The Stone Prince i-1

by Gena Showalter

  Instead of sputtering with indignity as she’d hoped, he chuckled. “You sound jealous, katya.”

  “Jealous?” She snorted, doing her best impression of a carefree woman with hundreds of lovers. “I’m not jealous. Jealousy is for those who actually care romantically about the other person. What I feel for you is similar to what I feel for my brothers.”

  Jorlan’s quirky, confident smile faded. His features grew hard and cold, like ice freezing the ocean. “I am not, nor will I ever be, your sibling. And if you think otherwise, ’tis time we finished what we started this morn. You do care for me romantically, and I can prove it in front of all these people. You usually require proof, do you not, katya?”

  Those words were all too true. True enough to make her shiver with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Yet his confidence in her capitulation annoyed her. He acted as if he had only to touch her and she would sink into him. Well, she might have allowed him a few liberties during that moment that she wasn’t thinking about until she was alone, but that wouldn’t happen again anytime soon.

  “You want your usual, doll?” a gruff female voice asked, preventing Katie from tossing Jorlan a stinging retort. She settled for giving him a this-isn’t-finished glare then turned her attention to the waitress. “Yes, thank you. I’ll have my usual.”

  Frances set two glasses of water on the table with a clang. Her black slacks and tailored white blouse hugged her generous curves. Her sherry-colored hair, which had probably come from a bottle, was twisted in a bun atop her head. “What about the big guy? He want a protein shake and an omelet, too?”

  “The big guy can speak for himself,” Jorlan growled.

  Far from being intimidated, Frances rolled her eyes and gave Katie a get-rid-of-this-one look. “So what’ll it be? I’m just dying to hear what you want.” Her droll tone stamped over Jorlan’s stiff shoulders.

  Frowning, he raised the menu and studied the words. A minute passed, then another. Impatient, Francis tapped her shoe. (She wasn’t a favorite with the male patrons. But her boss was female, which was the only reason she still had a job.) “Sometime today, big guy.”

  With a kingly, I-am-too-good-for-this air, he dropped the menu onto the table. “I have decided Katie will choose for me.”

  Katie almost laughed. She did sigh. The man didn’t know how to read her language, but he refused to admit such a weakness aloud. Such an action almost made him seem—dare she think it? — vulnerable.

  “Let’s see…” She grabbed up the menu. Besides Tupperware and turkey sandwiches, what did extra large aliens eat for breakfast? “He’ll have the mushroom omelet with peppers and ham. Two bagels with strawberry cream cheese, an English muffin and three blueberry tarts.”

  Frances looked up from her notepad, wearing an incredulous expression. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. A pecan waffle.”

  Though neither woman spared him a glance, Jorlan said, “Two pecan waffles.”

  “You’re gonna have to roll him out of here. You know that, don’t you?” Just then, a devilish light entered Frances’s hazel eyes. She smiled, crinkling the wrinkles around her eyes, and clasped the menu in one hand. “I got a new one for you, doll. Heard it just this morning.”

  Katie opened her mouth to tell Francis she’d listen to the joke some other time— Lord knew how a chauvinist like Jorlan would react to man bashing—but Frances continued before she could stop her.

  “A young couple was in their honeymoon suite the night of their wedding. As they undressed for bed, the husband, who was a big, burly man—” this was said with a pointed glance to Jorlan “—tossed his pants to his bride, and said, ‘Here, put these on.’though the wife was confused by his request, she put them on. The waist was twice the size of her body. ‘I can’t wear your pants,’ she told her husband, ‘they’re too big.’ ‘That’s right,’the husband said, ‘and don’t you forget it. I’m the man who wears the pants in this family!’”

  Frances took a deep breath and continued. “The wife whipped off her panties and flipped them to her husband. ‘Try these on,’she said. Knowing he needed to pacify her if he hoped to get lucky, the husband did as she demanded. He tried the panties on and found that he could only get the lacy material up as far as his kneecap. He said, ‘Hell, I can’t get into your panties.’ And the wife said, ‘That’s right, and that’s the way it’s gonna be until you change your damn attitude.’”

  Katie choked on her water.

  Jorlan frowned.

  When her air passage cleared, Katie smiled up at Frances. “I’ll have to tell that one to my brothers.”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  “If you ever need a break from the café,” Katie said, still grinning, “come talk to me. I’m restoring the old house on Gossamer Lane and could use the help. And the entertainment.”

  “Really? Seriously?”

  “Absolutely.” Katie usually hired outside help for renovation and restoration when she purchased a new house. For some reason, she’d been reluctant to hire anyone for the Victorian, wanting instead to do the work herself. But the sheer elation in Frances’s eyes convinced her to stick with her usual method. “You could start anytime.”

  “I might take you up on that.” Frances beamed. Then, with another meaningful glance to Jorlan, she sauntered away, leaving behind the echo of her happy whistle.

  Jorlan’s features darkened with ire. “That woman needs a keeper.”

  “You think every woman needs a keeper,” Katie replied dryly. Her gaze flicked to him, observant and narrowed. “Did you ever consider the possibility that your men-are-superior views are stupid?”

  “Nay.” He answered with absolutely no hesitation.

  “Figures.” She had anticipated such an answer, yet had hoped he would surprise her. “Look, some men are not honorable and often mentally and physically abuse a woman in an attempt to break her will. Is that the kind of keeper you would have for Frances?” Caught up in her speech, Katie leaned into him, even pointed a finger in his chest. “Just because a woman has spirit, does not mean she needs a man to guide her.”

  “Aye, it does.” Jorlan, too, leaned forward. Their noses touched, sending a jolt of awareness through her system. He grabbed her finger and held the appendage captive in the warmth of his hand. “If a woman pushes a man beyond his control, she risks physical injury.”

  “And a guardian would keep her safe?”

  “Aye.”

  Katie let out her breath sharply. “Even from himself?”

  “Aye. Even from himself.” The blue of his eyes clouded with silver and gray. “A warrior trained in the art of battle will save a woman from the very danger she herself creates.”

  The noise of the café faded from her ears as she concentrated on the man before her. “But, Jorlan, with your logic, a woman wouldn’t need a keeper if a warrior simply controlled himself.”

  Jorlan paused, considering her words. When their meal was delivered, Katie’s voice still echoed in his mind. A woman wouldn’t need a keeper if a warrior simply controlled himself. There was truth to what she’d said, though such ideology contradicted the entire Imperian way of life, a way of life that suggested men were men and women were weak.

  He had much to think on.

  A wondrous aroma drifted into his nostrils. Frances, the aging servant, tossed numerous plates in his direction. Several pieces of food flopped to the table. His stomach rumbled. Ravenous, he made short work of every bite, nibble and crumb, relishing the taste, texture and color. The light-brown squares filled with dark-blue spheres were his favorite. Katie, he noticed, ate only a plain omelet and drank a mug of light green, clumpy liquid. With each gulp, she closed her eyes and uttered a wordless exclamation of ecstasy. He considered dousing his body in the murky-looking concoction.

  “Now that one need is satisfied, I need only a nice, leisurely pummeling to feel complete,” he said. “Mayhap the girl would be interested.”

  Katie scowled.

  H
e almost laughed. ’Twas the action of a possessive woman, and one that filled him with hope. Soon…oh, aye, soon Katie’s love would belong to him.

  “Keep in mind,” Katie bit out, “that you have no money. Women do not sleep with poor men.”

  “Then I shall acquire riches.”

  “As if it’s that easy! First of all, no one but me will hire you. Second, any money you make belongs to me to reimburse me for your food and shelter. I’m not a woman who will support a man while he does nothing except watch TV, lay on the couch and drink beer.”

  “So you wish to hire me?”

  “Yes,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Do you, by chance, wish me to labor in the bedchamber?”

  She threw her hands into the air. “No! The work I’m offering you has nothing to do with being naked, getting naked, or getting each other naked.”

  Her dictate left many wonderful possibilities, for at times, clothing offered just as much, if not more, stimulation than flesh. Aye, he could very well imagine her with a long, shimmery blue gown draped over her curves, covering every inch of her. Slowly he would raise the gown’s hem. Higher. Higher still. Not ever making her naked, but slowly revealing the succulent skin of her calves, her thighs, and then her —

  “You can get that perverted gleam out of your eyes,” she ground out, slapping her hand onto the table with a thump. Glasses clanged together. “You’ll paint, put up siding, lay tile, shingle or whatever I happen to need done. To the house,” she added, “not to me. And I don’t want to hear any complaints.”

  Complain? About physical labor? When his body already hummed with excitement, vibrated with too much energy? “Exercising my muscles holds great appeal, katya. I will do whatever needs to be done, no matter that you are impudent in the asking of it.”

  For a long while, she said nothing. Then she sighed, a long drawn-out sigh. “Look, I don’t mean to be so snappy, Jorlan. I really don’t. I just don’t know what to do about you.” She tossed green paper onto the table surface. “Come on. We’ve got a lot of work to do today.” She slid across the seat and stood.

  He pushed easily to his feet.

  Their gazes locked for one heartbeat before she turned away and headed for the exit. Jorlan had only taken four steps when someone grabbed his forearm. He spun, clutching the weapon at his waist without actually removing it.

  The redhead smiled up at him.

  He relaxed his warrior stance.

  “Hey,” she said, her voice throaty and seductive. “I’m Heather.”

  ’Twas the type of reception he was used to receiving. He returned her smile. “’Tis my pleasure to meet you, Heather. I am called—”

  “I know who you are. You’re Hunter Rains, the self-help guy. Twelve steps to a better you, and all that. I recognized you the moment I saw you.” She looked down at her feet, suddenly shy. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I’ve read your book and I know you’re from Australia. I’d be glad to show you around Dallas. I’m —”

  Katie had spun around at Heather’s first words and now stood directly beside Jorlan. Her eyes went molten, then icy. “He’s not available.”

  Heather never even glanced Katie’s way; she just blinked up at Jorlan. “Are you? Unavailable, I mean?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Too much did he enjoy Katie’s jealousy.

  “I’ll be waiting in the truck,” Katie snapped. She swirled on her heel and strode outside.

  Jorlan faced the little redhead again. Here was a woman like those of his world. Willing to please. More than likely, she would do whatever he asked if he showed the slightest bit of interest. Yet he felt nothing, not even a faint stirring of lust.

  “Though I may come to regret these words,” he said when his body failed to respond to the girl’s nearness, “I am indeed unavailable.”

  “But the woman you’re with is so…tall and plain.”

  “Plain?” He chuckled. “Her beauty is endless.”

  Heather gave a disappointed shrug of her shoulders. “It was worth a try, I guess.”

  With nothing left to say, he followed the path Katie had taken. As she’d said, she was waiting for him inside the belly of her transportation. Her limbs were stiff, her expression cold.

  He slowly grinned. The day was indeed ripe with promise.

  SEVEN

  PERCEN DE LOCKE HOBBLED across the ancient sands of Druinn, a haven situated in the heart of Imperia and invisible to mortal trespassers. Moonlight spilled upon the crystal grains, creating an illuminating sphere of mystique. The fragrance of gartina and elsment ghosted a cool, moist breeze upon his cheeks and neck, ruffled the dark locks of his hair, then swirled away. Stars twinkled from their perch in the heavens, so close he had only to reach out to hold their essence in his hands.

  What a mockery this beautiful refuge made of his emotions.

  His limbs shook with hatred, impotence and rage. He was barely able to move his legs one after the other as he paced. Only yestereve he had cursed Jorlan en Sarr inside an impenetrable wall of stone. The warrior had stood here, the centerpiece of the Druinn sands, yet now he was gone.

  Gone!

  Percen sensed his mother’s magic, smelled the flowery scent of her perfume, and knew beyond a doubt she was responsible, that she had either set Jorlan free or sent him away. Fists clenched at his sides, he closed his eyelids. Using his mind’s eye, he searched through the lingering magic for answers. Energy coated the air in layers, each layer a different color, depending on the spell or magic used at a particular time. The most recent spell churned on top, giving off a reddish hue. ’Twas not a spell that worked beside another, but a spell that created and drew on other energies—a spell that opened a vortex.

  He knew then that she had sent Jorlan away, effectively saving the cursed warrior from Percen’s wrath. The knowledge smoldered inside of him, blistering like a fire raging out of control.

  “Why do you torment yourself so?” a soft, feminine voice said from behind him.

  Percen halted midstride. Tiny white crystals scattered around his feet as he whipped around. A dark-haired beauty stood proudly before him, a cerulean-colored amulet at her throat. The center of the jewel pulsed with the life of an ocean. The woman’s regal shoulders were squared with concern. Feigned concern, he knew, for she cared nothing about him.

  “Did you come to gloat?” he snapped.

  “Nay.” Her expression was unreadable as she reached out to touch his shoulder. His simmering glare stopped her. She waited a whisper of time, then dropped her hand to her side. “It does not give me joy to see you so upset.”

  “Do not act as if you care what I feel. I know where your affections lie.”

  Her eyes, pale-blue just like his own, darkened with sadness. “I am your mother. Why do you think I can care for one of my sons but not the other? Aye, I left you here, but I have always had the same devotion for you that I have for Jorlan. Always.”

  “Liar!” He closed the distance between them there in the quiet of the white sands. His rage grew hungry, and without warning, he struck her. Hard. Putting all his strength behind the blow. Her head snapped to the side, and a small trickle of blood flowed from the corner of her lip. “You are a liar.” He spoke slowly, softly. Harshly.

  Silence weighted down like an oppressive shadow, and he watched his mother’s cheek redden and swell. He had put that mark there, and the knowledge cut deeply, shamefully. He held his breath until his chest burned in agony, for the gentle fragrance of her perfume taunted his nostrils. He waited for her next words, the words that would at last confess her hatred of him.

  They didn’t come.

  Tears pooled in her eyes; her chin wobbled. “Please believe me when I say that I am devoted to you. Not because you are my son, but because I love you.”

  These words were somehow more offensive than if she’d slapped him in retaliation. For how long had he waited to hear such a wondrous declaration? Forever, it seemed. Yet it meant nothing t
o him now. Nothing! “Your actions belie your words, Mother.”

  “’Tis not true.”

  “You claimed to love me spans ago, and yet you left me, deserted me as if I were garbage when you life-joined with the mortal king.”

  “I left you with the Druinn because I loved you. How can you not see that? I could not take you from them, knowing you were destined to become high priest.”

  “What does power or sovereignty matter without love? All I’ve ever desired is the feel of your arms around me, comforting me. The sound of your voice soothing me to sleep. But you denied me those things as surely as you granted them to Jorlan.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice broken and disjointed like the winds of the third season. “So sorry. I didn’t know, didn’t think—”

  “No.” He cut her off, scowling. “You didn’t think of me. You have never thought of me.”

  “Percen, please stop this. I love you. I truly do.”

  Again, those words. How they cut into his soul, making him bleed inside, leaving a hollow ache where his heart had once resided. “As I said, your actions belie your words. You claim to love me now, and yet you sent Jorlan away, preventing me from obtaining my greatest desire.”

  Her eyes closed; her lips pressed together. “Aye. ’Twas I who sent him away.”

  A long silence stretched.

  “Tell me, Mother,” Percen said. “If I give you another chance, will you at last prove your love for me?”

  “Whatever you wish, ’tis yours,” she said hopefully, though she still did not face him.

  He knew exactly what he wanted. “Bring the statue back to me.”

  “Nay. Not that.” She gave a firm shake of her head. “Never that.”

  “Curse you, why did you take him from me? Why? A loving—” he sneered the word “—mother would have left me to my vengeance.”

  At last her eyes met his. He pierced her with the full fury of his gaze. She did not look away from him this time, and in fact, held his stare with a proud tilt of her chin. “Jorlan is my son, just as you are, and I would not see him suffer for my sins.”