“I know exactly what I’m dong with this pairing,” Saiytada said, sniffing again like some offended Regency heroine. “There was no mistake.”
Pieter realized that he was gripping the bowl so tightly his knuckles were white and bloodless. Much as he’d like to throw it against the wall and end this conversation, he, too, was not a “fan” of groveling. Especially when any efforts to make amends for such an offence might involve decades of atonement.
A part of him possessed enough sense to wonder why this bonding was provoking him to the point of recklessness. Perhaps because a child was involved. Perhaps because that child reminded him of wee Amie, the granddaughter who’d lived and died so long ago he could barely recall her face.
With a mammoth effort he controlled his temper and schooled his tongue. “I have done all you asked of me—and more. And I will continue to do your bidding. But had I known—”
“How burdensome it would be to witness ages pass while you watched over these men and their crystals?” The goddess’s expression turned ever so slightly smug. “Even knowing all that was destined to befall both you, and those I have placed in your charge, at the time I do not believe you would have refused my assistance, Pieter.”
“You are correct, of course.” Damn you.
“Of course. I am a goddess, after all.”
He compressed his lips and said nothing. It was safer.
“Good. This matter is closed.
He bowed his head so she could not read his expression. And when he dared glance into the bowl once more, the image in the water had vanished.
However Saiytada always liked to have the last word—even if she’d already had it. Her disembodied voice slashed the silence. “If there is one thing I have learned about humans it is that there is far more to what they call “love” than the joining of two bodies in physical ecstasy. You must have more faith in me, Pieter.”
With that he had to be content. And, belatedly showing some modicum of self-preservation, he waited a full five minutes to be certain she had truly gone before sweeping the bowl from the table. Unfortunately, the sound of it smashing to pieces wasn’t the least satisfying.
Chapter Five
He had been be-spelled again. There could be no other logical explanation for his unnatural calm while he and Roth had hurtled through the streets in a steel box on wheels called an S-U-V, every now and then taking evasive action to avoid colliding with other cars and fast-moving conveyances. Even his commander, Lord Keeper Wulf, might have been hard pressed to mimic the calmness with which Danbur climbed from the innards of the SUV the instant Roth halted the vehicle. And if a more cold-blooded, controlled man than Wulf had been born, Danbur had yet to encounter him.
His boots sank into the short spear-leafed foliage called grass. The plant was familiar to him. It had been pointed out and identified by name during his first raid—though then it’d been sown in great swathes that grew calf-height, and the wonder of all that luxurious greenery had stolen his breath.
He stood unmoving, inhaling the crisp night air, relishing the unmoving ground beneath his feet. A light sprinkle of moisture dampened his face. Rain? Yet another reminder he had been transported to another time and place.
He rubbed his chin. Perhaps his composure was truly shock—the result of a body starved of sustenance and a mind dulled by fatigue and the relentless alien-ness of his surroundings. That, at least, could be overcome given time. Spells were a different matter. Even an experienced, battle-hardened warrior had few defenses against magic.
The sullen pain lurking in his belly flared again. It had worsened throughout the journey, warring with his mind’s stubborn insistence that his thoughts center on his encounter with the child, Seraphine. And the woman. Strangely, not the woman called Desiree, whose dark-skinned beauty and proud bearing should have commanded his attention. Instead, he could not stop his thoughts from dwelling upon Sera’s mother. Opal. A female who could barely make herself understood, yet who had left him hanging onto every pained word that spilled from her lips. A female who had roused both ire and desire in equal measure.
Danbur liked his women bold. Women who spoke their minds, stood up for themselves, knew what they wanted from a man and how to get it. Back on his home world he wouldn’t have looked twice at some fragile creature who might drift away on the faintest of breezes, and didn’t appear capable of looking after herself let alone a child. But he had noticed Opal. And he had definitely noticed her physical responses to him—responses she had very nearly succeeded in suppressing. Responses he wouldn’t have recognized had he not been so very aware of her.
Gods. He surely must be affected by the most insidious of spells. Why else could he not stop picturing her? The golden richness of her hair that brought to mind the sunrises of his desert home. The curve of her breast highlighted by her fitted top. The smooth length of thigh revealed when her skirt had ridden up. The tantalizing flash of the scanty undergarment concealing her sex, glimpsed before she had rolled to her knees.
A beautiful woman. On her knees. Before him….
He cast the sensuous image from his mind. And ignored the eager twitch of his cock. He didn’t need a woman—especially one afflicted by a speech disorder and encumbered by a sickly child. He needed a hearty meal—
Movement caught his eye. He tracked the silhouette of a scrawny black feline skittering across a fence-top to meld with the shadows. Hah. Preferably a hearty meal he didn’t have to trap, gut, skin and roast before eating.
The harsh grating of metal-on-metal rent the silence as Roth slammed the doors of the vehicle. Danbur glanced across the glossy black roof of the SUV and noted the Healer juggling the items the old man had pressed upon them. He plucked the box of foodstuffs from Roth’s hands.
“Thanks, man,” Roth said. “This here’s the place. Hmm. Nice. Looks more like a large private home than a shelter. Lucky the old guy rang ahead or they might not have a spare bed. Let’s see ’bout getting you settled in for the night.”
Danbur followed Roth up the path toward the large, multi-storied dwelling. In this alien place he should be on the alert, casting his gaze left and right, assessing possible threats. Instead, his focus was upon banishing yet another memory—the stark horror in Opal’s gaze at the prospect of losing her daughter to the breathing affliction. The way she’d clutched Sera to her breast, her face a mask of relief and despair, like the child was her entire world and nothing else mattered.
What would it be like to care for another so deeply?
Many times Danbur had risked his life for a fellow warrior during a skirmish. It was a warrior’s duty to watch his troop-mates’ backs. And, yes, he would regret the untimely death of any member of his tehun, but such deaths wouldn’t sap his will to live. Yet for some reason he couldn’t fathom, Danbur understood in the depths of his soul that if anything happened to little Sera, he would suffer far more agonies than those he’d suffered during his time in the crystal.
Gods. What if he hadn’t been able to aid her? If her small body had become so exhausted by the struggle to breathe her heart had failed? If he’d been forced to watch her die? Immediately that stomach-churning thought formed came a sensation like someone had reached into his chest cavity to wring his heart between relentless fingers. He fisted a hand at his breastbone, holding his breath until the sensation eased. But nothing could ease his turmoil at the thought of Sera, so young and vibrant and bright, lying cold and lifeless on the floor…. And even another century in a cursed crystal would be preferable than witnessing Opal’s anguish at the loss of her child.
The Healer jabbed a button affixed to the door, and whatever device the button was attached to gave a series of wheezing buzzes before choking off. Danbur heard footsteps, murmured voices, and then the door was flung wide by a heavyset man. His thick gray moustaches drooped to his chin and he sported a bushy beard at odds with his close-shaved gray hair.
“Max,” the man said by way of greeting. “And I’m guessing one of
yous is Danbur.”
“That’d be him,” Roth said with a quick jerk of his chin in Danbur’s direction. “And this would be yours.” He handed the bag of clothing to Max. “From an old guy.” Roth rubbed his temples and squinted. “Huh. Seem to have forgotten his name.”
“Peter,” Max said. “He called to give us the heads up ya both were on the way.”
“Sounds right.” Roth yawned widely as he knuckled his eye sockets, and then he scrubbed his face with both hands. “Sorry for the brain-fade. Been an interesting night. I’m Roth, by the way.” He stuck out his hand.
“Pleased ta meetcha.” Max gripped Roth’s hand and shook it.
“I’m on call tomorrow—better make tracks. But before I head off, I’d ’preciate you checking in on Danbur at some stage during the night. He passed out earlier on—was complaining of headaches, too. Any concerns give me a ring. Doesn’t matter how early or late.” He fished a card from a back pocket in his trousers and pressed it into Max’s hand.
Max glanced at the card and nodded. “Will do, doc.”
“My thanks for ministering to the child,” Danbur said. “I am in your debt.”
Roth shook his head. “You helped the kid through two asthma attacks—meaning I didn’t have much to do when I got there, which is just the way I like it. You don’t owe me a thing.”
Danbur gauged the sincerity in Roth’s expression and nodded, accepting his debt was paid in full.
“Be seeing ya, Danbur.” Roth turned on his heel and headed for his SUV, leaving Danbur to turn his full attention to Max.
The older man’s gaze swept over him, doubtless assessing his attire. Age-softened, scarred leather pants and vest might be unremarkable back on his home world but Danbur suspected such attire did little to help him blend in this one. He waited for Max to comment but the man’s expression remained neutral, and all he said was, “Let’s see what we can rustle up in the kitchen.”
As if on cue Danbur’s stomach growled. “I have no coin,” he said, opting for bluntness. Pain and hunger fought for dominance in his belly, and fatigue was making his head swim. Pride was an affectation he could ill afford right now. “I will work to pay off the meal and a bed for the night. You have only to show me what needs doing.”
Max grunted—whether with approval or displeasure Danbur could not discern—and beckoned him inside. Danbur followed him through to a bright, spacious room littered with strange devices. The only furnishings Danbur instantly recognized were the large wooden table and benches. He saw neither fireplace nor hearth, however two mid-sized cook-pots perched atop a large, shiny silver contraption. His nostrils flared and he inhaled a savory meaty aroma. Apparently the contraption was somehow providing heat enough to cook the contents of the pots. His mouth watered. Cooked by magical means or otherwise, it smelled good.
Max dumped the bag of clothing atop the table and indicated with a flick of his hand that Danbur do the same with the box of foodstuffs. “Make yourself at home,” he instructed as he investigate the contents of the box.
Danbur eyed the bench closest the doorway. Ideally he should have his back to the wall and the door in full view, but such precautions seemed ridiculous when the inhabitants of this world apparently walked around unarmed. He sensed no threat from this man and he was curious about the cooking device. He settled on the bench.
Max had unpacked a range of vegetables and fruits. He grunted again. “Fresh stuff’s always in short supply. Mickey’ll be in heaven when she cops an eyeful of this lot.”
“Mickey will be where when she does what?”
The question came from a short person who headed straight for the cook pots. Her hair had been cut short and stuck out from her skull in strange, stiff little spikes… and it was bright blue. Danbur squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again her hair was still the hue of a midday desert sky. And she was definitely female, for the ample curves beneath her baggy gray pants and equally baggy shirt were evident. Not to mention that no male Danbur had yet encountered would stoop to donning fluffy blue footwear.
“What’cha doing up?” Max demanded. “I got this one. Go back to bed.” He strode over to take possession of the wooden spoon the woman was about to use to stir the contents of one of the cook pots. When she attempted to snatch it back he held it over his head, moustaches twitching when she bounced up and down, trying to reclaim the spoon.
The woman gave up her efforts and scowled at him. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind.”
“Know the feeling.” Max pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Peter sent over a heap of fruit and veg. And clothes.”
“That man’s a saint.”
“That man’s doing penance for something.”
“Perhaps. But so long as penance involves regular donations of fresh foodstuffs I don’t much care.”
Max patted her on the rear. “Go sit. I’ll feed our latest inmate and then ya can help me get him settled.”
The woman wandered over to the table and sat opposite Danbur. She wasn’t quite as good as Max at schooling her expression for her eyebrows peaked as she absorbed his attire. “Mickey,” she said at last, sticking out a hand.
“Danbur.” He grasped her hand and gently pumped it up and down before releasing it. And then he waited for the curiosity gleaming in her dark brown eyes to resolve into questions he didn’t know whether he should answer.
“When was the last time you ate, Danbur?”
Unexpected, but innocuous enough that he could give a truthful answer. “I remember not,” he said.
“Hurry up with that stew, Max,” she called, without taking her gaze from Danbur’s face. “Where does it hurt?”
Danbur stared back at her, unblinking. “Nowhere.”
“Bull. Shit.”
His jaw sagged.
She cocked an eyebrow that had been pierced with a tiny silver ring—a match to the numerous tiny rings marching up the lobes of both ears. “Not used to women swearing, huh? Too bad. Get used to it. Now, where does it hurt? Don’t make me come over there and have to figure it out for myself.”
“She’ll do it, too.” Max approached the table bearing a plate of stew in one hand and eating implements in the other. He plunked them down in front of Danbur before heading for one of the strange devices that had been placed by the wall. This one was shaped like a large rectangular box with rounded edges.
Max yanked on the silver handle and opened a hinged door. He bent, head and torso disappearing from view as he reached into the depths of the box. “Seen her reduce a grown man to tears with her prodding and poking,” he said, his voice echoing strangely.
He emerged, clutching a bottle of amber liquid. He grabbed a tumbler with a pattern of interlinking red squares around the rim from a shelf, and set his burdens on the table. And then he took a seat beside Mickey on the bench, and the two of them eyed Danbur like hunting hawks. “So if I were you, I’d tell her,” Max said.
“Headache,” Danbur said.
Mickey narrowed her gaze at him. “And?”
Sweet Mother of all Gods. One glance from this woman would cow even the rowdiest carousers celebrating victory after a skirmish. “My belly pains me. Not merely from lack of food.”
“Better give the doc a ring.” Max rose from his seat.
“No. The Healer has done enough this night. I will feel much improved once I break my fast.” Danbur shoved a forkful of stew into his mouth and lowered his gaze to his plate. The stew was delicious—rich, savory and well-seasoned. The small round green things he recognized as some sort of legume. But he wasn’t at all certain about the mound of smooth, cream-colored stuff sitting on his plate. He dug his fork into the mound and scooped up a dollop to sniff. Hmm. Smelled harmless enough.
“Mashed potatoes,” Mickey said. “With plenty of butter, a little whole milk, and salt and pepper. Taste even better if you swipe ’em through the gravy.”
Danbur sampled the mashed potatoes unadulterated. Delicious. And then he did as Mick
ey had suggested, and swiped another scoop through the gravy. An appreciative moan eked from his lips.
He glanced up and caught Mickey grinning at him. “Gotta love a man who appreciates a home-cooked meal.”
“I have never tasted anything quite like this,” Danbur said. “’Tis a meal fit for a Lord Keeper.”
“I take it he’s someone real important?”
“Indeed.”
Mickey beamed. “You and me are gonna get along just fine, Danbur.”
Max poured some of the amber liquid from the bottle into the empty tumbler, and pushed it across to Danbur. “Apple juice,” he said. “Non-alcoholic. We don’t allow liquor on the premises. Or drugs. If we catch you with either, you’re out. No second chances. Understand?”
Danbur didn’t understand what was meant by “drugs” but he got the general idea. “I understand.”
“Good. Now eat up while I find you a change of clothes.” Max snagged the bag of clothing before he left the room. Mickey stayed right where she was. Observing Danbur minutely.
He ignored both her and the stabbing pains in his belly as he cleaned his plate. The pains were irritating but no worse than a cracked rib. Far more important was getting the sustenance he required to remain functioning. He sampled the juice, and to his delight found it sweet and cold. The large boxlike contraption must be some form of cooler.
When he’d drained the tumbler he rose to take his plate and cutlery to the counter.
“There’s more if you’re hungry.”
Mickey had propped her elbows on the tabletop and rested her chin on her cupped hands. Only now did Danbur notice the bluish smudges from lack of sleep bruising the skin beneath her eyes.
“Thank you, but this was more than sufficient.” A lie, but until he knew the cost of such generosity it behooved him to eat sparingly. “You should do as Max suggested and seek your bed.”
Opal's Wish: Book Four of The Crystal Warriors Series Page 8
