Chapter 27

27

Allarion had never seriously considered his own mortality, nor even truly his own health. As a fae, long-lived and a stranger to sickness, such things were often far from not only his mind, but the minds of all fae. It was a disconcerting realization that he was, however, dying.

That was, until his clever, wonderful, beautiful Molly brought him back to life.

Over the course of several days, Allarion witnessed something that was nothing short of miraculous. After a few more bites to sip a mouthful of her blood, his own completely reverted to a dark red, just like hers. His sclera went white, his gums and tongue pink. His skin lost some of its gray pallor, his hue taking on a more mild lilac coloring with a pinkish flush of health.

He couldn’t help it—in those first days, he could often be found standing naked before a mirror, staring in amazement at the transformation taking hold.

An early winter morning shone brightly from the windows, illuminating his form from behind. Allarion flexed his hands and wiggled his toes, watching the tendons move beneath his purplish skin.

Goddesses, in some ways, he hardly recognized the male staring back at him in the mirror. It was the same face, the same hair, the same limbs. And yet…it wasn’t.

Not only had Molly’s blood rejuvenated his own, it’d awakened his appetites. No longer did he look upon food and drink apathetically. The aromas that wafted from the kitchen set his belly to rumbling—an alarming thing when it first happened. He’d pulled Molly’s hands on his middle so she could feel, but it only sent her into a fit of giggles.

“You’re hungry,” she told him. “Come here, I’ve made luncheon.”

And so Allarion tried everything—and discovered a new favorite pastime. He devoured whatever Molly put in front of him whether he liked it or not. Most of it he liked, savoring the tastes and textures of food. He enjoyed wiling away an afternoon as he and Bellarand stood at the butcher block, tasting things Molly offered.

Bellarand was certainly right about carrots, they were fantastic. So were the potatoes Molly liked making, roasted in butter and garlic. And the sauteed green beans and squash. And the crusty bread she baked, and the sweet treats she called pie. And then to learn pies could be savory, filled with vegetables and fish—utterly amazing. And the drink, oh, the drink, he found wine enchanting and enjoyed mead as much as he thought he would, the taste reminding him a little of Molly’s.

All this meant that, even just within a few days, his face wasn’t quite the same. As he turned and twisted in the mirror, his ribs weren’t so prominent, his spine not so pronounced. His cheekbones and jaw, while still more sharply contoured than a human visage, were filling out. He was beginning to put on meat, no longer rangy but…healthy.

It was an oddly thrilling thing to see in the mirror. He needed to look at himself to believe it, to witness not just how quickly he changed but how quickly he took to the change.

His magic still sparked inside him, was still connected in its partially formed bonds with the estate, but he could feel the weave of it changing. Molly had added her own weft to the pattern, transforming the very weave and texture of his magic. With their growing bond, he’d felt how his magic was shifting, but with her blood flowing in his veins, it was as if he’d ripped apart the last vestiges of his former life and world. They were threaded together now in the very fabric of the land and its inherent magic.

One day very soon, he would be strong enough to leave the estate and retrieve Ravenna.

And the reason for it slipped her arms around him from behind, splaying her hands along his middle. Molly’s breath tickled at his shoulder as her fingers glided up and down the ridges of his abdomen, tracing arcane patterns along his skin.

“Look at how pretty you’re getting,” she said, peeking out from behind him. He caught only her eyes and the corner of that impish mouth reflected in the mirror.

“I’ve always been handsome,” he told her, “I’m merely becoming more so.”

Her smile pressed into his back. “I agree.” In the mirror, he watched as those lithe hands trailed down his body, skating over the flat plane above his growing cock. “Whatever did I do to deserve such a handsome husband?” she crooned as she took him in her soft grip.

“Vixen,” he said, attention riveted on the dual sensations of having her plush body pressed to his back yet her hands deftly fisting his eager cock. “We both know it’s I who am the lucky one.”

She made that delicious sighing hum, breath puffing along his spine as her hands worked in tandem up and down his shaft. He was no match for her attentions, especially not when he knew her to be especially amorous in the morning. She had him engorged and dripping in little time, her movements perfect and precise.

He admired the efficiency and couldn’t help his amusement at how successfully she’d learned to work his body.

A hunger for food wasn’t the only appetite he’d grown in the intervening days.

Oh, no. Much as he desired food, he craved his mate far more. She satiated him in a way nothing ever had, filling his now-beating heart with a need so dire, he never wanted to be more than a few paces from her. If he’d thought himself besotted or devoted before, it was nothing to the way he obsessed over her every feeling, thought, and whim.

He delighted in watching her play with him, but soon enough, it was time to gorge.

Taking her hands in his, he turned in the circle of her arms, grinning down to see the high color in her comely cheeks. Drawing her arms up around his shoulders, he stepped into her body, relishing the soft scrape of her nipples along his skin. They tracked twin lines up his body as he knelt and caught her behind the knees.

She jumped into his arms, the both of them now more than familiar with the move. Allarion found he was happiest with his mate in his arms, carrying her to bed.

He bore her down to the already tangled blankets, giving her some of his weight as their mouths joined in that perfect dance. It was just as thrilling as when they danced in the evenings in the solar, the harpsichord playing a merry jig. Their lips and tongues moved in concert, nipping and sucking until Allarion melted into her—just as he wanted to be.

When he rolled to his side and his hand began to slide down her soft body, Molly opened her legs for him. She bit his lower lip as his fingers found her warm, wet cunt, already throbbing and ready for him.

“Did you wake like this?” he asked her.

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, hips rolling under his fingers. “Dreamt of you.”

Allarion rumbled against her mouth, pleased to hear it. He dreamt of her in his long sleeps, too, always wanting to be near her.

Much as he’d poured into this estate, this house, it was his azai, his Molly who was his home now. It was with her he wanted to be. She was his home, his sustenance, his very heart.

His lips trailing down her neck, Molly turned her head, offering better access to her throat. Allarion laved the flat of his tongue over the scabbed punctures but moved on. The skin was too sore and red and needed time to heal.

She made a noise of confusion, then a sharp inhale as he dipped down to circle his tongue around her left breast. Her gaze seared him with its heat as he teased the tip of his fang over her peaked nipple.

Throat bobbing, Molly bit her lip before nodding.

“My sweet mate,” he praised.

He filled his mouth with her breast as his magic gathered to dote on the other. His tongue flicked and worried the nipple in the opposite rhythm of his magic, and soon she was wriggling on the bed beneath him, hips snapping to find more pressure from his fingers.

The warmth of his magic pooled around his fingers, taking over as he moved to fill her with first two and then three fingers. He curled them slightly, seeking and finding that textured patch of skin on the upper wall.

Molly’s back bowed, her legs falling open as she clenched around him. Her fingers dug into his hair, and Allarion needed no further prompting—he sank his fangs into the tender flesh of her breast, tongue still lashing her nipple.

A small stream of blood began to flow, and he sucked at it and the nipple, fierce pulls that made her groan and whimper. Her cunt seized around him again, a second orgasm cascading through her.

He’d never grow tired of her body. His Molly was a delight in every way—not least of which, that she could orgasm multiple times in quick succession. Goddesses, he was the luckiest fae alive, and it was his duty and pleasure to wring as many as possible from her before taking his own.

As he soothed his tongue over the punctures, his magic pooling over them to ensure the bleeding stopped, he replaced his fingers with his cock. He hissed through his bloodied fangs as he eased inside, aftershocks of her orgasm rippling through her.

Drawn deep, he pressed inexorably on until he was seated fully inside her. Surrounded by his Molly, Allarion dropped his head to claim those plush lips, catching her in soft kisses as he indulged in the bliss of her body. He’d stay like that all day if he could, buried inside his mate, kissing her softly as the sun crossed the sky.

He was the patient one of the two of them, however.

Eventually, her little heel dug into the small of his back. “Sometime today,” she teased at his ear.

“Later, then,” he whispered back, settling himself on his elbows.

Molly laughed, her eyes dancing with mirth and morning sunshine.

Biting her lip, Molly waggled her brows as she clenched her muscles around him. Goddesses, he was no match for her when she did that.

He held out for a while, brave fae warrior as he was, but the little rocks of her hips and rippling grip of her cunt were the victor.

Flexing his backside, Allarion began a gentle rhythm. Every thrust and retreat was a gift, every sound from her throat a boon. He took his precious mate lazily, greedily, for he knew as surely as he did that his heart beat for her that he would never tire of her. She was a hunger that could never be sated, a need that would never dull.

So even though she dug that heel into his back and growled naughty things at him, he took his time. He indulged. Every day, she brought him back to life, and he wanted to savor every moment.

Throughout his transformation, Allarion found himself caught in a bittersweet wish to speak once more to Maxim. He missed his friend, and the grief of his loss would be a burden Allarion carried for all his days—but now, even more than that, he felt himself bonded to his friend in a way he couldn’t be to any other fae alive.

Maxim alone knew what it was to have a human mate. A heart beat.

And to sacrifice that for their child…

Allarion’s respect for his friend only grew. To know now what it was to have an azai, to feel how deeply his love and devotion went for her, he didn’t know if he could allow Molly to do what Aine had done. Even to save their child. Perhaps one day Allarion would know the profound joy of having his own daughter to cherish and protect, and perhaps then his perspective and opinion would change, but now, he didn’t think there was anything in this world he valued more than the life of his Molly.

His precious mate lay reclined on his chest in their bath, and he couldn’t help bending to kiss the crown of her head. Her wet, fragrant hair slid against his lips, a complement to her silky skin under his hands.

Afternoon light limned their arms in a white glow as they sat soaking in the great copper tub. A morning of lovemaking and then baking berry pies had left them sorely needing to cleanse, and there were few things he enjoyed more than bathing with his Molly.

Sitting with her between his legs, given the trust and privilege of washing her hair and back and limbs, it all filled him with an indelible sense of peace. The warm steam that floated around them, the feel of her supple limbs under his hands, the soft, pliant way she let him care for her soaked his soul in the kind of happiness that some could only dream of.

Washed and scrubbed, they lay together as their fingers and toes wrinkled, enjoying the last of the water’s warmth. Outside, a clear but cold day shone through the windows, but inside, their haze of fragranced water and heady steam felt a world away.

He watched on as Molly gently traced a finger up the inside of his arm, following a thick vein to his wrist.

“Does it feel much different?” she mused quietly.

“Yes and no.” He held his hand open as her smaller one explored the dips between his fingers. “So much changes and yet some things remain the same.”

She hummed in consideration. “Just no growing taller. I like you this height.”

Allarion chuckled, drawing his legs up to cuddle her closer. Yes, he thought he was the perfect height, too; perfect for tucking her under his chin when they lay together and for her to bury her face in his chest when they stood.

“I never thought…” He turned their hands together, marveling at the crystal droplets that caught along their skin and reflected pinpoints of afternoon sunlight. “I don’t think the fae always had black blood.”

“No?” She tilted her head back to peer at him. “You don’t think it’s a side effect of having a human for a wife?”

“Oh, it very much is,” he said, kissing her temple. “Maxim too had lost the black in his blood after marrying Aine. I didn’t know how, he wouldn’t say. But…I don’t think you and she transformed us—I think you’ve restored us.”

“Wouldn’t you remember having red blood and a heartbeat?”

Allarion thought so, but then again, his life had already been so very long. If he’d been this way as a child, he’d no memories of it. His mother and other fae older than her, though scarce, didn’t speak of a time when the fae lived with heartbeats. There were a few mentions he could recall in ancient stories and texts, of fae feeling their hearts soar or pound, but he’d always thought it metaphorical, creative license.

“I don’t. I’m not sure anyone alive remembers such a thing. But our hearts and stomachs must be more than just vestigial remnants. I think, as our bond to the faelands and its magic strengthened, we forgot how to live without magic.”

Molly’s brows and lips puckered with thought. “You think the blackness in your blood is magic?”

“Yes.”

“But you still have your magic, right?”

“I do. It flows in me as it ever did, yet it feels…freed. It isn’t my lifeblood, no, but still inherent.”

She nodded slowly. “Your kind is the only one I’ve heard of that doesn’t eat. Everything else has to at some point. I know your kind is unique, but it doesn’t make sense for you to be so different, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” he assured her. “Feeling hunger…it is the natural state of all life. For whatever reason, I think my kind began to rely on magic too much. Perhaps it started slowly—using magic to stave off hunger in dire times, to keep the blood flowing during sickness. Magic can do so much, and there are few who’d resist the temptation to use it to save themselves, or someone they loved.”

There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Molly safe—magic or no. Countless fae before him likely felt the same about their azai and families.

“Perhaps they even used it to extend their lives,” Allarion mused.

Molly stiffened in his arms. “Do you think without—?”

“I will be perfectly fine,” he said, “I promise. We have always lived much longer than other beings. And, although magic may extend it, I think perhaps in the end, over so many lifetimes, it is killing us.” It couldn’t be natural to live so long without eating, without having a heartbeat. When he recalled how his face appeared just a few days ago, he seemed almost skeletal compared to his form now.

The fae were a lithe, willowy people, but perhaps they weren’t supposed to be. At least not so much as they appeared. So many were painfully thin, ribs prominent and cheeks sunken. In the faelands, this was just what it was to be fae. But perhaps…over lifetimes, the fae were starving.

“Like Amaranthe,” Molly whispered.

Allarion drew a long breath. “Yes.” She used warped magic to extend her life, to break the cycle of queens—but perhaps she wasn’t the first. Perhaps her actions merely exposed the rot that had been festering for so long.

Turning onto her front, Molly laid atop him, wrapping her arms around his middle. He drew his legs up, cradling her body with his.

The fae were ill, sickened by their own magic and a queen who refused to cede her place in the cycle. The enormity of the realization made him shudder, and he sank further down in the tub.

“Don’t despair,” Molly whispered against his neck, sensing where his thoughts went. “There’s time yet for your people. One step at a time.”

Allarion pulled in a deep breath, steadying himself.

Indeed, that was the only way. One step at a time. This hadn’t happened in one cataclysmic event but over time in increments. Healing would have to be the same.

For now, it was enough to be here, healing in his mate’s arms.

Their existence might have been perfect—were it not for the earthquakes. Allarion had heard of aftershocks, and he thought perhaps the region shook with them now. Although, each seemed stronger than the last.

The next quake happened in the middle of the night, while he was dozing and holding his sleeping mate. All the little items in the room began to wobble, and the undulating rumble shook the bed.

Allarion threw himself over Molly, tucking her body under his as the shaking went on and on. She yelped when items went clattering to the floor, and the house rattled its shutters with fear.

He sent his magic down into the earth, feeling the weft and warp of the native magic woven with his own. The forest trembled, uncertain and frightened by the shaking. All it knew was that the tremors came from the south.

When the shaking finally stopped, it took a little time to calm Molly, and then even longer to calm the house. The shingles clinked with agitation, and as Molly crooned to it, Allarion rearranged everything that had fallen, broken, or shifted.

He spent the next day searching the estate, but other than a few more felled trees and a disgruntled family of beavers whose dam had ruptured, there was little damage. That was something to be grateful for—and though he was, a shiver of suspicion crept up his neck.

The second shake came two days later, about an hour after luncheon.

Allarion stumbled as quickly as he could to the garden, losing his footing over the shaking earth. He found Molly on the ground, fallen on her backside and eyes wide in surprise.

He went to help her regain her feet, but she instead pulled him down to her. On the ground, they rode out the shaking.

Around them, birds cawed and tree limbs shook. Those that still had leaves to shed flung them off, and pinecones came toppling down like bristling projectiles.

A great crack rent the air, and they turned in time to see a great pine tree shudder before its roots gave, the force of the shaking too much for its trunk. It came down in a great crash, limbs tearing and sending a spray of dirt into the garden.

This shake lasted for an interminable count of twenty before finally relenting.

At first, he didn’t quite discern it, his own body quaking.

Then the world went quiet.

Enough! Bellarand came stomping around the side of the house. He scraped the dirt with his horn and stamped his hooves. Stop this shaking!

Allarion agreed. Only, he didn’t know how.

Just that the quakes were growing in intensity—and closer together.

“This never happens in the Darrowlands,” said Molly, her face pale.

He hated the fear in her eyes.

And hated even more that he couldn’t make it stop.