"Dragon's Oath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cast P. C., Cast Kristin)

CHAPTER FIVE

Dragon grinned as he watched the young priestess’s face flush a lovely shade of pink.

“You have mistaken my intent,” she said

“You said it yourself—you were casting a drawing spell. I heard you speak my name. Obviously, you were drawing me.” He paused, thinking that it all made sense now. “No wonder I left Shaw and the rest of the Warriors and walked home by myself from the docks. I thought it was because of Biddle. He’d watched me before I left for the Vampyre Games, so I already knew he didn’t like me, but tonight his stare was so hard, so strange, that I supposed it’d made me feel odd, almost as if I couldn’t breathe, and I needed to be out here, where there was air and space and–” He broke off, laughing a little and giving her the beginnings of his famous smile. “But, no matter. The truth is I am here because you desire me.” He rubbed his chin, considering. “We haven’t met. I would remember such beauty. Was it my reputation for prowess with the sword that has piqued your interest, or was it a more personal kind of prowess that–”

“Bryan, I don’t desire you!”

“Call me Dragon,” he said automatically, and then continued. “Of course you do. You just admitted your drawing spell. You need not be embarrassed. I’m flattered. Really.”

“Dragon,” she said in a way that he thought verged on sarcasm. “I am embarrassed, but not because of you. I’m embarrassed for you.”

“You aren’t making any sense.” He wondered briefly if she’d hit her head when she’d fallen.

The priestess drew a deep breath and let it out in an exasperated sigh. Then she offered her hand and forearm to him, saying, “Merry meet, Bryan Dragon Lankford. I am Professor Anastasia, the new priestess of spells and rituals at the Tower Grove House of Night.”

“Merry meet, Anastasia,” he said, gripping her bare forearm, which was soft and warm to his touch.

“Professor Anastasia,” she corrected him. Too soon, she released her grip on him and said, “You weren’t meant to know about this spell.”

“Because you don’t want anyone to know you want me?” Including me, he added silently to himself.

“No. The spell has nothing to do with wanting you. It’s the opposite, actually,” she said. And then in a voice that sounded as if she was lecturing a classroom of fledglings, she continued. “This is going to sound unkind, but the truth is I am here to cast what amounts to an anti–Dragon Lankford spell.”

Her words took him aback. “Have I somehow done something to offend you? You do not even know me. How could you dislike me?”

“It isn’t that I dislike you!” she said quickly, almost as if she was trying to cover something up. “Here is the truth of the matter: in the fortnight I have been teaching at Tower Grove House of Night fifteen fledglings have come to me to ask for love spells with which to bespell you.”

Dragon’s eyes widened. “Fifteen? Really?” He paused and took a quick mental count. “I can only think of ten girls who would want to bespell me.”

The professor didn’t look at all amused. “I would say you underestimate yourself, but I do not think that is possible. So I’ll just assume you are better at swordplay than addition. Be that as it may, I came out here tonight intending to cast a spell that would draw to each of your besotted admirers the truth of you so that they could see clearly and honestly that you aren’t the right mate for them, which would end their silly infatuations,” she finished in a rush.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so surprised. No, that wasn’t true. The last time he’d felt this kind of soul-deep surprise was when the night had been illuminated to reveal the masthead of a ship and a new life. He shook his head and said the first thing that came to mind. “This is hard for me to believe. You really dislike me. Women usually like me. Quite a lot, actually.”

“Obviously. That is why thirteen of them asked for me to bespell you.”

He frowned. “I thought you said fifteen before.”

“Thirteen girls. Two boys,” she said dryly. “Apparently boys like you quite a lot, too.”

Unexpectedly, Dragon laughed. “There you have it! Everyone likes me, except you.”

“What I do not like is the thought that so many impressionable young fledglings are infatuated with you. It’s simply not healthy.”

“Not healthy for whom? I feel just fine.” He smiled at her then, turning on every bit of his charm.

Dragon thought he saw her stern look relax a little and those big turquoise eyes soften, but her next words dashed cold water all over him.

“If you were more mature you would care about others’ feelings.”

He scowled. “Really? I’m almost twenty.” Dragon paused and looked her up and down appraisingly. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Twenty-two! That’s too young to be a professor and too young to be lecturing me on being more mature.”

“And yet I am your professor of spells and rituals, and someone should lecture you about what you would be if you acted older. Who knows, with a little guidance you might grow up and be a Warrior of integrity and honor.”

“I have just returned from games where I earned the title of Sword Master. I already have integrity and honor, even though I’m not yet a fully Changed vampyre.”

“You can’t win integrity and honor from games. You can only earn them from living a life dedicated to those ideals.” Her eyes held his and he realized that she wasn’t speaking to him with condescension. She sounded oddly sad—almost defeated. And Dragon had no idea why that made him suddenly want to say something—do something, anything that would make the little furrow of worry on her otherwise smooth brow disappear.

“I know that, Anastasia—Professor Anastasia,” he corrected himself this time. “I am already dedicated to my Sons of Erebus training. I will be a Warrior someday, and I will uphold their standards of honesty and loyalty and valor.”

He was pleased to see her smile, though it was slight. “I hope you do. I think you could make an extraordinary Warrior someday.”

“I’m already extraordinary,” Dragon said, his smile back.

And then she surprised him again by looking him squarely in his eyes, almost as if she was a Warrior herself, and saying, “If you’re so extraordinary, then prove it.”

Dragon brandished his sword and bowed to her, hand fisted around the hilt, pressing it to his chest just as if he was a full Son of Erebus Warrior and she his priestess. “Send me on a task! Point me at the bear I must slay to prove myself worthy.”

This time her smile was full, and Dragon thought it lit up her already beautiful face with a happiness that seemed to glow around her. Her mouth, with its full lips tilted up, was distracting him so that he had to blink in confusion and say, “What? Me?” when he realized she was pointing directly at him. “Even a vampyre who is too young to be a professor should be able to see that I am not a bear.”

“I was assuming you were speaking metaphorically when you asked me to set you on a quest to prove your worth.”

“Quest?” He blinked. He’d just been kidding. What was she thinking?

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t really qualify as a full quest, but it is a way you can prove to me that you’re extraordinary.”

He took a swaggering step toward her. Now this was more like it! “I am ready to do your bidding, my lady,” he said in his most charming voice.

“Excellent. Then come over here to my altar. You are going to help me cast this spell.”

His swagger ended. “You want me to help you with a spell that will make girls dislike me?”

“Do not forget the two boys. And the spell won’t make them dislike you. It will make them see you more clearly because it will get rid of their haze of infatuation for you.”

“I have to tell you, this sounds a little dodgy to me. It seems a lot like cutting my arm off to prove that I’m an extraordinary swordsman.”

“You do not have to help me.” She turned back to the altar, fussing with the element candles and then the three little velvet bags that sat beside the chalice and food.

Dragon shrugged and started to walk away. It was no matter to him that this odd young priestess was set on making his love life difficult. So what if thirteen fledglings were no longer interested in him? (He didn’t count the guys.) One thing he’d learned since he’d first discovered the pleasures of women was that there were always women who wanted him. He had even started to chuckle to himself when her next words drifted across the distance between them.

“Actually, pay no mind to my request. You should be getting back to the House of Night. Dawn approaches. Most fledglings are already in their beds.”

He stopped and whirled around, wanting to spit fire at her. She’d spoken to him as if he was a child! But she didn’t realize how her words had affected him. Anastasia was still puttering around the altar, her back to him, as if she had already completely erased Dragon Lankford from her mind.

She was wrong about him. He wasn’t a child and he didn’t lack honesty or loyalty or valor. He’d show her by … by …

And then he heard himself saying, “I’ll stay and help you with the spell.”

She looked over her shoulder at him and he saw surprise and something else, something that might have been pleasure and warmth in those big blue eyes. But her voice was nonchalant. “Good. Come over here and sit there, on the edge of the rock.” She pointed. “Be careful not to disturb the altar cloth or knock over a candle.”

“Yes, my lady. Anything you say, my lady,” he muttered.

As he rejoined her she raised a brow at him but didn’t say anything and went back to arranging the candle and neatening the altar.

Dragon studied her while she worked. His first impression of her held—she was a beauty: petite with long, wheat-colored hair that fell straight and thick to her waist. But even though she was small, she still had generous curves, which he could easily see through her sheer linen top and flowing blue skirt. He didn’t usually pay much attention to what women wore—he preferred his women naked—but Anastasia’s clothing was decorated with shells and beads and fringe, making her look fey and Otherworldly, an effect that was enhanced by her tattoos, which were graceful vines and flowers, so exquisite in detail they looked real.

“All right. I’m ready to begin again. Are you?” she asked.

He blinked and shifted his attention to the altar, not liking that she’d caught him staring. “I’m ready. Actually, I’m looking forward to hearing the names of the fledglings who asked for love spells.” He turned his gaze from the altar to meet hers, being sure he put a challenge in his voice.

Anastasia’s look remained unruffled. “Because you are aiding me with the spell, I won’t need to call the fledglings’ names. Your presence and cooperation add enough strength to my casting that it will affect anyone who has been distracted by you.”

Dragon exhaled with a snort. “It sounds like it’s a good thing I don’t have a ladylove at this moment. What we’re about to do would certainly mess that up.”

“No, it wouldn’t. Not if that person was truly interested in you and not some overblown image of you.”

“You make me sound like an arrogant ass,” he said.

“Are you?”

“No! I’m just me.”

“Then this spell will not affect anyone who wants just you.”

“All right, all right. I understand. Let’s get this over with. What do you want me to do?”

She answered with a question of her own. “You have taken three years of spells and rituals classes, haven’t you?”

He nodded. “I have.”

“Good, well, I’ll mix the spellwork herbs in your hand. Hold it up like a cup.” She demonstrated with her own. “Like this. The herbs touching you will help lend strength to the spell. Do you think you could manage the completion of at least some of the parts of the actual spellwork if I lead you through it?”

He stifled his irritation. She didn’t sound patronizing. She sounded as if she hadn’t actually considered the possibility that he might enjoy class—might be good at anything besides swordplay.

Professor Anastasia was in for a surprise.

“If you have to ask, you must not have checked out my class work record from the previous spells and rituals professor,” he said blandly, hoping that his tone would make her believe she would have found one substandard grade after another.

The young professor sighed heavily. “No, I did not.”

“So all you really know about me is how infatuated some of the other fledglings are with me.”

Her eyes met his and, again, he saw an emotion he couldn’t identify in their cornflower depths. “I know that someday you will be a Warrior, but that does not mean you can cast a spell.”

“All I can do is to give you my word I will do my best tonight,” he said, wondering why it mattered at all to him what she thought.

Anastasia paused, as if she was choosing her response carefully. When she finally spoke it was just to say a simple, “Thank you, Bryan.” And she bowed her head slightly, respectfully, to him.

“Call me Dragon,” he said, trying not to show how much that one small sign of respect had affected him.

“Dragon,” she repeated. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting. It’s just that ‘Bryan’ seems to suit you.”

“You would know that ‘Dragon’ suits me were you on the other side of my sword,” he said. And then realizing how arrogant that must have sounded he added hastily, “Not that I would ever attack a priestess. I just meant that if you saw me during a swordfight you would understand my nickname. When I fight I become the dragon.”

“That probably won’t happen any time soon,” she said.

“You truly dislike me.”

“No! It has nothing to do with you. I dislike violence. I was raised—” Anastasia broke off, shaking her head. “That has nothing to do with the drawing spell, and we need to keep focused. Let’s begin. Take three deep, slow breaths with me and clear your mind, please.”

Dragon didn’t want to. He wanted to ask her about how she’d been raised—about what had happened to her that had made her dislike violence so much—but the three years of spells and rituals training had him automatically following her lead and breathing along with her.

“The circle is already cast; we won’t need to redo that,” she said, taking a thick braid of half-burned grass from the altar. Anastasia glanced at him. “Do you know what this is?”

“Sweetgrass,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Do you know what it’s used for in spellwork?”

He made himself hesitate, as if he had to think hard to remember the answer. “Clearing negative energy?” Bryan purposefully made the answer into a question.

“Yes. That’s correct. Very good.” Anastasia spoke to him like he was a first-year fledgling. He hid his smile from her while she held the braided grass over the green earth candle. It relit easily. Then, wafting it clockwise around them, she turned to him and said, “I begin with sweetgrass to cleanse this space…” She paused, giving him an expectant look.

“Any negative energy must leave this place.” With no hesitation, he said the rest of the opening spellwork line that completed the sweetgrass cleansing.

She beamed her pleasure in a sweet smile that made his breath catch in his throat, and Dragon was suddenly very, very glad he’d always been especially good at spells and rituals.

Anastasia placed the smoking braid back on the altar and then she took a pinch of herbs from the first velvet bag. She walked to him and he held his hand up for her, palm cupped, as she’d shown him. Anastasia sprinkled the bits of dried leaves, whose smell was familiar to him not just because he’d recently had the things blown in his face but also because he actually had spent the past three years paying attention in class. So when the priestess said, “Awareness and clarity come with these leaves of bay…,” paused, and glanced at him it was an automatic, easy response for him to complete the line with, “Through earth we call their power today.”

She rewarded him with another sweet smile before going to the second velvet bag. She returned to sprinkle dried needles over the bay leaves. “Cedar, from you it is courage, protection, and self-control I seek.”

“Lend us your strength so that this spell shall not be weak,” he recited quickly, not waiting for her pause.

This time Anastasia’s smile seemed thoughtful, which made Dragon feel self-satisfied. More than a little smug, he was sitting there, smiling, knowing that the last ingredient of the spell would be salt to bind it, when the priestess shocked him completely by reaching forward and resting her hand softly on his head. He felt a jolt at her touch and his gaze went to hers. Her eyes widened and her voice definitely sounded breathless as she said, “A part of this spell should come from you…”

She paused and this time all he could do was sit there, silent, with his pulse pounding as her hand slid down toward his cheek. “So that it is cast straight, strong, and true.” Her slim white fingers wrapped around several strands of hair that had escaped from the piece of leather that held the rest of it back, out of his way. Then she tugged. Hard. And plucked several strands from his head, which she dropped into his waiting palm.

Dragon resisted the urge to yelp and rub his scalp.

Only then did she turn to the third velvet pouch and come back with the crystals of salt, but she didn’t sprinkle them over the mixture in his hand. Instead she took his other hand and led him from where he was sitting on the altar rock. Slowly, as she still held his hand in hers, the two of them began to walk clockwise around the glowing candles. Anastasia’s voice changed as she got to the heart of the spell. Dragon couldn’t complete the lines for her because he’d never heard this particular casting, but as she spoke and they moved around the stone he could feel the power of the spell wash over them. He became caught in her words, drawn to them as if they had texture and touch.

“A drawing spell is what we work tonight.

Our wish is to cast clarity of sight.

With leaves of bay we will reveal the truth

Love should not be based on arrogant youth.

Cedar strength protects from the boy’s misdeeds,

Lends courage and control to fulfill their needs.”

Dragon was so caught up in the sound of her voice that it took him a moment to process what she was actually saying. By the time he understood she was probably calling him an arrogant miscreant, they’d come to a halt before the red fire candle and she turned to face him. Cradling his hand that cupped the herbs, she added the salt to the mixture, intoning, “Salt is the key to bind this spell to me.”

Then she guided their joined hands over the red candle and, as she scooped out the mixture and fed it to the flame, said, “In this flame the magick cuts like a sword drawing only the truth of Bryan Dragon Lankford!”

With a whoosh! the flame ate the mixture, blazing up so high that Dragon had to pull his hand back to avoid being scorched.

At the Tower Grove House of Night, fifteen young fledglings paused. It was near enough to dawn that seven of them were already asleep, and in their dreams drifted a suggestion, scented with bay and cedar.

This then is true:

Dragon Lankford’s future will not touch you …

Sally McKenzie was giggling with her roommate, Isis, and talking about how handsome Dragon was when suddenly she cocked her head and told Isis, “I—I think we should change our minds.

“He is brave—he is strong—

but for both of us Dragon Lankford is wrong.”

Isis, her giggles stilled, shrugged and nodded in agreement. Both girls blew out their bedside lights and went to sleep feeling more than slightly uneasy.

Into the two infatuated boys’ minds came the clear thought:

You will never know Dragon Lankford’s touch;

his desires are not as such.

One fledgling wept quietly into his pillow. The other stared at the full moon and wondered if he would ever be loved.

Four of the six fledglings who were finishing their turn at kitchen duty hesitated at their work. Camellia looked at Anna, Anya, and Beatrice and said:

“I am too smart

to believe Dragon would ever give me his heart.”

Anna gasped and dropped the porcelain cup she was holding. It shattered into the stunned silence.

“I would believe I found love in his bed,

but he would use and discard me instead.”

Then Anya spoke, bending to help Anna clean up the shattered cup:

“His sword is his life;

I care not for such strife.”

Next, Beatrice’s face lost all of its color as she whispered:

“A human consort is my fate.

With a vampyre I will never find my true mate.”

In the sumptuous living quarters of the Tower Grove House of Night’s High Priestess, Pandeia was welcoming her mate into their bed when Diana’s beautiful face registered surprise and she said:

“The Lankford fledgling’s fate will be

beyond what you or I could possibly see.”

“Diana? Are you well?” Pandeia touched her mate’s cheek and looked deep within her eyes.

Diana shook her head like a cat ridding itself of water. “I am. I–that was odd. Those words were not mine.”

“What were you thinking of before you spoke?”

She shrugged. “I suppose I was wondering if all the Warriors had returned from the games yet, and was thinking that Dragon has done our House proud.”

The High Priestess nodded, suddenly understanding. “It is Anastasia’s spell. It has drawn the truth about Dragon to those who were thinking of him at its casting.”

Diana snorted. “I am hardly a besotted fledgling.”

Pandeia smiled. “Of course you are not, my love. This demonstrates the strength of young Anastasia’s spell. We can rest assured there will be no obsessed fledglings trailing about after him tomorrow.”

“I almost feel sorry for the boy.”

“Do not. If any of the fledglings were meant to love him, a splash of reality wouldn’t wash true love away. And anyway, what was revealed to you shows that Dragon does, indeed, have a bright future.”

Diana returned her mate’s embrace, saying, “Or, at the very least, he’ll have an interesting one.”

At the Chicago House of Night, where the Vampyre Games had recently concluded, Aurora, a beautiful young vampyre, paused mid-word in the letter she was composing to the fledgling who had warmed her bed and her heart after he had defeated every swordsman who came against him. Dragon Lankford had claimed the title of Sword Master, along with Aurora’s affection. Yet now she found herself putting aside her quill and lifting the thin paper sheet to touch the flame of the closest candle to her as she realized the truthfulness of the words that flitted through her mind whispering:

It was but a fling.

Another vampyre will truly make my heart sing.

What had she been thinking? Dragon had been a lovely diversion and no more.

And, finally, inside the forbidding brick building that served as jailhouse for St. Louis, Missouri, the whispers on the wind drifted down … down … down … to the bowels of the place and the hidden room in which Sherriff Jesse Biddle paced back and forth in front of the creature he held his captive in a cage of silver. He didn’t actually talk to it so much as talk at it. “I have to learn how to use more of your power. I need to be able to stand against the vampyres. They’re too blatant. It’s like they think they’re normal—that they have a right to be here!” he shouted. “I hate ’em. I hate ’em all! Especially that snot-nosed brat of a fledgling. You shoulda seen him get off the boat tonight. All big chested with his victory. Do you know what he calls himself? Dragon Lankford! He ain’t no dragon. He’s the same little bastard who’s been struttin’ round here for three years with that bright, shiny sword actin’ like he’s better then everyone—every human. What an arrogant little son-of-a—”

The keening from the creature was eerie. It made Biddle’s skin crawl.

“Shut up or I’ll throw some of that salt water on you again. That’ll burn you up good like the proper chicken you are!”

Eyes that looked disturbingly human in the face of the enormous raven met his. Though the creature was only semi-substantial, its eyes glowed a strong, steady red.

“Through your obsesssssion with Dragon Lankford hissss future I ssssee.

He will change hisssstory.”

Biddle looked at the thing with disgust. “Why would I care about that?”

“His love issss the key

to defeat the likessss of you and me.”

“What are you talking ’bout, foul beast?”

“If Dragon is allowed to burn bright

he will extinguish the Dark light.”

That caused Biddle to pause. He’d trapped this semi-substantial manbeast as it absorbed the last bits of strength from a dying Indian Shaman. The old redskin had managed to throw this strange cage of silver around the creature, but the Shaman had been too weak—too near death—to recover from the creature’s attack when Biddle had happened by the old man’s shack. The old man’s last words had been: “Burn sweetgrass to ward it off. Weight the cage with turquoise stones. Throw it in a barrel of salt water so that it can never take another’s power…”

Biddle had quickly decided he’d be damned if he’d waste his time following an old, dead Injun’s orders. He started to go, leaving the body and the thing in the cage for the next passerby to clean up.

Then the creature had turned its red eyes on him.

Human eyes.

Almost as repulsed as he was fascinated, Biddle had moved closer to try to see exactly what the thing was.

It was then that Biddle saw them. The moving darkness within the shadows surrounding the thing.

He’d come closer to the cage.

It was then that Biddle felt it. The power that slithered from the creature, through the cage, and along the floor to the dead man, and there it paused and hovered and then descended into the blood that had pooled on the ground around his mouth.

Something about that wriggling, shadowy darkness had goaded Biddle to move, to get closer, to touch. Acting on an impulse from the basest part of his mind, Biddle stepped between the cage and the dead man, wading into the strands of darkness.

Remembering, Sherriff Biddle closed his eyes in ecstasy. The pain had been cold and sharp and immediate, but so had been the power and pleasure that had swelled though him as some of the darkness had been absorbed through his skin and into his soul.

Biddle hadn’t destroyed the creature.

He’d kept it trapped and fed it blood, but only occasionally. Because what if by feeding the thing got stronger—just like Biddle did. What if it managed to break through the cage of silver?

And now Biddle stared at the semi-formed creature of shadow and tried to convince himself he was not held as captive as his prey.

Then the thing, moving restlessly, spoke in a strange singsong with more animation than it had shown in the fortnight he’d had it, repeating:

“Hear the truth this night:

If Dragon is allowed to burn bright

he will extinguish the Dark light.”

Biddle moved closer to the cage. “The Dark light. You mean the stuff you’re made of—the stuff that surrounds you.” The stuff I can sometimes siphon from you, he thought but didn’t say.

The creature’s red gaze met his, and Biddle knew it hadn’t mattered whether he’d said it aloud. The thing knew.

“Yesss, to keep the power you desire

you must kill his love, the Anastasia vampyre.”

Dragon was still blinking bright dots of flame away from his vision when he smiled at Anastasia and said, “Your spell seems to have worked.”

“Our spell,” she said softly, and gifted him with another smile. “Our spell was strong.” Anastasia paused and then asked, “Would you close the circle with me?”

A rush of unexpected pleasure had him not trusting his voice, so Dragon only nodded.

“Good, I’m glad. It’s only right that we close it together.” Anastasia tilted her head back and said, “Thank you, spirit, for joining our circle tonight.” Then she leaned down and blew out the purple candle.

Dragon went to the green candle, cleared the thickness from his throat, and said, “Thank you, earth, for joining our circle tonight.” He blew out the flame.

In turn, together, they thanked water, fire, and air. Then the young professor faced him, took both of his hands in hers, and said, “Thank you, Bryan Dragon Lankford, for joining my circle tonight.”

It was at that moment that Bryan Dragon Lankford realized that Anastasia wasn’t just a beautiful vampyre and a gifted priestess. She was the most beautiful vampyre and most amazing priestess he’d ever seen. And without thinking, he bent and kissed her smiling lips.