Page 130 of Vicious Is My Throne

Didn’t mean Corvus wasn’t here.

Because there was such a strange sense of otherness in this room right now, I could hardly even breathe. Something was very wrong. With Zor. With the darkness. With this wet, heavy air that smelled of…thunderstorms and lightning.

Or freshly spent magic.

“Zor?” I reached out, running my hand down his muscled arm, his skin damp to the touch, sweat beaded up all over him. “Zorander, you need to wake up.”

He groaned. Not in pain, but that rough, sleepy grumble of someone pulled out of a deep sleep. Good, he’s not hurting, so that’s something.

“Zorander Vayle,” I said, sharper this time. “Wake up. There’s something wrong.”

Because this close, I could see it wasn’t his spine that was twisted but the flesh of his back, forming two large bulging growths above his shoulder blades, like the bone was about to burst through the skin.

“’Naria, is that you?” he mumbled. “Had such strange dreams. I was flying, and you were flying beside me. We were in the mountains, and the moon was so beautiful.”

“Zor, does anything hurt?” I reached out, hesitated, then touched one of the bumps. Hard and bony, his tan skin stretched so taut over the protrusion I could see there wasn’t one bump, but a cluster of them. “Does this hurt when I touch it?”

His skin was hot, hotter than it should have been, like he was burning up from the inside, which would explain the damp sheets, the sweat pouring off him. All this darkness was leaching from him.

Magic, seeping from his pores.

Raziel was going to absolutely kill me for not calling him straightaway, but gods, I wasn’t about to leave Zor alone for a minute, not like this. “No, that itches.” He groaned again, rubbing against my hand with a guttural moan. “Scratch hard, will you? Right there. Yes. That feels better. Raz’s healing always itches like mad.”

“This isn’t…” I flattened my hand, something hard shifting against my palm beneath his clammy skin. I sent out a mental plea to Tavion, to Raz, to anyone who might hear me.

Come up to the bedroom. Now. We have a problem.

“I need you to think, Zor. Did something bite you before we found you, after the wall fell? Or when you crashed into the forest? Were you injured in any way?”

The darkness in the room was choking, saturated with his spicy clove scent, the nipping ozone bite of spent magic, and all this fucking humidity.

“Nothing bit me, and I’m not injured. Raz healed me, remember?” His eyes were hazy, dreamy almost. “Why do you look so worried? I feel good, ’Naria. I’m just tired. So tired I could sleep for a week. Two weeks.” His eyes slid closed, a languid smile curling the corners of his lips.

“No, no, Zor, stay with me. Stay awake.”

Downstairs, footsteps clattered across the marble floor, thundered up the carpeted steps, then raced down the hall. Tavion burst through the door first, weapon in hand, scanning the room for threats.

“Put the knife away. Not that sort of a problem,” I warned him sternly as Raziel and Tristan arrived, scanning the room as thoroughly as Tavion had.

“This is more of a medical sort of emergency.” I shifted so they could see Zorander’s back, and Tavion’s eyes widened. No doubt, with his enhanced sight, he could see in this gloom, but the rest of us couldn’t. I went to the windows and opened the drapes, light flooding the room in time for Bexley to step inside.

But even that sunlight was dimmed, filtered through the shifting shadows of Zorander’s magic choking the room. Water droplets raced down the window and every exhale was a foggy cloud in front of our mouths.

“Gods, that’s bright.” Zor held his hand over his eyes, the smile sliding off his face. “Is that really necessary, Anaria? You ruined a perfectly good?—”

“Shut up and let Raz look at your back,” Tavion muttered. “Why the fuck didn’t you say something last night, you fool?” He scented the air, his nose wrinkling as he detected the same mix of magic and otherworldly power as I had.

Zor’s brow furrowed as he finally seemed to grasp we were all staring down at him with a mixture of fear and horror. “Say anything about what, exactly?” he asked slowly.

“Sit up,” Raz ordered, his hands already coated with healing magic. “Wrap the sheets around you, for fuck’s sake. I have no desire to see you buck naked this morning.”

“Speak for yourself,” I muttered, earning me a saucy smile from Zor that I returned, feeling slightly ill. But as frightened as I was right now, there was no denying Zorander Vayle was a fucking work of art, carved by the gods themselves out of flesh and muscle, the perfect balance of power and lithe strength.

Perfect, except for those things sticking out of his shoulders.

“Stay still,” Raz scolded as he poked at one of the bumps.

“What is your problem? Your healing always itches like a motherfucker,” Zor grumbled, reaching around to scratch…then freezing. “What the fuck is that?”

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