Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
His eyes ping open. He looks from one arm to the other. “You’re giving me your blood.”
“Half as much as I’m taking.”
“Stop.”
“You’ll be fine. It’s channelling through a compatibility spell.”
“That is not what I meant,” he says quietly.
Stone bites into my knees as I shift, my focus locked on the flow of blood between us. It’s an exchange that takes from our deepest selves and shares it; it feels too intimate amongst the roaring chaos. “I promised your brother,” I say, my voice cracking. “Your wife. Your son. If I fail—” I grip his wrist like an anchor. “I won’t fail them.”
In the subsequent quiet, the clangs and crashes of magic become deafening. His blood continues flowing into me, rich, thick, and warm. Mine leaving me, earthy, with echoes of a thousand herbs.
Nicostratus shouts and I whisk around; he’s luring the lead wyvern closer.
I cut off the spells and immediately ready the royal blood for reversal.
Quin captures my shoulder as I rise, squeezing through my shakiness. His gaze steels my stomach with determination.
“If you dare die on me, Cael,” he says, voice edged with steel but betraying a flicker of something, “I’ll drag you back, just to behead you myself!”
“Charming,” I mutter, fingers trembling. “Royal blood and empty threats. How could anyone resist?”
The pack leader’s shriek pummels around us in waves. Giant wings flap at thinning shields.
“Can’t get any closer,” Nicostratus grunts.
I try, but the leader moves too wildly. A dozen feet too far. Even if I do manage a link between us, if it breaks halfway through, the transfusion will fail. I need—
Hands curl around my hips and I fall back against Quin’s chest as he thrusts us upwards, forceful winds pillowing us.
“I’ll hold you steady,” he says at my ear. “Deliver the spell.”
“You’ve lost too much blood.” I’m already forming the tubing spell. “You’ll exhaust yourself to death.”
“Get on with it.”
I aim at the underside of the wing, where it meets the body. Nicostratus’s shield is an obstacle, but I needle through it and—
The shimmering line tightens. The wyvern’s pulse drums into me.
“Keep him from splashing,” I call to Nicostratus. I can smell his sweat from here, sense the weakening of overspent muscles.
Quin is also fatigued. I feel the dampness of his skin, the shuddering vibrations of his limbs, the rasp of his breath into my hair.
His blood flows from me, a stinging suction, pulling all the warmth from my veins. Cold, colder. Nicostratus and the wyvern blur. I see double. Shake my head. Concentrate.
I cough, chest so hollow.
Dizzy.
King’s blood. Need to transfer. Every ounce.
Faster. Nicostratus and Quin are swaying.
I force the blood with a spiritual shove—
My breath fogs, mingling with his.
A blurring curtain rises. Unyielding, merciless.
But through it is the faint but steady pulse of Quin’s heartbeat at my back.
I focus on it until it’s the only thing I’m aware of.
Until even that disappears.
I’m lying on something soft.
My eyelids are heavy.
A wooden ceiling above; I turn my head. Dozens of emptied teacups and upturned books.
The Crucible.
I blink, and freeze. Across the room on a stool, a white robe chased with gold, dark head bowed over . . . my case notes.
Quin.
He stirs and I slam my eyes shut.
“You’re finally awake,” he drawls.
I say nothing. I’ve died, and he’s brought me back from the dead to make good on his promise.
Snick, snick, snick towards me, accompanied by a cloud of pain.
Quin settles onto the edge of my bed.
I keep my eyes closed, don’t twitch so much as a finger.
A shadow shifts over me. “Stop pretending.”
“I’m not pretending,” I murmur.
A low laugh. “Then what are you doing?”
“Indulging in vanity.” I open my eyes a fraction to peek at him. “My head looks good where it is.”
“Whether it looks good is up for debate, what’s not up for debate is how. Good. It. Functions.” He emphasises each word with a sharp tap of his finger against my temple.
I rise up onto my elbows, glaring, and he raises a brow.
The source of the earlier snicking comes into focus: his wyvern cane, now propped at the end of the bed. The pain emanating from him is fiercer than usual.
But apparently he’ll swallow that pain to climb the stairs and personally behead me.
On second thoughts, glaring might not be my best tactic. I smile at him, the most charming smile I have.
Dark eyes grow darker, and I seal my lips tight. I see flashes of floating bodies in the canal; hear Chiron’s voice in the back of my mind. No living thing can enter.
After a few false starts, and a strange hop in my stomach, I try again. “Your uncle took all the gold and silver-sashed mages.”
Quin looks away, jaw twitching.
“You told me if I could help, I should. No matter what. Why are you so angry?”
He swings his gaze back to mine. Air catches in my chest at the profound frustration in his eyes.