Page 15 of The Rowan
9
VALERIAN
Daire joins me as I stride away from Arden. Silently communicating with him, I continue to whistle until we’re out of hearing range. Relief slams into me. My knees give out, and I stop and lean against the wall.
Immortal! Thank fuck, she’s immortal,I scream silently.
“Are you okay?” Daire enquires softly, his eyes assessing my reaction.
Joy spears through me. “She’s not hurt. In fact, she’s healing rapidly,” I assure him.
He stiffens. “I didn’t ask about her. I asked if you were okay,” he says, frowning. “But I guess it’s good to know she isn’t hurt. We don’t need the Princess of the Light Fae and Vargas Karth breathing down our necks.” He shrugs, her health of little importance to him.
“She’s not healing from a spell or a potion. Her immortality is healing her,” I explain to him with a huge grin. “I don’t have to worry about my carelessness causing the death of another witch.”
Shocked, Daire doesn’t move a muscle as he processes my words. “That’s why she can see me, and how she could defend herself against you,” he intones, his mind going back to the training room. “If she’d have told us about her immortality in the beginning, I’d have known not to stand so damn close.” He shudders as if he felt the scrape of my claw across her back. I guess he might care more than he protests.
With a slap on my back, Daire jokes, “Theron looked ready to murder you. Guess you’ll live another day.” His grin becomes evil. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he realizes she’s immortal. Guess Astor was right, the bastard. She’s a hybrid. I can’t wait to find out what she’s made of.” This time, he’s whistling as he walks away. It sounds like “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” by Charlie Daniels.
Daire’s telling jokes, Theron’s emotions are slipping, and Astor’s protecting her against handsy wolves. And me, sparring with a witch. I shake my head as I turn towards my room. The last time my life changed this much, the people I loved the most were killed. One by me.
As I enter my room, the top drawer calls to me like a beacon. Forcing my steps over to it, I pull it open and take out a small portrait. Moira stares back at me, a quirk to her eyebrow indicating her mischievous nature, and the small smile she displayed only for me on her face. My fingers trace her features, while my mind slips into the past.
Moira MacAllister gave me this portrait as a declaration, to one and all, of her love for me. If I’d known it would be the catalyst for her death and the darkest days of my life, I’d have destroyed it immediately. Instead, I treasured it, a simple thing that meant her love was real, not just a tumble in the hay between a witch and a dragon. I didn’t know its very existence would drive my father into a rage and cause both their deaths. And the birth of my reign.
I put the portrait and memories back in the drawer before walking over to my desk.Work waits for no man, or king, I muse, picking up the phone to make some calls.
* * *
Daire is standingat the railing, alone for a change, when I walk up and slap him on the back. “How are things going this evening?” I ask, my eyes scanning the dance floor and tables.
He shrugs and responds dryly, “The same as it’s been for a few millennia. They come, they play, sometimes they come and play, but besides the décor, it’s the same.”
“Not everything,” I murmur, my eyes tracking Arden as she waits tables. “She’s shaking things up, changing us, and she just arrived. What’s it going to be like in a few months?”
“Speak for yourself,” he retorts. Smoothing down his shirt, he flicks an imaginary piece of lint off the silk button-down. “I haven’t changed at all.”
I snort, then tease him, “No? Why were you in the training room today? And you’re standing here alone on a Saturday night. Where’s Solange?”
“Simple curiosity. And Solange is having a girls’ night,” he replies, pointing to his girlfriend, who’s sitting at a table below us. She glances up and blows him a kiss, and he nods at her in return.
The lights flicker, indicating a performance. My face betrays little emotion as I turn towards the stage. I rarely watch the races battle, but I’m already standing here and to leave would be an insult, even if the dragons are not performing.
They don’t come here often, only when forced to pay homage to their king, and they always give me notice. It’s a mockery, but it’s been this way for a thousand years, and I don’t see it changing soon. A brief feeling of regret resonates through me before I chase it away.
Focusing on the stage, I watch five light witches dressed in cowboy boots, plaid shirts, and tiny ass jean shorts strut onto the dance floor.Fuck, it’s the monthly battle of the witches—light versus dark. It doesn’t help when the two witches leading the battle are bitter rivals.
The dark witches line up on the edge of the stage to watch their competitors perform. Arden, unknowingly, steps up beside them. One of them elbows the dark witch leader and dips her chin towards Arden. I tense.
The music starts, drawing the crowd’s attention. Cages drop from the ceiling, the light witches step in them, and they rise about ten feet in the air. With a spell, the dance floor turns into a pit of fire. The crowd roars, knowing they’re going to get a show.
A few bars from a piano sound, announcing “Raising Hell” by Kesha. While the crowd isn’t a fan of witches, they know better than to offend them. And of course, the males greatly appreciate every suggestive dance move and boot stomp the beautiful witches make. Whistles pierce the air when they rip off their plaid shirts, revealing black bras underneath. With the last bars of the song ringing in the air, they drop to their knees, hold their hands up in prayer, and bow their heads until the song ends. The crowd cheers wildly.
With their plaid shirts back on, they douse the fire and lower the cages. After stepping out, they link hands and bow to the crowd, then head straight towards Arden.
I tense. My glance at Daire has him using his vampiric hearing to listen to their conversation.
“My aunt says you’re doing well with the testing. Not as well as me, of course,” Cassandra says flippantly, “but if you can affiliate yourself with four bloodlines like you say you can, you’ll probably be able to hang out with us.” She sweeps her arm to indicate the rest of the witches with her.
