Chapter Eleven #2
The Wolf and the Dragon did tend to run hot. So did Einar—at least in his demigod form—but he wasn’t about to make that offer. “He is a very impressively sized bear,” he said instead, mentally apologizing to Arktikos for what was about to happen.
“He is, isn’t he?” Inga worried at her lower lip for another moment, gaze distant, and then abruptly smiled. “Well, why don’t we find out?”
She released his hand, offered him a smile of pure mischievous chaos, and set off across the room in a swirl of rustling skirts, not even bothering to swerve around the dancers who crossed her path. Not that she needed to; they all hastily scattered out of her way.
A sigh at his shoulder alerted him to Ulric’s arrival. “Has Inga gone off to poke the bear, then?”
“Probably,” Einar said.
Ulric sighed again, the long-suffering sigh of someone who had lost a battle so many times he had given up on fighting it. “A few thousand years of using me as a foot warmer and a pillow has given her a reckless disregard for the potential danger of wild creatures.”
Oh, Einar suspected she had a perfect understanding of the danger of the wild creature she was currently approaching. No doubt that made it part of the fun for her. “She seems to be able to handle herself.”
“Most of the time.” Ulric narrowed his eyes, watching as Inga stopped at the foot of the dais and said something that made Arktikos cast a look at Gwynira. She nodded, and the big man stepped down and held out a hand to Inga. “I saw how massive he was when he changed, though.”
Of course Ulric had scoped out a potential enemy during their time in the village. “He’s not quite the size of Ash as a dragon,” Einar said, casting Ulric a sidelong look. “I still wouldn’t try to fight him, in your shoes.”
No reply. Ulric’s gaze stayed fixed on the pair across the room as Arktikos wrapped a careful hand around Inga’s, engulfing it.
The hand he settled politely on her back was so large that the span of his fingers covered much of her bared skin.
Einar had never thought of Inga as a particularly small woman, but she looked tiny against Arktikos as they stepped into the flow of the dance.
A furrow appeared between Ulric’s brows. He was absolutely trying to decide how to fight Arktikos. Even Einar knew that was a diplomatic disaster waiting to happen. “Ulric . . .”
The Wolf waved a hand at him. “Aleksi told me he is a good man.” He paused, watching as Inga said something—with that thoughtful expression that meant it was likely something positively unnerving.
Arktikos gave no indication of being anything but politely attentive as he responded in a way that made Inga laugh.
Ulric’s expression softened. “He’s being kind to her, at least.”
Einar imagined plenty had not been over the years. No one in the Sheltered Lands doubted the Witch’s brilliance, but even at her most measured she could be unsettling to deal with. And when she had fixated that curious mind of hers on a mystery, or a project . . .
Einar remembered the first time he’d learned that Inga collected Void-forged items. Weapons, tools—even plants cultivated with the essence of the Void.
Odd enough in a world that celebrated the Dream, but positively reckless when those items represented the only true threat to the High Court’s lives.
But even before Zanya had come into their lives, reminding them that destruction was every bit as essential to the rhythms of life as creation was, Inga had been fascinated by the Endless Void.
The discordance between her lighthearted, brightly colored whimsy and her wholehearted embrace of the inevitability of darkness had always made her a controversial figure in the Sheltered Lands.
Healers celebrated the gift she had to restore life.
Killers came to her to learn of poisons that could steal it.
The two did not sit comfortably together for everyone, which had always made the High Court fiercely protective of her.
A swish of skirts on Ulric’s other side announced Elevia’s arrival.
Her gown of dark-green velvet was certainly more formal than her usual attire, with elaborate beading that swirled across the bodice and down to wind into her skirts almost like tree branches.
More beads were strung across the open neckline of her dress, crisscrossing her chest all the way up to where a shimmering cape flowed from a tightly fitted collar around her throat.
Her first words, spoken with a smile over the rim of her goblet, were customarily blunt, however. “I know what you’re thinking, Ulric. And I would resist the urge, if I were you.”
“I wouldn’t start a fight at a party,” he replied mildly.
“That’s very near your favorite place to start a fight.”
He flashed her a grin that was somehow challenge and invitation in one. “Do you think I’d win?”
“Best not to risk it.” She reached out and pressed her fingertips to Ulric’s lips. “I like your face just as it is.”
The Wolf nipped at her fingertips, his eyes glowing, and for a moment Einar wasn’t sure where to rest his eyes.
In all the centuries he’d known them, he had never been able to fully discern what the relationship between the Huntress and the Wolf was.
Sometimes they bickered like siblings. Sometimes they sparred like lovers.
They wore each other’s colors—Ulric’s midnight green in Elevia’s gown, her own gold embroidered across his tight jacket—and often spoke for each other as if they knew what the other thought without asking.
And sometimes, when they’d had a bit too much to drink, standing too close to them could swiftly grow awkward.
Einar was considering ways to politely extricate himself when the current song ended. Ulric nipped at Elevia’s fingers again before turning to cross the dance floor in a rolling predatory stalk that momentarily held even Einar transfixed.
His destination was Inga and Arktikos, who had just stepped apart. With another of those challenging grins, Ulric extended a hand to Gwynira’s bodyguard, one brow arched in invitation.
Everyone watched as Arktikos accepted the gesture.
The entire room seemed to hold its breath—including the musicians, except for one startled, off-tempo wail from a stringed instrument, which was instantly silenced.
In the next moment, an almost frantically jaunty tune exploded from them in a ripple, and Arktikos and Ulric began their graceful, deadly dance.
Einar glanced at Elevia, who only sipped her drink and watched with amused eyes. “Should we be concerned?” he asked.
“That depends, Crown-Prince.”
He waited for her to elaborate, but she seemed willing to wait him out as she watched as the two predators in human form circled each other, every touch of hands precise, every turn a subtle test, every step riding the tense edge between polite enjoyment and imminent violence.
Finally, Einar gave in. “What does it depend on, Huntress?”
“On many things.” She shrugged. “How hotheaded is Gwynira’s personal guard? Are her festive events typically staid affairs, or can they get a little raucous? And—last, but certainly not least—do you give a fuck if the Wolf makes a scene?”
Einar’s lips twitched. As a mortal sailor, his first allegiance had always been to the Siren, but there had been a reason he’d found himself drawn to the Huntress—and it had not merely been her superior tactical knowledge.
Elevia was blunt, she cared little for the rules of decorum .
. . and she loved a good fight. “Not in the least.”
“Excellent. Leave the diplomacy to those better suited to the task. You and I?” She leaned toward Einar with an intent stare. “Our talents run in a different direction.”
Yes, they certainly did. Aleksi and Sachi and Naia were genuinely interested in people.
So was Inga, in her own unusual way. Dianthe and Ash had the dignity of visiting royalty wherever they went, and the gravity of those whose moods could stir the very elements around them.
Nyx’s connection to the Dream inspired an awe that was almost its own sort of diplomacy.
But Einar had always been more comfortable with Ulric and Elevia—and now Zanya.
Blades honed to edges so vicious, they could not hide it—and perhaps should not try to.
Ulric certainly wasn’t trying to hide it now, and Elevia’s lips curved into an appreciative smile. “Aww, that’s nice. They decided to play.”
Play seemed a gentle word for the spectacle that had now hypnotized half of Gwynira’s nobles, but he supposed the Huntress played rough. “So they did.”
Elevia lifted her goblet in a silent toast before turning, her sharp gaze alighting on a small cluster of older women who were watching Arktikos and Ulric’s display with naked fascination.
She slid into their circle smoothly, and though Einar couldn’t hear her wry comment, the shocked laughter that followed it was the sound of people who had dropped their guards.
A necessary reminder that Elevia could play politics when she wanted—not as a diplomat but as a spy.
Her friendly smiles were weapons in the hunt, and her quarry was knowledge.
That had been Einar’s main service to her for centuries now—information brought to her from distant shores, helping her build a picture of the world beyond the borders of the Sheltered Lands.
By the end of the night, Elevia would likely know more about Gwynira’s nobles than Gwynira did herself.
Finally left to his own devices, Einar turned in search of his lovers. Naia had taken to the dance floor with Ash, who was swinging her around with more enthusiasm than grace. He caught a brief glimpse of her face as Ash twirled her, alight with giddy laughter that lightened Einar’s heart.