question. “Trees. Lords travel…” Muzzily, I realized he wanted me to stay awake and interacting. Likely for my own good or something. Damn it.
Mzatal said a few words in demon to Gestamar. The reyza grunted and bounded out.
He looked back down at me. “You have never been in a grove before.” It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t waste energy trying to answer it. He lifted my shirt above the site of the impalement. “Idris, lay support.”
The young man jumped at the sound of his name. “Y-yes, my lord,” he said, flicking a worried glance my way before beginning to sketch a complex pattern using nothing but shimmering threads of potency. I watched, fascinated, in a dreamy sort of way. This was the first chance I’d had to really see things happening without the collar on.
Idris finished and ignited the pattern. Instantly, I saw it dim as Mzatal drew upon it. A low warmth spread through my side. Now I understood Idris’s worried look. If the demonic lord needed a support pattern for additional potency, that meant I was well and truly fucked up. Then again, it wasn’t news to me at this point.
I pulled my unsteady attention back to Mzatal. His hair was braided in a complex weave that looked like it needed at least seven or eight strands. Did he do that himself? Or did he have a demon valet do it for him? And where did he get the tie that was currently tucked partially in his shirt to keep it clear of his work? And for that matter, where was I going to get new clothes? Especially bras. I knew the one I had on was pretty well soaked in blood.
“The
zrila
Anak fashioned the tie, and the faas Jekki braids my hair,” Mzatal said as he slid a hand beneath me to reach the entry wound. Pain flared at the movement, and I hissed a breath. “When we return to my realm on the morrow,” he continued, “the zrila circle will create what garb you require. They are quite skilled.”
I managed a slight scowl. “You’re reading…me.”
Mzatal looked from the wound to my face. “Yes, of course.”
“Rude.” I swallowed, breathing shallowly. “Stop.”
“That I cannot do,” he replied. “It is as impossible as stopping the taste of wine upon my tongue, or the feel of your skin beneath my hands.” In the next instant heat flooded the wound, and I gasped, hands tightening in the sheet. Gradually, it subsided into a warm pulse, spreading in gentle flows from the wound to the rest of my body. I exhaled in relief as the pain faded, noticing that it was already far easier to breathe.
“The sigils fascinate you,” Mzatal said almost conversationally, “but it is clear you do not know many of them. What training have you had?”
“My aunt,” I replied. It was a lot easier to talk and breathe now, but I was as tired as if I’d run a marathon uphill. Not that I had any intention of ever finding out how tiring a marathon was. “She taught me protocols…rituals. I summon demons…to learn…ask questions.” I caught myself drifting and dragged my focus back to him. I didn’t want to sleep. Too much chance I might never wake up. “I’m…getting better?”
Mzatal drew in a deep breath. He looked damn near as tired as I was. He shifted and placed a hand on my solar plexus. “Yes, better,” he said. “Gestamar will splint your leg. I have done much work with the impalement and the internal damage.” He gave me the barest ghost of an actual smile. “You will not die this day, Kara Gillian.”
I smiled weakly, then slid my hand over his. “Thanks,” I mumbled as I allowed my eyes to drift closed.
Chapter 8
I came awake abruptly. “Eilahn?” I called groggily, before realizing where I was and what had happened to her.
“Eilahn is not here, little one,” came a rumbled response. I blinked to focus and saw Gestamar crouched beside my bed, carefully knotting a splint around my injured leg.
“You know Eilahn?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“She was killed on Earth.” My brow furrowed.
Mzatal said a few words in demon to Gestamar. The reyza grunted and bounded out.
He looked back down at me. “You have never been in a grove before.” It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t waste energy trying to answer it. He lifted my shirt above the site of the impalement. “Idris, lay support.”
The young man jumped at the sound of his name. “Y-yes, my lord,” he said, flicking a worried glance my way before beginning to sketch a complex pattern using nothing but shimmering threads of potency. I watched, fascinated, in a dreamy sort of way. This was the first chance I’d had to really see things happening without the collar on.
Idris finished and ignited the pattern. Instantly, I saw it dim as Mzatal drew upon it. A low warmth spread through my side. Now I understood Idris’s worried look. If the demonic lord needed a support pattern for additional potency, that meant I was well and truly fucked up. Then again, it wasn’t news to me at this point.
I pulled my unsteady attention back to Mzatal. His hair was braided in a complex weave that looked like it needed at least seven or eight strands. Did he do that himself? Or did he have a demon valet do it for him? And where did he get the tie that was currently tucked partially in his shirt to keep it clear of his work? And for that matter, where was I going to get new clothes? Especially bras. I knew the one I had on was pretty well soaked in blood.
“The
zrila
Anak fashioned the tie, and the faas Jekki braids my hair,” Mzatal said as he slid a hand beneath me to reach the entry wound. Pain flared at the movement, and I hissed a breath. “When we return to my realm on the morrow,” he continued, “the zrila circle will create what garb you require. They are quite skilled.”
I managed a slight scowl. “You’re reading…me.”
Mzatal looked from the wound to my face. “Yes, of course.”
“Rude.” I swallowed, breathing shallowly. “Stop.”
“That I cannot do,” he replied. “It is as impossible as stopping the taste of wine upon my tongue, or the feel of your skin beneath my hands.” In the next instant heat flooded the wound, and I gasped, hands tightening in the sheet. Gradually, it subsided into a warm pulse, spreading in gentle flows from the wound to the rest of my body. I exhaled in relief as the pain faded, noticing that it was already far easier to breathe.
“The sigils fascinate you,” Mzatal said almost conversationally, “but it is clear you do not know many of them. What training have you had?”
“My aunt,” I replied. It was a lot easier to talk and breathe now, but I was as tired as if I’d run a marathon uphill. Not that I had any intention of ever finding out how tiring a marathon was. “She taught me protocols…rituals. I summon demons…to learn…ask questions.” I caught myself drifting and dragged my focus back to him. I didn’t want to sleep. Too much chance I might never wake up. “I’m…getting better?”
Mzatal drew in a deep breath. He looked damn near as tired as I was. He shifted and placed a hand on my solar plexus. “Yes, better,” he said. “Gestamar will splint your leg. I have done much work with the impalement and the internal damage.” He gave me the barest ghost of an actual smile. “You will not die this day, Kara Gillian.”
I smiled weakly, then slid my hand over his. “Thanks,” I mumbled as I allowed my eyes to drift closed.
Chapter 8
I came awake abruptly. “Eilahn?” I called groggily, before realizing where I was and what had happened to her.
“Eilahn is not here, little one,” came a rumbled response. I blinked to focus and saw Gestamar crouched beside my bed, carefully knotting a splint around my injured leg.
“You know Eilahn?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“She was killed on Earth.” My brow furrowed.
Similar Books
