She’d worked him into a blood-frenzy.
And Lysandra, damn her, led him to the remnants of enemy ships, where Valg soldiers were trying to save themselves. The bull exploded through soldier and wood as if they were veils of gossamer.
Leaping through the water, twining around debris and coral and bodies, the sunlight glinting on green scales and ruby blood, Lysandra led the bull into a dance of death.
Each movement slower as more of her blood leaked into the water.
And then she changed course. Heading into the bay. To the chain.
And cut north—toward him.
Aedion examined the massive bolt before him.
Three hundred yards of open water separated her from the range of his arrow.
“SWIM,” Aedion roared, even if she couldn’t hear. “SWIM, LYSANDRA!”
Silence fell across the entirety of Skull’s Bay as that jade sea dragon swam for her life.
The bull gained on her, diving down.
Lysandra passed under the links of the chain, and the shadow of the bull spread beneath her.
So small. She was so small compared to him—one bite was all it would take.
Aedion slammed himself back into the gunner chair, gripping the levers and pivoting the machine as she swam and swam for him.
One shot. That was all he’d have. One gods-damned shot.
Lysandra hurled herself forward, and Aedion knew she was aware of the death that loomed. Knew she was pushing that sea dragon’s heart to near-stopping. Knew that the bull had reached the bottom and now launched himself up, up, up toward her vulnerable belly.
Only a few more yards, only a few more heartbeats.
Sweat slid down Aedion’s brow, his own heart hammering so violently all he could hear was its thunder. He shifted the spear, slightly, adjusting his aim.
The bull raged up from the deep, maw open, ready to rip her in half with one blow.
Lysandra passed into range and leaped—leaped clean out of the water, all sparkling scales and blood. The bull jumped with her, water streaming from his open jaws as they arced up.
Aedion fired, slamming his palms into the lever.
Lysandra’s long body arched away from those jaws as the bull lifted clean out of the water, baring his white throat—
As Aedion’s massive spear went clean through it.
Blood spurted from the open jaws, and the creature’s eyes went wide as he reared back.
Lysandra slammed into the water, sending a plume so high it blocked out the sight of both of them as they crashed into the sea.
When it subsided, there was only the shadow of them—and a growing pool of black blood.
“You … you … ,” the sentry babbled.
“Load another one,” he ordered, standing from his seat to scan the bubbling water.
Where was she, where was she—
Aelin was perched on Rowan’s shoulders, scanning the bay.
And then a green head shot from the water, black blood spraying like spindrift as she hurled the severed head of the bull across the waves.
Cheering—riotous, wild cheering—exploded from every corner of the bay.
But Aedion was already up and running, half leaping down the stairs that would take him toward the beach that Lysandra now swam for, her own blood replacing the black ichor that stained the water.
So slow, each of her movements was so painfully slow. He lost track of her as he descended below the tree line, his chest heaving.
Roots and stones wrenched at him, but his Fae-swift feet flew over the loam until it turned to sand, until light broke through the trees and there she was, sprawled on the beach, bleeding everywhere.
Beyond them, out in the bay, Ship-Breaker dropped low, and Rolfe’s fleet swept out to pick off the surviving soldiers—and save any of their own still out there.
He vaguely noted Aelin and the others diving into the sea, swimming hard for land.
Aedion dropped to his knees, wincing as sand sprayed onto her. Her scaled head was nearly as big as he was, but her eyes … those green eyes, the same color as her scales…
Full of pain. And exhaustion.
He lifted a hand toward her, but she showed her teeth—a low snarl slipping out of her.
He held up his hands, scooting back.
It was not the woman who looked at him, but the beast she’d become. As if she had given herself so fully to its instincts, that it had been the only way to survive.
There were gashes and slices everywhere. All dribbling blood, soaking the white sand.
Rowan and Aelin—one of them could help. If they could summon any power after what the queen had done. Lysandra closed her eyes, her breathing shallow.
“Open your gods-damned eyes,” Aedion snarled.
She snarled back but cracked open an eye.
“You made it this far. Don’t die on the rutting beach.”
The eye narrowed—with a hint of female temper. He had to get the woman back. Let her take control. Or else the beast would never allow them near enough to help.
“You can thank me when your sorry ass is healed.”
Again, that eye watched him warily, temper flickering. But an animal remained.
Aedion drawled, even as his relief began to crumble his mask of arrogant calmness, “The useless sentries in the watchtower are now all half in love with you,” he lied. “One said he wanted to marry you.”
A low snarl. He yielded a foot but held eye contact with her as he grinned. “But you know what I told them? I said that they didn’t stand a chance in hell.” Aedion lowered his voice, holding her pained, exhausted stare. “Because I am going to marry you,” he promised her. “One day. I am going to marry you. I’ll be generous and let you pick when, even if it’s ten years from now. Or twenty. But one day, you are going to be my wife.”
Those eyes narrowed—in what he could only call female outrage and exasperation.
He shrugged. “Princess Lysandra Ashryver sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
And then the dragon huffed. In amusement. Exhaustion, but … amusement.
She opened her jaws, as if she’d try to speak, but realized she couldn’t in this body. Blood leaked through her enormous teeth, and she shuddered in pain.
Brush snapped and crashed, and there were Aelin and Rowan, and his father and Fenrys. All of them soaked, covered in sand, and gray as death.
His queen staggered for Lysandra with a sob, flinging herself onto the sand before Aedion could bark a warning.
But Lysandra only winced as the queen laid a hand on her, saying over and over, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Fenrys and Gavriel, who had maybe saved her life with that amplified shout about the bull’s location, lingered near the tree line as Rowan approached, surveying the wounds.
Fenrys spotted Aedion’s glance, spotted the warning wrath on his face if either of them got near the shifter, and said, “That was one hell of a shot, boyo.” His father nodded in silent agreement.
Aedion ignored them both. Whatever well of magic his cousin and Rowan had depleted was already refilling. The shifter’s wounds knitted closed, one by one. Slowly—painfully slowly, but … the bleeding stopped.
“She lost a lot of blood,” Rowan observed to none of them in particular. “Too much.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that in my life,” Fenrys murmured. None of them had.
Aelin was trembling, a hand on her friend—face so white and drawn that any harsh words he’d reserved for her were unnecessary. His queen knew the cost. It had taken her so damn long to trust any of them to do anything. If Aedion roared at her now, even if he still yearned to … Aelin might never delegate again. Because if Lysandra hadn’t been in the water when things had gone so, so badly…
“What happened?” he breathed, catching Aelin’s eye. “What the hell happened out there?”
“I lost control,” Aelin said hoarsely. As if she couldn’t help it, her hand drifted to her chest. Where, through the white of her shirt, he could make out the Amulet of Orynth.
He knew then. Knew precisely what Aelin carried. What would have snagged Rolfe’s interest on that map of his—similar enough to the Valg essence to get him to come running.
Knew why it had been so important, so vital, she risk everything to get it from Arobynn Hamel. Knew that she had used a Wyrdkey today, and it had almost killed them all—
He was shaking now, that rage indeed taking over. But Rowan snarled at him, low and vicious, “Save it for later.” Because Fenrys and Gavriel had tensed—watching.
Aedion growled right back at him. Rowan gave him a cold, steady look that said if he so much as began to hint at what their queen carried, he’d rip out his tongue. Literally.
Aedion shoved down the anger. “We can’t carry her, and she’s too weak to shift.”
“Then we wait here until she can,” Aelin said. But her eyes drifted to the bay, where Rolfe was now being helped onto those rescue ships. And to the city beyond, still cheering.
A victory—but very nearly a loss. The remnants of the Mycenians, saved by one of their long-lost sea dragons. Aelin and Lysandra had woven ancient prophecies into tangible fact.
“I’ll stay,” Aedion said. “You deal with Rolfe.”
His father offered from behind him, “I can get some supplies from the watchtower.”
“Fine,” he said.
Aelin groaned, getting to her feet, but stared down at him before she took Rowan’s extended hand. She said softly, “I’m sorry.”
Aedion knew she meant it. He still didn’t bother replying.
Lysandra groaned, the reverberations running up his knees and straight into his gut, and Aedion whirled back to the shifter.
Aelin left without further good-bye.
The Lion lingered in the brush, keeping out of sight and sound as the Wolf watched over the dragon still sprawled across the beach.
For hours, the Wolf remained there. While the outgoing tide cleared the harbor of blood. While the Pirate Lord’s ships sent any remaining enemy bodies to the crushing blue. While the young queen returned to the city in the heart of the bay to handle any fallout.
Once the sun had begun to set, the dragon stirred, and slowly, her form shimmering and shrinking, scales were smoothed into skin, a snout melted back into a flawless human face, and stumpy limbs lengthened into golden legs. Sand crusted her naked body, and she tried and failed to rise. The Wolf moved then, slinging his cloak around her and sweeping her into his arms.
The shifter didn’t object, and her eyes were again closed by the time the Wolf began striding up the beach to the trees, her head leaning against his chest.
The Lion remained out of sight and held in the offer of help. Held in the words he needed to say to the Wolf, who had downed a sea-wyvern with one arrow. Twenty-four years old and already a myth whispered over campfires.
Today’s events would no doubt be told around fires in lands even the Lion had not roamed in all his centuries.
The Lion watched the Wolf vanish into the trees, heading for the town at the end of the sandy road, the shifter unconscious in his arms.
And the Lion wondered if he himself would ever be mentioned in those whispered stories—if his son would ever allow the world to know who had sired him. Or even care.
38
The meeting with Rolfe once the harbor was again safe was quick. Frank.
And Aelin knew if she didn’t get the hell out of this city for an hour or two, she might very well explode again.
Every key has a lock, Deanna had said, a little reminder of Brannon’s order. Using her voice. And had called her that title … that title that struck some chord of horror and understanding in her, so deep she was still working out what it meant. The Queen Who Was Promised.
Aelin stormed onto a spit of beach on the far side of the island, having run here, needing to get her blood roaring, needing it to silence the thoughts in her head. Behind her, Rowan’s steps were quiet as death.
Only the two of them had been in that meeting with Rolfe. Bloodied, soaked, the Pirate Lord had met them in the main room of his inn, the name of it now a permanent reminder of the ship she’d wrecked. He demanded, “What the hell happened?”
And she had been so tired, so pissed off and full of disgust and despair, that it had been nearly impossible to muster the swagger. “When you are blessed by Mala, you find that sometimes your control can slip.”