Jory Strong - Inked Destiny

The sigil representing servitude flared between them again. Take it and you can find the killer you seek.

Even to find justice for the innocent, she couldn’t. “No.”

Eamon couldn’t accept that he’d lost her. Physical survival from the change itself wasn’t what he’d feared. Not for her. Not for any changeling. Death came by his judgment.

Too much time had passed. Transformation was marked in seconds, not minutes.

He pressed her palm to his heart as if he could will magic into her, could use it to summon her back, praying in that moment that the Dragon did indeed exist, and that Etaín merely visited at the shore of the lake she’d drawn.

Liam knelt next to him, freed now that the danger to Eamon was past. “Let me attempt it, Lord,” and despite the wild struggle and intended disobedience, Eamon trusted his third, but said instead, “Cathal first,” in the hopes it wasn’t already too late.

Liam reached out and placed his hand above Cathal’s heart. Once, centuries earlier, Eamon had felt the punch of magic that was Liam’s gift.

An explosive gasp signaled Cathal’s regained consciousness.

Etaín staggered and went to her knees as if she were an insubstantial piece of wood suddenly tethered by an anchor tossed into the ocean.

The scene in front of her wavered. The Dragon roared, the sigil of servitude melting into flames encircling her.

So your Elven lord has chosen to save the human. For another of the seidic it would be enough. But not for you. I can hold you here. You were born on the shores of my lake and bathed in its water. You aren’t only of Elfhome and Earth.

Trust. There hadn’t been time to show Eamon the picture. Hadn’t been time to discuss the sigil at the corner of the playing card.

Etaín’s feelings about her mother were as complicated as those she felt for the captain, but in that instant, remembering the feel of the collar-like necklace still adorning her physical body and the way her mother’s hand rested at her throat in the first picture but not in the second, Etaín took a leap of faith.

She drew the sigil she’d seen on the card in the sand. “This binding I’m willing to accept.”

Clever, clever changeling.

Fire rushed toward her, fully engulfing her, though the force of it was met by other magic that tasted of forests and smelled of spring air and sunshine, that danced and entwined, primordial and new, Elfhome. But also the place she called home, a blending of worlds that turned into sunshine traveling down a pathway and illuminating everything around it, becoming the liquid pour of ink into her own arms.

Etaín opened her eyes to find Cathal and Eamon hovering above her. “Jesus, Etaín, Jesus,” Cathal said, hands shaking as he pulled her into a sitting position and then into his arms, not all-encompassing but angled so Eamon could embrace her too.

“Let’s take this private,” she whispered, the clothing she wore an irritant to her skin, and their clothing, an unacceptable separation.

“Let’s,” Cathal said, nearly a pant, and Etaín became aware of the hard ridge of his cock against her, the minute tremors coursing through him.

“A lesson first,” Eamon said on a husky laugh, easing away and making her aware of the glow coming off her skin. Like sunshine. Thick and golden like the rush of it she’d been caught up in, returning her to life.

Her heart skipped a beat then knocked in rapid succession when Cathal’s mouth found her ear, lips capturing the pointed tip. Desire streaking downward, causing the violent clenching of her channel.

Eamon traced a quick sigil on the back of her hand. It was a dousing spell he’d mentioned the night before but hadn’t taught her because there’d been no need then and she’d been exhausted.

Her magic blocked his until she mentally made the sigil her own. Elven luminescence faded, but not Cathal’s desire. Nor Eamon’s.

Her need matched theirs though curiosity had her rolling up her sleeve. The visual change to her tattoo turned Eamon’s face into a smooth mask.

He caught her hand, examining vibrant entwined strands of gold and emerald green anchored in the ink on her wrist then traveling up her arm, the sigil she’d drawn in the sand writ now on her skin. “Alliance,” he said. “An irreversible magical bond.”

Peordh. Predestination. Possibility fulfilled. A promise kept.

Cathal rolled up his sleeves to reveal the changes to the tattoos. The bond forged by Eamon’s magic had locked shades of red and blue and gold in them. Now emerald green streaked through the center of every black line, glittering like Dragon scales caught in the sun’s rays.

“Sire?” Myk said, question in his voice, concern, a reminder that they still had an audience.

Eamon shook his head. “The ink remains inert.”

His tone was cool, unconcerned, but Etaín’s throat closed, tightened by the pain of what his answer meant.

He didn’t resist when she unbuttoned his shirt, parting it and pulling it off one shoulder. The band encircling his upper arm was ink and unhealed skin. Unchanged, though because it was hers, because of her gift, she felt the low hum of magic, a connection she shared with hundreds of others, not the same as the one she shared with Cathal.

“Why didn’t it…” The answer came before the question could be fully formed. Because of the sigil she’d offered the Dragon, the bond created in that surreal time between human death and Elven birth had taken the place of what she might have had with Eamon.

She met Eamon’s eyes, hers damp with sorrow, with loss, her heart aching for him, for her, for them. “I’m—”

He silenced her with a kiss, lips tender against hers, vibrating with echoes of pain. His tongue a soft stroke against hers, eloquent strength in the face of disappointment, exclusion, the poignancy of it freeing her tears.

“Stop, Etaín,” he said, brushing them away. “The meaning of the tattoos is unchanged by the lack of a magical bond. This is a time for celebration, not sadness or regret.”

His hand cupped her side. His mouth went to her ear, tongue darting into the canal, before lips captured the tip. Desire returned in a molten rush. Streaking downward so her cunt clenched and she reached for Cathal, pulling him into the embrace.

His phone rang.

He ignored it.

Hers rang until it went to voicemail.

His rang immediately afterward.

“It’s a conspiracy,” Cathal said, but icy foreboding had already gripped her.

She answered when hers rang again, desire chilled at hearing Quinn say, “We’re ten minutes out and on our way there. Derrick’s hurt. It’s bad. Really bad. External and internal. Tell Eamon he needs a healer. Tell him Cage will arrive with us.”

He hung up before she could ask more. “I heard,” Eamon said, and Myk was already making the call on his lord’s behalf.

“Fuck,” Cathal whispered, tension running through his voice and his body where it still touched hers. “Fuck.”

Guilt nearly bore Etaín to the ground. This was her fault. She’d known, she’d feared for Derrick when there’d been no sibilant promise of safe , my gift as there had been when she hugged Jamaal.

Why! She screamed at the Dragon. Why!

But there was no response despite the waiting quality that resonated through the bond, signifying awareness.

Cathal stepped away from Etaín, not willing to use the physical contact to mitigate the admissions he needed to make. “I’ve met Cage. Today’s attack wasn’t the first one.”