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Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 134 из 148The ones who came after had widened the hole until the lips of the last few touched my bare shoulder where the blood had begun to dry to my skin. I had neither offered the Red Caps the familiarity, nor been asked; Jonty had called them, and spoken in a Gaelic so old that I could not follow it.
Whatever Jonty had said to them had turned their faces to me, and the look in their eyes was that odd mix of sex, hunger, and eagerness that I’d seen in Holly. I hadn’t understood the look — and hadn’t had time to question it — but because it cost me nothing to have their lips pressed to my shoulder, I allowed it. Then I noticed that each of the Red Caps who touched me began bleeding afresh after touching Jonty’s blood on my body.
I was fighting an urge to scream my impatience at them, but the Red Caps weren’t the ones delaying; the other goblins squabbled about who would go where. If Kurag, Goblin King, had come, there would have been no arguments, but Ash and Holly, though feared warriors, were not kings, and all other leadership among the goblins is a constant state of struggle. The goblin society represented the ultimate in Darwinian evolution: only the strongest survive, and only the very strongest lead.
If I had been truly queen enough to lead them, they would have done what I ordered, but I didn’t have their respect yet, so I knew better than to try to lead here. It would have undermined Ash and Holly, and gained me nothing. Besides, battlefield tactics wasn’t my strongest suit, and I knew that. My father had drilled into me from an early age to know my strengths and weaknesses. Find allies who complement you, he’d said. True friendship is a type of love, and all love has power.
Jonty leaned over me and said, “Call your hand of power, Princess.”
“How do you know they are hurt?”
“We are goblins,” he said, as if that settled it.
Another line of green flame flickered through the trees, and I was close enough now to see the black tendrils back away from it. I didn’t argue again, but called the hand of blood.
I concentrated on my left hand. It didn’t emit a beam of power, or anything like you see in the movies; it was simply that the mark, or key, to the hand of blood lay in the palm of my left hand. Or maybe doorway was a better term. I opened the mark in the palm of that hand, and though there was nothing to see with the naked eye, there was plenty to feel.
It was as if the blood in my veins had suddenly turned to molten metal. My blood tried to boil with the power of it. I screamed, and thrust my hand toward the cloud. I projected that burning, tearing power outward.
Whatever Jonty had said to them had turned their faces to me, and the look in their eyes was that odd mix of sex, hunger, and eagerness that I’d seen in Holly. I hadn’t understood the look — and hadn’t had time to question it — but because it cost me nothing to have their lips pressed to my shoulder, I allowed it. Then I noticed that each of the Red Caps who touched me began bleeding afresh after touching Jonty’s blood on my body.
I was fighting an urge to scream my impatience at them, but the Red Caps weren’t the ones delaying; the other goblins squabbled about who would go where. If Kurag, Goblin King, had come, there would have been no arguments, but Ash and Holly, though feared warriors, were not kings, and all other leadership among the goblins is a constant state of struggle. The goblin society represented the ultimate in Darwinian evolution: only the strongest survive, and only the very strongest lead.
If I had been truly queen enough to lead them, they would have done what I ordered, but I didn’t have their respect yet, so I knew better than to try to lead here. It would have undermined Ash and Holly, and gained me nothing. Besides, battlefield tactics wasn’t my strongest suit, and I knew that. My father had drilled into me from an early age to know my strengths and weaknesses. Find allies who complement you, he’d said. True friendship is a type of love, and all love has power.
Jonty leaned over me and said, “Call your hand of power, Princess.”
“How do you know they are hurt?”
“We are goblins,” he said, as if that settled it.
Another line of green flame flickered through the trees, and I was close enough now to see the black tendrils back away from it. I didn’t argue again, but called the hand of blood.
I concentrated on my left hand. It didn’t emit a beam of power, or anything like you see in the movies; it was simply that the mark, or key, to the hand of blood lay in the palm of my left hand. Or maybe doorway was a better term. I opened the mark in the palm of that hand, and though there was nothing to see with the naked eye, there was plenty to feel.
It was as if the blood in my veins had suddenly turned to molten metal. My blood tried to boil with the power of it. I screamed, and thrust my hand toward the cloud. I projected that burning, tearing power outward.