Myths & Magic: A Science Fiction and Fantasy Collection

by Kerry Adrienne

  Plying Tegan with questions, he’d discovered that the frog had bitten her while she walked upon the foot path that led to his front door. After compounding a jar of ointment and sending her home with promises to call on her soon, he’d searched the path, the shrubs lining it, turning over every rock and fallen log he could reach, until finally resigning himself to failure. Instead, he turned to the desperate hope that the tropical frog had perished with the early morning’s frost.

  But he couldn’t be certain. And now Piyali was here—the last place he wanted her.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said, speaking past the lump that blocked his throat. “I wanted to write… but things changed. I’m not the same man I was when I left.” A gross understatement. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was anymore, but according to the folklore the Kayapo shaman had shared, eventually he would no longer be human. Myth? He hoped so, but he couldn’t be certain. With Tegan now facing the same fate…

  “Did you meet someone?” Hurt shaded her voice as she searched his face. “Another woman?”

  “No.” His hand rose, reaching for her, but he forced it back to his side. “There will never be another woman for me, Piyali. I’m simply… unfit.”

  “An injury?” She glanced at his groin.

  Blood rushed to his face, and he nearly choked. “Not that.”

  “Then what?” She placed a hand upon his arm, sending a fierce jolt of hunger through his body. “What is it that you feel you can’t tell me? Once we shared… everything.”

  His eyes fell upon her rosy lips. He wanted nothing more than to pull her soft curves against his chest, to thread his fingers through the curls of her midnight-black hair that seemed to shine with its own light and pull her mouth to his. Kissing her would solve everything. And nothing.

  The air between them shimmered with memories. At a fateful symposium—Herbal Extracts and Their Use in the Treatment of Parasitic Infestations—held at the Pharmacological Society of London, he’d lost awareness of all women but one. The attraction had been mutual, and a courtship had begun. Shared glances, touches, whispers over the course of several lectures, all culminating one fateful day in the shadowy recesses of the society’s cloakroom. His pulse jumped at the memory of his mouth moving over her smooth skin, of linen and silk sliding to the ground, of her legs wrapped about his hips urging him closer, deeper.

  He’d proposed the very next day on bended knee, asking her to come with him to South America. But her own dream had become reality, and with tears in her eyes, she showed him an acceptance letter granting her admission to medical school. In Paris.

  Unwilling to let her go, he’d promised to ask her again in four years and begged her to wait for him.

  Looking now into the twin dark pools of her eyes, he knew that with a few words, with a simple touch, she could be his once more. But at what cost? Her career. Possibly her life. He’d given her an apology, but he could not give her an explanation. Under no circumstances could he allow the British government to become aware of what had transpired. Nor would he inflict his future upon her.

  The air was thick with regrets, making it hard to breathe.

  “Evan?”

  He dragged his eyes away, forcing himself to study the dappled light that filtered through the leaves above the surface of the spring. “You saw something through the aetheroscope,” he said. “If it’s not a fungal infection, the ointment I compounded won’t cure her. Perhaps you ought to excise the lesion.”

  “Perhaps.” Piyali moved out of reach, her boots tapping softly across the stepping stones. “Her skin, the basal layer, is blue. While that’s odd enough, it also color shifted when I changed the angle of illumination.” She lowered herself onto the low wall beside the water. “I’ve sent a skeet pigeon to London requesting my laboratory to send a replacement aetheroscope lens without delay. Before I set a course of treatment, I want to collect more data.”

  “Why not simply excise the lesion?” he asked, hoping she didn’t find his insistence too presumptuous.

  “Excision would prevent its spread, but once removed, the tissue—and anything that has invaded it—will die.”

  Exactly as he hoped. But she intended to investigate. Already, she’d dispatched a skeet pigeon to London. As his plans crumbled before him, Evan struggled to present her with a blank face. So much for his hopes of sending Piyali back to London without a sample. Still, if he could locate that blue frog, this disaster could be contained.

  “Bet I can catch it first!”

  “I’m faster!”

  With a shout and a laugh, two boys ran up the pathway, skittering to a stop in the leaf litter at his feet.

  “Simon,” Evan greeted one boy, then the other. “Aron. Glad to see the skin’s clearing up.” He glanced at Piyali and murmured, “I’ve written a paper and plan to send my findings to the Pharmacological Society soon.” They’d have to publish it, for he wouldn’t be speaking in public.

  The boy yanked his collar away from his neck. “Almost all gone,” he said. “And no more itching.” His face twisted as he stuck out his tongue. “But the tea is… blech.”

  Piyali stood and nodded a greeting. “Pleased to meet you both.” She peered at the boy’s face and neck, both impressed and incredulous. “You found a treatment for eczema?”

  “From a shaman in the rainforest,” Aron answered, his eyes wide and sparkling.

  “If you’re already cured,” Piyali replied with a smile, “what brings you to the fairy well?”

  “Mr. Tredegar told us all about how the natives hunt in the rainforest. With blow guns and poison darts,” Aron said, snapping a branch off a nearby tree, whittling its end into a sharp point. “We’re gonna do the same, soon as we find that blue frog.”

  “A blue frog,” Piyali said. “What a coincidence.” Her voice told him she knew it was anything but.

  Biting back a curse, Evan closed his eyes. The creature’s skin secretions might not be poisonous—not like the boys foolishly hoped—but its bite was a different matter. He had to catch that frog. Now.

  Chapter 3

  Evan had bundled her back toward the tavern, reaching its door just as the sun slipped over the horizon. He’d refused to enter, refused to discuss the frog situation, muttering something about stoking the greenhouse stove as he turned away.

  Bewildered, she stood there in the street as his form disappeared into the twilight. That he’d found an effective treatment for eczema was… amazing. Test, analyze, report. Since his return from Brazil, he’d sent a number of groundbreaking reports to the Pharmacological Society of London, and its members were all enamored of him. When this paper arrived, they would extend him a speaking invitation, but given he’d yet to visit London, she doubted he’d accept.

  Was it because she lived in London? Or did it have something to do with this frog?

  He’d almost kissed her there by the spring. She’d read the intent in his eyes. Dark and intense, it was the same stare he’d fastened upon her that first day their eyes caught in the lecture theater. Not the stare of hostility most women who dared step into the male stronghold received, but one of intrigued attraction. One he’d underscored by taking a chair beside her own. Then, as now, desire had rushed like liquid heat throughout her entire body.

  If there was interest, was there still hope? Possibly. But this infection—and apparently a frog—stood between them. Love thwarted by an amphibian. Absurd.

  Stomach growling, she stepped into the smoky tavern, hoping Sarah might be inclined to indulge in a bit of gossip. Perhaps she might know something about this elusive frog. Alas, she was busy carrying pints of ale and side-stepping the wandering hands of men who believed a compliment was best delivered by pinching a woman’s rear. That they dared to do so in her father’s presence said something about the man, casting him in a most unpleasant light. A father ought to defend his daughter’s honor, consistently.

  Among this cohort of men, one particular set of eyes with an arrogant gleam turned in Piy
ali’s direction as she strode to the bar—back straight and chin held high—but the man’s vanity refused to recognize her discouraging demeanor. His mouth widened in a manner suggestive of all kinds of improprieties as he rose from his chair.

  A woman alone. An Indian woman alone. A young Indian woman in a skirt with a hemline that exposed her booted ankles… and escorted by no man.

  Somehow this was an invitation. Once, such blatant interest unsettled her. Now, she viewed it as an opportunity to realign his priorities.

  As he approached, his gaze shifted downward, raking over her body with an air of speculation, and she pulled back the edge of her overcoat, giving him a glimpse of her government issued TTX pistol in its holster. That snapped his drifting eyes back to a more acceptable location, and he dropped back into his chair, scowling. A most gratifying response. She allowed herself a small smile.

  “Hungry?” the innkeeper asked as she settled onto a stool. “Got stew and Welsh rarebit.”

  “Rabbit?” she asked, her brow wrinkling.

  A long-suffering sigh escaped his mouth. “Cheese on toast.”

  She could see the stew bubbling on the stove. Gristly beef and overcooked rutabagas in a fatty broth. Her throat constricted in protest, and her stomach also threatened to rebel. “The rarebit, please. And,” she stopped him as he turned away, “the skeet pigeon?”

  “Liftoff went as expected.” He raised a shoulder and stepped aside as his wife slammed a pint of frothy, overflowing ale onto the bar before Piyali.

  “Don’t even think of drawing your weapon in my establishment,” Mrs. Parker warned with narrowed eyes. “Next steamstage leaves at sunrise.”

  “I need to keep the room a few more days,” Piyali said, ignoring the unnecessarily strong hint. “Bit of a problem with a frog, I’m afraid.” She leaned forward eyeing the bandage wrapped about Mrs. Parker’s fingers. “Is it infected?” Recalling Sarah’s reaction to her mother’s visit to the fairy well, and Evan’s comments about offerings to the water-sprite, she added, “Did the bent pin you stuck yourself with happen to be rusted?”

  Mrs. Parker stiffened. “What do you know about Seren’s Well?”

  “I know much about many things, such as a duck is a useful fowl. That two boys are on the hunt for a blue frog.”

  “Blue?” The innkeeper snorted, setting a plate of rarebit before her. “That’s but a fairy tale to go with a fairy well.” He gave his wife a hard stare. “What were you doing out there? Dipping your fingers in the sacred waters to rid yourself of warts?”

  With a glare, his wife turned on her heel, tossing a few final words over her shoulder, “Keep it up, old man, and you’ll find yourself outside sleeping in the steam cart.”

  Sarah leaned close as she passed behind Piyali. “See why I’m so desperate to marry? It’s a rare moment they’re ever in agreement about anything. But what’s this about a blue frog?”

  So much for her source of gossip.

  Her mind unsettled, Piyali tossed and turned all night on the lumpy mattress and, by morning, she was convinced it was stuffed with hay—not feathers—and infested by creepy-crawlies with an inclination to bite. She’d had sleepless nights before, but always—even in Paris—her fingers had been able to trace the embroidered motifs of her kantha quilt, the various flowers and birds stitched into the fabric by her dida’s very own fingers. During such restless nights, she allowed herself to remember a very different life, one she’d lost long ago. Such memories were the force that drove her to study infectious disease.

  Before the sun had fully crept over the horizon, she was dressed—this time in a subtle coppery-orange lehenga—and pacing the rough boards of her room. A mythical fairy well, a blue frog and two boys on a quest to locate it in the undergrowth surrounding the pool. All had sounded like nonsense until Evan had turned her around and marched her away from said spring as fast as their feet would carry them, a muscle jumping in his clenched jaw.

  Grounds for further investigation.

  She glanced at the pocket watch that hung from her corset on a silver chain. The general store would be open by now. Miss Price, pampered daughter though she was, might be minding the counter with her mother. Perhaps if Piyali could draw her aside, she might coax forth more details.

  With a quick check of her TTX pistol—men waking from a drunken stupor were often irate—she shrugged on her overcoat, picked up her doctor’s bag and stepped from her room. She exited the tavern into the cool, fresh air that promised a beautiful spring day.

  “I’m Dr. Mukherji, here to check on your daughter,” she said, nodding a greeting to Mr. Price as she entered the store. He stood behind a gleaming brass till, tying on an apron as he prepared for the day’s business.

  “Heard about you.” Mr. Price stared back at her, his eyes flat and unwelcoming. “Heard you were a woman. Trained in Paris, no less.”

  Would she always be greeted with such venom? Quite probably. Not that she would let that stop her. She pulled back her shoulders and met his gaze directly. “With a specialty in infectious diseases.” She stood silent, letting that detail sink in, waiting to see if he was prejudiced enough that he would risk his daughter’s health.

  His jaw slackened. “Is it…”

  “I’ve no idea,” she answered, happy to have his complete attention, his grudging respect. “But I want to monitor her condition carefully.”

  Miss Price was presented without delay.

  In a snit, Tegan flounced into the room. “This isn’t necessary,” she whined. “Mr. Tredegar is a renowned pharmacist.”

  “So he is,” Piyali agreed, quietly wondering if anything more than the promise of financial security drove her interest in Evan. “But all men and women of science consult their colleagues. What two minds can accomplish together is far more than the sum of their individual work.”

  “Sit,” her father commanded.

  With a huff, Tegan sat upon a nearby chair.

  Piyali knelt to unwind the gauze from Tegan’s ankle. Much to her relief, the blue lesion didn’t appear to have spread. Neither, however, had it decreased in size. Perhaps Evan’s ointment had had some effect. Except, without an untreated lesion for comparison, no true scientific conclusion could be reached. Not that this was something she wished to test on a young woman. Or any other person.

  “Where in the woods were you bitten?” If she could catch the creature, the minute her lens arrived she could analyze its saliva beneath her aetheroscope.

  Tegan shrugged. “On a path.” But her eyes slid away.

  Piyali dropped her voice to a mere murmur. “Might this unfortunate event have occurred beside Seren’s Well?” A soft gasp from her patient. “The location of the attack—” A frog attacking. The very phrase sounded ludicrous. “Shall remain between us. Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “You—an outsider—have no business at our fairy well.” Tegan crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “Who told you about it? No. Let me guess. Sarah. She’d do anything to win.”

  “Win?” What on earth could the spring have to do with the two women’s matrimonial designs upon Evan?

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Tegan huffed. “Your flashy dress and exotic, dark looks might draw Evan’s glances, but he won’t marry you.” The spiteful use of his given name was not lost upon her, and it stung, the implication she was nothing but a pretty plaything to be used and tossed aside. “You wouldn’t fit in. Not here. What he needs is a true Welsh woman to look after him.”

  Tegan thought her the newest competitor for Evan’s romantic attentions. While Sarah had all but welcomed her to join the game, Tegan refused her admission outright. Yet once, Evan had asked Piyali to share his life. Not so these village girls, not even after months of shameless pursuit. “You’d rather lose a limb than confide the location of the frog?”

  Hard eyes glinted at her and, when she spoke, her voice was hushed, staking an intimate claim. “If you must know, I was bitten on the path just outside Evan’s front door
whilst returning from our usual rendezvous.” Her patient leaned closer. “We have spent time together behind closed doors. Frequently. His mother’s opal and diamond ring will be mine.”

  That did it. She would not tolerate such disrespect. Slamming shut her bag, she stood. She was under no obligation to coddle Tegan’s misguided hopes. And so Piyali left her there, perched like a queen upon her throne, to reapply Evan’s miraculous ointment on her own.

  Striding down the street, fingers clenched about the handle of her bag, Piyali searched the edge of the woods, hunting for a break in the vegetation, for the path that would lead her to Seren’s Well. Either Tegan was lying or the frog had hopped through the woods until it found a likely location to establish a new home. She would find it, and she would analyze it, dragging it back to London as her small, blue hostage if necessary. With or without Evan’s approval.

  Evan. Good grief. Sarah and Tegan were poised to claw each other’s eyes out over the man. But neither of the young woman knew—or cared—anything of his heart. Tegan wanted nothing but economic security attached to a handsome man. Sarah wanted all that and escape from her parents with the promise of a touch of adventure.

  Piyali wanted him for himself.

  Yes, Evan’s physique was impressive. Particularly after spending four years deep in the rainforest. He had sharper edges now. His body was tougher, harder, as if his muscles were forged from steel. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like—now—to be wrapped in his strong arms. His gray-blue eyes held a depth that hadn’t been there before, and yet his gaze still sent blue flames ablaze across her skin. Yet she craved more than his physical touch. She missed his impressive mind, his advanced thinking, his adventurous spirit, his kindness, his directness… though that last trait now seemed lacking.

  She sighed. He was holding something close to his chest and—setting aside her hurt, anger, jealousy, and disappointment—she was nearly certain he was trying to protect her. She frowned. But from a frog?