“This is my favorite stage of dying,” his companion said. “They always do the silliest things.”
Having spectated thousands of deaths, he knew what came next. The stages were simple: panic, denial, shock, and then a calm sense of acceptance at the end.
Afterwards, their spirits escaped their fleshly bodies. Sometimes they slipped away quietly. The act almost serene. Sometimes the souls jerked from their mortal vessels as if being ripped out by an unseen hand, the person looking quite shocked at their new corporeal state.
But always, always, they came to him, unwillingly and terrified. Their new master.
“She’ll be ours soon,” his companion said. “First dibs?”
The growl that erupted from his chest sent her hopping back on the branch, her wings fluttering behind her and stirring the few leaves left on the trees.
“No one touches her,” he roared, surprising even himself. “Understood?”
Her mouth parted, and she let her gaze flit from Haven’s dying form back to him. Since when do you care? she seemed about to reply before she wisely thought better of it.
He had the same thoughts. Losing your temper now? Over a mortal?
Pulling his wings in close to his body, he tried to turn away from Haven, to block out her uneven breaths, so small and helpless. The pain he sensed in her. The fear.
Let her die. You have done enough.
Against all instincts, his gaze circled back to the scene. To her. And something in her face, the ferocious twist of her lips as she stared down death, the fight in her eyes, made him want to help her.
“No,” his companion said, though her voice trembled—she was still wary after his last outburst. “You promised you would not intervene.”
His talons erupted from his fingertips, the dull pressure and then release almost pleasurable. He knew in his mind he’d already made the decision to save her, but he didn’t understand why, so he fought it.
Plenty of mortals had died worse deaths. Why did this one affect him so deeply? He needed her for his plan, but that didn’t explain the way her agony sent a raw, visceral protectiveness surging through him with her every dying breath.
Her lips parted, a soft moan slipping out, and he lost it. Snarling, he spread his wings and prepared to swoop down to help her.
In that moment, he would have moved the Nihl and the Netherworld to make her pain stop—
The scent hit Stolas first, breaking the hold Haven had on him. A Solis was close. He growled as his natural enemy appeared, his magickal aura a pale golden essence that lit up the trees around him.
Archeron Halfbane, son of the Sun Sovereign of Effendier and slave to a mortal king. His magick flared and guttered, trying to escape the darkness that fed off its flame. But even the powerful son of the Sovereign couldn’t escape the Curse, and his magick was a mere whisper.
Stolas felt his lips tug into a half-smile. The pretty boy Sun Lord would hate having his magick smothered almost as much as he would despise knowing he was being watched from the Netherworld.
“Poor, failed hero,” his companion teased as Stolas’s wings slowly relaxed, his breathing evening out. “Seems a Solis will claim that title instead.”
“Good,” Stolas muttered, settling uneasily back into the tree to watch. Now that the spell was broken, he was just as surprised by his drive to help the wounded mortal girl as his companion was. “Let the idiot Solis deal with her.”
“You say that, but your face . . .”
“My face what?”
“Perhaps,” his companion persisted, her tone changed from taunting to concerned, “the blood you tricked her into ingesting connected you somehow.”
Slowly, he lifted his upper lip and bared his fangs. His chest rattled with a low growl. “I only did so to awaken her powers. Now, enough chatter about the mortal. I am not in the mood.”
Lowering her head, she slunk a few feet away before leaping to the next tree over, where she cut her eyes warily at him. Normally, he would have already put her in her place, but he was distracted tonight, and ever the cunning Noctis, she’d picked up on it.
She was testing the boundaries of their relationship, seeing how far she could push him. “Have you ever considered,” she said, “that you have completed two of the three acts necessary for the mating ritual?”
He had considered such a thing, not that he would admit as much to his companion. “For a Noctis mating ritual to be valid, the participants must drink each other’s blood and share a dream bond,” he pointed out. “But the girl does not have access to my dreams, nor has she willingly given me her blood to drink.”
Unsatisfied, his companion tangled her arms around her chest and glared down at the dying mortal. Against his will, Stolas followed her gaze.
Ever the gentleman, Archeron was covering Haven with his cloak. They were speaking. Stolas canted his head, straining to listen.
Did she call out his name? And Archeron . . . why did the fool sound so . . . affectionate?
He’d known Archeron for centuries, and he was a lot of things—arrogant, preening, a bastard—but affectionate wasn’t one of them.
A prickle of anger gathered between his shoulder blades, and his talons lengthened. Frowning, he released a long breath and tried to be grateful that Archeron had appeared to save the girl and keep his wager intact.
And yet . . . he couldn’t escape the impulse, the need to be the one to save her. To be the one she saw when she awakened. To mend her flesh and drive out her pain and see her amber eyes bright again, appraising him with that same courageous stupidity he should have killed her for the first day he met her.
His companion tsked from her newfound branch, glaring at him above a pout. “I only mention the blood because . . . the way you look at her . . .” Before continuing her statement, she retreated a few more steps, her wings flaring as she prepared to fly to safety—if necessary. “Do you think she would ever look at you the same? To her, you’re a monster just like our shadowling she felled.”
His palms prickled; his hands had curled into fists, talons digging into his flesh. His companion watched him unblinkingly as she waited for his response, hardly daring to breathe, holding the sleek blue-black feathers blanketing her wings perfectly still.
“The girl means nothing to me,” he said, forcefully, trying to will the statement into existence.
“Then prove it.”
Normally, any demand to prove himself would be ignored . . .
“When she has served her purpose, we will drink from her magick,” he said. “Together.” He shifted, and she flinched slightly, feathers ruffling and ridging, but his movement was only to unfurl his clenched fingers. He was glad to see his talons had retracted. “Does that satisfy you?”
She nodded, slowly. But concern tugged down the corners of her lips, and more than once, when she thought he couldn’t see her, she studied him carefully.
Lowering his eyebrows, he forced his attention back to the scene unfolding below and made a vow. If Archeron saved the little fool, he would treat her with the same indifference as every other Goddess-forsaken mortal until he could be rid of her.
Archeron’s head whipped up at the sound of the dying vorgrath, and he darted faster through the trees, snarling under his breath. He’d heard Haven’s cries a mile back. Plaintive, scared wails that stirred up ancient feelings of protection and fury and forced him into a sprint.