Dragon's Blood (The Dragon's Gift Trilogy #2)

“You mentioned that your magic is earth-based,” Dareena said casually. “Can you tell me a little more about how that works?”

“Oh, it’s the most wonderful thing,” Basilla said, her eyes lighting up. “We gather energy from our surroundings—some elves find it easiest to pull from the air, some from the trees or the oceans, and others from the ground itself. We can use that energy to perform certain spells, though nothing quite so advanced as the warlocks. We excel at healing, and can manipulate the elements—as I tend to pull my magic from the air, I wield air best, though another elf might be better able to control water.”

“That’s fascinating,” Dareena said, leaning forward. “Would you be able to heal Alistair, then? Touching me seems to help him some, but the moment I pull away he begins to deteriorate again.”

Basilla bit her lip. “There is nothing I can do to permanently undo the effects of the warlock spell,” she said. “However”—she leaned forward and pressed her hand against Alistair’s forehead—“I can help reduce the impact a bit.”

The air in the room shifted, and Basilla’s hand on Alistair began to glow. Dareena watched as the tension bled out of his face and shoulders and healthy color seeped back into his cheeks.

“Wow,” Alistair said as Basilla pulled away. He sounded deeply relieved. “I feel much better.”

“See?” Basilla beamed. “It should last you for a few hours.” Her smile faded a little as she looked at Dareena again. “It is a pity that only elves can do it…and yet, you said that touching him keeps the sickness at bay. How does that work?”

“I think it has something to do with being the Dragon’s Gift,” Dareena said. “The guard let me in to care for him, but I fear that he will separate us again and Alistair will fall ill over the night.”

“Well, that won’t do at all,” Basilla declared, getting to her feet. “You are our guests, and we promised to keep you safe and healthy. I must be off now, before my lady-in-waiting comes looking for me, but I will tell the guard to keep the two of you together.”

“Thank you,” Dareena said fervently. “You are too kind.”

Basilla gave her a sad smile. “It is the least I can do after all you have been through.”

“She seems quite sympathetic to our plight,” Alistair said after she’d closed the door behind her. “Not what I expected at all from Arolas’s sister.”

“She is also Ryolas’s sister,” Dareena reminded him. “Perhaps the siblings get their temperaments from different relatives.”

They listened as Basilla ordered the guard to leave Dareena and Alistair in peace and allow them to stay together. The guard sounded skeptical and told her that he would need to clear it with Arolas, much to Dareena’s consternation. She heard his armor clank as he strode off down the hall, followed by the soft pitter-patter of slippered feet.

“Sounds like we are alone,” Alistair said, slipping his arms around her waist. He pressed a kiss into the back of her neck, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. “Shall we take advantage?”

Dareena giggled, turning to face him. “We’ve got to keep up your strength, don’t we?” she asked, twining her arms around his neck. She kissed him deeply as he pushed up her skirts, his big hands making quick work of her underwear. He squeezed her bare bottom as she rubbed herself against his growing erection, and she moaned into his mouth as her pussy ached with need for him.

“Already wet,” he murmured against her mouth, sliding his fingers against her folds. He undid the buttons on his trousers, then lowered her onto his waiting shaft. The two lovers moaned in unison as Alistair’s cock filled Dareena, and she gripped his shoulders hard, riding him.

They made love three times—once for themselves, and twice more for Drystan and Lucyan, whom they both missed terribly. The third time, as Alistair pounded into Dareena while her legs were locked around his waist, he splintered the wooden headboard by gripping it too hard.

“Blast it,” he cursed, wrenching his hand back. “That bloody hurts.” Wincing, he carefully picked the splinters out of his bleeding hand.

“Let me see that,” Dareena said, sitting up. She gently took his hand in her own, and after fishing out the last few splinters, decided to try the trick that Basilla had told her about. Closing her eyes, she focused in on the air around them. At first, she felt nothing, but as the seconds passed, her chest stirred. She could sense a low hum in the air around her—an undercurrent of power, she realized with some excitement. She tried to grab hold of it, but it slipped out of her mental grip.

“What are you doing?” Alistair asked.

“Hush!” Eyes still shut, Dareena tried again. She was unsuccessful the second time, but the third, she managed to snag a small tendril of power. Holding tight, she envisioned it going into Alistair’s hand, merging with his flesh and encouraging his skin to knit back together.

“By the gods,” Alistair said, and her eyes flew open. He stared down at their joined hands, an astonished look in his eyes. “You…you healed my hand!”

“It works!” Dareena squealed. “It was quite hard, which makes me think that air may not be my element…though it could just be that having only a tiny bit of elven blood makes it more difficult to use the magic. Still,” she said, marveling at his newly healed hand, “this is very encouraging.” What else could she do with this newfound power? Would she be able to draw more from the air with practice?

“Indeed, it is,” Alistair said. He pulled Dareena back under him, his eyes gleaming with renewed vigor, and she gasped as he cupped her between her legs. “Now,” he said, leaning in to nibble on her earlobe, “where were we?”





15





Drystan sat at the dining table in the royal suite, scowling at the array of jewelry spread before him. Several rings, heavy gold cuffs, a silver torque, a variety of gems…it wasn’t even close to the ransom the elves had demanded, but perhaps he could use the profits to pay the wages of the castle staff. He had a set of jeweled daggers that might also fetch a nice price, though he was loath to give those up—they had been a coming-of-age present from his mother and had great sentimental value.

What does it matter? Drystan thought gloomily, running a hand over his beard. He’d neglected to trim it the past few weeks, and it had grown longer, to the point that he could catch the thick strands and twirl them around his finger. If they didn’t find a way to get the elves to back off, there would be no staff left to pay. Even with their recovered numbers, the Elven Host could still annihilate them. Losing three of Drystan’s sisters had dealt a heavy blow—their bodies had been ruined beyond recognition, so the elves had burned them to ashes and returned them in urns. They would have a proper ceremony to mourn that loss once all of this was behind them.

If such a day ever came when they had the luxury of time to mourn.