“We don’t even know if we’re compatible,” he pointed out.
“Yes, you’re right,” she said. “But have you made the effort to find out?”
He went still, trying to process her words.
“You’re saying that if I can’t save any more Dracian young, it’s my duty to create more?” he asked, feeling like he’d finally puzzled it out.
“Yes. To keep your race alive.” She held up a hand. “Now I’m not saying that I’m willing to be your brood mare. That’s...that’s looking ahead. But there is something between us, Altair. I feel it. If you open yourself up to it, I think you feel it too.”
He bit his lip, but he couldn’t disagree with her. There was, that intangible tug that he couldn’t ignore. That made him want to always be near her, to keep a smile on her face. To make her happy.
“I...I’ve never thought about it like that,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Christine said dryly. “That much is obvious. But it’s okay. I’m here for you. I’ll help open you up to many a new point of view.”
She kissed his cheek, then forced his head to turn so she could kiss him on the lips.
They fell back into the bed together, his weight pressing down over her.
“You would definitely get along too well with female Dracians for my liking,” he murmured, eliciting a laugh before they silenced each other for the time being, more interested in each other’s touch.
Clothes were removed in quick order as he positioned himself between her legs. There would be no exotic positions or extreme effort this time. Both of them were still tired and recovering from the fight, but they couldn’t deny this need.
They had survived, though it had been close with Christine. This time, as he lay over her, watching her face slacken and tighten as he stroked into her, there was a lightness to his body that Altair hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
She was good for him. So very good.
He could see her tiring, the moment not taking long to arrive as whatever energy she’d conjured up was used. They cried out together as he came, their mutual pleasure making the other side happy.
Altair was still propped up on top of her, resting his weight on his elbows, staring tenderly into her face when the voice started speaking from behind him.
“All response team members to the courtyard in one hour.”
He sagged, recognizing Circe’s voice. “Something must be wrong,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” Christine said distractedly from where she’d poked her head out from under his arm. “Um. Her face is still there.”
He rolled off of her to see that Circe’s face was indeed still hovering in mid-air.
“Apprentice Sinnclare,” the voice said.
Altair tensed at the personal greeting. Circe was there. In his chambers.
“Uh, yes Circe?”
“It is good to see that you are up and about.” There was a pause. “Well, that you are about.”
Altair snickered at the snide comment directed at the fact that Christine was most definitely not up, but down. On her back. Under him. He was oddly proud of that fact.
It earned him a sharp elbow to the ribs, but he was still chuckling as he rolled off her.
“Thank you, Circe. What can I do for you?”
“Report to my office immediately.” There was another pause. “Report to my office once you are free of any other obligations.”
Then the image was gone.
Altair looked at Christine to see that she was red in the face.
He just howled with laughter, fully accepting the pillow she swung in his face.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Altair
HE STOOD OUT ON THE Courtyard with the other members of the team.
Those that remained, at least. Two of their number had fallen in the battle, and it was reflected in the mood of those assembled now. He could sense it, could feel it winding its way through the entire time.
Defeat.
It was sinking its teeth into them, dragging them down. Making them feel useless. Like failures.
“Hey,” he snarled so suddenly, and loudly, that many of them flinched away. “We’re not out of this yet,” he growled. “We got surprised, yes. But we’re not giving up. We’re not letting that be the end of it, are we?”
Several of them shook their heads. Not many though. It was worse than he thought.
“No, we’re not,” a voice said strongly, echoing out across the courtyard. “Not one bit.”
He looked up to see Christine approaching. Circe was at her side, but the head of Winterspell remained quiet, letting Christine do the talking.
Altair studied her. Something was different about her since they’d parted. There was...not just energy and enthusiasm, but something more.
“Is anyone here satisfied with how things went the first time?” Christine barked.
Ah. That was it. Pride. Her spine was straight, and her chin up high.
“I didn’t think so,” she continued when nobody answered. “Neither am I. In fact, I am not just unsatisfied, I am pissed off!” she finished, snarling so savagely that several of the witches took a step back as she stalked among them. “I am angry. But more than that, I’m ready to show this sludge-sucking pointy-headed ugly-ass bastard just how badly he screwed up by messing with me!”
Altair grinned as some of the witches began to nod along.
“Lord Berith thinks he can come here, and mess with the Witches of Winterspell, does he?” Christine barked. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m about done being messed around with!”
“Same,” Becca growled, standing up tall despite the bruises and cuts on her face. “It’s high time we went back there and showed him how big a mistake he’s made!”
“Yeah!” several others cried.
Christine looked around the assembled group. “Anyone else pissed off and ready to take it out on this pathetic piece of crap that calls himself a demon? Anyone else want to lay down the hurt?”
“Hell yeah!”
Altair sent his mind flickering skyward. The clouds rumbled ominously. “I’m in,” he said.
A second later, lightning lit
