Dark Highland Fire (The MacInnes Werewolves #2)

Dark Highland Fire (The MacInnes Werewolves #2) Page 11

"What," he asked, his voice deadly soft, "the bloody hell was that?"

"A warning," she said, her own voice just as soft. This was for the best, she told herself. Nothing good could come of this ... this stupid infatuation with some other-world shifter. It had been her own damn fault for waiting so long to feed, or she never would have had such an intense reaction to him. She shoved aside the insistent feeling that there was more to it, not wanting any of it. Soon she would be rid of this place, and rid of him. And he, she thought with a pang, of her. It looked like that couldn't happen soon enough, for either of them.

"Stay away from me, Gabriel. For your own good, and mine. And never touch me again."

"No problem," he snarled, leaping to his feet in a movement so fluid and graceful that it surprised her, seeing it in someone so big and imposing. "And by the way, your highness, you're welcome."

He stalked off down the hallway and was around the corner in an instant. Rowan sagged against the door frame, feeling as though she'd had the wind knocked out of her even though she knew her body to be restored, awakened with new life. She listened as he thundered down the stairs, as he slammed out into the night. This is for the best, she told herself again. She was Dyana of the Tribe of Morgaine now. She belonged to all and none, and there was no future in a dalliance with Gabriel MacInnes. He would recover soon enough, she was sure, from his desire. But she could not forget the words he'd murmured to her.

"My only."

Rowan closed her eyes against it, and then shut her door to get ready for bed. She needed the rest for all that lay ahead.

But as a distant howl pierced the night and filled her with unwanted longing, in her heart she knew. There would be no sleep for her tonight.

Chapter 5

"It is hopeless," Jagrin said. "I cannot give her to you."

Lucien Andrakkar glared at the pale, slim, red-eyed figure who stared silently back at him from across the small table. After all he had done to take the flame-haired witch as his own, to now have Jagrin tell him that it was for naught was a knife in his cold and blackened heart. It was a measure of how he loved her that he could suffer so for her, when no other woman had produced so much as a twinge of feeling in him in so many years.

No. It could not be. He could see the greedy glitter in the daemon's eyes. There was something yet to be had here ... if he was willing to pay the price.

Twin ribbons of smoke curled lazily out of Lucien's nostrils, a mark of his displeasure with the man whom he had summoned from the borderlands of the Blighted Kingdom. He wanted to shift, to rip and tear the meager flesh from the bones of his reticent companion. But Jagrin was highly placed in the daemon king's house, and the slight was one he could not afford.

Especially since Mordred had not sanctioned this meeting. The dragon king had obsessions of his own to tend to, none of which involved matters of the heart. Claws and teeth, however, were another matter altogether.

"Come now, Jagrin," he said softly, relaxing in the cold stone chair as though he had never been more at peace. "The dragon and daemon have been allies since the time the great Drak fled to the higher realms. You can't deny it's been a beneficial relationship, especially for your kind," he said. He knew full well about the caverns full of fat and glittering gems that rested beneath the endless desert, had been on the patrols that circled the Blighted Kingdom during the day when the daemon were at their weakest. Annoyances ... and yet they were a small price to pay for access to the dark magic the wretched creatures possessed.

Jagrin's lip curled slightly, his lips a gaping wound against the white of skin that would burst into flames at the first hint of sunlight. "Be that as it may, my lord Lucien, I speak the truth. Moving between realms is no easy feat. It would take months to prepare another traveling draught, and even then there are no guarantees." He paused, lifting one corner of his thin red mouth in a half smile. "You saw that yourself, after all."

Lucien kept his expression impassive, though beneath the table his nails sliced thin red crescents into his palms. He hardly needed to be reminded of how he had failed to capture Rowan just several nights past. He relived it a thousand times a day in his mind, obsessing over the tiniest details: the way her strange clothing had molded to her exquisite flesh, the defiance in her eyes when he had professed his devotion, the scent of her, rich and sultry on the warm night air. The perfection of her people was legendary, but for him, upon finally seeing the hidden tribe of unsurpassed beauty that was the Dyadd Morgaine, there had been only one. And for once in his life, his father had wholeheartedly agreed with his choice, going so far as to order the camp raided, the witch stolen, on his son's behalf.

If only Jonas had done as he'd been ordered, then he had no doubt Rowan would already have been his. If only Mordred's prized warrior had captured her at the beginning of the raid, there would not have been the carnage that had so turned her against him. Instead, the bloodlust each of them fought to control in battle had consumed Jonas whole, and many of the Dyadd had been destroyed as the others followed his lead.

He had not been there. He had waited in the tower, ready, so ready, to claim his bride. That the act itself would involve more a need to possess than true lust on his part, at least at first, didn't disturb him; he had been dead inside for so long that he felt such need must take time to cultivate. But he felt pulled to Rowan as though the ties that bound them were visible. The need to be near her was nothing short of painful. So he had waited that long night, anticipating what it might be like to hunger that way, waiting to be stirred as he had never been. Certain that her touch would at last make him whole.

As it turned out, he waited still. But glimmering at the center of the darkest magic was hope, if only he had the courage to grasp it. And so he had summoned Jagrin once more, praying to the strongest gods that he might be granted one more chance. Without Rowan he had so little left to lose.

"The daemon know dark magic better than any," Lucien said smoothly, seeing that the flattery had hit its mark when his companion smiled. "I fault myself for the failure, of course. To see her so immediately, to have everything happen so quickly ... I was utterly taken aback by your handiwork, Jagrin. I only ask this of you because I know that you, above all but the king himself, have the ability."

"True, true," Jagrin preened, steepling long fingers beneath his chin. He looked pensive, but also deeply pleased. That gave Lucien hope. Still, even if the ploy had worked, there would be a price. With the daemon there was always a price, ally or no.

"Well, perhaps there is something more," he finally allowed, speaking slowly, thoughtfully. "Though I warn you, it will be difficult." And come at great expense, Lucien thought, not missing the malicious glitter in Jagrin's red gaze. Still, he found himself hard-pressed to care. If he succeeded, he won the ultimate prize. If he should lose, well, he was used to torment. Maybe suffering it at the hands of the daemon would be a pleasant switch from a lifetime spent as the only son and heir of Mordred Andrakkar. It wouldn't matter anyway. He had cared for nothing before he had found her. If he should lose her, the numbness would simply consume him.

Rowan had awakened some mysterious part of him that he had never known a dragon to have. He cursed himself for having ever denied that he could love her, for this ceaseless longing could be nothing else. It had taken root so rapidly, and then grown, the one thing that finally awakened his interest in assuming the rule of the dragons. But only with his queen at his side. It seemed he did have a heart after all. And if Rowan chose to shatter it ... well, Lucien thought grimly, the daemon were welcome to what was left.

"What can be done, then?" Lucien asked.

Jagrin simply looked at him for a moment, his expression inscrutable. "That would, of course, depend," he finally said, his voice a near whisper, "on what you are willing to give for such a service."

Lucien closed his eyes, thinking of the priceless scepter—a family heirloom—that he had parted with for the ill-fated traveling draught. There was more, of course; the riches of the House of Andrakkar alone, not to mention the dragons in general, were beyond most beings' imagining. To barter with such treasures would he considered nothing short of treason, he knew, if he were caught. But he had already doomed himself with the scepter, he supposed. There was no point in becoming principled about it now.

"There are many other riches," he began, only to have Jagrin cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand.

"No, no. The scepter is lovely, but useless to me as anything but a bauble. Fine payment for a traveling draught, of course. But the thing I may or may not share with you has been a secret among my people for over a thousand years. We kill those who reveal it," Jagrin said with a considering tilt of his head, "but I might if you agree to my price. The Andrakkar are not, after all, the only ones who desire things from the Earthly realm. And the daemon have known about it for far longer than you."

Lucien tried to hide his shock and remain impassive, but it was difficult. The daemon know about Earth? How, he wondered? And what could Jagrin possibly want from such a place? He knew he had no choice, in any case, but to say yes.

"If it is in my power to give it to you, it will be done," Lucien said, getting in response a ripple of ugly laughter.

"Oh, it will be, my lord Andrakkar. I refuse to come away empty-handed for such a service. But a thing so secret, so sacred, demands a high price. And so I will help you if you will bring to me what I truly desire: a slave."

Lucien shook his head, somewhat relieved. He didn't give a damn about humans. If Jagrin truly wanted one, it should be easy enough to get. "A slave is nothing to me. I will return with whatever human I run across."

"But I don't want a human," Jagrin smirked. "I want one of the arukhin your people are hunting."

Lucien inhaled sharply, shock warring with pure fury at the daemon's audacity, his insolence. How he had come to know such things was a grave concern, of course. But having his father's mad quest dangled in front of him like some diseased carcass was almost more than he could bear. Almost.