by Karey Brown
“Your laird fails to hide his contempt towards Emily. I wonder his reaction if he knew his precious Na’Dryn conspired with the Lumynari to kill me and Broc, her ultimate goal, to become Lady of Castle MacLarrin? What would he say if he were to find out that the babe in her womb was not his, nor the lover he caught her with, but the Lumynari warrior who used her to gain inside knowledge to my whereabouts?”
O’Shay lunged from the bed.
* * * * *
She was no more prepared to defend against Drakar and his evil than when she’d been a toddler of four. Emily. Her voice was Zaiyne’s, her visage, Aurelia. Dezenial grinned. But, her courage and sarcasm were all her own. Zaiyne. “Find me.” Her dying words. She’d known she’d live again. Neither knew where or when. He’d failed to realize King Breton’s daughter was his returned beloved. “I have found you this time, though not knowingly, not at first.”
Screaming her entry into the world, none had been able to silence her bloodcurdling wails. Refusing to withstand the assault to his hearing one minute longer, he’d snatched the newborn from her father’s arms. Shocking to the few allowed to be present, little Emily silenced, nuzzled her tiny face against him, her body shuddering before turning those amber eyes up at him. Infants, he had passing knowledge of, lacked ability to focus in their first few days.
Emily scowled up at him as if appalled he’d taken his sweet time plucking her from her father. It was that precise moment he claimed her. She sighed deeply, resumed nuzzling her face against his chest, and slept. Her father, in his usual arrogant fashion, nodded. “As it should be,” was all he’d said before tending his dying mate.
Regrettably, their world was no place for an Im’pyur. Emily would be sacrificed, too young to defend herself. His own enemies, forever devising plots to bring him down, would pounce at the prospect of causing him anguish by kidnapping her, annihilating her mind . . . perhaps even one day encouraging her to lead a death squad against him. The irony would be laughed at for centuries. No. Better the land dwellers beyond the forest rim raise her until he could claim her as mate. Then, he would mentor her in the ways of weaponry, magicks, and teach her abilities far exceeding what Lumynari’s knew. Even then, Dezenial had known, should the spirit of his beloved return, he’d resigned himself to never again allow her into his world where she would be sacrificed because of who he was.
Placing the child with land dwellers, those who basked in the sun, had all-too-soon failed to offer Emily the sanctuary he had sought for her. Rumors had begun to plague until his personal guards brought confirmation that shook him to his core: the child summoned flame from her hands, moved objects with her mind . . . and spoke in a language none could decipher. The Daemon guard he’d sent repeated the child’s words to his master, having committed them to memory.
Quemorian.
Zaiyne-Aurelia had returned. No wonder she’d ceased wailing when he’d held her. Souls intertwined. Hers had recognized his in an instant, even as a newborn.
And Drakar’s armies were not even minutes away from attack. Regrettably, Dezenial had been left no other recourse but to reveal his true self in order to reach little Emily in time.
Pendaran had arrived as well. Dezenial sighed deeply, memories of that long ago day still troubling him. And now, Emily’s life was in danger, again.
And all he could concentrate on were her lush curves, tawny silky skin, and a mouth he didn’t know whether to shred or kiss into obedience.
* * * * *
Foreboding. Emily swept heavy blankets from her barely clad body and rose. Her head lurched. She remained sitting for long moments, her feet dangling over the side of the high bed. At long last, the room righted. Clothing. Hot bath the previous night, drying in front of a crackling fire Broc had been kind enough to keep burning high until her thick tresses dried, it was still a far cry from a true outing. Not to mention her need for solitude from so many hovering, terrified she was on the verge of cracking. I am not porcelain. I’m from Texas! If they knew what a markswoman I am with a .45 semiautomatic, their plaids would shred. My shooting can put their swordplay to shame. She chuckled. She loved her Forest Lords, their peculiarities, their mothering, but right now, she needed fresh air.
Peter.
Her heart seized. She pushed the memory away, but it gave way to Dezenial. Laugh, or cry? He was so beautiful, deadly, strong, safe. And had walked out of her life. Emily donned the sweater borrowed from Aedan, jeans purchased by Allen and boots fashioned especially for her from Aunsgar. More than ready for an outing, and to clear her mind, she didn’t care if a blizzard was blowing. Glancing herself in the antique vanity, she was still amazed no visible marks remained from Peter’s attack. She highly suspected it had something to do with those teas Urkani hounded her to drink several times per day, the commander hovering with arms folded until she finished. Once, during a rather heated battle with Allen about Britain governing Scotland, Urkani had continuously interrupted, reminding her to drink. “What’s in this tea, Elf?”
“None of the poisons your noxious coffee possesses.”
Emily counted how many hours it had been since Urkani’s last visit to her chambers and realized she’d better hustle if she was to avoid him. He’d stop her from vacating her birdcage. Striding past a large hanging tapestry covering an entire wall, she paused. There had been a flutter. Well, certainly proved castles were drafty. Still . . . she peered in gloomy corners, the room full of shadow, now that the hearth had died down to embers. Was her guardian here, even now, camouflaged in shadow? Emily paused, closed her eyes and simply felt the room. No. The aura was all wrong. The room was merely cast in shadow due to lack of light. Nothing more. Another ripple passed across the pond of ornate needlework. Where most tapestries throughout Broc’s castle depicted medieval scenes, this was woven threads of rich male colors of black, gold, burgundy, and contrasted with silvery blue.
Flutter.
Emily took a step back. Ghosts? Like the one in her mind? No longer besieged with the rich timbre of Dezenial’s voice, she stifled back tightening of throat, fought against searing pain squeezing her heart and the smarting of her eyes. He’s gone. Left. Body and spirit. Vacated, just like the few others I dared allow in. He saved my life, and for that, I’ll be ever grateful. He took Peter. Galling. Left me, but took the pig.
Peter’s voice stampeded her memory, mocking cold laughter—Emily turned away, throwing up an arm before realizing it was only her imagination swinging his fist towards her face. She frowned at the full length mirror, slowly lowering her meager defense. Fog swirled within the glass. Shackles pinned Peter’s arms high above his head in a darkened room made of what looked like granite. His back was shredded. Lumynari abruptly blocked her view, his words making Peter’s image cloud. Shadow warrior swung around, and glared.
“You!”
“You’ve no business here, Keer’dra. Away!” His hand flung out leaving her to stare at her shocked reflection. Eyes pricked. Heart rate accelerated. What the hell did I just see? More to the point, how did I see that? Aunsgar. He’ll know.
This time, fluttering tapestry snapped. So did Emily’s attention. Broc’s chambers. Dark woods, darker corners no matter the scattered candles. Only clue daylight existed was Urkani accompanying her breakfast tray hours earlier.
“My . . . lady.” Barely heard, a male voice beckoned. Emily whirled around, attention encompassing as much as she could all at once, trying damn hard to see who whispered. Tapestry. Something about . . . I’ve lost my mind. I possess absolutely no sense whatsoever. She took a cautious step closer. I’m now the idiot in a B-movie. Facing the intricate design created by nothing more than colorful threads, Emily half expected it to suddenly lung and fold around her, suffocating . . . waaaay toooo many late night horror flicks. In another life. Far, far away from here. Deep inhale. Possibly, her last. Okay, now I’m just being melodramatic.
Emily violently swept aside the tapestry. No ghouls. No goblins. No orcs, ghosts, headless horsemen, and defin
itely no Michael, Freddy, or Jason. Kinda takes the fun out. Her humor was short-lived. Well, now what? Definitely a small door. Not even discreetly hidden. No sconce to pull down. No loose stones to push. Tapping her bottom lip, she opted to try the iron handle. “Pfff, I’m an idiot,” she admonished, the thick little door opening with well-oiled ease and a soft whoosh of air. Emily stooped and stepped through.
And was dumbfounded.
Before her, there yawned cathedral high beams arched over a catacomb of corridors and alcoves, all of which continued until darkness engulf wherever it was they ended. “Oh, I’ve sooo outdone Alice. Forget falling down a rabbit hole, bloody Twilight Zone beckons!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Torches were docked in sconces at each alcove’s entrance. As she neared, they would light up with blue smokeless flame. Pandora must be a distant relation because, I’m so opening this box and exploring! Besides, she’d stupidly pulled the door shut and couldn’t for the life of her find how to open the darn thing. Seems some brainiac had the genius idea to neglect putting a handle on this side of the door. Bummer. Emily was compelled to take the alcove immediately on her left, though she stared for several long moments at the row of others; however, this one seemed to call to her. Heart thudding enough to excite a rapper, she freed a torch and began the wide spiraling descent of flagstones stairs. And remembered to watch for the certain steps intentionally a bit higher than the others. Once upon a time, Aedan had explained, uneven steps were used to trip their enemy. Yeah, what enemy knew about these secret passageways?
Her body morphed a shadow upon the curved wall. She bent over a bit and held out her arm, her free hand curved like a claw. Her shadow looked like a witch about to offer an apple. Her chuckling echoed. Enough playing. She hurried along, though steepness increased until she was nearly jumping down to the next step. Was this the way to Broc’s promised dungeons? A medieval escape route? Then again, maybe nothing more than what Broc had told her. After centuries of various battles and watching entire tribes be vanquished, merely for being a different philosophy than their conquerors, his two desires had been to retreat from history, and build onto his castle, turning it into a massive fortress, cloaked with the illusion of splendor. He and his men had spent hundreds of years building, enlisting the help of able bodies from various villages, as well as the village on the modern side of the door. Their position as gatekeepers had been carried on through generations. Back in the day, Broc had protected them from marauders, and later, Highland Clearances. Now, they protected him from moderns. Broc also provided a large scale of employment to a village that would otherwise have gone bankrupt, tourism only reaching this far during summer months, winter months snowed in and closed off from civilization. It was during the summers that the village stood guard over various entrances into Broc’s realm. These past several summers had seen an influx of backpackers, hikers, as well as ‘dodgy blokes who think ta’ take advantage of Highland hospitality,’ Broc had warned. Thus far, none had accidentally found their way into Broc’s realm, but they were on high alert during the summers, forever fearing such an event was merely on the horizon. “What will you do?” she’d asked. “Should someone find their way here?”
“Pike their head, burn their body, go through their pack, see if there’s anything worth keepin’. A Cadbury would be nice, but no’ the kind wi’ raisins.” Reignsfeugh had guffawed over her expression, reaching over to close her mouth. Bastards. The memory caused a slight laugh to escape her, bouncing off the cold stone walls. She still plotted on how to get even. Chill air swept over her. The deeper she traveled the colder it became. Just how far had she gone? Almost, she missed a dark wood door. Okay, I’ve reached the end. Gah, nearly walked into the damn thing. Raising the torch higher, she located an iron ringed door handle, but unlike Broc’s door, this was crisscrossed with bands of rusted iron. She turned and looked back the way she came, then above. Under the great hall? Maybe. Deep down, but who knew how many floors were under the great hall before reaching dungeon level. She hadn’t really had a chance to run off and explore. Aedan had told her there were Roman baths somewhere in the lower levels, but she’d thought him to be exaggerating. Finding all these tunnels, now she wasn’t so sure. Furthering her intrigue was the fact that the tunnels seemed to be free of dirt, cobwebs, bugs, spiders—she grimaced over this last realization. It should be musty down here. Filthy. Forgotten. Uh huh. These were still in high use. A quicker way to travel throughout the vast compound? She returned her scrutiny to the mystery door. Pushing down slowly, praying no alarm would sound, she pulled. And pushed. It budged. She teased it a bit more, pushing harder. Cold air rushed in. Outside! She peered out the bit of opening she’d created, assuming snowdrifts barricaded the door from opening more. Brambles? No snow. Weird. Just overgrown foliage. Winter dead. Emily pushed the door harder, using her hand and her foot to push aside overgrowth barring her, but the torch in her hand was too cumbersome. Stepping back, she searched for a sconce. Several protruded, and clutched their own torches. Broc seemed to be on the up and up when it came to stocking his secret passageways. She’d have to educate him on the merits of creepy ambiance. Maybe they could have Halloween down here? That’s how she could get her payback—scare the holy shit out of the Forest Lords. She’d dress up as Predator. Maybe get one of the guys to dress up as Alien. ‘Course, as short as I am, my attempt to look like Predator will come across more as a gremlin. A huge grin lit her face, imagined male screams filling her head.
Emily went to work clearing the doorway as best she could. Needing no more than a space large enough for her to slip through, she tugged at dried ropes of vine. “Too bad I can’t just wave my hand and have all this slither back and allow me passage.”
Déjà vu submerged her sense of balance, her mind taking a sharp curve like a forced U-turn. Oak door doubled as her makeshift kickstand, vertigo tilting the small round room. Blue flames stretched. In her mind’s eye, she could see her hand waving over thistle, really more a clump of snow on a stem. A very tall stem. Pushing through the dizziness, weird hallucinations replayed during her self-appointed task. Several breathers later, the little strength she’d regained during her convalescence now waned. Her head threatened to swim to a new shore. But it was worth it.
Emily stepped through the a makeshift hole she’d cleared . . . into a life-size snow globe.
Overhead, a canopy of ice, snow and waffle weaved vines camouflaged her and the garden from view. Nothing bloomed in this cold winter, yet nothing was truly dead either. Time stood still here. Had Broc forgotten about this place? A peaceful wonderland of icicles, untouched snow creating a wall of sorts around its perimeter, and rows upon rows of roses waiting for summer sun. They were as tall as she. Well, not that I’m all that tall. Still . . . who would allow such a beautiful place to become this overgrown? A stone bench, algae green and gray, had been strategically placed to enjoy shade from the massive oak, currently balding from the cold. A short gate, rod iron, hung partially open, its hinge having rusted loose. It offered a walk through more overgrown vegetation. A machete would be needed to hack through that madness. Emily peered, but that’s about all she could do.
The rose garden, though in its winter camouflage, pulled her. Again, she looked above, wondering how the snow didn’t come piling down. A hothouse of sorts? For the life of her, she couldn’t see glass or plastic. Plus, if that had been the case, there wouldn’t be areas of snow in here, and it would be warmer, right? A shrug. She strolled the length of the frozen dirt path, avoided the ice patches, and marveled how the canopy overhead created a snow dome.
A magical sanctuary.
When these flowers were in full bloom, it had to be an amazing sight to behold. Not to mention the heavy scent of all these roses. She reached for a dried bloom.
And snatched her hand back.
Visions assailed. In her mind’s eye, her hand swirled over snow-covered blooms. But those were shorter, no higher than her knees. Emily walked around until she
found a plant of the same height. She didn’t care how ridiculous it felt, she imitated her vision. As the flat of her palm swirled air over the withered flower, words filled her head. Like before. Emily yelped. Memory of her hands glowing. Echoing chants in Broc’s hall. Her hands pressed hard against Aedan’s wound. Emily studied her palms, flipped her hands over, noticed a torn cuticle, and flipped her hands over again and again. “What the hell?”
Unintelligible words returned. Hesitantly, she repeated the swirling, palm down. And imitated, out loud, as best she could, the garbled nonsense she heard in her mind.
Emily’s sharp inhale would have made Forest Lords grab their swords.
Dead bloom erupted into a small blaze. Crackling blue fire sizzled down the length of its stem where it snuffed into a tiny plume of smoke. She toed the area where the stem had been rooted. With words, she’d caused a plant to catch fire. Impossible. Blue fire. Freaky.
Gotta do that again!
Three more stems blazed before Emily convinced herself, and her nostrils, that she possessed strange power. She waved the air in front of her, relocating where the stench of burnt plants wasn’t as prominent. She flung her hand towards the door. It didn’t budge. Yeah, that would have been a bit much. I’d have thrown my head back and howled until someone arrived to take me away. Well, this was fun. Enlightening. About four-hundred more alcoves to investigate.
“Milady.”
Emily shrieked, choked down fright, grasping her throat. A quick scan. She remained alone. “Shit-hell-damn, Allen, if this is you, I’m gonna make Garreck chain—“
Several stems vibrated. Earthquake? Scotland had earthquakes?
“Milady, I am here. Buried.”
Commonsense screamed run! Curiosity shackled her. Braving a few steps closer, the roses stilled. Emily did likewise. “Okay, now what?” Someone played jokes. Somewhere, Forest Lords covered their mouths, and laughed conspiratorially. At her expense. Oh yeah, this gig is up.
