Chapter 21

Kit

Ishudder at the deep grieving pain that pierces my mating bond and know at once what's happened. My next thought is the impossibility of it. Ettienne is Ettienne. He is many things—ruthless, powerful, manipulating. But dead? Killed by the priests of Orion's poison? That's… I shake my head as if I can erase the truth and the fear. If the priests can get to Ettienne, they can do anything. I didn't quite believe that until this moment, but now the reality is too vivid to deny.

The eggs shake, either from fear of their own or because they sense my distress. I curl up around them, guarding them with my body. I can't bring myself to lie and tell them that all is well.

The trap door through which the priests had dragged out Cyril and Ettienne is locked shut. So is the door we'd entered through. I've tried both. If there is another entrance to the chamber, I've been unable to find it. I've no chance of reaching the skylight.

I've had to be careful about how I walk through the circular chamber. Every time I step too close to the broken pieces of the crate, the eggs howl in fear. I can't bring myself to even pretend to be rebuilding their prison. Which leaves me out of options entirely.

Lying with the eggs I stroke them lightly, which they seem to find soothing. Then I sing the lullaby. I hope they can't tell that I'm singing through tears. Hours pass. The day turns to night, the constellation of a dragon's flight shimmering through the skylight. Then the night fades toward dawn and thirst twists my belly, keeping company with the fear and grief. At one point I feel a new flavor of agony through the bond and know they've started hurting Cyril.

Tavias, I call into the void. Tavias where are you? What happened to you?

Stars, the pack should have been here by now. That they aren't means… means they can't. They are alive but something has happened to them. Something terrible.

The sun is bright in the sky when the door opens and Emric walks in, a bowl in his hand. For a moment I think that he's brought me drinking water, but then I smell the truth.

The priest takes in my utter lack of progress, and sighs with disappointment. "Stalling does no one any good, little dame. Fortunately, I have time to wait. Your lover on the other hand… Well, I think time is passing more slowly for him. Here, let me show you what he's been doing while we all wait on you."

Emric drops the bowl down by my feet, and I really don't want to look inside. But I know I have to.

I lose what little I have left in my belly when I see the red soup-like substance inside, with blue scales floating in coagulated blood.

A roar rises inside my soul and I launch myself at Emric.

The tattoo on my back grips me, burning through my back until I collapse to the floor in a heap of whimpers.

"You forget that you can do nothing to me," Emric chides. "But my patience is thinning. I will give you several more hours to pull yourself together. If I see no meaningful progress when I return, I'll be forced to punish this insolence. I do hope I'm clear."

"I thought your order killed dames," I say, lifting my head. "Will your followers not be disappointed to know you want to work together with me instead?" It's not much of a threat as far as those go, but I'm reaching for straws.

Emric puts his hands in his pockets and chuckles. "Ah, you speak of the acolytes. Yes, they are taught to rid the world of abominations. A necessary lore that keeps their minds focused and the rodent population under control."

He rocks back on his heels. "Did you know that wolves are called medics of the forest? Without them to kill off the diseased prey, the deer population becomes sickly. Think of the order as medics of a different kind. The acolytes keep the dames from spawning unnecessarily, but the full order members know to tame a living specimen once in a while. I'd personally have selected something better than you, but here we are. You, me, and the damage you need to repair."

He turns, heading toward the door, but stops for a moment with his hand on the handle. "I do have a bit of good news to share. Ettienne's body was thrown out with the scut waste this morning."

I clench my jaw, but I don't let him see me cry.

After Emric leaves, it takes me a while to gather myself together enough to move the bowl with Cyril's bloodied scales to the other side of the room. Away from me and the eggs. The eggs wait for me restlessly, changing colors and shifting about until I'm back, the heat of my body pressed against their shells.

Having not slept the previous night, the exhaustion finally catches up with me. Despite the terror of what will happen when Emric returns, I doze off, the rhythmic beat of the eggs' hearts echoing my own. The last thing I see before closing my eyes is the egg closest to my belly shifting colors in a fiery blend of red and orange hues that are too gorgeous to be in a place like this.

I dream of flying. Or my dragon does. Her thoughts are only of the now, and she is a welcome reprieve from our reality. I think the eggs sense the dragon inside me coming close to the surface. The dragon senses them too, because I feel myself start to purr.

I am half-asleep when I feel a faint stirring, a subtle shift near my belly nudging me awake. At first, I think it's just the eggs' usual restlessness, but that's usually a group activity whereas this disturbance is specific. The stirring turns to a soft tapping sound echoing from within. Not the rhythmic beat of a heartbeat, but a more irregular annoyed set of raps interrupted by periods of suspicious rest.

The egg shudders.

I jolt upright, suddenly wide awake. "No no no. Don't do that." I say quickly. "I know what you are doing and it's not a good idea. Really. Not here. Not now."

Cracks spiderweb across the shell, tiny at first but growing rapidly. Each fracture glows like molten gold, a network of light against the muted shell.

Shit.

I grip the egg with my hands, as if I might hold it together. My heart races. This isn't a place a hatchling should be born in. Hell, this isn't a place any living being should be in at all. And even if it were, I'm the last person who knows what to do with a baby dragon. "Stop. Don't come out any further, alright?" I beg.

The air fills with the sound of the shell fracturing, sharp and crisp. A small, snout-shaped bulge presses against the inside of the egg, stretching the crack wider. With a sudden burst, a piece of the shell falls away, revealing a glistening, damp snout. The hatchling's nostrils flare, tasting its first breath of air.

I press my hand to my mouth.

Oblivious of my panic, the hatchling pushes the rest of its head toward freedom. Its eyes, closed and fragile, are barely visible beneath translucent eyelids. Another push, and a tiny clawed foot emerges, scrabbling against the remnants of its former home.

I twist around the chamber desperately. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I hope I'll recognize a necessity if I see it. Human babies need things when they are born. Blankets. Towels. Milk. What in the ever loving world does a little dragon require? Does anyone even know? So far as my mates have explained—not that we discussed it much—human women birthed shifters in their fae form. Eggs haven't been seen for as far back as dames.

Which means that not only am I completely unqualified for what's happening, but so is everyone else. Which is not stopping this hatching from moving forward.

The hatchling's struggles grow more vigorous, its body wriggling and squirming with newfound freedom.

A soft, encouraging growl comes from somewhere inside me. Which is so not helpful. And yet I hear myself growl again, this time with swelling pride as the hatchling finally breaks free, its tiny, wet body collapsing into my lap. Its scales are a brilliant shade of emerald, shimmering with vitality. It's… it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And the most fragile.

I rip off a swath of material from my skirt, wrapping it around the little warm body. It lets out a little satisfied chirp in declaration of victory, burrows into the cloth, and promptly falls asleep—leaving me in a state of utter terror.

I'm sitting in the same position on the floor, the hatchling's rhythmic breathing the only sound in the silent chamber, when the heavy door opens with its tell tale creak. I instinctively pull the hatchling closer, trying to shield it with my body.

"I have brought an incentive," Emric says as he strides in, his midnight blue robes swirling with patterns of gold embroidery and speckled with blood. A whip hangs on his rope-woven sash, right alongside a glistening fish scaler. A fish scaler. A flick of the priest's hand, and the magic imbued in the bands on Cyril's wrists yank him forward.

Just like before, Emric stretches Cyril's arms so high above his head, that his toes barely touch the floor. His shoulders are wrenched painfully, and I'm not sure they are not going to dislocate soon. His breathing is heavy and the places where Emric had cut off his scales still bleed despite the passage of time. Of course. The bands' magic has taken Cyril's magic, and his ability to heal with it.

Wyrmwood for the bands and the wood making up the eggs' crate, and wyrm's bane for the poison that killed Ettienne. I'm following the deadly pattern of ingredients.

Still, as Cyril lifts his head to look at me, the emotion flowing first and foremost through our bond is reassurance. Love. And then panic as he marks what I hold in my arms.

Emric's calculating gaze goes to the untouched crate first, his jaw tightening. He scans the rest of the room coolly, and only then condescends to focus on me. I know the moment he sees the truth because his forever controlled face contorts in unbridled fury.

"What have you done?" he roars, his lip curling into a snarl, his skin darkening beneath his tattooed constellations. "What have you done?"