If there was hesitation, it came from the king. He stilled with her lips on his, though she sensed neither repulsion, nor anxiety, nor surprise. Instead, the intensity that had her shaking for reasons not to do with winter made him pause, as though her kiss had turned him to stone. Uncertainty lingered when he finally closed the kiss, withdrew slightly, then brought her closer to kiss her again.
At first there was no sound, as though they were afraid to break the silence the way she had shattered the moment. Her breath whispered softer than the lightest breeze, more suggestion than sigh. Then, when he parted his mouth, his teeth caught on her lower lip, and he groaned as though he had never kissed a human woman in all his years as the devil king taking wives.
He risked her flesh with every kiss, his canines even longer than when he had left, and his other teeth sharp as a viper’s. He somehow contained his lust for blood as he tasted her more safely—although nothing felt safe about the way he peeled layers from her until she was more naked than she had made herself. Before he had left, the layers had been fused, calcified. He had needed to chip away at them like a sculptor to marble.
The endeavor now was no less delicate and risky, softened as she had been by the wolves but more vulnerable, too. She rocked over his cock again, not to reach another climax but because he was still inside and she needed him everywhere he could be. Because she suddenly wanted those teeth deep within her but feared how much closer that would bind her to him, and his cock was less permanent.
He jerked his head back from her, stretching his mouth open and baring his teeth to the moonlight like a predator in pain. He shook his head as his jaw worked, a hiss escaping his throat. It was not the screaming call, but she dented his neck with her nails—unable to penetrate, though not for lack of trying.
“Animal blood has been inadequate. A journey past the Jagged of the north and back required more substantial fare to sustain my monstrosity. I fear I might have transformed a little more into the monster and less the man than when I left. Your blood strikes me twice as strong and seductive than before. My teeth ache for you more than my cock ever could.”
Asha slid a hand up to his mouth, caressing his teeth, as aroused by his clear desire to bite down upon her fingers as she was by his resistance. He wrapped his tongue around two of her fingers, a gesture as much play as possession.
“Do you beg me for my blood, my king?” she asked softly.
He unwound his tongue to speak. “Do you wish me to?”
“It pleases me to hear it now, but it will not get you what you wish. Not tonight.” Her own regret to say so startled her, but weariness settled heavy in her limbs, and she did not think she could spare a drop of blood in such a state. She would rather give herself to him clear-headed, awake, aware, not in this heady, half-dream state. “I only wish your torment if it is exquisite, my lord. I do not mean to taunt you if it causes unpleasant pain.”
“I still have my mind. You torment me, Asha, but deliciously.” He kissed the tips of the fingers he had possessed with his tongue. “It pleases me that you may please yourself through me now. The ambivalence felt before I journeyed away remains, but clarity sharpens what affection has grown in absence, has it not? You are a strange queen, but damned if I do not want to make you mine in all ways left.”
“Only if you kneel before me in the end.” She smiled. “You promised me you as much as you promised I would yield myself.”
“Anything you desire, my love.” He stroked through the tangle of her hair, using his claws to comb it smooth. “Have I tired you?”
“I was already weary. I awoke when you arrived, but I did not know why. The wolves are wearying.”
His laughter purred through his throat. “They can be. This journey has exhausted me. The days are not as long as in the summer, but they were too long between each night I could travel. Restlessness wore me down as much as the journey itself. I can sleep with you, love, if you want me in your bed, although I cannot warm you as well as the wolves.”
“They will not mind.”
She gave a small cry as he lifted her off his cock and tucked his arm under her knees to carry her. His clothing gathered back around him, and the balcony door opened without his touch.
“What magic runs through your veins, my lord?” Asha tucked her head against his chest. Against a wolf, she would have been able to hear his heart beat, but in him, there was no sound. “I thought previous displays trickery rather than sorcery. Does sorcerer’s blood drip only through the cracks in the castle’s foundation?”
“I might have had a drop or two. I see you kept your roses fed. My God, the scent intoxicates.”
“It will run through your veins as well soon enough.”
“The wolves have done well for you. I am sure you jest now.”
“Are you?” But she tucked her slight smile against his neck.
The king stood before the bed, where Lysan had pressed up against Callina as she reached across quilts to where Asha had lain. The king tilted his head in consideration. “Where is my captain, Ashling? His scent is unmistakable. Has he played the fool, abandoning you before the dawn?”
“The captain will not allow himself to have me,” Asha said softly.
“I smell him upon you. Upon the hand that I taste. Upon your neck.”
“He resists.”
“Not very well. I have never caught his scent upon any of my wives before. I thought he had finally abandoned whatever belief plagues his desires, that he will not allow himself to have them.”
“His beliefs continue to plague, but not enough to deny bloody meat from my hand.”
“Perhaps you have tested them.” He could not stroke her as he would have liked, but he brushed his claws over her neck. “I wish I could have seen you rip out the man’s throat, as he did. It must have been a marvelous thing.”
“Your captain enjoyed the fruits, as I could not.”
“Does he want you? His excuse has always been that he never wants what is mine, and to take it would be betrayal. He wears honor as armor, but I did not see a reason to press the matter, not when he had his pack to delight in. If he desires now and cannot deny it without lying to his king…”
“If he is as armor-plated as you say, he may tell you what he wishes to be true—not a lie but an aspiration.”
“You continue to surprise me, Ashling. First Callina, then the captain, then Lysan. An unusual choice, my queen.” The king’s body did not disturb the bed as he lowered them onto the quilts. He conjured another from the trunk at the end of the bed to cover her, lacking his own warmth to give.
“He has been nothing but courteous, accommodating, kind, and fierce. He allows me to hurt him for his pleasure and does me the same courtesy. What more could I ask of him?”
His laughter shuddered through her once more. “Oh, my dear, we have much to do to make up for the time apart. But after we sleep. I shall not be here when you wake, yet I will while the night with you, my love. Sleep. Tomorrow, I will reassure my wolves and speak to the captain. And tomorrow night, we shall continue the enticing greeting we began on the balcony.”
“I can think of no coherent objection. Good night, my lord.” She closed her eyes with his arms around her, the quilt slowly warming what he had blissfully frozen. His long, firm body gave her a still foundation. Her own heartbeat sounded in her ears, lulling her back into the darkness that had returned to her.
2
Neither Lysan nor her husband were there when the early evening sun pierced her eyelids enough to rouse her from sleep. They appeared to have designated Callina as the face Asha would see when she woke, offering warmth that both the dim hearth and her husband could not.
She aided Asha in choosing raiment, playing lady-in-waiting instead of the servants and just as deft with the corset ties in the back, despite the fact she wore clothing that harnessed but never bound.
Callina smoothed her hands over Asha’s waist. Her sigh carried a touch of wistfulness, although Callina’s f
igure far more closely matched the favored mode. Asha could understand whores who looked to a beggar with envy, but not a warrior who had men and women begging her for everything she offered.
Asha did not ask what inspired such regret, and Callina did little else but sweep Asha’s hair up in one of the jeweled combs Asha had not yet allowed a servant to use on her. Wearing jewels upon her body seemed to call attention to the lack of sunglow, gleam, and light her dulled hair, skin, and eyes could offer. Her jeweled dagger had until then been the only enhancement she had permitted, because it had been a gift from the king and because it had use other than adornment. However, Asha deferred to Callina’s insistence that rubies suited her as her gown did, and that gold set off the gray as though it were silver. Asha suspected Callina saw through a less than objective gaze, but far be it from her to dissent with a wolf’s eyes.
The color she wore was the king’s favorite. She sought to please him with the choice, as she had the night before he left. If he believed red suited her, she would drip blood over herself to give him that pleasure, even if her own consideration bore a dissimilar perspective.
Callina kissed Asha’s cheek before she left. “Luck, my dear.”
Asha grasped her hand. Her fingers were like spider legs in Callina’s palm, but Callina accepted the gratitude with a squeeze, then slipped from the room. The servants brought wine, bread, cheese, and jam, and Asha waited for sunset, fruit staining her lips with artificial passion.
Even without the light pouring through her balcony window, Asha had begun to sense the sun’s set, the way she had once woken to the dawn so that she could ready herself for the marketplace square. No longer did she need dawn. Twilight was when her king’s day began, and the wolves, though they walked through both light and darkness, leaned late—either in deference to their king or by the demands of their own internal timing.
Before the sun reached the edge of the mountains, Asha left her room to the servants. They had a brush handle, dressing gown, and several quilts to clean or replace before her return.
She arrived in the audience chamber to a feast, distinguishable from all other meals by the presence of almost all the wolves and by a greater spread of roasted meat for the wolves’ palate, with much mead, wine, cider, and ale to ease its way.
The captain had joined his pack, but the hewn black throne stood empty on its platform, awaiting its king.
Asha took her place at the end of the banquet table, with the more human fare it provided. Callina had taken a seat on the bench close enough to make her presence felt. Nevertheless, Asha sat alone, again unsure whether she belonged with the raucous wolves or nearer to the king’s throne. In tales of other kingdoms, other kings, there had always been a place for king, queen, and heirs at the head of an audience chamber, but this platform held only one chair. Why would a king honor a queen constantly in rotation?
She thought of how she desired him, missed him, ached for him. But winter would retreat, then conquer the land again, and she would be cast into the world—to desire, miss, ache for what she could no longer have in exchange for freedom.
Not once in this winter, with its long nights, had she encountered one of the many of his kind sired from queens past returning to relive former glory, ecstasy, love, grief. There were other lands, other kingdoms, other companions, and in freedom, they had the chance to find them all. But Asha could not understand how, after five centuries of coaxing his companions to grow—his human garden of winter roses—none of them had come back for their first. With gratitude. Nostalgia. Craving. They had had their blood taken, and they had taken his blood. They were closer to the king than she, yet they had kept their distance. It was not the wolves that dissuaded them; the wolves would have recognized their master’s scent in one of his children’s blood. Was it the king who commanded them never to return? And if he did not, what else could dissuade?
She thought of all these things, her heart pounding against the slender bars of her ribs as though imprisoned. She could not drink the wine, could not join the wolves at their meat. She could only wait, weak though such uselessness made her feel. The depth of that weakness and the anger that accompanied it startled her, but she did not shift from her position, the stiffness of her back and shoulders, the prim curl of her fingers in the valley of her skirt—the very figure of a demure wife, although she resented her own choice to portray it.
The king entered not from the doors but from above, crawling over the stone walls as he did over the castle’s exterior. In the superior light of the audience chamber, illuminated by torch and flame, the way he climbed without rings or other aid than his own strength and dexterity became clear. The rings had definitely not been placed into the wall for him.
He wore his robes and cowl—whatever sorcery he possessed defied the force that would have his clothes bunch and fall over his shoulders as he climbed headfirst down the fall. She had believed his grace the result of practical means—tucking his robes into his gloves or boots or trousers where necessary—but a closer look proved once more that the king was more than mere man or monster.
He righted himself above the throne, then climbed onto the arm and slid into his chair as though it had been made for such rough, uncommon treatment. The wolves did not go silent at his unconventional entrance, but their noise subdued.
After the captain had finished his bite and swallowed it down with ale, he stood from the bench to take his place before the platform, lowering himself to one knee. The low bow, his forehead almost to the carpet, signaled the wolves to cease their carousing in deference to the alpha, in deference to their king.
“Your Majesty.”
“My captain. Rise, friend.”
“Are we safe?” the captain asked, almost the exact inflection as Asha’s query.
“Our kingdom is safe.” The king stood to address the entire chamber—warriors, captain, and Asha alike. She doubted he addressed the table, but if the furniture gossiped in the rare moments between service, the king’s words would spread among them as well.
“The sun frustrated with each delay to my journey. Many days, when I hid in low, dark places where the sun could not reach, I valued my army all the more—my eyes, ears, feet, and hands into the world now bound to my house, our roles unfortunately reversed with this new threat. However, the air gave me ample chance to travel without being seen, without encountering the obstacles of terrain that my armies tolerate.
The king slowly paced along the length of the carpet to address the long line of his audience.
“I flew through blizzard and rainstorm, clear nights with the bats and the owls, over lands neither man nor wolf have trod, too inhospitable are they to boot or paw. I flew against the north winds toward the Jagged Mountains. If I was seen, neither flaming nor iron-tipped arrow followed me into the sky, and none pursued.”
He spoke like a travelling storyteller. Even when what he said was already known, it held new significance through the richness of his tongue. His cavernous voice resonated within her mind as well as filled the room to its corners.
“When I arrived at the ghost kingdom, I followed your footsteps. You gauged the mystery well. No traces of bodies, no footprints that did not come from man or wolf. The scent of ash and stone, and a trace of my blood in the air, as though a mist that had become spirit. Yet, as you discovered when you attempted to seek its origin, it was not mine. My own nose could detect deeper than your own. It once belonged to me, before another and another fermented a new bloodline. It could be traced to blood I once shared, but it was mine no longer.
“I inspected the ghost kingdom. Mindless creatures could not have left it so clean. I detected a keener intellect intent on hiding what had occurred. For what reason? Shame, compassion, something more nefarious? I am afraid some mysteries must remain shrouded, for I found the bodies on the other side of the mountains. Or I found what was left of them.
“They had been obscured by fire, reduced to ashes that had coated the monsters’ skin. The creatur
es brought the whole bodies with them rather than feeding where the prey was attacked—unusual when starvation makes them ravenous, but not unheard of when a cluster of my kind come together, almost as a pack or a hive. Rare though such a pack is, it is less rare in hunger, although it can lead to vicious, mortal competition for blood once hunger is gradually sated.
“The bonfire had been made in a crater where nothing grew, not even the weeds and trees that grow in the peaks of the Jagged. The ash was like that of a dormant volcano, the bodies like that of its centuries-old victims. There was nothing left of them but charred remains and weaponry that had failed to serve its masters. All blood had been drained. Bones had been broken to suck the marrow.”
The captain stood. “Yet you returned, my lord. A massacre by many monsters, yet you returned unscathed.”
“Their claws tore, but not deep enough to kill, and animal blood sufficed to heal, if not rejuvenate, as human blood.”
The king glanced to her, the black in his eyes deepening still further, rich as the velvet of her gown. She could detect the red of it reflected within. He stretched his jaw as though his teeth ached from the consideration of bare flesh above the line of the gown that displayed shoulders and neck.
“I found them holed in a northern castle—two dozen in all, a formidable force of starving beasts stripped of the last vestiges and illusions of humanity. I came upon them as they slumbered, temporarily sated. I can only imagine what their state had been prior to taking the kingdoms south of the Jagged if they were still as skeletal and winged as I found them. In their state, they were unable to understand my speech, though they hesitated before attacking me. Perhaps my scent struck them as familiar enough for pause.
Grayling: Nocturnal Creatures Book 3 Page 2