Page 99
Multiple realizations slammed into me in rapid succession as I watched. First, I no longer carried her blood. She truly had managed to recall the small amount I’d been able to absorb before the other queen healed the lingering wound. I had no idea a queen could filter out her blood in such a way. I’d assumed it was an empty threat.
Besides, no queen in her right mind would send any Blood away, especially an old and powerful warrior.
Let alone a bottomless grail who could feed her endlessly.
Second, she allowed Durandal to feed. Before she proved him trustworthy. Before she claimed him. Before she fed on him.
A Blood’s sole purpose was to feed the queen. Oh, certainly, Blood protected her and defended her nest, but Blood were blessed—or cursed—with many different powers, beasts, and talents, some more effective than others at defense. As long as the queen was fed, and fed well, she was the primary defender, not just of the nest but of her entire House.
While I had voluntarily fed her first—to heal her of pestilence—she hadn’t hesitated to offer me her blood, even before she knew I might be healed. Even with blood pouring from my wound, she hadn’t fallen on me to feast. Yet I’d witnessed her hunger last night. I myself had poured out half a dozen pitchers of my blood onto her hair, and to be honest, I suspect she could have taken even more. Such capacity in a queen was unheard of.
Yet she hadn’t touched me. She hadn’t fallen upon me like a starving, rabid wolf.
No one looked at me or demanded I leave despite no longer having any claim to her. They were too concerned about what Durandal might do, I realized. Guillaume and the non-Aima she called general hovered around her along with her formidable alpha, who wore a vicious scowl on his face that worsened by the moment.
Because Durandal fed, and fed, and fed. Goddess, his capacity might very well rival hers. Her cheeks paled but she didn’t resist or try to pull away from him.
Her alpha’s deep rumble rattled the cutlery on the table. “Shara…”
“No.”
“At least allow the general to feed you.”
“No. Not this first time. It’s important.” Her voice trembled ever so slightly, and she wavered in her chair. Her eyes appeared sunken and dark. Deep grooves lined her mouth. But she didn’t pull away from the Blood before her. “I must do it alone. It’s not as bad. As Huitzilopochtli.” Gripping the edge of the table with her other hand, her knuckles turned white. “Yet.”
Durandal tightened his grip on her wrist, his eyes blazing like the fae sword they’d used to heal me. Burning blue to white-hot. His jaws tightened on her wrist, his nostrils flaring wide with each loud breath like a warhorse charging to battle, running full-out beneath the full weight of a knight in plate armor.
The alpha growled again, deeper and lower, a sound to tear the earth asunder.
“He will pay me back in kind,” she gritted out. “Almost there.”
“If you die, there’s no pay back possible,” the non-Aima general retorted.
“I won’t die.” She tried to smile but her lips twisted in a grimace. “But if I do, I will resurrect myself.”
I couldn’t feel her any longer, but I imagined it must hurt quite a great deal for a queen to be drained to such extremes. Her mouth cracked open, revealing gigantic fangs that made my bowels clench with dread. Yet she didn’t move to bite him. Not yet. She merely opened her lips to prevent injury to herself.
Durandal flung himself away and toppled backward to the floor. On his back, he lay gasping like a fish, his chest heaving. Blood trickled from his mouth, his eyes unfocused as if he were the one drained to the point of death. He panted, his body wracked in spasms as he spoke. His muscles twitched. Even his bones cracked and popped beneath the weight of power in her blood.
Translating, Guillaume said, “So very strong. Wield me, Shara Isador. Now I am Durandal de Isador.”
The alpha pressed his already bleeding arm to her mouth, while Guillaume took her other hand and jammed her silver-tipped nails into his side. The general reached for her other hand and did the same, pushing those nails into his flesh. Immediately her color began to improve and the harsh lines of worry on their faces lessened.
The blood of three hale and hearty males. To replace what one ancient warrior had taken.
Durandal rolled over, tried to stand, but fell, his legs wobbly and unsteady. So the man crawled to her.
One of the greatest, legendary names from military history of all time. Crawled. Scrambling in his eagerness to reach her.
He rose up to drape himself across her legs, twisting his head to the side. Offering his throat. He said only one word, in Latin, this time, so I understood it without Guillaume’s translation.
“Quaeso.”
Please.
44
SHARA
