She felt Hadrian take a breath. She heard his groan. He shivered and stirred to life again, his skin warming beneath her lips. When there was no more toxin to withdraw from him, Rania straightened, holding her breath. She saw Hadrian open his eyes. He ran a hand over his hair, scanned his surroundings, then his gaze locked with hers. He smiled and she felt warm to her toes. His green eyes were glowing with affection that Rania knew she didn’t deserve. He held her gaze as he lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her palm.
“You really want to use that bichuwa,” he teased and Rania almost laughed.
She held her breath, though, wondering what to do with the toxin of the kiss of death. She didn’t want to give it to Alasdair or Balthasar. She didn’t want to disperse it, to spread its poison everywhere.
A flicker of movement caught her gaze and she saw a salamander dart across the floor. It wasn’t a normal salamander, because its skin like jewels. It could have been made of opals edged with gold, which made her wonder whether some of the Pyr could take other forms.
The salamander darted over Hadrian and leapt toward Rania. She caught it instinctively and it looked her right in the eye. It seemed to wink, then coiled its tail around her wrist.
“Stay with me!”
Rania heard the words in her own thoughts, spoken in a man’s commanding voice. She chose to trust her instincts and follow his suggestion. She nodded and the salamander shimmered blue. He then vanished right before her eyes and Rania did her best to keep up.
“What was that?” Alasdair demanded as he charged back to Balthasar’s side. After the emergency crews had put out the fire and left, he and Balthasar had taken Hadrian into his own room. Alasdair had driven into town for pizza because neither of the Pyr felt like cooking.
He’d felt the spark of the firestorm suddenly and had come as quickly as possible. He found Balthasar staring down at Hadrian, who was drifting off to sleep.
But he was alive. Alasdair nearly wept with relief when he reached the side of the bed. Hadrian’s hand was warm and Alasdair shook it, even as Hadrian smiled.
“Rania saved me,” Hadrian murmured, his eyes drifting closed. “She really is my destined mate.” He smiled a little. “It really is love.” Then he fell asleep, his breathing slow and steady.
Alasdair looked at Balthasar, knowing his question was obvious.
“She came back,” that Pyr said, his tone thoughtful. “She thought she could reverse the kiss of death and she did it.”
“But why? I thought she had to kill Hadrian to save her brothers?”
“I’m going to guess that Maeve broke her word.”
Alasdair nodded agreement. “Rania?”
Balthasar shrugged. “That’s what he’s calling her now. Maybe she finally told him her name.” He shrugged.
“Then where did she go?”
“With the salamander.”
Alasdair turned to Balthasar in confusion. “The what?”
“Didn’t you hear the old-speak? It said ‘stay with me’ in old-speak.”
“Then it was Pyr.”
Balthasar nodded. “Sloane said that some of the Slayers who had drunk the Elixir had the ability to take a third form, that of a salamander. Rafferty is the only Pyr who can do it.”
“Was the salamander opal and gold?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Then it had to have been him. I wonder how he knew to come here,” Alasdair mused.
“I wonder where they went,” Balthasar said. “I’d like to know where all that nasty malice ended up.”
“If it was Rafferty who guided her away, then we don’t have to worry about it anymore,” Alasdair said with conviction. “Is Hadrian really okay?”
“Sleeping normally. It’s incredible.” Balthasar smiled as he tucked Hadrian under a duvet and left him to sleep. “I’m going to guess that he’ll be hungry when he wakes up. Do I smell pizza?”
“You do.” Alasdair waved a parcel that Balthasar hadn’t noticed. “Plus there’s a package for Hadrian from Sara. Do you think we should open it?”
“Absolutely. Hadrian said she was going to send a book. Where’s that prophecy? Didn’t he write it down? Maybe we can figure some of this out for him.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Ten
Sebastian wasn’t a fan of airline travel. While it had the advantage of speed, it had so many other drawbacks that he avoided it as much as possible. The schedule was inflexible, for starters, which created challenges in ensuring that he wasn’t exposed to sunlight. Going to Europe was about as easy as that could be, since many flights left in the evening and arrived early in the morning. He booked business class, to minimize his check-in time, and disliked that he had to hope for the best.
After that, there was the crush of the airline terminal to survive, the inconvenience of security checks to tolerate, and interminable delays to endure. He hated the crowds and the lines and the scent of mortal flesh on all sides. He hated being trapped in a metal tube with several hundred mortal strangers even more.
He pulled up the hood on his sweatshirt, put on his eyeshades and tugged a blanket over himself, as sure a combination of signals that he didn’t want to be disturbed as he could provide. Of course, the businessman next to him wanted to drink and chat. Sebastian seethed all the way across the Atlantic, fantasizing about the days of the big ocean liners. That had been traveling in style, with all the amenities and the option of retreating to a stateroom at any time. Staff on all sides. Every request fulfilled. He’d even been able to feast on sorry specimens in third class, if he’d been careful.
The contrast was striking.
Of course, he became thirsty. It was inescapable with humanity pressed upon him on all sides. He’d feasted after Maeve’s visit, knowing it would only stave off his hunger for a few hours. In Manhattan, he could go days without feasting, but airline travel undermined his resolve. It was as if he stood before a buffet of temptation.
Except the morsel he truly desired wasn’t there.
It was probably good for him—or at least for Sylvia—for him to accept Maeve’s commission. He amused himself by trying to remember all the titles in his locked library, the order of them on the shelves, the times and places of acquisition. He teased himself with the thrill of regaining his greatest treasure and told himself that the prospect seemed flat because he was grumpy.
After Maeve’s visit and that quick snack in an alley, he’d caught a flight to Heathrow, which had arrived at dawn. He lingered all day in a hotel, blinds drawn, chafing to be on his way. Fortunately, darkness fell early in the UK in December. Sebastian bought a heavy coat and a hat he could pull down to hide his face in case his eyes began to glitter. It was perfectly reasonable to wear gloves and a scarf, and both hid the pallor of his skin. He booked an express train to York, then a local train to the train station closest to Hadrian’s lair. By eleven that night, he had taken refuge in the pub closest to his destination, stymied as to how to complete the last stage of his journey.
And burning with thirst.
And irritable.
The small box Maeve had entrusted to him seemed heavy in his pocket, as if it became heavier the closer he came to his goal. Fucking magick. It was completely untrustworthy, which made him wonder whether he could rely upon Maeve to keep her word. That was a question to ponder.