Of all times for her sixth sense to click in, why now? She didn't have to look out that window to know nothing would look familiar.
Balion's tone did little to mask his impatience. "Come."
She advanced, her heart hammering in her chest. Rising up on tiptoe, she snuck a peek out the window. Her world spun. People dressed similar to those in the room, milled about. Children scurried about, playing the usual game of tag. Like the adults, they were dressed in costumes.
In the center of the village, the baths came into view. Women scrubbed their bodies with giant sponges, men lounged around on granite benches drinking from large mugs, conversing as though they hadn't a care in the world. Horses flicked flies from their rumps with their tails. Everywhere she looked the countryside lay in a verdant cradle of lush, green foliage. Majestic trees older than Methuselah held up the sky and hedges of wildflowers bloomed in profusion. Vines resembling honeysuckle and wisteria wound their way in and out of stone outcrops. A sight to behold—it could have been a scene out of The Chronicles of Narnia.
Kira drew back with the trepidation of an insect on the periphery of a spider's web. She looked at Balion and his smirk had evaporated. "Does this look like home to ye, lass?"
"No," she said and fainted into the Light-Prince's arms.
Chapter 5
Lulled awake by the cool rag against her forehead, Kira realized her immediate future looked grim the moment she opened her eyes.
A girl with eyes the color of robin's eggs hovered over her. "Are ye feeling better, milady?"
She squinted against the bright afternoon sun streaming through the window. "Only if a pink comforter and pink and white gingham curtains appear in my line of vision."
A blank look came from the girl as Gwyneth's sugary voice drifted into the room. "Ye'll feel better once ye have refreshed in the fountain." She offered her hand. "Come with me now."
"Do I have a choice?" Kira peered over the woman's shoulder expecting to see the ogre who called the shots in this strange land.
Gwyneth shook her long mane with enough vigor to convince Kira to rise from the mattress and follow her.
Apparently the man called Garrick held psychic powers after all. People emerged from the village quicker than ants on a march when Gwyneth led her to the baths. Overnight, she'd become a coveted luminary, or could it be her funky clothing and queer dialect beckoned them? With an uncanny ability to sniff out trouble before it arrived, Kira wasn't surprised to see another slavish follower appear with clothing in hand—a white, cotton shift, a leather belt, and a pair of crude sandals—meant for her. She couldn't imagine why she needed them since inhibition didn't exist in these parts. Men, women and children stripped down, tossed their clothing onto stone benches, and entered the central baths sans a thread of fabric.
Gwyneth stretched her arm out, palm up, her tone unyielding. "The Light-Prince forbids ye to eat or drink until ye bathe."
"Heartless bully," she mumbled under her breath. Her headache had returned, and her stomach rumbled as if her throat had been cut, ravenously so when the forehead-mopping girl appeared with a large tray of food. Kira stole a covert glance at the purple grapes, red papaya, chunks of pomegranates, and plump figs—a fare Gwyneth called passion trifles. Passing on the morsels of oysters and steamed mussels–good heavens, had they moved?–Kira reached for a cluster of grapes.
Gwyneth slapped her hand and nodded toward her clothing.
Too hungry to care, Kira removed her garments and dove into the food, developing a particular fondness for the sex fruit. After wiping her fingers on the towel Gwyneth provided, she walked into the bathing pool with an appreciative awareness of how the tepid water relieved her bruised body. She scrubbed away the grime with a large sea sponge, cognizant that her pink sweater, denim jeans and bikini panties had been carried off by one of Gwyneth's minions. She sensed she'd never see her clothing again.
Walking from the pool, she wrapped a cotton-type blanket around her and stared at the dismal garments on the bench. With her chin thrust out and her dark eyes narrowed in challenge, Gwyneth could have been a twin to Mrs. Crabtree, Kira's grumpy third grade teacher.
"Very well." Kira snatched the shift and pulled it over her head with a silent vow she could flee as well in these garments as she could hers. "Two can play this game." She stepped into the sandals.
"It is not a game," Gwyneth offered. "The people love Prince Balion and King Roldan and would not think of disobeying them."
"No doubt under the threat of being drawn and quartered if they did," Kira replied.
Gwyneth said in a cold-voice, "We do that only to our enemies. The people know the Light-Prince and his father are the ones who can save them."
"Save them from what?"
"The darkness," said Gwyneth.
"The-the darkness?"
"Aye, Umargo's army, the Jangamoors."
Umargo. Another character her mother and father spoke of. In a state of irritation, she asked, "Where is King Roldan? He'll remember my father."
"No one knows." Gwyneth blew on her fingernails as if waiting for the polish to dry. "The King is in hiding and Prince Balion rules in his absence."
"Why?"
"Umargo would give his life's blood to kill Roldan after…."
"Yes?" Kira asked.
"After our beloved King destroyed Umargo's army twenty years ago."
"Twenty years ago?"
Gwyneth nodded as if the news was as stale as day-old bread.
"The same battle my father spoke of."
A little tsk-tsk came from the woman's lips. "Ye are young and foolish and know not what ye speak of. Balion will tire of ye if ye speak of fairytales."
"I don’t care if he tires of me, and it's not a fairytale!" With hands on hips, Kira stared her down. "How did I know about Sirene then? I saw the look in everyone's eyes when I mentioned her name. And what about The Story Mage? I bet you didn't think I knew about him?"
Gwyneth pulled her onto the bench. "We do not speak of The Story Mage here."
"Answer me," Kira persisted. "How do I know about him if he's a character in a fairytale?"
Gwyneth leaned in, eye-to-eye, chin-to-chin. "Tell me true, girl, are ye a spy for Umargo?"
Recoiling like an animal from a whip, she snapped, "A spy for Umargo! I know nothing about the Jangamoors or their leader. I know what my mother and father told me."
"Which is?"
"Just before the battle, my mother conjured a love spell and lifted my father from his homeland." She released a long sigh. "They fell in love, and the rest is history. No pun intended."
"Is your mother a witch too?"
Kira put her nose in the air. "What do you mean too?"
"If ye claim your father is Nicholas and he was called forth by a spell, then ye admit your own mother is a witch."
"She most certainly is not, but my grandmother belonged to a coven and practiced witchcraft." Kira smirked, knowing that little tidbit would put the fear of God in the woman.
"What else?" Gwyneth looked around for eavesdroppers. "What else did your mother tell ye?"
Gloating in her small victory, Kira grinned. "Why should I tell you?"
"If ye do, I'll help ye get your father's medallion back."
"You would do that?"
"On my sacred oath."
Believing the talisman her only hope, a rush of adrenaline coursed through Kira's veins. If she could get her hands on it, she'd flee into the forest and repeat the magic words, the very same she heard from Sirene's lips before arriving here. A scene from the Wizard of Oz surfaced, bolstering her hope. Dorothy had clicked her heels three times and ended up back in Kansas. Why couldn't the chant work and send her back to Providence?
"Okay, here's proof I'm not a spy. My mother said The Story Mage has one purpose in life."
Gwyneth's eyes widened. "Aye, and what is it?"
"To finish the story."
Distracted by a myriad expressions crossing Gwyneth's face—surpri
se, fear, and disbelief—and the brilliant rays of sunlight frolicking with the strands of copper in the woman's dark hair, awareness came to Kira. Her mother's words ran through her mind…to finish the story, to finish the story.
Kira's prior show of defiance dissolved amidst the complexity of it. Roldan is in hiding while the Light-Prince leads the King's army in battle against this man called Umargo and his Jangamoors. Balion needs the medallion for some insane reason, the one the King gave her father. She felt woozy. Maybe someone had siphoned the blood from her body. Gwyneth no longer resembled Mrs. Crabtree, but had taken on the appearance of a hawk.
She looked at her and wondered why the woman seemed so anxious to help her retrieve the talisman. Although Gwyneth pretended not to buy into her wild tale, Kira knew with every beat of her thundering heart, the woman believed her. Why did she want her to take the medallion and leave? Something nefarious rode the wind and Kira felt ill equipped to deal with it. And she wanted to go home.
In Gwyneth's wide eyes, duplicity lurked. "What else did your mother and father tell ye about Sirene?"
"That she is the most powerful of sorceresses, or was, until The Story Mage sent her son into The Sixth Realm." Her mind spinning, Kira placed a finger to the corner of her lip. "Oh. My. God. Sent her son into the darkness."
"Forget this foolish drivel." Gwyneth looked over Kira's shoulder. "It is nothing more than a wean's fable."
Kira craned her neck and followed Gwyneth's distracted gaze. Garrick leaned against a broad-trunked tree, grinning himself to death. Having her fill of inquests and snoops, Kira shot him a toxic glare. He pushed his lean form from the tree and ambled off with the nimble grace of an alley cat. Alley cat? Kira's heart somersaulted. Sweet Mother of Jesus, the man moved as if every joint had been well-oiled. Inhuman-like. Cat-like.
Gwyneth tapped her foot against the ground, drawing Kira's gaze back to her pinched face. "I told you everything I know," she lied. "Are you going to help me get the medallion back or not?"
"In due time," said Gwyneth.
Kira folded her arms across her chest. "How do you fit in?"
"Me?" Gwyneth replied, the doe-shaped eyes boastful. "I am betrothed to the Light-Prince. We take our vows soon and I will be queen."
The words caused Kira's heart to constrict, and for the life of her, she didn't know why. If the man who turned her world on its axis after one teensy-weensy look wanted to marry this false seductress, so be it.
"Come now." Gwyneth clasped her by the elbow. "The Light-Prince wishes to speak to ye."
"Not again." Even as the groan escaped Kira's lips, her body quivered. "The man is so infuriating."
If truth had a conscience, she'd be forced to admit that every time she looked at the man, she forgot what day it was. He had only to turn those moon-kissed eyes on her and she was doomed. Kaput. Catapulted to a distant galaxy.
"Try to remember what I told ye about obeying the Light-Prince," Gwyneth whispered. "Mind ye do not tell him we spoke of fairytales and battles. He will become wary and hide away the medallion."
"It's not his damn medallion," she bellowed. "It belongs to me!"
"Not anymore, Kira, not anymore."
* * *
Before speaking to the prince in private, Gwyneth left Kira in the corridor where she could fidget and fret in earnest while awaiting her summons. Long minutes later, the door opened and Gwyneth bade her to enter with a flourish of her hand and a button-your-lip glare. Then the woman left and closed the door.
Kira took in the room. Spacious, it reeked of masculinity. A pair of sturdy chairs graced the hearth, separated by a square, wooden table. With sickening dread, she realized there wasn't a mirror among the collection of war shields and Neolithic weapons on the walls. Ominous-looking spears and polished-stone hatchets sat in a far corner of the room, and in the center stood a large bed of some sort, an overstuffed mattress on a wooden platform. Without a doubt, she had entered a warrior's bedchamber, a wicked warrior's bedchamber.
Her inspection concluded, Kira eyed him and waited for him to speak.
Moments later, he did. "Did ye enjoy the bath?"
"As well as any novice nudist could."
His hot gaze flickered over her. "The garments I sent ye are suitable?"
"Do you want me to answer truthfully, my Lord?"
"I am not a lord, but a prince, and I want ye to say whatever is on your tongue."
Mentally and physically wrung out, an unbidden tear slid down her cheek. "I want my clothes back. I want my life back." Her nervous evaluation of the room continued before she met his eyes again. "I had one, you know, a life, an occasional date on Saturday night and a string of boyfriends who will miss me if I don't return." The heat rose in her cheeks from the lie. "Well, not a string, but at least one or two left to wonder what happened to me." Closing the distance between them, that hard body glided forward, the blue eyes holding hers. "I want to go home," she whispered.
Unexpected warmth flowed from him. "I did not call ye forth and I cannot send ye back."
A two-minute warning blared in her head and the pulsing artery in her neck took on a life of its own. She couldn't trust him, although at the moment he didn't seem as intimidating as before. Nonetheless, he had tackled her, ripped the hair from her scalp and threatened to beat her. Her head spinning with contradictory emotions, she had to acknowledge the man had given the order to clothe and feed her. Would it do any harm to act civil toward the handsome demon?
"Thank you for the food," she mumbled, fighting the urge to slap her forehead. What a banal thing to say as he closed the distance between them with the stealth of a tiger stalking a gazelle.
Her resolve to keep a cool head scattered south when he dazzled her with a brilliant smile. "Most generous after ye attempted to kill me with one of my own weapons." He took her wrists. "Do ye know what your name means in my land?"
She looked away, her voice weak. "No."
"The sun."
She closed her eyes. Close…he stood so close, she felt the heat from his body and his warm breath against her cheeks, inhaled his distinctive scent—horses, and the primeval scent of musk. Before she could react, he pulled her to him and pressed his lips to hers in a hard, exploring kiss. A mixture of excitement and hopelessness skidded through her numb brain. Their hips joined and next their chests and his hardness grew against her soft curves. Her internal organs pulsated with escalating need. She remembered as a child tasting a chocolate sundae for the first time. Topped with whipped cream and a Maraschino cherry, she vowed nothing in the world would ever compare to it again.
Until now.
The muscles holding up her legs collapsed under his whispered, "Give me your tongue."
As faithful as a hapless hound hoping to please his master, she obeyed, soon realizing the foolishness of her compliance. The kiss deepened, hardened, and the quicksand beneath her feet opened up to swallow her. Soon the gritty sludge would suffocate her, extinguish the multihued flashes of lights exploding behind her eyelids. Her head fell back, trapped in the strong grip of his hand tangled in her hair. Electric currents scudded through her body while he concentrated in earnest on mating with her tongue.
"Ye are ill-mannered," he whispered against her lips. "And your tongue is sharper than a broadsword."
"In my world…" Oh, dear God, she felt faint, wanted to vaporize into thin air. "In my world, we must use it to defend our pride, our virtue, our―"
"I have dreamed of how better to use it. Do ye wish me to show ye?"
"No, please do not."
Her words futile, his mouth sought hers again, and damn if she didn't melt against him quicker than candle wax. An angel from heaven couldn't have resisted this devil's charms. His arms encircled her. One hand pressed against her spine, the other skimmed over a breast through her thin shift. Starved for oxygen, her brain couldn't think. Why was she allowing a stranger to take such liberties with her? She remembered he ruled the land and everything in it, and her body must con
cur. He could do anything he wanted to her. With those wicked lips on her mouth, those knowledgeable hands kneading her breast, she wished he wanted to do a whole lot more to her right now. He could back her toward the bed and she'd shuck the hideous garments, swearing Chanel couldn't have chosen better.
Strange sounds came from the back of her throat and her nipples grew harder than brass buttons. She had an overwhelming urge to touch the hot shaft pressing into her belly, God help her. He broke from the kiss and a cold, empty feeling washed over her. She searched his eyes and realized he had been just as affected as her.
Breaking the trance between them, her voice hoarse squeaked out the words. "I want my father's medallion back."
"No," he replied with knife-edged finality.
"It's mine, and it brings me comfort to touch it!" He shook his head and Kira couldn't begin to read his thoughts. When it came to masking his feelings behind an iron-clad expression, this man took the blue ribbon. The passion she'd felt moments ago erupted into anger. "You have no right to keep it from me!"
"I have every right." His tone could have belonged to a kindergarten teacher reading Green Eggs and Ham for the thousandth time.
"Oh, you are an arrogant, self-centered bast―" She caught herself, remembering the discussion with Gwyneth about drawing and quartering their enemies.
A mocking smile curled the erotic mouth. "I will trade ye for it, my little forest nymph."
Her words sparked annoyance. "Trade me for it?"
"Aye."
"I have nothing to trade now that your servants took my clothing, even my shoes."
"They were peculiar."
"I adored them," she said, her tone clipped. "They happen to be very fashionable right now in the States, cost me an arm and a leg."
He zeroed in on her limbs before the blank expression returned.
She looked at the ceiling and rolled her eyes. "Oh, never mind."
His intoxicating voice threatened to shatter her already strained nerves "Ye are wrong that ye have nothing to trade."
Her hopes rose quicker than sails on a pirate ship. "Other than the medallion, what could I have you would want?"
Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1) Page 45
