by AJ Nuest
Down through the generations, Rhys counted off each McEleod mogul. Men who’d lost their lives, the women they loved and sons in exchange for Leo’s greed.
His shoulders loosened, dropping from around his ears, and he smirked. Satisfaction warmed the center of his chest, a revenge so sweet, he almost chuckled. He drew a five-pointed star and circled the location of Gaelleod’s crypt. Yes! The fucker could cram that up his ass and then suck it.
Scrawling his name along the bottom, he sat back from the desk and reviewed each line, every shadow. In a word, his copy of the map was… perfect. And even better, his headache had dulled. The constant twitching in his muscles had toned to a light buzz. He faced the room. And if his efforts didn’t win him the respect of every person in this highfalutin castle, they could kiss his hairy, white—
He frowned. The entire group had backed away several feet, including Faedrah, her waist pressed against the king’s outstretched arm as if she wanted to cross the distance but her dad refused to let her get too close. A variety of emotions played across their faces—alarm, fear, hostility… desperation from his lovely muse. All, except for the gray-haired geezer, who stared at Rhys with a calculating fascination that reduced him to a cut of prime USDA choice.
God dammit, now what? He locked eyes with Faedrah’s dad, the same deep brown as the woman he loved, flipped the map around and offered it to him. Hopefully, the king would view it as the peace offering Rhys intended. If not, well then… His jaw firmed. He’d just have to find another way to convince them.
Even if admitting his connection to Gaelleod did nothing but land him in a cell. Even if he offended the entire kingdom with his bad language or completely fucked up any chance at earning their trust, he would make damn sure they heard him out. He wasn’t about to give Faedrah up. Not without a fight. Anything less would only confirm their suspicions he was incapable of loving her as much as he did.
He stood. The two of them belonged together. The quicker everyone in this room got on that same page, the better. A few steps forward, and silver rang through the air as the dark-haired buccaneer drew his sword. The row of guards behind the queen followed his lead, sunlight winking off their weapons like paparazzi flashbulbs at a movie premiere.
Rhys ignored the warning and kept moving. They could threaten him all they wanted. This was no schoolyard, and it would take more than a few scrapes to make him back down. Because being with Faedrah wasn’t just about wanting to share his life with someone. Not anymore. For him, loving her was about survival.
Now that he’d tasted her, now that he’d experienced everything good and pure she held in her soul, to give her up would wipe out what little decency he had left.
If he let her go, his life would never be the same, and it would be only a matter of time before the blackness returned and consumed him.
Stopping a few steps short of the king, he extended the sheet. “This is for you. Or rather, for your kingdom. It’s the secret path to Gaelleod’s crystal crypt.”
The queen’s eyes widened, and she glanced at the king. Faedrah smiled, dipping her chin in a slight nod. No one else moved, and Rhys sighed and impatiently waved the sheet in the air. What, did they think it was going to reach out and bite them?
“With your permission, Sire?” The bearded fogy in the gray robes tipped his head toward the king.
“Aye, but tread lightly, Fandorn.” The king narrowed his eyes at Rhys. “Strange magics are afoot.”
Magic? What magic?
Rhys resisted the urge to lunge at the dude as he took the sheet and held it in a shaft of sunlight. So this was Fandorn, huh? The advisor Faedrah had mentioned. The one whose laboratory resembled Rhys’ warehouse space. His face was so wrinkled and weathered, any quick movements and he’d probably drop dead of a heart attack. But, for Christ’s sake, it was a fucking picture. Since when did sketching a map make anyone a magician?
“Hmmm…” The guy stroked his beard, his bushy eyebrows crumpled together like a caterpillar. “’Tis certainly something which bears our full consideration. The lad has perfectly depicted the kingdom and its surrounding lands, presumably without ever setting foot upon our soil.” His watery gaze lifted, and Rhys was jolted by the sharp awareness lingering in those ageless orbs. As decrepit as he was, apparently the stinky old coot was still playing with a full deck. “Which leads one to contemplate where the boy may have come upon such valued information.”
Shit. Let the games begin. “I stole it, if you must know.” Rhys crossed his arms. “Is there gonna be a problem with that?”
“Guard your tongue, laddie.” Black leather eye patch mirrored Rhys’ crossed arms, jerking his pointed goatee toward the bearded wonder. “You address a wizard of the first order. Show the proper respect.”
Wonderful. Apparently, Gandalf the Gray was cut from the same cloth as Leo. Or maybe this was a case of good cop-bad cop. Fandorn was more like Glinda the floating soap bubble from the Wizard of Oz. “Yeah, right off the top, I gotta tell ya that’s not gonna happen. In my book, respect needs to be earned.”
“Smart.”
Rhys’ attention skipped to the queen and back again. While her compliment was slicker than shit, he wasn’t about to get side-tracked from this showdown he had going with the scrappy one-eyed warrior. Based on the jagged scar crawling down one side of his face, today wasn’t the guy’s first rodeo, and the way he sized up Rhys like he was itching to tear him a new one held more weight than the dozen or so blades at the queen’s back.
Still, there was no denying the smirk that tugged at Rhys’ mouth as the king swiveled his head and peered past their daughter so he could aim a hard glare at his wife.
Waving his hand in the air as if he wished they’d all shut the hell up, Fandorn strolled a few feet away, muttering to himself, his focus pinned to the map. His shoulders straightened and he scowled, turning the sheet back and forth as if he wasn’t sure which way faced north.
“This symbol here.” He strode toward Rhys and tapped the page. “Where did you come to learn the sigil of such a powerful incantation?”
Uh-h-h…come again? Rhys raised his hands as if Fandorn had just cocked the barrel of a shotgun instead of asking a simple question. “Sorry. I think you got me confused with someone else.” Drawing sigils and casting spells was more Leo’s ballgame.
Holding his breath against the overall stank floating off the old guy, Rhys leaned in and smiled over how Fandorn pointed at his signature. Okay, good. No harm done. “That’s my signature. It’s just this stupid habit I have. I sign every piece.”
Fandorn blinked. His arm dropped like a dead weight, the map fluttering against the side of his robes. “Helios wept, my boy. Have you not a clue what you are? Your mark invokes a ward of the utmost protection.”
Rhys snapped his gaze to Faedrah. His hands fisted and he ground his back molars at the certainty in her eyes. Shit. If he’d learned anything in his time with her, snubbing his nose at things he would’ve generally considered impossible was a mistake of epic stupidity. These were her people. This was her domain. And if she trusted this Fandorn guy to lay down the truth, well then, so did he.
Expelling a frustrated breath, he raked both hands through his hair and laced his fingers across the back of his neck. What was he? Christ, fuck if he knew. He’d always defined himself as an artist but, admittedly, ever since Faedrah had walked into his life, that description had fogged a little around the edges.
He reviewed the events the past forty-eight hours—all the shit that had happened since he met her mom and dad—and his chin dropped to his chest as the undeniable slammed home.
Well, son of a bitch.
A cynical chuckle blurted from his lips. That god damned mother fucker. He rolled his head back and his bark of laughter shot toward the ceiling. That lowlife piece of shit. Faedrah had hit the nail on the head when they were at Violet’s, right after he’d knocked Todd on his ass with the blast of energy that had shot from his hands.
Even thou
gh Gaelleod hadn’t gained the chance to possess his body, Rhys had still inherited a portion of his genetics. Of course. Why wouldn’t he? It wasn’t until after the possession ritual took place, the McEleod women got pregnant. No doubt, a critical piece in Gaelleod making damn sure he held a physical connection to each new-born son.
Which meant somewhere, buried deep inside him, Gaelleod’s DNA lurked like a dormant virus. Not only had Rhys honed in on it the day he’d designed his signature, the cellular glitch also explained the constant prickling in his hands and the way he’d been able to blow out the windows in Leo’s study.
Jesus Christ. If that were true, maybe the latent Gaelleod gene he carried also explained why he stood here vibrating like an exposed wire plugged into a thousand watt amp. As much as this was Faedrah’s world, it was also Gaelleod’s. A time before his power had been diluted by passing his traits from one generation to the next. When his strength had been at an all-time high and he’d initiated a war that had nearly taken down two kingdoms.
Well, fuck a duck. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Seems Fandorn wasn’t the only one to have his picture framed in the wizard hall of fame.
“The runes etched along your arms.”
Rhys’ eyes slid to the right as Fandorn turned to face him, squinting at the identical tattoos he’d gotten years ago after he’d lost a bet with Nate. “Their language is familiar to me.” Lowering his chin, the wizard pinned Rhys with a stare that said the jig was up. “Are you privy to their meaning or is this also something of which you are unaware?”
God dammit. Rhys dropped his arms, a growl of aggravation grating the back of his throat. This was a test. One he was about to fail. But how the hell was he supposed to deny something so obvious? “Of course I know what veneficus means. I purposely had them done in Latin so no one else would know, as a joke, to piss off my friend because he said when it came to painting Faedrah’s picture I was a fucking…” he gritted his teeth against the word, seeking her beauty in the long line of faces, “wizard.”
Understanding softened the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t look away. Even as the uncomfortable shuffling started behind her, several of her family members trading whispers that no doubt make him out to be the reincarnation of Genghis Khan, she kept her focus solely on him.
“So the princess misled us in her assessment.” Fandorn passed in front of him, tapping a bony finger against his lips. He spun and pointed that same finger in the air. “You are not a seer, but a wizard.”
Oh, fuck no. This crafty old geezer may have pieced the facts together like Sherlock Holmes, but no way in hell was he about to make Faedrah his scapegoat.
“None of this is her fault.” Sure, she’d lied, but she’d done it to protect him. To stop this trial by jury from happening so their relationship would stand a chance in hell of surviving. “And if you plan on seeing tomorrow in the same shape as today, I suggest you leave her out of it.”
The prickling in his fingers intensified. Tingles sputtered and sizzled up the insides of his arms. He hunched his shoulders, wrestling the fucked up blood in his veins, before he lost control and this god damned legacy his father had handed him fried his organs from the inside out.
“The princess’ testimony is but a minor aspect in these proceedings.” Fandorn flapped his hand in the air. “The truth is evidenced as much by the aura which overtook you during the creation of the map, as well as your own admittance.”
“What are you talking about?” Rhys squinted. Maybe he’d been wrong and the dude was off his rocker. “What aura?”
Fandorn smiled, opening his palm toward Rhys. “The one which consumes you even now.”
The king spread his arms, pushing his wife and daughter back several steps. At the same time, the bald-headed warrior, the sword-toting line-backer and a bunch of the guards stomped forward.
Rhys dropped his focus to his hands, fingers splayed, and lifted them in front of his face. Sparks zigged and zagged along the surface of his skin, crackling through a thin iridescent layer of what looked like stardust. A winking speck disappeared under his skin and he flipped his wrist, brows jacking toward his hairline as the spark re-emerged through the center of his palm.
Or, better yet, like he’d dunked his hands inside a nebula and brought some of it back with him from outer space.
“The goddesses do not allow one to simply pluck such abilities out of thin air. The magic contained within you is gifted through blood.” The reek surrounding the wizard set Rhys’ gag reflex on high alert as Fandorn pivoted and returned to his spot beside the king. He smacked the bottom of his wooden staff against the floor and it resonated around the room like the crack of a gavel. “What is your name, my boy? And, more importantly, what is the surname of your father?”
Son of a bitch. Rhys balled his hands in the air. Eyes glistening, Faedrah proudly boosted her chin, the love she held for him as bright and beautiful as the summer sun on her face.
Jesus Christ. Everything about her was what he wanted, needed… had wished for every god damn day for the past twenty years. Even now, after being caught in a lie, she stood here like a champ ready to defend him.
But, dammit. She’d never agreed to all this.
Neither of them could’ve imagined the second he landed in her world, the darkness he’d inherited would slam into his body and turn it into a foreign entity he couldn’t control.
Now that it had, maybe her dad was right to keep her away. Hell, if he knew what was good for his family, he’d keep them all away. Rhys being here put everyone she loved in danger. Jesus Christ, it put her in danger. Not that the realization should’ve come as a shocker.
From the very beginning, he’d known he wasn’t good enough for her. Too bad all it had taken was a trip through time to get that through his thick skull.
Possessed or not, in her world or his, he was still his father’s son, and no matter how far he ran there was no escaping the bullshit that wonderful relationship entailed.
He dropped his hands, surrendering to God, Fate… whatever supreme being ruled in this place. The only consolation was at least they were all in agreement. Every person in this room had Faedrah’s best interests at heart, and if locking him away or, shit, even stringing him up by the neck is what they believed would keep her safe, then he would happily take one for the team.
“My name is Rhys McEleod.” Funny how those four words epitomized everything he’d always hated. Now more than ever, everything he wanted to deny. “And, in your world, my father goes by the name of Wizard Gaelleod.”
Shouts mingled with gasps, echoing like a hailstorm against the ceiling. Armor clanged over heavy footsteps as a line of soldiers burst past the king.
The dark-haired quarterback was the first to reach him, leveling the point of his sword at Rhys’ chest. “Say the word, father, and I shall run the bastard through to the hilt of my sword.”
Yep. Rhys grunted. That sounded about right.
“No!” Faedrah smacked her dad’s arm, batting at his hands as he cinched her waist and held her a foot off the ground, her back bouncing off his chest. “Vaighn, lower your weapon. Rhys means us no harm.”
Vaighn, huh? Oh right, the older cousin. Like he had the first clue about what Faedrah did or didn’t need. “If memory serves, you’re the jackass who gave my girlfriend a set of short swords for her twelfth birthday.”
The end of Vaighn’s weapon scratched a line up to Rhys’ jugular, but he didn’t flinch. What for? Everyone had already cast him as the enemy, and a good chance existed they were right. Besides, he wasn’t about to play the victim. Running scared wouldn’t change a damn thing. In fact, that would probably only make things worse.
The dude got all up in Rhys’ grill, nostrils flared and hatred burning in his eyes. “What I fail to recognize is why my sister hesitated in removing your head from your shoulders.”
Maybe she should have. It would have saved her a boatload of pain.
“Fine.” Rhys tipped his h
ead to the side. “Do it. Just don’t miss.”
“No, Vaighn, stand down. I love him!”
“Your impudence will be your undoing.” Vaighn swung the sword high over his left shoulder, fisting the hilt like a baseball bat.
“Vaighn, stop!” Faedrah squirmed against her dad, slithered out from under his arm. Tripping over the end of her robe, she lurched and ran at them in a dead heat. “He’s my heart! Do not touch him!”
Sunlight glinted. A silver arc whizzed through the air. Faedrah shoved between them and Rhys swore a blue streak as she leapt into his arms. Fuck! No!
He spun her away and thrust a hand toward the incoming blade. Eyes squeezed tight, he braced for the pain. The hit would likely take off his arm, but at least it would deflect Vaighn’s aim.
A hollow vibration pulsed through his wrist, down the bones to settle in Rhys’ shoulder. He waited, counting three heartbeats, and… nothing. He blinked. Maybe he was in shock.
Turning his head, he held Faedrah tight to his chest. She didn’t need to see this. The amount of blood, the sight of a hacked off arm would be enough to make anyone sick.
He slowly lifted his eyes.
His hand was curled around the middle of the sword, the edge balanced between his thumb and forefinger like Vaighn had carefully placed it there instead of hauling ass with a life-threatening blow. Sparks sizzled and winked where the two connected, encasing Rhys’ hand and forearm, glinting down the weapon to the hilt of the blade.
Holy shit. Rhys tipped his head, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a huff of disbelief caught in this throat. Rock on, motherfucker.
The asshole had the balls to growl in frustration and try to jerk the blade out of Rhys’ grip.
He didn’t let go. “I’m only gonna tell you this once. You ever lose your shit like that again when Faedrah is around, and I promise to make it so you will never lift another sword so long as you live.”
