Wyvern’s Angel: The Dragons of Incendium #9 Page 7

  Sansor gestured to a bench and Bond sat. He closed his eyes briefly, believing that he was momentarily safe.

  That wouldn’t last. He forced his eyes open to learn more of his location. Beyond the kitchen, he could see a passageway, another flight of darkened stairs leading upward, and another shadowed chamber at the far end of the corridor.

  If the underground passageway allowed merchants to move goods from the port to their shops, the fact that this building had access to it probably meant it was a shop.

  The apothecary, then.

  Bond allowed himself to be reassured.

  Diverta unwrapped his wound, and he winced when she gently pulled the cloth free where it had stuck. “Sorry,” she whispered and sounded it.

  “It’s got to be done,” he acknowledged.

  Sansor grimaced at the sight of the burn. “Laze?” he asked and Bond nodded. The other man bent closer, his expression grim.

  “Heat seeking,” Diverta supplied.

  Sansor wasn’t surprised. “There will be residue,” he concluded, then flicked his finger to indicate that Bond should remove the top of his uniform.

  He hesitated, but then reasoned his back was to the wall.

  “The magneta?” Diverta asked.

  Sansor nodded and reached for a jar. “With some painkiller.”

  Bond began to protest but Diverta touched his hand. “The magneta is potent. It works but it will be painful.”

  “The particles will continue to seek heat,” Sansor supplied.

  “Until they slice your innards to ribbons,” Diverta concluded. Sansor frowned, but Bond was glad to know this detail.

  “Not too much painkiller,” he said. “I need to stay alert.”

  Sansor considered the jars. “Sleep is the best healer.”

  “I don’t have time to sleep.” Bond took a deep breath. “I’ll sleep when I get to where I’m going. I promise.”

  Sansor considered him, then took down two more jars. He opened them and began to put some of their contents into a large mortar and pestle.

  Diverta went to his side to examine them, then flashed a smile at Bond that reassured him as to their powers. Then she sat beside him with a cloth and hot water and began to clean the wound.

  “How do you know about healing?” he asked.

  “Sansor taught me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she asked.” Sansor mixed something in a bowl that was dark blue in color, humming to himself as he prepared a poultice. Diverta obviously anticipated his choice because she moved out of the way for him once Bond’s wound was clean. At least the bleeding had slowed to a trickle and the blood was clear.

  That man prepared a poultice, then gave Bond an intent look. “This will hurt.”

  Bond nodded understanding and braced himself.

  Sansor placed the poultice on the wound and Bond hadn’t felt such excruciating pain since losing his wings. He tipped his head back and bared his teeth, fighting his urge to scream in anguish. Whatever was in the poultice seared his skin, then surged into the wound. He felt as if a cloud of ice emanated from the poultice, then, a thousand times worse, as if shreds and shards throughout his body began working their way back toward the wound. They cut and burned as they progressed and he heard them tinkle as they entered the poultice.

  “Heat seek residue,” Sansor said, watching him closely. He removed the poultice and wrung it out in the sink. Bond heard bits of residue fall there and shivered. Then Sansor took a second cloth, soaked it and reapplied the poultice.

  This time, Bond did moan at the pain. He felt as if he was being sliced to ribbons from the inside, shredded and torn. Deeper shards began to move, and he supposed they had been able to ignore the initial summons. If this was the sensation when there were painkillers added to the poultice, he couldn’t imagine the pain without. A tear broke from the corner of his eye and he gripped the bench with both hands, nearly collapsing in relief when Sansor took the poultice away.

  There were fewer tinkles when he rinsed it out, but they were louder, as if the shards were bigger.

  “Still too many,” Sansor murmured, studying the sink. “How long ago did this happen?” he asked Diverta.

  “Just moments.”

  “High grade, then. It works faster.” He almost smiled at Bond. “Twice more. Maybe three times.”

  Bond nodded. Any pain was better than death.

  Any pain was better than failing in his mission so close to its completion.

  “Just do it,” he said through his teeth.

  Sansor got a third cloth and soaked it in the blue liquid. Dread rose within Bond when he saw that the mixture was of a deeper hue. Stronger. He braced himself as Sansor filled the cloth and tried not to flinch when the poultice was applied.

  The pain was scorching, but he could feel the shards of residue moving with greater speed. They were compelled to the surface of the wound thanks to Sansor’s poultice, which Bond knew was imperative. All the same, he felt light-headed at the speed of their movement and almost overwhelmed by the agony of the treatment.

  He was shaking when Sansor wrung out the cloth. He closed his eyes at the sound of the tinkling residue and leaned his head back against the wall, bracing himself for another application.

  He felt Diverta take his hand and a welcome warmth spread into him from her touch.

  Then there was only the sear of pain and he bared his teeth again, feeling the torment spread into his old scars. He gasped at the power of the sensation, remembering how much his sacrifice had hurt, then Bond cried out.

  And fainted.

  He just barely had time to curse his mortal vessel first.

  “It’s easier this way,” Sansor said, apparently not surprised in the least when Bond collapsed on the bench. “It’s remarkable that he resisted for so long.”

  “Yes,” Percipia agreed, shaken by her own reaction to seeing Bond in pain. She felt great tenderness for him in this moment, which confused her. They barely knew each other, and she knew they had no future together, but she was relieved to see the wound already looking more healthy. “Thank you for helping him.”

  Sansor gave her an assessing glance. “I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t said he was the Carrier of the Seed.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you sure that he is?”

  Percipia nodded. She took a deep breath of the scent of the Seed, letting Sansor witness its effect upon her. The signs would be unmistakable to one who observed as closely as he did. The heat rolled through her, rekindling her desire and heightening her senses. She knew she flushed and smelled her own arousal. Percipia savored the sensation, understanding why dragon shifters remembered the scent of the Seed for their entire lives.

  It was wonderful and unique.

  When she opened her eyes, Sansor had turned away, intent on treating Bond’s wound. She felt a chill between them, though, one that had started when she’d declined his advances.

  “Have you claimed the Seed?” he asked tersely.

  “Not yet.”

  Sansor nodded. “And once you do?”

  “We’ll part. He’s not my HeartKeeper, Sansor.”

  Her friend nodded although she wasn’t sure if he was just acknowledging her opinion or whether he agreed with her. He finished binding the wound, then picked up Bond, carrying him to a small bedchamber adjacent to the room used to prepare the apothecary’s potions. Percipia supposed it had once been used by a servant, but there hadn’t been one at the apothecary since Sansor apprenticed to his father.

  “Where’s your father?” she asked, fearing they might be inadvertently revealed.

  “Asleep.” Sansor placed Bond in the bed, then rolled him to his side, so that the injured shoulder had no weight upon it. Percipia knew the moment that he saw Bond’s scars, but he didn’t hesitate in covering the other man.

  “You know what caused his scars,” she guessed.

  “I saw similar ones once, in an old book.” Sansor met his gaze. “Are
you sure that he’s the Carrier of the Seed?”

  “Why? What do the scars have to do with that?”

  “I wouldn’t think his kind would have Seed,” Sansor said, which made no sense to Percipia.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Sansor passed her, drawing a curtain across the space where Bond slept. “Have you eaten?”

  Percipia was impatient with his change of subject. “It doesn’t matter. What do you mean, Sansor? What do you know about him or his kind?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Only one thing, and that’s all that matters.”

  Sansor considered her for a long moment. “Maybe not,” he said and moved to a shelf of old bound books at the end of the room.

  “I could look it up,” Percipia said, awakening her computing device with a swipe of her fingertips. There was a message for her, from Enigma, but she didn’t read it immediately.

  Sansor was shaking his head. “You won’t find it. This is arcane knowledge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He gave her a very bright glance. “A secret. It’s not in the database of any society.”

  Percipia frowned, skeptical of that.

  But then, the results of experiments that she recorded in her notebooks weren’t in any database either, for exactly that reason.

  Sansor lifted down a book and came to sit opposite her at the table. He placed the book between them but kept his hand on it. His gaze was steady and she knew he would note every nuance of her reaction. Sansor could be almost as perceptive as a dragon but Percipia schooled herself to hide her thoughts. “Is there anything that could change your opinion about him?”

  “It’s not an opinion, Sansor. It’s biology. It’s fact.” She lifted a hand. “The presence of the Seed creates an obligation to be fulfilled. There’s no romance to this. It’s not love or kismet or anything more than pure biological imperative. It’s breeding and perpetuation of my kind and nothing more.”

  He lifted a brow, as if she’d been too vehement, Percipia wondered if she had been. “It could be, though. Some Carriers are HeartKeepers.”

  “Not this one. We understand each other. It’s a single transaction, and if he hadn’t been attacked, our paths would have parted by now.”

  “But they haven’t.”

  “They will soon.” As soon as Percipia could claim the Seed.

  Sansor nodded, seeming dissatisfied with her response even so. “You look different,” he said, accusation in his tone.

  “I’m not usually being shot at.”

  He gestured to the mirror and she went to look. Percipia saw the difference immediately. She looked alert and excited as she seldom did, and that there was a flush on her cheeks. Her eyes were shining, possibly from the adventure of being hunted.

  No. From the Seed.

  Sansor had noticed.

  Well, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Her appearance verified what she’d told him.

  When she sat down at the table again, Sansor opened the book. He looked up something in the index, then turned to the page. Even upside down, Percipia saw that there was a drawing of a man’s back on the page, one with scars similar to Bond’s. She leaned forward, curious, as Sansor ran a fingertip down the old page. The paper was yellowed and the script looked to have been written by hand. It reminded Percipia of a notebook more than a reference volume. Sansor spun the book to her and she read the caption.

  “Angels?” she said, incredulous. “I thought there is no such thing.”

  Sansor smiled. “Some might say that about dragons.”

  That was true enough. “But not on Incendium.”

  “No, not here.”

  Angels. Percipia vaguely recalled stories of beings made of light with large white wings. Bond was a lot more substantial than that.

  “But I thought angels were pure spirit,” she said. “He’s not.”

  “Maybe they can take flesh if they choose, just the way you can change your form.”

  She eyed him. “But aren’t they supposed to be sweet and innocent, like small children?”

  “Maybe wiser than small children, since they’re said to be immortal.”

  Percipia couldn’t reconcile that with Bond’s sexy swagger or the gleam of invitation in his dark eyes. She’d call that knowing, not wise, much less innocent. She didn’t say as much, though, as she guessed Sansor wouldn’t take well to that detail.

  “It seems unlikely that an angel would be the Carrier of the Seed,” she said, almost to herself.

  “It does.” Sansor put water on to boil. “Unless he’s a fallen angel. That would explain the scars, too.” At Percipia’s questioning glance, he continued. “He’s lost his wings.”

  It made such perfect sense that Percipia wondered that she hadn’t thought of that herself.

  She wondered what else Bond had lost, if he’d fallen. And those scars were deep. Were the wings amputated from angels who fell? Before or after their tumble from grace? Percipia shivered, unable to even consider the loss of her dragon wings.

  She also couldn’t understand where he’d fallen from, much less why. Creatures didn’t fall out of the sky, like birds that had forgotten how to fly. Any being from another realm would arrive by starpod, at least.

  She scanned the text. “But where do angels come from?”

  “The celestial realm, I suppose.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Sansor shrugged. “Some cultures think it’s in the sky.”

  “Cultures without space travel,” she guessed. “We know there’s a lot of other stuff out there.”

  “It’s also said to be everywhere and nowhere.”

  That was the kind of nonsensical riddle that annoyed Percipia. Things were here or there, not both and neither at the same time. She frowned, unable to accept any creature not being from a documented system, planet, or quadrant.

  Then she understood: these angels must just want to hide their origins. “But why is he here?”

  “That, I expect, you will have to ask him.”

  Percipia shook her head, reading the chronicler’s notes as Sansor made herbal tea. He always had some brew or another, either a new blend being tested or one he thought was ideal for the moment. Percipia just drank whatever he poured and complimented him on it.

  “This will soothe your agitation,” he said, putting a steaming cup in front of her.

  Percipia sipped without really tasting it. “Thanks. This says that they found a corpse with these marks,” she said. “Couldn’t the scars have killed him?”

  “But the wounds were healed. That would be a long slow death from an injury.”

  She nodded agreement. “Why would his wings be amputated?” The scars were both horrifying and fascinating and her gaze returned repeatedly to the drawing.

  Sansor shrugged. “Maybe it was punishment.”

  “For what?”

  “Breaking rules?”

  That was an act Percipia could associate with Bond, even how little she knew of him. There was something rebellious about his manner.

  There was a list of angelic names at the end of the description of the corpse and his scars, as well as a drawing of an angel in flight with the kind of wings Percipia recalled. “They have jobs,” she said with surprise. “And ranks, like an army.”

  “An avenging army.”

  She checked the list for an angel named Bond but didn’t find one.

  The closest match was one named Boel, custodian of the four keys to the four corners of the earth, the one who could admit the others to some place called Eden.

  “Heaven on earth,” Sansor supplied, clearly reading the same passage upside down. That was a habit of his, following Percipia’s finger and answering her question before she even uttered it aloud. She looked up to meet his gaze. “Paradise in the mortal realm, or as close to it as possible.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “I read the books.” His tone turned chiding. “You know
that.”

  “It’s true. You’re always reading.” Sansor read even more than Percipia did.

  “I don’t have as much time as you to get to everything,” Sansor said with an unexpected twinge of bitterness. Percipia considered him again. “We get decades, while you get centuries.” He sighed. “There are so many books. So much wisdom to be studied and put into practice.” Then he shook his head and drank his tea, as if the subject was forgotten. “Don’t mind me. I’m just feeling my years today.”

  Percipia laughed at him. “You’re young yet!”

  “My knee hurts.” He grimaced. “I don’t have to like aging.”

  Percipia thought he was making too much of too little. He was probably just grumpy because she’d brought Bond to the apothecary. She closed the volume and eyed Bond’s sleeping figure. “Who would want to kill him?”

  “Maybe they wanted to kill you and he was in the way.”

  Percipia was dismissive. “No one wants to kill me. I’m fifth daughter, but at least sixth in line for the throne. Maybe eighth or ninth.”

  “How so?”

  “Drakina and Troy have Gravitas, the heir apparent, so he steps into the line of succession after Drakina. Gemma and Venero are expecting, so their child will take fourth place, assuming all goes well.”

  “That bumps you to seventh.”

  “But Thalina fled with the Carrier of her Seed today. If she’s not pregnant now, she will be soon. I don’t have high expectations of moving into the royal chambers.”

  Sansor turned his cup in a circle on the table. “Does it bother you?”

  “I never thought I would be heiress, so no.” She watched him, wondering at his curiosity. “My sisters are healthy, after all. And really, I’d do something more practical than ruling the realm.”