Heir to the Shadows

She gave him a quick smile of apology and continued her inspection. The air returned to normal. 'Last year.'

'And you became a qualified Healer?'

She carefully folded the wing and started checking his right shoulder. 'Last year.'

Lucivar whistled. 'Busy year.'

Jaenelle laughed. 'Papa says he's thrilled he survived it.'

He could almost hear the blade against the whetstone as his temper rose to the killing edge. She had a father, a family, and yet lived without human companionship, not even a servant. Exiled here because of the Hourglass? Or because she was Witch? Once he was fit again, this father of hers would have a few things to adjust to – like the Warlord Prince who now served her.

'Lucivar.' Jaenelle's voice seemed as far away as the hand squeezing his taut shoulder. 'Lucivar, what's wrong?'

Time moved slowly at the killing edge, measured by the beat of a war drum heart. The world became filled with individual, razor-sharp details. A blade would flow through muscle, humble bone. And the mouth would fill with the living wine as teeth sank into a throat.

'Lucivar.'

Lucivar blinked. Felt the tension in Jaenelle's fingers as she gripped his shoulders. He backed from the edge, step

by mental step, while the wildness in him howled to run free. Senses dulled by the salt mines of Pruul were reborn. The land called him, seducing him with scents and sounds. She seduced him, too. Not for sex, but for another kind of bond, in its own way just as powerful. He wanted to rub against her so that her physical scent was on his skin. He wanted to rub against her so that his physical scent on her warned others that a powerful male had some claim to her, was claimed by her. He wanted. .

He turned his head, catching her finger between his teeth, exerting enough force to display dominance without actually hurting her. Her hand relaxed in submission, embracing the wild darkness within him. And because she could embrace it, he surrendered everything.

A minute later, completely returned to the mundane world, he noticed the open outer door and the three wolves standing on the covered porch, studying him with sharp interest.

Jaenelle, now inspecting his collarbone and chest muscles, glanced at the wolves and shook her head. 'No, he can't come out and play.'

Making disappointed-sounding whuffs, the wolves went back outside.

He studied the land framed by the open door. 'I never thought Hell would look like this,' he said softly.

'Hell doesn't.' She slapped his hand when he tried to stop her from probing his hip and thigh.

Forcefully reminding himself that he shouldn't smack a Healer, he gritted his teeth and tried again to find some answers. 'I didn't know that demon-dead children grew up or that demons could be healed.'

She gave him a penetrating look before examining his other leg. Heat and power flowed from her hands. 'Cildru dyathe don't and demons can't. But I'm not cildru dyathe and you're not a demon – although you did your damnedest to become one,' she added tartly. She pulled up a straight-backed chair, sat down facing him, and took his hands in hers. 'Lucivar, you're not dead. This isn't the Dark Realm.'

He'd been so sure. 'Then. . where are we?'

'We're in Askavi. In Kaeleer.' She watched him anxiously.

'The Shadow Realm?' Lucivar whistled softly. Two tunnels. One a lightening twilight, the other a soft dawn. The Dark Realm and the Shadow. He grinned at her. 'Since we're not dead, can we go exploring?'

He watched, intrigued, as she tried to force her answering grin into a sober, professional expression.

'When you're fully healed,' she said sternly, then spoiled it with a silvery, velvet-coated laugh. 'Oh, Lucivar, the dragons who live on the Fyreborn Islands are going to love you. You not only have wings, you're big enough to wave whomp.'

'Wave what?'

Her eyes widened and her teeth caught her lower lip. 'Umm. Never mind,' she said too brightly, bouncing off her chair.

He caught the back of her shirt. After a brief tussle that left him breathing hard and left her looking more than a little rumpled, she was once again slumped in the chair.

'Why are you living here, Cat?'

'What's wrong with it?' she said defensively. 'It's a good place.'

Lucivar narrowed his eyes. 'I didn't say it wasn't.'

She leaned forward, studying his face. 'You're not one of those males who gets hysterical about every little thing, are you?'

He leaned forward, forearms braced on thighs, and smiled his lazy, arrogant smile. 'I never get hysterical.'

'Uh-huh.'

The smile showed a hint of teeth. 'Why, Cat?'

'Wolves can be real tattletales, did you know that?' She looked at him hopefully. When he didn't say anything, she fluffed her hair and sighed. 'You see, there are times when I need to get away from everyone and just be with the land, and I used to come and camp out here for a few days, but during one of those trips it rained and I was sleeping on the wet ground and got chilled and the wolves went running off to tell Papa and he said he appreciated my need to spend some time with the land but he saw no reason why

I couldn't have the option of some shelter and I said that a lean-to would probably be a reasonable idea so he had this cabin built.' She paused and gave him an apprehensive smile. 'Papa and I have rather different definitions of 'lean-to.''

Looking at the large stone hearth and the solid walls and ceiling, and then at the woman-child sitting in front of him with her hands pressed between her knees, Lucivar reluctantly let go of the knot of anger he'd felt for this unknown father of hers. 'Frankly, Cat, I like your papa's definition better.'

She scowled at him.

Black Widow and Healer she might be, but she was also almost grown, with enough of the endearing awkwardness of the young to still remind him of a kitten trying to pounce on a large, hoppy bug.

'So you don't live here all the time?' he asked carefully. Jaenelle shook her head. 'The family has several residences in Dhemlan. Most of the time I live at the family seat.' She gave him a look he couldn't read. 'My father is the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan – among other things.'

A man of wealth and position then. Probably not the

sort who'd want a half-breed bastard as a companion for

his daughter. Well, he'd deal with that when the time came.

'Lucivar.' She fixed her eyes on the open door and

chewed her lip.

He sympathized with her. This was sometimes the hardest part of the healing, telling the patient honestly what could – and could not – be mended. 'The wings are just decorative, aren't they?'

'No!' She took a deep breath. 'The injuries were severe. All of them, not just the wings. I've done the healing, but what happens now depends, in large part, on you. I estimate it will take another three months for your back and wings to heal completely.' She chewed her lip. 'But, Lucivar, there's no margin for error in this. I had to pull everything you had to give for this healing. If you reinjure anything, the damage may be permanent.' He reached for her hand, caressed her fingers with his

thumb. 'And if I do it your way?' He watched her carefully. There were no false promises in those sapphire eyes.

'If you do it my way, three months from now we'll make the Run.'

He lowered his head. Not because he didn't want her to see the tears, but because he needed a private moment to savor the hope.

When he had himself under control again, he smiled at her.

She smiled back, understanding. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' When he nodded, she bounced out of the chair and went through the door to the right of the stone hearth.