by Renee Peters
But she was not a mortal. Cora, a queen of Anowen, ruling House of the Aegean Immortals, was the same manner of beast as John was now — even if her petite frame barely came level with his shoulder.
Not that the man she entertained had any sense to know better.
If he had, the French laborer might have noticed how her blue eyes pinned him and that the amusement in them seemed to be at his own expense. But the man was laughing as he slammed back another tankard, and Cora matched him.
Unlike the mortals, they were not easily capable of succumbing to alcohol; as evidenced by the six tankards set on the table before the queen.
As if she felt the heat of his stare upon her, Cora’s eyes flickered John’s way. Her brows pinched and she lifted her jaw just slightly. In his blood, he felt the strum of a guitar that was uniquely her own instrument in the symphony that bound him to his new, Immortal family.
He was getting better at deciphering their hearts through their music, and in his blood he felt her admonition as a rap like knuckles against the face of her guitar.
The soldier’s jaw clenched tighter, and he felt the tempo of his drums increase.
He was not the one playing games with a mortal.
“Finish it, Cora.” John muttered it under his breath, as if the bold, willful woman who had become one of his teachers was instead a recruit under his command. He lifted the tankard to his lips.
She was driving him to drink.
No sooner had he had the thought than the laborer’s fingers — black with grime — dipped into the front of Cora’s bodice.
John watched her grab the mortal’s wrist, and his hold on his tankard jumped tighter.
To hell with it.
When he unfolded from his seat, more than one set of eyes turned his way — the smattering of feminine ones boldly assessing. At almost two-inches over six-feet, John was head and shoulders above most in the room. He set down a coin to pay for his drink and made a point of staring — as if by sheer force of will he could draw her attention to himself over the shoulder of her company.
If she thought he would suffer through watching her be groped in public like a tuppenny whore, she had grossly underestimated her student.
Leave.
The word formed silently on his lips, and the intensity of his gaze all but seared the woman. He did not give her an option. If she intended on a meal tonight, she was at risk of losing it the longer he had to watch this show. John turned his back on the pair and walked through the haze of tobacco smoke toward the doorway. He filled it briefly before becoming one with the darkness beyond its boundaries. The rest, he could learn outside.
The soldier found a place at the corner of the stone wall of the tavern, just where it lay adjacent to an alley. His fingers dipped into the dusty breeches he had worn to blend in with the laborers and fished free the remnants of two spent rifle balls.
They clicked softly as he slid them between his fingers.
One had been extracted from his lung and the other from his abdomen on the field surgeon’s table. He kept them as a reminder of what his only other choice would have been if his savior had not come along with an offer he could not refuse. This side of death was where he’d chosen to be, and he owed the Sovereign of the Immortals, Lian Redmond, for this second chance at life. Even if he was no longer confident that he had made the right decision.
Even before the door burst open, an erratic strumming guitar heralded Cora’s approach.
“Ye —” Cora gathered her skirts, bustling toward him. Her jaw clenched, and she shook the fabric out in tight fists before releasing it. The strumming of her song found a faster, louder tempo, before settling again into an irritated plucking — much like the melodic tapping of a foot. “Ye are terrible at this.” A coarse, Scottish brogue traced through her voice.
She’d told him she was well over three-hundred years old. The part of him that had been mortal only months before still could not believe it. His twenty-fourth birthday had come and gone, and she looked nearer to David’s age.
John’s brow furrowed at the memory of his friend.
“What, then?” she demanded. “Lian nae doubt taught ye to kiss women deeply enough to tend your hunger.” She cocked a brow, daring him to deny it.
For an instant, John’s eyes flashed silver, the darkness within him rising as his drums beat louder through their blood for the image her words presented. One where she was the one to satisfy his hunger.
“Well enough,” he answered curtly. “But we are neither of us of a habit of shoving our fists into their dresses while calling them whores in public places.” The groping had been the final straw.
His gaze touched over her body where she stood — lean, slender curves, a full rise of bosom and skin that was driving him to distraction. She was a blend of strength and femininity. It was all too easy to forget her strength in the face of all the woman she represented. Less so to admit to himself that he had not wanted another man’s hands on her.
He had paid the ultimate price for ignoring his feelings for a woman once. He had learned his lesson well.
“He called me chaton.” Cora’s voice was exasperated.
“That means whore.”
Her grip on her hip tightened. “I bloody well know what it meant. I was hopin’ ye damn well didnae.” The queen huffed, ruffling her curls.
John watched the patch of skin at her throat that was revealed as the dark tresses were lifted away and felt the familiar rise of a prickle of awareness.
Of the queens in his new family, Cora’s fire alone sparked even the remotest of male interest in him, and had done so when he had hardly been expecting it. But the woman was difficult and seemed to view him as little more than a child — an inconvenient responsibility in her life — when she was not humoring him.
It was not a role he enjoyed — less so with each passing day of a purposeless eternity.
He narrowed his eyes on her, feeling a new tension begin to work its way down his neck through his shoulders and into his arms. He squeezed the rifle balls.
He’d cost her a meal.
“If I’d stayed any longer, I’d have had to put my fist through his face,” he said flatly.
It was his best effort at an apology, but Cora only breathed in, folding both hands before her lips as if in prayer.
“There are three ways to go about this, Soldier,” she began and lifted her hand to tick off on her fingers. “Ye can play a victim, a monster, or a seducer.”
Nothing about their games appealed to him. Very little about the existence he had chosen seemed to satisfy when he could not escape his memories — his guilt.
With a huff, the queen lowered one finger. “Ye’re too large for playin' a victim.” Another finger dropped. “… And I dinnae think ye've grown enough beyond your humanity to be a monster in the darkness with all that chivalry.” She lowered her hand altogether. “And neither of us are dressed to sweet talk the blood out of anyone’s veins. Never mind ye still look like half a bloody creature from some gothic nightmare.”
“Thank you.”
“I didna bloody well mean it like that.” Cora’s hand shot up again to ruffle her curls. “All right. Then we're approachin' this all wrong. A soldier should be a hero —”
“I’m no hero.”
The bullet hole was no bigger than a coin.
He had left his men — his brother — on the field, taken out by the lead shot that had resulted in his transport back to England. His men were over there, and for all intents and purposes, they believed him dead or incapacitated.
Instead, he was here.
Cora lifted her hand to wave through the air, “Call it what ye will, then. The pub'll close soon, and there’ll be plenty of pickpockets and ravishers I can damsel to. Or perhaps ye can save some other drunkard since your breeches got into such a twist over me honor. Charmin’ as it was, we need to eat. Now… what's your preference, Soldier?”
John’s expression grew grimmer and his jaw tightened. Yes, he was
here, being forced to decide whether to rescue a beautiful woman in some faux pretense at heroics or not. If anything, he was closer to the monster she had claimed he lacked the sensibilities to be.
The glimmer of an idea formed, and his brow furrowed.
“How loud can you scream?”
Rhythm of Hearts
Available August 26, 2020
Acknowledgments
Creating the World of the Aegeans as we know it today has been a journey that could not have been accomplished without our editors and readers of the Aegean books in all of their various stages.
First, a huge thank you to our ARC readers! Your feedback is so valuable, and you are our first window into the minds and hearts of our readers.
We would also like to thank our editor, Jennifer Dinsmore, who gave us the encouragement and constructive critique that made this book the best that it could be.
Finally, words alone cannot express our gratitude for our series narrator, Jessica Elisa Boyd, whose faith in our debut series has given our words the voice to fly!
Renee and Rae
About the Authors
Renee Peters is a lifelong teacher and writer, Renee is the co-author of the World of the Aegeans historical paranormal series.
Rae Stilwell is a coder, a doodler, and an indie author writing about monsters, magic, and mushy stuff.
