Chapter 3

Quinton

Quinton braced his back against the wall of their snowy prison and watched. He had none of Cyril and Tavias's power to hold a protective shield, or the affinity for wood and stone that Hauck and Darren were using. Nor did he share Kit and Lee's desire to make the rock-hewn alcove feel cozy by rearranging fern branches and supplies. What he did have—for the first time in his existence—was a mate to protect. A pack to protect.

His former trainers would have an apoplexy if they knew. A Shadow was supposed to have no attachments except for one: his king. Quinton was Ettienne's assassin. His spymaster. He had been forged in steel and brutality to be nothing but that.

Mating Kitterny had changed everything. The ever present connection to Kit and his brothers that now pulsed inside him?—Quinton had no notion what to do with it. The only thing he knew for certain is that whatever was required to keep his mate and pack alive, he'd make it so. Even at the cost of their wrath.

For now, Quinton stood back and watched. Cyril's breathing had gotten quicker since the snow sealed them inside. The male was making good work of hiding his discomfort, but it was there. Courtesy of the time he'd spent in the Serpent Court's dungeons, if Quinton had to guess. Tavias on the other hand was incorporating the new pack into his command with practiced ease. A battlefield general glad to have more troops. Hauck was flirting with Kit, who was trying to dry her clothes off by the fire Tavias set up. They were fine for now. Unlike Sethis, the injured dragon whose hair Kit's friend Lee was stroking, as if a bit of comfort would do anything for the male.

It wouldn't. Quinton knew—he'd helped set Sethis's broken bones earlier. And while Quinton had applauded the shifter's attempts to swallow his screams as they worked, the male's injuries and pain had been past the limits of silent tolerance.

Quinton had told no one before snaking a thin tendril of magic into Sethis's blood, quietly diverting some of the flow. Just enough to tip the dragon into the respite of unconscious oblivion. That was why Sethis was quiet now. In Quinton's estimation, Sethis had a fifty percent chance of making it.

Sethis had a hundred percent chance of being a hindrance to the rest of them.

No one would thank Quinton if he said so aloud, but that didn't change the reality. Sethis was a liability to both packs. To Quinton's mate. And that… that was a problem.

"So the priests are humans intent on destroying the dragon race?" Darren said, picking up the thread of conversation Quinton had been only partially paying attention to. Cyril had explained the truth about the priests, but Darren, Rand, Broker and Leesandra were still working through the news.

"They hunted down all the female dragons," Kit said. "My mother was the last. She magically bound me into human form to keep me hidden. She… she didn't think she would live long."

She was probably right. Quinton kept that thought to himself too.

Hauck pulled Kit onto his lap. Good. Offering comfort was on the long list of skills Quinton was deficient in.

"The priests are more than just vengeful humans," said Cyril. "They are humans with access to ancient magic. Not only that, but they have lore on their side. The dragons have been bending knee to them for centuries. We've laid down our lives and thanked the bastards for it."

"The way to counter the priests' lies is to expose the truth before the whole Massa'eve court," said Kit. "We have to do it during the next trial. When everyone is there."

Cyril and Tavais both gave her a long look, then nodded their agreement.

"Whatever we do though, we have to rescue the dragon eggs too," Kit added. "How do we do that? And what's to keep the priests from destroying all the evidence while we are in the arena?"

The conversation continued in a similar vein, strategies and opinions being offered and evaluated. The problem with everything, however, came down to one crucial factor—an utter lack of information. How many priests did the citadel house? What was the layout? The extent of the opponents' power? How did the humans harness the ancient magic they should have no right to claim? For all his experience fighting the monsters in the blight, Tavias had a blind side where manipulation was concerned. He wanted to fight with righteousness and goodness against an opponent who respected neither. Cyril was even worse.

Fortunately, that was one weakness Ettienne had never suffered from—and Quinton had been forged beneath his father's fist. He knew what had to be done.

By morning, everyone had gotten much needed sleep. An exit path from the cavern was dug out and reinforced, and tea was being brewed on a makeshift flame amidst too many bodies and conversations. Even Sethis was awake and shuffling about, weak as a newborn fawn. When Hauck returned from a morning hunt with a pair of rabbits, Quinton stood and sheathed his sword down his back.

"We need to restart keeping watch," Quinton said, pushing Sethis aside to get to the exit. "I'll start."

Once outside, Quinton had to raise his forearm to shield his face from the snow and sun. It was freezing, as it had been the last several days, and visibility was down to three paces at the most. Quinton surveyed the terrain the best he could, keeping close to the cave until footsteps crunched the snow not a half hour later.

Quinton lifted his head toward the wind sending Sethis's approach, but didn't bother turning around. "Glad to see you managed to escape your nursemaids. I wasn't sure you'd manage."

"You wanted me out here, Shadow?" Sethis's voice was stronger than Quinton had expected. Not because the male was doing well—Quinton had sensed that much when he'd sent his magic through Sethis earlier, under the guise of nudging the male from his path—but because Sethis was good at hiding the pain. "Why?"

Quinton turned then, surveying Sethis through the blowing snow. Like his voice, Sethis's silhouette was that of a warrior, his red hair a fiery blaze amidst the whiteness. Still, any snowflakes that had the misfortune of landing on Sethis's skin melted instantly against the fever burning there. "I have an offer to propose," said Quinton.

"One that you did not wish to speak of in front of the others?"

Obviously. Quinton didn't bother honoring that with a reply.

Sethis's eyes, the color of fresh rust, narrowed in distrust. "What do you want?"

"I want you gone. You are a liability. A danger to my mate."

"I can still hold a sword," Sethis shot back.

"You cannot hold onto consciousness."

"You are going to stand there and tell me you had no hand in that?"

Quinton shrugged. Fair enough.

Sethis shook himself. "I can still lay down my life to protect my own. That includes my love, and my queen."

"Yes, yes, I know you swore fealty," said Quinton. "Unfortunately, your noble death on the trial grounds will be of little use to Kitterny. Or to her too-happy human friend. I have better plans for you."

Sethis's gaze narrowed with suspicion. "What do you want?"

"I want you to leave. Now. Fly past the wards. When you are on the other side, you will deliver a message for me."

"Interesting. Let's go inside and have a group chat."

"Not everything needs to be decided by a committee." Quinton crossed his arms.

"Keeping secrets from your own pack? And your new mate? How very… shadow-like." Sethis sighed, running his hand through his hair. For a moment, the echo of his true fatigue flickered over his face, before the warrior pulled his mask back on. He surveyed the skies in frank assessment. "That isn't just fog up there, it's a downdraft that can crush a healthy dragon into the snow. I will not make it to the wards. Maybe in a few days."

"I don't have a few days." Quinton pulled a vile out of his pocket. "Dragon Tears. The most powerful healing potion known to dragon kind." Ettienne had slid it to Kitterny to get Quinton back into fighting shape after he'd whipped Quinton to within an inch of his life. There was still a dose left. "Tell me you'll go now, and it's yours."

Sethis opened his mouth to speak, but Quinton grabbed the male's arm before he could.

"You bleed on the inside," Quinton said, his magic unapologetically penetrating into Sethis's blood. "But stay put and keep away from battle, I think you'll live. Your pack will protect you, to their own detriment if need be. Do as I ask, on the other hand, and you may die before you even reach the wards. Geoffrey's packs are still out there and you will not survive an encounter with them. Your greatest ally will be the blizzard, the very winds trying to rip through your wings. It is a bad deal that I offer. Ask your pack. Ask mine. They will tell you the same."

Sethis's jaw tightened. "This message you want delivered, it's important?"

"Yes."

"It will be good for my queen? For them both?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me where I'm going," said Sethis.

"A brothel."