Warriors of Wind and Ash (Merciless Dragons #2)

“Even if she hated me, I would save her,” I say quietly. “Even if she had sworn to crack my ribs open and claw out my heart upon our next meeting, still I would traverse oceans and mountain ranges for her, fly through a forest of voratrice tongues, brave the Mordvorren itself if I could spare her from pain.”

“Good god, you’re charmingly pathetic.” Meridian laughs and slams down a foaming tankard in front of me. Aeris sets another tankard down near Hinarax. “Drink up, boys. Drown your sorrows.”

I stare morosely at the ale. “Shouldn’t we practice more? I’m still shaky on the names of the other six Zairon princes—”

“No.” Meridian props his stick against the edge of the table and hoists himself up to sit beside Hinarax. “Enough practice. Trust me—this is what you need. You, too, handsome. Bottoms up.” He gives Hinarax a nudge and a wink.

“Bottoms up, indeed,” murmurs Hinarax, and he fixes the other man with a bold, heated stare.

Meridian’s cheekbones turn faintly pink, and he laughs again, but it’s a breathless sound, one which he drowns by snatching another mug of ale from a fellow rebel’s hand and taking three noisy gulps.

“Go on, Prince,” urges Aeris, her dark eyes fixed on me. Hinarax is already draining his tankard, while the rebels cheer him on.

If ale can temporarily blur the image of Serylla’s agonized face, I’ll swallow a barrelful. If it can help me cope with the fact that I had to fucking leave her there, with Rahzien… by the Bones, I’ll drink an ocean of liquor.

“It might sting at first,” warns Aeris as I raise my tankard.

At the first gulp, heat sears my tongue and throat, burning all the way down to my belly. It’s not exactly painful, but it’s startling.

I take another swallow. Warmth spreads through my gut, not unlike the sensation of my liquid fire when I’m in dragon form.

“Drink is the best way to forget the things you can’t change, until you get the chance to change them,” says Meridian, trailing his fingertips along Hinarax’s long locs. Hinarax licks the ale from his lips and faces the rogue, eye to eye. Energy pulses between them—the same energy I sensed between Thelise and Ashvelon. Hunger, need, and a wicked, reckless glee. The passionate quiver before the kiss.

I turn away and down the contents of my tankard. I’ll be a dragon again within the hour, and until then I’d rather not think about love, or loss, or Serylla’s pain, or my own.

“More,” I demand, shoving the empty tankard at Aeris.

She frowns uncertainly. “Are you sure? The full effect won’t hit you for a minute, so maybe you should—”

“Meridian says this drink can distract me.”

“Yes…”

“More. Please, Aeris.”

“Oh, very well.” She pours me another drink. “Go slowly this time… and you’ve already swallowed it down. Well, then. I guess we’ll see how fast a dragon shifter can get drunk.”

When I hold the tankard toward her again, everything slants, and I waver.

“Really fast, then.” Aeris chuckles, gripping my shoulder to keep me steady on my stool.

Time melts, turns liquid and slow. Warmth spreads through my chest and my limbs, and a pleasant haze floats through my brain. I still miss Serylla, but the pain of her absence is muted. I’m concerned about my clan, my eggs, everyone back on Ouroskelle—but the worry is softer. I’m not myself, and not being myself is a wondrous relief.

One of the rebels starts playing a fiddle, another a pipe. I’ve learned a few facts about instruments since we arrived here, because Meridian is addicted to music, and cannot present a lesson or invent a plan without a song playing in the background. He’s dancing without his walking stick, upheld in the strong brown arms of Hinarax, and they’re laughing, both of them, joking, as if nothing is wrong with the world as long as they are touching each other. I know that feeling. I miss that feeling.

When I turn back to Aeris, she’s watching Hinarax and Meridian too, smiling a little.

“More ale,” I say.

“I think you’ve had enough. When you can’t stand properly, that’s a sign to quit.”

“I can stand.” I haul myself to my feet.

“Yes, but can you dance?” She hops up, too, extending hands clad in ragged black gloves.

“I’ve never danced as a human. I don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you.”