Page 5 of Angel's Conquest

Chapter 3

The smell of the woman’s blood mobilized Bronze’s ass faster than any throwing star aimed at his throat. He surged toward her and was ready to pitch himself into the water over how he’d missed the still form sprawled out before him. Her long white hair swirled on the water’s surface in lazy waves while her equally pale face was stretched toward the shy moon. Her closed eyelids sported dusty shadows similar to the ashen hue that painted her slightly parted lips. Since it was clear that even the moon had little interest in offering up its spotlight services to help him, he couldn’t see the rest of her.

What he did see, however, was a whole lot of stillness.

Not good.

His legs hit the water a breath later, and his arms were under her shoulders before he even had time to register the chilliness of the water. With one hand supporting her slight weight, he lightly but insistently tapped at her cheek with the other. Cold. Mages, she was so cold. How long had she been out there?

“Miss! Can you hear me? Miss!” When nothing but silence greeted his efforts, he surged to his feet and attempted to pull her up the riverbank and out of the water. A firm resistance stalled him out, and he slipped, landing ass-first on a protruding rock. “Fuck! Mages dammit.”

He’d managed to slide himself beneath her in the fall at least, ensuring she didn’t sink farther into the water. But why the hell was she stuck in the water? When he pulled her again, the fabric wrapped around her tightened against her throat, as if it was snagged somewhere and used its counterforce to choke the woman’s lovely neck in protest to being disturbed.

Cursing, Bronze released one of his chest daggers and sliced the ties from her neck. The dark fabric relinquished its captive and lurked back into a billowing pile below the water’s surface. But it wasn’t quite the win he’d hoped for. The woman’s feet were still hidden beneath the river muck, which had left her lower half solidly suspended underwater while the rest of her, thank the mages, had bobbed above the surface. The boulder jutting from the riverbank had been a stroke of luck for both of them, as it created a makeshift enclave that effectively prevented her from drifting farther upriver.

Securing her against him more tightly, Bronze got good and personal with a whole lot of cold and wet crud and reached down to shimmy her stuck feet until they were free. The water released her willingly this time, and Bronze hefted her out of the river. Curses flew freely as he laid her out on the forest floor and searched his brain for what to do next.

As if in answer to his prayers, a sliver of moonlight poked its way through the dark blue cirrus clouds gathering overhead, shining its guiding beam down on the very last thing commanding his attention . . . until now.

Breasts.

Free of the metric fuckton of fabric he’d cut off her and left as an offering to the river monsters, he noticed what had been concealed underneath. Below her abundance of soaking white hair, a dark green leather-lined half-cape thing with a slit down the middle had capped off her upper half. Lying on her back, however, caused the center flaps to fall open and reveal the sheerest frilly white blouse he’d ever seen.

A white blouse that was pasted with papier-mâché precision to breasts that pooled in perfect mounds tucked above what his brain could only describe as a . . . was that a half corset? One of those waist-cincher things? Whatever it was, it offered up the poor woman’s flesh to the elements like cooling carrion.

And why the fuck was he thinking about her breasts? The woman was motionless. The only rush of color anywhere near her was the smear of blood at her temple staining her hairline, which had somehow escaped the river’s cleansing.

Shaking himself to get with the program, Bronze cradled her jaw while his fingers worked around the back of her neck, poking and prodding for signs of cervical fracture. Something hard and curved bumped his knuckles, tugging slightly at the thin leather cord that hugged the base of her throat. A necklace of some sort, with a pendant that must have gotten whipped around behind her.

To hell with the jewelry. What he was looking for was of the spine-deforming variety. Notches of vertebra out of place, pinched discs, spinal column bones feeling like anything other than neatly organized ridges . . .

He worked faster, terrified he’d find something. His maneuvers lifted her mouth higher toward his and brought the rest of her features into view beneath the scant moonlight. The white hair was not a wig, nor was it, he suspected after studying her scalp’s middle part, some dye job aimed at jumping the gun on the whole aging gracefully bit. Matching eyelashes fanned out in sweeping waves over lushly rounded cheeks that were far too pale and would have looked lovely cradling a smile. The rounded exuberance of her youthful beauty hinted at her being in her twenties, but the furrows between her brows, even relaxed as they were, mirrored the stony set to her chin and suggested a stoic regalness often afforded to women who’d seen too much and had been helpless for too long.

In other words, he had a gorgeous unconscious woman on his hands who could be anywhere north of twenty, south of forty, and heading further south real fast if he couldn’t jump-start her engine.

“Miss. C’mon, wake up. Wake up, dammit!” Bronze pulled one hand away from the back of her neck and pressed it against the center of her chest. “Breathe, baby. One breath. That’s all I’m asking.”

He had never been the praying type, especially since he had no idea whether the prime mages could even hear his prayers from the mortal realm, but he offered them regardless. Seemed like the least he could do, since his particular set of skills was far better at serving the mages in other more lethal capacities. He opened his mouth to offer more words?—

And the woman’s chest rose against his palm.

Relief walloped him so hard, he nearly stumbled backward and silently cursed himself for not checking her airway first. His experience with mortals injured in this fashion was limited, and breathing wasn’t necessarily a concern for him when he was in his metal skin.

“Yes! Yes, that’s it. Again, breathe for me. Can you do that?”

Those frosted lashes fluttered wildly against her cheeks before the timer ran out on the moon’s good graces and pulled the woman’s face back into shadow.

“No!”

Without the benefit of light, he focused on his hand again and the feel of her cold, wet body against his palm. Her chest rose but not enough. Not nearly deep enough. She was breathing but far too shallowly and certainly not with any sort of repetition that could be compatible with mortal life.

Shit!

Out of light, warmth, and options, he used the only tools at his disposal. With one hand still at the back of her throat, he positioned her neck so her airway was as wide open as it could possibly be, pinched her nose, and brought his mouth to hers.

The warmth on Clara’s lips was no more than a slight press of heat, a candle flickering in the aftermath of an avalanche. It had little impact on the foggy weight of her mind or the stillness the rest of her seemed to float aimlessly through.

By the moon, she was cold! And every limb throbbed with a soreness she imagined one might experience if their body had been tossed on the rocks upon which the angry sea crashed.

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