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Romanus shook his head, white hair rustling over his shoulders. He looked grim – looked disappointed.

Oliver sighed, frustrated. “You failed,” he said, with relish. “For all yourunderstandingof magic, you didn’t manage to kill Amelia.”

Romanus turned toward him fully, then, though he was forced to prop his temple against a raised fist. His face was even slacker and more drawn than it had been minutes before, when Oliver first appeared; he wondered if the man would be unconscious by the time he left. But his gaze still glittered, hard and serious. “Killher? Why should I kill her?”

“To–” Oliver faltered. He’d not expected that response. What else could his goal be? “You said so yourself, when you encountered Náli: our magic is stolen. Is your goal not to – to kill us? And reclaim our magic for your own?”

Amusement tweaked the emperor’s face again, that subtle glimmer of something nearly human behind the mask of a tired conqueror. “It’s been more than two hundred years since a Drake sat a dragon in battle. The magic – the Selesee magic in your veins – survived two hundred years of uncareful breeding, and persists still to this day. I don’t reclaim that by killing – but by breeding.”

“You–” The implication hit, and then hit again, knocking the breath from him. He swallowed with difficulty. “Oh.”

“I have two sons,” Romanus continued, as though Oliver wasn’t quietly having a crisis in the chair opposite. “Just as you have two lady cousins. And your necromancer’s power can be passed back and forth.” His head lifted, as some rallying burst of energy coursed through him, brightening his eyes. “I shall conquer Aquitainia with the sword. And I shall breed your pilfered magic back into my bloodline.”

This was…oh, this wasbad. This was even worse than he’d thought.

Death was a horrid end to all their stories.

But capture and rape –breeding– was unthinkable. He refused to allow himself to consider it, to imagine Lia and Tess and Náli–

No.

He took a too-large swallow of wine to bide time, while Romanus looked on him with a challenge in his gaze, awaiting his answer to the declaration.

Oliver took one more bracing sip of wine, and felt its effects begin to cloud his mind. His shield wasn’t holding steady any longer, and his caution had been tempered. He said, “But Sels interbreed. That’s what youdo.”

It looked as though Romanus nearly smirked at him. “Since the birth of the twins Lilac and Lucia, the worthy of Seles have bred cousin to cousin, and brother to sister. In this way we have kept the bloodline pure, and kept the magic strong.

“But now I see that ours is not the only strong magic. It is time, I think, to combine forces.”

Lovely way of going about it. Oliver set his wine aside, and took a few deep breaths that didn’t do much to clear his head. “Right. Well. Then.”

The smirk deepened, and he scowled. Hitched up straighter in his chair.

“You’ve got two sons, presumably for Amelia and Tessa. And clearly you plan to fuck the magic out of Náli” – he took petty satisfaction in using a vulgar term, but Romanus seemed unaffected by it – “Where does that leave me, Oh Powerful One? Who’s going tobreedmy magic? I must warn you: I don’t have a taste for girls.”

Romanus studied him a moment, gaze glittering – then he slumped back and massaged at his temple, eyes half-closing. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He flapped a hand, dismissive. “Go away, Oliver Drake. I’m too tired for your lesson today.”

Oliver started to protest–

And promptly opened his eyes to the sting of the wind, and the shredding of clouds all around him, Percy’s wings working beneath him.

He sighed to himself. “Bastard.”

Percy sent an inquiry through their bond, and Oliver stroked his neck. “It’s all right.”

Except that it very much wasn’t.

21

Leif floated somewhere warm, and soft, but musty-smelling. Like old dust and the aftereffects of humans long gone.

Voices drifted over him, familiar, low and soothing, though his mind was too sluggish to parse the words. He heard a woman say something in an inquiring tone, and a man respond with an optimistic one. He knew those voices, felt pleasant tingles all the way down to his toes at the sound of them, but then the pain closed over him like a veil, and he sought unconsciousness once more.

He dreamed of a tumble of purple scales and sharp, bright claws. Of a winking spear, and the whistle of it plunging through the air toward him. Dreamed of Ragnar hovering over him, whining and whimpering; the warm touch of his hand, and the warmer splash of his tears landing on his cheeks.Please, Ragnar begged in the dream.Alpha, please.

A startlingly vivid dream, that one, but impossible. As was the dream of Amelia Drake appearing over Ragnar’s trembling shoulder, her face a vision of worry, her hand gentle when it settled on Ragnar’s back. A supportive touch, as though Ragnar needed comforting.He’s still breathing, she said.We’ll get him back to the manor and patch him up. He’ll be all right, you’ll see.

He dreamed of pain…and then woke, finally, to find that that at least was real enough.