Mona Lisa Craving m-3

by Sunny

  One great, heaving, yanking assist from the boy, and one leg lifted free of the water. I swung it over the tree trunk, and pulled the rest of my body slowly, painfully up. Once out of the water’s sucking grasp, I moved quickly. Scooting down the trunk, I started the process of hauling my rescuer out. Freed of his burden—me—he made a much quicker and more graceful job of heaving himself up and out.

  I crawled backward until we were on solid ground, and then simply let myself fall off the trunk onto the wonderful still earth, feeling like one giant black-and-blue, aching bruise, which was probably the case.

  I felt him lower down beside me and gave myself a moment to rest. A moment before I decided what to do next to my rescuer: thank him or kick him in the balls again. He might have just saved my life, but he’d been the reason for its peril in the first place. I hadn’t forgotten that.

  The tingling sense of others—other Monère—stole across my senses and forestalled my decision. I staggered to my feet, and saw the boy rise to his also, silver dagger in hand. His holster was empty, the gun apparently lost. Which sucked, really, because we were outnumbered. I counted ten men closing in on us. Ten rogues, if I were not mistaken, Monère warriors cast out by their Queens, often banding together as bandits. Four of them had swords, the rest were just armed with daggers.

  It was not just the worn clothes and hodgepodge assembly of their weapons that made me think of them as rogues. Nor the older feel of their strength, their power. It was the furtiveness of their movements, the meanness in their eyes, the disillusioned hardness in them, and the hungry, gleaming avarice that filled them when they spotted me, felt me. Queen.

  “Friends of yours?” I asked.

  “No,” the boy said. “Yours?”

  “Nope.”

  “Stay behind me.”

  “Next to you would be better. Even up the odds a little more,” I said, coming to stand beside him, making it five to two instead of ten to one. More even odds, as I said.

  Stubborn boy that he was, he stepped protectively forward, putting himself between me and the men.

  “Milady, you seem to be lost,” said a gray-haired warrior. He seemed to be not only the oldest but the most powerful among them. Their leader, I presumed.

  I wanted to say, Not lost, so much as kidnapped, but didn’t do anything so foolish. In cases like this, a lie usually served much better than the truth. Or in this case, a half-lie. “I fell into the river and was separated from the rest of my men. They should be along shortly.”

  “Good thing we sensed you then.” The man smiled, and it made my flesh crawl. “We will protect you until your men come.” Substitute snatch and keep instead of protect, and you would have their real intent. His words were helpful and benign, but his actions were not. They surrounded us in a semicircle, the river at our back, leaving us no place to run.

  “Stay back,” the boy warned them.

  A gesture from the leader and his men sprang. They rushed the boy, all powerful warriors, experienced fighters. But he held them, unbelievably. Kept them from me.

  The boy fought unlike any other warrior I’d ever seen. He fought as if he were moving in a lethal flowing dance, dipping and spinning to unheard music. He dropped to the ground and whirled with his dagger in a slashing sweep, making it look beautiful as he sliced across the lower legs of the five men engaging him to his left. Then he rolled to meet the men converging from the right, dancing with them in a wicked ballet of blades. The men slashed and thrust with brute force and chilling savagery while he dodged with grace and serenity, moving with a superior ease none of the other rogues had—that none of my men even possessed. They thrust, he parried, blocking and striking unexpectedly with his wide wrist guards, using them as both weapons and defense, whatever opportunity afforded him. Even the two rogues with long swords he danced with. He fought them off, and turned back to meet the other group.

  It was an exquisite display of skill, of valiant heart, but numbers and weapons do count and usually prevail. The odds were overwhelmingly against him. He had injured some of the men, but had not taken any out. And the five he’d pushed back pressed back in immediately as soon as he turned his attention away. They circled behind him, waiting for their moment to strike.

  I stepped away from the boy’s protection and engaged their interest, smiling, opening my arms to them, my message plain: You want me, come get me.

  With eager, lustful gleams in their eyes they did.

  “No!” the boy shouted, somehow aware of my actions even as he fought. “Come back, my lady.”

  I could not obey him. Could not stand there and do nothing as they cut him down, which they eventually would. My palms throbbed, my power awakening as I called upon it. In a hot, flowing rush, it came at my beckoning, a living force pulled from the center of me, spilling down my arms, into my hands, into my Goddess’s Tears—the moles that were the size and color of large pearls embedded deep in my palms.

  A second powerful throb, like a living pulse of power, and a sword flew from a surprised bandit’s hand into my right hand. Another pulsing pull, and I stripped a silver dagger from another rogue, drawing it into my left hand. The two unarmed men fell back, startled, and let the three others come at me.

  I rushed forward to meet the trio, putting more distance between me and the boy, giving me swinging room for the sword, which I used with far less grace than my young protector but much more ruthlessly. I’d been captured before by a band of outlaw rogues. I would not willingly be taken captive again; I knew what my fate would be under their hands. While they fought to take me alive, I was under no such restriction.

  I met the sword-bearing warrior first. Our blades met in a harsh metallic clash, and I saw surprise in his eyes at my strength, more than he had expected. Knocking his sword aside with my own, I plunged the dagger deep into his belly, angled upward. A hard swipe left and he collapsed on the ground, his great vessels severed. Not a killing blow, but one that took him out of commission until he healed.

  His two armed companions roared and came at me with daggers in hand. I slashed out with the sword. They leaped back, then pounced, springing at me as the sword passed them by. I let the flow of it spin me completely around, and buried the dagger gripped in my other hand into the side of a very surprised rogue. I felt it break through a rib, puncture his lung. But these were seasoned warriors. Injured as he was, he still swiped at me with his dagger. I leaped away, bloody blade in hand, and found two others coming at me, one with a sword he must have snatched from the other fallen rogue.

  A new man entered the fray. Big Daddy had finally caught up. He was an older, bearded version of his son, with the same warrior bracelets around his wrists, armed with a dagger and a similar gun-in-holster setup. Of course, he just used the dagger, not the gun. Gee, why carry it at all?

  He stepped between us, and with a few simple blows and elegant dagger thrusts, he took the two men down cleanly and easily. The remaining bandit, unarmed, turned and ran.

  “Glad you could join us,” I said. “I imagine your son could use your help.”

  “Stay here.” He turned to go.

  “Here.” I tossed him my sword. He caught it, and without a hitch in stride, entered the fray.

  I did as he said, I stayed there. Not because he’d told me to, but to watch the two of them for a moment. In battle, they were breathtaking to behold, moving as a unit, complementing one another. It was fighting as I’d never seen before, like poetry in motion. And the way the father wielded the sword…it made what I’d done with it as merely hacking away—all I knew to do. In his hands, though, the sword sang. A lethal song, but a mesmerizing one, whirring through the air in the hands of a master.

  Surprisingly, the dad left the sword-wielding bandit leader engaged with his son instead of taking him on as he could have. Dad fought the two dagger-armed rogues and the other swordsman, although fought implied an even match. It wasn’t. He took two of them down as easily as drawing in breath—and just as quick—leavi
ng a last trembling rogue holding a shaking sword to face him.

  The son held his own more easily now, facing just two bandits instead of five. But held was the proper term. They were evenly matched. The boy kept his opponents away from him, agilely dancing away from their blows, but he did not cut any of them down.

  I began a backward retreat. The boy was fine now. I could leave and should, before the battle was over and it was too late to slip away. I’d fought beside the boy, given the father my sword, but that didn’t make them my friends. Just my temporary allies until the threat of the bandits was neutralized.

  As before, the boy seemed aware of my movements, even faced away from me as he was and engaged in battle. “Don’t,” he said, turning his head slightly to look at me.

  One bare moment of inattention, and the bandit leader’s sword slipped past the boy’s guard and ran him through.

  I cried out—not the boy, he was silent—and leaped for them, moving fast. But not as fast as the father. The big man threw his dagger, burying the blade in his opponent’s throat, taking him out. Then he turned, and with one powerful downstroke, cut off the leader’s arm—the arm holding the sword that had run his son through. With fast-flowing economy, the downstroke turned into a side slash, slicing open the last remaining bandit in a ruby splash of blood. Three simple moves and the battle was over.

  He stepped in front of his fallen son, sword in hand, but did nothing more. Just watched as the wounded bandits dragged themselves away.

  The bandit leader cautiously stooped down and retrieved his severed limb and weapon. “Don’t come back here again,” he snarled, retreating. His men, those that were able to stand, threw their fallen comrades over their shoulders and followed him.

  I ran to the boy’s side, dropped down beside him, muttering, “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

  “I know,” the boy said, his voice strained with pain. “I let him past my guard.”

  “Not you,” I snapped. “Me. For coming back to you.” His hand was pressed over the wound in front. I laid my hand over the back exit wound, which was spilling out blood like a dam with a high-pressured leak. The moment my palm came in contact with blood and flesh, that deep cycle of energy within me came up and out, called forth by the pain of another, easing it as my mole tingled and warmed, searching out the depths of his injury. Miraculously, it had punctured cleanly through, missing his intestines and other vital organs. Lucky son of a bitch. Of course, he’d probably have been able to heal those wounds as well. He was a Full Blood Monère, after all. What the hell was I doing?

  “You took the pain away. Are you a healer?” the boy asked. My face softened when I looked down into his. Young, so young, even though he was taller than I by a good five inches.

  “Not really.” Not in the usual way. I could heal, yes, but through sex. And that wasn’t called for here. Injured though the boy was, he would heal without my intervention. But I was trained as a nurse; there were other commonsense things you could do, like decrease the loss of blood.

  “Give me part of your shirt or something to staunch the blood with,” I snapped at the father, who was gazing down at me with curious attention. Without a word, he ripped off a shirt sleeve and handed it to me. I folded it into a compress and gently pressed it against the rear exit wound. He tore off his other sleeve, and I used it for the entry wound.

  “Why didn’t you use your damn gun?” I demanded.

  “They had no guns. It would not have been an equal fight,” the big man said.

  “It wasn’t an equal fight once you got here,” I snapped back.

  I sacrificed my own two sleeves, tore them into strips, and bound them into one long piece, tying it around his waist to hold the two compresses in place.

  Sitting back, I glared up at the big man. He still held the sword I’d given him. “Two questions,” I said, my tone a rock-hard contrast to the softness with which I’d spoken to his son. “What did you do with the Mixed Blood boy you had tied up near my home?” With Wiley. The wild fear and anger on his face when I last saw him flashed again in my mind’s eye.

  “I knocked him out then uncuffed him.”

  So Wiley should be fine. Just angry and frightened after he awakened, but essentially unharmed.

  “What is your second question?” he asked.

  Oh, that was an easy and obvious one. And you could say my tone was more than a touch hostile. “What the fuck do you want with me?”

  The man laid down the sword, away from me, I noticed, and crouched down so that we were more of an equal height. It was his injured son, however, who answered me.

  “My lady, please. My brother, he needs a Lady of Light. I beg of you, please save him before it’s too late.”

  FOUR

  WE WERE BACK once more in the car, but I was sitting up, free. No silver handcuffs. I’d have felt better if I had been restrained but, nope. I was here of my own free will. By my own stupid volition. We were crossing out of my Louisiana territory into the bordering state of Texas, and I was sitting there doing nothing about it.

  The rogues, it seemed, resided along the fringe of my territory. And they were not the only rogues who plagued me. Father and son were rogues as well, something that came as almost a shock to me. I hadn’t thought of them as such. They were dressed better and seemed, I don’t know, somehow honorable…even though they’d knocked me unconscious and taken me from my people. Which went to say just how screwed up my judgment was…continued to be. Maybe I could blame it on being hit in the head. It just knocked the sense right out of me, you know?

  I don’t think that was going to go over too well with my guys when I got back home. If I got back home. I was trusting the word of two rogues—that they would return me safely back after my look-see, even if I decided not to help Dante, the reason for this all. How stupid was that? Very stupid, because I believed them. That was why I was here, playing the nice, sedate passenger.

  We would be there in twenty-five minutes, they had said, and were accurate almost down to the minute. The little hand of the clock had just ticked up to eight when we turned into the driveway of a neat little home just off of County Road 257, fifteen minutes past the WELCOME TO TEXAS sign. It was a rural setting, looking totally normal and feeling that way, too, if you were just a human, which I was not.

  A wave of power, of need, coming from the house punched me like a blow to the stomach, so strong and fierce it was. I gasped, sitting there in the car, more than a little shaken. “Christ, what the hell is that?”

  Quentin, the boy, turned around in his seat, said with sorrow in his eyes, “That’s Dante, my brother.”

  Holy crap. “How old is your brother, exactly?”

  “We’re twins. He’s twenty, same as me.”

  “Twins, huh?” And a whole year younger than me. How thrilling.

  “We’re not identical.”

  “No kidding,” I said. “You feel nothing alike.”

  “No, we don’t,” Quentin said sadly. “He’s older than me by six minutes, which is why I was spared his fate.”

  Lunara asseros, Nolan, the father, had called it, or lunar craving. Also known as Moon Madness, so named because those who had it were often driven mad by their unfulfilled need for lunar light. It was why I was here, and what I was supposed to cure, a rare affliction that could strike down a warrior. Not all. Usually just the strongest or the first born. Rare because it occurred only if a Monère warrior never Basked, never was exposed to the moon’s essential light pouring into them. Rare because almost every Monère Basked at least once in their lifetime. Unless you were born rogues, as these two boys had been, and had never known a Queen’s light.

  What happens to those afflicted? I had asked.

  If they do not receive the light that their Monère body craves in time…that their thinking mind needs to survive…then they burn out, go mad. Become nothing more than a ravening beast that must be put down and destroyed or he will go on to kill others.

  I’d asked how long Da
nte had been ill.

  Thirty-six hours now, had been the answer. That was a long time.

  A brown-haired woman with warm brown eyes, standing half a head shorter than I, rushed out of the back door and hurried to the car. Her hair was coiled in a simple bun, and a gold ring adorned her left hand.

  “Thank the Goddess,” she said fervently. “You brought a Queen.”

  “My mother, Hannah Morell,” Quentin said, introducing us. “Mother, this is Mona Lisa. She’s come to help Dante.”

  I didn’t quibble over his choice of words. Didn’t say that they’d kidnapped me. I stepped out of the car and I saw the surprise register in Hannah’s eyes when she saw that I was not restrained.

  “And you’ve come of your own volition.” She sank down to her knees, tears in her eyes. “Thank you, gracious lady, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Please, get up.” I gestured awkwardly for her to rise, flustered at having her kneeling like that. “And I only promised to take a look at him,” I clarified.

  “Quentin is hurt, Mother. A sword ran him through,” Nolan said as he opened the passenger door and gently lifted Quentin into his arms. “He needs your healing touch.”

  I glanced back at the small woman rising to her feet. “You’re a healer?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  I turned with exasperation to father and son. “If you dunderheads had told me that in the first place instead of knocking me out, I’d have come with you voluntarily. God, I’d do just about anything to get a healer for my people.”

  “Save my son,” Hannah said passionately, “and I will serve you.”

  “You will be our healer?”

  “Yes. My word, by the holy Goddess of Light.”

  “Okay, good, good,” I said, immensely cheered and vastly more motivated now…until another powerful wave of that vibrant want, that stunning need, hit me, stealing my breath away. I swayed for a moment, then caught my breath and balance and followed Nolan and Quentin into the house.