In front of her, he paused. And frowned “I don’t understand.” He pinched a lock of her hair between his fingers. “You are her. But how can you be? You are not her.”
He’d killed his own wife. What wouldn’t he do to Cookie? She punched him in the throat. Twice.
He wheezed as he gripped her shoulders. Oh, no, no, no. This wouldn’t do. With a snarl, she kneed his junk, hard. Shake that off, prince.
He hunched over, spittle spraying from his mouth. No hesitation. No risks, no rewards. She slammed the palm of her hand into his nose, his own momentum giving the blow more steam. He roared and released her, dropping to his knees.
Had the bones in her hand shattered on impact? Yes. Did pain and nausea roil up? Also yes. But she didn’t pause. He’d murdered her donor and now suffered a little of her hurt. Worth any agony.
“Let’s go, girls. Run,” she commanded, grabbing two of them by the dresses and shooting off.
Both women resisted. They even latched on to her wrists and forced her to stop...then they slowly dragged her in the opposite direction. Cookie grappled for purchase in the mud.
“Kaysar will understand, okay?” Rain blurred her vision, and she shook the droplets from her eyes. Tugging. Wiggling. Failing. “We’re not running from him. We’re running to safety. The Viking is a wife killer.”
A wife killer already straightening and refocusing on her, his eyes narrowed.
Fear and fury rammed together, heat collecting in Cookie’s arms. Vines licked out and rolled back in, whipping her captors before vanishing. Both women yelped and released her, falling.
A lash of soft leaves caused so much pain, they lost their hold on the prize? Seriously?
A living bullet, Cookie sprinted toward the trees. Mud puddles splashed at her feet.
“Noooo,” the Viking shouted. “Do not hurt her.”
A stampede sounded behind her. Had her guards given chase?
A quick look back—argh! A hard weight slammed into her, throwing her face-first into the ground. For the second time that day, she ate a mouthful of dirt. Air exploded from her lungs, and stars winked over her eyes as the women dog-piled her.
“Lulu, please,” the Viking called, running over.
“That’s not my name,” Cookie grated, squirming and fighting. The rain helped, slickening her skin. Yes! Freedom. She came to her feet and sprinted off once more, barely dodging the Viking’s clasp.
Her tasks crystalized. Get to safety. Find Kaysar.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THIS MUST BE my origin story. A real-life hero quest or whatever.
Cookie hated hero quests. She mumbled under her breath as she tripped through the forest of pain. Her fight-or-flight response remained in high gear, whipping her blood into fuel. Not that it did her much good. The numerous gashes on her feet left trails of crimson for any would-be detective to follow.
She’d fled from the prince, her donor’s abusive ex, what? Twenty-four hours ago? A thousand years? He’d given chase. Because of course he had. Somehow, she’d managed to evade him throughout the night and survive the freezing wet. She’d even evaded him throughout the morning. Now afternoon sun streamed through a colorful canopy of leaves, spotlighting her every move.
How much longer could she go on? The rain she’d lamented, she now missed. So thirsty. She still hadn’t eaten, her empty stomach protesting. Her clothes had dried, but they were stiff and dirty. Itchy.
She’d lost count of the trolls and ogres she’d stumbled upon. They’d reacted like the others, snorting and pawing, ready to charge, only to let her pass without incident. With the exception of one. That particular ogre had barreled over and pinned her against a tree trunk, his beefy hands caging her in as he huffed and puffed his big, bad breath all over her face. But in the end, he, too, had let her pass. The whole lot of them had done the same thing to the evil prince. She’d doubled back a time or two, hoping to witness his comeuppance.
Why hadn’t Kaysar found her yet? Were fae males like humans? Had he already given up on Lulundria, the woman he supposedly craved? Well, good riddance. Cookie didn’t need him. No matter how much she’d once thought otherwise. She wasn’t the damsel in distress or the princess in need, as he believed. She had skills. Good ones. And she would remember what they were as soon as she unearthed a safe—semi-safe—halfway decent spot to rest.
Which direction to go? To the left, trees, bushes and flowers flourished, a breeding ground for pixies. To the right, shadows ghosted over gnarled limbs that were littered with thorns.
Left—anything could be poison. Right—those thorns probably sliced like razors.
“Lulundria?” the Viking called. He’d gotten closer. “Please, sweetheart. Kaysar will recover from his injuries any moment.”
The two had fought, and the Viking had won? Dang. That sucked for her. And Kaysar. If the Viking prince was strong enough to incapacitate the centaur slayer, the fiercest warrior she’d ever met, what kind of harm could he cause Cookie?
An image of his ice daggers flashed, and she shuddered. Rephrase. How much more harm would he cause her?
Despite protesting muscles, she quickened her pace. The thorns it is.
As she advanced, branches slapped her. A sharp rock sliced the bottom of her foot. She muffled a shout of pain with her hand. Sweat beaded on her skin, stinging every wound, but she didn’t slow.
Keep going, don’t stop. Breath sawed in and out of her mouth. She jumped over a procession of fireants, her knees nearly buckling when she landed. Halfway there...
A twig snapped somewhere behind her. Cookie chanced a glance over her shoulder, her gaze darting. He wasn’t within sight yet. A relief. But it was only a matter of time. A worry. She plowed ahead, pumping her arms faster. Harder. Blood rushed in her veins, her hands heating. Suddenly ivy budded from her fingers.
The vines slithered away from her, as before, but they didn’t go far, and they didn’t create a doorway. What the—Ever-thickening stalks coiled around her, knitting a cocoon of foliage, covering every part of her body and rooting her in place.
Her heart continued to race. How had she created her branchy, leafy prison without thought or practice?
As she fought to control her breathing, the leaves eased off her. The ones in front of her eyes parted, providing a slit for viewing. Forget breathing. The Viking materialized roughly fifteen feet away. Frantic, he searched high and low.
“Lulu? Please, sweetheart. I know you’re here. The trail has stopped.” He shoved branches out of his way and kicked rocks, closing in on Cookie... “I love you. I’ve missed you so much.”
Closer still... Tremors sped through her. When his attention shot her way, blood rushed to her ears, and she froze, even her racing heart seemed to stop. But he merely cringed and moved on, skirting around the vine to avoid contact and continue his hunt.
He hadn’t noticed her beneath the leaves?
“Lulu, I know you’re nearby. Sweetheart, I’m so sorry I hurt you. I won’t let Kaysar win again. He will pay, I swear it. Where are you? Have you remembered me yet? I can’t flitter you to safety if I can’t touch you.”
A new image flashed. The Viking, poised above Lulundria, his features strained but blissful as his baby blues peered at her. That look...what was it? Love? Adoration, maybe. It was the kind of look Cookie had never received. An expression she’d yearned to see her entire life. She just hadn’t known it until now.
Her mother and father had usually only demonstrated disinterest. Boyfriends had mostly conveyed horniness. Pearl Jean and Sugars had come close to adoration, but the pair had their own defenses to overcome, and Cookie had refused to push.
How could the prince look at Lulundria like that, then kill her? He’s worse than I realized. As bad as the centaurs. How many other innocent, defenseless women had the Viking harmed in his lifetime? How many would he harm in the future, if someone didn’t stop
him?
If only Cookie could command her body with a remote control right now. His mutilated remains would be splayed at her feet already.
“Lulu, please,” he whisper-yelled, growing desperate. “You’re injured. The thought of your pain... You need my help, and I need to help you. Sweetheart, I know what happened to your heart. The pixies told me. Please, don’t worry. We can navigate this together.”
The pixies—Those wretched gossips!
The burst of temper reminded her of one in particular, and she scowled. Give her five minutes alone in a room with Thumbelina, and Cookie would be picking pink pixie out of her teeth.
“I might be a stranger to you right now, but I’m a stranger willing to die to protect you. Lulundria? Please.” The Viking spun this way and that. “Kaysar is fast on my heels. If he discovers you—”
“Too late,” a familiar voice announced. “He’s discovered you already.”
Kaysar. Her knees wobbled. He’d come for her, after all.
“When will you die?” the Viking snarled.
Her dark knight stepped into her field of vision and grinned. “Come now, Prince Jareth. Is that any way to greet a treasured foe?”
Sweet goodness. He grimed up good. Gaze voracious, she drank him in. Tousled dark hair fit the gleam in his eyes. Controlled aggression flushed his skin, his muscles straining. His clothes were dirty and torn in numerous places, his boots scuffed.
“I won’t let you near her a second time.” The golden-haired brute braced for battle. He and the king were close in height and muscle mass: size Hulk. The demon versus the demon, both experienced killers. But only one of them made her go liquid.
“How about a third?” Kaysar exuded more of that disturbing patience, a jot of amusement and a dash of satisfaction, each liberally coated in malice. “My Eye is better than yours. I had the princess’s location long before you did.”
Whatever damage the prince had inflicted earlier had healed, the king ripe for his next battle. She almost whispered his name to let him know she waited nearby, but prudence kept her quiet.
“Go on,” Viking taunted him. “Strike at me.”
Kaysar arched a brow, amused. “You truly think you can win against me?”
“I did before.”
“You?” Kaysar scoffed, a casual action that belied the bombs of fury exploding in his irises. “There you go, lying again. A pink pixie sliced my Achilles tendons,” he explained, so patient he was terrifying. “The pink pixie won. At least temporarily. I believe I still have bits of her on my boots.”
Cookie’s pulse fluttered. He’d taken care of Thumbelina? Hat tip. Next round’s on me, majesty.
“You kill and kill and kill,” the other man snapped, his daggers glinting in the sunlight. “How are you any better than the Frostlines you hate?” Dust motes swirled around him, a gentle contrast to the tension that fizzed the air. “Why can’t we end this war between us, once and for all?”
“Tsk-tsk. If you didn’t want me addicted to your misery, Jareth, you shouldn’t have made it taste so good.”
The Viking lunged at him. Kaysar winked and vanished before contact.
Cookie silenced a shout of denial as she pressed against the front of her leafy cocoon, a visceral need to grab hold of the king choking her. He didn’t know she was here. He didn’t know he’d left her behind, that she—
Amazing heat flamed from her nape to her ankles. She attempted to turn, but there was little room. Less than before. Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, a hand tipped by razor-sharp claws flattening on her belly, the fingers spread wide. Another hand cupped her throat, cold metal resting on her rushing artery.
Cookie’s heart raced a thousand times faster than before, frissons of awareness pinging her nerve endings. Kaysar had known she was here. He’d come to her. She wasn’t alone anymore. Breath left her as she sagged against him, relieved.
With his thumb under her chin, he forced her head to slant and rest against his shoulder. Despite the shadows enveloping them, she had no trouble meeting his gaze. His eyes glowed, a beacon in her storm.
Kaysar bent his head, putting his lips at her ear. He whispered, “Have you missed me, sweetling?”
His low rumble filled her head, rousing sensual smoke, fogging her thoughts. How easily he wove a spell over her mind. And her body. Her nipples drew tight, and her belly fluttered. A warm ache bloomed between her legs. She wanted...she wanted!
The intensity of her desire for the man frightened her in a way Jareth’s violence had not, and she gulped. Kaysar had spoken of craving her. But she craved him, even though she knew better.
What you craved, you focused on. What you focused on, you magnified. What you magnified had the power to erode your resistance.
She needed her resistance to prevent herself from making a stupid mistake. Her defenses were already down, her ability to filter emotion on the fritz. It must be. Her senses remained heightened, her nose saturated with his delicious scent, her skin tingling, desperate for his touch.
Afternoon heat? What afternoon heat?
Realizing he’d lost his foe, the Viking—Jareth—released his aggression, using a tree trunk as a punching bag. She flinched with every blow. How often had he used those fists on Lulundria?
When he finished his temper tantrum, the tree had a nice hidey hole for cat-size squirrels.
Cookie tried to maintain a strict watch on his whereabouts, in case he neared again. But her mind had other ideas, tracking Kaysar’s every breath. Every point of contact warmed her.
Jareth stomped around. Kaysar continued to hold her, as if they had all the time in the world, gliding, gliding, gliding his thumb over her hammering pulse, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
When Jareth finally bailed, Kaysar smoothed a leaf from her cheek. “Someone is enjoying her new powers, I see. As she should.” A husky chuckle fanned her lips, and she wanted to tell him to shut up and never stop talking. To be still and move against her. To let her go and hold on forever. “Lulundria created ivy. What you created is poisonvine. The difference is telling, don’t you think?”
“Telling?” she said, biting back a moan when he rubbed a massive erection into her crack.
“Mmm-mmm. Telling.” He nuzzled her cheek. “One was made for light, one for dark.” Holding her gaze, he slid the hand on her throat up and over her jawline, then traced the tip of a claw around her lips. The lightest of grazes, yet streams of pleasure arced to her core. “How perfectly you fit against me, princess.”
Concentrate on what matters. Survival. Knowledge. A ticket home. “What is poisonvine?” Would she hurt others with it, as she’d hurt the two women during her escape? Would she harm loved ones like Pearl Jean and Sugars? That—no. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. She would rather die than injure her family.
“Poisonvine is dangerous to most fae. It weakens them. But you, it will strengthen, I suspect.”
“What does poisonvine do to you?”
“Tickle,” he breathed. He nipped her earlobe and goose bumps erupted over her limbs. “Tell me, Chantel. What is this power you wield over my body, hmm?”
She had power over his body? Her? “None. Some?” Tons? “I don’t know.” He certainly wielded power over hers. As he held her and bestowed those gentle caresses, her muscles melted like butter. Focus. Right. “What’s your beef with Jareth?” And they did have a beef. A big one.
What had Jareth said? Why can’t we end this war between us, once and for all?
Kaysar tensed. “That is none of your concern.”
Six words, unbending command. If she asked again, he intended to retaliate. But how? She still wasn’t afraid of him.
Think this through. The battle between the two men hadn’t started with Lulundria. Kaysar only met the princess the day Jareth iced her. So why had the king risked his life to aid an enemy’s wife?
“Maybe you should let me go now?” she said. She needed a moment to think without him nearby.
Another chuckle. “Does my proximity bother you, sweetling?”
“Yes,” she burst out. “And I’d prefer an endearment like Machete or Chops. Now be a good boy, and let me go.”
He moved his hands over her arms, so gentle, almost tender, never cutting her with those vicious claws. “Little doll, I’m not the one holding you captive. You are.”
Little doll? Breathing became an activity of the past. “How do I get rid of the stalks?”
“You haven’t learned to hold on to the stalks mystically,” he said, “so you must release your connection to them physically.” When he tapped his fingers on hers, she remembered the vines. Oh, yes. Right again. Yesterday, the stalks had withered when she’d ceased needing them. To her knowledge, she’d done nothing special.
As she eased her grip, the leaves withered, like the few times before, freeing her and her guest from their emerald prison. She sucked in a mouthful of clean, crisp oxygen that lacked Kaysar’s carnal sweetness. Finally, she could think again. Kind of. Mostly. A thrum of desire lingered...
He flittered in front of her, and she yelped.
“At the very least, give a girl a warning first,” she grumbled.
Too beautiful for anyone’s good, he removed a pair of boots from an overstuffed cloth satchel. “For you.”
She accepted without hesitation, clutching the shoes to her chest. “Thank you so much.”
He smiled at her as he removed the bag’s leather strap from his chest and offered it to her. Disconcertingly gleeful, he told her, “Your provisions are inside. You will carry them, of course.”
She frowned, the weight of the bag a little worrying. “Why of course?”
“My provisions aren’t cradled inside. Why would I carry it?”
Uh... “Because you’re a gentleman or whatever?”
Amused, he softly chucked her under the chin. “What a silly thing to say.”
Good point. Okay, trying again. “You should carry it to tick off Jareth.” He delighted in the prince’s misery. Was that why he’d aided Lulundria? To hurt Jareth? “He’d probably be super bummed to know his enemy helped the woman he believes to be his wife.”
Heartless Page 11
