Poor Boon

 

The scent of blood had Eloquence on edge long before Lapis burst through his door, calling over his shoulder, “In here!”

“I do know my way around,” grumbled his father’s voice. Then Dad shouldered through the door with Uncle Laud, carrying the bloodied figure of Boonmar-fen between them.

Merit was at their side in an instant. “Boon, you idiot, stop struggling!”

“My quarry,” snarled the wolf. “My team.”

Quen had been closeted with his eldest brother all evening, listening, relaying information, and coordinating the movements of their Kith from the relative quiet of his pavilion. They had been the support for Boon’s team, who had uncovered one of the kidnapper’s hideaways.

“Your team sent for us,” Dad soothed. “Come now, you’re bleeding!”

“S’nothing.” Boon’s feet shuffled and dragged. Struggling free, he staggered, and both dogs were needed to keep the big tracker on his feet.

 “Nothing,” echoed Lapis, lavish with sarcasm. “I would prefer your recklessness not rob Adoona-soh of a well-loved son. Cooperate, whelp.”

“I have more years,” muttered Boon, his eyes rolling as they struggled to focus.

Lapis got into the wolf’s face. “If you wish to keep your advantage, submit. You need a healer’s touch.”

“Do as you’re told, for once!” begged Merit.

Eloquence had never seen his eldest brother lose his composure. Boon had been his best friend since weanling days.

“Shut it, Penny.” But Boon’s muscles went limp.

Merit helped haul his friend onto the sprawl of furs on the inner room’s floor. Eloquence followed, and Dad signaled urgently. “Son, summon Courageous.”

“No,” Boon snapped. “Won’t have her.”

“I’m not matchmaking. Please, Boon. She’s our healer, and you’re in need.”

Dad had a way of introducing unattached males to every potential female in the compound. Courageous was one of Quen’s nieces, daughter to his sister Rampant and Sentinel Skybellow. How many other granddaughters and nieces had Boon happened to meet during his stay?

Eloquence had never really understood Boon’s reluctance to establish a den. Or to run with his pack. Lone wolves were rare. Boon wasn’t a tribute, but he lived like one. Maybe because the Elderbough tribute was still a child.

“Not her.” Boon’s growl could not be refused.

Merit said, “Rilka Withershanks is without rival, and she is close enough to collect.”

“No females.”

Quen’s thoughts jumped through options. The only male healers close to hand were reavers. He was about to suggest names when Lapis knelt in the furs. He’d divested himself of several filmy layers and most of the jewels that usually sparkled at his fingers and throat.

“You will make do with me, you cagy beast.” Lapis rattled off a list of herbs and oils, which Laud vanished to collect. Flashing Harmonious a look, he added, “He would have needed me anyhow. Or another dragon.”

“Poison?” asked Dad.

Eloquence had been wondering at the strange scent hanging in the air—faint and almost floral. He hadn’t been aware that dragons counted among the clans capable of releasing toxins. “You’re poisonous?”

“Not personally.” Lapis offered a brittle smile. “But the misfortune of my childhood is the fortune of your friend. I am the antidote he needs.”

Dad begged for silence with a sad shake of his head, and Quen stowed his curiosity.

“You …?” Boon’s sluggish question never made it any further.

“I was not always a lord.” Lapis inspected the three ragged grooves cutting across the left side of Boon’s face.

“You, a healer?” Boon managed to convey skepticism.

Lapis haughtily replied, “Nothing so prosaic. I am a scholar turned lord.”

“Honorary lord.”

The dragon graciously inclined his head. “And your attendant for the time being.”

“Don’t need it,” muttered Boon.

“Oh, you do. It would seem your prey is as nasty as his proclivities.” Lapis gestured an apology and bent low. “If you will pardon the necessity, friend wolf.”

Quen didn’t linger for long. It was unsettling to watch the dragon lapping up blood and gently probing Boon’s wounds with his tongue. It was enough knowing Boon was safe, his hand tangled with Merit’s, Dad standing guard.

Leaving the inner room, Quen let Laud pass through, his hands laden with items from their herbarium. His uncle quietly warned, “At the door.”

Ever must be returning, since bathtime would have proceeded as usual. In Laud’s absence, Prospect might bring him. Or Lyric or Lavish.

But no.

Gingko Mettlebright stood at the threshold, a rosy-cheeked, shampoo-scented youngster in each arm. Kyrie gazed about with wide red eyes, his hand fisted in his foster brother’s tunic. Ever’s tail thumped madly against the half-fox, whose silver tail had settled in a cautious curl around his bare feet.

“Hey, Quen.” Ears pricked, nose twitching, Gingko asked, “This a bad time?”

“It’s all right. Please, come in.”

He’d played host to Gingko and Kyrie before, whenever Lord Mettlebright was in Keishi on business with the Five. Argent and Harmonious were encouraging friendship between their sons, who’d been born mere weeks apart.

“Boon?” asked Gingko, whose nose was sharp enough to mark a friend.

“In good hands.” He waved toward the closed door to the inner room. “Lapis knows what he’s doing.”

Kyrie fluted softly, and Gingko bussed the dragon crosser’s forehead. “Yeah, yeah. He’ll be glad to see you, too, little bro.” Dropping to one knee, he turned the boys loose. “Thanks for having us.”

Quen’s courteous response died on his lips. 

Some part of his subconscious had been taking notice, ramping up his heartrate, adding a tremor to his soul. Even so, when Michael Ward stepped inside, Quen teetered inwardly.

Decades had passed and the adolescent he remembered was a grown man—settled, confident, and in his prime. Yet Michael was still Michael. Relief washed over Quen at finding the essence of his friend unchanged, quickly followed by a sudden bout of shyness.

It took him several moments to realize that Ever was tugging furiously at his pant leg. Bending to gather up his baby brother, Quen hid his burning face against Ever’s hair.

“Who dis?” Ever asked.

Quen’s voice broke on his answer. “Michael.”

“Stars, so bright,” his baby brother whispered.

He needed to rein in his rampaging emotions, or Ever would get the wrong impression entirely. With a smile that may have wobbled a little, Quen said, “Michael Ward is my friend. He is First of Wards, a very starry soul.”

At least his voice was steady. If a bit high. Oh, this was mortifying.

“Hello, Eloquence.” Michael’s voice had deepened, but his smile was the same. “Would you introduce me to your newest brother?”

Quen managed a nod and gestured him closer. Palms were presented, courtesies exchanged, peace assured. Genial. Gentle. And not at all what Eloquence wanted.

Ever asked, “Should I sniffen him?”

He began to nod, then shook his head. “Me, first.”

Michael expression brightened, and he enfolded them both in an embrace that granted the closeness and connection every dog craved.