg.
    â€œIt’s helping?” the boy asked, and Poppy nodded. “I could do with some of those,” he added.
    Poppy’s eyes flicked to him. He had a scar on his forehead. “You fight a lot?”
    â€œNot if I can help it.”
    â€œBut you’ve got a knife.”
    The boy hesitated as if not sure whether to lie.
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me,” Poppy quickly added. She didn’t want him to lie. She’d prefer him to be a knife wielder, not a liar.
    â€œYeah. I have a knife.”
    â€œYou ever stabbed anyone?”
    â€œNot to death.”
    Poppy blinked. His tone was wry, but she knew he was telling the truth.
    â€œSo you make medicine?” he asked, and it was Poppy’s turn to hesitate. “I saw the book in your bag,” he explained. “Natural remedies?”
    â€œOh, that. A friend lent it to me.”
    The boy studied her