Her finger slid over my tattoo around my left bicep. An intricate design that combined the sun, moon, and a flying fish with lines that weaved and blended, making nothing appear as it was. My tattoo on the back of my right shoulder was a scaled dragon breathing fire, but the body was transforming into a hawk that was in a dive.
My Ink was on my lower back and I’d had it all my life. The tiger sat on its haunches as if waiting for something. Well, the tiger would have to wait a long time because I had no intention of letting my Ink loose. My tiger was unmanageable, deadly and would destroy any in its path. When I released it, my Ink devoured without consequence. Lucky for me, Talu—that was what I called it—was content to remain concealed until I called upon him. Unlike Damien’s unstable Ink, which fought to rise every time Damien lost his temper, which was all the fuckin’ time.
“I like this one.” She lowered her head and kissed my bicep. “Do they mean anything?”
“No.” Talu would never be called to rise when near Danni. What the fuck was I talking about? After tonight, I’d never see her again. Even if I was sentenced to Rest, she was mortal. She’d be dead by the time I rose. Because, sure as shit, if the Deaconry didn’t kill me, they’d put me in Rest, a coma-like state, for a century. I tightened my hold on her and stared up at the ceiling. “Go to sleep, Danni.”
I felt her eyes on me and the tension in her body, and knew what was coming. “Maybe one day you’ll come back?”
“No. I’m not coming back.”
She remained quiet for several minutes, our heartbeats matching in a slow, easy rhythm. “Balen?” she said with a husky whisper.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for this,” she said.
No one had ever told me thank you in my entire life. Fuck, I didn’t deserve her even for one night.
Her body relaxed, and she sighed as she snuggled into me and drifted off to sleep.
I remained awake, wanting to remember every second I held her in my arms, cement the memory.
At sunrise, I slipped from her arms, careful not to wake her. I watched her for a few minutes, memorizing every inch of her face.
“Goodbye, little one.”
I STRODE INTO THE Deaconry room and approached the oblong marble table. Light blue candles shimmered from two oversized iron chandeliers that hung from above. Columns of white silk curtains draped along the far wall with paintings representing the four elements between.
I didn’t bother removing my coat since feeling temperature in the realm was nonexistent. One was neither hot nor cold, something I valued about this place.
The four Elemental Wraiths remained in the realm of, what I referred to as, a fantasy land. Because what you saw was not always what it was. The Wraiths were creative when it came to their home. When entering the realm, it took time to adjust to the invariable blue haze that settled over your vision. Blue being a color of peace and calm, it was a favorite of the Wraiths, except Edan’s, the volatile Wraith of Fire.
Genevieve walked into the room in long, graceful strides. She was the Wraith of Water and a powerful Healer for those of her kind. However, she rarely used her gift, since the Wraiths were seldom harmed. She had a fascination with the emotion of love, although she’d never been known to be linked to any man or woman. She was a bystander, allowing others to be spellbound by what I considered an illusion of love.
Genevieve’s sophisticated beauty could bring a man to his knees. Inquisitive and yet diffident, her eyes sparkled a cerulean blue when calm and changed to a deep golden when distressed or angered.
I sensed an impish woman was beneath her apparent quiet nature. Despite knowing the Wraiths for three centuries, I didn’t live among them and, therefore, I couldn’t be definite as to what Genevieve was really like.
I approached the table and bowed my head, meeting the gaze of each Deaconry member. There were the four Wraiths, a witch, and then myself and Zurina on behalf of the Scars. There was one other that never attended any judgments—Azzurra, the Goddess who created us all.
The Wraiths had abilities to control certain aspects of nature. Their weakness was fighting against the evil in the human world, which was where the Scars came in.
My eyes met Mariana, the representative of the witches’ covens, who sat at the far right of the table beside Edan. She wore a white, silk, double-breasted coat that clung to every curve of her voluptuous body. She had three dreadlocks on the right side of her brow line and the rest of her ebony hair hung long and straight, well past her shoulders. Her skin was alabaster, her eyes dark-walnut. She had narrow lips, which she loved to run her tongue across seductively. She excelled at reading emotions, even my own, which pissed me off, because I could block all others. But in the hundreds of years I’d known Mariana, she’d never once alluded to knowing what I was feeling. For that, the seductive witch had gained my respect. However, trusting any witch would be completely foolish.
I sat beside Zurina on the far left of the table. She smiled, and I bowed my head in return. She had a calm demeanor, with wisdom. Her strength spoke volumes as she had three of the senses—a Taster, Visionary, and Healer. She also had the gift of Tracing, like myself. Meaning she could teleport to places she’d previously been.
Flames flickered on pedestals in the four corners of the room. A fountain in the shape of a woman and man entwined in one another’s arms stood in the center. In one hand, the man held a flame rising from his palm, and the woman had a flower tucked behind her ear. She had long, flowing hair that billowed around them as if it had been swept up by a gentle breeze. A stream of water flowed in an arc between their bodies into an eight-point, marble pool that had soft-pink pebbles on the bottom. The water from the spout was golden, but as it hit the pool, it became cerulean blue.