Warrior's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood)

by Alexa Egan

  Lantern light flashed along the eastern ramparts and down into the kitchen yard. Riders streamed out the main gate, while from the roof of the armory, eagles took flight one after the other to wheel away into the night. Calling reinforcements? Searching the countryside beyond the Palings?

  Carrying the disks of the Gylferion, Gray wouldn’t be able to shift, and on foot, he’d not make it a mile before he was brought down.

  In the chaos, none noticed her serpentining her way from pillar to post. Where are you, Gray? she pathed, even her mental shout breathless and slightly frantic. Have you got the disks?

  The library. Have to . . .

  What? What do you have to do?

  He didn’t answer. What the hell stunt was he pulling? He was supposed to be in the damned guest hall. He was supposed to be getting the hell out of Deepings. What was there in the library worth—she skidded to a halt, her feet sliding across the hall’s parqueted floor, nearly colliding with a suit of armor and two Ossine.

  Sir Dromon stepped off the stairs, still in dressing gown and nightcap, his face purple with frustrated rage. “Find de Coursy. The duke’s murderer cannot be allowed to escape justice. His crimes cannot go unpunished.”

  “Aye, sir. The house is being searched room by room. He’ll not get away.”

  “Send word to the Gather elders. In case they have ideas of taking him in, I want them to fully understand the penalties dealt to those who harbor fugitives.” He noticed her, his eyes taking in her strange attire, his lips ringed in white, his eyes like coals as he continued barking orders. “If they are not with us in this, they are as guilty of treason as he is and will suffer his same fate.”

  This was the clearest threat yet to the elders’ authority. Would they bow to the Arch Ossine and his army or would they finally fight back? Would she?

  Stepping free of the shadows, she lifted her head. “His proper title is Duke of Morieux.”

  Sir Dromon’s expression cleared and a small twisted smile curled the edge of his mouth. “So it is and as worthless a title as N’thuil these days.” He snapped his fingers. “Mr. Thorsh, apprehend our misguided little sparrow before she makes any more trouble.”

  Meeryn hadn’t seen the Ossine until he stepped around Sir Dromon, his bullish shoulders wide as ox yokes, his furry knuckles resting on his hips. His face was bruised and battered, his smile still as vicious. “My pleasure, sir. Knew the crystal was wrong when it chose her. A chit of a girl brings naught but trouble.”

  She backed away, her hand clamping the sack to her side, the crystal banging against her thigh. “You know he’s innocent. His Grace died, but it wasn’t at Gray’s hands. We can still salvage a peace between us. Stop this now before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “Like you?” Sir Dromon snarled. “Mr. Thorsh! Now!”

  Hands grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. She screamed and kicked as she was dragged backward into the library. She managed to smash her heel into her attacker’s shin. Wiggled an elbow free enough to slam it into his stomach.

  Gray responded with a grunt of pain, shoving her away to slam and lock the door. “Next time I’ll let Thorsh have you.”

  “You scared me to death. You might have warned me.”

  “I was too busy trying not to get skewered.”

  She’d thought he’d looked bad before. She’d not realized how much the darkness of the catacombs had hidden. Gone was the nobleman’s polished austerity. This was a savage fighter with nothing to lose, the burning intensity in his gaze and the raw power in his frame sucking the air from the room and the breath from her lungs. The trembling in her knees and the fluttering in her chest that he evoked was akin to the effect that touching Jai Idrish had on her—as if a new and amazing world hovered just out of reach. She just needed to be strong enough, clever enough, hold on long enough . . .

  Hammer blows bulged the door as Thorsh and the Ossine struggled to break in. She caught the click of a cocked hammer a second before Gray threw her to the floor, just as the lock blew out in a shower of deadly splinters.

  “Now what?”

  Cradling his damaged arm to his side, he pulled her back to her feet with the other and yanked her onward, plunging through unguarded doors leading into a salon, an adjoining drawing room, an antechamber, a gallery. Room after room, up stairs, down passages. One step ahead of their pursuers. They finally emerged onto the ramparts, racing along the narrow stone wall walk. A stitch cramped her side and her bones wobbled like jelly, but she kept up, the bag slapping her thigh, the crystal seeming to grow heavier with each step.

  “We can head for the cliff tower,” she suggested.

  “It’s too far. This way.”

  An Ossine stepped from an archway in front of them, pistol raised. Gray lunged to his right as the gun erupted with a spout of flame and the bullet smashed the wall beside them. He answered the man’s shot with one of his own from a pistol whipped from his pocket. The man crumpled to the ground and they were past, Gray tossing the weapon aside as he stepped over the body.

  “Not murder,” he gasped. “Self-defense.”

  “I’m not arguing.” She grimaced and on they raced toward the guest hall.

  Once there, Gray passed through the rooms, intent and unswerving.

  “You were almost clear away. What on earth sent you to the library?”

  “Answers.” He held a parcel wrapped in heavy oilcloth.

  They finally came to rest in a set of musty chambers. Gray locked the door, but that would only serve them for so long. He crossed to a heavy armoire, fumbling with the doors as he sought to open them one-handed.

  “Let me.” She pulled the doors open.

  Instead of retrieving something from within, he stepped up inside the wardrobe, turned to motion her on behind him.

  “We’re hiding in a closet?” she asked, trying not to sound as panicked as she felt. She refused to give Gray the satisfaction. “What is this? A sadistic game of sardines?”

  “No, it’s the way out.”

  * * *

  All right, so he might have been a bit optimistic when he announced their imminent escape. What had seemed like an inspired idea at the time had become a panic-drenched nightmare. Black water swirled below him. Sucking and slapping at the rickety ladder. A cold infinite crushing mass waiting to push him under, roll him over, pull him down.

  “Gray, we have to go.”

  He took a shuddering breath. He could feel his heart pounding wildly under the hand cradled to his chest. “Perhaps the cliff tower might have been a better option after all.”

  “It’s too late now. They’ve got us pinned in here.”

  “Right. Give me a moment.”

  “We don’t have any more moments.”

  He tore his eyes from the water. Meeryn had stripped out of the dirty shirt and stolen breeches. Her hair tumbled loose and honey-blonde over her shoulders to drape and curl over the curve of her breasts, and he was struck—yet again—at the toned perfection of her golden body. It was like watching the sea, one minute all silken, graceful movement, the next tempestuous, storm-tossed ferocity. He needed tidal maps and depth charts to understand all her hidden, secret facets.

  “I’ll be right here, Gray. I won’t let you drown. Trust me.”

  “Right,” he said with a bracing cheerfulness he didn’t feel. “Of course you won’t. You didn’t the last time, did you?”

  “No,” she answered gently. “I didn’t.” She bent and grabbed a sack, holding it out to him. “Don’t lose it. My clothes are in there.”

  He opened the bag, and his heart lurched uncomfortably in his chest. “Shit in hell! You stole Jai Idrish?”

  “I’m the Voice and the Vessel. It belongs to me just as I belong to it. You can’t steal a part of yourself.” She tried for confident, but Gray heard the uncertain wobble in her voice.

  “Tell that to the Ossine.”

  “If we don’t hurry, I’ll have to.”

  “Right,” he muttere
d to himself, channeling David St. Leger’s smug, sneering tone. “Buck up, Gray. Pull your shit together, grow some short hairs, and don’t be such a bloody great coward.”

  David would never balk at getting his feet wet. He’d plunge in headfirst and worry over consequences like not breathing later. Mac might run a checklist of possible outcomes over in his head, but then he’d grit his teeth and do what needed to be done. Flannery the soldier. St. Leger the lunatic.

  Gray had led them for five years. Could he honestly call himself a leader if he faltered now? And what of Meeryn who’d given up all she’d known to join him on this quixotic quest?

  He couldn’t let her down. He couldn’t let her suffer for his sins.

  He leaned over the edge, terror squeezing his chest, crushing the breath from his lungs. He couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t move. Faces appeared in the swirl of water, Mother’s dark hair streaming like seaweed around her bone-white face, Father’s expression accusing as he rose and sank under the crush of water, and his brother . . . Ollie . . . vacant staring sockets, a mouth gaping in a horrible smile of welcome. He reached with a skeletal hand . . .

  “Gray!” Meeryn’s voice stole into his mind over the pounding of the ocean and the pounding of his heart. “Jump!”

  A hand shoved him between the shoulders, sending him headlong into the water. The cold hit like a punch to the stomach as he went under. Down and down he sank, one arm out to feel his way through the narrow underwater tunnel, another wrapped tight around the sack bearing Jai Idrish, the Gylferion, and the oilcloth-wrapped package. Lungs screamed as he propelled himself through the icy current, trying not to imagine the walls closing in, the water bearing down. The outward tide pulled him with every surge and drag closer to the sea. He clutched the bag, counting the beats of his heart, the panic a living slithering horrible agony coiling itself tighter and tighter until his cracked ribs split, salt water throbbing in every open wound.

  Suddenly the walls fell away to open water, and now the wash and churn of the ocean pushed and spun him. Something bumped him. A fin curled against his leg. A sleek skin buoyed him upward, but the weight of the bag continued to pull him down. He was fourteen again. Storm raging, sails and lines twined round his ankles as the little boat broke and sank in the raging hurricane winds.

  He kicked for the surface, but a wave shoved him under, another one smashed over his head. He dropped once more, moonlight a pinprick above him. He opened his mouth to call for help, arms flailing for his father. He would pull him from the water with a laugh and a smack on the back. Mother would wrap him in a blanket and Ollie would chide him for being a sniveling coward. But no hand reached for his, no laughter followed or comforting maternal arms, only the rush of sea water crushing his lungs, filling them until they burned and collapsed.

  The seal brushed by him, slid underneath him, lending him its strength and its weightless skill against the ripping currents and tides pulling him northward toward the offshore rocks and the jagged shoals lying just beneath the churning surface. He tried pathing, but his mind seemed to have turned inward, no thought escaping, not even a whispered plea for forgiveness.

  Gray! It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill them.

  He closed his eyes and as the slithering coil of rope tightened around his chest and grief and guilt overwhelmed him, he let the deep claim him and the darkness swallow him whole.

  9

  Toe-nibbling waves woke Meeryn from a nightmare in which she watched, frozen, as an endless shadow rolled toward her, blotting out the sun, stripping the world bare. She gasped, blinking away the sand crusted at the corners of her eyes, brushing away the strands of sea grass twined round her ankles. No ominous Armageddon. Just a lonely beach, high fog-shrouded cliffs, and a man lying stretched out beside her, one hand gripping a waterlogged sack.

  His face was turned from her. All she could see was a long slice of cheekbone, the defined edge of his jawline, an arched brow drawn low. Salt had dried across his back, the stretched and puckered skin a sickening reminder of the horrors he’d already suffered at Sir Dromon’s hands. She tried imagining what it had felt like to stand within the Deepings hall amid a circle of impassive faces as flames tore at her flesh and claws shredded her mind. She shrank from the thought as her gut clenched and vomit rose in her throat.

  She brushed sand from his shoulders, the muscles hard, the flesh warm. Imagined laying her lips to taste his salt-tightened skin, exploring the contours of his hard muscular body with slow sweet deliberation. He would wake with a smile, pull her against him, his mouth finding hers, and they would come together in the hazy dawn with naught but the sorrowful sound of the ocean to accompany their harried breathing. Or, more likely, he would roll away with an unfeeling flash of his blue eyes and she’d be left with only sand running soft between her fingers.

  With a harsh bark of angry laughter, she rose and ran into the water, diving into the surf with a jolt to shake herself free of both sensual dream and shadowy nightmare. Worked free the last remaining kinks left over from shifting seal to human. As one of the Orkney Nornala, the skin of the seal came easier than any other aspect, but it still took a good stretching to restore the easy fluidity of one shape for another. Surfacing, she swept her hair from her face. Scanned the beach.

  Gray was gone.

  She waded ashore, snatching up the borrowed shirt and stolen breeches she’d laid out to dry last night. Stiff, scratchy, and smelling of fish, they were wearable if not exactly the height of fashion.

  Just before she shouted his name, Gray rounded a jumbled pile of boulders, hair slicked back, water dripping down his neck. “Where are we?”

  She tried to contain her relief. Not that she thought he’d abandoned her here, but . . . all right, she had thought that. It would be just like Gray to assume he was being noble when in fact he was just being pigheaded. She scanned the cliffs, though the fog hid any landmarks. The ocean rolled flat and gray, horizon lost in the swirling cloud enfolding them. “North. Perhaps as far as Duckpoole. It’s hard to say.”

  “Free of the Palings if not out of danger.” His bruises had faded to an ugly green collage, and the worrying purple streaks originating at his wrist where the silver manacle had bound him had receded, but he continued to hold his injured arm close to his body, his posture careful as if every movement jarred aching bones. “We need to scavenge mounts. Make our way east and south. Kelan will be waiting.”

  “Then what?”

  But he’d already turned away to walk back up the beach.

  She hastened to follow, snatching up the bag as she passed it lying at the tide line. “I’m sorry, Gray . . . about your grandfather.”

  He pulled up short, staring down at her with a cool look of detachment. “Are you? I suppose it’s good someone’s sad to see the bastard go.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  His laugh was strained, his eyes angry. “Don’t I?”

  “No, you don’t. I know you better than that. I know you cared for him despite everything. I know you”—she took a deep breath—“that you loved him.”

  “You don’t know shit about me, Meeryn.” By now, he was striding up a narrow, rocky path away from the water. She had to run to keep up, but when she caught him, she grabbed him and whipped him around to a standstill. His eyes were bright with old anger and new grief.

  “Fine. I don’t know anything about you. You’re a stranger. You’re a riddle and an enigma and a puzzle, but I do know that you’re the new Duke of Morieux, Gray. The title is yours.”

  “Damn the bloody title,” he snarled. “I never wanted it. People thought I was jealous of Ollie. He was so accomplished, so . . . amazing . . . but it wasn’t true. He deserved to be heir. He deserved to live.”

  “Of course he did. No one wanted him to die. It was a tragic accident. But it happened, and now you’re the duke whether you will it or not.”

  His anger faded, though the grief remained. Gray and his grandfather had never been close; they we
re too similar, though neither one would ever have admitted it. They both possessed the same magnetic charisma, the same powerful aura of command. Unfortunately, they also shared a mulish obstinacy and a prideful arrogance they wore like armor. Tragedy had solidified that glossy imperviousness. The curse had imprisoned Gray with no hope of escape. Let no one in and no one would know how much you hurt.

  “I’ve always wondered; why did you save me that day? Why not Ollie?” he asked, emotion leached from his voice. “He was the one chosen for you by the Ossine, the one you were supposed to marry.”

  His gaze seemed to peel away her defenses even as he hid his own thoughts behind an unreadable expression. “Supposed to inherit. Supposed to marry. Life is messy, Gray. People die. People leave. . . .” She turned away lest she reveal more of her heart than was wise. Gave a careless shrug. “I didn’t choose one over the other. By the time I found the boat’s wreckage, you were the only one left alive. That’s all.”

  “Would you have married him if he’d lived? Would you have done as the Ossine and Grandfather commanded?”

  When had he moved so close? When had the air grown so warm and breathing grown so hard? She swallowed, but a lump clogged her throat. Prickles danced along her skin that had nothing to do with the drying salt. A fluttering excitement began in her stomach. “Imnada law states we must marry the mate chosen for us by the Ossine.”

  “It also states that an emnil is dead to the clans, out-clan marriages result in a loss of Imnada power, and we must destroy any who discover our existence.”

  “We do this to keep the clans strong, our people safe.” Why did she feel as if she were parroting Sir Dromon? And why did that feeling make her queasy?

  “What if strength lay in revealing ourselves instead of hiding behind walls, and safety could be found in love rather than duty?”

  “I would say you were mad to imagine such a fantasy. But that it might just be a fantasy worth fighting for.”