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

“Ahh, warlocks.” Lucyan gave him a crafty smile. “The nice thing about them is they often have the cure as well as the poison. I purchased a protective amulet from a warlock a few years ago that wards against hostile magic—it should work to shield me from the spell.”

Drystan chuckled. “Of course you did.” His brother was ever resourceful—Drystan often wondered just how many tricks he had in that proverbial bag of his, and if they would ever run out. “I suppose you ought to go—after all, Tariana likely doesn’t have any such protection herself, and she went running off to rescue Ryolas this morning.”

Lucyan rolled his eyes. “Naturally,” he said. “Love makes fools of us all, doesn’t it? I imagine that if you weren’t anchored down by your sense of duty and honor, you might be the one rushing off to Elvenhame instead of me.”

Drystan smiled. “Very likely,” he said, “but you are the better man for that job, Lucyan.”

Lucyan got to his feet. “I’ll go make the preparations now,” he said. “Shadley has a cache of charms that his agents use to disguise their looks—I’ll go borrow one and then pack for the journey.”

“Good.” Drystan stood and clasped his brother in a hard hug. “Bring them back safely, Lucyan,” he said roughly, a rare swell of emotion tightening his throat. He’d already sent one brother to the enemy. He couldn’t bear it if he lost both.





16





Alistair and Dareena were sound asleep when footsteps marching up the hall woke him. The hairs on his arms stood on end, and he quickly sat up, buttoning his tunic shirt and pulling his trousers on again.

“What is it?” Dareena asked sleepily, curling her fingers around his arm. “Where are you going?”

“It’s Arolas,” Alistair growled, getting to his feet. He could smell the bastard a mile away. “He’s coming for me.”

The door banged open, and Arolas marched into the room with a pair of guards. “As I thought,” the elven prince sneered, raking his cold blue stare over Dareena’s barely covered form. “The moment my guards turn their back, the two of you are at it like rabbits again.”

“Don’t touch me,” Alistair snarled as the guards marched forward. He tried to fight them off, but they were in close quarters, and he was worried about accidentally hurting Dareena. Gritting his teeth, he struggled against them as they bound his arms behind his back, clamping shackles around his wrists tight enough to make them smart.

“Since you don’t know how to keep your cock in your pants,” Arolas said with a cruel smirk, “I’m carting it, and you, off to the dungeons to help preserve what’s left of the lady’s honor. Take him away,” he said to the guards with a snap of his fingers.

“You can’t do this!” Dareena cried as Alistair was dragged away. He met her frantic gaze, and his heart clenched with guilt and anger as he continued to struggle. He could already feel his strength waning. In a few hours, he would not have enough energy to lift a finger, never mind brawl with a bunch of elves.

“You promised not to mistreat us,” Dareena said fiercely to Arolas. “If you take him away from me, he will grow sick again.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that when you allowed him to spread your legs like a common whore,” Arolas said.

Alistair saw red, and he lunged for the prince despite his hands being tied. The guards yanked him back and dragged him through the door, but not before he saw the prince’s gaze drift over Dareena’s body, lingering on the outline of her bosom through the sheets. “But then again, perhaps King Drystan already knows of your proclivities and has made his peace with them. I wonder if he would mind if I took a turn with you?”

“You insolent pig!” Dareena’s hand cracked against Arolas’s cheek as the guards shoved Alistair down the hall.

Pride surged through him, along with a healthy dose of fear at the thought of her alone with Arolas. Would the elven prince really take advantage of her? From what Alistair knew, dragons disgusted the man, but Dareena wasn’t a dragon. And if she truly had elven blood…

Grief and rage burned at Alistair’s throat as the guards hauled him off to the dungeon—an oubliette, he discovered as they lifted a trapdoor and threw him into the darkness below. He hit the ground hard, his shoulder smarting, and the scents of piss and sweat and dung immediately assailed his nose. The waiting jailer hauled him to his feet, and Alistair stumbled through the dimly lit hall, his eyes adjusting. The hall was lined with small, cramped cells, and from the moans and whimpers he heard, several were occupied.

“Enjoy your stay,” the jailer sneered. He untied Alistair’s hands, then shoved him into a cell at the end of the hall. The door clanged shut behind him, and Alistair sank onto the hard, wooden bench, his stomach sinking with dread. A fever was already coming over him—far too quickly, considering he’d only been separated from Dareena mere moments ago.

Was it from the Change, or was the anti-dragon spell stronger down here? he wondered, passing a hand over his burning forehead. Gods, he was so tired of feeling sick and helpless, like a weak dragonling instead of the strong, magnificent prince he was born and bred to be.

Either way, Alistair felt like death was seeping into his bones, filling him with pain and weakness, robbing him of his will to live. He drifted into a dark, shadowy dream where he followed the sound of Dareena’s voice crying out to him to help her. In the dream, he could hear Arolas laughing, and the sounds of her screams, and he ran faster, trying to get to his mate before the elven prince could rape her, or worse.

But as far as he ran, he couldn’t catch up, and the screams went on and on. He was stuck down here, Alistair realized dimly, and he sank to the ground in his dream, tears running down his face as he tore at his hair in agony and despair. Stuck, with no way to help his beloved no matter how hard he tried.





17





“Get your kitchen wares here! Pots and pans! Ladles and cutlery! Sharpen your knives!” Lucyan called as he trudged through the small town of Idlewood at a pace that was slowly driving him mad. “The tinkerer is back in town, and his prices can’t be beat!”

“Louder,” the tinkerer ordered, a stern look on his wizened face. He sat beside Lucyan on the bench, his big, rough hands gripping the reins as he steered the mule. “How am I going to make any coin if you keep whispering like that?”