Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(114)

Well, he was hoping that. Just a little. “Lila. I need to know now.”

“All right, fine. It fits on to the collar. Once you close it, slide it along, and when you hear a click, you’ve reached the latch. If you pull on the collar, it should come apart at that spot.”

Ash eased up next to the dragon. Its golden eyes were fixed on him, pinning him like a serpent’s. “Let’s try this,” he murmured. He released a little flash into the dragon, to placate him. Then, slipping his fingers under the metal collar, he managed to slide the key under. He brought the two halves together, then attempted to slide it along the collar. It just barely fit, and it slid in fits and starts. He worked it around the dragon’s neck, slowly, listening hard. Finally, he heard a click. Gently, he pulled on the two sides of the collar, and it came apart in his hands.

He was out of time. Metal scraped on metal as the hatch shifted. Light poured in. Ash leapt to grab the handles. He hung on, but this time the priests seemed to have found a way to work together. Ash found himself rising with the hatch until he was looking into the hooded face and fanatical eyes of a Darian brother. Multiple blades sliced at him frantically. He let go and fell back into the hold. He heard the crash as the priests toppled backward and the hatch landed on the deck above.

He looked over at Lila. Her eyes were closed. The dragon lay quietly alert, watching him as if to see what he would do next.

Now we’re in for it, Ash thought. He touched his amulet. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Though if he fried the first few who came through the hatch, that might discourage the rest for a while.

Where’s the bloody King’s Guard when you need them? he thought.

Guarding the bloody king, no doubt.

If he set fire to the ship, would the charges go? He tried to remember what Jenna had said about that. All right, sul’Han, would you rather burn to death, be blown to bits, or have a bunch of fanatics suck you dry?

Ash gripped his serpent amulet, the one that had belonged to his father, and waited for the first vampire priest to come through the door.





39


THE DEVIL’S BARGAIN


Jenna lay awake in her tower room, listening to a thunderstorm roll in from the northwest. The wind howled, lashing against the walls. Rain thundered on the tile roof, and she could hear it splattering from the mouths of the gargoyles to either side of her window. Thunder crashed, reverberating through the stones of the castle, and lightning glared through the barred window, creating crazy, shifting designs on the walls.

A change in the weather, Jenna thought, for better or worse.

She propped up, looking around her chamber, reorienting herself. She’d not slept soundly since she’d been moved from her dungeon room. It was ironic, since this bed was more comfortable, and was not infested with vermin, and she didn’t have to worry about rats coming out of the walls.

Well, maybe that last part wasn’t entirely true. This palace was swarming with human rats, and they might be coming for her before long.

Every time she closed her eyes, dreams, images, and memories swarmed through her head.

That voice, pleading for help. Flamecaster. We are dying.

She was flying over a coastline, where the turquoise sea met white sands and buff-colored cliffs. The wind tore at her hair, she slitted her eyes against the wind and . . .

No. It wasn’t the sea, it was Adam Wolf’s eyes, dark with desire, and the taste of his kisses; it was his embraces, all long limbs and gentle, knowledgeable hands. It was the scent of his skin and the thud of his heart.

It was the way he haunted those borderlands between life and death, dark and light, pain and pleasure, and how he selflessly healed other peoples’ wounds while he kept his own hidden away.

Gerard Montaigne, the demon who held her fate in his hands. Maybe. And Evan Strangward, who struck an odd chord of memory in her. Why did he seem so familiar?

Tonight, Adam would put their plan into motion. It hadn’t happened yet—otherwise the palace would be buzzing like a kicked-over beehive. It satisfied her spirit of anarchy—the notion that she could strike one last blow against the king of Arden, whether she landed it herself or not.

Sliding from her bed, she padded in her bare feet to the window. The wind had driven the rain through the narrow windows of her cell, making puddles on the floor. She shivered. The nightshirt the healer had given her was gone, replaced by a silk nightgown that reached nearly to her ankles. At least her legs were covered now.

She leaned on the broad stone windowsill, staring out through the grille of metal, thinking that, what with the sound of the storm, she was unlikely to hear an explosion down at the wharf. Please, she thought, though she wasn’t one for praying. Whatever happens, let Adam be all right.

She heard a faint noise in the corridor and whirled, staring at the door, heart thumping. It sounded like a grunt of surprise and pain, followed by a thud as a body hit the floor. As she watched, the door eased partly open, spilling the light from the hallway into her room.

Who would have reason to sneak into her room at this time of night? Surely not the king or his minions. Was it a rescue? A kidnapping? Some kind of ambush?

She looked around for weapons, grabbed up an oil lamp and waited, scarcely daring to breathe, until the door swung open the rest of the way.

First in the door was a huge man with a long braid on one side of his head. She recognized him—he’d be difficult to forget. He’d been with the Carthian delegation in the king’s presence chamber. The Carthian scanned the room, sword in hand, before stepping aside to admit the others.