“Drink. More. You still look green.” Nathaniel struggled to keep his emotional walls up as he supported Clarissa’s back and brought a bottle of sports drink to her lips. Seeing her pale and fragile against the white sheets, her limbs limp, her lips cracking, was almost enough to break his resolve.
At first watching her endure the effects of his test was cathartic. She’d hurt him in indescribable ways; it was her turn to hurt. He’d enjoyed it for about two minutes. But all too soon, the table-turning lost its appeal. Although the test had been necessary, he did not enjoy watching her heave her guts out or collapse on the floor. Carrying her to her room had proved a significant emotional hurdle. She’d draped almost lifeless in his arms, and the panic that rose at the feel of her against his chest truly was more punishment for him than for her.
“Orange. My least favorite,” she mumbled before chugging the rest of the bottle.
He lowered her head to the pillow, took the empty, and handed her another. “This isn’t a hotel or an American restaurant. You can’t have it your way.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’ve made that perfectly clear.”
He backed away from the bed and reflexively reached for the pipe in his pocket, then thought twice about lighting it in her presence and left it where it was.
“What did the red elixir test for?” Clarissa asked. “What type of magic cursed me?”
Waves of exhaustion washed over Nathaniel. He had to tell her although the thought disturbed him to his core. “You’ve been cursed by dragon magic.”
“Dragon— How certain are you?”
“Absolutely certain.”
Their eyes met. What little color she had drained from her cheeks.
“Do you have any idea who might have done this?” she asked him in an unsteady voice.
“No.”
“Nathaniel… did you do this to get back at me?” Her last word was nothing but a breath.
“Give me some credit, Clarissa. I didn’t even know you were in London until this morning.”
Her lips pressed together, but she seemed to believe him. “Someone from the order?”
“Not that I know of. There’s no love lost between you and the others though. I’m afraid you’ve thoroughly burned your bridges. Still, it’s hard to believe anyone would bother with a curse now. Why not years ago? Why not when you first left us? I’m quite certain any animosity they might have held for you has only dulled with time.”
“But they do hate me.” She snorted. “My God, it’s been a decade. That’s a long time to hold a grudge.”
“Is that what you think? You think this is a grudge?” He motioned between them, the muscles in his forehead tightening.
“What else would you call it?”
He growled. Why was he still in this room, rehashing ancient history? “Enough. Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll work on finding a cure, and before you know it you’ll be off again and able to put this whole nightmarish event behind you.”
Without another word or glance in her direction, he strode from the room to the sound of her quiet protestations.
The woman was infuriating. Having her here, talking to her like this, it was opening old wounds. He needed to fix her and send her on her way. Nothing would feel normal until he did.
Nathaniel strode into his library and nabbed his tarot cards from his desk. He’d always had an affinity for magic. While his brothers were busy training in the fighting pits, he’d often sneak off to watch his mother experiment with spells. By the time he was an adolescent, he’d practiced several with her, even created works of magic that she’d transcribed in her grimoire.
Dragon magic lived in his skin and in his scales, but aside from strength, speed, invisibility, and the ability to ward treasure, most dragons couldn’t perform magic in the way a witch could. Most. He and his mother had found a way. Symbol by symbol and incantation by incantation, they’d discovered ways to use their own magic as a battery to fuel arcane rituals and potions. Witches drew on the elements, fairies drew on living things—dragons had to draw on themselves.
His mother had helped him develop the foundations of this magic, but over time he’d learned that combining his strengths with those of human witches and wizards greatly increased his effectiveness. With a few tools he’d developed with the help of the order, he could more easily focus his energy, the pipe from Warwick being a perfect example.
He fished it from his pocket and emptied it into the copper bowl on his desk. There was a package glittering on his ink blotter, next to the shadow mail candle he kept there. He turned over the tag.
To dull the pain. Best, Warwick.
He pulled the bow and unwrapped the brown-paper packaging. Inside, pipe tobacco with a lovely purple tint released its aroma into the air.
There was nothing he’d like better than to numb the pain right now. Numb the ache in his chest. He loaded up his pipe and took a few draws. The calming qualities of the tobacco kicked in quickly, thank the Mountain. Warwick’s blend gave everything a nice rosy hue. Just the level of clarity he needed.
Clarissa had been cursed using dragon magic. It was the last thing he’d suspected. The only people he knew who practiced dragon magic in this area were in the order. He hated to believe that one of them would have done something like this without his consent, but she’d left them, abandoned the order and taken her magic with her, in the same way she’d left him.
He rubbed his chin. He had to admit it was possible that one of them heard she was doing a show in London and decided to mess with her out of some need for revenge or disjointed loyalty. That wouldn’t do. If that was the case, the fastest way to be rid of her was to devise a plan to out the guilty party and force them to lift the curse.
He almost hoped the offender was among their ranks. The alternative was something he didn’t want to think about. Nathaniel was one of eight dragon siblings on this, the third rock from the sun, and the other seven he hadn’t seen in a very long time. He couldn’t imagine why one of them would do anything like this, but if it was another dragon, that would be a difficult curse to break indeed.
Smoke from his pipe curled into question marks above his head. He wasn’t a detective or a psychic, but that didn’t mean he had no tools to divine the future. He shuffled his deck of tarot cards and squared them.
“How do I find who did this to her?” He flipped the top card.
Temperance. The card depicted Michael, the archangel of healing, straddling two worlds, water and earth in front of a long winding path. The angel was pouring liquid between two cups.
“Bloody hell.” This was a card about unification. It symbolized harmony, grace, and forgiveness. Well, if the spirits were requiring him to welcome Clarissa back with open arms in order to find her cure, everyone would be disappointed. She could just live her life without her singing voice if it came down to that.
But as he stared longer at the card, he noticed the two flowers in the background. Iris flowers. They represented the goddess of rainbows. It was said that Zeus would sometimes make Iris go to the underworld to fill a golden jug from the river Styx and would require each of the gods to drink from it. If he or she had lied, they would fall over breathless for a year.
The card wasn’t talking about him welcoming her back after all. This card was suggesting a test, just like the golden jug. A test of the Order of the Dragon. What he needed was a ritual that would draw out the guilty party.
A smile spread his lips. He tipped the card back onto the pile. He knew exactly the ritual that would accomplish his goal, and it would have the delicious side benefit of making Clarissa very uncomfortable.
Clarissa couldn’t sleep. Her insides ached as if she’d been turned inside out, scrubbed raw, and put back together. Not only did the remnants of nausea leave her tossing and turning in the cool sheets, but a gnawing hunger left her feeling hollow.
The half-moon bathed her room in ecru light. Her room. That was a slip of the mind. This room was no longer hers. It was the place she was staying, and as soon as Nathaniel broke the curse, a place she’d never see again. For some reason, that particular realization made her eyes prick with tears.
Her stomach growled. Nathaniel was probably asleep. She could sneak down to the kitchen and try to prepare something. Who was she kidding? Tempest would surely catch her and send her back up here without a bite to eat. She covered her eyes with her hands. What had she been thinking, forcing his hand and claiming sanctuary? Why would he be compassionate to her after what she put him through?
Nathaniel hated her and he was going to make this hell until she voluntarily left or her rights to sanctuary were fulfilled.
Worse, she deserved to be hated. He had bared his soul to her the last time she was here. He’d told her what it meant for his inner dragon to want her as his mate. If what he said was true, had she accepted the bond, he would go to his death loving her. She had no reason not to believe him. He’d never lied to her. And the way he’d loved her had proven to be his singular focus. His loyalty and devotion to her had been unfailing over the year she’d spent here.
And his reward for the devotion was her leaving him without so much as a goodbye. Oh, she’d had her reasons. It had all made sense at the time. But she’d been brutal in her abandonment, telling herself that she wasn’t doing anything to him that hadn’t been done to her in the past. And wasn’t it for the best? She’d been too young for a permanent commitment.
Only, her lack of maturity had caused her to end things in the cruelest way. Truly she regretted it now, seeing it through her adult eyes. And here she was, crawling back with her tail between her legs and forcing him to take her in.
Thirst left her tongue stuck to the top of her mouth. Were her tears making it worse? Everything in her neck and chest felt tight, as if a ball were lodged in her throat. The feeling only made her cry harder. She whimpered, unable to hold back her sobs.
The silver candle beside the bed flamed to life, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Shadow mail. Nathaniel had invented the enchanted candles that could be used to exchange messages or even pass items between them. When she’d first come here, he used to use them to flirt with her late into the night. He must have heard her crying and was probably going to chew her out for it.
The shadows on the end table swirled and twisted, transforming from flat, two-dimensional gradients of black and ecru to three-dimensional charcoal curls. The individual strands braided and meshed into a dark cloud the size of a small box. When the smoke cleared and the candle blew itself out, there was a sandwich and a bottle of ginger ale in its wake.
Seeing the food was a relief and also made her tears stream faster. Nathaniel had sent this. The oreads did not use shadow mail. They had no need to. The thought that he’d put his animosity aside to provide her what she needed squeezed her heart. She didn’t deserve it.
She moved the food to the desk to clear a spot on the end table, then opened the drawer. The box of matches was still there. With a flick, one blazed to life and she brought it to the candle’s wick. She waited until the glow splashed across the wood.
Dipping her finger into the shadows, she wrote thank you with her fingertip. She hoped and prayed the candle would still work despite her lack of magic. A sigh of relief broke her lips as the shadow writing coiled up and dissolved in the flame. A few seconds later, his response painted itself in wispy letters across the surface. Stop crying and eat.
The flame hissed and blew itself out.
She wiped her eyes and reached for the sandwich.