The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (howl and other poems TXT) 📗

the sound stoked Branwyn’s passion even further. She thrust forward, begging without words for more: she wouldn’t have hesitated at using words if she could have spoken then.

She didn’t need to. The initial gentle brush of fingertips quickly became firmer, a stroking rhythm that still teased but built as well, taking her further and further into lust as Zelen learned what pleased her most and adjusted to give it to her. Branwyn was writhing before long, everything between her legs turned to pure need.

Zelen was quick. When he took his hands away, Branwyn had only just noticed the deprivation before he’d lifted her skirts and pressed his mouth against her sex, and then she was in no mood at all to protest. He tasted her thoroughly, with more moans that vibrated against her and drove her even closer to the edge.

When he shifted his attention to her swollen clit, Branwyn shot toward that edge like a flaming arrow. A few circles of his tongue and she was crying out over and over, incoherent as pleasure racked her. She was conscious of her hips jerking in Zelen’s grip, but otherwise sensation was all.

She was leaning against the statue when she came back, legs like jelly. Zelen’s head was still between them, but his mouth was gentler on her sex now, lighter.

“Well,” she said when she had both breath and brain for words. “That was extraordinary. And I should see if I can manage its equal.”

Zelen pulled back and rose. When he wrapped his arms around Branwyn, she felt his erection, hard as ever, press against her, but there was no forcefulness about his touch and no trace of impatience. “I have complete faith in you,” he said, and exhaled hard. “Though not quite in my own willpower. Should we—”

“Willpower’s useful in many situations. This isn’t one,” Branwyn said. “Besides, my legs won’t hold me much longer.”

She started to kneel, watching his face as she did and savoring the way his eyes widened and his lips parted slightly. Branwyn grinned. This was going to be most enjoyable.

Under the circumstances, she could almost have dismissed the screams she heard in the next moment—but she had too much experience to think they were cries of pleasure.

Chapter 17

When Branwyn froze and pulled back, Zelen at first worried that something had gone wrong between them. He hadn’t spoken coherently enough to offend, he was sure of it, but had he moved the wrong way and caught her with a knee? Had the posture itself brought bad memories to mind?

“Are—” He started to ask, ignoring the ache in his groin and extending a hand to help her up.

But she was already on her feet, her speed uncanny, one finger pressed to her lips. A second later, Zelen heard the reasons.

“Oh what is it? What is that?” someone asked, sounding terrified.

“Letar defend us!” came another cry, from a different part of the garden, and then, “Someone help!”

Mostly, there were screams. Zelen’s frustrated arousal quickly dwindled.

Branwyn pulled her dress back over her breasts, but the motion was clearly an afterthought: she didn’t even look down. A casual observer might have thought her idle, but Zelen saw the taut lines of her muscles, the flare of her nostrils, and the too-regular way her breasts rose and fell. She wasn’t idle; she wasn’t frozen in panic; she was hunting.

Zelen tried to follow her gaze. Out in the darkness he saw flickers of…he wasn’t sure what. It was darkness on darkness, darkness that sank and rose, and it tugged at the corners of his vision like a fishhook. The ground seemed to waver beneath him.

A scream became a shriek of pain. He was a healer. The sound had come from their left. Zelen started that way, only to have Branwyn seize him by the biceps with more strength than any human should have exhibited.

“Not unarmed and not unaware. You’ll do no good.”

“I have no weapon. Nobody here… The guards out front, I suppose…” Zelen corrected himself, but feebly. There were two guards, and while their swords weren’t exactly dull, they’d been made more for show than fighting.

“Not quite.” Branwyn reached into the side of her gown, the place where bone and steel stays had pushed her breasts high and blocked Zelen’s touch. She wiggled, hissed, then pulled out a dagger. It was long, thin, and razor-sharp, the hilt mostly a flat place on the blade. “Here.”

Zelen took it, noting the pattern of runes twisting down its length. “These are from the stonekin.”

“They’re good at magic.” Branwyn was pulling a matching dagger from her gown’s other side. “Throw, if you can, and don’t engage if you can avoid it. We’ll get the civilians into the palace and work from there. Closing with these things is a bad idea.”

“What are they?” he asked as the two of them started toward the nearest source of screaming.

Branwyn didn’t turn her head. Zelen saw her profile as she spoke, painted red by a lantern they passed. “Demons.”

* * *

The darkness was full of shapes. Some were human.

Branwyn watched them dart across her vision or run past on its edges. Many were half-naked, a few were bloody, and all were terrified. Other things followed, too many for her and Zelen to intercept. Her hands ached for Yathana, but the sword was far away, barred by rules of etiquette regarding blatant weaponry at the ball.

A couple burst from behind an ash tree and stared at her and Zelen. “What’s happening?” asked one.

“We’re under attack,” said Zelen. “Best get inside, and quickly.”

One of the pair might have been inclined to ask questions, but the other yanked him away, into a run toward the palace. None of the fleeing people acted as if they were confused about where to go. Branwyn blessed the human instinct to run for the biggest structure when in danger.

There was no chance to ask pardon or blessing aloud: Branwyn hoped the tree, or Poram beyond it, would understand. She leapt up and grabbed two