by AJ Nuest
A deep inhalation heaved his shoulders and he drew back to study her face. “Okay, fair enough. Besides, they’re right. As future queen, your security should be their biggest concern.”
He released her and paced a few steps away, tapping one end of his cellular device against the center of his palm, the creases between his brows relaying his deep concentration.
His focus fell to his hands, and he slowly stopped tapping. A smile spread, and he simultaneously lifted the front of the device—and his lively green gaze—to hers.
The map to Gaelleod’s crystal crypt.
She gasped. Of course! ʼTwas the one lot the goddesses had cast in their favor. With his artistic abilities, none other than Rhys could ensure its safe deliverance to her realm.
Grinning in unison, they rushed toward each other and clasped hands, hurrying for the front entrance of her uncles’ home.
* * *
Finishing the picture with the habitual scrawl of his signature near the bottom, Rhys slid the paper off Forbes’ desk and glanced between the sketch and his cell phone, comparing his drawing of the map to the picture he’d snapped of the original in Leo’s study. He’d nailed it—his focus darted to the time display on the top right corner of the screen—and with not a second to spare.
He stood and fished the lighter from his pocket, lit the corner and held the sheet upside down until the flames caught. One hour he’d been quarantined inside Forbes’ guest bedroom. One hour while Faedrah gave her uncles the four-one-one about what had happened at Leo’s, helped them pack and then pow-wowed with her parents regarding her and Rhys’ upcoming visit to her world.
It was anyone’s guess what kind of payback Leo had cooked up in that time, whether the cops were still at his house or his goons were seconds away from breaking down the door to Forbes’ condo.
Grady’s face flashed in his head, and Rhys ground his molars against the misery clawing at his gut. A simple flick of Leo’s finger… no more than an afterthought, as if Grady’s life had meant nothing… and the only person who had ever given two shits about him had died at Rhys’ feet.
He dropped the burning sheet into the metal garbage can, tossed in the wadded pages of his previous attempts and stepped back as the entire works crackled and smoked. But what dear old dad failed to realize is how in killing Grady, he’d upped the stakes. The next time they stood in the same room, Rhys would be packing heat, and the split second the asshole was within range, he wouldn’t hesitate. Whether in this world or Faedrah’s, the fucker was going down.
A soft knock pushed the door ajar and Faedrah poked her head inside the room. “Everything has been prepared, love. How does your mission fare?”
“Good. There’s a pattern to the route I didn’t see until after I spent some time studying the map.” He shrugged. “Evidently, when it comes to cartography, there’s a method to Leo’s madness.”
Orange flames leapt up the sides of the can, blackening and charring the metal. A parting glance at his cell, and Rhys chucked that in as well. Once they got back, he could always buy another one, and nothing was more important than covering their tracks, making sure if and when Leo tried to find them, he’d hit nothing but a solid brick wall.
Faedrah joined him at the desk and placed her hand on his arm, staring down at the bubbling plastic and warping screen. “Seems an appalling waste of such powerful magic. Are you quite certain of your decision? ʼTis not too late to join Sir Jon and Wizard Oliver as they depart for their island.”
Their island? Rhys gaped at Faedrah. Then again, nothing should shock him anymore. Besides, Forbes had enough money to buy and sell whatever the hell he wanted three times over. A lesson Rhys had learned only too well the day Forbes had purchased Faedrah’s picture, and Rhys’ life had taken a sharp right turn straight toward a magic mirror and all the mind-numbing concepts that entailed. He frowned. “What’s their plan for the armoire?”
“They vowed it shall never leave their sight.” Sighing, she dropped her hand and paced a few steps away. “As too did Violet and Sir Todd. ’Twould seem the four of them will best feel safest together, surrounded by water on all sides. Should Gaelleod petition for entrance, they will be alerted to his arrival and can outright refuse him access to their lands.”
Yep. After learning about Faedrah’s history, how her friends on this side of the mirror had been involved twenty years ago, for Forbes to use a portion of his wealth and buy them all some peace of mind in the form of an island retreat made perfect sense. And who knew? If they got extremely lucky, maybe Rhys and Faedrah could visit one day.
He grabbed his water bottle off the desk, dumped the leftover swill over the flames and his phone sizzled and snapped. Pitching the empty bottle in with the cinders, he wrapped the cuff of his sleeve around the lip of the can and pivoted for the door. “You ready?”
Her chin jutted in the stubborn way that heated his blood and made every muscle in his body flex. “Do you presume to offer me any other choice?”
Christ, the challenge in her eyes made him want to dive inside her and never come up for air. What sucked is how that would never fly unless he proved to her parents he was head over heels in love with their daughter. Faedrah was too loyal to stay with him without their blessing—so, by God, that’s exactly what he aimed to get. “No. I want you home.”
Her grumbling followed behind him, out the door and down the hall to the living room. Rhys shook his head, muttering a curse against the impulse to slam her against the wall and kiss the sass right off her mouth. They were better together than they were apart. She knew that, and her being worried over what might happen once they got there was a complete pile of bullshit from top to bottom.
The whole thing stank up the joint… exactly like Leo. The asshole had fucked with her head; made her second-guess herself. Fine. If that’s the game they were playing, until Faedrah got back to square one, Rhys would just pick up the slack.
She would be safer at her parents’ house. According to her, an entire posse of royal guards were dedicated to nothing other than her survival. And if drawing the map for her parents didn’t work… if giving them the one thing they needed to save their kingdom still landed him in a cell, so fucking what? At least Faedrah would be the hell away from Leo. Rhys could fall asleep at night knowing he’d done everything he could to make sure he’d put as much space between them as possible.
No. They were going. End of discussion.
Oliver and Jon stood from the couch as he and Faedrah entered. The armoire door hung open, the mirror hummed, sparks dancing along the surface just like when he’d met Faedrah’s parents. But, instead of the king and queen occupying two chairs in the center, a navy velvet curtain hung a few feet opposite the glass. Huh. Maybe her mom and dad had cleared out the room. Or maybe they put up a screen to allow Faedrah and Rhys some privacy once they landed on the other side. Especially since they’d be bare-ass naked.
Forbes’ cheeks were drawn and pale, his hand resting on the top edge of a large picture balanced beside his leg, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Jon clutched a copper bottomed skillet to his chest.
Rhys frowned as he set the garbage can by his feet. The picture he got. More than likely, it was the same portrait of Faedrah Forbes had purchased from the gallery. Good idea to take it with them, but the skillet made zero sense. “They don’t have frying pans where you’re headed?”
Jon sniffed, elevating his chin. “I paid nearly a thousand dollars for this pan. It makes the perfect omelet and I’m not leaving without it.”
Rhys nodded, sliding his fingers through Faedrah’s as she stopped beside him. Whatever the dude needed to bubble wrap himself in a sense of normalcy was A-Okay with Rhys. Both Forbes and Jon… hell, they’d become just as much a part of Faedrah’s family as her mom and dad. Even better, considering Rhys could count on one hand the times he’d been accepted at face value so quickly. Their understanding when anything could—and generally did—happen, had been a huge ace in the hole for
Faedrah. Shit, it had been huge for them both. “Thank you for… well, everything. You both earned a solid ‘I owe ya’ in my book.”
Jon heaved a soggy breath and placed three fingertips to his lips. “Why does it seem as if we’re always saying goodbye, Ollie? Why is everyone always leaving?”
Forbes hooked an arm around his lover’s shoulders and pulled Jon to his side. “This isn’t goodbye. It’s… until next time.” He extended his manicured hand toward Faedrah. “Whenever that might be, sweetie, we’ll be waiting for you.”
Brushing Forbes’ arm aside, she stepped close and hugged both her uncles, burying her face between their chests. “I have not the words to convey my gratitude. Please swear to me you will keep yourselves safe.”
The three of them hung on to each other and bawled like life-long friends departing summer camp.
Sighing, Rhys crossed his arms, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. He’d never been one for soppy goodbyes. The thought of exchanging his first with a pair of gay men? Not on the top of his bucket list.
“I spent some time talking with your mother.” Forbes rubbed and patted Faedrah’s back. “Without giving her all the details, I got her promise to hear you out before making any decisions about Rhys.”
Aw, shit. His shoulders fell, and he dropped his arms, striding forward to sling a hug around the sniffling trio. Jon grabbed his belt loop and hung on like Rhys was his personal life preserver pitched off the Titanic.
Okay, okay, enough with the togetherness. He eased back and tipped his head toward the armoire. “I hate to be a buzz kill, but we should probably get going. Leo could show at any time and I’ve got a map that’s itching to be drawn inside my head.”
“Of course.” Faedrah ran a hand down each of her uncles’ arms as she withdrew. “Our duty awaits.”
“Give your parents our love.” Oliver clutched her fingers, arms stretching until the distance split their hands and she stepped away to join Rhys in front of the mirror.
“Especially your father.” A tear left Jon’s chin and splashed the handle of his pan.
Rhys scowled and faced the armoire. He’d bet his last dime the story regarding that bizarre relationship was one for the log books. Just the thought of Jon approaching Faedrah’s dad… He huffed. He’d have to make a mental note to ask Faedrah about what happened someday.
She tangled her fingers with his, locked her bottomless brown eyes onto his and nodded. “Are you quite ready?”
He cocked a brow. “For the record, you never need to ask me that, Princess. Whatever you’re flinging my way, I’ll catch.”
She smiled, lifting his knuckles to her lips. He followed her lead when she backed a few steps away and, filling his lungs, he hung onto her hand as they hauled ass for the mirror and leapt.
Chapter 2
Pain exploded through his left shoulder and ribcage. A groan eked from his throat and Rhys fell to his back, arms locked around Faedrah in a death grip.
Shit, dodging his bike through the side mirrors of Chicago’s clogged expressways had nothing on that trip. He’d officially become the ball in some warped, cosmic game of keep away. If it hadn’t been for Faedrah’s curves pressed along his body, the scent of her skin and the way she kept her arms fastened around his neck, he would’ve tripped the light fantastic straight into a psychotic break.
He pressed the heel of one hand against his throbbing forehead. Christ, the inside of his mouth tasted like it’d been scrubbed with a dirty rag. His skin crawled and every synapse in his body jittered as if he’d been jolted with a hundred volts. How in the name of all things holy had she ever survived the jump alone?
Peeling back his eyelids, he blinked and squinted into the dim light. Three stories overhead, pre-dawn rays of orange and pink streamed through a series of long skinny windows. The bottom of a dark-blue velvet curtain was crumpled against his left shoulder, an iron pole threaded through the top and suspended from the ceiling by a thick rope to create a privacy screen in front of the armoire.
An image of the map slammed into his brain like a sledgehammer and he grimaced. Christ, what the hell? As if the sucking vortex of swirling lights and trailing rainbows hadn’t been enough, now his memories had to show up late to the party and flatten him on his ass?
Easing Faedrah aside, he sat up and gripped both sides of his head. Dammit. God dammit, the pressure was like a vice. The twists and turns of the route to Gaelleod’s crypt harsher and sharper than when he’d memorized them in his world. Fuck, if he didn’t get the picture down on paper he was liable to burst an artery. Either that, or his head was going to crack like a walnut.
Faedrah moaned and shifted beside him, pushing her black strip of hair from her eyes. Her focus landed on him, and she sprang to sitting, her cool palm meeting his blistering cheek. “Are you ill? Shall I send for the medicant?”
No, he wasn’t sick. Pain leached up the back of his head. His stomach flipped. Other than coating his sheets in the sweat of a hellish hangover, he hadn’t spent a day in bed since… Shit, he didn’t know when. “It’s the map. I need to draw it or, I swear to God, my skull is going to explode.”
She scrambled to her feet, glanced left then right before yanking a bunch of clothes off the open door of the armoire and tossing half the wadded fabric his way. “Parchment and quills! Bring them, quickly!”
For Christ’s sake, did she have to scream? Rhys struggled to his feet, the floor pitching like high a speed rollercoaster, and shoved his arm into the silky mess. More than likely, whoever she shouted at was just on the other side of the curtain, and he’d be damned before he met her family bare-assed and cock dangling in the breeze.
A row of gold tassels skimmed his arm and the material slithered off his shoulder to the ground. What the fuck? The world reeled as he snatched the garment from around his ankles and tried again, only to repeat his performance. What the hell had she given him? The sheet off a bed?
Footsteps neared and he jerked the material around his lower half as the velvet curtain was yanked aside. An entire entourage stood in what he guessed was the throne room—based on the towering pillars and raised dais along the far wall—the first among them Faedrah’s mom and dad, some skinny dude with a long gray beard, a bald guy sporting a nasty scar and an eye patch, and a dark-haired pro football player who’d traded in his jersey for a leather pants and black knee-high boots… and a really long mother-fucking sword.
Rhys huffed. That weapon had Napoleon complex written all over it. The guy had to be compensating for the size of his dick.
Faedrah cleared her throat. “Allow me.” She gathered the ends of the silk and Rhys held his elbows to the sides as she tied them around his waist like a bath towel. Great. Was there a specific reason he hadn’t been given an actual robe like her? So he could avoid standing here like an idiot who didn’t know how to dress himself while making the mother of all first impressions?
Silver jangled and he hissed as the sound clanged in his head, vibrating his jaw and jabbing the backs of his eyes like a drunken game of darts. Faedrah grabbed his upper arms and his gut bottomed out at the panic in her eyes. “Hold on, my love. They are coming.”
Jesus Christ. He must look like shit.
Two men rounded the crowd, carrying a solid oak desk between them, the stamped sheet metal covering their chests and arms like something straight out of King Arthur’s court. They set the table near the armoire and the thud of wooden legs against the stone floor nearly dropped Rhys to his knees. His hands prickled, fingers buzzing like he’d jammed them in an electric socket. Sweat broke over his skin and he locked his knees against a loop-de-loop of disorientation. So help him God, the last thing he would do was face-plant the floor. Not here. Not now.
A third guard came forward and Rhys fisted his hands, prepped and ready for the crackling pain shooting down his spine as the asshole dropped the chair. The feet shrieked, sliding over slate as the soldier positioned the seat before the desk. He gave Rhys the once-over and smacked down a
stack of papers, followed by the plunk of an ink bottle and several quills.
“Sit.” Faedrah prodded him toward the desk and he stumbled on the tasseled edge of his bed sheet. A growl lodged in his throat, he gathered the slack and marched straight for the damn chair. “Draw.” She pointed at the desktop, pushed the pages close and kissed his cheek. “Quiet.” The room stilled as if everyone present was waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of his ass.
He picked up one of the quills and tipped it back and forth. Seriously? A feather? He sighed and slid over the stack of thick yellow sheets. At this point, he wasn’t about to be choosy.
Dipping the hollow end in the ink, he braced his aching forehead in one hand and prayed to God whatever “adjustment” his body needed to make, getting the map on paper was his first step back to being a contributing member of the human race.
The first few lines scraping the parchment shivered his scalp like fingernails on a chalkboard. His cheeks expanded as he blew a hard breath. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him? Even after losing his shit in Leo’s study, he hadn’t gotten the willies like this. It was almost as if he’d shown up in Faedrah’s world inhabiting a different body, or like an alien life force had somehow latched on and infected him during the trip.
He squeezed his eyes tight, blinked and tried for some semblance of concentration. The tremors in his hands slowly subsided as a rhythmic scratching took shape. The cliff walls came easy. Same with the surrounding landscape and trees. He turned the sheet and the pounding in his head eased up as he sketched the castle and grounds in relation to the entrance of Gaelleod’s tomb.
The ink flowed almost on its own, as if he were nothing but the conduit to getting it on paper. He swiveled the page, dipped and kept drawing. The knotted muscles in his neck went slack as the path leading through the caves bled from the tip of the quill. Right for Rhys, left for Leo, right again for Rayburn, then his hand dipped and he drew the deep pit of a yawning chasm, the obstacle they would have to go over for Oscar. Lucas—go left, Ulmer—under the sharp overhang of a narrow crevice they would have to shimmy through on their stomachs before turning left for Louis.
