Warrior's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood) (32 page)

“She’s not dead, Gray.”

He blinked at her, not understanding her words around the pounding in his chest,

“She’s alive. Some ugly bruises and the blade caught her in the leg, but the bullet missed her. A crease on her cheek that might leave a nasty scar but otherwise she’s fine.”

He shook his head, his hands shaking. His body twitching with nerves shattered and unglued.

“Look for yourself,” she said gently.

He bent close enough he felt the soft sough of her breath against his cheek, the warmth of her skin under his caress. “Meeryn,
bereth n’hai
. My heart,” he said, kissing her. “I’ll not let you fall.”

A smile curved the very edge of her mouth. “I’ll not let you drown,” she whispered.

His eyes stung as he blinked back tears. His shoulders shook with the sobs that ached up his chest and into his throat. And for the first in a very long time, he wept.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his
krythos
lying in the flat of his scarred palm. He’d not used the far-sending disk since before his exile, not even drawn it from his pocket in over a year, but he’d carried it always, unable to smash this last connection to his race. The smoky obsidian of the glass caught and refracted the light from his candle. The power locked within the 
krythos
tingled up his arm into his brain. It would do as he asked . . . if he dared use it. Sir Dromon might sense his amplifying draw upon the disk to increase the reach of his pathing. If he were paying attention, the Arch Ossine would feel it like the plucking of one thread among a web of such. He might even follow the tentative vibrations to their source and know what Gray planned.

That was all to the better.

Gray loosed the fetters on his mind, his thoughts unfurling with the strength and speed of a stooping hawk. The world dropped away as he sought out those who would answer his call. They might question him
but they would do as he asked, knowing it might be their last chance.

Mac’s Irish lilt was gruff and gravel-coated with sleep.
I’ve sent Bianca away to safety. She understands what’s coming and is prepared.

Are you?
Gray asked, thinking of Mac’s child. Declan was barely a month old; should Dromon win this war, the boy would be lucky to survive the purge of half-breeds that would follow. There would be no mercy shown. No pity offered. Dromon’s version of safety for the Imnada would wreak a trail of death and destruction as vast as the Fealla Mhòr itself.

Mac’s thoughts were as grim as his words.
It’s a fight we’ve been preparing for since the Fey-blood cast his black magic.

And if it fails?

Then we meet our end in battle, as soldiers should. I prefer that over an illness that takes me slowly until I can’t leave my bed.

David responded with his usual brand of irritating sarcasm.
So Dromon hasn’t used your guts for garters yet? Guess I owe Mac fifty quid.

You can refuse if you choose, David. I’d not hold it against you. Callista’s magic and your courage have won you your freedom from the curse. What I ask is more than a risk.

And leave the two of you to face Dromon and his hordes alone? Not on your life. Do you know how many hours I’ve spent imagining his messy and painful demise? I want to be there to shove a sword up the bastard’s ass, blow a hole through his prissy face, and dance on his dead body.

Gray could almost see the steely gray of David’s
wicked eyes light with murderous glee. St. Leger could try the patience of a saint and play the scoundrel better than anyone, but a wolf’s heart beat beneath his polished exterior and a wolf’s strength would be needed if they had any hope of victory.

Messages delivered, Gray fell back into himself with a lurching drop as if he’d taken to the skies without wings. His stomach rose into his chest, his throat closed on a rush of breath, and the power of the
krythos
sizzled in his head like a burst of cannon fire.

He opened his palm to find that a jagged crack like a lightning strike had sliced the face of the far-sending disk; its dark surface roiled with a storm cloud’s dying ferocity. Blood welled from a cut on his hand where the serrated edge of the disk had cut into the flesh beneath his lifeline. A voice seemed to echo from within his head; a last cynical comment from David or had someone else usurped the dying power of his broken
krythos
to speak to him?

It’s in the blood.

*  *  *

She woke during the night, feeling the presence of another in the room with her. A black shape against the dim shadows. He leaned back in a chair, neck tilted at an awkward angle against a pillow shoved behind his head. His arms were folded over his chest, and his long legs stretched in front of him. She smiled, wincing only slightly at the pain in her cheek. “Is that as uncomfortable as it looks?”

“Worse.”

“I don’t need watching over as if I’m on my deathbed.
That is, unless there’s something you’re not telling me.” She rolled over, hissing as she shifted the weight onto her leg. The stab wound had been deep but clean. It was the silver the blade had been dipped in that posed the greatest risk. She’d seen the ugly purple streaks creeping outward from the stitched edges. She’d felt the sickness as the silver’s venom slid through her bloodstream. “Mostly fine.”

“I know I needn’t watch over you. I wanted to. It makes me feel less useless.”

“I can’t imagine anyone considering you useless.”

“You didn’t see me . . . you were unconscious when . . .” He opened his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Take my word on it—I was exceedingly useless for a long time.”

Actually, Lady Estelle had recounted everything to Meeryn in amazed detail. And even now, as she leaned for the tinderbox to light a candle, she could see the reddened puffy eyes and granite set to his face as if he battled still to recapture his lost stoicism.

A fluttery excitement took the place of the unsettled nausea in her stomach, and she wanted to smile despite the cut on her face, despite the fear and worry weighting her limbs, despite the dark memories lingering close around her like wraiths. Gray scattered these emotions like a bracing wind. The solidity of his presence chased the worst of her nightmares away. The memory of his words slid like honey along her weary consciousness. “Did you really speak to me in the tongue of the ancients?”

He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You noticed that?”

“I did, so there’ll be no backtracking now.”

“Can I attribute my babbling to overwrought emotions brought on by the chaos of battle?”

“If that’s the explanation that helps you sleep at night,” she replied, unable to completely mask the smugness in her voice. The flutters expanded into her chest and down into her toes.

He looked grimly to the dark window and then down at the basket of medical supplies resting by her bed. “Little else does.” He swung back to meet her eyes, a new ingenuousness to the icy depths. “But tonight I might sleep well and for the whole night through.”

She drew back the covers in blatant invitation.

“Meeryn, I can’t . . . you’re . . .”

“No more battered than you.” Her eyes traveled his body as if she might spy the wounds he’d taken.

“A few cuts and bruises. A gash Lucan stitched up for me. I’ll be sore as hell tomorrow morning, but for tonight I’m numb to everything but victory.” He stood up. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d killed you.”

He traced the cut on her cheek with one tentative finger.

She covered his hand with her own. “Now we own matching scars. We’re a paired set, like bookends. Break one and the other is completely—”

“Useless,” he finished for her with a dry laugh.

“Exactly.” She drew him to sit beside her. His body bore a fever’s heat and he smelled of battle and soap and brandy and sky. He shuddered at the touch of her hand on his arm. “The draught is losing its power,” she said. “Yet you remain . . . human.”

“I’ve taken the last of it. Tomorrow will see me once more trapped by the curse. But tonight . . . I wanted to be with you tonight.”

She curled against him so that her head lay upon his chest, his arm around her back. His heart beat strong under her cheek and his slow deep breaths felt relaxed and easy, unlike the usual tension stringing his muscles. “Can you say it again, Gray?”

She felt his heart drum louder and he tightened his hold upon her body. “
Bereth n’hai
. My heart.” His voice rumbled under her ear, deep and low and lilting.

She smiled. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear an endearment like that come out of your mouth?”

She was met with silence, though he caressed her hair and kissed her forehead.

“Since I was ten and knew boys were good for more than frog-catching and blind-man’s buff.”

“I’m still very good at feeling my way,” he admitted and snuffed out the candle.

*  *  *

When she woke again, it was to daylight and an empty bed. She stretched, feeling only slightly dizzy and off-kilter. Her leg ached, but it was a healthy ache. She wiggled her toes. They were still attached. A good sign. She’d mend. Actually, it was her cheek that stung like the devil. She touched a finger to the raised pink flesh where the Ossine’s bullet had passed like an assassin’s kiss. An inch to the right and her brains would have ended all over Lady Estelle’s pristine lawn.

The smell of coffee and the promise of the accompanying breakfast drew her from bed. Rising on shaky legs, she tottered across the room to grab up a robe. Splashed water on her face and pulled a comb through her tangles until she looked passable if not presentable.
Watery, milky light hollowed her sallow face, and she stood with a distinct hunch to her shoulders and list to her starboard side. Not exactly the elegant stare of fashion. Not even a distant second.

Did she care?

After last night, she could resemble a hag with crooked nose, hairy moles, and a hunchback’s lump and she wouldn’t bat an eyelash.

She pushed aside the curtain at the window to see a plume of smoke rising above the trees where it caught the wind and smeared thin across the gray cloudy sky. Closing her eyes, she offered up a prayer for the dead. Offered a second for the living. Looked inward, searching for the familiar knot in her stomach and weight in her chest. But there was only a dull sadness like a weather ache. Uncomfortable but survivable. Perhaps Gray had been right; without hesitation but always with remorse.

“. . . was a bad idea. I should have known what would happen.”

“Always thinking you’re stronger than you are. It will kill you in the end. I’ve told you . . .”

Gray and Lady Delia in conversation. Meeryn’s stomach squirmed with more than hunger. How far would the woman go to win Gray back to her side was her first jealous thought. Her second was far darker and more dangerous; how far would Lady Delia go to gain the wealth she craved?

Dismissing her eavesdropping as a wartime necessity, Meeryn placed her ear against the panel.

“How is our Sleeping Beauty this morning?” Delia cooed. “Or perhaps she’s both Beauty and the Beast. Best be careful, Gray. Your precious N’thuil could
rip your head off and shred you like a cabbage if she chose.”

“She’s well,” came Gray’s cool reply. “Thank you for asking.”

“A long and satisfying night will do that to a girl. And you always proved most satisfying.”

Meeryn could just picture the lightskirt’s oozing sexuality as she turned on her charms. She was probably touching Gray’s arm, bending close to offer him a glimpse of her perfect powdered cleavage, looking up at him through those dark lashes with great cow eyes.

Her hands curled to fists. Angry heat flushed her cheeks. Beast, was she? Dangerous, was she? A desire to pummel the bitch senseless almost had her ripping the door open to confront her with force enough to knock her teeth down her slender white throat.

“I have a job for you, Delia. Give me a day’s head start and then . . .” Meeryn pulled up short, hand on the knob as she strained to hear. Blast it all. What job did Gray have for Lady Delia? What did he plan to do with two days’ head start? Whose bloody side was the woman on anyway?

Good sense finally giving way to frustration, she yanked the door open on the quiet tête-à-tête. Scrambled at the last minute to drop into a pose of languorous pleasure, hoping her injured leg didn’t give out and send her sprawling at Lady Delia’s feet. “There you are, Gray. I’d wondered where you’d run off to.”

It wasn’t dulcet cooing, but it was the best she could do without notice or practice.

He lifted one skeptical eyebrow, though his eyes gave his amusement away. Lady Delia on the other hand made no bones about her pique, an expression
she quickly turned into a catlike smile. But Meeryn noticed it, and her own smile was one of triumph as she slid a hand up Gray’s arm.

What she’d overlooked within the dark room and soft bed was more than evident in the raw light of day. Bruises dulled his golden complexion; cuts and scrapes mottled his throat. But it was the uneasy tension coiling his body and the feverish chills she felt him fighting off that had her catching her lip between her teeth with concern. He dropped his arm to his side, offered her a slow unhappy stare, the rebuff like a slap to the face.