Chapter 28
Rikard
He sat for Hanna’s needle twice a night now, once before his Nadir duties and once upon return. It was lucky the season meant longer nights, for he needed every hour. Her hands were light and stitches quick, but the repairs were still tediously slow.
Most of the time he kept quiet so she could concentrate, instead listening to her breathing quicken and slow as she worked.
Feeling the press of her belly against his back as it grew and grew.
At the end of each session, she would arrange his hair, combing and braiding it before oiling his horns, moments he luxuriated in as much as the mornings after, when the blood-soaked silk healed into fresh skin.
On the night of the final repair, Hanna kissed the spot where she tied the final knot. “All done,” she said, voice thick. “You know, I’m sure you’re glad to be finished with the painful part, but I will miss this now that it’s over.”
His heart warmed. He would, too. The pain was quite bearable, easy to wall off while she worked and quick to ease afterward. “We can still spend time together.”
“No, you’ll much prefer the Tower when your wings work again. You’ll fly off with your friends, and Carlijn will grow sick of me,” she joked as she combed his hair, but he heard a little sadness in her tone.
“I prefer you above all others,” he said lightly. Her fingers in his hair made tingles run down his neck and shoulders, all the way to the tips of his wings. He flexed them unconsciously.
“Even if you have to walk in the dirt to be with me?”
“Even then.”
She gave a little happy sigh, and he felt her wiggle his gold horn caps off.
The familiar fragrance of beeswax and linseed oil permeated the room when she uncorked the bottle of horn polish and applied it to the base of them, slicking it to the tips.
It was then that his defenses came down, and he asked the question that had been gnawing at him.
“Does the bond trouble you lately? Has he hunted you since we came to Rose House?”
He felt her shake her head and she rubbed in the polish, buffing his horns to a shine. “Not as much. I can feel him, but it’s quieter, like he’s far away. He’s distracted, I think.”
“I’m glad. I want you to feel safe here.”
“I do.” She finished polishing his horns and stroked his ears to the points to remove the excess from her hands. Purr unfurling, he leaned his head back against her, pillowed on her breasts. “I worry—” She paused, and he was instantly on guard.
“What? Tell me,” he demanded, purr cutting off. He sat up and turned so he could see her face.
Hanna looked miserable. “I worry that if he returns after the birth, he will seek the child out. Aalis says that gargoyles have a blood-bond with their hatchlings just as they do with their mates.”
Rikard’s heart thudded. She was not alone in that concern. “Only for the first few years. I will keep the child safe until it fades, I swear it. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
She bit her lip, eyes lowered, and he could tell she was unconvinced. “You don’t know him like I do. When he’s angry, it feels like my head is on fire. When he realizes we have a child, I fear what he’ll do. I don’t think he’ll stop until he’s satisfied that one or both of us are dead.”
“Then we must stop him.” His hand found hers and kissed her tender, pin-pricked fingertips, studded with her sacrifice.
“I know it’s painful to recall, but if you can think back to his attacks…
anything he said or did that might identify him.
Any words he spoke to you. How he looked or smelled. Anything.”
Tears instantly filmed her eyes, and he pulled her into his chest. She curled her feet into his lap and wrapped her arms around him. Voice muffled against him, she said, “I have tried so hard not to remember. It hurts.”
“I know. I know.” He rocked her back and forth.
He knew better than anyone the pain of memory.
It’s why most of his were still trapped behind mind walls.
“I am too cowardly to face my past, but you are much braver than I am, Hanna. You only need to do this once, and then I will take care of the rest. I will find him and make sure he never hurts you or anyone else ever again.” It was a rash promise, but one he would keep, no matter the cost or the time it took.
Her panicked breathing slowed and steadied as he held her. Finally, she said, “He smelled like…mead, I guess. Something sweet and fermented.”
“That’s good,” he said encouragingly. It could describe half the gargoyles in Solvantis on any given night, but that cut his suspects by half.
“I never saw much of him. He would push my face into a corner or wall at first. And eventually, I would close my eyes when he came, so I could pretend it wasn’t happening.” Poor Hanna sounded exhausted.
Of course she was. It took effort to dredge up the past, and more than that, she hadn’t been getting enough sleep due to his demands. The discomforts of pregnancy were interfering in the hours he wasn’t. She needed to rest.
But she went on, even though her whole body was quaking. “He didn’t say much except insults. He called me filthy, a dirtcrawler. He said gargoyles had bled and died for me, had their lives stolen. He said I wasn’t worthy of life, that I should have died instead of…someone. A name I can’t remember.”
Rikard’s chest grew tight, and he realized he’d been holding his breath. Those insults… they rang familiar. So fucking familiar. But it couldn’t be, could it? He had to ask. “Was the name Valric?”
She blew out a short breath. “Maybe. That sounds right. I’m not sure, I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine. You’ve done so well. You’ve given me so much.” He tried to keep his voice calm even though his insides were roiling.
She lifted a tearstained face to his. “I’m afraid it won’t be enough to catch him before he—before he—” She broke off with a hitch, unable to finish the thought.
“He won’t find you.” He cupped her face in his hand, claws retracted. “I’m going to find him first.”
She searched his face, looking for something. Truth? Hope? “You don’t know who he is or where he is.”
“Trust me. Go to sleep now. It’s almost dawn and you’ve been up all night.”
She let him carry her to her to bed, and he stroked her hair until she slept and dawn broke.
Frozen all day on his roost with nothing else to distract him, he turned the pieces she’d given him over in his mind, building a picture.
A gargoyle who hated humans and blamed them for a loved one’s death. An expert hunter who’d been quiet and distant for the past few weeks. One whose anger burned hotter than fire.
It had to be Drogan.
Drogan, whose brother had died because of Lord Lamont’s treachery. Drogan, whose resentment toward humans had festered into hatred. Who had refused to attend Rikard’s wedding, refused to meet the bride, refused to enter any room where she was present.
It wasn’t because he couldn’t stomach a human living in the Tower. It was because he couldn’t stomach seeing the woman he’d been punishing in secret seated at his friend’s side.
Drogan was the one who had hunted her. Who had driven a bite into Hanna’s shoulder over and over, who twisted the mate bond into something terrible. Who had fathered the child in her belly by force.
Drogan, his friend.
Drogan, his enemy.
It only took him a few days to make arrangements and tell the appropriate lies.
He informed the Zenith that his wife’s advancing pregnancy required his presence at home and he would not be receiving petitioners for a few days, so the Zenith temporarily assigned another gargoyle to staff the Nadir’s desk.
He convinced Hannalinde that he was staying with his parents because the Zenith had assigned him a sensitive matter requiring several long nights’ work in the Tower. She accepted his explanation along with his assurances that he would return in time for the birth.
He told his parents that he and Hannalinde were enjoying some time alone together before the baby came. The lies were clean and contradictory, each audience hearing only its own version, and the gap between them was wide enough to fly through.
Flying. That was the critical component of his plan.
He stood on the balcony of Rose House in the hour after midnight and unbound his wings.
The healed membranes caught the wind and pulled taut. Five years since he’d felt that. Five years of climbing ladders and looking up at a stolen sky.
The wings felt stiff and fragile, like paper. Though he’d been exercising to rebuild their strength, he wasn’t sure they could carry him.
There was only one way to find out. He dove off the railing.
The drop lasted two heartbeats. Then his wings caught an updraft, the membranes held, and the city lights grew small as stars.
He flew.
Ugly. Graceless. Muscles he hadn’t used in years burned with the agony of resurrection. But he didn’t care. Flying was flying.
He headed north, staying high to avoid detection, and the tears that streaked his face were stolen by the wind before they reached his jaw. This was an ugly errand, but he would have no time for tears once he reached his destination.
He flew at a pace that wouldn’t strain the new membranes, barely making it in time to find a safe roost before dawn.
All day, he watched the herds of deer and wild sheep on their wanderings as they sought good grazing and fresh water.
And when dusk fell, he ignored his own hunger and circled above the hunting lands like a vulture, looking for Drogan’s camp.
It was easy to find in the foothills. Drogan and Lucan had built a large fire in a clearing to roast their kill from the previous night.
They were carousing with a flagon of mead while they waited for it to cook.
Rikard silently landed in a tree a hundred yards downwind, folded his wings against his back, and waited.
As he anticipated, Lucan departed after eating, no doubt heading to find someone warm and willing. Even in exile from his responsibilities, Lucan’s appetites kept their schedule.
Drogan sat alone by the fire, sharpening a knife on a whetstone.
The rhythmic scrape carried through the still air.
His broad shoulders hunched over his work, his long horns throwing shadows like spears across the ground.
He looked like what he was: a powerful hunter designed to kill. But this time, the hunter was the prey.
Rikard dropped down from the tree and walked into the firelight.
Drogan’s blade stopped mid-stroke. His head came up, and the expression that crossed his face moved through three stages in the space of a breath: shock, confusion, and then a warmth so genuine it nearly buckled Rikard’s resolve.
“Rikard.” Drogan stood. “How did you get here? Did Bastien carry you?”
“I made my own way.”
“On foot?” Drogan shook his head, the disbelief softening into admiration, the respect of one soldier for another’s determination. “It must have taken you days.”
Rikard let the assumption stand. “I needed to talk to you.”
“You look different.” Drogan studied him with the appraising eye of someone who’d known him since they were hatchlings. “Have you finally gotten rid of the human? I told you it was ill-considered.”
The words were a door opening, and Rikard stepped through it. “Tell me what you think of her. My wife.”
Drogan shrugged. “I understand your base impulse. You needed an heir, and a human vessel seemed like a convenient way to get one.” He resumed sharpening his knife, the blade scraping in long, even strokes.
“My advice? Once the child is born, set her aside. She’s worthless to you once she’s birthed the hatchling. ”
“Do you object to her because she’s human or because she’s a Lamont?”
Drogan’s blade paused. A fraction of a second, no more. “I’d say the same of any human, but you know what the Lamont name cost me.”
At least he did not pretend that he was unaware who she was. “Hanna had nothing to do with that. It was her father’s treachery, not hers.”
Drogan shot to his feet, mouth twisted. “The daughter should have been expelled from Solvantis with the rest of the traitor’s property. My brother’s blood fed her and clothed her while she lived in her father’s house. She owes us all blood in return, don’t you think?”
Rikard breathed deep, caging the impulse to lunge at Drogan across the fire. “Come hunting with me,” he urged instead. “I saw a stag bedded down at the bottom of a ravine to the east on my way in.”
Hope rose in Drogan’s expression. The invitation carried the weight of the past, old friends hunting in the dark. They’d hunted together since they were fledglings. Before the war, before Valric died, before Drogan’s hatred had eaten away his heart.
“Now?” Drogan asked. “We can wait for Lucan if you like. He’ll be back as soon as he wets his cock.”
“Just the two of us.”
Drogan set the blade down. His wings opened, wide and powerful, the firelight playing across the membranes. “Can you keep up on foot?”
“I’ll meet you there.”
They moved east through the forest, Drogan flying above the dense lattice of black branches and Rikard walking below until they reached the edge of the ravine.
Ahead of him, Drogan dove down and landed at the bottom of the ravine. While he waited for Rikard to climb down, he leaned forward to scent the air for the stag that didn’t exist.
He should have looked behind him.
Rikard stepped off the edge. The ground dropped away and he glided silently down to join Drogan.
He covered the distance between them in two steps.
His hand closed around the base of Drogan’s left horn and wrenched his head back, his other arm locking around his throat, just as he’d done to countless goblins in the war.
Drogan thrashed. Stronger than Rikard, his broad body bucked against the hold. But Rikard had leverage and the benefit of surprise, not to mention the vivid clarity about exactly what was happening.
“I know what you did to my wife,” he said quietly into Drogan’s ear. “This is for her.”
Drogan went rigid with understanding one second before Rikard snapped his neck. His body went slack, and Rikard lowered him to the soft, leaf-littered ground.
His hands were steady. His heart was steady. He’d delivered justice, merciful and swift. His friend was dead, but his friend had died a long time ago.
He spread his new wings and left the ravine as quickly and quietly as possible. He rose above the treeline and then the clouds, turning south toward Solvantis where his wife was sleeping.