The Only Option (5 page)

Having to stop at the same tavern where they'd met soured what was left of his good mood, but there was no help for it. If they pressed on, they'd have to sleep on the cold ground and would have nothing to eat.

He pulled up to the stable, waited until Memory and Tilo had dismounted, then climbed down himself and handed a coin to the stable boy who came running up. “Come on,” he said, casting Tilo the briefest look before turning and heading toward the tavern. “We'll continue on in the morning.”

“I—” Tilo swallowed, fell silent.

“What is it?” Rochus asked.

“N-nothing, magus. I'll follow you shortly.” Before Rochus could demand an explanation, Tilo turned and fled as though chased by a pack of hungry goblins.

Rochus briefly considered going after him, but the idiot was a grown man and capable of making his own decisions—even extremely stupid ones, as he'd well proven. Leaving him to whatever folly he was about, Rochus headed into the tavern and secured a room, blood, and meal for the night, requesting both be brought to the room.

Once there, he flopped back on the bed and sighed at the ceiling, willing the gnawing worry and guilt in his gut to go away and leave him in peace. He groaned in annoyance when a knock came at the door. At least Tilo had returned. Climbing once more to his feet, Rochus crossed the room and jerked the door open—but the words on his lips froze as he started at a servant rather than Tilo. The girl held out a small slip of paper. “For you, magus. He said no reply was required.”

He took the note and handed her a coin, then closed the door and opened it.

I will see you in the morning. Tilo.

Rochus scowled. Crumpling the note, he dropped it on the table next to the tray of food he'd ordered for a frustrating, ungrateful dragon and strode over the window. Throwing it open, he called, “Song, Silence, come to me.”

A couple of minutes later the birds flew in and landed on the footboard, flapping their wings, Song cawing softly.

Rochus held one hand out toward them, fingers splayed. Wispy, shimmering gray light spilled from his fingertips and twined around the ravens, whose eyes glowed a deep, rich blue. As the light faded, Silence pushed off the footboard and flew to the arm that Rochus held out. “Find our little dragon, my quiet beauty, share what you see.” Silence rubbed her head against his chin then flew off in a rustle of feathers.

Song cawed softly and flew to Rochus's arm as her sister departed. After a few minutes, her eyes began to glow as the spell activated and she saw all that Silence observed. And through Song, his fingers resting gently on her head, Rochus saw as well: Tilo slipping away from the tavern and deep into the woods where he would not be easily found. He settled at the base of an enormous tree, laying out a small, tattered blanket before sitting down and curling up on it, his threadbare cloak pulled tightly around him.

Guilt dropped like stones into Rochus's gut, adding to an ever-growing pile. A lot of things he'd been not seeing, by way of lust or anger, became sharply, painfully apparent. He
had
noticed it when they first met; he'd simply chosen to dismiss it as an exception instead of considering other possibilities.

No two dragons were alike, of course, but dragons as a whole did have a propensity for beautiful, flashy, shiny things. Rare was the dragon not dressed in bright colors embroidered in gold or silver, with enough jewels to make a monarch envious. They adored clothes, art, jewels—all of it.

But since he'd met Tilo, Rochus had not seen him in anything but drab, worn clothes. Even for the wedding Tilo had not been remarkably dressed, and dragons loved special occasions more than they loved fire. A dragon in full regalia could sink a ship, they were so laden with jewels and elaborate clothing.

Nor had Tilo possessed a horse… and it was more than a little strange, of a sudden, that he hadn't been eating in the castle hall when Rochus arrived. But visitors didn't eat for free. It cost Rochus significant coin to retain his room and board there. He'd wager Tilo hadn't been staying in the castle, and that was why it had taken so long to fetch him.

By all accounts, Rothenberg was a wealthy holding. So why was its lord apparently a pauper?

He was also much too thin, now Rochus was paying attention and not thinking with his temper or his dick. He'd seemed healthy, but how much of that was what Rochus had wanted to see? If he'd been in Tilo's situation, he'd have probably resorted to seduction as well.

Letting go of Song, Rochus said, “Silence, guide us to him.”

Outside, Song flew into the air, then settled low enough that Rochus could easily follow her once he'd summoned up a small, glowing will-o-the-wisp. Once they reached the trees, Song flew from branch to branch, cawing occasionally, following the silent directions Silence shared with her.

Eventually Silence led them to a small clearing, where Tilo had somehow managed to fall asleep at the base of the tree he'd chosen to huddle up against. “Idiot,” Rochus muttered gruffly. He shook Tilo's shoulders, but the dragon only grumbled in his sleep and tipped forward to rest against his chest. Heaving another sigh, Rochus shifted a bit and scooped Tilo up. Still Tilo remained asleep, wonderfully warm but somehow fragile in Rochus's arms. “Lead us to the tavern,” he told the ravens, and Song cawed as the ravens took flight.

Rochus followed, the wisp bobbing at his shoulder, the moon lending its own faint beams, until at last they returned to the tavern. Up in their room, Rochus stripped off Tilo's cloak and boots and settled him in the bed.

On the table, the blood he'd ordered had grown cold, though at least it hadn't clotted. He set it by the fire to warm as he made up a bed on the floor, then drank it quickly before bedding down. He was too damned old to be stuck sleeping on floors, but he refused to share a bed with someone who did not really want him anywhere close. If not for the damned mess that had provoked the marriage, Tilo never would have spared him so much as a glance.

And on that depressing thought, he pulled his cloak more firmly around him, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

Warm. It was so warm. Rochus might have whimpered ever so slightly. Wasn't strong enough to resist pressing closer to that wonderful heat. It held him close, rumbled something in his ear, and then warm, sweet blood filled his mouth. He swallowed, sucked harder at the source, so hungry for good blood he ached.

A hot, sure hand curled around his hip, a leg sliding over his—and that jolted every lovely thought about feeding and fucking right out of Rochus's head. His eyes snapped open and he stared at Tilo, whose pleased expression turned into one of confusion and alarm.

Rochus jerked away and sat up, hating both of them for the lingering taste of Tilo's sweet blood in his mouth. “In case you've forgotten, we're married and I've agreed to help you. There's no reason to continue whoring yourself out.” He stood and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He leaned against it a moment until he could breathe properly and was no longer trembling, then stomped off to the stables to get Fury ready.

Memory was sprawled on the stable floor in front of Fury, who was nudging playfully at her, whinnying whenever Memory took a lazy swipe at him. They stopped when they noticed Rochus, and Memory padded over to rub and nuzzle against his legs. Rochus bent to scoop her up, soothed by her purring as he cuddled her close and stroked her long, thick fur. “A few weeks, months at the worst, and we'll be home again—and pity anyone who tries to make me leave home again anytime soon.”

He shouldn't be so angry. So hurt. He hadn't been this upset when he'd been betrayed by lovers he'd known for months and even years. One stupid little dragon shouldn't be so deeply carved into him. It was simply a matter of ego and pride. He'd be over it in a few days.

But even his longest lover had always preferred not to be around when Rochus drank blood. He'd certainly never had a lover who offered it up so easily—so happily, like it never even occurred to them to be bothered. But it
had
bothered Tilo, to the point he had decided he needed a practice run to make certain he wouldn't panic or turn squeamish in front of the man he was forcing into marriage.

That
was what bothered Rochus the most in the end. For one fucking night, he'd believed someone had really, truly wanted him, creepiness and all. Not the novelty, not the danger, not the presumed wealth or the fearsome reputation. He hadn't been a malicious dare. He'd just been wanted. He was a necromancer getting on in years, growing colder and scarier by the day, but a young, beautiful dragon had wanted him—wanted him enthusiastically and had been eager to share his blood.

Goddess, he was so fucking stupid sometimes, but he'd give anything for that night, for Tilo's interest, to have been genuine.

Whatever. He would sort out the problems at Rothenberg then put the whole wretched mess behind him as he had so many others. He stared at the tattoos on his fingers, then set Memory down and pulled gloves from an inner pocket of his cloak. Jerking them on, he finally set to work feeding and saddling Fury.

By the time he was done, Tilo had appeared, holding their bags and standing in the stable doorway like he was afraid someone would kick him. “Magus—”

“My name is Rochus and you may as well use it,” Rochus snapped. “We're married—it seems stupid to be formal.”

Tilo only withered further. “It seems incongruous to be casual when you want nothing to do with me.”

Rochus tamped down on the anger that wanted out. He was forty-three years old; he could make some effort to act like it. “The problem is that
you
want nothing to do with
me
, and I am long past tired of being the unwitting assailant.”

“I never said—”

“You said enough,” Rochus cut in. “Daylight is wasting. We should be on our way.” He took hold of Fury's reins and led him out of the stable, then swung up into the saddle and offered a hand to Tilo. “Come on.”

“I would prefer to fly, given how unwanted my company is,” Tilo said stiffly. “I'll wait for you at the white trees.” He turned and walked out to a clear space, then shimmered and blurred, grew in size, shifted in color until he was a beautiful, dark orange dragon half the size of the stables with a wingspan at least three times greater. He pushed off the ground, took to the sky, and as angry as Rochus was, he still could not deny just how breathtaking a sight Tilo made.

If only, if only. But young, beautiful dragons never settled for old, ugly necromancers, and certainly never in matters of marriage. Not that Rochus was in a hurry to be truly married off. The sooner the annulment took place, the better.

He traveled for three hours without sight of any white trees. All he saw were heavy evergreen trees covered in snow, an icy road, and otherwise a whole lot of nothing. The day was cloudy and dismal, which normally he'd take as a good thing. Though sunlight was not truly a problem for him as superstition said, it did draw unpleasant attention to his appearance.

Memory mewed in his lap, then sat up and growled. Rochus frowned, drew Fury to a halt. High above, Song cawed out, loud and sharp, as she and Silence began to descend.

Rochus felt them before he saw them: wandering dead, freshly dead people brought back to an animalistic version of life, usually by way of a single spirit spread across many bodies. It took a great deal of power, an experienced caster, and willpower strong enough to control them.

As they came out of the trees—at least twenty of the damned things—he could see the silver collars gleaming at their throats. Ordinarily he could have bent enough of them to his will to turn against the others, for he was an old hand with hordes of walking dead, but those collars meant he was locked out.

Why so many? There must be at least fifty of the damned things. Half that number would have been excessive for attacking a single necromancer.

Then realization struck and he felt the fool. Fifty-odd wandering dead was barely enough to take on a necromancer and
dragon.
At full strength, Tilo could have incinerated most of them with little to no trouble; they didn't look old enough to have grown immune to all but shadowfire.

Rochus would have to settle for keeping out of their grasp and finding the person controlling them. He backed further away as they approached, threw out a hand and whispered a spell. Heavy fog poured from his fingers, spilling out to surround him, and then spreading further, hiding the road and surrounding woods, leaving the dead without an easy target since in the fog Rochus would feel and smell much the same as them, and they hadn't looked strong enough to be able to differentiate.

He hoped.

“Fury, off the road,” he whispered.

Fury snorted in acknowledgement and rode through the fog like it wasn't there, riding through the thick woods until he drew up to a tree with a wide, heavy branch. Rochus set Memory on it, then climbed up himself. “Go hide—this is going to get worse before it gets better.” Fury whinnied in disapproval but rode off. “Song, Silence, Memory, time to go hunting. Find me the one controlling them.”

Meowing in satisfaction, Memory licked his hand and leapt neatly down from the tree, vanishing into the thick, swirling fog below. High above him, Song cawed, then the ravens too vanished from sight.

Rochus hated to sit around and do nothing, but someone powerful enough to create and control more than fifty wandering dead was no one to trifle with. Even at his best he'd never managed more than fifteen, and that had left him exhausted and powerless for days. More than likely he was looking for multiple persons, but he should have felt it if so. Such a strong magi presence was nigh impossible to hide.

The real question was: who was behind this and why? They'd clearly been lying in wait for him and Tilo. Whoever it was didn't want them returning to Rothenberg Kill. Why? So many questions, and he was extremely tired of the lack of answers.

From somewhere out in the fog, Memory gave a pained yowl. Rochus's heart seized and lurched, and he threw himself out of the tree without hesitation, whistling for Fury even as he kept running, willing the fog from his path—and nearly running right into the wandering dead coming toward him.