Page 69 of Full Moon
"I'm sorry you have to do everything. Knowing Revelin, it's one huge drunken party as they play hide and go seek." I laugh softly. "Fi would basically say 'fuck it, I'm in.'"
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of. The two of them flying off half-cocked, starting brawls everywhere. Tiernan is probably going to be gray or bald by the time their journey is over. Desi is going to poof and disappear instead of wrangling the others." I huff out a laugh just as Diaval drops food in front of us.
"I almost feel bad for my old friend," Diaval says. "For once, I got the better deal."
"Oh? How do you figure?"
Diaval adjusts his tie—a nervous habit that tells me I've got him. "Well, for the most part, our side is more civilized. Most of us don't prefer to start violence."
"Um, I hate to piss in your cereal there, chief, but Feray has charged into battle more than the rest of us. What she didn't start, Sparky over there finishes. Or did you also forget you attacking and roasting all of those deep bats?" Torben chimes in, shoveling pancakes into his mouth. "Then there's the spicy danger noodle turning everything to stone because Feray told him to."
"Leaving yourself out of the mix, Tor?" I say playfully.
"I can't cause half the damage you four can. I'm big and slow. I don't have any special abilities other than being really strong." He shrugs.
Almost choking on my pancake, I cough several times before I manage to dislodge the hunk. "No special skills?" I stare at him in shock. "That tongue of yours is a lethal weapon."
It's Torben's turn to choke on thin air.
"My eternal, how can his tongue be a lethal weapon?" Diaval sips his coffee.
Khal, being the infinite wise-ass, shifts his tongue to his basilisk's and flicks its length out in front of me. I blush. My spicy danger noodle got my drift. Torben smiles and raises his mug to him. Easton turns two shades of red.
"What am I missing?" Diaval is getting frustrated. He hates being on the outside of the jokes.
I slide off Khal's lap and step closer to Diaval. Standing on my tiptoes, I whisper into his ear, "He shifts his tongue to his bear's when he goes down on me."
Diaval jerks back as if burned, his eyes darting between Torben and me, then over to Khal. "Et Tu, Khal?"
"Hell yeah!" Khal exclaims. "She squirms all over the place if you hit the right spot. She's damn near feral after that, old man." Khal and Torben high-five across the table. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
"Let's get back on track," Easton says, motioning for me to move and sit with him. I slide onto his lap, and Khal passes my food over.
"What am I wearing to this mini invasion we're staging?" I shove another chunk of pancakes into my mouth.
"We salvaged a good half dozen of what we believe are your mother's gowns from your father's house," Diaval says, motioning to the crates stacked against the wall. "You'll pick a dress, put on the diadem, and lastly, wear the bone bracers with the bone collar. The combination of the bone items with the diadem should be enough to validate who you are." A wicked glint appears in his eyes. "Worst case, shift and drive them into submission." He lifts his head, and I feel the faint whisper of his power move over me.
"Should I allow my wolf in the driver's seat, so to speak?" I glance from Diaval to Torben, Khal, then finally, my eyes land on Easton.
"Unless you're fighting, no. We need you level-headed."
"Alright." I stand up and motion to the crates. "Let's get started. By now, they know the assassination attempt failed."
The words land heavy in the room.
Six wolves sent to murder us in our sleep. All dead.
The Alpha knows. He's had all night to prepare. And we're walking straight into his territory. Torben catches my drift andrips the tops off the crates. Each gown pulled from the crate feels like a relic of a past life. My fingers brush over the intricate designs, and I can almost hear my mother's voice, feel her presence.
She wore these.
She was a queen.
And someone murdered her for it.
Torben hands me a dress—a deep crimson gown with gold embroidery that catches the light ominously. The color of blood and fire. I slip it on, the fabric heavy with history and expectation. The diadem is next, its weight settling on my head like a crown of forgotten power. Last, the bone bracers and collar—cold and unyielding—snap into place, merging the past and present.
I look at myself in the mirror.
