The Demon Prince (Ars Numina Book 2) Page 7

  Sheyla shifted away slightly, but his arms didn’t loosen. It had been long enough since she shared a bed that his heat was comforting, seductive, even, so she ran through all the reasons this was a terrible idea. She still didn’t move—and not because it was tough to break his hold.

  Since she was perilously close to making a bad decision, she decided to screw with him instead. She rested her chin on his shoulder, close enough that she could just make out his features in the gloom, and spoke in a breathless tone. “I’ve never slept with a man before.”

  His entire body jolted. “There are several possibilities: you’re a virgin, you prefer females, or you’re a liar. Which is it?”

  “One of those options is, indeed, correct,” she said solemnly.

  Under these circumstances, she shouldn’t be having this much fun; odd, she hadn’t once wished she was back in the lab. He levered up on an elbow, putting his face next to hers.

  “You’re messing with me.”

  “Excellent deduction. Ergo, answer C, I’m a liar.”

  “No, there’s a difference between lying and teasing. I’ve had my fill of the former, not nearly enough of the latter.”

  In the dark, his honesty flowered between them with irresistible allure. She could dismiss flirtation, much harder to defend against sheer candor. “You must have friends—”

  “I have followers,” he cut in. “Who hope I can accomplish the impossible, and yes, they would die for me. Does that fit your definition of friendship?”

  “Not really.”

  “When Caia was alive, I could talk to her. A little less with Efren, and Leander, not at all. He was too busy diverting Tycho’s wrath from the rest of us. He… died first.”

  That was the most specific and personal thing she could recall Alastor saying, and maybe she should shut this down. Yet it seemed to Sheyla that he wanted to tell her.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “You’re naked.”

  “Does that mean you can’t concentrate?”

  His low chuckled rumbled against her ear. “Would you think less of me if I said yes?”

  “Yes and no. Nudity isn’t a huge issue among the Animari, so it’s a little strange to hear. But it’s a bit… flattering as well, I think.”

  I definitely shouldn’t have said that. The longer she lay like this, the less he seemed off-limits and the more she wanted to get to know him. Even imagining the reprimand she’d receive from her advisor at the Order of St. Casimir didn’t offer much of a deterrent.

  “Doubtless you expect me to stroke your ego now. I refuse,” Alastor said. “Too much praise will render you insufferable.”

  “According to my brothers, I am already.”

  “Siblings are never impartial,” he said softly.

  “Tell me about yours.”

  “Only if we operate on an exchange program. My stories are primarily sad ones, so I’ll need something cheery from you in exchange.”

  Sheyla nodded, guessing he could feel her agreement. “That’s fair.”

  “I’ll start with Leander then. He was the next oldest, nearly as strong as Tycho, and the one who presented the greatest threat.”

  “To succession?”

  “I suppose, but also to Tycho’s obsessive need for adulation. If one person out of a hundred wasn’t gazing at him, he always knew. Whether it was devotion or fear, he didn’t care. Tycho would win one if not the other. Whereas Leander… people simply loved him. He didn’t even have to try. There was… goodness in him. He was always trying to protect us, speaking up, pissing Tycho off on purpose.”

  She couldn’t imagine having an adversarial relationship with her brothers. Though she was the oldest, as soon as Zaran came into his height, he was always threatening to pummel someone for messing with her. Likewise, the two of them protected Avi and Darvid to the best of their ability, and if somebody hurt one of the Haleks, he had to face all of them.

  “How…” It was impossible to complete the question, but Alastor knew.

  “Tycho challenged Leander. Blood battles are common to settle grievances or answer a question of strength, but there was an… accident in the arena. Tragic.” His voice sounded rusty and thick, and she reacted without thinking.

  Not as a doctor, or as a woman, but as she would want to be treated. Sheyla wrapped her arms around him and was shocked by how tightly he held onto her, as if nobody had comforted him before this moment. Stroking his back, she considered all the details he hadn’t imparted: how brutal that death must have been, how impossible to deal with grief when murder masqueraded as tragedy.

  “Tycho probably didn’t let you mourn,” she guessed.

  “Not for long. He paid lip service and executed the person in charge of maintaining the sparring equipment.”

  “Fuuuuck.” Sheyla drew the word out because it stood in for her unanswered rage, surely only a shadow of his own.

  “Quite. I was fifteen at the time and about to die. I thought about challenging Tycho then. I knew I couldn’t kill him, but I could’ve stopped pretending to accept his lies at least.”

  A cold hand seized at her heart, clenching tight. His illness felt like a mortal enemy, one that she must fight with all the skill at her command. “The serum…?”

  “Over time, my body adapts, the medicine loses efficacy, tumors return, and the doctors must adjust the treatment.” He pulled back enough to give that heartbreaking smile and brushed the hair from her forehead. “We’re in that stage now, more or less, with you trying to find a chemical configuration that works.”

  “I will. The labs in Hallowell—” She broke off, recalling that she needed to tell a happy story now. From the sounds outside, the camp was stirring, so she should make it quick. “Never mind that. Let’s talk about my brother, Avi.”

  “Which one is he?’

  “The youngest. You saw him briefly, but right now, he has long hair… does that help?”

  “I remember. Go on.”

  He didn’t let go of her, which was a little distracting even if he wasn’t naked. In the past, Sheyla hadn’t spent much time curled up with her sex partners. Work always seemed more pressing than conversation or simple contact. Now she wondered if she might’ve missed out.

  “Right. Anyway, about Avi, he learned to shift young. Not just pre-puberty, but he was barely verbal. I’m not sure how much you know about the Animari, but that’s rare.”

  “I bet it was challenging.”

  “You have no idea. Toddlers are bad enough when they can run off as bipeds. Now imagine how much trouble he caused as a kitten.”

  His laughter rumbled through her since they were so close, and she liked it. More than a little. Instead of medicine, she might take up amusing Alastor full time. A strange sweetness shivered through her, so that her hands curled on his shoulders. An idle wish surfaced—that she wasn’t the only one undressed, so she could touch his skin.

  “I love this story already.”

  “He drove us all crazy. But one morning, we woke to find him missing. At first, we thought he was hiding, so we called for him, moved all the furniture. No Avi.”

  “He wasn’t in the house?”

  She shook her head. “I was angry at first, and then worried. We all missed school, scouring the hold for him. No luck until nightfall.”

  “What happened?” he urged.

  “We got a report that our little runaway had been stuck in a tree all day. He was fine, just hungry and scared. The next day, we Avi-proofed the house so he couldn’t escape.”

  “It must be… good. To be part of a family like that.”

  “I like it,” Sheyla said. “But I’m starting to think I don’t appreciate them enough.”

  There were disadvantages of course and sad moments that it wasn’t the time to share. Her goal was to cheer him up, not make him feel sorry for her.

  Alastor could’ve happily talked about her family longer; in truth, he would’ve done almost anything to keep her close. Questions teeme
d in his head. What to ask first? He had a fervent curiosity about everything Sheyla.

  The crunch of boots on the snow outside the tent quelled him. Then Dedrick called, “We’re moving soon.”

  “Be right there.”

  It had been a long, strange night; that was for certain. With no little regret, he detached from the warm tangle of limbs and left Sheyla the covers for privacy. Keeping his back to her, he layered up in winter gear, packed his things, and pulled on his boots. Since she was Animari, she ought to be able to get her clothes on fast. Finally, he got his medicine and downed it in a single swallow. Bitter, as always, but it should keep him alive until they reached Hallowell.

  “I made enough to last two weeks,” she said. “I’ll tweak the formula when I have access to better equipment.”

  “It will be fine.” With that, he slipped out and found Ded waiting, impatiently pacing in the snow, so that his tracks framed the tent entrance. “Any trouble in the night?” Alastor asked.

  His injured arm throbbed, but it was tolerable. Transformation would probably open the wound again, so Alastor hoped for a quiet day.

  “Nothing much, though I hear the Eldritch didn’t sleep well.” Ded’s white teeth flashed in the predawn light, showing only a hint of his true amusement.

  His lips twitched. “That’s too bad.”

  Without further comment, he set to work beside Ded, packing up supplies for the next leg of the journey. Because of the battle, they were a bit behind schedule, and they had to figure out how best to move the RVAC. The platform was unwieldy and would slow them down… as he labored, he sorted possible solutions and only once he settled did he seek out the Noxblade leader, Gavriel. Who was clearly in a mood.

  “What?”

  Alastor held up a hand in a pacifying gesture. “Have you worked out what to do with the weapon yet?”

  Because I have.

  “One problem at a time,” Gavriel snapped. “We’re still working on the comm array and dividing up the rations.”

  “I think I can help. I’ll put my men on the RVAC and detach it. I’ll ask for a volunteer to transport it.”

  The Noxblade paused long enough that it seemed as if he must have a thousand objections. What he eventually said was, “Very well.”

  “You’re welcome,” Alastor muttered.

  Lack of sleep seemed to have all the Eldritch on edge whereas his troops were cheerful despite the cold. He huddled up with Ded, Rowena, and a few others, briefing them on what needed to happen with the RVAC. The five of them partially dismantled the platform mount, and then Ded transformed to rip it loose.

  “You won’t be giving that back, will you?”

  “I’ll carry it,” Ded said in base-Gol.

  Rowena was already gathering cords to fasten the cannon to Ded’s back. “This should help balance the load and make it easier to haul.”

  “I hope we don’t need to use it,” Alastor said, only half-joking.

  “We will,” Rowena answered. “Sooner or later.”

  Whether they fired it on the way to the rendezvous or in defense of Hallowell, there was no disputing that. Tightness claimed his chest when he thought about the body count. For somebody who had never participated in blood battles or proved his strength in Golgerra, it seemed unspeakably brazen to rise against Tycho. If not me, who? There’s no one. Alastor touched the spot on his arms where the names of his dead siblings were inked and took strength from that silent promise. Justice could be bought, if only he bolstered himself to pay.

  “Are you well, Your Highness?” Rowena took an anxious step toward him, but he waved her away.

  Given half a chance, she’d offer to carry him. Since he’d saved her from the execution block, her devotion bordered on unbalanced. He was struggling with similar feelings toward the doctor, likely for the same reasons. Alastor didn’t like hearing that his attraction probably stemmed from some deep-seated psychological motive, but it made sense. Too bad his sex drive didn’t grasp the nuances, because he still wanted Sheyla.

  Want wasn’t quite the right word. Ache came closer, and the feeling intensified as she stepped out of their tent. That thought alone made him feel possessive, not a distraction he could afford. Alastor had long suspected that he likely wouldn’t survive long enough to take a mate, so it was fucking inconvenient for those instincts to manifest now. In his current situation, the match that made the most sense was a political marriage to Princess Thalia, who wouldn’t give a damn when he died, and who would, hopefully, honor the alliance after he expired.

  He supposed a high-ranking female from Pine Ridge or Burnt Amber could serve as well. In any case, he shouldn’t be staring with hungry eyes at his personal physician, who had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in even a brief liaison. Before he could let himself wilt at the thought, he swiveled his gaze to Gavriel, who was shouting orders.

  “Get the last of those tents packed, we’re moving in five!”

  Since his was one of those specified, he strode over to help with the stowing, thus avoiding Sheyla. Things felt different since he’d kissed her breathless, left his mark on her throat, and then whispered about his dead brother in the dark. For both their sakes, it would be better to keep his distance.

  After that, he didn’t have time to contemplate such things. As he’d expected, running in the cold stole his breath and sent fresh sparks of pain with each stride. It seemed like a thousand years before the group paused for food, rest, and water; it would be even longer before they stopped for the night. He’d seen the distance they had to cover.

  Though it was just past noon, it felt later since the sky was overcast and the scant sunlight was already filtered through the evergreen canopy. Some of the trees were dead with winter, branches bare, and he leaned up against a quaking aspen, angling his head back to narrow his eyes on a sliver of sky so pale that it looked like an ice field overhead. Someone pressed a mug on him, steam rising from the cup, and he murmured a thank-you before realizing it was Sheyla, not Rowena, who normally hovered.

  Thankfully she didn’t ask if he was holding up all right or how he felt at all. It was probably written in the half-frozen sweat trickling down his face. “We have how many more days of this… Is it too late to back out and wish you well?”

  Since she was smiling, Alastor reckoned she was joking, a welcome change from her somber hospital mien. “I won’t hold you,” he said.

  Something flashed in her face, a shadow, perhaps, but her smile stayed. “Well, now I can’t even complain. Don’t be so serious.”

  “That’s not something I ever pictured you saying to me.”

  “Life is change,” she said, blotting away his sweat with a gloved hand.

  “If only all change were good.”

  Alastor stared across the clearing at the RVAC, now propped beside Ded in the snow. He couldn’t help but notice the tension between Eldritch and Golgoth troops. A better leader would probably have found a way to mitigate that by now. Leaning beside him, Sheyla followed his gaze and nudged his shoulder with hers.

  “What are you planning to do about that?”

  There was no reason to pretend he needed clarification; she had to see the conflict brewing. The Eldritch gave the Golgoth a wide berth, and he heard whispers from his own people. “I’m open to ideas.”

  She shook her head. “Dealing with people isn’t my forte.”

  “Traveling limits my options. Otherwise, we could have a tournament.”

  “Actually…” Sheyla paused, seeming as if she wasn’t sure she should continue, so Alastor leaned where their shoulders were still touching, a silent go on. Her heat permeated all the layers between them, summoning a delicious memory of how she felt against him. Deliberately he stepped a pace to the left, breaking contact.

  “From what I’ve seen in the pride hierarchy, everything starts at the top. The soldiers aren’t missing the fact that Gavriel doesn’t like you. And vice versa.”

  “Brilliant, as ever. Then… my next missi
on is to make peace with the Noxblade.”

  8.

  Of all things, Sheyla didn’t expect Alastor to invite a handful of Noxblades to his tent for a gaming session, including Zan and Gavriel.

  Yet here they were, arrayed in a circle, each guarding their cards like it was a holy mission. She had some in her hand too, but she was tired enough from the day’s run that she didn’t care about winning. Reluctantly she had to admire the prince’s determination because he must be exhausted too, but he’d taken her remark to heart that morning and seemed committed to improving his relationship with the Eldritch.

  “Call,” Gavriel said.

  “I fold.” Sheyla gave up and the other Noxblades followed suit.

  With a rueful smile, Alastor showed his cards and lost gracefully. Again. Sheyla narrowed her eyes. Even if you were terrible at 18 Jack, the odds were, you’d get a good hand at some point. Such continued bad luck seemed suspicious. She studied him as Gavriel collected his modest winnings; they were betting for paltry coins, nothing exceptional, but the white-haired assassin radiated a quiet gratification. Zan met her gaze with silent amusement, then glanced at the prince, seeming to share her conclusion.

  You’re doing this on purpose.

  Such an obvious tactic, but the atmosphere had eased from angry acquiescence to casual enjoyment. She had been heating some barley wine for the past quarter hour and now it steamed deliciously as she topped off everyone’s cups. When Gavriel raised his glass to Alastor, he didn’t seem to feel the same animosity. The hot drink had a stronger flavor than Sheyla was used to, brewed in Golgerra, and it tasted earthy and dark, a hint of burnt toffee, both bitter and sweet in the lingering aftertaste. From the Eldritch reactions, she guessed it must be quite alcoholic, too, but her metabolism burned through it too fast for her to notice more than a mild tingle.

  “Another game?” Alastor asked.

  “I would rather have a candid conversation.” Gavriel drained his cup and set it down, high color glazing his sharp cheekbones.