Captive

by A. D. Robertson

  With a nod, Bosque turned to gaze upon the flames in the fireplace. “You speak the truth. At times I fear I’ve given too much to my children of Earth, let them grow idle with power so they enjoy the ripe fruits of the harvest but remember not the labor of the sowing.”

  “Is that how you think of us,” Tristan asked, “as children?” So you don’t mind feeding your children to the wolves?

  “At times,” Bosque replied. He looked directly at Tristan. The silver of Bosque’s eyes made Tristan force back a shudder.

  “Do you feel like a child?” Bosque asked.

  Sensing he was not unlike a fly caught on a spider’s web, Tristan said carefully, “You mean on this island?”

  “It was an open question.”

  Hardly, Tristan thought, but he said, “At times it feels overly confining. But I am ever the servant of your will.”

  The answer seemed to please Bosque. He left the fireside and settled into a high-backed chair.

  “Frederic acted a child,” Bosque told Tristan. “Petulant and spoiled. And he had no grasp of the consequences such behavior might lead to. I wish I could spare you better friends, Keepers more equal to your station, but the most worthy among them are needed elsewhere. Even so, I’m sorry to take one of those I could offer as a companion away from you.”

  “I understand,” Tristan replied stiffly.

  Bosque shook his head. “Don’t misunderstand me. You aren’t sequestered on this isle because you lack maturity. You’re not cut from the same cloth as Frederic or his ilk.”

  Bolstered by Bosque’s praise, Tristan said, “Then let me join the others—the ones you speak of as worthy. Surely I could serve a greater purpose in the world than remaining here. Alone.”

  “No.” Bosque breathed the hint of a sigh. “With Lumine and Efron serving near Haldis, we can’t risk exposing you. You’re safest in this keep. Out of the fray. The bloodline must be protected.”

  I’m fucking Rapunzel. Tristan knocked back his scotch. At least the drinks are good here.

  “I don’t want you to be unhappy here, Tristan.” Bosque appraised Tristan for a moment, then said, “I thought perhaps Lana would be a welcome distraction. But she’s suggested that you’re already bored with her.”

  “Lana isn’t the issue.” Tristan poured himself another whisky. “And I understand why I’m here. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern, but the island, the castle . . . it can be a bit limiting.”

  “Of course,” Bosque replied. “And I sympathize. You’re a young man and I’m certain you feel compelled to be out in the world—what’s the saying? Sowing your wild oats.”

  Tristan couldn’t stop himself from cringing at Bosque’s choice of phrase.

  With a placid smile, Bosque continued. “But you are exceptional, and because of that you must make certain personal sacrifices for the good of your people.”

  My people. Tristan sipped his scotch. Are the Keepers really my people? Besides Frederic, who comes to visit me? Who even knows where I am?

  And Tristan was convinced that Frederic had been, like Lana, there on Bosque’s orders. Frederic to offer fraternal companionship; Lana to bed him. Frederic’s motivation was obvious—having spent more than two hundred years on this Earth, he would soon face his own end. By swearing a blood oath to Bosque, Keepers accessed the dark power of the nether—the realm over which Bosque ruled—but while these magics offered Tristan and his kind preternaturally long lives, it didn’t make them immortal. No Keeper lasted past 350 years, and those who lived past 250 were the exceptional players in their violent game of life. Frederic, aristocrat and playboy, could hardly be called exceptional. This current, personal favor to Bosque had probably represented Frederic’s last-ditch effort to eke out another half-century. A poor wager, as it turned out.

  Weariness pressed down on Tristan’s shoulders. He no longer wanted to be having this conversation—he simply wanted it to be over.

  “I’m grateful for the comfort and security of this castle and the island,” Tristan said, trying to sound earnest. “Sometimes the isolation gets the better of me. But I understand why I’m here.”

  “Good.” Bosque’s assured smile gave Tristan the small relief of knowing that he wouldn’t be harried further on this issue.

  “Will you be staying long?” Tristan asked.

  “No,” Bosque answered. “I simply wished to look in on you and to know that you’re well. And of course, Frederic had to be dealt with.”

  “I’m well enough,” Tristan said quickly, as an afterthought adding, “and thank you for your concern.”

  “Of course,” Bosque replied. “I’ll return next month, but should you need anything, you know how to summon me.”

  Tristan couldn’t imagine any scenario in which he’d feel compelled to summon Bosque Mar. The man’s presence was nigh unbearable. And the summoning ritual . . . far too bloody for Tristan’s liking.

  “If you’ll pardon me,” Tristan said, “I’m weary from the day outdoors. I think I’ll retire.”

  Bosque nodded in reply, but when Tristan had almost reached the study door, he heard Bosque call, “Would you like me to send a replacement for Lana?”

  Tristan glanced over his shoulder.

  Bosque’s silver eyes were fixed on Tristan, gleaming with something Tristan thought could have been either contempt or amusement.

  “Or perhaps another companion or two,” Bosque continued. “To complement Lana’s . . . talents.”

  “Ah.” Tristan tugged on the collar of his shirt. “I think Lana’s talents are quite sufficient. And I don’t think she’d appreciate the suggestion that she needs assistants.”

  Bosque’s teeth flashed in the firelight when he laughed. “You’re a wise young man, Tristan.”

  Frederic’s screams had become gurgles, but he still wasn’t dead. The Guardians knew how to take their time in killing a man when their masters willed it so.

  Bosque turned his gaze back to the macabre scene, but said to Tristan, “I understand if you prefer to go.”

  Without hesitation Tristan turned away from the bloody mess that had once been a man, and walked out of the study.

  He found Seamus waiting for him in the hall.

  “Is he dead yet?”

  Tristan shook his head, continuing down the hallway. Seamus fell into step beside him.

  “You’re well rid of him,” Seamus growled.

  The wolf’s comment drew a rough, sickened laugh from Tristan. “I wasn’t particularly attached to Frederic, but I hardly wished such an end on him.”

  Seamus was the only Guardian—at least in Tristan’s imagining—that would dare criticize one Keeper to another. But Tristan and Seamus had a rare bond. Seamus was something of a lone wolf. The eldest of the island pack, he played the part of their leader, but the bonds that a wolf pack would normally share were absent. Tristan didn’t find that surprising, given that the wolves had been picked up from their home packs and shipped off to this remote assignment. He doubted they had any love lost for him, either—but Guardians were born and bred to be the Keepers’ loyal servants. And they knew better than to so much as raise an objection, much less directly refuse an order.

  Since the pack spent most of its time patrolling the island and the castle, ready to rip any trespasser to shreds, Tristan had little occasion to interact with them. Seamus, however, had become something of a steward and confidant to Tristan. Finding the wolf’s dry humor and gruff sensibilities welcome, Tristan had put Seamus in charge of the castle’s security.

  “You should ask Bosque to send someone else,” Seamus told Tristan. “There must be at least one Keeper who’d appreciate the wildness of this place.”

  “I don’t think you actually believe there is, old wolf,” Tristan answered. “I know you better than that.”

&n
bsp; Seamus grinned. “Just don’t want you to despair, my boy.”

  They stopped in front of the door to Tristan’s bedchamber.

  “I hope you rest well.” Seamus gave a short bow when Tristan reached for the doorknob.

  “And I suppose the night’s just beginning for you?” Tristan asked the wolf.

  “There’s a good moon in the sky,” Seamus said, nodding.

  Tristan managed a tired smile. “Then I hope you enjoy it to the fullest.”

  Entering his room, Tristan closed the door and leaned his head against the cool wood. His temples were beginning to throb and he wondered if another scotch at this point would relieve or amplify the pain.

  “There you are,” a husky female voice called from within the room. “I thought you’d abandoned me.”

  After briefly considering opening the door and walking out, Tristan turned and went to his bed.

  “Good evening, Ms. Flynn.”

  Lana had been draped across Tristan’s bed, but she crawled into a kneeling position. Her ink-dark curls fell loose over her pale shoulders. She was wearing a leather halter dress with a zipper running from its already-plunging neckline to its hem. The zipper was open to just above Lana’s navel, which allowed Tristan more than a glimpse of her generous breasts.

  The dress was one of Lana’s favorites, and Tristan knew it well. The garment’s halter style accommodated her black leathery wings, which were presently folded in mock docility. Tristan didn’t buy her submissive posturing for even a moment. Succubi were never meek.

  “Oh, dear.” Lana’s tongue wet her lower lip. Despite the fact that she wore no makeup, her lips were perpetually a deep shade of crimson, as if she’d lacquered them with fresh blood. “Whenever you get formal it means you’re cross with me.”

  She slid her arm beneath one of the pillows and withdrew a riding crop. His riding crop. “Shall I be punished?”

  “Please don’t take my things,” Tristan said. He was cross with her, and it was making him feel and sound much older and stodgier than his twenty-five years merited, which made him even more annoyed. “You have plenty of your own toys.”

  “I thought you’d like the feel of your own crop.” Lana ran her hands up and down its length. “You certainly never use it on that beast of yours.”

  “Ares needs a firm hand, not a cruel one.” Tristan replied, taking the crop from her.

  “That’s all well and good.” Lana turned her back on him and lowered herself to all fours. The dress was short enough to offer Tristan a fine view of her ass. Unsurprisingly, Lana hadn’t bothered to wear panties.

  “Not tonight,” Tristan said, biting back a curse. Sending Lana away would probably mean further complaints from the succubus to Bosque, but Tristan had no desire for her company. He’d just witnessed Frederic’s transformation from man to hunks of meat. Hardly an aphrodisiac.

  Running her fingers up the front of her dress, Lana slowly unzipped the garment. Her breasts spilled out, revealing areolas and nipples almost as dark as the leather of her dress—a shocking contrast to her ghost-white skin.

  Lana pushed the dress off and lounged back on the bed. Teasing her nipples into such hardness that they almost appeared sharp, Lana dropped her head back and moaned with pleasure.

  Tristan’s jaw clenched. His cock hardened with an urgency that he found difficult to ignore. As he watched, Lana spread her thighs and moved her hand from her breast to the folds of her sex. She stroked herself and in the firelight Tristan could see glistening wetness as she readied herself for him.

  Tristan started toward the bed, but Lana gave a sudden cry of pleasure and Tristan heard the echoes of Frederic’s screams in the sound.

  “Get dressed, Lana.” Tristan ignored the stiffness of his cock and the ache in his balls. He was certain it would please Bosque to no end if Tristan let Frederic’s torment meld into the pleasure of sex with Lana. But Tristan never wanted to become what so many Keepers were.

  Lana sat up, pouting. “But won’t you be cold?”

  “If I’m cold, I’ll send for more blankets,” Tristan answered drily. “Now get out.”

  He wasn’t in the mood for banter with the succubus. She smiled and licked her lips. Tristan almost groaned, but from frustration rather than desire, knowing that his irritation was giving Lana much more pleasure than his body ever could.

  “You aren’t supposed to feed on me,” Tristan reminded her. “Get out. Or I’ll be the one reporting to Bosque about your behavior.”

  The flicker of wariness in her dark eyes gave Tristan a little satisfaction. He turned his back on Lana and climbed into bed.

  “And turn out the light when you go.”

  Tristan stared up at the frescoed ceiling of his bedroom. Even in the darkness he could make out the grotesque shapes of so many creatures familiar from myth and nightmare. To anyone else the looming beasts might have been a foil for sleep, but not for Tristan. The monsters were for others to fear, but for him to command. They lived alongside him: his protectors, his companions, his concubines. It had always been that way.

  So much power lay in his grasp, Tristan thought as he closed his eyes, willing sleep. Why then did he feel like the captive of his own fate?

  4

  DESPITE SARAH’S ASSURANCES that it was unnecessary, Anika had insisted on accompanying her to Haldis Tactical and seeing her off.

  Micah was waiting for them with Jeremy, who would be weaving Sarah a portal. When the two women entered the room, Micah gave Jeremy a brief nod. Jeremy avoided meeting Sarah’s gaze, instead immediately drawing his pair of long, silver skeins through the air. Threads of light spooled out, forming an intricate pattern as the Weaver dipped and swirled in the complicated dance that created a doorway from one point on the Earth to another.

  Sarah watched Jeremy’s dance, utterly enrapt by his graceful movements. She’d seen it done many times before, but its extraordinary beauty never failed to amaze her.

  “Careful,” Anika whispered. “You might start drooling.”

  Sarah shot her friend a cold glance. Of course Anika would assume that she was staring at the lithe body of the young man doing the weaving rather than the powerful act of magic they were witnessing. Anika kept smirking, but Sarah lifted her chin and continued to watch Jeremy weave, refusing to give Anika any pleasure by blushing or cringing, and ignoring the annoying little whisper inside her head that insisted Anika’s assumption was completely accurate.

  Soon Jeremy was panting and beads of sweat had formed on his temples, then his movements slowed and then halted altogether. The gleaming chaos of color and light suddenly revealed a clear image. A rocky shoreline and a storm-ridden sea.

  “Ireland is nine hours ahead of the Roving Academy’s current location,” Micah told Sarah. “Our civilian contact, Ian, will be waiting for you on the other side of the portal. If all goes well, you’ll be back here for a debriefing in forty-eight hours.”

  Sarah nodded, zipping up her leather jacket so the harness that held her silver throwing daggers would be hidden from view.

  “I’m afraid the first-class cabin checked in full, darlin’,” Jeremy said as she approached the portal. “You’ll have to fly coach.”

  Jeremy flashed a teasing smile, but he couldn’t hide the hurt feelings that just reached his eyes. Anika gave Sarah a sharp elbow in the ribs, which Sarah ignored. She did give Jeremy a second look, though, and had to admit he was rather drool-worthy. Sarah hadn’t confessed to her friend what had happened with Jeremy. She still felt too embarrassed and guilty about it.

  Sarah wondered briefly how Anika would have reacted, but it was too late for that. She probably would have told Sarah she should have just fucked him anyway, and that wasn’t something Sarah needed to hear at the moment.

  Sarah’s thought carried a bit of chagrin but didn’t make her ove
rly morose. High risk came with their work; Strikers lived fast and hard. If she had truly wanted to sleep with Jeremy before this mission, she could have.

  And she had no time for lingering regrets now.

  She took another step forward, but Anika grasped her arm. Sarah was afraid to meet her friend’s gaze, but Anika simply gave her a tight smile and said, “Good luck.”

  Sarah did her best to return Anika’s smile. Not wanting this departure to last any longer, Sarah turned back to the portal and stepped into its light.

  “It’s about time!”

  Sarah found herself face-to-face with a dark-haired, heavy-bearded man. She could barely hear him over the howling wind. At her back, the portal closed, its light vanishing like a candle flame snuffed out. The sudden darkness seemed to make the wind’s screams louder and the night air much colder.

  The man pointed to a small, boxy car parked on the side of the narrow lane. “Let’s get going.”

  Somewhat bewildered, Sarah followed the man to the car and climbed into the passenger seat. When the doors were closed and the wind muffled, Sarah asked, “You’re Ian?”

  “And you’re Sarah,” Ian replied as the car’s engine rumbled to life. “And you’re late. Do your folk always dawdle when it comes to magical transport? Don’t you think it’s a bit off to just leave a door bright as the sun sitting open for five minutes? What if someone had come along?”

  “That’s why we only open portals in remote or well-hidden locations,” Sarah answered defensively.

  “Hmpf.” Ian gunned the engine and then they were hurtling down the country road at an alarming speed.

  Sarah first wondered when the road had last been paved, then whether it had been paved at all. She also wondered if Ian’s car had any shocks.

  “The fisherman who’s agreed to take you across the channel won’t be happy if we’re late,” Ian said. “And we certainly won’t find another volunteer. It was hard enough to get this one to agree, and I’m sure what we’re paying is more money than he’d see in a year.”