Page 28 of The Last Slayer
The dragon’s guts spilled out, splattering onto the ground. A sharp metallic stench of blood mixed with digestive juices and semirotted flesh stung my nose. If I’d had the energy, I would have puked.
The wyrm keened eerily and collapsed. Its head smashed into the road, breaking it into little chunks and slamming me against the asphalt. I felt my bones crack, tendons and muscles tear loose. Fine black dust rose from the impact; breathing became difficult. I coughed blood and blinked. Things seemed suddenly far away and not all that important.
Ramiel landed on the wyrm’s cheek and glanced at me. His green eyes were crystal clear, his armor just like in my dream. God, he looked good. It wasn’t fair.
Bloody sword still in his hand, he leaned toward me. I had no idea what I should do. Maybe he wanted to fight. Maybe he wanted to decapitate me and show my head off to all his demon buddies.
My pain-drugged brain begged to shut down.
I let it.
***
Soft, warm breeze…light floral scents mingled with freshly cut grass…the murmur of a stream nearby.
My eyelids were too heavy to lift, but my other senses tuned to my environment and myself.
My maggot-eaten ribs no longer rose. The bones had snapped and punctured my lungs, filling them with blood. All of my organs felt like they had undergone a thorough pounding from a meat tenderizer. There wasn’t a single part of me left unbroken.
Yet my brain no longer registered pain. Maybe that part had been overloaded. Maybe I was dead, and nothing mattered anymore. If death meant no pain, I could stay dead for a while.
But only for a while.
A hand touched my chest. Not sexually, although somehow I knew it was a man. I couldn’t see him. But I could sense his movements. His hands traveled over my torso, checking my wounds. Why? I was beyond anyone’s reach. Not even the best healer could patch me up.
If I was going to die, it wasn’t such a bad way to go. Two wyrms in one day would be the stuff of hunter legends. Of course, I hadn’t killed the second one, but it was still dead.
The man finally rested his hands on my fractured skull, sticky with congealing blood. The touch was very gentle, almost hovering. Then his hands sank into my head, bypassing the shredded epidermis to the bones and the brain beneath.
All of a sudden the pain returned. I gasped at the agonizing burning. It shut down my senses to everything except itself.
His fingers moved gently and slowly. Wherever he went, pain followed. I tried to reject his touch. The dead deserve some peace and quiet.
His hands became more insistent as they remolded me, fit the pieces of my skull back together, ripped the still-wriggling spit-maggots from my body.
Then he moved to my neck, realigning my spine. Would it be enough to allow me to hunt again? A part of me was sourly amused that even after everything that had happened, I could still worry about my job.
He moved on to my torso. I could sense his breathing growing ragged with exertion and the draining of magic. Healing someone as damaged as I was—i.e., basically dead—takes an enormous reservoir of power, and I didn’t know anyone, at least any mortal, who had that much of it.
Furthermore, he was reaching me through the astral plane. Astral work requires extra concentration. One wrong move and both of us could very literally get stuck in limbo. Because of the sacrifice he was making—giving me his magic to save my life—I bore the pain without screaming. It was the least I could do.
Finally he reached my toes and stopped. I realized I could move again, even though my skin stung horribly. He hadn’t healed that, but I could live with it.
I kept my eyes closed. I focused on breathing instead, getting blessed air in and out of my lungs. His head rested between my bare breasts, cool silken hair covering my body. I raised my hand and wrapped the strands around my fingers. His left hand moved over my rib cage, the fingers gently skimming the skin. I winced at the burning sensation. The wyrm had flayed me, left patches of me on the asphalt.
The man’s lips touched my tattered skin. Searing pain squeezed all the air out of my lungs. My hands clenched into fists over his scalp, but he didn’t stop his agonizing assault.
Deep inside, a sliver of pleasure emerged through the red haze of pain. It was as if he controlled my body and its reaction to him. His lips ran all over me, closing my wounds and causing intense pain and pleasure equally, all mingling until I didn’t know where one ended and the other began.
It was a rebirth, and yet unbearable. I felt him on my skin, moving over the healed flesh, chec
king his work.
His lips found mine. Dazed and suddenly drugged with power, I returned the kiss, my mouth eager for his. His magic mingled with mine and magnified our strength.
He massaged my breasts gently, then tweaked a nipple. My breathing quickened, and I placed my hand over his, urging him to take me as he wanted.
His mouth traveled downward and enveloped my other nipple with a scalding heat. Crying out, I arched my back. I parted my legs and nestled him between my thighs. He fit perfectly there, but didn’t enter. Instead, he intensified his assault on my breasts, then moved down to my sex, licking my slick newly healed flesh.
