Eversworn: Daughters of Askara, Book 3 (22 page)

Aldrich held fast. “I’ll have your word my debt is paid once the grimoire is contained.”

“You have my word.” Dillon gritted his teeth. Aldrich raised his eyebrows, so Dillon spat, “Once the grimoire has been contained, I give you my word your debt to Harper has been paid.”

Aldrich’s low chant filled the tent. Strain from the binding spell beaded sweat on Dillon’s skin. “It is done.” Aldrich dropped his arm and passed me the vial. “You know the incantation?”

“I do.” His blood warmed my hand through the thin glass, and I swallowed to keep down my meal. “Would you like me to clean your arm? I’m sure Dillon has bandages and ointment if—”

He frowned. “There’s no need.” Air clotted his messy wound, and he appeared content with that. “If you’re capable of binding the grimoire, then a tracking spell should be a simple enough matter.” He inclined his head. “I could be persuaded to help, if my services were compensated.”

“Isabeau?” Dillon touched my arm, and blood dripped onto me from him.

Fisting his sheet, I dragged it onto my lap and blotted his arm. “I can manage.” To Aldrich, I said, “Thank you for your help.” I forced a smile. “Your offers were generous and appreciated.”

“Yes, they were.” He grunted as he rose. “Keep them in mind. You may change yours.”

“I will.” I think we both knew my acceptance hinged on my last resorts being exhausted.

After he’d shuffled from the tent, Dillon caught my wrist. “Save the doctor routine for after we get that tracking spell off the ground.” He stood and pulled me to my feet. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” I realized I was ready. I had means of binding the grimoire without further sacrifice, I had Dillon prepared to aid me in my search for the book and the salt. In exchange, I offered him a chance to protect Daeza and other Evanti. After we had the salt, then my plans became muddled.

Find the salt. Bind the book. Escape the male.

The first and second parts were executable. The third, well, that part might be my undoing.

Stinging pain coursed through Dillon’s veins. He had a funny feeling Aldrich’s
let’s
seal the deal
ceremony did more than bind him at his word, but the alternative had been letting him carve up Isabeau, and that wasn’t happening. Ever since the mine, his protective instincts had kicked into overdrive. Hell, if he were being honest, he’d been strung out since he first laid eyes on her, and he didn’t mean her half-naked race to the colony, which too damn many males had watched.

The growl in the back of his throat revved up a notch. “Why are you dragging your feet?”

“I’m not.” Regret softened her voice. “How are Mason…and the legionnaire?”

“You hurt them pretty good. Mason’s shoulder was barbequed. So was Osher’s hand for that matter.” Guilt made his pace slow. “Christophe used the opportunity to practice a basic healing spell Aldrich taught him. It was enough to take the sting out of the burns, but they’ll both scar.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, young males get bored fast out here. I figured it was more humane to let them go back to work at their own pace than put them on bed rest.”

She touched his shoulder, and heat blazed a trail to his gut. “Is Mason well enough to handle the spell?”

“Well, I was hoping you could tell me.” Mason’s tent lay ahead. Even if Dillon didn’t know the way by heart, the handful of legionaries doing their best to appear casual while guarding the entrance would have tipped him off. When Isabeau’s hand slid down his back, he faced her. “He’s not holding a grudge, if that’s what has you worried. You did what you felt you had to do.”

“Oh.” Her smile was too fast, too bright to be sincere.

“It’s not just the situation with the kid.” He cleared his throat. “Your daughter, I mean.” The pain behind his eyes ached. “When I found him, he tried to warn me off, like I’d ever hurt you.”

She nodded once. Her shoulder brushed his on her way to the tent. Even that small contact made his skin tighten. Every step straightened her spine, raised her head, until she was prepared to face her first victim. That she hadn’t balked made him proud. Made him believe her crimes hadn’t been committed by choice. Guilt mantled her shoulders. Good. He could work with guilt.

Damn it,
he
ought to feel guilty. He was skirting the line of betrayal with Harper’s trust. Planning Isabeau’s defense in as much detail as he could scrape together was one thing. Calling in favors from Aldrich was another. He could argue saving Isabeau was what Emma would want. Harper wouldn’t say a word if that was the case, but the truth was, Dillon was saving her for him.

Mating wasn’t possible. Was it? He cursed the thought even as he had it.

He’d said he trusted her, and the shocker was—he did. While he wasn’t fool enough to think she’d given him the whole story, he believed she would. With the right motivation. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t know much other than she had a kid and must have been set up by someone able to use her kid, or their kid, as leverage. He didn’t see her abandoning her friends or ruining her perfect cover for anything less than her daughter’s security. Or her safety. Leading him right back to the question of who her master had been, who the father of her child was. Emma mentioned finding Isabeau in an outland slave market. How had she gotten there? Right time and right place or something else? Something planned? Pretending to be Evanti was a surefire way to catch Emma’s eye. No way would she have left Isabeau there to fend for herself.

One way or the other, he was going to have to pry the answers from Isabeau’s sweet lips.

Securing the salt was a priority for both of them. After that, well, he wasn’t so sure.

No use stressing over the endgame yet. Finding the horse was step one. Whether Isabeau had fallen as she claimed, or the partner she denied having stranded her, she had lost the salt and Dillon had no qualms tracking the mare or her
ex
-lover. And yeah, the male would be exed out one way or the other. Isabeau wasn’t mated, lie or truth didn’t matter. She was his. Based on his earlier conjecture, if her ex-lover was her ex-master, that explained why he’d had no qualms risking her neck for his gain. Some slaves remained with their masters, afraid of carving out their own lives. His Isabeau wasn’t afraid, but she was running scared. Now he had to figure out why.

Knowing how her kid fit into the equation would help. She must be the root of the problem.

Ahead of him, Isabeau paused with her hand on the tent flap. Legionaries to either side cast her sideways glances. One leaned forward, made a comment that earned him a laugh. The sound grated in Dillon’s ears. The fact her pitch was off and she’d taken a graceful step left meant less than the fact the male’s face had split into a huge grin as he tracked her step with one of his own.

Dillon kept his eyes on Isabeau and let her actions dictate his reaction.

Her head turned, dark eyes seeking his. The legionnaire followed her line of sight straight to Dillon. The male muttered something, and this time Isabeau’s laugh was genuine. He parted the flap and held the halves open until darkness swallowed her outline. Then he resumed his post. He waited for Dillon to reach hearing range. “I didn’t know Isabeau was yours.” His smile was fond.

Not Emma’s healer, but
Isabeau
. “How do you know her?”

“Emma managed my placement here,” he said slowly. “Isabeau handled the paperwork.”

Neck tense, Dillon struggled to maintain his glamour. “What did you say to her?”

The male’s face turned red.

Warmth trickled down Dillon’s spine. He lifted a hand. Still pale. His glamour was holding. He touched his nape. His fingers came away stained. It figured. “I meant the last thing you said.”

“Oh.” He relaxed. “I asked if you were the one.” He hastened to add, “Isabeau and Lindsay had an inside joke. It was a male’s name, I could tell, but they’d never own up to whose it was.”

Heat singed Dillon’s cheeks. He’d been a joke? After the stunt she’d pulled for Emma…

Isabeau popped her head through the slit, and her eyes narrowed on the legionnaire. “What Alexander neglected to mention is you weren’t the joke. Lindsay’s reaction to you was what I found funny. You know how frustrating halflings are. They’re quick-tempered and cause damage when they’re upset they’ll regret later. Whenever Lindsay struggled with her lessons, I had only to mention your name and she would explode.” Color smudged her cheeks. “You know she was raised in an outland mine? Her language…some of the words she knows…some of the names she called you…they were quite inventive.” She stepped outside and rested her palms lightly on his chest. “I admit, I laughed. Then she laughed. By the end of it, she was calm, no damage done, and ready to try again.” Her fingers tapped against him. “It sounds bad, and I was wrong to-”

Dillon exhaled. This he could handle. This was a mess of his own making. “You owe me.”

“Did you miss the part where I implied it was your fault for being rude?”

“No. Lindsay has reason to dislike me,” Dillon admitted. Isabeau smirked. “Okay, she has reason to hate me.” He covered her hands. “You, on the other hand, took advantage of me. You owe me.”

Her mouth fell open. “How did I take advantage of you?”

“I was in a lot of pain.” He swallowed his chuckle. “I said and did a lot of things I’ll regret.”

“Things you
will
regret?” Her nail jabbed him. “Meaning you don’t regret them now.”

Damn. She had him there. A wise male would stop before she pointed out the incident that wrote him into Lindsay’s bad book happened the day after they met. Before his leg was injured.

“Are y’all standing on the porch all day or coming inside?” Mason called.

Reality intruded, shattering the moment, and Dillon regretted watching Isabeau’s smile fade.

“Let’s not keep him waiting.” Dillon took her arm and guided her inside.

Her mood shifted the instant they crossed the threshold.

Isabeau put space between them, and he didn’t have to glance over to know her stubborn chin would be angled up and her shoulders set back. With a sigh, he let her face off with Mason, knowing it was better for them both if she cleared the air first before they got down to business.

Mason paused from shoving clothes into a backpack. “Hey there, Miss Isabeau.” He nodded at Dillon, gaze snagging on his arm. “I see you two have been practicing your spell crafting.” He flashed a megawatt smile at Isabeau, but it was shades dimmer than it once was. “I hear you’re going to set me up with a tracking spell? Cool. I’ve never seen magic used outside of glamour.”

“Mason,” she said, “I owe you an apology.” He started to speak. She cut him off and continued, “Please—let me say this. I owe you this much.” He gave a terse nod. “I can’t let you pretend nothing happened, when I hurt you, badly. You trusted me, and I abused that trust. What I did—it was…” She gulped a steadying breath. “I’m sorry, and I don’t expect your forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness isn’t the issue. It’s yours. Trust, now that I can’t give you.” He suppressed a wince as he shrugged. “I’ve known you a while, and even though I don’t know you well, I do know Emma. She trusted you, and, because of that, I did too. I knew when it happened you must have had your reasons, and it looks like I was right.” He paused. “Dillon told me about your little girl. It’s a fucked-up situation you’re in, and the legion will help you out any way we can, okay?”

Isabeau murmured vague thanks that made Dillon turn.

“So, how does this work?” Mason clapped his hands. “Do you need anything from me?”

“It depends. Spells are stronger the more layers of connection you build between the magic and the bearer. Do you have a small item of importance, or it can be symbolic, that you wouldn’t mind parting with?” She added, “I doubt what you choose will be harmed, but blood does stain.”

“Ah. Gotcha. Not a problem.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew an aged knife.

“That’s Grandpa Ed’s knife.” Dillon recognized the worn deer antler casing.

“Yeah.” He was quiet for a minute. “I got a pass from Harper. I know we aren’t supposed to bring items from Earth to Askara, but…this is all I’ve got left of the old man. I didn’t want to leave it at home. You know how forgetful Mom is. She’d toss it during one of her spring-cleaning fits, and there I’d be.” His voice thickened. “I figured it’d see more use here anyway. As long as the spell won’t hurt it, this knife’s the best token I’ve got for you.”

“Once the spell fades, you can wipe the runes from the blade.” She accepted the knife with a gentle touch that showed proper respect to a good man, long gone from this realm or the next. It took trial and error until she figured out which silver stub held the blade. Once she found it, two tries past the bottle opener, she reached for Dillon’s wrist. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“It’s either you or me, and it’s not you.” He offered his arm. “Take what you need.”

“What about me?” Mason’s brow furrowed. “It’s my knife, my connection. Would using my blood strengthen the spell?” Isabeau’s hesitation answered him. “I don’t mind.” His arm shot out.

“Tell me you aren’t trying to protect me,” Dillon groused. “It’s a pocket knife, not a sword.”

“Fine. I’m not trying to protect you.” Mason grinned. “I’m trying to get felt up by Isabeau.”

The knife wobbled in her grip as she blinked between them.