Smirk. “Sure you can.”
Glare. “Watch me.”
He’d been shocked when she’d drawn one—much less thirty. “You did remember them all!”
“Like it’s difficult?”
He’d translated them for her. Most were simple. “That one indicates purity of purpose. The second means victory—or rather, domination. That one means nightmare. The combinations are just as important as the rendering.”
Whenever they had time, he’d taught her more. As he sketched, he would grow relaxed, often giving her additional details about his mother. “She could have hated me, the son of a despised foe—not to mention that I was considered an abomination—but she adored me.”
As he’d spoken, Jo had experienced a flash of a memory: the sight of his mother smiling down at her son with utter love on her pretty face—and the fullness in Rune’s heart for his beloved “dam.” Jo had realized she might not remember all of her memory-dreams until something triggered her recollection.
He’d told Jo that his talisman had been a last gift from his mother, was his most cherished possession.
Then Jo had stolen it. Twice. “Rune, I’m sorry.”
“I got it back.” He’d brushed his knuckles along her jawline. “And more.”
Wondering if he’d confide in her, Jo had asked, “How did your mom die?”
He’d dropped his hand before it clenched into a fist. “Magh sent her to a brothel. Though my mother hadn’t transitioned into full immortality, she went so that Magh would spare my life. My dam was too young to survive the . . . demands.”
And then Magh had sold him to the same place. If his mother had died there, what had Rune lived through?
He never mentioned a word about that time in his life, but Jo had been getting glimpses from his blood—torture scenes that turned her stomach; no longer did she question his need to wipe out the Sylvan royal house.
His blood had also delivered glimpses of his allies. Jo had stopped delving into the past—reminders of Magh enraged him—and started asking about the Møriør.
He spoke about Orion in respectful tones, but he admitted he wished he knew his liege better. Rune’s manner grew more casual when he talked of his compatriots, like Darach Lyka—a real-live werewolf!
“His Lykae form is petrifying to most,” Rune had told her. “Darach is the primordial alpha, the largest and fiercest of their entire species, but he has little control over himself.”
Sian, a demon and now the King of Hells, was notoriously good-looking. “The expression ‘handsome as the devil’ was coined because of him.”
Rune had frowned when explaining his ally Kolossós. “I find him indescribable. Let’s put it this way: There are twelve seats at our table. For some Møriør, they’re merely places of honor. . . .”
Now Rune exhaled, recalling her attention to their surroundings. Yet again, he checked the band on his wrist. “Nïx isn’t there. And she’s not here.”
During their travels, they’d also searched for a lock of Valkyrie hair. Rune had told her the wraiths guarded Val Hall in exchange for it. When they’d braided the locks to a certain length, they could bend all Valkyries to their will. Rumor held the braid was nearly complete.
Death controlling life. Jo wished the wraiths all the best with that. “How much longer do we wait?” she asked him.
In a wry tone, he said, “Do you have something more pressing to do?” His eyes flickered as he said, “I know where I’d like to be instead.”
Her body responded as if he’d touched it. He continued to make comments about her supposed infatuation, but she felt like they were destined. How to convince him?
If he’d just commit to her, she’d sleep with him, and then his seal would break, proving what she’d known all along. He couldn’t deny evidence like that! Nothing could be more convincing—not her arguments, not her holding out.
What if she gave it up? Would the undeniable proof jump-start their future together?
Or break her heart?
FORTY-SEVEN
Though Rune and Josephine had been releasing pressure a few times a day, just being around her ratcheted up his need. He was having difficulty concentrating. Right now, he should be on guard against threats along the Venetian canal, not staring at her.
But in the moonlight, her creamy skin looked even paler, her eyes darker. Her hair shone, appearing almost black. At that moment, she tucked a curl behind her bewitching ear, as if to tease him.
She turned back to the water, but not before he saw her irises waver with desire. He wasn’t the only one in need.
“Let’s give it fifteen more minutes.” She leaned forward to rest her forearms on the bridge railing, drawing his attention to her black miniskirt.
Erection straining against his pants, he fantasized about taking her just like that. He’d smooth that skirt up her hips, tug her thong aside, then work his cock inside her right here. If she was his, he would come in her, claiming her.
He forced his gaze away from her to study their surroundings, marking vantages and blind spots. He knew Nïx was playing with them, foreseeing their movements, yet these weeks hadn’t been wasted. Rune had used the time to recruit Josephine.
He could now admit he was securing her loyalty for himself far more than for the Møriør.
How long will she bloody hold out from me? While his will seemed to weaken, Josephine grew more powerful in all aspects. Even she’d noticed it, attributing her increased speed and strength to his blood.
His regular donations left him with no negative effects. Just the opposite. He felt energized. But if they went too long between feedings, he’d get heated, as if he had too much blood, his body overfull with it.
All parts of his body. His throbbing shaft woke him each morning. He would cut himself, waking her with the scent of his blood, then eagerly steer her to his cock.
He’d told her she couldn’t go less than twice a day. When she’d asked if that included “snacks,” he’d thrown her over his shoulder and whacked her on the ass, informing her that nothing about him was snack-sized. She’d laughed and laughed. . . .
As much as she’d been drinking, had she dreamed his memories? At times, when he revealed something about himself, she wouldn’t seem surprised at all.
He was apprehensive about her seeing his past in that brothel. Would she run screaming? Or pity him? He didn’t think he could handle her pity.
As if he could handle her running away from him? Already he was addicted to her laugh, her candor, her blazing sexuality. She was more tempting than meadowberries to a halfstarved slave. . . .
I’m going to have to tell her soon.
“She’s not coming,” Josephine muttered. “This is getting old.”
“I thought you were enjoying yourself with me.”
“You, I like. This—not so much. She could at least make these no-shows more interesting.”
“Each time I figure we’re walking into an ambush.” And why, he wondered for the thousandth time, hadn’t Nïx contacted his enemies, passing along Rune’s predicted location? King Saetthan, for one, had a colossal bounty on his head and was a fey ally of Nïx’s—
“Rune, look! In the water.”
A model boat floated down the canal. He turned to Josephine. “All yours.”
She started to go intangible.
“No, Josie. Use your telekinesis.” He’d been encouraging her to practice.
She nodded, aiming her hand at the boat. Her brows drew together as she lifted it, directing it closer. Off by a ways, she levitated to snag it in the air. But at least she hadn’t destroyed it outright. She ripped free a note affixed to the mast.
She no longer acted as if she could read, just handed over the missive.
In one week, she’d learned much of the runic language; she would pick up reading English so quickly. He tore open the envelope, finding a crisp invitation card. Once all this was over, when he had her settled in Tortua, he’d teach her. For now, he read aloud: