If nothing else, the pleasure of the flight balanced out the smothering discomfort of the day’s journey. As if he sensed it, Larkin aimed higher, rising in lazy loops. For one indulgent moment, Cian closed his eyes and just enjoyed.

Then he felt it, a stroke along the skin. Cold, seeking fingers that seemed to slide into him and swirl through his blood. And a whisper inside his head, a quiet siren’s song that called to what he was beneath the form of a man.

And when he looked down, the savage ground of the battlefield spread below.

Its utter silence was a scream of violence. It burned into him like molten steel, brilliant and dark, deep and primal. The grass was wild sharp blades, the rocks rough death. Then even they would give way to black pits of chasms and caves where nothing dared to crawl.

Guarded by the mountains the damned ground waited for blood.

He had only to lean forward—such a short distance—and sink his teeth in the neck of the dragon to find the blood of a man. Human and rich, that gush of life, and a taste no other living thing could match. A flavor he’d denied himself for centuries. And why? To live among them, to survive wearing the mask of one of them?

They were beneath him, so much less—fleas on a dog. They were nothing but flesh and blood, created for him to hunt. The hunger gnawed in him, and the desire, the feral thrill of it pumped through him like a heartbeat.

The memory of the kill, of that first hot spurt of life gushing into his mouth, riding down his throat, was glorious.

Shaking like an addict in the throes of withdrawal, he fought it. He would not end it this way. He would not go back to being a prisoner of his own blood.

He was stronger than that. Had made himself more than that.

His belly cramped with need and nausea as he leaned toward Larkin. “Put down here. Stay in this form. Be ready to fly again, to leave me if you need. You’ll know.”

It dragged at him, that cursed ground, as they lowered toward it. It murmured and sang and promised. It lied.

The heat was in him like a fever as he leaped down. He would not, he swore, he would not turn himself and kill a friend as he’d once tried to kill his brother.

“It’s this place. It’s evil.”

“I told you not to change forms. Don’t touch me!”

“I feel it inside me.” Larkin’s voice was calm and even. “It must burn in you.”

Cian turned, his eyes red, his skin slicked with sweat from his inner war. “Are you stupid?”

“No.” But Larkin hadn’t, and didn’t now draw a weapon. “You’re fighting it, and you’ll beat it back. Whatever it is this place calls to in you, there’s more. There’s what Moira loves.”

“You don’t know the hunger of it.” Deep in his throat a groan waited. It hummed in Cian’s ears, and with it, he could hear the beat of Larkin’s pulse. “I can smell you, the human.”

“Do you smell fear?”

Shudders ran through him, hard enough he thought his bones might crack to pieces. His head was screaming, screaming, and still he couldn’t block out the sound, the vicious temptation of that beating heart.

“No. But there could be. I could bring it into you. Fear sweetens it. God, God, what sick hand forged this place?”

His legs wouldn’t hold him, so he lowered to the ground and struggled to tighten his slippery grip on his will. As he did, he closed his fingers around the locket she’d put around his neck.

The sickness ebbed, just a little, as if a cool hand had stroked a fevered brow. “She brings me light, that’s what she brings to me. And I take it, and feel like a man. But I’m not. This is a hard reminder that I’m not.”

“I see a man when I look at you.”

“Well, you’re wrong. But I won’t drink tonight, not from you. Not from a human. It won’t swallow me tonight. And it won’t take me like this again, now that I know.”

The red was fading from his eyes as he looked up at Larkin. “You were a fool not to draw a weapon.”

In answer, Larkin lifted the cross from its chain.

“It might have been enough,” Cian considered. He scrubbed his sweaty palms dry on the knees of his jeans. “Fortunately for us both, we don’t have to test it.”

“I’ll take you back.”

Cian looked at the hand Larkin offered. Humans, he thought, trusting and optimistic. He took it, pulled himself to his feet. “No, we’ll go on. I need to hunt something.”

He’d won the battle, Cian thought as they rose into the air again. But he wouldn’t deny he was relieved to be heading away from that ground.

And he was darkly thrilled when he spotted the movements below.

A dozen troops, he noted, on foot and moving with that fluid swiftness of his kind. For all the speed, there was a precision to it, an order in the ranks that told him they were trained and seasoned soldiers.

He felt the shift of the dragon’s body when Larkin saw them, and once again Cian leaned down.

“Why don’t we try out Glenna’s newest weapon? When they cross the next field, fly directly over the center of the squad. They’ve got archers, so once the shit hits, you’ll have to go into evasive maneuvers.”

As Larkin flew into position, Cian reached into the harness pocket and took out the ball.

How is a dragon like a plane? he considered, and put his centuries of experience as a pilot to use gauging airspeed, distance, velocity.

“Bomb’s away,” he murmured, and let the ball drop.

It smashed into the ground, causing the baffled squad to stop, draw weapons. Cian was about to chalk Glenna’s experiment up to a loss when there was a towering burst of flame. Those closest to it were simply obliterated, while a few others caught fire.

Watching the panic, hearing the screams, Cian notched an arrow. Ducks in a barrel, he mused, and picked off what was left.

Once again Larkin touched down, and changed. “Well.” He kicked carelessly at a pile of ash. “That was quick.”

“I feel better for having killed something, but it was detached, impersonal. Human style. Doesn’t have the same kick as a true hunt. Same reason we don’t use guns or modern weaponry,” Cian added. “There’s just no thrill in it.”

“I’m sorry for that, but the results of it suit me well enough. And Glenna’s fireball worked a treat, didn’t it now?”