“Long live the dragon.”
Rinka felt the cold pressure of the dagger against her throat, and with the certainty that she would die came an incongruous, wild desire to live.
She threw away her pendant, toward the open bathing room door, and the clatter of it against the tiles distracted her assassin long enough for Rinka to bring up her knee, hard, between his legs.
He slumped, moaning, and his grip on her neck loosened. Rinka wriggled free and leapt for her pendant, but the assassin was not far behind, grabbing for her legs, wrenching her back. Rinka scrabbled for the pendant, her fingers smearing the floor blue. With a pained cry, she stretched her abused body and found the pendant. Her fingers curled around it, and she twisted back. In her desperation, her magic felt more focused, fueled by a primal rage. She drew upon the deepest parts of herself and flung a wave of searing power at her attacker.
The force of it sent his body flying backward. He crashed into the far wall, leaving behind an uneven trail of red blood. He had hit his head. He was human.
He was not done yet. He staggered upright, leapt for Rinka once more—but she was ready for him, her pendant clutched before her in one bloody hand, the other clamping down on her thigh, where spurts of blue blood trickled down her leg. Wave after wave of magic she threw at him, until he was a charred, smoking lump in the moonlight, flickering blue. Unused as Rinka was to fighting with magic, the aggressive heat of it made even her own stomach churn.
She sank to the carpet and retched. She dragged herself across the ruined bedroom, through the sitting room, to the doors to her suite. She tried to reach for the door handle and couldn’t; her body was leaden, bleeding, throbbing, and she could no longer control it.
“Help,” she whispered, clutching her bloody pendant. “Help me.”
The last thing she knew before the pain consumed her was movement by the door. A sharp, high cry. The familiar, cold smell of mage magic. Cool hands on her face.
“Countess,” said a voice, but it was garbled and frightening. Rinka tried to shrink back. “Countess, please speak to me.”
But Rinka couldn’t. Her head was a mess of pain; her hands stung with magic. Someone had tried to kill her; someone had thrown her into the wall and cut open her leg.
She let herself fade.
11
R INKA AWOKE in her bedroom to Alban hovering over her.
“Rinka,” he said, his face sagging with relief. He sounded as though he hadn’t slept in ages. “Rinka, you’re all right. I’m here.”
He kissed her wrists, her palms, her fingers, the soft skin beneath her eyes, her lips. And Rinka let him—until she registered the presence of the silent, green-cloaked King’s Guard at the door.
She pushed Alban away with what strength she could gather. Her head still pounded, but her side and leg were stitched up neatly; her bed linens were fresh and free of blood.
“You forget yourself, my king,” Rinka said tightly.
“My guard is discreet and loyal.” He gathered her hands in his and continued to kiss them. “And you are alive and well, and kissing you helps reassure me of that.”
She softened despite herself, despite the presence of the guards. She pressed Alban’s hands. “Tell me what happened.”
Solemn, he settled beside her on the bed. “The assassin is dead. He was dead when Leska found you. She heard you screaming from her rooms. She summoned the healer, and the healer summoned me.” He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Apparently you were calling for me.”
“I killed him.” Rinka closed her eyes, the attack coming back to her with vivid clarity—every blow to her skull, every surge of terror. “I used magic to kill him.”
“And I’m glad you did, my darling. Never have I been more glad for your faery blood. You’re healing quickly.” Alban pulled her close, pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her. “Although now we can’t question the man,
Rinka felt the cold pressure of the dagger against her throat, and with the certainty that she would die came an incongruous, wild desire to live.
She threw away her pendant, toward the open bathing room door, and the clatter of it against the tiles distracted her assassin long enough for Rinka to bring up her knee, hard, between his legs.
He slumped, moaning, and his grip on her neck loosened. Rinka wriggled free and leapt for her pendant, but the assassin was not far behind, grabbing for her legs, wrenching her back. Rinka scrabbled for the pendant, her fingers smearing the floor blue. With a pained cry, she stretched her abused body and found the pendant. Her fingers curled around it, and she twisted back. In her desperation, her magic felt more focused, fueled by a primal rage. She drew upon the deepest parts of herself and flung a wave of searing power at her attacker.
The force of it sent his body flying backward. He crashed into the far wall, leaving behind an uneven trail of red blood. He had hit his head. He was human.
He was not done yet. He staggered upright, leapt for Rinka once more—but she was ready for him, her pendant clutched before her in one bloody hand, the other clamping down on her thigh, where spurts of blue blood trickled down her leg. Wave after wave of magic she threw at him, until he was a charred, smoking lump in the moonlight, flickering blue. Unused as Rinka was to fighting with magic, the aggressive heat of it made even her own stomach churn.
She sank to the carpet and retched. She dragged herself across the ruined bedroom, through the sitting room, to the doors to her suite. She tried to reach for the door handle and couldn’t; her body was leaden, bleeding, throbbing, and she could no longer control it.
“Help,” she whispered, clutching her bloody pendant. “Help me.”
The last thing she knew before the pain consumed her was movement by the door. A sharp, high cry. The familiar, cold smell of mage magic. Cool hands on her face.
“Countess,” said a voice, but it was garbled and frightening. Rinka tried to shrink back. “Countess, please speak to me.”
But Rinka couldn’t. Her head was a mess of pain; her hands stung with magic. Someone had tried to kill her; someone had thrown her into the wall and cut open her leg.
She let herself fade.
11
R INKA AWOKE in her bedroom to Alban hovering over her.
“Rinka,” he said, his face sagging with relief. He sounded as though he hadn’t slept in ages. “Rinka, you’re all right. I’m here.”
He kissed her wrists, her palms, her fingers, the soft skin beneath her eyes, her lips. And Rinka let him—until she registered the presence of the silent, green-cloaked King’s Guard at the door.
She pushed Alban away with what strength she could gather. Her head still pounded, but her side and leg were stitched up neatly; her bed linens were fresh and free of blood.
“You forget yourself, my king,” Rinka said tightly.
“My guard is discreet and loyal.” He gathered her hands in his and continued to kiss them. “And you are alive and well, and kissing you helps reassure me of that.”
She softened despite herself, despite the presence of the guards. She pressed Alban’s hands. “Tell me what happened.”
Solemn, he settled beside her on the bed. “The assassin is dead. He was dead when Leska found you. She heard you screaming from her rooms. She summoned the healer, and the healer summoned me.” He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Apparently you were calling for me.”
“I killed him.” Rinka closed her eyes, the attack coming back to her with vivid clarity—every blow to her skull, every surge of terror. “I used magic to kill him.”
“And I’m glad you did, my darling. Never have I been more glad for your faery blood. You’re healing quickly.” Alban pulled her close, pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her. “Although now we can’t question the man,
Similar Books
