by Inez Kelley
It should have been him at the end of that church hall, accepting her hand, tasting those plump lips once more. In his furious misery, he’d poured every minute droplet of pale magic he had out in a single bolt of lightning. It burned the sycamore grove to a cinder.
It was then he’d realized what his true power was. But he didn’t want to smudge Tarsha’s memory with thoughts of his now-grasped potential. Had he known then what he was capable of, he’d have seen things turn to his favor. Balic would have rued the day he ever set foot in Windmere. Then, he was just a heartbroken young man with surges of powerful magic he couldn’t control. He’d lost her.
He never got to see her leave. He never got to say goodbye. Balic had him placed in irons until the bridal entourage had departed, claiming Tarsha was frightened of him. It was a lie. Tarsha would have known he’d never hurt her. He’d just wanted to catch her alone one minute. One minute would have been enough to convince her of his love. But Balic prevented that moment with iron. The memory of those thick manacles bit sharply.
Marchen thrust himself up from his chair and stomped to his desk. The fingers that slid the drawer back shook with agonized recollection. He’d never gotten to touch her one last time. As if his heart’s destruction hadn’t been complete enough, Balic not only stole his love, he’d crowned her and then killed her.
Barely four summers after leaving as his princess bride, his queen had returned for burial in her family’s cemetery. Stone-faced and silent, a squalling brat in the arms of a nurse behind him, Balic had sprinkled dirt on her casket and strode away without a word. It had been Marchen who sat at the graveside for two days, wailing in despair, his blackened bondmark searing in agony.
No, Balic never loved Tarsha as he had. But he’d loved her child. The entire kingdom heard each tale of the boisterous young prince and the indulgences his father allowed him. Even now, the spoiled adult kept an exotic cat for a pet. Taric had never mourned the vision who’d given her life for his own. It proved how little Balic had cared for his bride, to not teach his spawn to grieve as was proper.
No matter. Marchen had mourned her every minute of every day, erected a memorial statue of her in his garden and planted a grove of evergreens. The color of her eyes in summer, they comforted him that they never lost their color. As he never should have lost Tarsha. Tarsha would know, even in death, who had truly loved her…and who had not.
Marchen wanted Balic to ache as he ached, with a gut-twisting agony that never ended. Death was too fast for the crowned bastard. For decades, Marchen had struck swift and hard, his army paid for by the sweat of his brow and the influx of goods from faraway lands but driven by the memory of a single kiss. Each Segur vassal’s death stung at Balic like a bee into horsehide. He never hurt enough, would never hurt enough. The property losses hit Eldwyn’s treasury and fostered discord in the people.
Gathering soldiers had been easiest far south in his own land of Sotherby, far away from Thistlemount. Here, the lavish lifestyle of the crown could be exaggerated and its military protection downplayed. Not all liked having a monarchy and he played to that dislike. Now with the foreign mercenaries, he was all but assured victory. The purchased freedoms of jailed rapists, murderers and worse had been cheap. Marchen could care less what they did and who they did it to as long as it hurt Balic and hurt him a great deal.
Marchen lived on, a shell of what he could have been with love at his side. He’d married a pregnant widow and foisted her daughter off as his in exchange for a beautiful house, costly dresses and a closed eye when she brought him another bastard.
A pale blue hair ribbon, its sheen lost long ago beneath stroking fingers, rose from the desk and he pressed it to his nose. He could almost smell the fall leaves in Tarsha’s hair, even after all this time. But now, the definitive weapon in his arsenal had been delivered to him. Balic hurt most when his child hurt. And no greater hurt existed than to be denied your heartmate. Hurt the son, cripple the father.
“Pegot!” he bellowed, tucking the long-lost girl’s hair accessory into his belt. A stout servant appeared before him. “Fetch my daughter. It’s time Elora confronted Prince Taric regarding his waning attentions.”
ab
His hands sent magic tingling through her with each stroke. A purr more suited to her feline vibrated her throat and she leaned back onto his chest.
“You like this.” Chuckling softly, Taric nipped her earlobe.
“No more than you. I have to pry the brush from your hand so you will seek your rest.”
“I admit it, I like brushing your hair. It’s…soothing. I love how it feels of silk.” He kissed her neck. “How it smells of sunshine—” lower on her neck, “—how it makes you purr like a cat being stroked.”
His tongue tracing his kiss line, Taric set the brush aside. Myla tilted her head, luxuriating in the feel of his lips. Surely, she should be used to the sensation by now. She did not possess one inch of skin he hadn’t stroked, kissed or licked in the past nights. By day, he chose to keep her close by in jaguar form, using her keen sense of smell to warn of danger approaching. By night, she lay within his arms, using other talents he’d taught her.
“I do like being stroked as your cat. It’s very…sensuous.”
“Sensuous is very good.” He kissed her once more before leaning back on the pallet, propped on an elbow. “My cat…Soot. Tell me, why a house cat? That’s not a very protective animal.”
“No, but it does provide comfort.” Turning to him, she coiled her freshly smoothed hair into a rope and draped it over her shoulder. “You were of an age when you didn’t welcome a woman appearing in your bedchamber. The middle time between childhood and adulthood can be troubling. As your pet, you didn’t question my appearance beside you when you were feeling lost. I sought to ease your mind when I could.”
“I missed that damn cat after it ran away. Or I thought Soot had run away. Why did you stop coming?”
“You sought your comfort elsewhere.” Naughtily, she arched her brow, reminding him when Soot had disappeared. His blush trilled a laugh from her throat. “Taric, you blush! Isn’t that the way of boys as they become men? To turn from feline to female forms for…stroking?”
“Maybe,” he growled. “But now I get both feline and female. I much prefer the female.”
She bowed into his mouth, caressing his lips with hers. There was much indeed to be said for human lips.
Lazily, he reclined with a grin. “Why always a cat?”
“It is who I am. I am both feline and female. I can be no other.”
“Why did you sing to me as an infant?”
Her lids slid closed but chagrin pouted her lip and entranced him. “You were a babe, but even tender ears learn. Magic is…melodic, rhythmic. The cadence begs for music. While you slept, I sang spells of rest and growth, tranquility and harmony, things to aid you. Your father worried you’d lack a mother’s love. I could not give you that so I gave you peace. A small gift but all I knew to give.”
He studied her intently, a burning spark battling the candle flame glowing in his maple eyes. “You haven’t returned for several days now. How do you feel?”
Not meeting his gaze, she drew her finger across his arm, the tiny hairs swaying under her touch. “I—I returned last night after you slept.”
“What?” Bolting upright, he stared at her with twisted brows. “You returned to me?”
“Yes. I felt… It was… I had no choice. Too long in this world and my senses dim. It was not for long, just a respite to…replenish my guardianship.” Head angled, she fixed him with a questioning stare. “You are angry with me. Why?”
Taric didn’t speak for a while. He rose from their pallet and poured wine into a plain tin cup. He set it untasted on the map table and paced.
Myla watched him. He was troubled on many levels. The argument with Bryton weighed heavily on his mind, as did the constant vigilance the troop was under. There had been no more outbreaks in the past four days and he grew edgy lo
oking for his foe’s army. Tension surrounded the eternal problem of Marchen’s cruelty and wondering what destruction he would devise next.
Twisting her head in the opposite direction, her brows dipped. No, this was new. He had a different worry, one that plagued him. She’d waited for him to discuss it with her, share his thoughts but so far, he had not. He’d dreamed as she returned to him last night. Dreams as muddled as a thick stew, filled with snippets of sexual memories and flashes of battles. This new worry had roots in each and also with her. “Taric, tell me of your trouble.”
Long legs slowed but did not halt their metronome glide. “First, I want you to tell me some things, Myla. Do you remember the night I was born? The night we both were, I suppose.”
“Yes, I remember it. I remember every moment.”
Eyes closed, her human mind sifted through the pages of memories until she came to the first one. From somewhere, she had felt a stirring, a calling, beckoning her. She’d streamed toward the call. Her initial impression was twofold, love and blood. Wet with the sweat of childbirth and quivering with expended magic, a woman she now knew as Queen Tarsha beseeched her.
The immense outpouring of devotion toward the tiny infant intrigued Myla. What was this small, loud being and why did it command such utter commitment? Touching the woman’s mind, Myla understood the bond of mother to child, the total love freely given for another. Such unfathomable emotion astounded her.
A guardian she was asked to become, to protect him and love him with all her might. There was no dark motive, no claim of riches or payment, just the heart of a parent pleading for care in her absence. Such selflessness piqued Myla’s essence. Her acceptance of her duty was the beginning of their bond.
For a long while, he had no real need of her. His body and mind growing, she simply watched from within, delighting in each new discovery, learning alongside him the world to which he had been born and she now inhabited. Myla discovered many things those first few seasons. Taric’s father possessed crippling sadness and empowering love each time he gazed at his son. Through him, she learned that love doesn’t die because it is not seen. Balic often watched his child and thought of the golden-haired woman who had called to her. Once, his small son sleeping in his arms, he cried bitter tears and whispered tales Taric never heard of his mother, of how she longed for him, planned for him and now watched him from the other side of death. Myla pressed each word to memory for Taric, for later, when he might need them.
Taric grew, his spirit of adventure wild and unharnessed. Her first act of guardianship occurred when he was not quite three summers. He liked sneaking from his nurse and hiding, laughing when found. This time, he sought to hide near the pond. His cinnamon eyes sparkled with curiosity at the gliding swans. With a gleeful giggle, Taric charged toward them. His shoeless feet slid from beneath him and he rolled rump over shoulder down the embankment.
Myla caught him at the water’s edge. “Careful, young prince. The pond is deep and feathers are not for eating.” Taric smiled with childish abandonment and reached for her combs, snagging them with strong little fingers. “No, Taric. Those are mine. How will I see with my hair about my face?”
“Sing!” he demanded.
At that moment, she realized he had not always been asleep when she came to him at night. The musical, magical words she’d let penetrate his slumber would have to cease. He was growing too fast. That she had given in to the temptation to be human while he was too young to recall shamed her and she colored at being caught. She could not come again unless he had need of her.
“No singing. Your nurse and your father look for you. Go now, back up the hill and find your father.”
“Papa find me!”
“No, Taric, Papa will not find you here. You go and find Papa.”
When his father spied the boy climbing from the pond hill, anger flushed his face and his hand connected with Taric’s backside. Myla nearly leapt forth in protection until the wave of insufferable fear touched her. Balic had been terrified when his child went missing and his relief lay barely masked behind gruffness.
Love, she had learned, was not always so joyous. It brought fear and uncertainty.
“Myla?” Taric’s voice drew her from her recollections. She found the same look on his face now as Balic had those many summers ago. Love and fear shadowed behind sternness. “Will you tell me about that night?”
“You wish to know of your mother?”
“No.” Crossing to her, he knelt before her on the pallet and took her hand. “I mean, I do, but not now. Do you remember the words my mother said to call you?”
“Of course.”
“Will you tell them to me?”
Not understanding, she tilted her head one way and then the other, searching his face. “I shall but they have no power. They’re just words unless mixed with magic.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Very well.” Myla repeated the calling spell, its timbre ringing even now through her soul. “She called and I came. Is this what you seek?”
Lines of concentration marred his brow but he nodded. He rose and began pacing once more, one arm about his waist, fisted hand to his jaw. Desperation poured from him.
It trickled down her spine with dread. “Taric, what’s so important in those words?”
“I don’t know yet. You said you had to return to me. Why? What would happen if you didn’t? If I commanded you never return to me?”
Stunned, she widened her eyes. Not return? The thought was foreign, incomprehensible and she gaped for a moment. “I—I’d die.”
He whipped to her so quickly she saw the air shimmer around his body. Color drained from his face and his baritone was a rasp. “Die?”
“Yes. I’m not human, Taric, not completely. Part of me is and part of me is magic. I need to feed both. If I stay here, in this world as I have been, I must eat and rest here. You’ve seen this. But after a while, my magic dims and I weaken. If it grows too weak, it will die and, not being wholly of this world, my human body would also die.”
With bruising strength, Taric crushed her to him. His arms held her so tightly she could barely draw air. Fear and uncertainty. Across her brow and along her cheek, his kisses carried anxiety to her lips. “Don’t die, Myla, never die. Return as you need. Never, ever put yourself at risk for that.”
“Do not fear for me, my charge. I’ll never leave you.”
“Swear it.” Cupping her cheeks, he angled her head back until she read the desperation etched on his face. “You can’t lie to me, so swear it. Swear you’ll always be with me.”
“I swear it. I will never leave you alone.” Tiny lines sprang from the corners of his eyes and he squeezed them shut, pressing his forehead to hers. Beneath her palm, his heart knocked frantically.
Her concern mounted. How did a woman get her man to speak to her of what plagued him? She hadn’t learned that tactic and her failure was sour in her mouth.
“Come on.” Taric drew a shaky breath and gripped her fingers. One-handed, he gathered items from his leather bag and pulled her toward the tent flap. When he raised it, man and cat stepped into the moonlight.
Taric grinned down at the immense jaguar padding silently beside him. Myla had taken Bryton’s off-hand comment to heart. He doubted anyone knew there was a woman in the camp but all knew of the jag. A few times, he had seen the men offer her bits of meat or speak softly to her, coaxing her toward them. Only at his nod did she allow them to stroke her head and she never ate from their hand. She preferred to wait until enclosed in his tent to eat in human form.
His grin widened. Myla did not like salted or dried meats, wrinkling her nose in disgust. For her, he allowed the men to hunt and enjoy fresher meats than normal during battle. They should thank her but it would mean revealing her presence.
Myla-as-jaguar never strayed far from him, a few feet at most, unless she was patrolling the edges of the campsite. It was she who scared up the two scouts, her growl sending both lads running
straight into the night watch.
After a brief word with the night guard, Taric led the way down a short embankment behind a copse of pine trees. Myla lumbered behind him until he rounded the tree line. With a short chuff at him, she bounded ahead, scouting for danger. When she returned, he had already kicked off his boots and pulled the tunic over his head.
“Bath time, my guardian. The river isn’t as swift here and we’re well hidden. Be my woman and bathe with me.”
The night shimmered and she stared at him. “I shall stand guard. You bathe.”
“Myla, bathe with me.” Laughing, he pulled his breeches off and tossed them on the grassy edge. His splash sent silvered droplets over her.
Myla wiped her face and glared at him. “It’s cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm.”
“It’s wet.”
Swiping dripping hair from his face, he studied her. Brows drawn tight, her lips pursed into a tiny bow, she crossed her arms. Devilment tickled his spirit and he sent a wide-spread armful of water toward her. She shrieked like a girl and ducked.
“Myla, come in, it’s not that cold. The meadow stream was colder.” Shaking her hands as if soaked, she fumed silently. He teased, “If I have to come and get you, I will.”
“I don’t swim. Not as a woman.”
Shock stilled his approach. “You can’t swim?”
“I can…as a cat.” For a tense moment, they stared at one another.
“I can teach you,” he offered softly. Her green eyes flicked away briefly but she shook her head. Cocking his head, he challenged, “Are you afraid, my guardian?”
She didn’t like that. Face flashing with irritation, she yanked the chiton over her head, the leather belt falling to her feet. Her sandals hit a bush and it shuddered. The red silk sailed to the bush branch and hung like a signal flare but Taric barely noticed.
