Anne Bishop - Dreams Made Flesh

She still didn't say anything. She looked bruised and exhausted, and the only thing he could do to help her was to leave her alone.

"Good night, Lady." He closed the door and stared at it for a few moments. Damn you, Cat. You really kicked me in the guts this time.

But as he went back outside to tell Tassle it was all right to come in, he had a bad feeling it wasn't his guts that would feel the pain.

Marian stared at the door. No lock. No way to prevent someone from coming in during the night to…

She could put a Purple Dusk shield around the room, but that would probably just insult him…or amuse him. It certainly wouldn't stop him if he…

She shuddered, then clenched her hands until they ached. She couldn't think like that. Fear was already a living thing crawling inside her. If she was going to survive staying here, she had to beat it back, not feed it.

She called in her nightgown…another piece of clothing Luthvian had been ready to discard and had given to her instead. She wouldn't think about that either. Just wouldn't think anymore. Couldn't think anymore.

After changing her clothes, she settled into bed and called in her book, sure she wouldn't get any sleep.

Later, she roused enough from a deep sleep to realize someone was gently pulling the book out of her hands and turning off the lamp on the bedside table, but not enough to wonder who it was.

Marian jolted awake, her heart pounding. She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep to give her scrambled brain a few precious seconds to catch up and identify what had ripped her out of a deep sleep.

There. Warm breath against her hand. Someone was in her room, next to her bed. Someone who would know by the change in her breathing that she wasn't asleep, and pretending only kept her blind to the danger.

She opened her eyes… and stared at the wolf who was watching her intently.

*You are awake. Yas told me not to wake you and I didn't wake you but now you are awake.* The wolf stretched his neck so that they were nose-to-nose. *You can pet me.*

She raised her hand to obey. Then her brain identified what was wrong with this "conversation."

A breathless shriek, a wild kick to free herself from the bedcovers, and a hasty scramble had her standing on the opposite side of the bed from the wolf, who looked equally startled.

The bedroom door was open. She was closer to it. If she could reach the door…

She shuffled sideways, never taking her eyes off the wolf…until he put the corner so fast she almost hit the opposite wall, and ran down the wide main corridor of the eyrie. Seeing the archway of the only room she recognized, she grabbed at the stone wall and swung into the kitchen, startling Yaslana enough that he almost dropped the mug he was holding.

"What in the name of Hell…" he began.

"The wolf talks!"

"I know," Yaslana replied. "He's kindred. Since you're up, do you want some coffee?"

Marian stared at him. Maybe he wasn't awake enough to understand what she'd said. "The wolf talks. In sentences!'

"I know." He studied her for a moment, then added, "He's kindred. Blood."

"Blood?" She suddenly felt a bit weak and woozy.

"The Blood from the nonhuman races are called kindred." Yaslana scratched his cheek. "Tassle is a Warlord, as a matter of fact. Wears the Purple Dusk Jewels."

Marian groped for the nearest chair to keep from sinking to the floor. Blood? Warlord? Purple Dusk Jewels?

A whine.

She turned. Standing in the archway, the wolf gave her the most woeful look she'd ever seen.

He whined again and slunk away…and she felt as if a small boy had tried to give her something he thought was a wonderful present… and she'd smacked him for it.

Confused and feeling guilty, she focused on the familiar sound of sizzling meat…and frowned. "What are you doing?"

Turning back to the stove, Yaslana picked up a fork and flipped the two steaks sizzling in a skillet. "Making breakfast. You want some? There's plenty." He poked at something else in the other skillet.

Marian slumped in the chair. "But… I should be making breakfast."

He shrugged. "You were asleep."

She quailed at the implied criticism. Then she bristled at the unfairness of it. "I'm sorry, Prince Yaslana. You didn't tell me what time you expected…"

"I woke up early and decided to make breakfast," he said testily. "It's not important."

Not important. The words cut into her, telling her clearly enough what he thought of the skills that usually gave her such pleasure.

He picked up a pot, poured dark liquid into a mug, brought the mug over to the table, and plunked it down in front of her.

She looked at the mug…and shuddered.

He stiffened as if she'd slapped him, then grabbed two plates from the counter, returned to the stove, and started dishing out the food. Every move he made radiated temper as he put the plates of food on the table, then dug out silverware from a drawer and dropped it on the table.

As he pulled out his chair, she gathered her courage to ask, "May I have some cream and sugar?"

He paused. "You didn't use any last night."

True, but last night she hadn't known how bad this stuff tasted.

A sugar bowl and a small glass bottle appeared above the table. They hovered for a moment before gently coming to rest within easy reach.

She added two teaspoons of sugar…then added a heaping third when he turned away from the table for a moment…and as much cream as she could fit into the mug without having it spill over the rim. She stirred carefully and tasted cautiously. It was lighter and sweeter…and it was still terrible.

He sat down, chose some silverware from the pile on the table, and said, "Eat."

She stared mournfully at what could have been a very fine steak if it hadn't been slapped into a skillet with no regard for its potential. Suppressing a sigh she was sure would only irritate him further, she selected her silverware and began to eat. The fried potatoes were quite good, the scrambled eggs were bland but not bad, and the steak, despite its treatment, was still tender. But every bite she chewed and swallowed was an effort of will. She was too aware of the annoyed man sitting across from her, too aware that she hadn't yet performed her first task in her new position and he was already displeased with her.

After a few bites, her aching stomach threatened to rebel if she forced another mouthful of food into it, so she pushed the food around, wishing the meal would end…and afraid to consider what might happen when it did.

Suddenly, Yaslana set his knife and fork down and pushed back his chair, his half-eaten meal another silent criticism.

"I have to go out for a few hours," he said. "I should be back by midday."

As he moved toward the archway, she half turned in her chair but couldn't look at him. "What…What would you like me to do?"

"Whatever hearth witches do."

Defeated, she said, "Nothing important."

She thought she'd said it quietly enough that he wouldn't hear, but he stopped in the archway and stared at her for a long moment. Then he was gone.

She sat at the table for a long time, trying to convince herself that she had work to do. The dishes to wash at the very least, and the remains of the meal to store, and the midday meal to plan once she'd taken a look at what was available. The task of exploring her domain should have delighted her. Instead, she sat.

She was a hearth witch whose Jewels weren't dark enough to give her any status worth mentioning, and her skills had no value. So what was the point of trying, always trying? The only time anyone had valued her was when those five Warlords wanted to kill her. What did that say about a woman who, being from one of the three long-lived races, had already lived thirteen centuries and would live many more…and would never do or be anything important?