Chapter 37
“Luna, this is Valandyrian.”
Lunara’s legs nearly buckled for the second time that day, the relief was so stark. Smiling, she lifted her eyes and—
The budding leaves of spring, and their rot in autumn.
The cry of a newborn babe, and the final, rattling breath before the Veil.
The fresh light of rising dawn, and twilight fading into blackest night.
The promise of forever, and the sharp stab of betrayal.
Lovers and enemies. Laughter and screams.
He was everything and nothing, all at once. Teeming with the exuberance of creation, even as the airless void of him yawned wide.
When the shock of his power ebbed away, Lunara filled her lungs and discovered that the Second Imperial Son was stunning.
More beautiful, than handsome. Lithe, far less bulky than his brothers, but still boasting wide shoulders and a clear command of his graceful body.
Square, clean-shaven jaw. Full lips and high cheekbones.
Strong, prominent nose and thick, arching brows—the only traits he shared with both Brand and Magnus.
His hair was a silken fall of pure starlight—the palest, glinting silver trailing down over the intricate tailoring of his bronze, floor-length coat.
The tunic and trousers beneath were a perfect match for its umber lining, and only served to magnify the impression that his pale skin lacked coloring entirely.
Whiter than bone, than snow, than porcelain.
Fragile, almost, if one didn’t bother to look past the surface.
Valandyrian’s head tilted to the side, and… There. The source of his power, concentrated behind eyes that were… Mismatched wasn’t quite the right word.
Life and death. Beginning and end. Araxis might have been better.
One glittered like the clearest emerald, so deep and stark a green Lunara wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anything quite that shade. The other was its own sort of Dread Chasm. No whites, iris, or pupil, the solid orb of matte obsidian obliterated any light that deigned to touch it.
And yet—mismatched, or no—they were also sad.
His shoulders tensed as he raised his chin a fraction of an inch, and she realized—she’d seen that exact look countless times, on the battered faces of those in her care. A false, wounded bravado that told the very secret they were trying to hide.
Before her stood a male braced for cruelty, waiting for what he assumed was inevitable, and something protective rose up in her. Defensive. It burned hot and bright, and all for him. For a creature so used to abuse that he expected it.
Lunara bowed her head and met his gaze again. “I wish I could say Brand has told me all about you, Your Highness, but we’ve been rather preoccupied of late.” One side of her mouth quirked up. “Then again, if you’re anything like Magnus, you won’t mind enlightening me yourself.”
He relaxed, offering the barest nod as he took a hesitant step forward. “Please, Luna, call me Vann. May I greet you properly?” he asked softly, arms outstretched.
Lunara didn’t bother correcting him, or answering with words.
Wonderful. Add ‘hugging Imperial Sons left and right’ to the list of ninny-headed things you now consider to be normal.
His breath punched out in an oof as she flung her arms around him. “It’s lovely to meet you, Vann.”
It was like hugging a statue—until he thawed and embraced her in return, utterly restrained, as if used to moving slowly for the sake of others. After a beat, he drooped like putty, dropping his cheek to rest on top of her head.
What she did not expect was the kiss. A jolt shot down from her skull through tendon and bone, crackling back upwards and leaving sparkling revival in its footsteps.
On instinct, she leapt away, staring down at her tingling palms. “What in the…”
Shitting stars and arses. Do you feel that?
“That’s usually what he means by properly,” Brand said, chuckling. “He refuses to tell us what it is, but you’re going to feel amazing for a bloody long while.”
“A trick of the Fae, nothing more.” Vann’s eyes dropped to the floor as he said it.
Another thing she recognized. He was lying, but… not in any way that would cause harm. She’d done the same often enough, in the interest of protecting herself.
“I told Vann of our Fae conundrum last night. I thought he might be able to tell us who she is?”
Brand offered his arm, but Lunara ignored it. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s not possible. Not yet, anyway.”
Vann’s brows punched up. “Why is that?”
She chewed the inside of her lip. Vann had every right to see one of his own, but…
“For starters, I’m not sure her own family would recognize her.
It’s that bad.” Picking up an errant curl, Lunara twirled it between her fingers.
Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t easy to look two Imperials in the eye and tell them no.
“You must understand—aside from the fact that enough people have ogled Fern in her vulnerable state and violated her privacy, I need to get on with healing her. Speculating over her mutilated body would not only be pointless, but would further delay that happening and rob her of even more dignity. Please, I’m asking for a few more days.
By then, she’ll be able to tell you who she is herself. ”
“Hmm.” Vann considered her for a moment. Stars above, it was like he saw right through her. “Your intentions are good. Pure.” It was almost a question, like he was confused by the idea.
“Most of the time,” she quipped.
He didn’t smile.
“I’ll allow the delay.” Vann turned to Brand and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Find me when you’re done?”
He didn’t wait for a response before walking—no, limping—away.
“Another thing he won’t tell us,” Brand said, sorrow underscoring the quiet words. “It came on slowly, over years and years. No one knows why, which is how he prefers it, but…” He turned hopeful eyes on her. “Perhaps you could try to help him?”
Lunara nodded, a bit dazed. “He’s…” There weren’t really words for what Vann was.
“Yes,” Brand murmured, understanding. “He is.” Lacing his fingers with hers, he tugged her towards the doors. “Come on, Sorcerit. Time to heal a Fae.”
In the end, it took nearly a week—and Lunara did not feel amazing.
She held the last ruined fibers of Fern’s wings in her shaking hands, the sweat-soaked linen of her dress clinging like a jilted lover as power surged between them.
It had taken an entire day and night to mend the gossamer membranes alone, the bird-like bones beneath threatening to crumble into dust at the slightest touch. The thought of botching them—of crippling this beautiful creature for the rest of her very long life—had nearly defeated her.
They’d made it, though. Somehow.
Lunara knew where she was, but barely. The haze of agony was so absolute that her mind had disconnected itself for the most part. Had swept her away into some deeper place she’d never gone before, trying to hide the desolation from her consciousness.
Repeatedly. Over six of the longest days of her life.
The thump of a book hitting wood sounded, footsteps after. Tingles along her spine told her Brand’s hand was hovering there, wanting to touch her, but knowing he couldn’t. Not yet.
He’d learned quickly after the first time—the only time—when he’d thought he was helping but she’d broken into sobs instead, begging him to get away from her until she could muster the strength to face it.
“It’s done, little moon,” he murmured. The heat moved to her hands, electricity jumping across the gap between them. “It’s done.”
She tried to open her eyes, but they were swollen shut, crusted with the salt of her dried tears. “I can’t,” she rasped. “I’m not—”
“Take as long as you need. I’m here when you’re ready.”
Lunara’s eyes pricked anew behind closed lids. Her high-handed, overbearing Demon had kept his word. He’d astonished her.
Using his power over the stone, he’d braced a seat behind her on the first day—lined with overstuffed down pillows—so she had somewhere gentle to land when her body inevitably failed. She’d only had to hit the ground once before the solution was in place.
With an innate sense of exactly when to do so, he’d wordlessly offered her water and food, and the soft flesh of his inner forearm at all hours. Her fangs had sunk into him so many times it was a wonder she hadn’t bled him dry.
Early on, she’d come alive after one such instance to find her hair flawlessly braided, every unruly strand tamed away from her face.
It wasn’t until later, hunched over and vomiting into a pail he was holding, that she’d realized his thoughtfulness.
The hefty weight of it was still there even now, a comfort as it dangled off the edge of Fern’s sickbed and reminded her she wasn’t alone.
There was a sort of terror that came at this stage of a more serious healing she’d never allowed herself to acknowledge.
When she was drowning in her stupor and desperate to find her way back to the surface.
Stuck, unable to remember how to control her limbs.
Pain so appalling she was sure she’d never feel normal again.
That’s where she was. Again. Except, she had help this time. “I’m ready.”
He pried her fingers from Fern’s wing with all the force of a butterfly. His touch didn’t linger or press. Didn’t demand. It was exactly what she required, and nothing more.
“Are you able to sit up yourself?”
She was half-sitting down, half-sprawled across the floating slab, arms outstretched and cheek resting on the pad beneath Fern.
Her body tensed reflexively, the word yes perched on her lips, ready to do it on her own because she always had before—until the edge of the stone dug into her abdomen, paralyzing the muscles there further, and Lunara remembered she didn’t have to.
Didn’t want to. Not when Brand was there and had proven himself completely.
“No,” she finally admitted. Harder to do than she’d expected.