30
Lilac and Moonlight
Blair
It is late at night when I find my way to the temple. It lies there, deserted, the quiet pressing in around it. I crouch in the bushes, filthy enough to mask my scent so thoroughly that not even Beeatrisa, that dwarfed wretch, notices me when she strides past.
I overhear every bit of her conversation with the healer, who comes out to meet her on the terrace.
“That witch is a wild thing. She needs to go. And that demon…a demon . Here. In Avandal. It puts everyone in danger,” Beeatrisa snarls.
The beautiful healer just stands there and lets her vent, her strange, pinkish eyes watching the stars while the priestess keeps talking and talking and talking.
Gods, I seriously consider it—slipping out after dark, quiet as the wind, ending her miserable rant for good with one clean motion.
The thought comes too easily, settles too comfortably.
But not here. Not now. Not right in front of that healer.
Maybe I follow her later. End the problem and bury it so deep even the worms forget—for Melody.
“They need to leave. No matter what the queen says.”
When the high priestess is finally done, Meanara levels her gaze at her. I lift my chin, curious to hear what the healer will say after our lovely encounter two days ago. Surely, she would agree—tell her about that incident and have me removed for good.
Meanara, who healed Caryan over the course of two years.
Jealousy rises in my throat like bile—ugly, roaring jealousy that makes me want to sink my claws and teeth into her and rip.
Of course, Caryan fucked her. How could he not?
Meanara is more beautiful than anyone I’ve ever seen, save for Sofya—and witches are known for their beauty. Terrifying and deadly, but beautiful.
But Meanara, with her slim body and height, her sharp, slightly downward-pointing ears, her strange hair that shimmers like a deep-sea pearl, and those absolutely unusual eyes, possesses something that renders everyone beside her unremarkable.
Average. She looks strange, and that strangeness makes her captivating.
I find myself staring at her longer than is appropriate.
“I understood you had a deal with Melody,” Meanara says finally, her eyes still soft. But it’s misleading—I’ve seen how much spine that elf has.
“It’s the girl’s inherent duty to help bring the forgotten knowledge back,” the high priestess seethes, her words full of spite. “She should be doing this out of her nature. For the sake of magic and science.”
“Hm. I suggest you talk directly to Melody, then. But I can almost assure you she will not consider it her duty if you threaten her friends, Beeatrisa. And the queen won’t be amused either, if she learns of that.”
“You have to stand beside me. Talk some sense into that half-human thing. She has to learn what is expected of her here.”
I grit my teeth at the insult. Wow. Where does this come from? Haven’t I, myself, called Melody such names more times than I can count? But right now, it makes my claws itch.
“I will do no such thing, High Priestess. In fact, my opinion is the very opposite of yours. The demon is invaluable to the girl—and to her survival. And as far as I see it, the girl is a guest. Nothing is expected of her.”
“Of course, you would—”
“Let me finish, High Priestess. As for the witch—may I remind you that it is due to Blair Alaric that the temple is still standing today? It was she who came here and warned us about the attack of the witches. Perhaps you and I wouldn’t even be alive if she hadn’t.”
I stare. I’d expected a lot, but not that.
That Meanara would take my side. It doesn’t ease the jealousy, though, nor the fury threatening to eat me alive.
But seeing the face of the high priestess—well, that alone makes it worth coming here.
She looks as if she’s swallowed a far-too-large piece of meat. Her face turns red, then pale.
“You will regret that, healer.”
“I’ve heard that too many times, Beeatrisa,” Meanara says—not unkindly.
The high priestess turns on her heel and storms off, down toward the campus. I stay in the shadows, watching the healer—her long, silken hair flowing around her, ruffled by the gentlest breeze.
“You can come out now,” she says suddenly.
I freeze.
“I know you heard all of it,” Meanara continues, still not looking at me. “I never got to say thank you, though. For that fatal night back then, and for the warning you gave me.”
Finally, her head turns toward me, her eyes finding mine in the dark with no effort.
I flash my teeth, knowing they catch the light like blades as I stride out of my hideout and walk up the stairs to where she stands.
That sight—along with my claws —usually sends people stumbling backward. Not the healer, obviously.
“You can shove your thanks up your peachy ass.”
“If that’s where you’d like it, I won’t argue,” she says coolly, and then—insolently—turns her back and walks inside the temple.
For a moment, I just stare before following her. No one turns their back on a witch.
The temple is eerie. Quiet. Only the thousand lanterns and incense burners dance in the breeze, sounding almost like a song. It’s strange to be here, finally. The temple where Caryan healed back then—after he killed my aunt. After we broke up. And my life fell apart.
I fell apart.
I tear my gaze from the interior and follow the healer down the corridor, into a large room at its end. We pass a patio lined with arched columns and a broad pool at its center, its surface gilded by moonlight spilling through an oval opening in the high dome above, making it look like a mirror.
“Just to make this very clear: I don’t fucking care what you think, healer,” I snarl, closing the door behind me and stepping into a wide hall filled with steam from the springs.
Meanara stands before a sort of altar and starts grinding herbs as if I weren’t there.
“You do. Because you came here to find me,” she says, still with her back to me. How dare she?
“How did you smell me?”
“Maybe I didn’t,” she replies—and something in me snaps at her tone.
I grab her delicate wrists, spin her around and pin her to the wall—careful not to let my claws cut her skin though. She is tiny compared to me. Although we are the same height, she feels delicate. Light as a feather.
I sneer as her scent envelops me. Wisteria. Lilac. Lily of the Valley. Cotton. Lavender. She smells sweet and beguiling and clean. Whole. Healthy.
“Watch it, healer. I came here to remind you of who I am.”
Meanara looks at me steadily, with no resistance as I hold her. No fear. No anger either. “Good. Because you seemed to forget for a moment. Now let me go, Blair.”
I snarl, a sound with nothing human in it. “No one speaks to a witch like that and lives.”
“Behave like one, and I will change my tune,” she counters, a challenge burning in her eyes.
I laugh sharply and release her wrists, only to trace a claw along her collarbone.
The slap she delivers echoes off the high walls. My cheek burns.
I stare at the healer—at her chest rising and falling so close to mine—the only sign of trepidation on her. There is no kindness as I look into those eyes again now. No gentleness.
My claws sink into the desk behind her, silver digging into the wood until it gives way like butter while I push her up against it.
Meanara arches her back slightly, trying to lean away when I bring my lips so close to hers that we share breath.
A grin spreads across my face at her fluttering heartbeat. Oh, I’m starting to enjoy this.
“How dare you?” My voice has fallen to a menacing purr, and suddenly, all I want is to clamp my teeth down into the spot where Meanara’s collarbone meets her elegant neck. Taste the heat there, matching her temperament. And make her remember her place.
“How dare you come for me like some enraged beast?” she shoots back—and before I realize what’s happening, she shoves me off with impressive strength.
I, too absorbed by her pounding blood, have paid no attention to her stance—her center of balance. Like a youngling, I slip and tumble straight into the pool of healing water behind me.
I surface, spitting water and glowering at her. She stands with her arms crossed, looking damn smug. That wretch planned it this way all along. That’s why she led me here in the first place.
“Get a grip on yourself, Blair Alaric. Start behaving like a fae, and I’ll treat you as such. Getting rid of that reek on you is a start.” She grabs a bar of soap, and before I can stop her, she bends down and starts working it into my hair.
“Take your hands off me.”
“Oh, I think you’ll bear it, since you so freely touched me moments ago,” she says, every sign of trepidation gone, replaced by her usual calm. Or was it even trepidation in the first place that made her heart stutter briefly? Was it all in my wild mind? Maybe I’ve truly become an animal.
Her sensuous lips curl in slight amusement as I turn to scowl up at her. I toy with the thought of pulling her in, but a chiding glance cuts that idea short. I look away, baring my teeth while her fingers thread a gentle path through my long hair, her touch lingering longer than it should.
When she’s done, she grabs a towel and places it in front of me.
Hells would I do her a favor. I climb out and strip down right in front of her eyes.
Let’s see if I can make this healer uneasy.
I lock eyes with her pink ones as I slowly peel my riding leathers off my trained body and over my large breasts.
I could swear her eyes graze them for a split second before she turns her head away.
“Shy, healer?” I drawl.
It makes her look back at me—just as I calculated. This woman never lets a challenge pass. I make a show of wriggling out of my skin-tight pants, standing in nothing but a flimsy scrap of lace before her. I let out a low laugh as her heartbeat quickens, ever so slightly.
“Good to see you’re enjoying yourself, Blair,” she says.
“Maybe I’m not the only one.”
“Do not get ahead of yourself,” Meanara says coolly, having regained her usual calm. She snatches the towel from the ground, wraps it around me, then grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me down on a stool.
“Now, let me tend to your hair. It’s a mess,” she chides.
Before I can protest, she lifts a beautiful comb and begins, ever so gently, working through the knots in my mane. Every now and then, a twig falls free, or leaves caught there from when I slept on the forest ground.
She works through my hair patiently, each pull of the comb sending little shivers down my scalp. I should hate this, should snarl and yank away, but instead, I sit still, glaring straight ahead as Meanara hums softly under her breath. The sound is maddeningly soothing. And so is her scent.
When she’s finally done, she smooths the last strands back into place and sets the comb aside. “There,” she says simply, as if she hasn’t just taken me apart piece by piece and left me simmering.
I stand, letting the towel fall, baring myself completely again. If she wants to act so calm, so unaffected, let her try that now. Her pink eyes meet mine again, and I see it—just for a second—a flicker of heat. Satisfaction curls through me like smoke.
Just as before, I take my time dressing, slow enough that every movement is deliberate, and definitively meant to provoke. The leathers cling to me again, slick against clean skin, and I pull the laces tight, never breaking eye contact.
“You done staring, healer?” I ask, my voice low, dangerous, but tinged with amusement.
“Are you done preening, witch?” she counters without missing a beat.
I grin, sharp and feral. “Careful, Meanara. Keep that tongue sharp and, one day, someone will cut it out.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. “And yet you’re still standing here, Blair Alaric. Still listening.”
My claws flex at my sides. She’s right, and it infuriates me. “You think you know me, healer?”
“I know enough.” Her voice is quiet now, almost soft—but there’s steel under it. “Enough to know you didn’t come here just to threaten me. You came because you want to be seen.”
The words hit like a blow. I don’t move—just stand there breathing hard, my claws twitching with agitation.
I should leave. I should snarl, turn on my heel, stalk off into the night and never come back.
But, instead, I take a step closer, close enough that I can smell the wisteria again, sweet and cloying.
“You think too much,” I murmur, and this time my grin is all teeth.
“And you feel too much,” she replies, unblinking.
For a long, suspended moment, we just stand there, staring at one another, the air between us hot and heavy.
Then I turn sharply on my heel, the sound of my boots echoing against the stone as I stalk out of the temple—leaving her standing by the altar, the scent of lilac still clinging to me like a curse.