I angled my head. “You feeling any better, puddingkins?”
He pushed himself up to sit, movements unsteady. Pain still creased his features, and though he appeared less hollow than before, it might have simply been a trick of the moonlight. Blinking heavily, he reached toward me as if to determine whether I was a dream or a dream. I allowed his fingers to brush my forearm before I backed away.
“Oh no, pookie bear,” I said with a fierce smile. “You’re going to have to pay for more of that.”
“Pay?” He leaned back into the pillows, brows knitted in confusion. “What do you mean, pay?”
Folding my arms over my chest, I regarded him. “I want the captives back.”
Though debilitated, he still managed a Rhyzkahl-frown. “What captives?”
My smile turned to ice. “You play stupid with me, I’ll leave and never come back.”
His frown vanished. “No. Stay.” He licked dry lips. “What do you want . . . specifically?”
I paced beside the balustrade, trailed my fingers over the ancient white stone as I took a moment to consider my words. “The people kidnapped on Earth and brought here against their will,” I said. “I want them sent to Mzatal to be returned home if they so desire—which he will determine.”
“What do you offer in exchange?” he asked, wary.
I gave him a sweet smile. “Break your nose again?”
Rhyzkahl shifted in the cushions. “If this is a serious proposition then there must be serious terms.” He watched me, eyes not as glazed as during my last visit though they still lacked their usual keen focus. “You care about these humans. Strike a true agreement, and you may recover them. Word games will not serve you.”
Don’t forget who you’re dealing with, I reminded myself. The demonic lords were, for all intents and purposes, demigods. Even dazed and feeling like shit, Rhyzkahl still possessed millennia of experience in bargains, negotiations, agreements—and backstabbing.
“Very well,” I said. “Let’s hammer out details.”
“Closer,” he said, beckoning with one hand.
My mouth pursed in distrust. I knew from the first dream visit that my proximity gave him clarity and relief. I took a single step toward him, and he shuddered like a jonesing junkie at the sight of a syringe of heroin.
“You want the captives,” he said. “Release the syraza, I release one human.”
I laughed. “No. That’s not going to happen. Eilahn stays with me.” It spoke volumes that he named her as his first negotiation point. As long as she remained on Earth, she drained potency from him. He needed to be free of the liability. Gee, too fucking bad. No way would I use Eilahn as a pawn.
“Two,” he said through gritted teeth. “Release her for two.”
“The trade of Eilahn is not on the table,” I said flatly.
“Then you have no great desire for the release of these humans,” he said, lifting one pale eyebrow.
He was going to play that lame-ass card? My shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I guess we have nothing more to discuss,” I said and thinned the dreamscape slightly as if about to leave.
His eyes widened. “Do not go!”
Yep, called that bluff. I held back a fist pump of triumph. “Why?”
“You know why.” Desperation shivered through his words. “I . . . am better able to touch the flows.”
Touch the flows. I understood his desperation. Zack had diminished Rhyzkahl’s existence when he broke the bond. For me, even the whisper-touch of the arcane in the dreamscape offered immeasurable comfort. Far worse for him, being near severed from the flows that had been integral to his life for millennia—and without Zack to support and guide him. I empathized with his plight, but it didn’t mean I felt sorry for him.
“Why should I care if you can touch the arcane or not?” I returned the dreamscape to its full texture and took another small step closer. “You’re not exactly my favorite person.”
Frustration coupled with annoyance flashed across his face. “I do not expect you to care,” he said. “You brought terms to the table.”
Good. Having to actually give a shit would be as much of a deal breaker as trading Eilahn. “All right,” I said with a lift of my chin. “Five minutes of basking in my glorious presence for each captive released.”
“Thirty.”
“Ha! Ten.”
“Ten . . .” His eyes dropped to my upper chest, “in contact with my sigil.”
Pulse pounding, I recoiled and pressed my hand over the scar—his mark—at the top of my sternum. “No!”
He lounged back in the pillows, pose non-threatening. “Seven, in contact with my sigil.”
Fuck. It was clear he knew how very much I wanted the captives released. But what benefit would touching the scar offer him? It wasn’t activated—only the twelfth held that dubious honor—yet at the same time I knew that none of the scars were fully quiescent. Or at least they hadn’t been before I lost the arcane.
“Two,” I said, though my stomach lurched.