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He groaned, licking his lips. “Oh yes. Someday. You’ll see.”
Thank fuck he separated the Demons when he moved them. She didn’t know he accidentally rendered Baldrir unconscious during his last round of questioning. If she did, this conversation might not be going as well.
The distance was irrelevant for Aldiat and Frida. Regardless of proximity, what one felt, so did the other. He ended up putting them back together, both of them helpless to stop it as they watched their mate waste away. Maybe being faced with that horror ever day convinced them to finally give in.
And the last few, well…
They weren’t long for this world.
“I have to go. Things to do, people to deceive.”
He shifted into one of his more anonymous masks. Reaching up, he gathered a bit of the chasm ooze from the chains above Nyri’s head and dabbed it on his bare chest, the insides of his elbows, behind each ear. The scent was imperceivable to most, but he wasn’t dealing with most.
“Know this, Nyriadne.” A thought, and he was draped in silk. He adjusted the jeweled fall of his collar with a grin, then tapped her pert nose. “Our time together will be increasing. Soon. I plan to make sure of it.”
With that, he leapt into the ether, sure he imagined the slight uptick on one side of her mouth.
Soft strings and flutes reached her ears, distant and subdued. Crowds cheered, but it was tepid in its celebration, as Sorcerit always were about bleeding everything.
Give her Demons any day. Give her that pulse and chant, those drums and blaring horns. Dining halls and chaotic meals, jokes and stories traded over wine. Fires by the sea and dancing bodies, free and joyful. Waves and a salty breeze, her mate surrounding her with muscle and tongue and touch.
She wanted mountains and Solyrian. A real dawn and dusk every day. Her family, all together.
She wanted him.
Then get up, ninny. Get yourself together. You want your freedom? Take it!
Lunara blinked awake, trying to clear the haze from her vision.
It’s fine. You’re fine. That eye will be fine as soon as you get to that cup. You only need one to see it, anyway.
Shite.
She dragged her chin across the floor to prop it up, Lunara’s head weighing more than the rest of her put together, a gasp lodged in her swollen throat. Fuck, it was hard to breathe.
The table was right there. Right there. When she stretched her fingers out, they almost reached the solid, iron leg. To be able to hold on to something…
Go on, that’s it!
Her grunts and hisses dried up long ago—a waste of energy. Energy she needed for those last few feet. Lunara didn’t give a starry shite if she had to lick the blood off the ground. As long as it healed her, got her out of the Evesong, and back to Brand, she’d do it with a smile on her face.
She wanted to weep at the first brush of cool metal against her raw fingertips. It bolstered her, the rush of vigor sparking in her veins. Almost…
Yes, you clever witch!
Uncaring whether it was her or the table that moved, Lunara hauled with everything she had.
When her body shifted, she wished a cool pillow and endless laughter upon whoever secured the furniture with heavy bolts.
Except, now she needed to get herself upright.
That’s okay. It’s okay! It’s solid and supporting you. Just…hug it, or something.
Lunara wrapped her arms around the base and worked her legs underneath herself, shimmying in increments until she was half kneeling, half flopped on the table. Being on her knees was a new kind of torture, the weight of herself excruciating, but she didn’t care. Didn’t care. Not when her salvation was staring back at her from a silver goblet inches away.
“Please, hand,” she whispered into the silence, trying not to weep. “Please don’t drop it.”
Her fingers were numb, but the talking helped as crimson sloshed over the rim. She lifted the cup to her lips, so desperate that her stomach didn’t bother to flip when the wrong blood hit her tongue.
