The Demon Prince (Ars Numina Book 2) Page 11

  The big Golgoth half-smiled. “It’s the other way around.”

  “Let me guess, he saved you?” Though her tone was light, she wasn’t joking.

  “Unquestionably,” came the firm response.

  “Maybe you can tell me about it when I get back.” With that, she hurried off to complete the analysis. If she went through channels, it would take a lot longer, so she went down to the practicum resource room, used by residents who needed lab credit. The equipment was top notch, nicer even than the machines at Ash Valley had been ruined in the bombing, so it was a pleasure to get to work.

  A few students slid her silent looks but nobody interfered. Once she had his blood work in progress, she opened her bag and withdrew the last of the original serum. The high-end chemical spectrum analysis unit—or CSAU—should be able to pinpoint components and ratios down to a minuscule decimal point, a precision she hadn’t possessed in Ash Valley.

  His blood analysis processed first, and soon she had data that she alone could interpret. A few of the results concerned her, nothing that indicated a life-threatening shift. Yet. I have time to stabilize his condition. That thought served as reassurance, calming nerves she hadn’t realized were so ragged. No surprise, she was used to this environment, not desperate dashes in the cold carrying life or death tidings.

  There was still three-quarters of an hour left on the CSAU, so Sheyla sent Alastor’s blood work results to a private data file, put away her tablet, and rotated her shoulders. She stretched a little, rolling her neck until it popped. Maybe it was paranoid, but she wouldn’t move five steps from here until she had the results. His life depended on her recreating the treatment from Golgerra precisely. From there, she intended to monitor his response to the medicine and ensure it was the best course. Too many people had left him to suffer, it seemed.

  Whatever it takes, I won’t fail him. Not ever.

  Alastor woke to darkness held at bay by a dim golden glow. His gaze homed in on Sheyla, curled up in a chair at his bedside, poring over a steady stream of data. He’d come to in hospitals often enough that he experienced no uncertainty, no panic, or confusion. The only thing he didn’t know was how long he’d been out. He could’ve asked straightaway, but instead, he hoarded these secret moments, savoring the unforeseen pleasure of her unguarded face. With her free hand, she tucked her lovely dark hair behind her ear, mumbling words he only half caught.

  “…phospholipid phosphatidylserine… hmm, a nanovesicle that fuses with tumor cells. Apoptosis… that makes sense. So, it’s a binary formula… and carnosine…”

  By the deep quiet enveloping them, he surmised it must be nighttime. The astonishing comfort of waking to find her close by… he hadn’t known anything like it since Caia died, and his sister had certainly never inspired such an emotional tsunami, waves of joy and despair creating an inner storm. Alastor would’ve spoken in a moment or two more, but she caught him, brows lofting as she realized he was awake. A sweet shock jolted through him when her eyes met his; they clung and held in a way that he was afraid to interpret. Her relief was unmistakable, though, and it wasn’t the clinical appreciation of seeing diagnostic skills prove true.

  After a moment, she rose and came to perch on the edge of his bed. He expected a question like “How do you feel” or perhaps an observation on how awful he looked, because she hadn’t been shy about such comments. Instead, she extended a trembling hand to touch his cheek, not checking for fever. She grazed his brow, feathered her fingertips down his cheek, little compulsive touches that just about did him in.

  “Worried for me, were you?” Somehow, absurdly, he was smiling.

  “This has to stop.” She tried to sound stern and succeeded only in producing a bittersweet desperation that he understood all too well.

  There was no point in arguing about what couldn’t be changed. Probably he should ask how she’d managed to dismiss Ded, but that wasn’t his primary curiosity. “What were you reading over there?”

  “The results of the serum analysis. I put together the missing pieces while you were out and sorted where I went wrong in my first attempt.”

  Alastor registered the self-recrimination in her tone, and since she hadn’t dropped her hand yet, he turned his face into her palm, waiting for the moment when she pulled back and lectured him about boundaries and whatever else came to mind. Instead, her other arm came up and she let him nestle into her while she drew a hand through his hair. The sensation was… exquisite. He closed his eyes briefly, basking in her attention.

  “That is good news.” He murmured the words because some response was called for, but currently, he didn’t care about the serum or her research.

  “It was irresponsible to administer a treatment I wasn’t sure of.” Though he couldn’t see her face from this angle, he knew she’d stew over this all night if he left her to it.

  “Our options were limited,” Alastor said. “And I was willing. Don’t forget that part.”

  “You’re trying to cheer me up.”

  “Is it working?” Without much hope that she’d let it happen, he shifted to pull her fully onto the bed with the arm that wasn’t connected to tubing. She curled into his side, permitting the realignment, so it wasn’t just her petting his hair, but him holding her as well.

  “Somewhat. I keep doing things with you against my better judgment.”

  “Like this?”

  “And this.” She brushed her lips over his jaw, a whisper of a kiss.

  He exhaled. “You missed a spot.”

  “Did I?”

  Deliberately he lifted his chin and relaxed his mouth, silently daring her. His heart skipped a little when she leaned in, until her face was so close to his, he could smell the plain soap of her skin, and her features blurred. With a frantic leap of desire that faintly embarrassed him with its urgency, he closed his eyes, completing the portrait of a lover waiting to be kissed.

  No matter how much Alastor wanted that, he still sat tense, fully prepared for her to muss his hair or crack the moment with a brusque dismissal. Instead, after an excruciating pause, her lips found his, at once hesitant and sure. She stole his breath and then even more when her hand curved against his cheek. His heart rang unsteadily in his ears with each soft brush, each deliciously sweet press and stroke of her tongue. He’d never simply let someone kiss him before, offering himself with such patience, and the reward was a rush of near-delirious heat.

  She made a soft sound into his mouth, as if his taste delighted her, and he tumbled into the kiss with everything. He was acutely conscious of how little they were moving elsewhere, bodies not straining, but he wanted to, and so he put that want in each desperate kiss, more, more, more, and then a soft, devouring gasp, when she thrust her tongue deep, and he let her, welcomed, sucked and nuzzled until her breath went fast and rough, just from the repeated glide and stroke of lips and tongues.

  Lightheaded, he broke away at last and put his face on her shoulder as he’d wanted to the day before. Her skin smelled like sunlight, tasted of a sweetness like that of a perfect fruit. Alastor brushed his lips there, her collarbone, her throat, and could scarcely breathe when she quivered against him, her heartbeat audible, even though he didn’t possess her enhanced senses.

  “That was…” Apparently, words failed her.

  “A wonderful idea? Endorphins are excellent for pain management.”

  Sheyla let out a shaky laugh, putting a hand through her gorgeous hair. “If I agree, you’ll probably propose sexual healing next. I was thinking more along the lines of extraordinarily unprofessional, terrible for my career—”

  “But fantastic for my ego,” he cut in with a little grin. “Why don’t we have a quiet affair? Otherwise, the tension will distract us from more important matters.”

  He nearly fell over when she sighed and said, “Hormones are definitely clouding my judgment, but this isn’t the place for it under any circumstances.”

  “That’s not a no.”

  “Don’t push
me,” she warned.

  But if she was in full retreat, she wouldn’t still be cuddled up next to him. “Noted. When can I get out of here? There’s so much to do and so little time.”

  “If you’re feeling up to it, tomorrow.” Unconsciously, her hands were moving in his hair again, clutch, smooth, stroke, as if he’d become her worry beads, an icon she needed to touch, and he was completely fine with it.

  “I would never choose to linger in a hospital.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “Did you undo my braids?” It wasn’t a service Ded would volunteer without being asked, as it was a matter of rank and status.

  By her expression, she knew there was some significance to the question. “They seemed to be bothering you. Was that… not all right?”

  Alastor smiled. “It’s fine. You have my permission.”

  Sheyla didn’t know the bonds required for such liberties and he had no intention of informing her that between accepting his blood mark and unspooling his braids, she had essentially declared that she was his mate. Her eyes narrowed. Really, she was too good at reading the layers of his amusement.

  “I don’t like that look.”

  “But I adore yours. Let’s call it even.” On impulse, he kissed the majestic slope of her nose, and she blinked at him like a startled bird.

  “Don’t,” she muttered.

  “Adore your face? Kiss your nose? It’s too late. That ship has sailed, the port is ablaze, and the enemy is at the gate.” He kissed her brow, both her cheeks, her chin, and then her ears. “Prepare to do battle, I shall show no mercy.”

  A little whimper escaped her and she hung her head, adorably downcast. “Hell.”

  “What’s the matter?’ A tinge of worry flickered to life.

  “I’m starting to find you endlessly amusing. Endearing, even.”

  His heart split wide open and possibly grew wings. “My darling Sheyla, that’s the best news I’ve had, possibly ever.”

  12.

  Discharge wasn’t difficult since Sheyla had essentially commandeered a room and supplies. The supervisor in billing would probably have some sharp words for her, but she didn’t care. In following this exiled prince, she was making all kinds of questionable judgments, to the point that soon, her own pride mates might not recognize her anymore. With Dedrick’s help, she packed up Alastor’s things—not much for royalty. It came home to her then that he’d turned his back on everything familiar and owned only what he carried with him.

  Thankfully, his color was better today and the nutritive IV had strengthened him. Proper medicine would help even more, but it would take time to gather the necessary ingredients and find somewhere to manufacture enough serum to last at least a year. There was no telling if Hallowell would even still be standing at the end of that time, but she locked down such thoughts. Her mother always said that you gave life to darkness by believing it; whether or not that was true, it seemed best not to tempt fate.

  “You’ve already been assigned to diplomatic housing?” Alastor was asking the guard.

  “We have. It’s like the apartments in Ash Valley. Small, clean, serviceable.”

  “That will do.” He gestured at their rucksacks. “Please drop off our things. I’ll be along after I’ve met with Chancellor Quarles.”

  “As you wish, sire.”

  A flicker in Alastor’s expression told Sheyla he wished Dedrick would dispense with titles, but she supposed the other man had too much reverence to permit it. “Am I going with you or Dedrick?”

  Once she asked, she thought better of it. Why would I go with Alastor? It wasn’t like he required constant care, and she wasn’t part of his mission in the official sense. Yet he reached for her without hesitation, with a smile so joyous it hurt a little to witness it.

  “With me, of course. You’ll be my local guide. None of my people have ever been here before.” She suspected he added the last sentence as a consolation for Ded, who dipped a half-bow and hauled their belongings off.

  “You salved his pride,” she noted.

  “He’s a good man, but he tends to be overprotective. The moment someone in the city doesn’t kowtow properly, he might start something…regrettable.”

  “Avoidable, certainly. You can rely on me not to pick fights with people who don’t fawn over you.”

  “I can rely on you for anything,” he said tenderly.

  And that softness pierced her like a titanium arrow, all silver, shining, and abjectly terrifying. She was losing her objectivity where he was concerned, or perhaps lost was the better word, for she couldn’t see him as simply her patient any longer. His smiles mattered to her now, and even more his frowns. Sheyla let out of a quiet breath and took the hand he had been offering in silence, so long that it might have been awkward, except that it whispered of extraordinary patience.

  I will wait for you, his jade eyes said. Until you’re ready. Forever, if need be.

  His fingers were warm today, ridiculously comforting wrapped around her own. “This way. We need to stop by billing so I can settle your account. Otherwise, they’ll dun me mercilessly. The Order of St. Casimir does not work on credit.”

  “If that’s a nudge, I’m quite destitute, you know. Not a single ducat to my name.”

  “You mean being a doctor pays better than being a prince?” Sheyla feigned surprise.

  “Apparently so, though it’s possible that I’ll become obscenely wealthy if I defeat Tycho and claim our familial assets.”

  “An obvious deduction,” she said.

  “So that’s why you’re so good to me. I am adrift in disappointment.”

  “Your yardstick for measuring such things is broken. I’m adequate at best.”

  Alastor laughed softly and kissed her hand, before letting go. “Is that so? Then I shall rein in my discontent and await true goodness.”

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Almost. I can’t attend a formal meeting with my hair like this.”

  Nodding, Sheyla perched on the chair as he went to the mirror and used a folding brush and comb set to infuse elegance to his long, tangled locks. Since she rarely did anything with her hair besides wash, comb, and tie it up, it was fascinating to watch him weave and plait. He was wondrously proficient, creating a gorgeous cascade of interlaced strands.

  “You asked before if I was the one who took down your braids. Is there some significance to them?”

  He nodded with a final check of his reflection. “They reveal my rank. It’s impolite in the extreme for anyone to modify them without permission.”

  Sheyla suspected he was omitting something important, but she didn’t press. “Among the Animari we don’t have anything like that, though we communicate a good deal of information on an olfactory level.”

  “Ah, yes, your infamous enhanced senses. Can you hear the way my heart races whenever I’m close to you?”

  “Yes,” she said, seeing no point in pretending otherwise.

  His smile was delightful, even more so the slow bloom of color in his pale cheeks. For the first time, she admired that pallor because it gave her such delicious ammunition. “Are you blushing? This is such fun.”

  “You are so wicked to tease me. My mother warned me about women like you.”

  “Did she?”

  His mouth drooped, the amusement gone like a pale sun in winter, and it left her shivering, that sudden withdrawal. “No. Mostly she murmured of treachery and poison and how I must never, ever trust anyone.”

  While his mother kept him alive with such talk, it was like he had been reared by sword and scythe; it seemed to her a miracle that there was any laughter in him at all. His truths cut her, down in tender depths no one had touched before. Never had she cared for any single person more than her research. Though she loved her family, she sometimes resented their need for her time and attention. There was always something more to study, a mystery to unlock, but she wasn’t pining for a silent lab any longer. A fire had been kindled beneath her neglected imagination, and
now she couldn’t stop picturing the sorrowful boy he had been.

  “Mine was always after me to go outside more, play with others,” she said. “She often chased me for a hug, pulling a book out of my hands in exchange for a plate of food.”

  “How magical.” And she registered no sarcasm in those two words; he was all wonder and yearning at the simple description of her childhood.

  She stared at his mouth for the longest while.

  “If I kiss you now,” she whispered. “We won’t leave this room for at least a day.”

  “That’s not much of a deterrent. In fact, it’s more of an enticement and you ought to be ashamed, trying to seduce me when I’m so steadfast and dutiful. Come along, you siren.”

  She was equal parts relieved and let down when he claimed her hand again and tugged her out of the room. As promised, they stopped to settle his bill, paid from Sheyla’s own account. Waving away his rueful apology, she guided him out of the hospital for her first look at Hallowell in so many years.

  It was one of the oldest cities, over a thousand years of building and tearing down. War and fire had left their mark, and one could track the centuries by the architectural styles that grew more modern farther from the city’s heart. In the center of town, there were short, narrow buildings of crumbling stone, shoved together so tightly that hardly a shadow could pass, and toward the limits, the towers stood watch like a steel and glass army. Per Sheyla’s history lessons, Hallowell had once been a fort, built to defend against long-ago human incursions.

  She gave Alastor the brief rundown on the way to the chancellor’s office. He seemed interested in everything she had to say, but had questions especially about the trolleys that sped throughout the city. “From what I understand, they banned private conveyances two centuries ago. The city has been much cleaner since.”

  “Even the chancellor takes the trolley?” he asked.

  Sheyla shrugged. “I’ve never met the woman. We didn’t run in the same circles when I was here.”

  “That means she’s been in power for a while. Good to know.”