Claimed by a Dragon (Fallen Immortals 9)

by Woods, Alisa

  Leonidas and Lucian lay crumpled on the floor by the throne… a throne where Tajael had been slumped but which was now empty. In his place stood an oversized angel with terrifying dark eyes and long white hair that flared out in a magical wind.

  Malevolence was writ on his face.

  Elyon.

  The shadow angel flicked a hand at Leksander, and everything went black.

  The waiting would kill her.

  Erelah paced the small confines of the guest room. She was on her hundredth circuit already—another would drive her mad. And besides, she was becoming dizzy. The tight circles she was walking in the small room? Or faintness from the lack of food she couldn’t bear to eat?

  She would give a few blood feathers to have Leksander return.

  She trusted him. She believed his True Love would return him to her if such a thing were possible. But she had to keep reassuring herself that he still lived by bringing a hand near the wall of the guest room. It pulsed with his magic, crackling with a blue-magic static feedback whenever she came close to touching it. She cupped her hands under her belly instead.

  “It is your time, little one,” she whispered to the baby. “But wait until your daddy returns.”

  The baby hummed a little angelsong, just a small trill, in response. She loved him like no other human soul on earth, save Leksander’s. Each kick, each song, each little wiggle, yearning to be free was a delight to her heart. She wondered if she might feel differently once he was born—after all, he was part of her now. Soon, he would be his own separate, little being. She could already feel the loss of him. But no… it would be a gain in so many ways. A first breath. A new life. A treaty renewed.

  Peace.

  Her son deserved to grow up in peace just as Rachel’s child and Rosalyn’s and Arabella’s. The love of dragons and humans, long a mystery to her, now seemed like the fabric of the universe—it had always been and would always be, and it tied everything together. It filled the House of Smoke with magic, and it was wrong for anything to threaten those True Loves, much less destroy them, as the forces of shadow and fae had been trying to do.

  Her son deserved nothing but love… and she would ensure it with her life.

  The baby fluttered inside her. More than just a simple kick, this was a whole shifting around. A movement that made her wonder if he had wings in her womb. And would they be dragon or angel? The discomfort grew enough that she had to stand if only to give the child more room. Her angel blade lay on the table against the wall, so she walked over to grab it, just to have something to do. She paced the floor again, flipping her blade between forward and reverse grips.

  The pain of childbirth would be upon her soon. She knew this but did not fear it. Her tolerance for Penance was high, and besides, her angel nature would quickly heal whatever damage might be done in easing the child from her body. She feared more for the baby than herself.

  The child shifted again, causing her to pause in her circuit. He seemed to have dropped lower somehow, so perhaps that was what he sought—a settling spot in her womb. Which quieted him, but now her walking was slower and clumsier. She waddled slowly across the room, rocking the baby as she went. It seemed awkward to walk, but she couldn’t imagine sitting in this state. She paused at a small dresser tucked to the side of the room, and for no reason other than her body seemed most at comfort standing, she opened the drawers, one by one. It momentarily eased the tension of the wait. The first was empty, and the second contained only a blanket, but the third…

  A glowing white box sat in the corner, humming with angel power.

  She knew exactly what it was—a blessing. The one Markos had gifted to Leksander for his child and his mate, long before Erelah had any sense she would be the one to carry his baby. And how fortunate for her to have found it!

  She set down her blade and scooped the blessing box out of the drawer. It hummed in her hand, and she immediately sensed it was meant for her. Or more accurately, for the baby. She pressed the box to her belly, and the blessing sought the child within. But she and the baby were one… and so the life boost flowed through her as well, radiating out from her belly and filling every particle of her being with light and love and life.

  She gasped in a breath with the joy it brought.

  Then she gasped for a different reason—a pain chased after the joy, spreading in its wake like a river that floods and crests its banks.

  The box clattered to the floor.

  She clutched at her belly, for it suddenly felt as if it were pulling apart. The pain surged and spread, a wave once more bursting its restraints and passing through her body, front to back. She braced against the drawers, for the dizziness was back, and the baby seemed to shift even lower in her belly. Then a hot gush of liquid came forth from her, sliding down her legs and dashing to the floor. She stared down in horror, relieved to see no blood, only water.

  Then she remembered. When she had freed Rosalyn’s baby of the demon, taking it with her blade, he had been badly weakened by the struggle. So she gave him a life kiss straight through her belly—a magic infusion of life. But then… the labor began. Literally, the instant the life kiss had finished, the baby began to depart his mother’s body—to begin his life, ready and strong and brimming with vitality. The blessing box… the same angel magic as a life kiss…

  Her baby was coming.

  “No, no, baby,” she panted. “You need to wait for your daddy.” But a wave of pain wracked her again, making her curl over her belly, and she knew it was useless. This baby was coming now.

  She grabbed her angel blade and stumbled away from the dresser, lurching to the bed. But then the baby shifted even lower, and an incredible pressure started as if the baby were pushing… trying to work his way out…

  She grasped hold of the bed and roughly sat down on the edge, setting the blade near the pillows. Then she pulsed magic to the screen on the wall, the one she could use to call Rosalyn. It took her three tries as the baby’s birthing pains made her cry out and double over—and she nearly shook the screen from the wall—but finally, Rosalyn’s concerned face filled it.

  “The baby!” Erelah gasped. “He is coming.” Her voice was raw and breathy, and she could barely get the words out.

  “Oh, shit!” Rosalyn grimaced and ran off the screen.

  Erelah had no idea where she planned to go, but another birthing pain wracked her—this one nearly sent her to the floor, so she forced herself to crawl up onto the bed. She couldn’t risk falling, not while in this state. It was a long, breathy struggle, but she made it to the head of the bed, where it met the wall. She managed to heave herself into a somewhat upright sitting position. She cried out again when a birthing pain gripped her—angels of light, it felt as if she were coming apart—but when it eased, the pressure down low in her belly remained, constant and forceful.

  “Erelah!” It was Rosalyn. She had returned to the screen.

  Erelah squinted at her. Sweat was drenching her brow and dripping into her eyes, and it seemed as if Rosalyn had become two people. Erelah had to clear her vision, then she saw Rachel had joined Rosalyn in the view of the screen, and the background had shifted to a couch where Rachel was likewise propped up with a similar sweat-drenched face.

  “Okay, you two!” Rosalyn was saying, both to Erelah and Rachel. “Apparently, we’re having these babies at the same time! Now push!”

  “Push?” Erelah asked. “Push what?” But her whispered question was drowned out by Rachel’s litany of curses, many of which Erelah did not understand, but she intuited their meaning. And then Rachel’s cursing became one long scream as she hunched over her belly, knees spread and gripped in her hands… and Erelah understood.

  She had to push the baby out.

  The thought sent another wave of dizziness through her.

  “Breathe!” Rosalyn shouted at Rachel. The woman’s face was turning red with effort.

  Erelah tried breathing herself—longer, deep breaths—but then the pain wracked h
er again, and she was one, giant, curled up ball. A long drop of sweat dripped from her nose before the pain receded. Then she leaned back and rested her head against the wall.

  The electric buzz of the wards made her quickly lift her head again. But just as she was giving a prayer of thanks—live wards meant Leksander was still alive—the magic crackled and pulsed right behind her. She leaned forward and looked back at it.

  “What was that?” Rosalyn asked. But it was clear she wasn’t asking Erelah—her gaze was casting about her own lair.

  “I do not—” The sound of electric buzzing cut Erelah off—it sounded as if… as if the wards themselves were shorting out! Her eyes flew wide.

  “Holy shit,” Rosalyn breathed. Her gaze met Erelah’s. “Someone’s trying to break the wards.”

  “No.” It was a whisper of breath, but it was all she got out before the pain gripped her again. As she curled up over her stomach—her baby—one thought blazed through her mind, cutting through the pain and the static hum and the electric snapping of the wards.

  Now.

  Now, little one.

  It’s time.

  Erelah grabbed hold of her knees as Rachel had… and pushed.

  Leksander was being dragged.

  As he swam up into consciousness, the first thing he saw was his own boots scraping along the floor of the hallway. A hallway in the keep. Something had him by the back of the neck with a fiery-hot grip, and he couldn’t move at all—just submit to being hauled down the corridor.

  Elyon.

  The memory rushed back, making him jolt. He could see the back of the shadow angel’s leather body armor as they bumped down the hallway. Leksander twisted and fought his hold, but that just earned him a smack against the wall that jarred his brain so hard he fell limp again.

  “Cooperate, and I might not kill you.” Elyon’s voice boomed down the empty hall behind them.

  Fuck. Leksander would give his life to stop this asshole, but that was precisely what he couldn’t do. The death wards were the only thing protecting Erelah now. Leksander cursed himself silently in dragontongue. The ancient words for fucking idiot were ready on his tongue. How could he be so foolish? He knew angels could take any form they liked, but somehow Elyon pretending to be Tajael completely fooled him. He even tasted the shadow angel on Tajael, but Leksander just figured the angeling was struggling with his nature, as Erelah had.

  It even fooled Markos.

  Who was now outside the keep.

  That was what he needed. Help. Leksander reached out to pull down the wards—the grip on his neck tightened, and suddenly, it was made of fire. Leksander screamed as the burning tore through him, not just where Elyon held him but ripping like a wildfire through the magic in his veins. Then he was slammed into the wall again, blanking out the pain with the stunning force of it.

  “It is not those wards I wish you to bring down, beast.” Elyon hauled him up to standing, which Leksander could barely do—his legs still shook from the knock on the head and the burning torture magic. Only then did Leksander realize exactly where they were.

  Right outside his lair.

  Goddammit. That meant Elyon had already broken through the wards around this half of the keep—the wards that protected all three lairs of the princes of the House of Smoke. And their mates. And dragonlings. Did Elyon know that? He certainly knew where to come to get Erelah, even though she was behind the wards, and he couldn’t possibly sense her. Leksander prayed the angel had left the others alone, coming straight here.

  “How about you fuck off?” he said, hopefully distracting Elyon while he shot his fae senses out again to bring down the outside wards—before he could, Elyon held up his palm, and that murderous pain struck Leksander down once more. He couldn’t help the screams or sinking to his knees. He was on fire. That was the only thought he could manage through the torment.

  Then it cut off again, just as quickly, leaving him breathless.

  “Too bad you’ve sided with the light,” Elyon mused. “At the Great Fall, your kind and mine were natural allies.”

  “Fuck. You.” Leksander gasped, trying to struggle up from the floor. What the fuck was happening here? He tried to fight through the leftover haze in his mind. Elyon could easily kill him. But he hadn’t. Because he wanted Leksander to bring down the wards—not the ones around the keep, which would let Markos back in. And not the common wards around the lairs. Elyon had already broken those. But he couldn’t break the death wards around his lair. He might not even know they were death wards.

  He needed Leksander’s help.

  Elyon magically lifted Leksander up, but not to standing—he jerked Leksander up off the ground and flung him against the door of his own lair. The door protected by his own death wards. The magic burned and sizzled across his back and his scalp. He roared against the pain. After long seconds of agony—Leksander felt sure his brain was being electrocuted—Elyon released him.

  He slumped once more to the floor.

  This time he stayed down.

  “A clever ward,” Elyon said. His voice was laced with danger. “Its strength is an unexpected inconvenience. Bring it down.”

  Leksander didn’t bother answering. No matter what, he had to stay alive. His death was the only way to break the wards, and as long as Elyon didn’t know that—

  The hellfire in his veins surged up. Leksander couldn’t help the way his body twitched and rolled as if instinctively trying to put out a fire made of magic the way you might with actual flames. His screams rasped his throat, and when the pain stopped this time, he was lying on his back, staring up at Elyon’s face. His black eyes and wild white hair marred his perfect beauty. Leksander stared dully at him, his tongue thick. It seemed strange that something so perfectly evil could be contained in that angelic form… although that just reminded him this was the form Elyon chose.

  “I will kill you,” Elyon said with a small smile. “And your mate will perish, too.”

  “No,” Leksander answered thickly, unable to muster even a proper Fuck off, you fucking evil bastard angel. He stayed on the floor. He wasn’t sure his limbs would work right anyway.

  “The fae was right.” Elyon curled a lip, revealing perfectly white teeth. “Humans are a pestilence better wiped from the earth. Breaking the treaty will allow the Winter Court to do just that. But even if that weren’t true, this halfling you’ve spawned must die. If I’d reached your mate sooner, I might have simply turned her or taken the baby for myself. But the time for such things is past. Otherwise, the angels of light might think they can rule the shadow. Or even eliminate us once and for all.” Elyon reached down to grab Leksander by the throat and hauled him off the floor.

  All his air cut off. He clawed at Elyon’s hand, but it was like being choked by a god. Elyon pulled him closer until they were face-to-face. Leksander was far from small, but this oversized angel had his feet pawing the air—air he couldn’t pull into his lungs.

  “I have endless ways to torment you, dragon.” His smile gleamed. “And if I can’t break your mind with pain, I will do it with pleasure—either way, I will have what I seek.”

  Black stars swam in front of Leksander’s eyes… he was passing out. But that was fine. Torment was fine. All of it, he would endure… as long as Elyon didn’t kill him. And at some small moment—just an instant of time when Elyon was distracted was all he needed—Leksander would bring down the outside wards and bring help.

  Elyon’s eyes narrowed at Leksander’s lack of response. Did he expect more of a struggle? Then the angel flicked a look past Leksander’s shoulder at the door to his lair and the invisible wards protecting it.

  “These wards are different.” The angel’s voice was dangerously thoughtful. Then he tossed Leksander against the wall of this lair. The electric shock of it jolted him again, but he was only in contact for an instant. He crashed to the floor, gasping in the air he’d been fighting for. Elyon was back to staring at the door, and a cold flush of fear ran through Leksand
er. “The others weren’t so hard to break,” Elyon said, still staring at the door. “A simple trick and a surge of power. But those tasted of common magic. Dragon magic. These taste of… fae.” He turned a narrow-eyed glare at Leksander. “Of your useless True Love. And of death.” His eyes widened.

  Holy shit. Leksander roared, spewing dragonfire and shifting into his dragon as he hurled himself at the angel. Talons, needle-sharp fangs, and the shock of surprise—all of it was his for an instant. If Elyon was going to kill him, Leksander would make sure the outer wards came down first. As he attacked, slashing and biting and clinging despite Elyon reeling back and lashing out, Leksander screamed—in dragontongue—the ancient words of his House, finally bringing down the wards around the keep.

  The last word got out. The wards came down. And Elyon blasted him with a pulse that felt like it ripped him in two.

  Leksander tumbled down the hall, reflexively shifting human again as his mind screamed in pain. When he stopped, the pain kept on. Plus something buffeted against him, rolling him further down the hall. Magic. Some hellaciously strong magic was sweeping pulses down the hall. He fought through the pain and the magical tide and tried to rise up from the floor, but he kept slipping on something. Everywhere was wet—his hands, his legs.

  It took a moment to realize… it was his blood.

  Smeared across the floor like a macabre surrealist painting. Drenching his clothes as if he were losing it by the gallon. He clutched his gut through the slashes in his blood-soaked shirt—that ripped a fire of pain through him—and he managed to fight the slippery floor enough to slide into sitting propped against the wall.

  And then all energy escaped him. He had to fight to remain conscious.

  He half expected Elyon to come after him to finish the job.

  But when Leksander blinked away the haze of pain and the lightheaded feeling—fuck, he was losing so much blood, magical blood, too much blood—he saw why Elyon hadn’t already killed him.