Smolder (Crown of Fae #3) - Sharon Ashwood Page 0,5

Do I have dancers?

Juradoc’s chair sat between Morran and the plump Lord of Eldaban. The general finally moved into his seat, his robes creating a stir of air. A sweet stink quelled Morran’s appetite. All Shades smelled as if they were rotting.

He pushed his plate aside.

“We can compare the dancers of your Great Temple with the Kelthians once we reach Tymeera,” Juradoc said, the violet pinpricks of his eyes glittering from the depths of his hood.

The statement was simple enough, but it sent a shock through Morran. Are the Shades going to my home? All at once, his limbs lost feeling, and he sank back into his chair. He ground his injured thumb against the wood, using the pain to focus his mind.

Was he panicking? Along with his memory, emotions blurred like colored inks in the rain. Joy, terror, anger—they had become one inarticulate shout in his soul.

He was going mad.

Thoughts of home slid away. Disappeared. All that remained was nameless anxiety.

What was I worried about? Uncertain, he schooled his features, keeping his indifferent expression in place.

The steady rhythm of the performers’ feet was barely audible now. Magic crackled through the air, raising the fine hair on Morran’s arms. Now he could hear music. It came from no instrument, but from the enchantment the dancers wove. A deep note pulsed like a heartbeat, guiding and pushing the swirling figures of the Kelthian fae. More voices rang above it, echoing in intervals so pure that the marble beneath Morran’s feet shivered in response.

The notes rang in Morran’s skull, clearing away the fog for a brilliant, amazing second.

He surged to his feet as if the motion would help him grasp the moment. His gaze was fixed on the woman with amber eyes, transfixed by the raw power shimmering around her. They were heatwaves, echoes of the sacred Flame, rising in a circle around the dancers. He could feel the forge-hot warmth against his face.

As the air rippled with heat, it became harder to see the writhing women. Their images melted as the elemental force that had birthed the fire fae took over. They became flames themselves, swirling and leaping to impossible heights. The wildness of it unlocked a raging hunger inside him, filling the emptiness in his soul.

The Flame knows me even if I do not.

The shimmering air gave way to pale tongues of yellow and orange. The fire roared to life around the dancers, licking the ceiling above in a chorus of unearthly music. A cry of wonder and dismay ripped from the spectators—some expecting to burn in their seats. But no scorch marks blackened the ceiling, nor did anything catch fire. This was a sacred blaze, meant to heal and warm.

And she—the dancer with the amber eyes—had summoned it. Any commander could tell she was the leader of the two. It was in the way she moved and the angle of her head. Now, she bowed over backward, a sinuous arc of blue dress and flaming locks. The move was an invitation—sexual and spiritual both. She might earn her bread from Lord Dorth, but she was utterly wild, a lioness of the Kelthian mountains.

With a kick, she straightened again, her hands held out in a plea. Flames licked at the ends of her fingers, promising pain and pleasure if only he would surrender. The keening of the spell grew sultry now, whispering an invitation. Cajoling. Begging.

Morran’s mouth went dry. Flame save him, she was making him feel again, unleashing a tremor of fury in his limbs. Anger was a serpent forcing its way along every nerve.

He was beginning to remember who he was.

Leena saw little through the veil of fire. The dance had summoned the Flame, fulfilling Dorth’s promise to the Shade general. All fae understood its sacred, elemental nature. The dance raised magic in its purest form.

Leena bent and twisted, sweat gleaming along her bare arms and plastering her dress to the small of her back. She slid past Elodie, their flames flashing blue where they met, burning but never consuming their forms. When fire fae surrendered to their element, they could never be hurt.

Spinning, she turned again to the head table. Despite the leaping fire, Morran’s form was clear. He stood with his weight slightly forward, as if he meant to spring over the banquet table to join her. Desire cracked his icy mask.

The emotion went far beyond physical need. Leena might be a humble priestess, but her magic spoke to a hunger inside him. The idea thrilled