Dreams Made Flesh
Page 8

“Lucivar,” Jaenelle said quietly.
He stared at her, focused on her sapphire eyes.
She walked up to him and placed one hand against his cheek. “Lucivar.”
He closed his eyes and breathed in the physical scent of her and the dark psychic scent that was both a balm and an enticement. He didn’t want her sexually—had never wanted her that way—but the hugs and sisterly kisses kept him balanced in a way nothing else had ever done.
Hold the leash, he silently pleaded. Choke me into obedience if that’s what it takes.
She just stood there, her hand against his cheek, until those jagged edges of temper receded—and made him aware of something that brought a different edge to his temper.
“Where’s your escort?” he demanded.
“It’s been a warm afternoon,” Jaenelle replied. “Jaal is sprawled in the stream out back.”
Lucivar snarled. “He didn’t even rouse himself to find out who had entered the cottage.”
Jaenelle lifted both eyebrows to express surprise. “You wanted to be pounced on by a wet tiger?”
Being near her had restored enough of his balance that he took a moment to consider that. “No.”
“Didn’t think so. That’s why I told him to stay where he was.” She stepped back and turned toward the archway that led to the kitchen. “I have a small keg of ale.”
“I have half a steak pie, cheese, and a fresh loaf of bread.”
Jaenelle grinned at him. “In that case, you can stay for dinner.”
He waited until they’d eaten and were sitting on the porch, watching twilight smudge the land into soft shapes.
“I need help, Cat,” he said quietly, using his nickname for her to indicate he needed help from his sister, not his Queen.
“Still being overrun by helpful ladies?” Jaenelle asked.
“No. Well, yes, but . . .” He took a deep breath, knowing he was about to walk the crumbling edge of a sheer cliff. “I found Roxie in my bed when I got home today.”
“Roxie,” Jaenelle said in that midnight voice that chilled her court.
Roxie didn’t like Jaenelle, and Jaenelle didn’t like Roxie. The difference was Roxie didn’t have enough power to do anything with that feeling. Jaenelle disliking someone was out and out dangerous.
Lucivar rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “I need a housekeeper. I need a dragon who will—”
Jaenelle cocked her head and looked at him.
“No.” His nerves jumped, making him feel like he had tiny bugs skittering all over his skin. “Not a real dragon.” Not that he didn’t like the dragons who lived in the Fyreborn Islands. He did. He enjoyed wave whomping with them whenever he and Jaenelle visited the islands. But the last thing he needed was a dragon the size of a pony—not including the tail—waiting by the door to flame anyone who crossed the threshold.
“It would solve the problem of uninvited guests,” Jaenelle pointed out.
“No.”
She got that half-puzzled look on her face that always made him think of a kitten puzzling over a large, hoppy bug. “I wonder if any of the kindred have witches with a gift for hearth-Craft. What would they use it for?”
“It doesn’t matter.” His voice sounded firm, didn’t it? Hell’s fire, he hoped it sounded firm. “I need a human with enough housekeeping skills that Helene and Merry will be satisfied that the eyrie is being tended and whose presence will keep any other females from thinking that—” He bit back the words. Best not to mention Roxie again.
Jaenelle hesitated. “There is a hearth witch who has come to Kaeleer recently.”
“Through the service fairs?” Lucivar asked, wondering about Jaenelle’s hesitation. The twice-yearly service fairs in Little Terreille had been set up to deal with the flood of Terreilleans fleeing the cruelty of the courts and Territories under the influence of Dorothea SaDiablo, the High Priestess of Hayll.
“No,” Jaenelle replied. “I brought her in.”
What in the name of Hell were you doing in Terreille? He knew better than to ask her that question. He’d just visit the Hall in the next day or two and ask his father.
“She may be . . . content . . . where she is,” Jaenelle said, “but I can ask if she’d consider being your housekeeper.”
“All right.”
Jaenelle nodded. “I can—” Her mood turned grumpy, and she rolled her eyes. “No, I can’t. I have to do Queenly things tomorrow, and there’s a formal . . . something . . . late in the evening.”
Lucivar grinned. “Something that requires getting all polished and dressed up?” Jaenelle hated fancy dress.
“Yes,” she growled, “it’s dress-up. But there will be time to come back here after your usual dinner hour.”
“That won’t give you much time to get ready.”
The look she gave him could have frozen blood.
“I could still see if there are hearth witches among the dragons,” Jaenelle said.
Feeling more relaxed than he’d felt all week, Lucivar stood, stretched, then bent over to give Jaenelle a kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t threaten your older brother,” he scolded mildly. “Especially after I took the brunt of Father’s snarling over the raft.”
Wincing, she looked up at him. “Was it bad? He just kept gritting his teeth when he saw me and refused to talk about it.”
Lucivar straightened up and leaned against one of the porch’s supporting posts. “No, it wasn’t bad. He was actually quite calm about our making a raft out of what he called ‘twigs and kindling’—”
“Which is what it was,” Jaenelle said.
“—and holding the whole thing together with nothing but Craft.”
“Which is what we did.”
“And he said he understood why we felt we needed to be standing on the thing when we put it in the river to test it.”
“How else were we supposed to find out if it worked?”
“He even managed to sound calm about our not abandoning the raft after we hit the rapids. And he didn’t yell about our going over the waterfall.” Lucivar scratched his neck. “Although, I still haven’t figured out how he could speak so clearly with his teeth clenched like that.”
Jaenelle leaned forward. “You didn’t tell him the raft started breaking up before we went over the waterfall, did you?”
“Do I look like a fool?” Lucivar demanded. “Of course I didn’t tell him that. Besides, what threatened to pop a few blood vessels was his finding out that we went back to the starting point and did the whole thing all over again.”
“Oh, dear,” Jaenelle said. “I’m surprised the walls of the Hall didn’t shake when he started yelling.”
“He didn’t have a chance to yell.” Lucivar smiled that lazy, arrogant smile that always signaled trouble. “Before he got started, I ended it.”
“How?”
“I told him he was jealous.”
Jaenelle’s mouth fell open. “Lucivar! You told Papa—”
“That the only reason he was mad at me was because you’d invited me to go with you to try out this idea instead of inviting him.”
Her silvery, velvet-coated laugh rang out over the land. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, that was mean. What did he say?”
Lucivar laughed with her. “He just gave me that stare that will burn holes through bone, then threw me out of his study. He hasn’t said a thing about it since then.”
“Poor Papa.” Jaenelle sighed. “I guess I’ll dress up special tomorrow to make it up to him.”
“You do that, since my wearing a dress won’t do anything for him.”
She looked at him and howled with laughter—which brought an answering roar from behind the cottage.
Great. Any moment now, he’d be trying to explain to a baffled feline Warlord Prince why their Queen was making those funny noises.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He leaped off the porch, spread his wings, and launched himself skyward.
“L-Lucivar!”
Nope. Fair was fair. He’d dealt with Saetan on his own over the raft, so she could explain her behavior to the “kitty.”
He didn’t let Roxie’s lingering scent spoil his mood when he returned home. Besides, by tomorrow evening, all his female problems might be solved.
SIX
As she set the brass basket next to the woodpile, Marian felt her back muscles protest and threaten to seize up. Again. Studying the woodpile, she raised one hand and used Craft to lift the pieces of wood and set them in the basket.
Luthvian would criticize and sneer, saying—again—that it was laziness to use Craft for simple things, but Marian didn’t care. Using Craft instead of straining muscles wasn’t laziness, it was practical—especially since her back had seized up once today while she was scrubbing the kitchen floor.
Odd how gentle Luthvian had been when she’d come into the kitchen and found Marian on the floor, unable to get up. At that moment, she had been all Healer, skilled and efficient. But the quiet words she’d said as she eased the pain were the same ones she’d been saying—the useless wings were causing the back pain. Removing them was the only way Marian would fully heal.