Chapter 51 | Garroway
Garroway
Sephania stumbles out of the cathedral. Her four mates are upon her instantly. Her cheeks are dried with tears. She’s wrapping her arms in her tunic, as if hugging herself, trying to hide from the horrors she’s seen in that unholy church.
“The Silverblood didn’t take hold,” she croaks, shaking her head numbly.
We embrace her. It’s all we can do as she tells the story—finishing with information that Archpriest Cullard is on the loose, somehow escaped from the cathedral. And he took human children with him.
The rage inside me is enough to swallow me whole. Enough to match Vallan’s own bloodrage, when the big brute is at his worst.
“The last name on your list . . .” I mutter under my breath.
Sephania looks at me askance. “I never put him on the list I gave you, cub.”
“You didn’t need to, little honey badger.”
The others don’t know what we’re talking about.
Lukain says, “We must leave this forsaken place before its aura creeps into our damned souls.”
“Before Aramastun’s army arrives, more pointedly,” Skartovius adds.
Vallan says, “The priest must have snuck north while the fighting was happening. He can be anywhere. I concur with the dhampir: We must take our triumph, regroup, and live to fight another day.”
It’s humorous to hear the big brute talk of living. Are any of us really living if we’re already dead? It’s a question for the ages.
“Let me go after him,” I demand.
The group looks at me. There’s blinking confusion on their faces.
I close my eyes, access my beast-charming, and scour the very corners of the earth. Searching through the Olhavian Peaks, the eastern countryside, the woods, the tallest mountain ridges and the deepest valleys.
When I open my eyes, breathing heavily, I say, “I can find him.”
“Show me!” Skartovius growls, reaching out—
But never making connection with my body.
His words hang in the air, until everyone makes the realization.
“I can’t, Skartovius,” I murmur gently.
I don’t call him “Master.” The wince on his face, the tic in his jaw, tells me he understands. And he hurts.
We don’t share that connection anymore. He can’t simply splay his fingers over my bald pate and see what I see through the eyes of my animals.
He wants to witness what I witness, so he can shadowwalk us to our enemy.
But our bloodbond is irreparably severed, our mental connection gone, and there’s nothing we can do to bring it back.
I wouldn’t want to bring it back even if we could. He willingly gave me to Sephania, our queen, and we both must live with the decision. No matter how much it hurts.
Our bodies are suddenly close. He’s gripping my arm tightly, moving his hand into mine. Threading our fingers together. I think he’s going to lash out, his handsome face is so set, his jaw so determined, the rage so close to the surface.
“You have to trust me, Master,” I whisper, using that title for the last time, and he knows it. It’s a farewell message, the unity of our bond broken but never forgotten.
Instead of growing angry as my breath washes over his face, he quirks a sinful little half-smirk. “I always have, graybird. You are a king.”
I glance down at our entwined fingers. “Then let your king go, love.”
He does. Tentatively. Cautiously pulling back.
I tilt my chin, rising high on my toes, and kiss him on the lips. It’s a soft kiss, sure to grow eager and needful if I let it. It takes everything inside me not to run my hands through that wild auburn mane of his, bring him closer, and claim him right here on the foggy, dusty battlefield.
Or, more truthfully, let the commanding nobleblood claim me, as he’s done for decades. I have always been his submissive little graybird, after all.
The soft lines of my face harden when I pull our lips apart and stare into his gold-flecked eyes.
“. . . Now shadowwalk my ass where I need to be.”