Eversworn: Daughters of Askara, Book 3

by Hailey Edwards

  Surveying the rest of the space, I decided all was as it should be. Clothes hung in my closet and were folded in each of my drawers. I’d left no gaps in either, despite necessities I’d packed.

  Books were stacked on every level surface, and I balled my fists to keep from packing those I valued most, those with sentimental attachment, those that had come from Emma. Their loss stirred bone-deep remorse, but I’d absorbed their knowledge and would find comfort between the pages of new tomes once this bargain with Roland was met. If only friends were so replaceable.

  Blinking back hot tears I had no right to shed, I checked the one bag I had allowed myself. Herbs and my implements were of the utmost importance. The bag bulged with those. With a hand at my neck, I smoothed a thumb across the battered locket and my material woes vanished.

  This place held echoes of a life no longer mine. It was time for me to leave.

  After hours of trudging through ankle-deep sand, Dillon’s first step onto the spell-crafted road leading into the Feriana colony was a relief. His right leg quivered from walking the property line. His left, well, he glanced down as wind blew his pant leg against the skeletal limb.

  The absence of familiar contours made his gut clench. It doesn’t matter. His head shot up so fast his eyes spun. I’ve got no one to impress. Glamour could make him appear whole, but even a tangible illusion wouldn’t cover his limp, grant him a respite or boost his compromised mobility.

  His gaze cut from left to right. With a grunt, he lowered himself onto the ground. Relief rolled his eyes shut, the absence of pain euphoric. Tremors caused his leg to spasm, but without his weight stretching the wasted muscle, the twitches slowed and a familiar dull throb took up residence behind his leg. He exhaled through the worst of the ebbing pain. This he could handle.

  Chill air rustled his hair and smudged his uneven footprints until his sense of direction blurred. Only the tents at his back anchored him in the vast darkness of nighttime in the desert.

  Dust swirled in a reminder he hadn’t been bluffing when he warned the new recruits about sandstorms. Askaran winters were harsh. The bite in the air and the stirring breeze were all signs of impending chaos, but he ignored them. Even knowing a storm was brewing, he was too damn tired to move out of its way. Guess Harper was right. Dillon wasn’t fit enough to handle patrol yet.

  More wind, stronger this time, made his eyes shut against the swirling debris. When he opened them, he blinked a couple of times as moonlight glinted across the dunes. Miles of cursed sand glittered like stardust. Lip curling, he growled at the sentiment. He didn’t like open desert.

  Even now, while he admitted this view was nice, like still wasn’t the right word. No one liked reminders of crossing those same dunes, hell-bent on reaching the gateway between realms, wishing like hell a sand trap would swallow them whole just so the pain stopped. But it never had. Memories from his enslavement scrubbed his thoughts raw. Drawing his glamour closer, Dillon exhaled through the tightness in his throat and unfastened the top few buttons of his shirt.

  No collar. No choke chain. No reason to panic. Breathe.

  He ran a hand through his hair, and it came back sweaty. His stroll down memory lane left his pulse racing. A darting glance, a ripe curse, and he pushed back onto his feet and limped toward the colony. Humiliating? Yeah, it was. The last thing he wanted was for the new guys to catch his shuffle-step toward the last checkpoint. Damn. He was lucky he wasn’t crawling now.

  Once he hit the main aisle between rows of residency tents, he nodded to the colonists lingering there, managed a terse greeting for a couple. Gritted his teeth and acted like everything was fine. He couldn’t afford for it not to be. Besides, routine kept his body, if not his mind, occupied. Every night before the explosion that started his stumble into rehab, he’d checked the perimeter before shift change then retreated into his tent to crash—alone and happy for the quiet.

  Since moving to this colony, he was fast becoming a ceiling connoisseur since demons his age required less sleep than their crossbred descendants. There were other considerations as well.

  He shut his eyes, held his breath. Seconds later, the same old memories sparked.

  Crimson furrows wept blood across his flank. “Only a pureblood will do…” Eliya stroked his thigh, licked his blood from her fingers, “…and yours is so potent.” She smiled in white-toothed invitation. “Think of it, the first child born of the two demon houses. Yours and mine…”

  His eyes popped open on a shiver. Sleep was definitely out.

  “Harper is going to kick my ass over this,” a resigned voice said from over his shoulder.

  Dillon turned. Without missing a beat, he shrugged. “Not if you don’t tell him.”

  “Yeah. Right. Lie to the colony leader.” Mason’s baby blues went dark with concern.

  “It’s not a lie so much as an omission,” he pointed out.

  Those same eyes narrowed. “You’ve been hanging out with Harper for too long.”

  Dillon saw no reason to enlighten Mason that most of Harper’s bad habits were the result of the trickle-down effect—his. Shifting his weight onto his good foot, Dillon stared him down. “How about this then—you keep this between us, or I’ll kick your ass and save him the trouble?”

  Mason grinned. “I could say something here about a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.”

  “That’s funny.” Dillon scowled, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” Mason stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Stop being a prick.”

  He was one of the few males who could get away with that quip, but Dillon couldn’t let the opportunity pass. “I’ve been told it’s one of my best features.” After all, he had been a sthudai.

  Backtracking like a pro, Mason said, “That’s not what I meant. What were you doing—?”

  Teasing him came too easy. “Your parents did a number on you.” Dillon’s sharp digs were fueled by the pain of standing still long enough to deliver them. He almost felt sorry for the guy. Dillon was a bastard when he was riled, but he wouldn’t stop now. It felt too good to vent for a change.

  Besides, Mason could handle it. He was one of the few who could, or did. Dillon was fuzzy on the distinction. Even though Mason had been raised as a human, on Earth, he’d hung around Dillon long before his voice even thought about cracking, and Mason knew how to handle Dillon’s moods.

  Maybe that was the trick. Go figure, but Dillon was good with kids. He even liked them, well, some of them, and Mason had tagged along after Dillon until Dillon liked him too. Mason had been a damn stubborn kid who’d grown into a damn fine legionnaire, even if the transformation had cost him. Guess that was why they were still friends. They were both too bullheaded to give up on one another. Though Dillon admitted, he worried about the cloud hanging over Mason’s head.

  Askara wasn’t agreeing with Mason. He was half human, but his father’s Evanti genes trumped his mother’s human ones. That was how it worked. It was the only reason their race had survived the near-extinction of its females. Whatever they bred to, their offspring came out winged. This one had also come out a prude.

  Shifting with a slight wince, Dillon asked, “Did they give you the talk about finding a good female and settling down before you came out here?”

  Mason coughed into his fist. “This is not about me.”

  Dillon snorted. “That’s a yes.” Hypocritical as it sounded, maybe Mason’s parents wanted a nice little demoness for their nice little demon son. His amusement vanished. He’d dealt with purists all his life, and the Butlers hadn’t struck him as such, but who knew what they did behind closed doors?

  Other than coddle their only son and cheer his every step as if it were his first.

  “I was out of line.” Mason veered right onto the high road. His momma would be proud. Clearly he thought that would end this, but Dillon was irked. “I shouldn’t have called you that.”

  “What?” Dillon’s leg trembled after b
earing his weight for too long. “A prick?”

  Dark splotches appeared in Mason’s cheeks. “Yes, I should have—”

  “Asked for my preference?” Fuck the high road. Dillon was enjoying himself. “What do you call yours?” If he’d remembered how, he would have smiled as the tips of Mason’s ears glowed.

  Scratching his scalp, Mason said, “I didn’t mean—”

  Feeling supremely helpful, Dillon supplied, “Dick? Cock?”

  “Stop it,” Mason hissed. “Someone might hear you.”

  “So what if they do? This isn’t Earth. This is Askara. There’s no momma here waiting with milk and cookies after a hard day at the hardware store. No momma to check your sheets or under your bed for dirty magazines.” He bypassed another chance to stop when the red in Mason’s cheeks turned a furious purple. “There’s nothing here but sweat, sand and misery.” And then there was pain. He paused a moment, long enough he wondered. “Why did you come here?”

  Inhaling through his teeth, Mason said, “Drop it.”

  Maybe Dillon was still pissed about being replaced or jealous Harper was finding his place just as Dillon was losing his. Mason presented a safe target. No matter how badly Dillon fucked up, Mason would shrug it off and make like it never happened. Maybe this time Dillon didn’t want to be forgiven. Maybe he wanted someone else to hurt, but something made him cross a line he never should have skirted. “Why? Afraid someone will notice you’re still chugging milk from the tap?”

  Mason’s fingers balled at his side. His jaw set.

  He already looked sorry and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

  Dillon saw the punch launch, but he didn’t sidestep it. He’d pushed too hard and he deserved what he had coming, craved that edge of violence that had defined so much of his life. It wasn’t Mason’s fault Dillon was fucked up. Guys like him were the reason Harper did what he did and why Dillon helped where he could. Mason was healthy. He was normal, whatever that meant. Slavery had been an abstract concept for him until recently, and already exposure to Askara had consumed the easy smile he once wore, the thick drawl of a Southern gentleman he’d cultivated.

  Knuckles met nose and cartilage broke. Blood poured down Dillon’s chin, and the force of Mason’s right hook made Dillon’s bad leg wobble and give out. He grunted when his ass hit the sand.

  Flexing his fingers, Mason winced. “You’re my friend. Probably the best one I’ve got.” He pointed. “But if you ever talk about my momma like that again, you will regret it.”

  A sudden bark of laughter had Dillon searching for the source.

  For a minute, Mason only stared down at him. “I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh.” With a shake of his head, he cracked a slight grin. “I should deck your ass more often.”

  “Try it.” Dillon still tasted that sound on his tongue. Strange how that ball of anger, resentment, pain diffused with one well-aimed punch and one line so corny he’d never let Mason live it down. “I shouldn’t have said…about Mrs. Butler.” He touched his crooked nose. “I am a prick.”

  Mason held up his hands, palms out. “No comment.”

  More chuckles buoyed Dillon’s mood. “Probably safer that way.”

  “Hey,” Church yelled from several tents down the line. “You’re going to want to see this.”

  Refusing Mason’s help, Dillon stood and started walking. “What is it?”

  “You’ve got to see it.” Church turned on his heel and waved. “Come on or you’ll miss her.”

  “Her?” Dillon echoed.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you.” Mason jogged to catch up and passed over a scroll.

  Once he broke the seal, Dillon fumbled the paper as something caught his eye. “Oh hell.”

  “That is one crazy female.” Church grinned. “Anyone we know?”

  They’d circled back to the edge of the colony, where tents met desert and open sky. Now that Dillon was looking straight on, gawking more like it, he saw the spray of glinting sand was caused by a tiny, buck-ass-naked figure racing for the colony on horseback. His curse made heads turn. He crumpled the parchment in his fist. No need to read it now. He knew what it said.

  “I tried to warn you.” Mason returned his attention to the horse and its rider.

  Heart pounding, Dillon lifted his chin, sought the breeze and inhaled his confirmation. “Isabeau.” His voice sounded sandblasted. “Why is she…? What does she want?” Couldn’t be him.

  “You.” Mason’s hand landed on his shoulder. “I swung by the consulate this morning to check for messages and ran into her. We got to talking, and she asked about you. I told her—”

  Dillon could guess. “That I wasn’t following healer’s orders.”

  “Hey,” Mason defended. “It’s not my fault if she was worried enough to come all this way.”

  Dillon’s leg throbbed like a damned homing beacon. “You shouldn’t have let her come.”

  “I couldn’t stop her.” His tone said he didn’t think he should have anyway.

  Isabeau hadn’t contacted him in weeks, hadn’t seen him in nearly a month. There was no point. His leg was beyond her help. She’d saved what she could, removing part of his infected calf muscle rather than making the easy choice of amputation. For that, he was grateful. Now theirs was a waiting game to see if demon biology overcame the loss of so much muscle tissue. Hope had never been Dillon’s forte, and he wasn’t about to hold his breath hoping for a regenerative miracle now. He had reason to think it was possible, but it’d be a long time coming.

  Russ stepped from the shadows and joined the rapidly growing crowd.

  “Is that safe?” he asked. “Just because we didn’t see raiders doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

  Church pointed between himself and Isabeau. “Should I go…?”

  Dillon vibrated as a growl worked through his chest. The female was insane. She knew raiders patrolled the colony’s borders. She knew they’d detonated an explosive and collapsed the rear of the mines several months ago. She knew, because shrapnel from the blast had caused the infection that landed him in her care. Though attacks on the caravans had stopped, and the raider’s presence had diminished, streaking across the dunes—even on horseback—was sheer stupidity.

  “Saddle Diani,” Dillon snarled. Mason bolted to fetch Harper’s mare. She’d appreciate the chance to stretch her legs. Dillon glared into the night as if his will could manifest her clothing.

  He was pacing by the time an eager trumpet announced Diani’s arrival. Fisting the reins, he lifted his bad leg and fit his boot into the stirrup. When he forced his foot to hold his weight while he swung onto her back, his vision tunneled. “Give me five minutes.” He panted. “If I’m not back by then, mount up and ride out.” Blinking his surroundings into focus, he caught his breath hard.

  “Will do.” Church continued staring at Isabeau, and didn’t that make Dillon want to separate the male’s head from his neck? Church’s rapt attention gnawed on his nerves. Not his problem.

  Dillon nudged Mason with his boot. “Didn’t your momma teach you it’s not polite to stare?”

  His shoulders tensed for a split second before relaxing. “What Momma don’t know…”

  Dillon figured he had two choices. Either he pretended a crowd of males ogling Isabeau didn’t bother him—hell yes it did—or he gouged their eyes out, which he’d regret later. Probably.

  “Turn around.” He raised his voice. “All of you.”

  “Excuse me?” Mason mimed cleaning out his ears.

  Church shook his head, breaking his trance. “Did you say something?”

  The glare Dillon shot Church shut him up fast. Too bad it didn’t work half as well on Mason.

  “Turn your asses around before I plant my boot in them.”

  Chuckling, Mason gave him his back. “Remember to mind your manners.”

  “What manners?” Church grunted. “If he’s got any, I haven’t seen them.”

  “Thanks,” Dillon s
aid flatly. He reined in Diani as she danced in place. “Keep an eye out.”

  Mason quipped, “Soon as you get out of kicking distance.”

  With a final glare, Dillon urged the mare from the road and into the sand. She ran flat out until Isabeau was in hearing range. His questionable manners evaporated the same as the spit in his mouth when he got a good look at her. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Sheer fabric bound Isabeau’s breasts and tied behind her nape. Her midriff was bare. More of the same gauzy material formed a long skirt she’d tucked beneath and around her thighs. Somehow she was more indecent half covered than she would have been if she had ridden nude.

  He shifted in the saddle and swallowed the appreciative sound in the back of his throat.

  Sand sprayed him as her mount skidded to a stop. “I came to see you.”

  He flicked his gaze down her body. “Dressed like that?”

  “It’s past midnight.” Her cheeks were rosy from windburn. “No one will notice.”

  “Several males noticed.” His voice lowered to a rumble. “I noticed.”

  “Well then, I apologize.” She grinned as her horse sidestepped then broke into a run.

  “Wait—you can’t just…” Dillon clamped his mouth shut. She left him staring after the smooth expanse of her back, wondering what the hell had gotten into her. “Females,” he muttered, urging his horse after hers.

  Her laughter floated to him, urged him on. She enjoyed running. Good. He liked to chase.

  Instinct made his wings twitch beneath their glamour. He struggled to keep them confined. From the first whiff of her, they had begun tingling as blood rushed to turn his carmine wings crimson. What would she think if she saw the effect she had on him? No glamour between them.

  If she had any sense, she’d run. Only this time, she would be wise not to let him catch her.