Blood Oath (The Darkest Drae Book 1)

by Raye Wagner

  “Go bathe,” he grumbled as we stepped in the door. He crossed to the tray and lifted the top to inspect our supper.

  I shifted from foot to foot. Normally, he went to the washroom first to heat the bath the servants had already filled. His change in routine wasn’t appreciated. Had he forgotten? Why couldn’t he forget the routine of waking me at the butt crack of dawn, instead? “Will you please warm the water?”

  Irrik remained where he was, back to me. He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders slumped with unseen weight. Several seconds passed as I watched him. He sucked in a deep breath, and with hands on either side of his head, he massaged his temples.

  My head had been filled with thoughts of the all-consuming kiss I just shared with Tyr, but in that moment I felt something for the Drae: pity, or possibly compassion. He’d been cruel, but he’d also been kind, even if his reasons were self-serving. I took a deep breath and asked, “Can Phaetyn heal Drae?”

  He stilled but remained silent.

  Was I suggesting something preposterous? Was it somehow insensitive? The rules that the Drae played by were largely a mystery to me, so I had no idea if what I’d suggested was horribly offensive.

  “Look, I’m not being a jerk.” Not this time. “I want to know if I can help you. You’ve done some nice things and . . .” I wrung my hands then clasped them to prevent any more dirt falling to the floor. Maybe I was a mud lady. “Anyway, if I can do something to help, I feel like I owe you. And don’t worry about the bath. I should be grateful . . . I am grateful that I get to take one.”

  Could I sound any stupider? I shook my head and hurried to the washroom. Stripping out of my clothes, I caught the gaze of the girl in the mirror and wondered how Arnik recognized me. I didn’t even recognize myself. I pulled the tie out, and my silver hair tumbled past my shoulders. Wide violet eyes, framed with thick dark lashes blinked back at me. My skin was still pale, but more like the first blush of tan on toasted meringue. As if the thought of food had called it, my stomach growled.

  I looked at the stacks of soaps lining the counter and selected one of my favorites, lavender and mint, and slid into the tub. The water was cooler than I was used to but not unpleasant. I made quick use of my time and had just wrapped a towel around me when Irrik tapped on the door.

  “You need to eat,” he said.

  The reflection in the mirror said I had been eating—enough so my body didn’t have that cachectic famine look anymore.

  “I’ll be right out,” I hollered and pulled on my shift and hose. I ran my fingers through my damp hair and opened the door, but I pulled up short.

  Irrik blocked my path.

  I peered up at him. The confusion marring his features had my stomach twisting in knots.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He schooled his expression and pointed at the table. “Your supper is ready.”

  Lord Irrik was officially weirding me out, which was saying a lot because I was pretty sure “weirding” wasn’t a word. I was inventing words because my vocabulary had no words for him. “I thought supper was ready when we came in.” I raised my brows and continued down the pathway of insanity I was quickly growing accustomed to. “Just like every night.” I closed my eyes and bit my tongue to stop my sarcastic comments. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what it is about you that makes me say those things.”

  He chuckled, and the sound stroked my frayed nerves. “At least I always know where I stand with you.”

  Really? Because he confused the everliving life out of me.

  He stepped back from the doorway, and I inched past him, every nerve attuned to his proximity. When he stepped into the washroom and closed the door, I sighed with relief and crossed the large empty expanse to the couch and table. I stared at the high ceiling, trying to collect my thoughts. When that proved useless, I turned my attention to supper.

  My silver platter was laden with food.

  A large roast of meat, sliced thick and still pink in the center, sat in the middle, surrounded by roasted potatoes the size of my thumb. Yeah, I’m pretty sure those weren’t grown by me and my Phaetyn powers. They were way too small.

  A small dish of brussel sprouts fried with bacon and a small basket of yeast rolls competed for my attention.

  My mouth watered as I looked for my plate. Only there wasn’t one. There was one set of silverware and one mug for the flagon of nectar. Which meant he’d intended to leave me in the dungeon all night.

  “Why aren’t you eating?” he growled, coming out of the washroom not long after, his liquid black hair still glistening with water. He held a towel in his hands and was drying his muscular chest and torso.

  Heat crept up my neck, and I averted my gaze. Did I want to? Maybe not. I’m sure Tyr would have something to say if I didn’t, however.

  —Lord Irrik—Friend or Foe? —

  —The Drae—Damned or Demented? —

  —The King’s First—by Intention or by Accident? —

  “Why do you keep saving me?” I asked, glancing back.

  He crossed the room to the wardrobe, picked a black aketon from a row of black aketons, and pulled it over his head. It must be so hard for him to decide what to wear each morning.

  After fastening the ties, he faced me. His dark gaze pinned me to the soft cushions. Several seconds of silence hung in the air around us, but I was determined to not add anything else to my question. I wanted his answer. I wanted to know something about the Drae.

  “You continually need saving,” he said flatly. Instead of coming to share the food, he went to the bed and perched on the edge. He threw me a dark scowl. “If you don’t start eating, I’m going to come over there.”

  “That’s rich,” I laughed. “In one breath you tell me you continually have to save me, and in the next you threaten me.” I picked up the fork, speared a glistening sprout, and popped it in my mouth. I would miss the food when I left. Waving the silver utensil in the direction of Lord Broody-Drae, I said, “I wish you would make sense. Just once.”

  I sliced into a piece of meat and dipped it in a creamy white concoction on the tray. I sniffed at the sauce, which had a pungent peppery smell, and took a tentative bite. The richness of the meat and the sauce married perfectly in my mouth. My entire world became the tray for a few minutes, but after several bites in silence, I looked up to see Irrik watching me. Still.

  Creeper.

  I poured the nectar and took a long drink but couldn’t help peeking at him over the rim of the mug.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  I set the cup down and studied him. “I can’t understand you at all. And believe me, I’ve tried. Nothing you do makes sense. You said you wanted me to learn a lesson in the dungeon, which I assumed would mean Jotun—”

  My thoughts skidded to a halt, and I covered my mouth. Him suddenly collecting me from the dungeons. His break from routine. His slumped shoulders. My hunger disappeared, my stomach now filled with the unease of questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answers for. In fact, I was certain I didn’t want answers.

  He hadn’t warmed the bath water, and I could only guess that meant . . .

  “You’re not going to try to breed with me, right?” I asked, determined to know my fate. The idea of being intimate with the Drae was terrifying for more reasons than I wanted to consider.

  Irrik’s features hardened. “Are you asking me this because I didn’t heat your bath water?”

  “No.” Okay, maybe that was a leap.

  He clenched his jaw. “The king can’t make me do that anymore, so no.”

  I blew out a loud breath. “Thank the Moons for that.”

  His eyes flashed to Drae slits before flashing back to human. “Just so we’re clear, I’ve never forced myself on anyone. The women, the mothers of the Druman, were all willing.” He clasped his hands in his lap and dropped his gaze to them.

  I swallowed the rest of my questions, not sure if I believed him. The two women I’d seen him in company with had seemed
happy for his attention, sure, but I’d also seen what his freaky breath could do to them. I knew what his kiss had done to me.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

  “Can you read minds?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

  He snorted. His most common response to my questions. Lovely.

  “No, Ryn. Your expression is a clear window to your emotions. I don’t think I’d need to read your mind.”

  Drak. I flinched at his words. I’d have to work on a blank expression, like the one he did so well. And the thought that he could actually read minds was a little terrifying. Stupid Drae powers. He ignored my response and continued talking.

  “I would never use my Drae powers to be intimate with someone. Never. And there’s no way the king can twist the oath to that end again.”

  Really? “Why not?”

  “Because he can’t,” he growled.

  Obviously, I’d touched a nerve. But, knowing the king couldn’t make him mate was a relief, for him and for me. I was glad the king didn’t have total power over him. Something else was bothering me though after Tyr’s disappearing act in the dungeon. I gathered my courage and looked Lord Irrik in the eye. “Is Tyr your son?”

  Waves of emotions crossed his face—frustration, sadness, anger—before he slipped his features into the flat expression he wore most. “No. He is not.”

  I’d learned more this evening than all the weeks of working outside with him.

  He ran his hand over the soft comforter on the bed, and his mask slipped. He closed his eyes and took slow deep breaths. His pain and weariness hung in a cloud around him, drifting all the way to the other side of the room, to me. Maybe I wasn’t the cause of his current heartache. Maybe his anguish wasn’t my fault. But I was certainly adding to it. I’d seen enough over the weeks to know that while Irrik was bound to the king, the Drae was not aligned with the brutality of Verald’s monarch.

  “I meant what I said. If I can heal you, if there is a way for me to help you, I will.” I scratched my wrist, the itching from before returning with pruritic fire.

  Irrik shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

  His gaze dropped to my hands.

  I stopped scratching and looked down at my wrist. My fair skin looked normal, but I ran my finger over the rough patch. “Do you know what’s causing this? Did I get some funky disease down in the dungeon? If I did, I would’ve thought my Phaetyn powers would heal it.” He said nothing, and I fixed him with a pointed look. “Do you know how to make it better?”

  “I’m not certain what it means, but I can assure you it’s not a disease. You might find that the . . . nectar helps.” He sighed, a tired and melancholy sound. “But it might make it worse, too. I don’t have a better answer for you.”

  “Why do you say it like that? If it’s not nectar, what’s it called?” It wasn’t like I was all privy to the Drae’s language.

  Lord Irrik chuckled. “You can call it whatever you want, Ryn.”

  Okay. I poured another mug of nectar and sipped at it. The sweetness brought a diffusion of tranquility with it. I dipped my finger in the clear liquid and rubbed it on the rough patch of skin on my wrist. The itching melted away. “Hey,” I said, smiling with the relief of my discomfort. “You were right.”

  He stood. “If you’re done eating, we should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day.”

  “Why don’t you take the bed?” I asked, lying down on the long couch. “You look like you need it more than I do.”

  He quirked a brow. “Do you mind if I have some supper?”

  I blushed, stood, and hefted the tray with both hands. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Here you go.”

  I carried the tray halfway across the room where he met me. Our hands brushed as we transferred possession of the heavy platter. He quickly adjusted it so he held it underneath by one hand. “You didn’t eat very much. Are you sure you don’t want anything else on the tray?” With the other hand, he grabbed the flagon of nectar and held it out to me. “You might want this close by, in case your skin disease comes back.”

  “Hey, you said it wasn’t a disease,” I shot back. I accepted the flagon, grabbed a roll to nibble on, and then went back to the couch, feeling his gaze on me.

  When he was done eating, Irrik extinguished the lights and opened the panels to the night. He drew near, and I watched him in the dark, my heart pounding. He pulled a blanket out of a drawer of the wardrobe and dropped it on my feet.

  Seconds later, the bed groaned and sank under his weight. I’d been waiting for this. The obscurity of night bolstered my courage, and I asked my last question in a whisper. “How can I use my Phaetyn powers to heal a person?”

  I knew from my mother’s tales that the Phaetyns of old could do this—though they were probably much stronger than I was. She’d never told me how, and I wondered if she knew.

  He blew out a slow breath before he answered, “How do you heal the land, Ryn?”

  I spit, bled, and sweat on it. Was he saying I had to put that on a person? Sick. “Hey, but if a Phaetyn is supposed to heal stuff, why is their blood lethal to Drae?”

  “Phaetyn are life, and Drae are death. We are able to kill each other. It ensures balance in the realm.”

  I thought about it. “But my blood doesn’t work on you?”

  He chuckled. “Apparently not. I thought you were offering to heal me?”

  Drak. “Yes, sorry. So, I can heal you—even though you’re Drae?”

  “Perhaps. I have no idea. I doubt it would harm me, seeing as your blood didn’t.”

  “Do I have to sweat on you?” The idea of running around and wiping my sweat on Irrik was immensely funny. Then another thought made me laugh out loud. “Or spit on you?” I pulled the blanket up over my mouth as I snickered with the thought. Pretty sure he wasn’t going to let that happen. Ever.

  “I would have to ingest it,” he said, his voice as dark as our room.

  Eww. “You would have to lick my sweaty body?”

  That was disgusting. Like seriously . . . Then my mind actually went there, and I shivered. “But you kissed me before.”

  “You would have to be willing to heal me,” he said, roughly. “I can’t take it from you. If I stole another kiss, I wouldn’t be healed unless you’re willing it to happen at that moment. Otherwise Phaetyn would’ve always been enslaved by man, right?”

  “But the plants in my cell grew, and I wasn’t willing them to grow. I just cried or bled on the seeds.”

  “I don’t know. I’m Drae,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “My education is limited. I’ve told you what I know.”

  I snuggled under my blanket with a yawn. I’d pushed him far enough. “Sorry,” I murmured, then, more quietly to myself, I added, “No need to get your aketon in a twist.”

  The wind blew, and clouds skittered past the first of our twin moons. I sighed as the night brushed over me, absently scratching at my forearm. The night air up on the top of the king’s mountain was much cooler than in the valley, and I wished Irrik’s room had a fireplace.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked. “Do you need another blanket?”

  I yawned again, but my muscles bunched with the cold. “Is there another? It’s really cold with the panels open, but I don’t want you to close them.”

  The bed creaked, but he moved silently across the room, nothing more than a silhouette of darkness. The wardrobe opened, and seconds later a warm blanket settled over me, followed by a third blanket, which effectively trapped the warmth.

  I sighed and stretched out beneath the covers. “Thank you.”

  With the shadows reassuring me and the heaviness of the blankets warming me, I fell into a dreamless slumber.

  27

  Morning broke with golden light chasing the darkness from the sky. I sat up, and the covers puddled at my waist. I’d managed to stay on the couch all night instead of sleepwalking to the bed. Go me. My stomach rumbled a stern warning.


  “I’m starving,” I said, stretching to look at Irrik’s bed.

  The Drae was gone.

  I tugged a blanket back over my shoulders as I rose to sitting and saw another silver tray on the table. Hopeful, I yanked the lid off. The smells wafted on the air, and I attacked the food with an intensity no one would be proud of.

  After eating and going through my morning routine, I sat back on the couch to await the Drae. I didn’t have to wait long.

  Irrik roared from outside on his approach, and I ran to the corner of the parapet to watch him land. Only, he didn’t. He beat his wings and hovered near the edge of his room.

  “Am I in your way?” I asked, ready to duck back inside if he nodded. Could he nod as a Drae? Or did it make him all reptilian when he was in that form? He tilted his head at me, and I wondered what he was trying to say. But then I remembered I’d felt his thoughts before.

  I reached and held my hand out, waiting to see if he would let me touch him.

  Irrik inched to the side and brushed my hand against the smooth onyx scales.

  Come. I want to show you something.

  Come where?

  He unfurled his right foreclaw.

  “You want me to climb inside your razor-sharp talons?” He had to be kidding. I knew the stories. He could cut through trees with those things. And what if he dropped me?

  I won’t drop you. Come on. You’ll like it. I promise.

  Right. I climbed into the palm of his upturned claw anyway.

  He tucked his wings when I was sitting cross-legged in his claw, and then we dropped. The air blew over me, warming as we descended into the valley. He spread his wings, and we soared. The last flight with the Drae had been short-lived but thrilling nonetheless. This one was magnificent. We flew over Verald, and as we circled the king’s Quota Fields, I saw patches of lush green there now.