Page 61 of Burn of the Everflame

Istared at the shrinking silhouette of Ophiucae’s gryvern on the horizon, overwhelmed and unable to move. I knew without looking that he’d removed the ten-pointed star he’d branded on my throat. Now I was an enemy Descended, like all the others. Free for his men to kill, if they got the chance.

I did not fear his men, and I did not want his brand . . . so why did my heart feel so raw?

“Diem.”

Luther’s voice sent a current through my blood. Just hearing it again was a comfort, as if he’d placed his strong hand on my back to remind me he was here.

Gods, I wished he would. I’d barely been able to focus on the battle. The moment I saw him, the mating bond had gone from urgent to crazed. Beneath my cloak of shadows, the mating mark glowed even brighter than my skin, burning with an all-consuming need for his touch.

He sank to his knees and bowed his head. “My Queen,” he breathed, voice rough with reverence.

My hand trembled as it cupped his now-bearded cheek, and a ragged breath rushed out. At the touch of his skin on mine, the screaming in my head went silent. The maddening itch across my body soothed away, and my aching chest finally, finally, finally felt at peace.

He placed his hand over mine to press it closer. I let his warmth soak into me and reassure me this was real, not another of the island’s cruel, deceptive dreams.

The words I longed to scream crawled up my throat: You are my mate. Seal the bond, and make me yours. I wanted to wait until we were alone, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep them in.

My stare swept over him as he rose to his feet. His clothes were ill-fitting and humble, looking mortal-made, and covered in deep slashes and blood.

My healing magic dove inside him, and he abruptly jerked away. His throat worked. “Zalaric first.”

The reminder of our friend, slumped motionless a few feet away, pulled me out of my lovesick daze. I ran through the Descended soldiers dizzily shaking off Ophiucae’s mental hold and dropped to my knees at Zalaric’s side. My hand flew to his throat—a weak pulse still beat beneath his skin. I pushed my healing magic into him, careful to route it around the scar on his neck that he, like Luther, had chosen to keep. My godhood did what it could to mend the gash at his ribs, but when it screeched and recoiled back inside me, my stomach lurched. The blade had been godstone, and its deadly poison had already taken root.

“Where is he?” a man roared nearby.

My heart clenched at the familiar voice—though I’d never heard him sound like that.

“Here,” I yelled.

Soldiers around me shouted protests as they were shoved off their feet and out of the way. Taran appeared in the crowd, taking me in, then Zalaric, then me again. “Queenie,” he rasped, that one hoarse word conveying so much: I missed you. Are you alright? Please don’t let him die.

“Take his hand,” Luther ordered Taran. “Skin on skin—it helps.”

Anguish tore at me to hear Luther repeat the advice I’d given him when Taran was wounded, the same advice I’d used myself when Luther seemed all but lost. Taran nodded and took Zalaric’s hand as Luther stooped beside me, his thigh pressing into mine.

“Godstone?” Taran asked, looking bleak. My hesitation was answer enough, and shadows flooded his gaze.

“I survived it,” Luther said. “So did you. The Blessed Kindred spared us. Perhaps they’ll spare Zalaric, too.”

Taran closed his eyes and held out a palm, wisp after wisp of his magic rising. “Please, Blessed Mother,” he begged. “Not him. Whatever you ask, I’ll do it.”

His prayer grated on me. The only reason godstone existed at all was the ego of the Blessed fucking Kindred.

“We don’t need Lumnos,” I muttered. “I’ll save him myself.”

I reached behind Luther and pulled the Sword of Corbois from the scabbard strapped to his back. I slid its sharp edge along my palm until a line of crimson sprang to my skin, then slipped my hand through the slash in Zalaric’s robe and pressed it into his wound.

“What are you doing?” Taran asked.

“Healing him,” Luther said. He stared at me, his wonder aglow. “It was never the poultice, was it? It was you.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t, not until I was sure it would work. If I was wrong, if I’d acted too late . . .

I studied Zalaric’s face, thinking of everything he’d endured to get here. A childhood in hiding as a forbidden half-mortal, the death of his mother, the scar on his throat from a botched execution, years of trading his body for money to claw his way into the top echelons of Umbros society—then losing it all for trying to help me.

Taran raised Zalaric’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his wrist, and I realized Taran was shaking. He blinked hard, fighting back tears. It hit me then, how long I’d been gone. How much might have changed.

Zalaric stirred, and my heart leapt with hope. Again, I pushed my magic into his skin and held my breath—then released it with a deep sigh of relief. All trace of the godstone toxin was gone.