“Save it for your wife, friend. She’s more upset by it than I am. You’ve been pigheaded all my life. I’m used to it. She isn’t.”
Color flared into Elijah’s skin even as his donor paled. Despite her pique, Bella was there to help her weakened mate to a seat in the bedroom. Having gotten his patient out of the immediate danger of bleeding to death, Gideon began to heal the wound itself. He had his hands pressed to the rent flesh and was completely focused on his task. Elijah felt the peculiar stretching that came with the knitting of tissue, deep inside his chest.
“You are going to have to tell me exactly how you managed to survive this long with this kind of wound. It is half healed. One would think you would have the sense to stay put until—”
Gideon stopped abruptly, his silver brows furrowing into a frown as he tilted his head and tried to analyze what he was experiencing. When those sharp mercury-colored eyes bore into Elijah’s, the warrior knew without a doubt that the Ancient had somehow gained a clue to what had transpired the past few days. But to his relief, the medic did nothing more then lift a single brow of curiosity.
That was all.
Gideon returned to his task, not saying another word.
CHAPTER 7
Siena walked the length of her throne room slowly, her arms folded across her middle as she paced, her bottom lip between her teeth as she continued to mull over all that had happened to her recently. Any hopes she might have had about maintaining an air of normalcy had flown out the window the moment she had begun to approach the crowded receiving rooms laid out before her throne room. She knew she could never survive under such scrutiny, that she would go mad trying to maintain this sudden secret if forced to face a melee of her subjects. So she had made use of a lesser known and far lesser traveled route to her bedchamber. Since her return was not announced as it always was, no one awaited her there. She was able to dress discreetly and take other steps toward discretion.
The throne room and outer receiving rooms had been emptied at her command, a command that was reinforced with a low growl of annoyance when it was questioned as being unusual. Siena also knew that the garb she wore, a caftan of aquamarine silk, was also met with questioning eyes, the shining garment somewhat conservative for her as it reached her ankles and hooded her head.
But she was Queen, and it was very clear she would brook no questions and no hesitation to any of her orders. She had sent away all of her ladies and companions, all pages and advisors, leaving no one in her sphere save the two females that stood in the darker shadows of the room watching her movements. She was highly aware of their curiosity, and she could feel their stares upon her. Siena indulged in her court and her station quite richly. It was not at all like her to request such utter solitude. Even her guard remained outside of all the doors, rather than inside.
Siena tried to push it all away, even tried to push her thoughts outside of the sealed doors of the throne room she paced so rapidly and fiercely.
Syreena watched her sister pace, her bicolored features plagued with the same puzzled and bemused expression that had beset her since the moment she had caught the Queen in a most compromising embrace with, of all the beings in the world, the Demon Butcher himself. The man who had murdered their father. True, Syreena was more apt to see what the warrior had done as a favor, just as her sister and quite a few others did, but that one good deed of death would never make up for thousands of others over the centuries. There was not a breed amongst them that had not lost someone close beneath the Demon Butcher’s sword. Siena had to be completely out of her mind to choose such a man as her mate.
That she had chosen to mate at all was astounding enough on its own. Though there was much Syreena did not know about her sister after living a hundred and thirty years in the Monastery of The Pride, she knew Siena was a woman who prided herself not just on her control of all things, but especially of her control over her monarchy. She had heard Siena preach on the ills and evils of hostile, aggressive males, and her loathing toward her own mother for choosing such a man and allowing him to take them into those three dark centuries of war. She had sworn she would maintain her virgin state until her death, passing the throne to a female heir, rather than mate with a male who would greedily claw at half her monarchy.
There was no mistake in Syreena’s mind, however, that Siena had broken all of her own vows, and she had done it with a sweeping glory of irony. Syreena had seen them naked in each other’s arms, the stubborn and passion-cold Queen and the merciless, destructive warrior, kissing with remarkable fervor and clearly mutually marked and bruised from what had no doubt been some very passionate lovemaking. Syreena still couldn’t reconcile the image with what she knew her sister to be, with what her sister had drilled into her these fourteen years concerning the certain evils of men and monarchies mixing.
Perhaps Anya would have had a better insight into the entire occurrence, but Syreena had been sworn from sharing her knowledge with even the half-breed who knew every secret corner of the Queen’s mind and heart. So the Princess was left to her baffled thoughts, trying to reconcile how such things could come to pass, and in such insignificant amounts of time. Of course, Syreena had always ignored her sister’s prejudices toward men, being the one sister who actually craved husband, hearth, and heirs. She knew where all this anger came from and that Siena might be forced to reevaluate her opinions as she grew wiser…or more lonely, but the Princess would never have suspected such a tinderbox as this to light Siena’s fuses and blow all her theories to hell. Syreena’s pity warred with amusement, and she slipped farther back into the shadows so her sister would not sense her thoughts and feelings and grow incensed.
Anya heard Syreena’s movement but kept her eyes fixated on the image of the royal female who paced around the room slowly, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were in need of comfort, her unusual silence worrying her and making her edgy and watchful.
“It is not like her to be so…” Anya tried to put what she was seeing into words, glancing at Syreena for assistance.
“Withdrawn,” Syreena supplied. “We are used to her coming directly to us when something confuses or disturbs her.”
“What do you suppose happened?” Anya whispered.
“I cannot begin to guess,” Syreena lied easily. “She looks pale. If I am not mistaken, she is sunsick.”
“Siena?” Anya made a soft sound of disbelief. “Siena does not feel the sun like the rest of us.”
“Nor do I, but that does not make me immune. Even those of us highly resistant to the normal speed of sun sickness will show the signs of it if exposed long enough,” the Princess said quietly.
Syreena crossed her arms beneath her breasts, seemingly studying the hand-carved pattern of the stone floor beneath her feet.
“It is strange that she should spend all this time in solitude only to come back looking so disturbed,” Anya remarked. “Something has happened to make her thus.”
“I would not begin to speculate. She will tell us in her own time, I imagine.”
Anya looked at the other woman, her foxy eyes narrowing keenly.
“Did you not see anything when you found her?”
Syreena turned her dual-colored eyes on the half-breed. “Such as?”
“I don’t know,” the half-vixen murmured. “I just have this feeling like something is off. She doesn’t…smell right.”
“If you say that too loud, you’re going to find yourself on the opposite end of that leash after all,” the Princess whispered. It made the other woman laugh. “We can only wait and trust she will come to one of us eventually to discuss whatever the matter is,” Syreena added. “For the time being I will not take part in your penchant for gossiping.”
“My gossiping has been quite useful to this court on many occasions,” Anya rejoined. She then chuckled softly. “But I will tell you this, as far as the Queen seeking confidences goes, I find myself glad I am not the court advisor and the Queen’s Counselor. Judging by the w
ay she dismissed the court, whatever is pulling her tail is very likely political, and it clearly has her quite put out. Political aggravation falls into your advice-giving milieu. Mine is limited to her personal problems and her fighting forces. And for once I am quite grateful that she has no personal life outside of bitching about you.”
“I will keep that in mind,” Syreena said dryly.
Sienna was aware that her two closest attachés were whispering with their heads together, no doubt mulling over her behavior. She knew Syreena would not break the vow of silence she had sworn her to, so she was not worried about that. She was not prepared to discuss the matter with anyone yet. She was hardly prepared to even face it within her own thoughts.
The Queen continued to pace around the enormous room, occasionally rubbing her hands together, trying to warm them from the chill that seemed to go soul deep.
She was in trouble. That much was all too clear.
For beginners, there was the issue of her detached collar.
The collar was a work of legend and magic, stories of which everyone in the entire Lycanthrope society was raised on from infancy. Every member of the royal family wore the mystifying collars, each differing in shape and style by virtue of the wearer’s rank and importance, from birth to ascension to death. They were a series of complex puzzles, these intricate pieces of jewelry, designed that way for very specific reasons. They expanded and decreased in size when the wearer altered form, never slipping free, always broadcasting the rank of their owner.
The legendary mysteries went deeper still. Firstly, only a member of The Pride could attach the collars. Only members of The Pride knew the secret to joining the complex links. This was so that the royal insignias could not be replicated or forged, or worn by anyone other than the rightful heirs to the throne. Though made of gold, they were enchanted, making them indestructible, so they could not be cut off by enemies or thieves or the monarchs themselves, for whatever reason. To add to the trick, the collars could not be removed by anyone in The Pride, the puzzles never working in reverse and their secrets impossible to unravel.
Siena had heard all of her life how her collar could only come off one of two ways. Either by the wearer being beheaded…
…or under the destined touch of the ruler’s one true mate.
The mysticism claimed that only the touch of a perfect mate for a royal soul could free the collar. The male or female who performed such a task was destined to be wed to the collar’s owner, and there was no arguing the point. Who else could unravel the impossible puzzle that wise men had toyed with unsuccessfully for thousands of years? Only one. A perfect one. A soul as royal and complementary as the collar’s owner.
The very idea made Siena’s stomach churn with nausea and a fear she had never known. Now that it had been removed, the collar could only be returned to the Queen’s throat by the hands of a member of The Pride, or, if the legends were true, by the hand of the lover who had originally removed it. The puzzle was out of Siena’s scope of knowledge and was purposely kept that way to keep the ruler who wore it from doing exactly what she was trying to do…hide the fact that she had taken a mate.
Her true mate, if legend had its truth.
“This is insane,” Siena hissed under her breath as she turned to make yet another circuit around the room.
A Demon the destined mate of a Lycanthrope? What did it matter that they were so…so compatible? Chemistry and sexuality aside, there was more to ruling thousands of people then the ability to have good sex. She slid her hand into the pocket of her caftan, closing it tightly around the links of the collar. She marched up the steps of her throne and sat down, staring really hard at the whispering women across from her for a long minute.
Syreena might know how to return the necklace to its rightful place. She had lived amongst The Pride for over a century. Perhaps she had picked up the secret during her time there. But Siena knew she could not ask Syreena to betray her mentors. It would be like someone asking her to reinitiate the war. And now, more than ever, she had reason to despise the idea of such an abomination.
No! she cried out in her thoughts. There are no more reasons than there were before! That would intimate I have some sort of feelings for…and I do not!
The Queen was back on her feet and pacing a heartbeat later.
She needed a solution to this awful conundrum, and she needed one fast. There was no way she was going to introduce a Demon male of such infamous renown to her court, name him King, and sit him by her side! Such a warrior? The idea revolted against every good intention she had forged for her people in order to lead them into a brighter, more peaceful future. She had intended on ruling by herself until the day she died, and somehow she was going to find a way to continue that plan. She would hang herself before taking part in such an abomination against everything she stood for, and she would be damned before she would take that man back into to her bed!
Siena stopped in her tracks as searing agony clawed through her at the very thought. She could hardly breathe for the pain of it, and she clutched at the place over her womb that ached with the most intensity. She felt so hollow, so bereft of life and reason when she thought about abandoning Elijah for all time. He had promised it would not be the end, and, Goddess help her, she screamed with every molecule of her body for him to keep his promise.
Siena dropped to the floor with a sob, doubling over with the pain and nausea of self-betrayal. She knew she craved him, knew that her cells screamed for the nourishment of his hard, aggressive body around and inside hers. She had been taken to remarkable heights, unimaginable places of pleasure, and, like a fast-addicting drug, the idea of never returning to it was almost impossible to bear.
But she must find a way to bear it. She must break this spell, defy this magic of legend that claimed he was perfect for her. She had far more to consider than just her body. She had thousands of people who were counting on her to make the wisest and most considerate choices for their well-being that she could manage.
She had not been doing that when she had fallen into Elijah’s arms. Unfortunately, a few days ago she had made the choice to save a man’s life, and, it seemed, she hadn’t made a single proper decision since then.
Siena was determined to change that.
It had been almost two days since she and the Demon had parted company. Yet she knew his presence still clung to her. She knew Anya must suspect something, even though she had yet to let her half-breed General close enough to get a good whiff of her. But it was more than that as well. It was as if the Demon warrior still followed her everywhere. Sometimes she imagined she could still feel his touch. In her mind. On her body. It haunted her, half memories and half fantasies, always leaving rivers of heat bleeding throughout her system in its wake. If this obsession was the nature of a mating, then she truly, more than ever, wanted no part of it. It made her mad to think of it, in terms of both sanity and temper.
As soon as she was through healing from her sun sickness, she was going to go to the Demon court and demand that Noah resolve these issues by making his Captain keep his distance from her.
Siena discarded that thought a moment after thinking it. The last thing she needed to do was go anywhere near where Elijah might be. Samhain was mere days away and she knew enough about Demons, thanks to Gideon, to know she would be tying the cat up in the doghouse if she went anywhere near their territory during that volatile time. The last thing she needed was to come up against the power of the Demon warrior’s passion and irresistible seduction, magnified by the Hallowed moon to an intensity far beyond anything she had experienced so far.
She did not trust herself to resist him if she did.
Siena gained her feet once more, her hands sliding over her stomach as she paced, rubbing back and forth in a soothing motion that was habitual for her when she was uptight. But something had changed about the sensation, making it more sensual rather than comforting, as it had always been. It was because, she realized suddenly, she could
feel his touch on her torso as keenly as if he was still administering it. Her breasts, belly, and hips seemed to burn with the imprint of his hands, to the point where she wondered why they did not glow brightly, the damning fingerprints showing themselves for all to see. She could still smell the masculine musk of his scent on her skin, and wondered if others were aware of it as well. Or was it just the madness of this untenable situation that made her believe in an illusion? She had bathed more than once since they had parted ways, and yet it would not leave her senses.
Truly, she must be going mad.
Siena crossed the room toward her throne once more, but could not sit in it. It was too symbolic of all the things at stake in the moment. She could not have sat still in any event. The Lycanthrope Queen resumed her pacing under the watchful eyes of her companions.
Isabella leaned over Elijah, brushing his damp hair off his forehead, biting her lip with concern. The warrior had been dreaming fitfully on and off since he had finally fallen into a restless sleep. It was an unusual occurrence for someone under Gideon’s powerful sleep inducements. Usually the healing sleep was a still one, quiet and calm and allowing for the most healing in the shortest time.
The warrior had not answered any questions from those who were so perplexed by his state of injury and the clues from Bella’s visionary trances of his activities during his disappearance. The healing of Elijah’s wounds had been simple enough for the Ancient medic. Gideon had spent meticulous time extracting iron, bacteria, and a slew of other detriments to the healing process from the warrior’s body. However, he was equally tight-lipped when others questioned him about the nature of the warrior’s injuries and any suspicions he might have as to where the Demon had been all this time. All he would say was that they would have to ask Elijah themselves. It was cryptic enough to have more than one male pacing the marble floors down in the Great Hall.
Elijah: The Nightwalkers Page 15
