And Rise: Chapter 5
She stared down at him as he lapped at the cut along her palm, her other hand sliding from her leg to the ground. She bent double to keep herself from falling, and she squeezed her eyes shut, senses and thoughts reeling wild. He should have been dying. He should have been dead. But his fingers trailed along her wrist, up beneath the cuff of her shirt, and he coaxed her closer. He hummed against her skin and she shuddered, biting at her lip.
How long had it been? How long had it been since anybody had touched her beyond a pat on the back, a strike in the yard, a shove on the field of battle? Ten years? Fifteen? The heat coiling in her was unexpected, unwanted, and she fought to keep her wits. She had managed to ignore how close he had been in the abandoned house, but now, like this-
She had to focus.
Blood mage, she thought, because it was the only explanation that made sense. The Howes had no magic in their family line, but why else would he ask for her blood, why else would he heal before her eyes with the touch of it to his lips? She let out a strangled cry, trying to pull away.
He didn't let her, holding fast with one hand while he braced the other against the ground and pushed himself up.
"Maker damn you!" she gasped, and she felt the sharp jolt of the cut being opened further, a catch of teeth rending it and making her bleed more freely. She fell back and he moved fluidly, hovering over her. Another languid lick across her palm, and he pinned that wrist to the ground by her head, shifting to nuzzle instead against her throat.
She kicked him in the stomach, uncaring of the wound there, uncaring of killing him. She panicked, head fogged and mind uncertain. Her boot connected and he grunted, lips brushing the column of her throat for just a moment before he pulled away from her and sat back on his heels, letting go. His eyes were half-lidded, his lips painted red and chin streaked, and his breathing was far too even, far too languid.
He chuckled, and she swore, grabbing up her blade and staggering to her feet.
"Blood mage-"
"No." He laughed again, grinning and licking clean his teeth. His eyes were darker than before, his cheeks flushed, and when he scrubbed a hand across his face, he lapped up what he could from the leather. "No, not that."
"Then what? Give me a single reason why I shouldn't properly run you through." Her swordarm trembled and she forced it to be still, tightened her grip until her knuckles turned white. She circled him, and he simply watched.
"I'd prefer it if you didn't?" he tried, then shrugged, rising to his feet. There was no wound to stop him, no painful limit on his motion to match the scrapes and bruises marring her body. "I'm not here to do harm? I'm grateful that you let me save my life?"
"What are you?"
He hesitated, his expression darkening. "… Something that is better not explained, perhaps. Just know that I have saved your life twice. You oweme."
"Howe-"
The languid ease twisted into a snarl. "I have a name!" he snapped, and he advanced a step on her. "And until I know what happened to my father, and why, I will not be reduced to my family."
"Tell me what you are," she said, keeping the sword held in guard. Her distrust and unease grew at his shout, his approach, and she shook her head. "And do not take another step."
"You're out of questions," he hissed. "And I could tear your throat out in an instant."
She bristled at the threat, all traces of too-hot pleasure gone just as all the evidence of his drugged ease fell away. Her jaw tightened.
He was supposed to be dead.
"Tell me what happened eight years ago, Howe," Cauthrien said, low and hard and demanding, heart hammering in her ears. She tried not to think about how fast he could move, what he could do with those hands, how it had felt with his lips at her throat, teeth a breath away.
But it was impossible not to. His expression twisted from that snarl to something nearly inhuman. "Not until you tell me why I found my father's ring in a stain of blood in the dungeons of his estate!" he spat.
Her fear and anger spiked and she fell back a step with a shout of, "For the same reason his bedroom was next to the stairs to it!"
She expected a lunge, or a strike, or maybe even one of his bitter, dark laughs.
He didn't respond.
The momentary rage subsided into something more still, something she couldn't make out, and he looked away, then up to the moon. The fear in his expression was gone, the anger, the good humor of just a moment. His face was impassive. And then he frowned, teeth bared in the pale light, glinting unnatural sharp.
She didn't turn away.
"How much," she said, "do you know of what happened in the Blight?"
"Not enough," he said, quiet words that barely reached her. "Rumors. Heinous rumors. And that he is dead."
Maker only knew what rumors had made it across the Waking Sea, what rumors lingered in Denerim that a man could find in the span of a day. She watched him, words of Rendon's crimes on her lips.
She swallowed.
"I need you to tell me," Nathaniel said, though his eyes never left the sky.
"And I need to know what you are. What those things that attacked us are."
He hummed low in his throat. His eyes scanned the skyline and she followed his gaze, trying to find whatever it was he looked for. Her hand still throbbed, but the pain dimmed, and as she looked down to see the skin patched clean except for a faint darker line, he spoke.
"It's nearly dawn, and this must be done. Now. Come with me, and I'll answer every question you have."
She exhaled shakily. "Where?"
"The catacombs where we started this mess. Beneath the city. I'll explain there."