Page 22 of Foundling

The line led into the trees again, following the foothills for over two leagues.

Leita’s bafflement grew with each step, as did the pit of dread in her belly. She couldn’t explain the fist of anticipation clutching her; she couldn’t draw a full breath, it clenched her chest so tightly.

Her lips and fingers had nearly gone numb by the time they rounded a rockfall to find the jagged mouth of a cave.

From inside echoed the belabored breathing of something big.

It was because Leita held her breath, her body tensed, that she jumped when a little body came hurtling out of the cave. She watched in astonishment as a little marten snapped and squeaked angrily at her, telling Leita in no uncertain terms not to dare getting closer.

The marten was a brave little thing, but Leita’s need to know was greater.

Thalia dipped her horn in warning at the marten as Leita tiptoed closer. In the shade of the cave opening, her eyes began to adjust, allowing her to see further into the murky depths.

Lala, what is it—?

Azai.

Her body burst with recognition, a golden surge of warmth overcoming her. It brought her to her knees, making Thalia whinny in alarm, but Leita could barely hear over the ringing in her ears.

A shifted red dragon slept inside the cave, and it was her azai.

6

The next time Attalus woke, he was convinced this time, this time for sure, he’d died and gone to the afterworld. There was really no other explanation for the vision standing above him.

He couldn’t see her clearly—if he were alive, he’d say his nictating third eyelid had closed but not the others. But he was dead, so it must have been a divine glow that surrounded the most beautiful female he’d ever seen.

Backlit with bright white light, she stood before him haloed in brilliant blues and purples. Hair like starlight fell around her slim shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face that seemed to sparkle. The sight of her shimmered and changed as light and reflections did across the rippling surface of the sea, a churning vision that filled Attalus with both awe and nausea.

Wait…should he be nauseous in the afterworld?

Surely those stories about divine, eternal punishment and retribution were just jest. He hadn’t been that bad, after all.

Then her scent hit him and everything, including the nausea, rolled away. He’d never known a scent could be so decadent—like jasmine and figs, amber and rain, sunshine and a southerly wind.

A happy rumble vibrated in his chest. Was this the messenger or guardian come to usher him to the afterworld? There were so many stories of the afterworld, what it looked like and what it meant to go there, Attalus hadn’t bothered to pay attention to who of all the races might be right about it. Whichever version this one was, though, was now his favorite.

His body was lethargic and alarmingly heavy; otherwise, he might’ve jumped when an outraged sound ripped from the goddess’s throat. His vision stamped her little foot, turned on her heel, marched into the light where he couldn’t see her, and emitted the loudest, most unpleasant scream his ears had ever had the misfortune of hearing.

Dread began to pool in his stomach as the thought of eternal punishment flitted through his consciousness again.

Attalus could just make out movement, breaking up the white light emanating ahead. It was as though she paced agitatedly back and forth within it, her stomping and muttering growing angry with every turn.

She spoke in what sounded like several languages—none of them savraka. But they all carried the flavor of curses.

His orcish, Eirean, and faethling were rusty, but he managed to catch a few…rather unflattering things: “I’ll ring that seer’s neck…just wait until I…they’re having a laugh, they have to be…a dragon, a stupid fucking fire-lizard of all…”

Attalus tried to move his lips, to croon for her in the way dragons did for mates. To soothe, to entice. A few notes rattled in his throat before snuffing out. If she heard him, she didn’t indicate so.

Suddenly, she appeared above him again, her arms crossed and what he thought was a particularly wicked glower on her ethereal face.

“No, I don’t think he’s dead.” The female paused as she frowned down at him, only to answer an unspoken question. “Because his eyes are moving under there.”

Attalus…didn’t like where this was going. His mind might be murkier than his vision, but he was starting to suspect he wasn’t, in fact, completely dead. At least not yet.

“I’m not locking him in with a rockslide.”

Well, that was a relief at least—