Drink of Me (7 page)

“I didn’t find out how she was originally injured,” he said apologetically. “I fear that was only half the hell she’s been through.”

“You did enough.” Reule frowned darkly, lines of disturbed emotion etching into his forehead. “I’m sorry I even asked. Now I’m left with still more questions.”

Darcio nodded, his body aching with the ghosts of pain and brutalization.

Reule had one answer that he’d not had at the start of this, however.

He now knew why she felt such sorrow.

After he’d bathed, dressed, and taken some supper, Reule entered Chayne’s quarters. To his surprise, the room was in a total uproar. Chayne was the center of a ruckus that looked like a mass wrestling competition, he realized a moment before an arc of blood spattered in droplets against him.

“What in the name of all that is holy are you doing?”

Reule’s bellow sounded like the hard crack of a whip, and everyone, including the heavily panting Chayne, froze in mid-tableau. Delano, Saber, and the smaller man Reule recognized as the apothecary all turned their heads to look at their thunderous Prime’s visage. Rye, who was standing back as though supervising, was closest to Reule and also turned. Delano and Saber, it appeared, were attempting to secure Chayne to the bed by physical force so the apothecary could tend him. How Chayne was even moving after so much blood loss was beyond Reule.

The Prime was infuriated and he made it very clear with an emanation that sent his Packmates staggering.

“Damn!” Rye yelped, jumping back from his Packleader in shock.

“Uh!” Delano concurred, bolting away from the bed. Saber staggered back as well, the Prime Defender swinging around hard to stare at his leader. The apothecary cringed and shook.

“Back off!” Reule commanded even though they were backed away already. “Would someone care to tell me why you’re wrestling with an injured man?” But they all knew that Reule was really asking how they dared try to strong-arm Chayne when they knew—absolutely
knew
—it was the worst way to go about getting his compliance. Chayne loathed being held down. In light of his recent captivity, it would be even less tolerable to him.

Chayne, the last one he’d demand an answer from, ground out in response, “That demented son of a bitch was going to clamp that contraption on me!” Chayne swung a shuddering arm toward the apothecary. An arm, Reule noted, that had been broken when it had been skewered by a steel spike.

“By the Lord,” Reule swore as his Packmate’s agony beat at him. Yet he forced himself to move closer. Chayne’s other arm and his legs were no better off.

The contraption in question made Reule’s blood curdle as he laid eyes on it. The steel vises were meant to hold realigned bones together, screwed tightly in place against the skin to form support. But this was often at the cost of utter agony and flesh that would break down over the weeks of healing. Most men opted for splints, taking their chances with lameness rather than facing a vise. Reule himself had done so once when a sword strike to his upper arm had broken the long bone. Bearing four splints on four broken or very likely shattered bones would be sheer hell, but vises as well? It was unthinkable, and he didn’t blame Chayne for finding the power despite his suffering to resist those who thought to force him.

“Since when,” Reule asked through gritted teeth, “do we force a sane, independent friend to go against his wishes?”

“The bones are sh-shattered, M-my Prime,” the apothecary stammered, though Reule had been addressing him not at all.

Reule swung a black glare at him, and a percolating growl of fury elicited a gasp of fear from the physician. Then he glowered in turn at the three others in the room. “I await an answer,” he spat, dismissing the apothecary’s response.

“We weren’t. W-we would never!” Delano said, cursing when he realized he was stammering as well. “We were trying to calm him after the apothecary tried to put on the vise, but he got more upset and started flailing. Reu…My Prime,” he corrected himself, choosing formality at Reule’s black scowl, “we’ve all been faced with vises at one time or another. We’d never take the choice away from Chayne. It just got out of hand.”

“Chayne—” Reule moved Delano back and looked down at his friend as he lay quivering with nauseating agony. “They’ll use no vises. You have my word. But you must allow me to put you to sleep. There’s no need for you to suffer.”

Chayne shook so hard his chestnut brown hair vibrated with motion, but only his tan eyes, dull with suffering, moved to look up and acknowledge him. It was difficult to watch him, to know that the damage to some bones was likely to be irreversible. It was worse than a death sentence, and Reule felt his friend’s recognition of it. Chayne also knew that none of his companions would condescend to him or act with pity. What Reule offered was mercy. Mercy for a boyhood playmate, whom he knew as well as he knew himself, who’d rather die than beg for what Reule was offering to him.

Chayne
could
accept a request made by his Packleader, however, and still maintain his dignity. “No drugs,” he rasped out, blood appearing on his lips as he spoke. He shook so hard, he’d bitten his tongue. “Sleep only, Reule.”

Reule nodded. Even in torturous pain, Chayne sought a way to justify accepting the offer to put him under a forced sleep. Drugs weakened a man and, as with the vises, few Sánge males accepted them.

Reule wasted no time. The Pack knew the moment their leader swept into Chayne and seized his mind. The shaking of his body halted and Chayne went still, his breath holding…holding…and then the release of a rushing exhale, and Chayne was in oblivion.

The rest of the Pack should be so lucky. When Reule whirled to face them, it was with another snarl of displeasure. He even flashed fangs, though mostly at the apothecary. “With all the years each of you have known Chayne, what made you believe that
holding him down
was the way to calm him?” It was a rhetorical question because Reule gnashed his fangs when Rye opened his mouth to argue. “Leave!” he snapped at them. “I will tell myself that three days without sleep or food have impaired your judgment!” Reule’s contemptuous look at Saber spoke volumes for the fact that the Prime Defender had no such excuse, as he’d not been out on excursion with them. “And as for these…”

Reule marched over to the apothecary and snatched the offensive metal vise from his hand. The contraption, with its cuffs and screws, looked like the instrument of torture it was. “These,” he hissed, “are banned from this keep. You will never bring them onto these grounds again, is that very clear?” The vise crashed down on the table with a clang.

“B-But…” the physic sputtered.

“If you do, I will have your balls cut off. Can I make it any clearer?” There was no need. The apothecary swallowed and nodded. “Now, you will care for him as you would me,” Reule commanded the physician.

Disgusted and furious still, Reule gave them all a sharp nod before he drew his temper up around himself and attempted to take it with him when he left. It was apparent by the chills that washed through the room that he wasn’t entirely successful in his endeavor.

Pariedes found him a few hours later sitting before the fire in his study. She moved in near silence, thinking he was probably asleep after the ordeal of the past few days, but as she came up on him, she saw him turn his head and incline his chin to acknowledge her.

“How is our guest, Para?”

“Fast asleep, My Prime,” she responded promptly, although he probably could have taken the information from her mind.

Prime Reule had manners and used courtesies, unlike others who thought-read whenever the impulse struck because they believed it was a birthright to nose around in everyone’s business. Prime Reule preferred to cultivate spoken conversation and disdained the discourtesy of strip-mining his people for information just because he was the most powerful telepath in the city. He also expected the same of those within his circle.

The exception was, of course, the Packmates. Packmates were the sworn companions of the Prime Packleader. As such, the group was in constant mental conversation with one another. They did not use words, but a harmony of connectivity that made them always aware of one another. A Packmate had to consciously work to break away from the collective awareness of the Pack if he sought privacy. They were welcome to do so, but the Pack had existed in this connective state for so long that it became uncomfortable for a Packmate to remain closed off for very long. It also became discomforting for the Pack to be missing the input of a member.

Para had cared for Prime Reule’s household for five decades now, and she had learned a great deal about the workings of the Pack. She knew that none of them would rest easy as long as Chayne suffered pain. With the added distractions of sleeplessness, worry, and the volatile mystery of an unexpected guest in the house, it didn’t surprise her to find her master staring dumbly into a fire.

“She was out on her feet. Tetra and I barely had her nightgown on before she was in dreams.” Para fussed around the room as she spoke to him, tidying up things he’d set carelessly aside, including a wineglass that sat empty nearby. “She asked for you many times,” she ventured.

“You cared for her far better than I would have,” he murmured in reply.

“Shall I inform you when she wakes so you may visit with her? That apothecary wanted access to her,” Para added with a scowl, “but I believe sleep is the only medicine she needs. And plenty of good hot food. She ate like a starving animal. I was forced to moderate her lest she make herself ill.”

“So you sent the apothecary away, I take it?” he asked, turning inquisitive hazel eyes on her, the expression making his handsome visage seem boyish. Since his looks were quite dark and fierce, it was a surprising turn of countenance. It made Para smile at him warmly.

“I did,” she pronounced, straightening her shoulders in silent challenge. “He’s a quack, plain and simple. She’s better off with herbal wraps for the wounds on her body and, as I said, food and sleep.”

“Para,” he said, her name a warning, “I don’t enjoy having my orders countermanded without being consulted. I would have heard your arguments. You shouldn’t have gone behind my back.”

“’Twas not going behind your back, nor a defiance of orders, My Prime,” she argued firmly. “You never specifically said she had to see the physic. She was asleep, resting, and calm at last. That fool would have upset her all over again. Especially if he thought to touch her. She would barely let Tetra and me touch her.”

Reule lifted a brow and exited his chair in a smooth movement so he could face Pariedes and digest her curious remark. “She struggled with you?” he asked.

“She pitched a regular fit, My Prime,” Para informed him with a snort. “And if I might say so, that girl is battered and starved within an inch of her life, and I dread to see how strong she is when she’s perfectly healthy!”

Para had a point, Reule thought as he folded his arms across his chest and regarded the servant. He recalled the strength his foundling had used when she’d been trying to keep hold of him. It was another piece in the puzzle of her identity.

“Very well. I want you checking on her as though she were a baby, Para. Be frequent and attentive. Tetra was a good choice. See to it she helps you so you’re not overwhelmed.”

“Yes, My Prime,” she said, offering him a dipping bow of respect before hustling out of the room.

Once she was gone, Reule turned back to the fire, standing with feet braced apart as he stared hard into the flames once again. His mind was abuzz with questions and concerns. He knew he should let everything go for now and take to his bed, that he’d solve nothing without sleep to clear his roiling mind, but he was too disturbed to find rest. Most of the Pack was abed, save himself and Darcio. Darcio too was sitting and brooding, and it left Reule with the bad taste of guilt in his mouth. He knew Darcio feared his dreams after experiencing the agony of their unexpected guest’s body memories. There was no way of helping him. He knew his Shadow well enough to know that he preferred his own company and introspection in times like this.

The mystery of the outlander woman wasn’t even worth thinking about any longer. He could make no more sense of it than he already had. But Reule couldn’t make himself dismiss the memory of his volatile physical reaction to her. It wasn’t just because he couldn’t shake the lingering feel of her body wrapped around him, the warmth of her, the feel of her fingers in his hair…No. It was all about his lack of control. It disturbed him until his gut was taut with tension.

When a Sánge male reached Reule’s age, he’d been in his sexual prime for a good twenty years. Oh, he had known the true craft of lovemaking since his twenties, but males like the majority of his Pack hit a powerful sexual stride around their seventies, lasting fifty years before calming into a steadier pace. Females went through something similar, but it tended to occur a little later in their lives. Sánge were a strongly sexual breed, but these periods, known as
mnise
, intensified their natural desires in triplicate in order to ensure perpetuation of the species.

Most of his Pack reveled in this increase in sexual appetite. Reule didn’t have the luxury of joining them as they sniffed after courtesans, women considered acceptable for dalliances. He had to be far more careful in his choices.

Not one of the Pack was mated, and none were interested in changing their bachelor status, a fact that frustrated court ladies who sought ambitious connections. There was only one way to secure a male against his will, and that was by bearing a child that was irrefutably his. So a great deal of care was needed when choosing partners if one didn’t wish to find oneself precipitously wed.

Courtesans were sterile females, of which there were, unfortunately, plenty. Since males rarely wished to wed a woman who couldn’t provide heirs, these women either lived as spinsters who never knew the touch of a man, or they became courtesans and mistresses to those men seeking the comforts of a woman without the risk of marriage. Until recently, Reule had kept such a mistress—Wenda, a juicy little redhead whom he’d taken delight in for nearly a year before dismissing her. She’d become complacent and dangerously attached, so he’d ended the association. She’d been hurt and angry, ruining what had been a good friendship.

It was a heady thing to be mistress to a king. Especially a bachelor king who had no wife to protect from a courtesan’s presence. It meant she could openly attend him in court and exhibit her powerful position. It could bring out the best in a woman. It could also bring out the worst. Unfortunately, Wenda had forgotten to take care in how she treated others during her installation as royal mistress. Her favor with him had protected her from the retaliation of the women she’d insulted, but the minute she’d been released from her shining spot, it had all come back to haunt her. She had forgotten that her power was temporary.