Rake My Lust (Dragons of Blood and Bone #3)

4. Awaken

4

AWAKEN

M y First Drake is furious as Captain Olander Mortensen leaves. With a snarl, Bjorn slaps the stone wall of our prison, then turns away from the iron-worked door.

He’s seething so hard, a simmering aura of crimson-gold Bloodwind is rushing off him now, though most of his dragon’s magic is still contained by his manacles. Strom raises his eyebrows at me and I frown. The Trial of Truth doesn’t sound like it’s as dire as my First Drake says.

From Bjorn’s reaction as he storms back to the brazier and takes deep breaths with his hands on his hips, getting his shit together with his calming techniques, I know it must be bad. Strom and I make our way over to him.

Wary, as I put my hand on his shoulder.

Once, Bjorn might have shrugged me off in his rage. Now, he just heaves a hard breath, closing his eyes and lifting his chin towards the ceiling of our stone prison, containing his dragon before he speaks.

“You don’t know what you’ve gotten us into, Rikyava.” His voice growls with more than just rage, vibrating with emotion at our predicament .

“So tell me. What are we in for, Bjorn, with this Trial of Truth thing?” I know we need to hash this out right now, or things might just go disastrously awry with whatever we are going to face next.

The bright crimson drakaina of my Blood Magic slithers up inside me now, nodding her glorious head with its mantle of red spikes in agreement. As she rises, the void-like black drake of my Bone Magic rises also, like a tower of night behind her. Its obsidian eyes glitter like ancient stars as it watches me. Because both sides of my Bloodwalker magic know this is bad now, as a deep instinct fills me.

Beyond bad—especially if we head into it with no idea of what we’re getting into.

“Are we in for a shitstorm, Bjorn?” Strom asks now as he stands at Bjorn’s other side, though he doesn’t try to touch Bjorn. “Is Jarl Oggi going to throw like three hundred of his most elite fighters at us or something?”

“No.” Bjorn shakes his head, though his mood doesn’t improve. “It’s worse than that.”

“So enlighten us.” I grip his shoulder, massaging him as I pour my drakaina’s energy into him. It eases Bjorn, to have my touch like this. It’s camaraderie, yet still a lover’s touch, as his tension lessens.

Though not his rage at what we’ve all just agreed to.

“It’s like this.” Bjorn glances at me, then Strom, his eyes burning all-gold now with the power of his drake. “The Magnussen Clan Trial of Truth is a hard trial both physically, mentally, and also metaphysically to prove your worth. It goes beyond proving that you’re not lying about something; it goes into a place of true heart, where you have to live in extreme righteousness to even pull the Trial off. Much less be proven truthful to the Ancestors by it.”

“Okay, so it’s an Ancestors thing. Well, we’ve got that in the bag, Bjorn,” I say with a firm smile now, gripping his shoulder. “I’m a Bloodwalker, and speaking to the Ancestors is my thing. We can do this. I’m sure of it. ”

“There’s more.” Bjorn eyeballs me, then gestures for us to sit upon the massive rug in our prison’s chamber, before the brazier. We do, eating now of whatever food is left, because Strom and I get the impression that we’re going to be up shit creek soon.

And we’re going to need our strength.

“Will they take these off so we can have our full magic for the Trial?” Strom shakes one manacle at Bjorn.

“They have to. It’s required that anyone who has called for the Trial be given their full power to do it.” Bjorn nods, though his look is still grim as he sets his jaw. “It is not a boon, though. Don’t count on the strength of your magic to get you through this. It’s the strength of your heart, and your conviction, that matters.”

“Tell us what we’re in for,” I say, as Bjorn’s dire manner has me more and more worried, both my dragon-magics churning deep inside.

“First, we fly far up into the mountains to a place where the Trial is conducted.” Bjorn glances at Strom and me, then gazes deep into the fire’s light. “Our hundred witnesses will come with us; by law, they will watch our entire Trial, and judge our Truth just as much as the Jarl does. The Trial opens with us in human form. My father will don a ceremonial item… then slash five deep rents across our bodies. Which won’t heal once we shift.”

“We do part of the Trial in dragon form. Injured.” Strom frowns, cocking his head. “Well, what the hell will we be doing, cut and bleeding out as our dragons? Fly a marathon or something?”

“We dive.” Bjorn glances at Strom. “The Trial’s location holds a lake that is sacred to our clan. We dive into that lake as our dragons and touch the Truthstone at the bottom… then the Ancestors judge whether we’re telling the truth.”

“The Truthstone?” I frown, as that term is unfamiliar. “What is that?”

“Who the fuck knows?!” Bjorn’s gold eyes burn. “I’ve never taken the Trial of Truth, Rikyava, for good reason. Only seven out of every hundred Blood Dragons who take the Trial ever live to tell about it, and they say nothing… only swear up and down they’d rather go to their living graves before doing it again. Ever.”

“Seven percent survival rate is not good odds.” Strom whistles low as his eyebrows rise. “Would we have been better off waiting around in this prison for a while to see if your father might cool down a bit?”

“For you and Rikyava, probably.” Bjorn snorts as I understand what deep shit I’ve just gotten us all in by demanding this Trial. “My father knows what a political shitstorm he would provoke by imprisoning either of you or by killing you. He was likely to let you both go after making you suffer a while.”

“You’re another matter.” I watch Bjorn as my drakaina snarls now in my veins, protective of her First Drake. “You’ve not only broken some very deep clan laws, you’re also a living contender for his Jarl’s seat. You should be the Magnussen Clan Jarl right now, since you beat your father in dragon-combat years ago, and everyone here knows it. And your father’s just the type of person to make an example out of you. Rather than show mercy for his only blood-son.”

“Mercy isn’t in a Magnussen’s nature.” Bjorn is wrathful now, as he simmers deep. I feel him, through our bond, churning with a dark bitterness in his heart, which has been there ever since he fought his father in single combat.

And won—but still failed.

“So to recap…” Strom interjects as we all stew about what we’re up against. “We get cut up by your father, who hates us, wielding some kind of magical ceremonial item that bleeds us like stuck pigs. Then we shift into our dragons and dive into a freezing glacial lake, down to the bottom, where some magical stone is. We touch the stone, have some kind of mystical encounter with the Ancestors, then hustle the fuck back up. Oh, and we have to not bleed out in the process or run out of air… something Blood Dragons are not terribly good at, breathing underwater, since we’re not fucking Sirens. ”

“That’s about it,” Bjorn rumbles as he eyeballs us. “You can see why the odds of survival aren’t good.”

“Do we run any risk of your father killing us outright,” I ask now, “when he has to cut us?”

“Not as much, no.” But Bjorn’s look is not good. “He doesn’t have to cut shallow or deep, though. He simply cuts… and whatever happens is fate.”

“Fucker’s going to slash us to the bone,” Strom snorts, shaking his head.

Suddenly, Strom’s rising from his seat before the fire, as I feel the dark crimson-green drake of his Bone Magic rise inside him. A slow, violet-black aura of Bone Magic whirls around him now, with deep crimson and forest green flickers, as Strom raises his dragon power as much as he can in his manacles.

Going to his knees, Strom strips away his polar bear pelt, then the jacket of his buckled leathers from the Old Palace, and finally, his undershirt. Before I can say lickety-split , he’s naked from the waist up, the ornate red and gold dragon tattoos that devour his chest and shoulders glimmering in the brazier’s light.

They snarl around his strong, wiry muscles, intertwined with raiding ships, whirling oceans, and Celtic-esque designs from our people.

Formidable and scary, with his dark Bone Magic whirling all around him.

“Did I miss something? Is it time to get naked? Since maybe we’re all about to die…?” I chuckle, though seeing Strom half-naked with his dragon’s natural power roiling off him like that sends my inner drakaina into a riot as she slithers hard inside my veins.

Strom’s Bone Magic is something he hides from all but the closest who know him. It makes everything roar up inside me with eagerness now, as Strom bares to us who he really is.

Something he’s only done a handful of times, so far .

“If we have time for sex, maybe.” Strom’s emerald eyes glint in the brazier’s light as he gives me a wry smile, though his emerald green irises have already gone brimstone-red around the edges with the power of his dragon. “But first, I need to do something. Bjorn, hand me your shoulder pelt.”

“Why?” But Bjorn doesn’t argue with Strom now, not like he once would have. He unbuckles his own white polar bear pelt from his shoulders, handing it over.

“Because the buckle is pure silver, if I’m not mistaken.” Strom is intent now as he deftly unclasps the buckle from the pelt, handing the massive pelt back to Bjorn but keeping the large, ornate buckle. “And I need something silver to do what I’m about to do next.”

“What are you going to?—”

Before I can even get the rest of the sentence out, Strom casts the silver buckle into the brazier. My eyebrows lift as we all watch the silver burn, slowly becoming molten in the brazier’s heat, since the sorcerous fire is forge-hot to keep it nice and toasty in our big, drafty cell.

As the silver runs from the buckle, the entire thing becoming misshapen as it melts, I wonder what Strom’s going to do. But then he concentrates all his magic, whirling slowly around him. Like a lance, he thrusts it down into one hand.

Then bends, sticking two fingers into the fire.

Strom takes up a dollop of burning silver—pressing it right to the tattoos over his heart. As he delivers the silver plus his magic there like a punch, he gives a short scream; I yelp too, as I feel pain skewer deep into my own heart, through the sliver of bond we still share.

Bjorn gives a bellowed grunt; we’re trying to pull Strom’s hand away, because even though he used whatever Bone Magic he had left right now, Bjorn and I can feel that molten silver burning Strom’s fingers and the skin over his heart down to the bone.

Strom fights us, however, shoving us both off, even though he can’t hammer us with his dragon’s magic right now. His lean form is wiry; he’s got far more power in his tight body than either Bjorn or I give him credit for. Even without magic, he has us stumbling to our asses upon the massive bear rug as he gulps deep breaths.

Tears of pain streaming down his face—as he holds his burning silver fingers to his heart.

“Don’t hold me back! I have to do it long enough…!” he gasps, as Bjorn and I watch in horror at what he’s doing, maiming himself like this.

“Those fingers won’t heal until you can shift, Strom—! Until these manacles are off and we head out for the Trial!” Bjorn snarls at him now, though it’s out of care, rather than wrath.

“I can deal with it!” Strom snarls back, even as he gives a keening cry between gritted teeth. “I have to awaken them! I have to call…”

Strom swoons then, and it’s all Bjorn and I can do to get to him fast enough before he simply falls over. We do, shoring him up under both arms as he collapses between us.

He comes to with a cry deeper than agony now; I feel a strange rush of power move through him, as something like memories flash inside my mind from our bond.

But with a shake of his head and a snarl through gritted teeth, Strom banishes whatever just happened, coming back to the moment. As his silver-burned fingers come away from his heart, I see a blistered hole coated in silver now, where they were.

That hole mars his most beautiful tattoo, right over his heart. Where once there was a snarling red dragon, roiling with golden geodesic lines and serrated scales over his left shoulder as it coiled around his heart, the face has become disfigured. That dragon had crystalline, sapphire blue eyes piercing out from its terrible, snarling visage.

One of them gone, now that the silver hole’s replaced it.

Strom’s flesh is still burning where the silver is. I can smell it and feel it through our truncated bond as he keens, as if whatever he just tried to do didn’t work.

It makes my drakaina snarl inside my veins, but my black drake is even more furious than that. I feel it as my Bone Magic rises high inside me now, a leviathan of wrath that Strom—its true mate—just got hurt.

But then I see a ripple of magic go all the way through Strom’s tattoos. He sees it, too, and gives a relieved cry now as Bjorn and I help him down to sitting on the bear rug. We watch in amazement as the tattoos upon Strom’s skin come alive now.

Writhing over his entire body, as dragons move, and roar in wrath.

It’s incredible as we watch those tattoos curl, whirl, and dance. The ancient knotwork they create is fascinating; closing his eyes, Strom takes a deep breath, then sets his palm to his ruined heart. He winces, but is committed to whatever he’s going to do.

“Go to my great-grandfather,” he says as I feel him spiral deep within, to the very center of his exhausted power. “Warn him of our predicament. Now.”

Like wildfire, I see Strom’s tattoos disappear from his skin. Where once there were a plethora of dragons, curling and snarling around his stark muscles with the big blue-eyed dragon in the center, they all rush off now, disappearing like mist from his ink.

It’s incredible, masterful Blood Dragon mystical work, as I watch all those feral dragons vanish. At last, Strom is left with only the largest dragon, coiled around his heart as it wraps around his left shoulder and ribs, to his back where it spirals up and down his spine, protective.

The big blue-eyed drake.

Its ruined eye is now repaired, however, as all the silver falls from Strom’s heart and fingertips, cold. Strom’s skin beneath the tattoos is vivid with red scarring, but at least his burns have healed somewhat from whatever magic his inkings possessed.

His fingertips, likewise, have healed; they’re not just raw bone anymore, but actual flesh, though those two fingers are contracted now from the damage they’ve taken. The skin of his fingers is a vicious red, mottled like the skin over his heart.

I’ll take it, though, as Strom breathes easier. As he finally inhales deep, letting it out, he sinks back to his hands on the bear pelt. He winces from his damaged hand—not just the contracted fingers, but also because it’s the same one he punched the wall with earlier—then simply flops down to his back.

Heaving a deep breath out.

“I’ve done all I can.” He glances at us. “Hopefully, it’ll be enough.”

“What in seven hells did you just do?” Bjorn asks in amazement as his gaze peruses Strom’s mostly bare skin now, though his last remaining dragon is still intense, stunning in its wrath.

“I sent my guardian dragons to my great-grandfather, my Jarl.” Strom gives a cheeky eyebrow lift now, as he manages a smile. “You didn’t think all that was just pretty ink, did you? It was done by my clan’s ancient ways, in my youth. To protect me, and help me, in times of great need. Of which, I believe this counts.”

“So you just… sent your guardian tattoo dragons to your great-grandfather, and they what, go give him a message?” I blink, astounded and having never even heard of such magic. “Is that a Bone Mage thing?”

“It’s just a deep Eriksson Clan secret, Rikyava.” Strom chuckles, though he cocks his head. “But now that you mention it, I’m not entirely certain the magic used to create these things for Eriksson Clan heirs aren’t Bone Magic. They’re powerful in battle with what they can do. Makes sense to me they might be ancient Bone Magic, kept sacred by my people for generations.”

“Amazing.” Bjorn whistles as he shakes his head. “What I wouldn’t give for that knowledge, to ink something like that upon my body. So you called your great-grandfather with your ink? Now what? Does he send a message back?”

“Hopefully, he sends a cadre of warriors, flown in to bust us out of here.” Strom growls now, though his eyelids droop as if the pain of burning himself with molten silver plus the metaphysical might of whatever he did with his tattoos was too much in his mostly magically-blocked state right now. “But it’s not a sure thing that my message will reach my Jarl, Bjorn. My tattoos have power, but they’re intended to protect the one they’re inked upon. That protection diminishes the further I send them from me. If my great-grandfather isn’t at the Old Palace right now, but someplace further away like Stockholm?—”

“The tattoos might not reach him,” I say, shocked as my eyebrows rise. “If they can’t make it to your great-grandfather… will they come back to protect you again?”

“Unfortunately, it’s sort of a one-use deal.” Strom pushes up to his elbows. His green eyes watch me, devoid of crimson now, as he gives it to me straight. “We’re in a bad situation right now, Rikyava, and if I can get us out of it without having to do the Magnussen Clan’s Trial of Truth, I’ll take that chance. Even though I’m left with only one protector now, my strongest, I’d sacrifice the others all over again if it meant we had even a fifty-fifty chance of surviving this. But a seven percent chance? Bjorn is right to fear this Trial. Because even for powerful Royal Blood Dragons like us, those are wickedly bad odds. And I don’t think Oggi Magnussen is going to do anything to help us survive this. He very well could make it a helluva lot worse.”

“You gave up your clan’s protection to save us,” I say now, touched, as I set a hand to his thigh. “I will not forget that.”

“Me, neither.” Bjorn sets a hand to his heart, honoring Strom gravely. “You’ve done a tremendous thing for us, Eriksson Jarl-Heir. I will remember it.”

“Hopefully, it gets us something.” Strom growls, even as he heaves a deep sigh. Relaxing to the floor again like he’s had the mickey taken out of him, his eyelashes flutter closed as he laces his fingers at his chest, avoiding the injured ones. “Now, I think I’ll take a little nap. Wake me when it’s time to get a move on.”

Bjorn and I glance at each other before we settle down beside Strom. As Bjorn wraps me in his big arms and I cuddle into Strom, we cinch close before the brazier’s warmth.

Waiting for what very well may be the hardest fight of our life.