Dark Skye (Immortals After Dark #14)(48)
Author: Kresley Cole

That hadn’t stopped Bettina from inquiring about the dragon gold. “She requested a detailed description of the medallion with a weight estimation and a photo if possible. So we’ve got her on the hook. Go, peace!”

Though his eyes remained closed, his lips curled. Yet then he tensed up again. “I regret that you have to give up your treasure.”

At least she’d still have her silisk gold keys.

“As soon as things settle down here,” he continued, “I’ll replace the medallion with something even greater.”

Another queen might have said, “Oh, you don’t have to do that, my goodly monarch, for I reap satisfaction just from assisting whenever I can.”

Lanthe? She cried, “Okay! And that has to be in addition to the ring you already promised me.” She worked her hands to the edges of his broad shoulders, massaging there, making his wings ripple from pleasure.

“Duly noted,” he said wryly. “And your letter to Sabine? How far have you gotten?”

“Only to Feveris. I might have spent a bit of time describing the gold temple. In any case, I want the Reader of Words to scan it before I send.” She bent down and pressed a kiss to his neck. “Our story’s pretty epic.”

But she had a chapter she wanted to add: the “Thronos’s Eternal Pain Ends” part. She couldn’t change the past, couldn’t magically transform their current circumstances—but could she make his old injuries better?

She’d hesitated to use power on him; ensorcelling his pain away would be a huge risk. For instance, in combat he might need pain to recognize how bad an injury was, or to remind him of blood loss so he could adjust his tactics for weakness.

Lanthe would have to straight-up heal him. Though she’d become an expert at this when she was a girl, she hadn’t needed to use those commands for ages.

Plus, back then, Sabine hadn’t been frozen into her immortality yet; she’d been more . . . malleable.

With Thronos, Lanthe would need to take her time. An unresisting patient would be ideal.

Her sorcery heated the air when she whispered at his ear, “Sleep, Thronos.” He passed out at once, body gone lax on the bed.

She rose to remove his boots, inspecting his lower right leg. The muscles on the inside of his ankle were contorted, as if he’d sprained them to a supernatural degree. Even with his body at rest, the tendons were knotted so tightly, they pulled his foot inward.

His calf was equally bad. She probed the bunched muscles with her fingers.

Total healing? She cracked her knuckles. She had to at least try.

Blue sorcery began to shimmer in her ink-stained palms as she brushed them over his flesh. “Heal,” she commanded as she massaged him.

Heat sprang from her hands, seeping into him. She could see currents of it beneath his skin, blue swirls. “Heal.”

Beneath her fingertips, she felt the tiniest twinge. Had some tension eased?

Massaging. Sorcery. Massaging. “HEAL.”

His muscles . . . started to relax! His foot was returning to a normal resting position!

With a delighted laugh, she turned to his left wing. She grasped the gnarled joint, repeating the process. “Heal.”

In a rush, his wing scales rippled, like a racetrack betting board refreshing. With a snap, Thronos’s skewed mosaics settled back into their natural spellbinding alignment.

She lovingly traced the pads of her fingertips over those metallic scales. After repeating the same treatment on his right wing, she surveyed the rest of his big body.

If she knew her Vrekener, she’d bet he had other aches that he would never mention. So she gave him a sorcery-powered full-body massage.

Because he was a transitioned immortal, she didn’t know if these changes would stick. Most alterations on an immortal, such as a tattoo, would disappear within a day or so. But as long as her sorcery was flowing, she could do this every day.

Time to find out how her patient was doing. . . .

Thronos roused from a deep, ensorcelled sleep.

He shot to his feet, scowling at Melanthe. “Damn it, woman, why would you knock me out?”

Wait. Having bounded out of bed with no care—as opposed to his usual gradual rising—he should be feeling a chorus of anguish starting in his feet, shooting through his legs and torso, stabbing into his back and neck, before clawing through his wings.

Where is the pain?

He frowned down at his feet; they lined up perfectly. A sight he hadn’t seen in ages.

“You were saying?” she remarked from the bed, buffing her nails.

He tentatively unfurled his wings, groaning with relief. Holding his breath, he tried to pin them . . .

They folded and compressed, just as they were supposed to. “How? How is this possible?”

“Lanthe’s Sorcery Massage. Tee-em.”

“Don’t know what tee-em means,” he said with a grin. “You fixed my pain?”

Her own smile faded. In a voice laced with sadness, she said, “The least I could do since I gave it to you.”

And then she took it away. In no imagining had he dared to envision this. “Your powers are growing, lamb.”

He felt no pain; she was regenerating her abilities. They were both healing from the wounds of the past. He would allow no sadness on this night.

The Sorceri were right: dwelling on the past injured the present.

“Thronos, I don’t know if this is permanent. But I can do it every day if I have to—” She didn’t get to finish because he’d already taken her into his arms, and into the air.

“Are you okay with this?” he asked.

“I am.” She rested her head on his chest, her braids dancing over him. “I trust you.”

He swooped his wings as hard as he could, taking them far from the Hall, from worries, from responsibilities. Under the stars, he couldn’t contain a laugh. “I feel no pain!”

“It might only last a day.”

“So you’ll have to massage me daily?” Her hands all over him? Just like that, he was stiff for her. “Lucky me. But I must be awake next time. And I’d prefer to be on my back, sorceress.”

Her gaze glittered as her hand dipped. She parted her lips when she found him fully erect. “Take me home.”

“There’s no time like the present.” He adjusted her to their Pandemonian position, with her legs around his waist and his arms clasped securely around her.

“In the air?” Her eyes widened with excitement. “My weird, pervy Vrekener. I love it!”

FIFTY-TWO

Thronos was barely listening as Jasen and Cadmus argued over further security. A group of knights had met on one of the outermost islands, assessing weaknesses—and quarreling about defenses.

Thronos and Melanthe had been here only a week, but already the kingdom was more secure. He and the knights had implemented a successful alarm. In time, they’d install an emergency lever on every island. For now, Vrekener sentries patrolled the perimeter of the entire realm.

As a plan B, Thronos had ordered that the Territories begin their inexorable journey toward the Vrekeners’ forest outpost. After days over the ocean, they’d passed the tip of Greenland and were now crossing a wintry gulf far in the northeast of North America.

At first, the idea of an evacuation system—and an unscheduled move—had sat ill with the assembly. At least until Thronos had described some of the Sorceri power he’d witnessed on the Order’s island.

Jasen agreed with Thronos that the Vrekeners couldn’t have enough measures in place.

Cadmus believed that his king was discounting the might of their warriors—because Cadmus had never met a being like Portia and could never conceive what she was capable of until he’d seen it with his own eyes.

On the one hand, Thronos had to convince others how malevolent some Sorceri could be. On the other, he wanted them to respect his queen and worked ceaselessly to smooth her way among his people. He’d been quick to tell the assembly of Melanthe’s part in the assassination of Omort. He’d lauded all her work to neutralize threats from other factions.

Already, the House of Witches had declared peace. Once Bettina of the Deathly Ones had received Melanthe’s description of the red gold medallion, she’d promptly agreed to future talks.

The Dacian ruler, Lothaire, had responded with a terse missive written in blood:

Vrekeners actually exist?

L, The King

Which might have been a joke? Thronos decided it was a good sign.

As for the rage demons, Rydstrom had written Thronos a personal message that still left him grinding his teeth. . . .

Thronos,

You are f**king up mightily, son.

My queen and I received Melanthe’s letter, and based on your history with her, we can find no truth in it.

Gods only know what you’re doing to my sister-in-law up there. Release her within the week, or court war with all of my vast kingdom.

Since I know Lanthe is your mate, I also know that you’ll never release her, despite my threats. If anyone had tried to force me to relinquish Sabine, I would’ve laughed in his face.

The only thing that can save us from bloody conflict is if Lanthe convinces her sister that she is with you of her own free will.

Your best bet is to make your mate so deliriously happy that she can give a glowing—and believable—report. If you’re willing to try, then take my advice, because I’ve been right where you are.

You don’t have to understand Sorceri ways; you just have to accept them.

Allow her to be as she needs to be.

Sabine has told me of your animosity toward all Sorceri, so unfortunately, I don’t have high hopes that you can content Lanthe. I ready for war. I recommend you do as well.

Vrekener, harm my sister-in-law in any way, and I will find you on the battlefield. Your last sight will be of me, laughing as I take your head with my bare hands.

R

Of course Thronos had shown Melanthe the letter; she’d read it with wide eyes. “So my first letter was a Patty Hearst bust?”

He’d had no idea what that meant. “Advise me in this,” he’d told her. “Do you want to meet with your sister?”

“I’m scared she’ll use her sorcery to take me from you. Or Rydstrom will attack you. Let me try one more time.” She’d bitten her lip. “Are you going to write him back?”

Thronos had given the matter much thought. As he’d watched Melanthe sleeping last night, he’d penned a response, sending it this morning. . . .

Lanthe’s work had mitigated danger from three formidable sources, and most of the assembly was grateful. But Cadmus and his contingent remained suspicious of their queen and disgruntled that Thronos had left her empowered.

He could understand their doubt—because he’d initially contended with it himself. He’d had to go through hell before he’d appreciated Melanthe.

Pain had confessed all.

In Pandemonia, he’d resisted his feelings for her, bent on returning to the Hall, to reason and sanity, to find his anchor.

Now that he was here, he’d realized Melanthe was his anchor.

In any case, sanity and reason had proved in short supply for his brother. When had Aristo become so twisted? How? And how had he found three other males who’d shared his proclivities?

Thronos feared that the rules of their culture were so strict, the specter of offendments so pervasive, that some grew warped under the strain.

Should one truly be punished for something so harmless as a kiss?

Thronos had failed to follow the letter of Vrekener law; how could he expect others to be bound by them?

During his and Melanthe’s tour of worlds, he’d learned that his all-or-nothing, inflexible thinking was a liability. As she’d told him, “Up in heaven, I’m sure things make sense and everyone acts as they’re expected to and surprises are few. But outside of heaven, life can be confusing and heartbreaking and dire. So most of us take pleasure where we can find it. And we don’t judge anyone who does the same.”

In “heaven,” surprises had been many. Thronos’s brother had not acted in expected ways.

Life had proved utterly confusing.

Perhaps Vrekeners should judge less and enjoy more, taking pleasure where they could find it—especially since dire threats now surrounded them. Eternal life could be grindingly long, or heartbreakingly short.

Once the Territories were “out of the crosshairs,” he would discuss social reforms with his co-ruler. . . .

The debate between Cadmus and Jasen was winding down, the day coming to a close, which meant he could soon return to her. Every second he wasn’t with Melanthe, he wished he were.

For the public, he maintained what she called his poker face. At home with her, he could relax. Thanks to her generous infusion of sorcery, he remained pain-free, even days later. Still, she wanted to do a maintenance massage tonight, just in case.

Lucky, lucky me.

How could he have handled this time without her? She made him laugh. She forced him to shuck off some worries and most regrets. He was insatiable for her. To his remarkable fortune, she was just as much so for him.