Dreams Made Flesh

She raised her hand to obey. Then her brain identified what was wrong with this “conversation.”



A breathless shriek, a wild kick to free herself from the bedcovers, and a hasty scramble had her standing on the opposite side of the bed from the wolf, who looked equally startled.



The bedroom door was open. She was closer to it. If she could reach the door . . .



She shuffled sideways, never taking her eyes off the wolf—until he put one paw on the bed as if intending to spring over it and reach her.



She bolted through the doorway, sprinted down the corridor, turning the corner so fast she almost hit the opposite wall, and ran down the wide main corridor of the eyrie. Seeing the archway of the only room she recognized, she grabbed at the stone wall and swung into the kitchen, startling Yaslana enough that he almost dropped the mug he was holding.



“What in the name of Hell—” he began.



“The wolf talks!”



“I know,” Yaslana replied. “He’s kindred. Since you’re up, do you want some coffee?”



Marian stared at him. Maybe he wasn’t awake enough to understand what she’d said. “The wolf talks. In sentences.”



“I know.” He studied her for a moment, then added, “He’s kindred. Blood.”



“Blood?” She suddenly felt a bit weak and woozy.



“The Blood from the nonhuman races are called kindred.” Yaslana scratched his cheek. “Tassle is a Warlord, as a matter of fact. Wears the Purple Dusk Jewels.”



Marian groped for the nearest chair to keep from sinking to the floor. Blood? Warlord? Purple Dusk Jewels?



A whine.



She turned. Standing in the archway, the wolf gave her the most woeful look she’d ever seen.



He whined again and slunk away—and she felt as if a small boy had tried to give her something he thought was a wonderful present . . . and she’d smacked him for it.



Confused and feeling guilty, she focused on the familiar sound of sizzling meat—and frowned. “What are you doing?”



Turning back to the stove, Yaslana picked up a fork and flipped the two steaks sizzling in a skillet. “Making breakfast. You want some? There’s plenty.” He poked at something else in the other skillet.



Marian slumped in the chair. “But . . . I should be making breakfast.”



He shrugged. “You were asleep.”



She quailed at the implied criticism. Then she bristled at the unfairness of it. “I’m sorry, Prince Yaslana. You didn’t tell me what time you expected—”



“I woke up early and decided to make breakfast,” he said testily. “It’s not important.”



Not important. The words cut into her, telling her clearly enough what he thought of the skills that usually gave her such pleasure.



He picked up a pot, poured dark liquid into a mug, brought the mug over to the table, and plunked it down in front of her.



She looked at the mug—and shuddered.



He stiffened as if she’d slapped him, then grabbed two plates from the counter, returned to the stove, and started dishing out the food. Every move he made radiated temper as he put the plates of food on the table, then dug out silverware from a drawer and dropped it on the table.



As he pulled out his chair, she gathered her courage to ask, “May I have some cream and sugar?”



He paused. “You didn’t use any last night.”



True, but last night she hadn’t known how bad this stuff tasted.



A sugar bowl and a small glass bottle appeared above the table. They hovered for a moment before gently coming to rest within easy reach.



She added two teaspoons of sugar—then added a heaping third when he turned away from the table for a moment—and as much cream as she could fit into the mug without having it spill over the rim. She stirred carefully and tasted cautiously. It was lighter and sweeter—and it was still terrible.



He sat down, chose some silverware from the pile on the table, and said, “Eat.”



She stared mournfully at what could have been a very fine steak if it hadn’t been slapped into a skillet with no regard for its potential. Suppressing a sigh she was sure would only irritate him further, she selected her silverware and began to eat. The fried potatoes were quite good, the scrambled eggs were bland but not bad, and the steak, despite its treatment, was still tender. But every bite she chewed and swallowed was an effort of will. She was too aware of the annoyed man sitting across from her, too aware that she hadn’t yet performed her first task in her new position and he was already displeased with her.



After a few bites, her aching stomach threatened to rebel if she forced another mouthful of food into it, so she pushed the food around, wishing the meal would end—and afraid to consider what might happen when it did.



Suddenly, Yaslana set his knife and fork down and pushed back his chair, his half-eaten meal another silent criticism.



“I have to go out for a few hours,” he said. “I should be back by midday.”



As he moved toward the archway, she half turned in her chair but couldn’t look at him. “What—What would you like me to do?”



“Whatever hearth witches do.”



Defeated, she said, “Nothing important.”



She thought she’d said it quietly enough that he wouldn’t hear, but he stopped in the archway and stared at her for a long moment. Then he was gone.



She sat at the table for a long time, trying to convince herself that she had work to do. The dishes to wash at the very least, and the remains of the meal to store, and the midday meal to plan once she’d taken a look at what was available. The task of exploring her domain should have delighted her. Instead, she sat.



She was a hearth witch whose Jewels weren’t dark enough to give her any status worth mentioning, and her skills had no value. So what was the point of trying, always trying? The only time anyone had valued her was when those five Warlords wanted to kill her. What did that say about a woman who, being from one of the three long-lived races, had already lived thirteen centuries and would live many more—and would never do or be anything important?



Maybe Lady Angelline didn’t do me a favor when she rescued me. Maybe it would have been better if—



Marian shook her head. No. This was just another rough patch of road, just another part of the journey that she had to get through before she could turn the dream of having a place of her own into a reality.



A whine made her turn toward the archway. The wolf was back, still looking woeful.



Kindred. Blood. Warlord. Young.



She finally realized why he made her think of a small boy. He was still young.



“Good morning, Lord Tassle.” When he didn’t respond, she tried again. “I’m sorry I reacted badly. I—I’ve never talked to a wolf before.”



*We do not talk to many humans. Only friends.*



She raised one hand. “Would you still like me to pet you?”



*Pet?* He came forward, slipping his head under her hand. *Pet.*



So she petted—and the wonder of touching a wild animal who was more than a wild animal began to fill her.



She glanced at the unfinished meals. “Would you like some steak, Tassle?”



*Burned meat?*



“No, it isn’t burned—” Oh. Wolf. “—but it is cooked.”



He sighed. *I will eat it anyway.*



She gave the meat to Tassle, ignoring the fact that she could have made a nice steak pie out of it, and began to clear the table.



“After I wash up and get dressed, could you show me around?” she asked him.



*I can show you,* Tassle replied. *You do not have to mark territory. I mark our territory. Even Yas cannot mark territory as well as I can.*



She thought about that for a moment, then bent her head so her long black hair fell forward and hid her grin. Even if nothing else was what she’d hoped for, learning about the kindred was going to be interesting.



Lucivar stormed into Saetan’s study at the Hall and slammed the door behind him. Saetan didn’t even flinch, just set the documents he’d been reading aside and leaned back in his chair.



It figured that the High Lord wouldn’t have much reaction to that kind of entrance. After all, he’d been dealing with Jaenelle, the coven, and the boyos for the past five years, and the combination of adolescence, power, and those particularly agile minds when it came to using Craft would have shattered the nerves of a less strong- willed man.



But that lack of reaction annoyed Lucivar. He needed a battleground on which to vent the emotions churning inside him, and his father wasn’t being accommodating. So he shaped the battleground himself.



“This isn’t going to work,” he snarled as he paced in front of Saetan’s desk. “It just isn’t going to work.”



“What isn’t?” Saetan asked.



“Marian.”



Saetan sighed, but there was exasperation underneath the sound. “The woman has barely had time to unpack. What has she—”



“I can’t stand this!” Lucivar shouted. “This is my home. I don’t want this in my home.” He stopped pacing and raked one hand through his hair. “She’s bringing out everything that’s savage in me.”



“Why?”



“Because she’s afraid! She’s afraid of Tassle and—” It burned him to say it. “—she’s afraid of me.”