The Ghost dove for me and I fell against him. With a terrified squeal, the horse bolted. Its hooves thundered as it ran full tilt into the pasture, the reins flying behind it. The Ghost had caught me with one arm under my side and his other elbow hooked under my knee, and I hung awkwardly in his grip, one leg dangling in the air.
“I’m good,” I gasped. “You can put me down.”
He tipped me onto my feet, more focused on surveying the valley. Ahead of the galloping horse, all the livestock were fleeing to the farthest end of the pasture.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“I don’t know yet.” His jaw tightened. “Lallakai.”
At the strange word, the feather tattoos running down his arms blurred. Phantom wings lifted away from his skin, then a shadowy form rose off his back. A huge black eagle pulled out of his torso, its wings rippling and dancing like black smoke. As it solidified, its sharp emerald eyes, almost identical to the druid’s except they lacked pupils, glittered like gemstones, then it swept its wings down and shot into the sky.
“Did that—did that just come out of your body?” I pointed at him with a shaking hand. The feather tattoos had vanished from his skin, leaving only the elaborate rune circles on his inner forearms and the hexes on his palms.
“Lallakai is my familiar.” His gaze skimmed the tree line, and I realized his eyes weren’t as unnaturally vibrant as before. Still beautiful green, but not otherworldly.
The brightness of his irises had been caused by the fae inside his body. Holy f—
“Something is coming,” he growled.
Lallakai wheeled through the sky, then flared her spectral wings. A dark ripple disturbed the air around her, speeding outward—then all the air was rippling. Shadows deepened, and the sunlight disappeared as a shadow fell across the valley.
One moment, the blue sky was empty but for the black eagle. The next moment, it was blotted out by monstrous wings. Not Lallakai’s wings.
Dragon wings.
Chapter Fourteen
Two gigantic beasts filled the sky, their ribbed wings stretched wide. Swirling patterns in blues and purples ran in lines down their dark, sleek bodies. Lallakai hovered nearby, dwarfed by their immense size. The dragons descended, growing larger by the second.
The Ghost launched into a sprint—but he wasn’t running away from the dragons. He was running toward them. Why wasn’t he running away!
Hyperventilating, my knees threatening to buckle, I couldn’t move as the dragon pair dropped out of the sky and landed in the pasture. One touched down with flowing grace, wings sweeping in, as soft as a butterfly landing on a flower petal. The other stretched its back legs out, front limbs clamped to its chest, and slammed into the grass like a rockslide off a cliff.
The earth shook under my feet.
I sucked in air. Gulped down my terror. Unclenched my hands. Then, with unsteady legs, I pushed into a wobbly jog—following the Ghost. Was I crazy? Probably, yeah. I should have fled in the opposite direction, but I couldn’t. There were literal dragons right before my eyes, and I was not missing this once in a lifetime chance—even if I got toasted by fiery dragon breath.
As the Ghost reached the beasts, his head barely clearing the larger one’s underbelly, their huge muzzles dipped toward him. One bite would engulf his entire upper body. The monstrous reptiles circled him, the ground vibrating with their every movement.
An animal shriek of pain and terror pierced my eardrums like red-hot pokers. I gasped and stumbled, almost falling to my knees.
The dragon pair shifted, wings twitching and tails snapping with agitation, and as they moved, I saw what they were circling. A dark lump the size of a small car lay across the grass, the Ghost kneeling in front of it. Wings, tail, neck, head, limbs—it was a third dragon, much smaller than the humungous pair.
A baby dragon?
Cautiously, I drew closer. The baby dragon—well, probably not a baby; an adolescent?—lay on its side, chest heaving. With each billow of its lungs, the shining piece of metal sticking out of its ribcage shifted. A steel spear was embedded in its body.
“Victoria!”
At the Ghost’s urgent call, I shot forward. The parent dragons’ heads swung in my direction, and I hoped he’d considered the risk of my becoming a reptile snack. He didn’t look up as I stopped behind him, the dragons towering over us. Dark blood drenched the grass and ran down the young one’s side.
“In the barn,” the Ghost said, focused on the spear. Runes etched in the metal glowed faintly. “In the tack room, under the table. There’s a hatch in the floor. In it is a tote. I need it. Quickly!”
I didn’t waste time on questions. Whirling on my heel, I sprinted across the pasture and jumped the fence. I flew through the big barn doors, barely registering the panicked squeals from the pig pen as I wheeled into the tack room. Under the table, I flipped open the hatch and heaved a large blue tote out of the hidden compartment. The damn thing was heavy and I wheezed as I half jogged out of the barn.
The larger dragon stood at the fence line.
I had a moment to panic, then the dragon stretched a clawed front foot over the fence. Thick digits curled around me, crushing the tote against my chest. Lungs compressed, I couldn’t even scream as the dragon lifted me over the fence and loped across the pasture on three legs. My stomach leaped and dropped like I was on the most terrifying amusement park ride ever.
Returning to its injured offspring, daddy dragon opened its foot and dropped me onto the grass. Heaving the tote up, I staggered the last few feet to the Ghost and set it beside him.
He popped the top off, revealing jumbled alchemy paraphernalia—jars and vials, bundles of herbs, cloths, poultice and bandage rolls, and other healing supplies. He dug into it and pulled items out, piling them in my arms. I clutched everything, my eyes darting from him to the bleeding, impaled dragon. It wheezed with each heavy breath.
He withdrew a roll of parchment paper and spread it on the tote lid, then whipped out a fat black marker. He drew an alchemy circle with swift, confident strokes. A large bowl went in the center, then he picked items out of the pile in my arms. He sped through the preparation, concentration tightening his face.
When he began to chant in an archaic language, the circle glowed and the ingredients on the outer edges turned to colored smoke. The rainbow of mist swirled over the bowl, then the transformation from random components to magical potion finished with a puff.
He picked up the bowl and pushed it into my hands. It contained half a cup of grayish liquid. “Hold that. Be ready.”
Ready for what? I didn’t ask as he returned to the young dragon and grasped the spear’s steel haft. The parents drew closer.
“Echo,” he said gruffly. “Can you hold him?”
The largest dragon lay down and placed its front limbs over the young dragon’s shoulders and rump, pinning it to the ground. The Ghost adjusted his grip on the spear, then pulled sharply.
The dragon screamed. Its head reared up and it almost got its teeth into the Ghost before the other adult dragon restrained its neck. The baby writhed madly as the Ghost drew the spear up. A foot of blood-coated steel pulled free, then the spearhead stuck in place.
“Damn them,” he growled. “Hold him, Echo.”
Shifting closer, he slid his hand down the haft and pushed his fingers into the dragon’s wound. As the creature shrieked, bucking against the ground, the Ghost’s forearm disappeared into its body. The haft turned, then he yanked it out, the hooked end tearing the injury wider. He threw the harpoon aside as blood gushed, cascading over his arm.
“Victoria.” He pressed both hands to the dragon’s side, opening the puncture. “Pour the potion into the wound. Slow and steady.”
Leaning over the dragon, I drizzled gray potion into the bloody hole. It was so little liquid compared to the gaping wound. I shook the last few drops out of the bowl, then stepped back. Blood continued to gush from the injury.
The Ghost pulled out
suture thread and a big, curved needle. Following his instructions, I brought over another potion, this one in a large black bottle. He sewed the wound in three layers, one deep inside, one midway down the puncture, and then just below the hard scales that covered the dragon’s body. As he completed each line, I poured the potion over it. Each time the liquid touched the injury, steam reeking of sulfur billowed up and the creature howled and writhed.
Finally, the Ghost sat back on his heels. I thumped down on my butt beside him, holding the half-empty bottle. The whimpering dragon curled into a ball as mama dragon licked it soothingly.
Catching my breath, I took in the majestic parents. Their elegant necks curved as they leaned over their offspring, their scaled bodies as sleek and dark as midnight. The blueish-purple markings that ran in swirling lines down their sides and backs shimmered and sparkled, the patterns shifting like entire galaxies contained within their huge forms.
The father dragon lowered its nose and nudged the druid gently in the chest. The Ghost placed his blood-coated hands on the dragon’s dark scales.
“Yeah,” he murmured, responding to something I hadn’t heard. “Keep him quiet and come get me if he hasn’t improved in three days.” A pause. “I’ll find the hunters. They’ll regret this, I promise.”
The dragon pulled its head back enough to look at the Ghost.
He grunted. “No, I’ll take care of it. If you kill them, you might bring more trouble down on your family. I’ll do it.”
A low rumble vibrated from the dragon’s throat. The mother pulled the young dragon against her chest, wrapping it in her front limbs. Balancing awkwardly on her hind legs, she jumped. Wind blasted me as she laboriously lifted herself into the sky, wings pumping with booming concussions.
The male dragon’s eyes—a solid blue so deep it was almost black—turned to me. I stared back at him, then the dragon took a few running steps that made the ground quake. He sprang into the air after his mate, and they sailed into the blue sky, the air rippling around them. Between one blink and the next, they disappeared.
The Ghost sat for a moment more, then heaved himself up. With clumsy movements, he dumped his supplies back into the tote and snapped the lid on. Then he walked away, leaving the tote where it was.
“Hey,” I gasped, scrambling up. Lightheadedness swept through me, and I stumbled as I rushed after him. “You forgot the tote.”
“I’ll put it away later.”
I glanced back. “What about the horse? Shouldn’t you unsaddle it?”
“Lallakai is rounding up the animals.”
“But … where are you going in such a hurry?”
He lengthened his stride. “To shower.”
Now that he mentioned it, I noticed he was drenched in blood. His white shirt was ruined, his jeans were soaked, his arms were coated from fingertips to biceps. I wasn’t nearly as bad, but I still looked like I’d taken a wrong turn in a slaughterhouse tour.
“Didn’t think you’d be that squeamish,” I muttered.
He reached the pasture fence and climbed over it with a lot more care and a lot less grace than before. He landed heavily on the other side and I thought he was about to eat dirt. Instead, he pushed forward, striding toward the house.
I had to jog to keep up, and another wave of dizziness washed over me. “Oy!”
As he crossed the porch to the door and shoved the front door open, I snatched his arm—and my balance disappeared. I staggered into him and he grabbed the doorframe before he fell. Jerking away from me, he stumbled across the entryway toward the bottom of the staircase.
“Go shower,” he snapped.
“Wait up,” I panted. Holy crap, I did not feel so hot. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you practically falling everywhere?”
“You fell into me.” Gripping the railing, he ascended the steps with all the coordination of a drunk on the verge of passing out. “Go shower!”
“Why are you so obsessed with showering?” I shouted up the stairs, my feet planted firmly on the landing.
He clutched the door handle at the top, swaying so violently I prepared to dive out of the way when he inevitably pitched backward down the stairs.
“Dragon blood is toxic to humans.” He shoved the door open. “Go wash it off before you absorb any more.”
He vanished through the doorway, and I gaped at the empty rectangle. Then I grabbed the railing and hauled myself up the stairs after him. At the top, I careened around the corner and glimpsed a huge room that was part library, part workshop, part laboratory, part studio apartment, and all chaos.
My attention shot to the open doorway in the corner, fluorescent light shining out. I scrambled toward the spacious bathroom. Inside it, the Ghost stood on the tile floor, peeling his shirt off with one hand.
“What do you mean, it’s toxic?” I demanded.
He spun to face me—and pitched sideways. His shoulder hit the wall and he barely stopped himself from falling into the tub behind him.
“Would you go take a damn shower!” he yelled.
“Not until you explain the toxic blood thing!” I shouted back. “Am I poisoned? Do I need an antidote?”
“You. Need. To. Shower.” Each word came out through gritted teeth. He threw his shirt into the sink and kicked off his boots, then turned the taps on full blast. Water sprayed from the showerhead into the tub. “Are you leaving?”
“No! I want answers before—”
Unbuckling his belt, he shoved his pants down. My mouth fell open, words forgotten. Stepping out of his pants but leaving his black boxer briefs on, he climbed into the tub. Water hit his chest and red rivulets rushed down his body.
As he stuck his head under the showerhead to soak his hair, my mouth opened, then closed. Jaw clenching, I grabbed my bloody shirt and yanked it over my head, dislodging my ponytail in the process. Toeing off my shoes as I undid my fly, I pushed my jeans down and stepped out of them. Leaving my bra and underwear on, I stalked across the bathroom floor.
He pulled his head out of the water as I was stepping over the lip of the tub. He jerked back, green eyes widening. “What are you doing?”
“Showering,” I snapped, elbowing him out of the way so I could get under the stream.
Ice-cold water hit me like a slap to the face and I leaped backward with a shriek, crashing into him. Straightening, I reached for the faucet. With a twist of the tap, the temperature rose significantly.
“Much better,” I announced, moving back under the flow and facing him.
His jaw tightened, water dripping off his chin. “There are three other bathrooms with showers.”
“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t be close enough to hear all about dragon blood toxicity. Spill it, druid boy.”
Growling, he stepped closer, forcing me against the tiled wall. Turning around to let the water sluice through the blood splatters on his back, he grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed his arms.
“Dragon blood is a mild toxin unless ingested,” he explained flatly. “Absorbed through the skin, it causes slowed cognition, loss of balance, lightheadedness, slurring, muscle weakness, and drowsiness.”
“Sounds like getting drunk.”
“Similar, except the drowsiness will turn into extreme fatigue. Expect to sleep for twelve hours.”
Oh goody. “Can I have the soap?”
He passed over the bar. I scrubbed my skin, half watching as he rinsed off. The water flowed down the contours of his muscles, tracing hard pecs and washboard abs. Goddamn. My whole body flushed and I wished I hadn’t adjusted the temperature. Cold water would have been good right about now.
I put my back to him, facing the wall as I washed off my front. After surreptitiously cleaning under my soggy bra, I pulled my hair out of the way and reached awkwardly over my shoulder, trying to reach that pesky spot between my shoulder blades.
A warm hand ran over mine, stealing the soapy suds off my fingers, then slid across my shoulder blades. I froze as he gave my back a quick, thorough scrub.
“You’re good,” he told me.
“Right,” I said breathlessly. Gulping, I swiveled around to rinse—coming face-to-chest with him. He was tall. Like, really tall, with broad, muscular shoulders, currently uninterrupted by any fae tattoos. And he was standing very, very close.
“Um.” I held up the soap. “Want me to …?”
He turned and braced one hand on the wall. His back was just as sexy as his front, all dips and planes of muscle. The man didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. Soaping up my hands, I pressed my palms to his skin, half afraid that touching him would cause me to spontaneously combust. I meticulously cleaned away all traces of dragon blood, washing from his shoulders down to his waist.
Yeah, I would just keep telling myself that genuine concern for his health was why I took my sweet time running my hands over his back.
When I couldn’t reasonably pretend that he wasn’t spotlessly clean, I rinsed my hands off and clambered hastily out of the tub. Halfway through the motion, the room spun and I clutched the towel rack for balance. Holy shit.
A moment later, the water shut off. The Ghost climbed out and, just like me, lost his balance halfway through. I caught his arm and he almost pulled me over before we straightened ourselves out. I tugged a towel off the rack, but he brushed past me, dripping water all over the floor. Scrunching my hair with the towel, I stumbled after him.
He drunkenly wove across the cluttered room, not managing a straight line for more than two steps, and stopped beside a rack on the wall where several dozen crystals hung on cords. Selecting one, he dropped it over his head, then pulled off a matching one and held it in my direction.
I wobbled through the obstacle course of tables, boxes, bins, crates, and junk and stopped in front of him. He looped the crystal over my head and the cool stone thumped against my ribs just below my bra.
“Cleansing crystal,” he slurred. “Clears out toxins faster.”
“Are you sure?” I squinted at his hazy eyes. “You might be too drunk to magic.”
He ignored me and headed for the large bed in the corner, the blankets tangled on one side. I hastened after him, dizzy and stumbling.
Dark Arts and a Daiquiri (The Guild Codex: Spellbound Book 2) Page 13
