Page 113 of Wickedly Ever After
Hector tied a knot in the robe and then stood. “So they are.”
“Where’s…Amber?”
A large, scaly face loomed over her. “Sit tight, Your Goodness. We’ll get you out of here.”
She groaned. Call her optimistic, but she’d really hoped one kiss would magically fixeverything.
“You better fly me back,” Alistair, a decidedly handsome prince said, stroking Amber’s face. “I can help you. Dad and Mom will take Hector and Ida.”
“Are you sure, sweetheart? I don’t want to drop you.”
“You’ll be fine. The key is to always breathe the sameway—in, out, in, out—like that. It’s good practice for when the eggs come.”
Ida stared. “Eggs?”
Alistair looked curiously at her. “You didn’t think we were celibate, did you?”
“No, but—”
Hector looked as stunned as she felt. “I thought you said you’d use eagles.”
“I did! I found the biggest eagle so that maybe it would be able to feed its—oh.”
Amber startled. “Eggs?”
Hector smiled. “If you want me to be godfather, Alistair, I believe it would count against my curse. Should Amber want to take you home to meet her parents, you could both go, no more transformation needed. Of course, she’ll need to wait until the eggs come in a few weeks.”
Alistair grinned back, showing all of his pearly white and decidedly handsome human teeth. “Well, if it’s a boy, I’ll choose you. If it’s a girl, Amber picks.”
Amber blinked. “I’ll pick Ida. Will that do?”
Ida laughed. “I’m not sure. I’m not a wicked witch.”
“It counts,” Hector said, putting his arm around her. “Loopholes, you know.”
53
Hector
While I’ve always thought necomancy a beautiful thing, I concede there’s nothing pretty about death.
A Thousand Years of Wickedness: A Memoir
Hector West
Hector wanted to ride back with Ida on Adair, but Ida insisted she could manage. The Flamelord flew ahead of them all, carrying her on his back. Alistair rode astride his mate. Periodically, he leaned forward to stroke her neck with the kind of ease that made Hector cringe. If the prince fell, Amber would try to catch him, and he wasn’t exactly confident in her midair rescue abilities, especially after seeing the damage Adair’s talons had done to Ida’s shoulder.
Morga flew slowly, staying close to both her son and her daughter-in-law, burbling happily about the coming eggs. Hector wouldn’t put it past her to completely redecorate Alistair’s room and order a new lair built for the expectant mother, the kind of comforting den any dragon would want when brooding and raising her hatchlings. He could practically see the ideas churning in Morga’s head. But he wished she’d fly faster. Adair was alreadyout of sight, and he wanted to get back as quickly as possible.
By the time Morga and Amber landed, Adair was already in the lair, back in human form.
Hector marched in. He didn’t need to ask where Tinbit was. He could follow the crying.
Ida, face pale and angry, sat on the couch in the hospitality room, holding a sobbing Hari. On the other end of the couch, watched by the salamander, lay the inert form of Tinbit.
“How could you?” Ida gasped, glaring at Hector. “How could you?”
“This isn’t what it looks like.” Hector knelt next to Tinbit and touched the icy flesh, winced at the terrified, staring eyes, the grimace of pain—there was nothing pretty about killing someone, even someone who had died long ago. He gathered the gnome in his arms. “Tinbit died over five hundred years ago.”
