Salome at Sunrise

by Inez Kelley

  “So anything with feathers…like a duster or pillow stuffing.”

  Her arm slipped from his and her eyes narrowed, shifting from stormy gray to stony granite. “Or a buzzard to pluck the flesh from your bones.”

  A grin tugged at his mouth and he wasn’t strong enough to fight it. “You have a temper.”

  “I do not.” Her sharp little chin thrust into the air and she stepped ahead of him.

  “Yes, you do.” Devilment stirred in his belly. How long had it been since he felt this niggling urge to tease? A battle he could win rose before him and he grasped it. He was a born smart-ass. “If I make you angry enough, will you molt and drop feathers like snow?”

  Salome slammed to a stop and whirled, small fists knotted at her sides and thinned brows pinched tight together. “You’re being mean.”

  “Oh, now I’ve done it. You’re shortening your words.” He shuddered exaggeratedly. “I’m scared. The big bad bird lady is mad at me.”

  “Stop that!”

  “Careful, birdie, I wouldn’t want your mood to get any more fowl than it is.” Dust puffed as she stamped her tiny foot in indignation. Bryton cocked his hip and crossed his arms. This was fun. “If I really piss you off, will you crow like a rooster?”

  Her jaw dropped then firmed. She stooped to grab a rock and hurled it at him. Only jerking his arm up prevented it from crashing into his face. He laughed. “If you get mad enough, will you lay an egg?”

  Salome’s eyes flashed molten silver, her hands jammed straight out and a gust of lilac wind slapped into him. Not a brisk breeze or a dim draft, this wind was a furious funnel that lifted him from his feet and threw him through the air. His back crashed into the hard dirt, knocking the breath from his lungs and spinning stars into his vision. He lay there and let his body thump for one long second before groaning.

  “You are one hell of a peacemaker, Salome.”

  “Come on, I was teasing.” Salome shook her feathers but did not leave her branch. Bryton tossed the small bunch of grasses into the growing fire then stood, dusting his hands on his pants. “Salome, please. If you’re bound to me then you have to talk to me.”

  He was right and that irritated her even more. Clinging to her stubbornness, she turned and pointed her tail at him. His sigh echoed above the soft brush of his boots on the grass.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

  She swiveled her head and glared at him.

  His rust-colored brows rose. “Okay, I did. I’m still sorry. I won’t poke fun again, I promise. Come sit with me by the fire.”

  Her sensitive ears heard a far off deer snort and the gurgle of a nearby stream. They also heard the longing Bryton didn’t realize underscored his words. He was lonely and her presence would soothe him. It wasn’t anger at him that kept her feathered but disgust with herself. It was difficult to think peaceful thoughts when her mind strayed to images of his hands touching her skin. She was failing him. The revenge he sought still had talons in his soul and would not release. She could not help him find peace until he opened his heart to it.

  She would not accomplish that by hiding behind her wings. Blowing her anger away on a slow breath, she leaped from the branch in a swirl of lilac. Sandaled feet hit the ground before him. “You are forgiven.”

  Fire danced behind him, obscuring his face in shadows but gilding the back and sides of his hair to flame. The dark lock hung loose and framed his jaw.

  A sense of calm and ease enveloped her and strengthened the longer she was in his presence. Cornflower eyes twinkled beneath red-gold brows a hue deeper than his hair. Broad lines bordered his mouth, suggesting either a life filled with humor or angst. Salome doubted it was angst. Intelligence shone behind his relaxed demeanor, a hint he was more than a pretty face evident in his absorbing stare. Confidence shrouded him like a mantle. From the slight bump at the bridge of his nose to the cleft above his lip, a subtle nuance suggested she place herself in his care, assured her of his competence and whisked all trepidation away.

  “Thank you. Would you like some dinner?”

  “Dinner? Oh, food. No, I require nothing.”

  He drew her back to the fireside with a palm beneath her elbow. Her arm felt as fragile as a spider’s web in his large hand. Warm air pushed from the blaze but his touch spiraled heat through her. He guided her to a soft pack and she sat, her bottom cradled in the wool of his bedroll. A hearty scent wafted on steam from the pot hanging from a tripod over the low fire. Kneeling before it, he stirred, then scooped several spoons into a wooden bowl. He handed it to her.

  “It’s actually not bad and you have to burn energy flying.”

  “Burn? I have burned nothing. And I do not need to eat. As the wind, I replenish my magic.”

  “Then humor me and replenish your body. Eat.”

  Bits of meat swam in a thick broth beside wild onions and carrots. The spoon he handed her took some maneuvering but she managed to cradle a bit of the stew and bring it to her mouth. A scorch touched her lips and she pulled away sharply.

  “It’s hot. Blow on it,” he cautioned.

  Trial and error proved she must blow three times before her lips could tolerate the heat. Then savory richness filled her mouth. The meat was tender and succulent, hitting her stomach with a pleasant warmth. She raised her face and found him watching her, seeking her approval.

  “I like it. What is this?”

  “Rabbit.” He settled back, leaning on his saddle, and brought his bowl to his mouth. She realized he had given her his spoon. Her gaze dropped to the plain tool. It was molded metal, likely not precious or costly but he had given it to her. Her belly glowed with a fire that had nothing to do with food.

  “Your dress mended.” He motioned the bowl toward her feet and she looked down.

  “Yes, I am as I was when I was called.”

  “Neat trick. We mere mortals have to deal with needle and thread.”

  “You mentioned stitching. Do you sew?”

  He chewed a mouthful before shaking his head. “Only skin and only when I have to. I’d rather not. My hands are too big to make little stitches and the scars are worse the larger the sewing.”

  “Have you many scars?”

  “A few. You don’t see battle as often as I have without walking away with some mementos.”

  “You know battle well.”

  The contents of his bowl held his gaze for a long moment. “Yes. Eldwyn was at war when I was born and it only ended a few summers ago. Since then, the Skullmen keep my sword honed.”

  Her lips parted to ask what he would do when the Skullmen were no longer a threat but closed without uttering a sound. He had no plans further than dying. To quell the empty sadness that fell, she ate more stew. Time passed with little noise. The scrape of the spoon against her bowl brought his smile. “There’s more if you like.”

  “No, thank you.” She placed the bowl at her feet, her fingers lingering on the spoon for a second too long. “But I would like to know you more. Will you tell me of your young?”

  His head jerked up. “You mean Jana? Why?”

  “You are here. Her mother has passed. Who cares for her? Have you a family?”

  He ladled more stew into his bowl and eased back against his saddle before speaking. “Yeah, but my sister has her own kids to deal with. She helps when she can. My parents are older now. They dote on Jana but grandparents are more likely to spoil than not. They see her daily, but Jana’s a ward of the crown. Taric and Myla will care for her.”

  “I see,” Salome murmured, and she did. Bryton had arranged new parents for his child. The natural brush of wind lifted a lock of her hair, fluttering it across her brow and she smoothed it behind her ear. When he teased her, the light in his spirit had grown, peeking through a tiny crack in his shielded soul. That glimmer heartened her.

  Light of a different hue bathed his face. The dancing shades of flame carved his cheeks into stone, shadowed by his scruffy jaw. Darker than the bronze of
his hair but lighter than the ebony lock, the shade of his whiskers fascinated her. Browns, golds, reds and tans called to her. It wasn’t a beard, not yet, but thickly covered his chin. Was it as prickly as it looked? She was tracing his jawline with mental fingertips when the inappropriateness chilled her. She had no right. He caught her staring.

  “What?” Spots of heat bloomed on her cheeks and she glanced away but returned her gaze. She touched her jaw. His hand rose to his own. “Oh, yeah, I haven’t shaved in a few days. I haven’t decided if I’m going to, actually.”

  The silk of her chiton made no sound as she stood and walked toward him. His gaze raked her from her crown to her hem, lingering on the swells and curves between. A curious pounding began in her ears, as if her blood rushed. Could the campfire increase the heat so much her blood boiled? Her nipples tightened and a swallow worked his throat. Her fingers ached to touch it, to feel the cords of his neck move. Was his skin as warm as hers felt? She struggled for breath and lowered to the ground beside him.

  “May I touch it? It looks…rough.”

  “If you like.”

  Her fingers stopped an inch from his face and curled back into her palm. He caught her wrist and brought her hand to his face. Sharp, jagged whiskers abraded her skin. The smoothness of his cheek above the beard line slid under her thumb and she marveled at the difference. “So harsh. Does it hurt?”

  “No.” His smile pressed the scruff firmer to her hand. “Itches a little but a man gets used to it.”

  The soft skin of her own chin glided under her other hand. How would his cheek feel against hers? That random thought, that single vivid image, flared into her mind and jerked her gaze up to his. A hunger brewed in the summer-blue depths. The thumb encircling her wrist stroked a slow path more powerful than any magic. He angled his head until his bottom lip grazed the heel of her hand. The petal-satin of his mouth halted, barely touching her. Moist breath dampened her skin and his lids closed.

  Words could not force past the lump lodged in her throat. He was wrong. She shouldn’t have eaten. Her stomach churned with a heavy weight and her lungs wouldn’t work. Something about the scratch of his jaw in her palm bound her flesh to his and she could not pull back. It drained her will of wanting to pull back. It charmed her as no spell could, luring her closer. The bones in her spine bowed, leaning into him.

  Her hand didn’t fall from his face but she brought her cheek even with his. A rough-drawn inhale stilled in his frame and she paused, but temptation pushed her. She brushed her skin against his whiskers. They scoured her jaw, the burn far from unpleasant. Friction sparked along her bones with a crackling tremor. Prickly stubble skimmed her lip and her eyes closed. Each panting breath dragged in his scent, his taste. Her tongue ached to flick out, like the snake on the prairie, to see if the gruff hair bristled that as firmly. She didn’t dare. She should move, pull away. She should never have touched him, never given in to the curiosity of human contact.

  Bryton lifted his head, rubbing his jaw into hers. The burn increased to a sizzle. His grip tightened, holding her palm to his skin. The corner of his mouth touched her cheek and he froze. Loud and raspy, his breath echoed near her ear. A shudder rippled through him and he ground his mouth to her skin. The harsh glide of his open lips, moist against her tingling jaw, forced a gasp.

  She’d seen the man, the one from the night before, press his mouth to the woman’s, but it was nothing like this. That had been gentle. This was primal. That had been with puckered lips and soft smiles. This was like a buck nuzzling a doe, marking her. That had made her spirit light. This made a heavy ache between her thighs.

  Roughly, he pushed at her jaw with his chin. She angled her head and his lips slid down her neck, his mouth tracing through a fresh path of tingling flesh. Under her cheek, below her ear, a spot lurked that turned her bones to water when his lips touched it. She sagged against him.

  Hard chest met soft breasts. Her hip brushed something harder and Bryton jerked. Slowly, his head dipped until the smooth contour of his brow pressed into the curve of her neck. His ragged breath misted along her bare shoulder. The hand around her wrist stroked down her arm then fell to a fist at his side. The air around them changed and a hint of regret wafted on his fractured whisper.

  “Salome…you need to…go, please.”

  Shaky knees would not support her, could not lift her from his touch. Raking her cheek against his one last time, her mist stirred his hair with a fast whoosh. The strands she streamed through had been as soft as his jaw was rough. Her confusion turned her magic vapor from lilac to deep dusk.

  “I did not kiss her.” Bryton’s angry voice pulled her flight up sharply.

  Salome had stayed away most of the night, soaring through the air, tripping along the treetops, sending ripples upon a calm pond and watching the moon bend and sway in the reflection. Wild emotions ravaged through her essence until her wind blew arctic cold and biting. Frost skimmed the grass as she whispered through the low valley.

  Why had she touched him? Touch was soothing and humans craved contact, but the draw of his skin held more than comfort. The stirring in her soul was not a magical response but a human one. Salome understood animals, understood the powers of nature. Those were simple, basic and uncomplicated. What she felt when she was near Bryton was the opposite but far more thrilling. She’d chosen to be his peacemaker but one moment in his presence, one glimpse into his crystal eyes, and her serenity shattered, replaced with a vibrating longing for more.

  More what? Each touch only fueled the fire, each spoken word fanned the flames, each absence spurned a blaze. What was this feeling charging through her? For one flitting second, she considered abandoning her vow and returning to a place that was rapidly fading from memory. One thought speared through her essence with a slicing bite. She could not leave him. He needed her, though he fought it, and she needed him. Bryton held more in his grasp than a sword. He held her destiny. But what was that destiny?

  So many questions and too few answers had finally numbed her and she turned back, streaming toward his slumbering camp. Dawn was still golden in the sky, the day’s blue not yet realized, when her wind took shape and form. Her falcon had lit on a thickly leafed limb and peered through foliage.

  Bryton stood shirtless, his wet hair tied back severely, and scrubbed a thick layer of white along his face. Something between two tree branches caught and reflected the rising sun. He peered into the sparkling surface and scraped a metal blade down his cheek. The white peeled away and took the whiskers with it. Her feathers quivered. He was shaving…and arguing with his horse.

  “I didn’t. I did not kiss her, no.” The horse chewed on some grasses, oblivious to his master’s discussion.

  “Okay, maybe I thought about it…for a second…or four.” More white and whiskers dropped to the bowl of water. He swished the blade and brought it back to his throat. Before he stroked, he whipped the blade to point at the animal. “But I didn’t. I just…Damn, are all the magic spirits in the world beautiful women? Why couldn’t Myla send me a huge ugly man with warts and bad breath? Hell, I’d take a crone, an old hag with a cackle and crooked nose. No, she sends me a…”

  A frustrated sound ripped from his mouth and he spun back to his bowl. More of the white fell away. Salome clamped her beak tight. The long line of his back shifted with his every move. Her gaze traced down his spine, to the small of his back. Her tiny heart fluttered in her feathered breast. Did his skin feel as smooth as it looked?

  “I mean, I could, right? It’s just lust, right? And the whole ‘not real’ thing didn’t bother Taric.”

  Jester raised his head, shaking his ears, and snorted.

  Bryton nodded. “And it’s not like I’m a monk. Even after…I’ve had women since then…four…no, five…or was it four?” Long fingers extended as he counted. “Four…no, the tavern maid in Follyswit…or did I pass out first? Shit, I can’t remember. Those moons are a drunken blur.”

  Jester twitched his ears. Mor
e white whisked away and Bryton dipped the blade in the bowl before shaking the water off with a fast snap. “No, I need to focus on finding Karok and the rest of his rabid dogs. I don’t have time to fool around with a magic spell.”

  Tipping his chin up, he drew the shaver down his throat until there was no more white. “She chatters. It’s so damn annoying…And she’s an innocent. I hate virgins, I really do.”

  He worked in short, fast movements above his upper lip. “The point is, I did not kiss her. Those women didn’t count and neither does Salome. Kat counted.”

  He dried the razor, wrapped it with the small reflective square in a leather pouch and tucked that into his saddlebag. He stared at the horse. “She’s short and her breasts are too small.”

  Salome dropped her beak and puffed her chest. Too small for what?

  “And her eyes are gray. Not blue, not brown, gray…like night before the stars appear.”

  Water struck the leaves as he pitched the bowl contents into the bush. A pale cloth dragged across his face and he sighed. So much pain bled on that noise that Salome fought a tear that couldn’t form in her feathered body. “She does smell like honey.”

  He tossed the cloth over his shoulder, rubbed the horse’s ears. “Why can’t I get the taste of her off my lips?”

  The long nose nuzzled into his shoulder and Bryton firmed his mouth. He raised the horse’s head until he stared into the solemn eyes. “But I did not kiss her.”

  Chapter Four

  The morning sun warmed the sky. Bryton pulled a tunic from his pack, stepping away from the horse. The black mark on his upper chest widened Salome’s eyes. He’d mentioned he had battle scars. Those few white lines along his torso and arms she noticed casually but that mark, the mysterious dagger blade, did not look like an injury. The edges were too clean, too precise, to have been an accidental wound. Muscles bunched and stretched as he pulled the hip-length tunic over his head. Along his biceps were triangles, darkened marks in orderly lines. Those were not accidental, either.