THEY didn’t speak on the way to Éléonore’s house. Adele had plenty of supplies at Wood House, but any self-respecting curser preferred to use her own. If nothing else, Grandma would feel better with familiar things. Rose collected the twigs and herbs while Declan stood guard over her, and she had to restrain herself to keep from smacking him to get the grim expression off his face.
They returned to Rose’s house in silence. “Would you like some tea?” Rose asked as they went up the steps.
He nodded.
She went into the kitchen. He had no reason to be stubborn about it. Her plan made perfect sense. It also had one added benefit, which she decided wasn’t important enough to mention. If things went wrong—and they were bound to go wrong when you’re standing on a rotting hunk of wood in the middle of an electrified lake surrounded by monsters—if things went wrong, she would go down alone. Declan would still survive to fight another day. He had more of a chance against Casshorn than she did.
It was a good plan. She just needed Declan to see it.
She poured the boiling water into the teapot, set the tea to steep, and went in search of him.
She found him behind the house, at the woodshed. He sat on the bench, his larger sword on his lap, and he slowly, methodically drew a soft cloth along the blade.
Rose sat on a tree stump scarred with the strikes of countless wood axes and waited. He ignored her.
“My way is a good way, Declan. You know it is. My control is better than yours. I’m more precise.”
He glanced up. His eyes were pure white. Great, his brights were on, but nobody was driving. She had to make him see reason.
“Is this some sort of bluelood chivalry thing? Because I have news for you, you can’t exactly afford to be chivalrous, Declan. Right now, you’re an army of one with me as your National Guard volunteer unit. You have to let me help, and this is the best way to do it.”
He said nothing.
“At least talk to me, damn you!”
He set the sword aside and walked to her. The determination on his face shot a bolt of alarm down her spine. She backed away. He caught her and pushed her back lightly. Her back pressed against the wall of the house. She realized that for the first time they were truly alone, with no risk of interruptions. Well, if he thought he could bully her into backing down, he had another think coming.
“Rose.”
Rose jerked aside, but he barred her escape with his arm. “You’re stronger, I get it,” she ground out. She tried to push him aside, but she might as well have tried to push a train. He didn’t move an inch.
“Rose,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
She glared at him. Their stares connected, and there was something so arresting and possessive in his grass green eyes that words died on her lips. He looked at her like she was some great treasure. Like nothing else mattered.
He looked at her like he loved her.
Warmth touched her cheeks, and she knew she blushed. He looked her over, studying her neck, her eyes, her throat, slowly, taking his time. She was locked in his arms. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of her shirt. She smelled him, that very familiar scent of sandalwood, and clove oil he had used to clean his sword, and sweat. His chest pressed on her, the muscles hard but supple, and her nipples tightened. She was caught.
“I’m going on that dock instead of you,” she said.
“No.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
His big body braced hers. His hips kept her pinned. He raised his hand and slid his fingers up the side of her neck in a long caress, up her chin, and to her lips. She shivered. He brushed her lower lip with a calloused thumb.
“Kissing me won’t make me more agreeable,” she whispered.
“I’m not trying to make you more agreeable.” His voice was rough and low. “I just can’t help myself.”
The muscles on his arms flexed, and she realized Declan was fighting for control.
He swallowed, his eyes dark.
A million reasons to get away streaked through her head. He was a blueblood, and she was an Edge mongrel. He lied to her. He wanted to own her. They had no future together. He . . . If someone told her that right now in this very moment, trapped between the wall of her own house and Declan’s rigid body, that she could have one thing and one thing only before she died, she would choose to be with him.
Nothing good ever happened to people who didn’t take chances.
She kissed him, molding herself against his large frame, supple softness to his hardness.
His control snapped. He lunged for her, pushing her against the wall, and kissed her back, furious and passionate, drinking her in. The echo of the kiss rolled through her body, dragging a low moan from her. She slid against him, working her hands up the hard muscles of his back.
He pulled her to him and buried his face in her neck. His teeth and tongue played with her skin, rasping over the sensitive spot on her pulse, painting heat over her flesh. Warmth spread through her. Declan kissed her again and again. Her body tightened. He ground into her, and she slid up and down with him, giving soft resistance to the hard thrust of his erection.
His voice was a hot breath in her ear. “God, I want you.”
“I want you, too,” she whispered. She wanted him so badly that every time he touched her, she wanted to hold on to him to keep him from letting go. The thought of him standing on that dock, collapsing under the weight of hundreds of hounds, almost made her scream in frustration. He wasn’t going to die there. “I’m still going on that dock.”
His voice was low and so suffused with need, it was almost a snarl. “I know. I’m coming with you.”
“What?”
“We’ll do it together.”
He thrust his hand under hers, pushed her bra down, releasing her aching breast, and brushed the nipple. A jolt of pleasure, intense and unexpected, rippled through her.
“I can handle the hounds. You don’t have to . . .” she whispered.
“Yes, I do.”
He kissed her again, stealing her breath, and nipped her lip with his teeth. She pulled at his T-shirt. She wanted him naked, she wanted to feel his skin against hers.
He pulled away from her and swept her off her feet. “Bed.”
She wound herself about him, kissing his neck and the corner of his jaw. “Good idea.”
They tore through the house and into the bedroom. He dropped her on the bed, grasped the fabric of her T-shirt, pulled up, and the old worn-out cotton tore in his hands. “Sorry.”
“I have another one.” She pulled off his shirt and ran her hands down his body, from his chest over the hard ridges of his stomach, and then she was sliding him out of his jeans and rubbing her hand down the hard shaft of his erection. He made a raw animal sound in his throat and stripped the last shreds of clothing from her. For a moment she saw him towering above the bed, tall, golden, knitted with carved muscle.
She was too hot and too wet and too impatient.
He lunged for her, and she met him halfway, kissing, rubbing, stoking the fire inside both of them. His tongue played on her skin. He cupped her left breast, stroking the nipple with his fingers until it ached. She moaned. His hips slid between her legs. He dipped his head down and caught her nipple in his hot mouth, sending a wave of pure pleasure through her. She dug her fingers into the hard muscle of his back and arched herself, welcoming him. “Now,” she whispered. “Now, Declan, don’t wait.”
He heard her. His lips found hers. He thrust into her, and she gasped. Her body resonated with pleasure, wanting, demanding more. She ground against him.
He thrust again and again, deep, hard, building to a rapid fiery rhythm, his weight a steady sweet pressure on her. She was full, so wonderfully full of him, and she wanted more.
She kissed his jaw and his throat, and he thrust harder. She clawed at his back, taut with strain, and the aching need within her blossomed into a cascade
of bliss. She felt herself rising higher and higher, propelled by his thrusts and lost in the hot glide of their bodies, until something within her snapped. Pleasure drowned her, smothering all thought. She screamed his name. Her body screamed with her, gripping him, pumping. He clenched and emptied himself into her with a hoarse growl. They lay together in a hot, sweaty tangle, and for a while, lost in the aftershocks, she couldn’t tell which limbs were hers and which were his.
“That was not the way it was supposed to go,” he said, his voice still raspy with echoes of lust.
“How was it supposed to go?”
He pulled her to him, closing his arms around her, and Rose sank into him, implausibly happy. He ran his fingers along her arm. “Slow and sensuous. Sophisticated.”
She turned on her side and kissed him. “How terribly inappropriate of you, Earl Declan Riel Martel Camarine.”
“You’ve remembered my name. I feel the need to celebrate this momentous occasion.”
“I thought we just did that,” she murmured, out of breath. “But if you insist on a do-over, I’m sure we can do this again in the near future.”
“Do you know what happens when you overflash?” he asked softly.
“No.”
“I’ve done it once.” He pulled her close, his muscled arm under her breasts. “We were trapped in a field while the Gaul’s summoners ran a horde of marloks at us. They’re simian animals, large predatory apes. There was no cover and no support. There were just the five of us, and we stood back to back and flashed. I remember my mouth was full of blood. My vision wavered. I felt like my arms were stretching out into the distance.”
“What happened?”
“William went into rending. Changelings do this once in a while, especially after puberty. They lose touch with reality and go berserk. He went crazy, and we just hit the ground, because when he rends, he kills everything. I’d asked him about it once, and he told me rending is going to the place where there is no God. Make of that what you will. When he finally wore himself out, the five of us were the only things alive on the field.”
“What would’ve happened if you had kept going, had kept flashing?” she asked.
“I would’ve died. I wouldn’t have even known it. You’d think that you could push just a touch further, and then the world would fade and so would your life.” He kissed her cheek. “I won’t let it happen to you.”
She frowned.
“You don’t know when to stop,” he said. “You overdo it. I’ve watched you flash for two hours straight, when you were trying to get Ataman’s defense down. You have no clue where your limits are.”
She rose on her elbow. “Declan . . .”
“There were times when I’ve deferred to you. The time when you stopped me from going after Simoen or the time when you told your elders about William. I did so because you understood the situation better. It’s your turn to defer to me. I know what I’m talking about, Rose. I was a professional soldier for over a decade. You’re brilliant, but you need training. If you go on that dock alone, you’ll die, and I won’t let it happen.”
“No.” She pushed away from him. “Don’t you see—”
“I see.” He pulled her back and kissed her. “You’ll magnificently kill the first wave of the hounds, and then the second wave will tear your throat out, and everyone will cry at your funeral and describe how you laid down your life for the good of your neighbors.”
She recoiled.
He reached over, picked up her hand, and kissed her fingers. “We do this my way. We both survive, and then we deal with Casshorn.” His stare fixed her. “Promise me, Rose.”
What he said made sense. She wasn’t too proud to understand that, and she still got what she wanted—he wouldn’t be on the dock alone. “Okay,” she said simply. “We’ll do it your way. But we still need something from Casshorn for this curse to work.”
Declan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Do you think George is strong enough to reanimate a creature? Only for a short while.”
“He might be,” she said. “We’ll have to ask him.”
“If he can do it, then I might have a plan.”
His hand wandered down her body, stroking. He kissed her, and she slid tighter against him.
“Rose?” Tom’s gruff voice called from the porch.
Declan swore.
GEORGE sat on a fallen log and looked at the three dead crows lying on the ground before him. Sad, black bodies. Lifeless. They had been carefully killed, with a bow and arrow. Not a lot of damage to repair.
Behind him, Jack sniffed at the air. He probably thought the birds would make a nice snack. To the right, Mémère and Rose sat on an old wooden log.
“I can’t believe you’re going to make him do this.” Mémère was angry. Her cheeks were flushed.
“He’ll raise something again, sooner or later,” Rose said.
“But not so soon!”
Rose was using her “reasonable” voice. He never won an argument with that voice.
“When would it be not too soon?” Rose asked.
“I don’t know!” Mémère waved her arms. “Not now.”
“If it was up to you, not too soon would mean never.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“You can’t expect him never to use his talent again,” Rose said.
“George,” Declan said.
George looked at him, crouched by the crows.
“What I’m about to ask you to do is called combat necromancy. We’re going to play some games first, and then we’ll do the hard part. Understand?”
George nodded.
“Before, when you raised things, you felt a connection between you and them, right?”
George nodded again. It felt like having a fish on a very thin line, always shivering and tugging the line, but not too hard.
“And sometimes you stopped them from doing things. Like the time you stopped your grandfather from attacking Rose.”
George nodded again. He could do that. He didn’t do it very often, because he wanted things to be alive and do things on their own, but yes, he could do that.
“I want you to take it a step further,” Declan said. “I’d like you to raise one of those birds and keep a very good control of it. You have to understand that this bird is raised for this one mission only. Once the mission is over, you must let it go, because it did its job and it deserves to rest. Do you understand?”
George nodded.
Declan kept looking at him.
“I understand,” George said.
“Go ahead,” Declan said.
George touched the bird on the right. She was the smallest, and he felt sorry for her the most. The bird pulled at his magic, it stretched, snapped, and Georgie recoiled, biting his lip. It always hurt when he raised something. He couldn’t see the arrow hole under the feathers, but he felt it, and he fed a little of his magic down the line, closing it up, nice and neat, just in case.
The bird shivered. Slowly, she stretched one leg, then the other, rolled, and got to her feet.
Mémère sucked in her breath. “Now you’ve done it. You’ve started the whole thing over again.”
“Very good.” Declan rose to his feet and moved to stand by the bird. “I want you to close your eyes and turn around, keeping the bird very still. I’m going to touch the bird, and I need you to tell me when I do.”
George closed his eyes. A faint touch disturbed the magic. “Now,” he said.
“Very good,” Declan said. “What am I doing now?”
“You’re pinning the wings to the body.”
“I need you to tell me when you feel me let go.”
A long moment passed. The pressure on the crow vanished. “Now!”
“Excellent. You can turn around now.”
Declan walked away until several yards separated them. “Try to make it walk toward me.”
“Her,” Georgie corrected. “It’s a girl bird.”
“Sorry. Please make her wal
k toward me.”
George tugged on the line. He’d never before tried to make a bird walk. Stopping the creatures from moving was easy. This was harder. The crow stumbled and spun in place.
“Take your time,” Declan said.
George concentrated. The longer he focused on the magic between them, the more complex it became: at first it was a line, then it was a whole bunch of thinner lines, woven together, and then the lines fractured into a glowing web that clutched at the bird. He tried to tug on the web. The crow jerked and fell into the dirt. Georgie shook his head, trying to clear his vision.
“It’s all right, Georgie, you don’t have to do it,” Mémère said.
“Grandmother, let him be,” Rose said. “Please.”
George sighed. This just wasn’t the way to do it. “Get over to Declan,” he whispered.
The crow picked herself up and spread her wings. She took to the air, flew a few feet, and landed on Declan’s shoulder.
“Sorry,” George said.
“It’s good,” Declan said. “Try it again.”
George nodded. It took him a good ten minutes to figure out what he needed to do. He had to concentrate very closely on the path before the crow to get her to walk. If he let up, she would fly over to Declan. When the crow had finally done her little walk, George let out a happy sigh.
“Tired?” Declan asked.
“No.”
“New game, then.” Declan opened his hand and showed him a small reddish rock. He tossed the rock into the dirt. “Can she bring it back?”
The crow swooped, grasped the rock, flew back, and dropped it into Declan’s palm. George smiled.
Declan raised his eyebrows. “This is supposed to be harder than walking the bird.”
“It’s easier for me.” All he had to do was to concentrate on the rock and then on Declan.
“He used to make the birds steal cherries for us,” Jack said.
Declan bent back and hurled the rock into the bushes. The crow took off from his shoulder and followed the path of the rock, perching on a branch. George frowned. He couldn’t see the rock from where he sat.
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