In Pain and Blood (Spellster Series Book 1)

by Aldrea Alien

  The women wasted no time getting ready for sleep, which included shuffling them out onto the balcony until they were done.

  Even though he’d seen the vast majority of them with less clothes than their undergarments, Dylan didn’t waste energy in reminding them of this fact or fighting them. He joined the hound leaning against the railing, glancing over his shoulder as the door clicked shut. At least with the women occupied in there, they were less likely to eavesdrop. “You wanted to tell me something earlier?”

  Tracker nodded. “I did, but…” He grimaced. “If I may enquire something first?” The man waited for Dylan to nod before continuing, “I was wondering if you— What are your feelings towards Authril?” It was strange hearing Tracker speak the woman’s name when he often barely mentioned any of them by more than a casual moniker.

  “What are…?” Dylan peered at the hound, trying to decipher the man’s strangely neutral expression. “Why?”

  Tracker shrugged and readjusted his weight to the other foot. “Curiosity. I know you chose not to sleep with her before the situation with us was in the open. I merely wondered if you perhaps…” He rubbed at his neck. “I do not know. Missed it?”

  Dylan frowned. He hadn’t even given any thought to sleeping with the woman beyond the first morning of waking up in the hound’s tent. “It’d be a bit hard to do anything when there isn’t any place to be alone.” Unlike Tracker, he doubted Authril would be amenable to doing it just anywhere.

  The hound straightened. “If you wish for some privacy with her, I am quite willing to—”

  He whirled on the man. “No. That’s… that’s not what I want.”

  Those honey-coloured eyes fell to the railing and Dylan was surprised to find he had clasped the man’s hand.

  “Then, what do you want?”

  His heart almost stopped. His brain all but fell apart at the seams. “I…” He stepped back until the length of the balcony was between them, hoping that the distance would let him think coherently.

  Bits of desire danced through his thoughts—fantasies full of maybes and what ifs—nothing solid enough to act on. Gods. If he wasn’t certain enough of his feelings, how could he possibly share them? Especially with the man in question. “I don’t know.”

  Tracker stalked across the balcony. “Is there some way I could help you decide?”

  If his heart had stopped before, it now pounded a feverish tempo. The way he looks at you. Marin’s words flitted through his mind. Like you’re something to be devoured. Dylan licked his lips. Right now, he’d be a rather willing sacrifice. “Maybe,” he squeaked.

  “Maybe?” the hound echoed. He chuckled. “I hope you are not thinking of trying to play hard to get. Such a role is not one that fits you well.”

  Dylan swallowed. “I don’t want Authril.”

  “That you have made perfectly clear.”

  I want you. The confession danced on the tip of his tongue. Dangerous words those, right up on the list alongside three very similar ones. He choked them down. If he admitted what he felt and Tracker reciprocated, then it’d be just another thing to lose once the crown leashed him again. “You said there was something you needed to tell me about our night in Whitemeadow…?”

  Panic flashed in the hound’s eyes. Tracker lunged at him. Those long fingers dug into Dylan’s robe, dragging him down to roughly seal their mouths together.

  In reply, Dylan grasped the hound’s waistband and tugged the man hard against him.

  Shock stiffened Tracker’s body for a heartbeat before he sagged into Dylan’s grasp, breaking the kiss. “Why must you be so tall?” the hound murmured against his throat.

  Dylan wordlessly spread his legs and braced his rear against the balcony rail to sink the few inches needed to make their heads more-or-less level.

  Tracker wasted no time in pressing against him.

  Dylan grabbed the man’s backside and squeezed to the delightful sensation of the man’s muffled moan humming against his lips. Dylan dug his thumbs beneath the waist of the man’s trousers and tugged the hound closer.

  Their hips ground together. Tracker’s hands were everywhere—his hair, his chest, his backside—seeking a way to be closer still. He moaned and whimpered into Dylan’s mouth.

  Just when Dylan was certain he wouldn’t be able to take much more of the man rubbing against him, Tracker pulled back.

  “We should probably stop.” The words rasped through the hound’s lips. His chest heaved with every breath. It just made Dylan want the man all the more.

  A groan tightened his throat. He was so close. And there was nowhere he could be fully alone with the man. Dylan leant back on the railing, his heart thumping in a familiar lust-fuelled beat. “Oh?” There had to be somewhere they could go. Even if only for a few minutes. They could probably talk there, too. “Such modesty from the one who, if memory serves, once suggested rutting in the bushes.”

  Amusement creased the man’s eyes. “Which is rather less indecent than a brazen act of fellatio on a balcony.”

  “Really?” he gasped. “As far as that?”

  Tracker cupped Dylan’s chin, brushing his thumb over Dylan’s lips. “Believe me, I am quite tempted to go much further than that. For instance, bending you over this.” He tapped the railing. “Would put you at just the right height.”

  “Are you always this insatiable?” Dylan teased.

  Those honey-coloured eyes glittered with mirth. “Not always.” His hand slowly walked its way up Dylan’s chest. “But you… There is so much I want to do with you, to you…” Those long fingers curled around the collar of his robe, tugging him closer to the man’s mouth. “For you,” Tracker breathed.

  Dylan wet his lips.

  The hound released him and stepped back. “However, your final screams are likely to scar the children.” He indicated the streets at Dylan’s back with the jerk of his chin.

  Dylan twisted to see what Tracker had spied. Just below them, a group of children who couldn’t be any older than six or seven years played in the square. They’d marked out two sections on the cobbles with various bits of wood or fabric and ran between them, trying to capture the other in some elaborate game of Get ‘em.

  “Oh,” Dylan puffed. His gaze drifted over the children as he waited for his heartbeat to return to normal. The rules of their game seemed a little different to one he remembered. Their laughter drifted up, tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Track?” An altogether different thought permeated his fading lust. “Have you ever thought about having kids?” The question was out before he could think. Were hounds even allowed to? Surely their abilities would be something the king would want to keep controlled. Perhaps even attempt to breed more of.

  Tracker scoffed and leant next to him. “Gods, no. The crown has rather strict rules on that sort of thing. For us, families are forbidden. So are lovers,” he whispered. “At least, not permanent ones. The pack is supposed to be all we need. Opening our hearts to another makes us weak.”

  Dylan frowned, recalling the times the hound had thrown himself between Dylan and the enemy. His gaze settled on the stitched line along the man’s right sleeve. He’d been wounded once trying to keep Dylan safe.

  “Personally,” Tracker continued. “I think it is because they are not entirely certain if a hound would produce another hound or a spellster and I do not think they want to find out. Still, it is not exactly as if I have kept to myself over the years. It is possible that some unfortunate woman has borne my child.” He rested his head on an upraised fist. “What of you? Were there any taller-than-average children running around the tower thanks to your efforts?”

  He’d tried his best not to add to the tower population without forsaking sex, but it was possible. “I don’t know.”

  His treacherous mind dredged up the image of what they’d found in the tower. The broken bodies of children huddled beneath their guardians and the babies lying in their own blood. Bile slid up his throat.

&n
bsp; He swallowed, trying to banish the memories before he lost his dinner. “I hope not.”

  “You have not even considered?”

  Dylan raised an eyebrow in the man’s direction.

  “What is with the look? You asked me first, that makes the question fair game, yes?”

  “Fine,” he mumbled. “If you’re so curious, I haven’t considered it, no.” Even if he’d the chance, if he wasn’t destined to be leashed again, if the only thing before him was a normal existence, he doubted he’d be much of a father. “About what you asked earlier… What happened at Whitemeadow?”

  Tracker waved the question aside. “Ah, pay it no mind. If you wish to talk further, we can do so when we are alone.”

  Dylan glanced over his shoulder at the still very much closed doors. The women were probably asleep, or at least disinterested in their talk. “Are we not now?” Perhaps not enough for most physical activities, but talking?

  “More alone than this. I would prefer to not run the risk of being overheard and, if anything, this day has proven that a closed door will not do.”

  “I see.” He toyed with the collar of his robe. The fabric suddenly seemed far too constricting. There was only one type of talk he knew that would require such solitude. Had this whole day been a sort of last hurrah before the hound spouted out some confession that they should break off whatever it was they had between them? Those sorts of talks always happened in private and generally left a lingering bitterness in his soul that he could do without.

  Gods. That’s why the man had stopped him speaking when they were dancing. Why he’d wanted to speak back in the tavern. And why he’d brushed it aside in the alley. Tracker had been trying to keep him from making this harder than it clearly already was.

  “If you want to end this,” Dylan whispered. “Just say it. I understand.” That was the worst part. He did. Wintervale wasn’t far from here, a week on foot at the most. Tracker would need to maintain a certain aloofness to him when they arrived. It was probably for the best if they started now. “I’m not going to make a scene.” Sharing a tent might be a little awkward at first, but he’d manage.

  “I…” The hound’s brow furrowed in confusion. “That was not the something I was planning to suggest.” He straightened, all semblance of ease vanishing in one effortless movement. Those honey-coloured eyes that’d seemed so warm a moment ago were now dark. “Unless that is your wish?”

  “No, I’m…” A tiny smile tugged at his lips. Stopping here wasn’t what the hound wanted? Dylan exhaled in a small, tight sob. “I’m good with this.” Strange, the way speaking those words infused his whole body in such pleasant warmth.

  Tracker bowed his head and resumed leaning on the balcony rail. “I am truly glad to hear that. I rather enjoy what we have. It is good to know the feeling is mutual.”

  Dylan let his gaze drift over the village, lit as it was by the fading sunlight. Being wrong had never felt this good. He still had Tracker at his side. Until Wintervale.

  His smile fled as the insidious thought stirred. “This—our fun?—will have to end once we reach the capital, won’t it?” They’d a few more days before the final leg of their journey was complete. Then this freedom the gods let him taste would be taken once and for all.

  The hound’s silence drew Dylan’s head back around.

  Tracker stared at him, his face strangely neutral. “Who says we have to end it as soon as that?”

  Everyone. By the man’s own admittance, they shouldn’t be doing what they had been. “I’ll be leashed.” After what had happened to the bulk of the army, there was no chance the remaining spellsters, however few of them were left, would be allowed anywhere near the meagre independence they used to have. They would be watched, hoarded jealously, until it was time to be used. “They’ll frown on someone using such a rare weapon for anything as mundane as sex.” At least, someone outside of the army. And only the gods knew how the other hounds would view Tracker’s dallying.

  “So, do not go.” The man gripped Dylan’s sleeve. “No one knows you survived. Well, that is, no one beyond our little group who still lives. All you would need to do is keep your magic hidden for a while and no one would suspect.”

  Dylan stepped back, pulling himself free of the man’s fingers and keeping one hand stretched out to ward the hound from coming closer, even though Tracker made no such attempt. “I… can’t.” He couldn’t even dare to entertain such an idea. If he did anything beyond travelling to Wintervale, he’d become a deserter. There was only one punishment for a spellster who ran.

  Tracker leant back on the balcony rail, an uneasy smile twisting his lips. “If you are afraid the other hounds will come for you—”

  “It’s not that.” Although, the hounds and their persistent nature in keeping the rest of Demarn free of spellsters was certainly not a thing to make light of. “If I don’t go, if I live as anything other than what I am, then that life comes at the price of another’s.” His presence could be the one that pushed back the enemy, that stopped someone’s family from mourning a loss. He could be all that kept people from death, or worse. “I can’t be that selfish.”

  Gone was the hound’s careful neutrality. The stark concern that took its place wasn’t any better. “But, I—” He bit his lip, clearly restraining any further words. His brows knitted together, those honey-coloured eyes lowering to scrutinise the balcony floor. “If that is what your wish,” he whispered. Tracker sidled along the railing to the door. “Try not to stay up too late. There are still a number of days travelling ahead of us.”

  He watched Tracker disappear into the dark room they would all share for the night, his throat tightening with each step the man took. To remain here. The hound’s words were far more tempting than they’d any right to be. But to live like a normal man? Selfish. He couldn’t do that.

  No matter how much he wanted to.

  Morning came early to Riverton, the raucous noise in the square below waking Dylan before the sun had properly peeked over the horizon. The others rose not long after him and, once they’d made a brief stop at the market to collect enough supplies for their journey to the capital, they left the village behind.

  Tracker insisted on avoiding the roads, claiming they were too dangerous for a group of their size to travel, and led them into the forest. Birdsong and insects followed in their wake.

  With not a hint of a path, or even the suggestion of either river or road being nearby, their going was slow. They all but strolled through the undergrowth, disturbing as little as possible. Oftentimes, Dylan believed they were walking in circles, only Katarina’s iron firm grip on her compass and Marin’s unerring sense of direction kept him from voicing such concern.

  Try as he might, Dylan couldn’t keep his mind off what Tracker had said last night. Wrestling with his thoughts had kept him awake until the wee hours of the morning. They were practically on the capital’s doorstep. Leaving now wouldn’t be a matter of simple misdirection. It’d be desertion. He would have to leave Demarn, find his way in a whole new country.

  He lifted his gaze from the uneven ground underfoot to where the hound led them through the brush. Would Tracker come with him? They could escort Katarina to Dvärghem. Live amongst the dwarves. They wouldn’t have to give up what they had. There’d be no need to pretend nothing had happened between them.

  Dylan’s chest swelled at the thought. Tonight. He’d speak with the hound when the others were asleep, convince him to leave everything behind. What did either of them have left here? The tower was gone, the only path left for Dylan was with the army. And Tracker? The hound’s life hadn’t changed so drastically, but surely he’d be better off somewhere they didn’t punish people for having—

  The thought stalled. Having what? A friend he occasionally slept with? A lover? Had they crossed the border into lover territory? How did anyone ever know they were in love? How did people distinguish it from lust and obsession? Was a few weeks enough to know?

  And if it
went wrong? What then? Would Tracker simply let him go? It’d been the hound’s idea to not enter Wintervale, but that wasn’t the same as letting an unleashed spellster travel the breadth of Demarn unescorted.

  Dylan glanced over his shoulder and was almost slapped in the face by a branch. The village was well and truly obscured by the forest. What of the army? True, he’d little left to fight for, but there were others. Families who would be torn apart if Udynea turned her attention back to their border. He might be Demarn’s last spellster. Could he really be selfish enough to deny the army his magic and flee the kingdom?

  He wished he knew the answer.

  The sun had barely begun to set when Tracker called for them to set up camp. Between his slow pace and insistence on halting despite the chance to push on for another hour, Dylan could almost swear the man was deliberately dragging out the days to the capital.

  But the others gave marginal protests, so he followed along and collected the branches littering their campsite whilst the tents were set up and dinner was made ready. Igniting the fire took a little more magic than usual, the wood hissing and popping before flaring into flame.

  Marin sniffed the air as she settled at the fireside and nestled their pot into the embers. “Smells like it’s going to be a cold night.” She gave another sniff. “Might even rain. We’ll need plenty of wood if we want a warm breakfast.”

  Dylan stood, brushing the dirt clinging to the skirts of his robe. “I’ll go gather some more, then.” Before he’d finished speaking, Tracker was already at his side.

  “As shall I,” the hound said, linking his arm with Dylan’s and guiding him towards the surrounding bush. “We might need to venture a fair ways from camp to find enough suitable kindling and I would prefer not to lose you.”

  “Make sure you get as much dry stuff as you can,” Marin called after them. “We can stack it inside the tents to keep it that way.”