Battle Ground, Indiana

Claire spent a great deal of time laying in bed the following morning. It was hard to believe only a single day had passed in Cyrus's company. The events of the last twenty-four hours blurred together in her mind like soggy soup, leaving her exhausted.

When she finally got up, she cooked Cyrus breakfast as she had the day before. He didn't eat nearly as much. Afterward, she insisted he show her his wound. He needed fresh bandages and she told him so. "I do not wish for you to see it," he said, backing away.

"It doesn't matter what you wish," she said. "I am your caregiver, and I say it must be done."

He sighed, frowning, before lifting his shirt. She set to work. She removed the bandages and stifled a gasp. The blackness staining his skin was spreading at an alarming rate.

"Now you understand..."

She looked up at him, failing to disguise her shock. He clenched his jaw, his gaze locked on the wall. Once more she set about evaluating the wound, checking that the stitches held. As she touched the surrounding skin, his breathing turned ragged. He even winced when she gently pushed against an inflamed section. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him further. Working quickly, she gathered up fresh bandages and applied them.

She had never seen a wound behave this way. "When you told me that Vodar swords were infused with poison..." The realization sank in. The blackened skin wasn't any kind of infection. It was a result of the poison, killing everything it touched.

"Yes, now you see." He winced. "I can feel it attacking my body, taking every bit of living flesh and tissue."

Her eyes went wide. "What are we going to do?"

"We aren't going to do anything." He backed away from her just as she secured the final bandage.

"But Cyrus...you need help. Some kind of medicine. Probably the hospital. I...I can't treat poison."

"Hos-pidal? I know not of what you speak, nor will I have any part in it." He pursed his lips.

She scowled, hoping he might change his mind. He didn't speak. "At least let me give you something for the pain," she said at last. "My dad has some pretty powerful stuff. I'll go get it." She took a single step and his hand latched onto her arm, his grip firmer than expected.

He sighed and released her almost immediately. "Claire, no. Only magic can help me now."

She opened her mouth—

"You must trust me. Nothing you possess can help me now. This poison is powerful beyond belief—more powerful than anything our own Magoi can brew. Every bit of magic I possess is holding back its darkness. Were I human, I would have died the night you rescued me. Alas, I must suffer a slow death."

"But, you can't just give up!" she insisted. Heat flushed her face. Why was he so eager to accept death? "There's got to be something we can—"

"Wake up, girl!" he growled. "Only the strongest magic can heal me now. Even the Society's best would struggle with a wound like this. And still, I might not awake once they purge the blackness from my body."

His tone stung. She set her jaw, narrowing her gaze. "Cyrus, if there is a small chance they can heal you, you've got to take it."

"And how do you suppose I do that?"

"I..."

"The Society resides within Kastali Dun. I have to get there first, before they can help me."

"Then go! Go to them and take a chance at ridding your body of the poison."

He shook his head. "You do not understand, do you?"

She opened and closed her mouth. Apparently, she didn't.

"I cannot simply transform into a dragon and fly home. Transformation takes magic, precious magic that has already been spent blocking the poison from spreading. Even the smallest act would break the barrier and kill me."

The air rushed from her chest. "So it's hopeless then..."

"No, not hopeless."

"Not hopeless?"

"There is the small chance that I might be rescued."

"You—you think someone will come for you? Here? Into my world?" She glanced out the window. A guilty thrill shot through her at the prospect of meeting other people like Cyrus.

"My survival depends upon it."

She so badly hoped he was right. There was nothing more she could do to keep him alive. At this point, all she could do was offer him refuge in the comfort of her home.

***

She skipped work again that day, and the next. Cyrus slept a lot. In fact, she saw very little of him after their conversation, except at mealtimes. He never missed an opportunity for food.

She developed a deep fascination towards him. He was more complex than anyone she had ever met. She couldn't help watching him whenever she had the chance, especially when he wasn't aware of it. Sometimes their eyes met and her cheeks flushed, embarrassed for her outright curiosity.

There were certain things about him, like the way his eyebrows were often drawn tight, that made his troubled mind known. She got the feeling it had little to do with the possibility of the Vodar's return. Sometimes he shook his head, as if disagreeing with an internal argument, as if he was deep in thought. But the moment he caught her gaze, his face would turn to stone again—unreadable.

At times, he was overly polite. This made getting to know him difficult. He rarely appeared inclined to open up about personal stuff. He was still overly paranoid, too, frequently checking the windows or "patrolling the grounds" as he called it. She always inwardly rolled her eyes when he insisted on doing this—usually before and after mealtimes.

By the end of the third day, Cyrus's hope of being rescued fizzled out. "No one is coming for me..." He said as he gazed out the window into the growing twilight.

His mood changed from hopeful to downright morose. She tried to cheer him up when she could, and found it best to avoid any topic that had to do with his predicament. She especially never mentioned the Vodar. Instead she focused on asking him questions about things he was fond of.

She had already learned a lot about Dragonwall doing this—geography, politics, magic. Cyrus told her much about the Drengr, too. That was her favorite topic. Whenever they talked about his world, she felt like she was being sucked into a fantasy story. She couldn't help her fierce longing. It welled up deep inside her. She wanted to escape her current life and live in Dragonwall. Things would be much easier for her that way.

They sat at the dinner table on the fourth night, talking about his race, when Cyrus told her that the Drengr took mates as their riders. She nearly fell out of her chair. "There are dragon riders too?" She pictured herself on the back of a dragon, soaring high above the clouds.

"Oh aye, there are Riders." He rolled his wine around in his glass, staring at it with unfocused eyes. "We Drengr take life partners, mates. They become Riders."

Her chest felt so light. "Do...do you have a Rider?" she asked.

His lips pressed into a flat line—a flicker of upset. "I do not. My Rider...died."

"Oh...I'm...Cyrus, I'm so sorry. I didn't—"

"There is no need to apologize. Just..." He shook his head and said very little after that.

He said even less with each passing day. But each day, she learned a little more, and each day, he grew weaker. She tried to make the most of her time with him. The difficulty was, Cyrus slept more and more as his health declined. His skin was now blackened up to his collarbone. It took significant self control to keep from staring at his neckline in alarm.

***

She was preparing breakfast on the morning of the fifth day when she finally had enough of his sulking. His mood had reached an all-time low, and she was finding it difficult to take care of him. She looked at him squarely in the eye. "Cyrus, I'm sure someone will come for you. If the king hasn't heard from you yet, he will send others after you."

His face transformed—crushed. She immediately regretted saying anything at all. He shook his head. "They will not come. Daudagher will take me before my kinsmen do."

"Wh—who?"

"Daudagher—the god of death. Ultimately, he will decide my fate. Any hope that I harbor now is but a foolish hope."

She clenched her teeth, frustrated by his negativity. "Hope is hope, Cyrus. Even a flicker of hope is enough to drive back darkness."

He offered her a small smile. "You are wise for one so young."

She eyed him a moment longer before handing him his breakfast. She sat down beside him with her oatmeal specialty. "I'm not that much younger than you."

His entire expression changed, lit up, eyes dancing with mischief. "You sure about that? How much are you willing to wager?"

"Oh. Um, I don't know." She fell silent a moment. "How about if I guess right, you have to quit being so negative."

"And if I win?"

"I don't know. Name your prize." She regretted the words the second they left her mouth. He'd probably think of something good.

"If I win, then you must grant me one favor, which I may ask at any time."

She scowled. "That's hardly fair, you already know how old you are."

"It changes nothing. How old do you think I am? You sounded certain a moment ago. Do we have a deal?"

"Fine."

The corner of his mouth twitched but he didn't smile. "Good. Now, how old?"

"You can't be more than—wait, how many guesses do I get?"

He hummed. "How about five. Does that seem fair?"

"Okay. You can't be any more than ten years older than me. I would say, thirty, thirty-two at the most."

He stared at her in silence, as if waiting for her to recant. She didn't. "More than that. Many more."

She swore under her breath. "Okay, how about...forty?" Goodness, he couldn't be any older than forty. And even still, if that was the case, he aged extremely well, or had a great plastic surgeon. She almost laughed at the thought.

"Guess again. Three more tries."

Her jaw dropped. On a whim, she decided to overestimate and work her way down instead. "Sixty," she said. There was no possible way in hell he was sixty. He was totally thirty and pretending otherwise.

"Again."

"I don't think so! You're lying."

He shook his head. "I would not lie about something this trivial."

"Ha! Well you're not vain, are you?"

"Verily so. Another guess?"

"Fine. A hundred years old."

"No. Wrong again. Last try. Use your guess wisely."

She chewed on the skin of her lower lip, thinking about her next answer. "All right...You are three hundred years old." There was no way—no effing way.

"Close, but no."

Her jaw dropped. "Fine. Tell me then."

"Three hundred and thirty-six years of age."

"Impossible!"

But was it? She knew he wasn't lying, but that didn't make it any easier to believe. In books, vampires and werewolves were generally immortal, never aging as they grew older. Why not the Drengr?

"We are not immortal," Cyrus said when she voiced her theory. "We simply age slowly. Most in my race live a thousand years or more."

"Wow," she breathed.

"Oh, and I win." He looked smug.

"Yeah, yeah. You win." She eyed him. What kind of favor was he looking for anyway? She'd already done plenty for him.

"I have not yet decided," he said in answer. "I will inform you when I do."

"I'll be in suspense until then."

"I do not doubt that," he said, smirking. He stood and went to stand in front of the kitchen window. He stayed there, the silence stretching out before them.

"You really think the wraiths will come back for you? And, in case you've forgotten, you still haven't told me why they are after the Dragon Stones." Her voice was low.

Cyrus turned to face her, his expression grim. "The Vodar are after the Dragon Stones because they have the power to destroy my kingdom. I'm not going to let that happen."

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