by Ann Lawrence
Vad hated the confusion he felt, the words he did not understand, the lack of familiar objects and places to rest his eyes. He rubbed his temples. His head pounded, as it had when he’d first awakened in this strange, colorless place.
“Vad.” Gwen touched his shoulder and held out a plate. “Why don’t you eat something? Then you can go if you want. We won’t stop you.”
The plate she offered him held the unappetizing flat bread cut into a triangle. Its scent was pungent and familiar. For a moment he was a child again, sitting on a bright blue chair, eating���then the image slipped away. He accepted the plate and turned it around and around in his hands.
“I suppose there’s no pizza in Tolemac.”
He shook his head and regretted the action; pain jolted behind his eyes.
“Go like this,” she said with a whisper of a laugh. The sound ran up and down his spine like warm fingers. The image did nothing for his resolve to ignore her. She bit the point from a piece of bread. He stared at her mouth. It was a mouth made for pleasure.
He followed her lead, biting carefully into the bread. His mouth flooded with flavor: strong, spicy—cheese, bread, tastes he didn’t recognize. The childhood image returned, sharper, bolder this time. He could smell a sharp, metallic odor and the tang of the circles of strange meat on his bread.
“It would be nice if you could come to my ball,” Gwen said.
Her words ended his musings as effectively as an ax chopping off a tree limb.
“What is a ball?” His plate was empty. Somehow the bread had disappeared, though he couldn’t remember eating all of it.
“Oh…hmmm…a ball’s a festival of sorts, similar to what you’d have after the harvest in Tolemac.” She smiled warmly, but he was not going to be distracted by frivolous activities.
“I have more need to go to the war conference in Atlantic City.”
She trilled a laugh. The snake man shook his head and scooped up a piece of the bread, eating it from his hand.
“Well, Vad,” she said, “you might as well wait right here. I think everyone who was at the conference will be at my ball tonight.”
Waiting was not something he did well, but could he risk missing an opportunity to complete his quest? “I will attend your festivities.”
Gwen thrust another piece of bread onto his plate. “Great! Now eat up, and then you can shave.”
The smile she gave him could melt the ice through which he had traveled. Such an alluring manner, calculated to distract a man from his goals, must be useful in a slave.
“I will not shave,” he said around a piece of the tantalizing bread.
“If you don’t get that cut cleaned up, it’ll scar,” said the snake man. “It looks bad.”
Vad did not want to give up even one whisker of his disheveled beard. Women would surely recoil from a man who looked as he did now. “No. I will not shave.” He placed his plate on the table, crossed his arms, and spread his legs.
“Neil’s right, though; your cut needs tending. You can’t do much with it unless you shave around it. You don’t want it to become infected, do you?”
“Infected?” Another word he did not know.
“Sure.” Gwen nodded. “You know, rot, grow disgusting and putrid. Like worms eating your flesh.”
Vad glanced from Gwen to the snake man, who rolled his eyes. She knew of the flesh-eating worms. He had battled them only once, an experience he did not wish to repeat. “I will perhaps shave around the cut.”
“I’ll help you,” she said with a look that boded ill for his composure.
“Gwen—” the snake man started.
“Neil? Could you go over to the Music Pier and see if the food’s arrived?”
The man went to the door, a huge grin on his face. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
Vad did not understand the man’s amusement, nor the small woman’s ability to command his swift obedience.
When the door had closed behind the snake man, she went to the bathing chamber door. “Be careful where you put that coat this time,” she called to him.
A repeat of her stormy emotions over the table would drain the last of his energy, so he draped his cloak carefully on the back of a chair. He scooped up the stone he’d left on the table and took it to her in the bathing chamber.
“This is for you, for your trouble.” He held it out. The stone—its color—was sacred. If the stones meant little here beyond the ice fields, he truly had nothing but his wits on which to depend.
She took the stone with the tips of her fingers, as if reluctant to touch him. “It’s beautiful. The color is gorgeous.” Her warm brown eyes looked up at him. How small she seemed.
“I had such a stone, decorated with silver, as a talisman, but in my journey here, I seem to have lost it.” The loss of the stone boded ill for his mission. It had served as a reminder that the person he sought was real. But with its loss went some of his conviction that he would succeed. He was not used to feeling unsure.
“It’s almost the color of your eyes. Not quite as…lush a color, but almost.”
Her skin flushed red, and he knew she regretted making the personal remark. All of the inhabitants of this strange place must have changeable skin, perhaps to compensate for the lack of color in their world. The woman who had given him the pendant—the woman who had journeyed beyond the ice fields and beguiled his friend into leaving Tolemac and all he’d held most sacred—had had such skin. This warrior would not be so easily beguiled.
He shrugged. “It will perhaps pay for any damage I have done to your bathing chamber.”
With a slow, sensuous motion, she rubbed her thumb back and forth over the stone. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”
Her words pleased him. She understood its value.
“The philosophers say the stone’s color will intensify through time from contact with the skin.” Her color deepened to a darker rose. “It is also said that one may know the health of the stone’s holder by how rich the color is.”
“I guess you must be very healthy, then.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Your dagger handle is so beautiful. I assumed it was just from being handled for many years.”
He touched the knife’s hilt self-consciously, but tipped his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.
She put the stone into an opening in her men’s breeches. They were tight. His body heated as he watched her hand slide down her hip and tuck the stone away.
“Come on.” She led the way to a small white seat. It was hard and uncomfortably low for his long legs. He put his hand into his boot.
“I borrowed this small knife.”
“What were you expecting? Killer grapefruit?” She took the knife and hefted it in her palm. “Why don’t you keep it? It’s not worth what the stone is by any means.”
“What has this knife to do with grapes?”
Unexpectedly, she placed her fingers under his chin. A soothing warmth spread from the contact. With a gentle pressure, she urged his chin up. He could not avoid her intense gaze. Her smile continued to hold a hint of amusement.
“The knife is for a special fruit. It has tiny sections and the knife’s curved tip helps to cut each… Now, look, I don’t think I really need to explain it to you.”
If she was going to refuse to explain, then he must accept it. A warrior did not need the condescension of a mere woman.
He slid the knife back into his boot. When he looked up, her chest was dangerously close to his face. So was a small pink object she held. “Now, let’s deal with your cut.” Her tone brooked no disobedience.
Gwen sat abruptly down on the edge of the bathtub. What had she done? What had she unleashed on the unsuspecting female world? She licked her lips. He’d dozed off for only a moment when the devilish thought had burst into her head, and before she’d been able to stop herself, she’d acted on it. Now Vad was glaring at himself in the mirror, looking ready to strangle someone—her.
&
nbsp; He swung around, fists on hips. She clutched the edge of the tub. Oh, Lord, he was even more devastating in person than on his poster. The artist had not captured something…intangible, slightly dangerous about him.
“Stop staring at me,” he said between tightly clenched teeth.
“Huh?” she said. The room was suddenly way too small and way too hot.
“Not you, too.”
Gwen’s back stiffened at his haughty tone. It matched the haughty face she saw every morning on the poster in the shop. “I beg your pardon? What does that mean? Not me, too?”
“I do not need—nor wish—your attention.”
“Well!” She shot off her seat and ducked under his arm, escaping to the clearer air of the living room. All her pictures rocked askew as he thumped after her. “If that isn’t the most conceited comment I’ve ever heard. I-I-I was just checking out your hair. It’s terrible.”
His hand went to his head. His haughty look vaporized to one of confusion. “My hair? What has my hair to do with the fact that my beard is gone?” His anger rumbled through the small apartment. “And I liked my beard!”
“It was a pretty scruffy beard, believe me. Here.” She pulled out a chair. “Sit down and let me fix your hair. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you really were crossing the ice fields—without a hat.”
She whipped a comb out of her purse and separated the dry, broken strands of hair at his brow from the rest of the shoulder-length mass. She tried to ignore the fact that he was frowning at the center of her chest again. Of course, the last time he’d stared at her chest, he’d fallen asleep—not much of a compliment.
“So what did you want in Atlantic City?” she asked to distract him, but when he looked up, her hands fumbled at her chore. His deep blue eyes were fringed with dark lashes—not gold, not brown, but a pewter color.
“I am seeking my friend Kered,” he said, interrupting her thoughts on eyelashes. He was silent for many moments, and she thought he was wrestling with some decision. Perhaps he was going to tell her he was from the modeling agency.
“Your friend Kered? Sure. I guess all you warriors are friends.” She swallowed a smile. “I know his wife—lifemate—Maggie. Did you know she’s going to have a baby?”
His smooth brow wrinkled in a frown. “Nay. I did not know.” The expression on his face was troubled. His blue eyes locked on hers. “He possesses a dagger I must retrieve and return to the council. I would not tell you this, except that I fear that without someone’s assistance, I would become lost searching for Kered.”
She was lost, almost unable to tear her eyes from his. They were the blue of a stormy sea right now.
“Uh, what? A dagger? What kind?” She forced her mind to focus on what he’d said. His hair was very thick and heavy in her hands, like skeins of rough silk.
“A jeweled dagger. About this long.” He spread his hands about a foot apart. “‘Tis just a trifling piece.”
His broad shoulders rippled as he shrugged and she almost sighed aloud. She knew just the knife he wanted. Maggie had given it to her with a cryptic message that one day she, Gwen, would believe Tolemac really existed. “If the dagger’s not worth much, then why do you want it?”
“That is not something I can tell you, a woman.” His eyes dropped to her chest again; his frown deepened. Despite the cold words, she did not sense that he was insulting her. Warriors rarely gave women any credit, she imagined.
Whoa. He is not from Tolemac. He is not really looking for a dagger. He is… What is he?
A confused cover model sent from the agency? A wacky war gamer too into his role? Or… An idea burst over her. Maybe he was payback.
Payback for inviting a gang of Tolemac Wars fans to her friend Maggie’s wedding. Maybe she and her husband were playing a practical joke on her—bent on making her think this guy was really from Tolemac and then—zing—he’d whip out a cell phone and call them to tell them she’d been well and truly suckered.
The idea made more and more sense. Her friends had sworn vengeance. After all, the fans had been a tad disruptive at the wedding. So she’d forgotten to tell the group not to bring their swords… So a fight had broken out… Well, there was no way she was giving Vad the dagger and playing right into his practical-joking hands—not that they weren’t really nice hands. However, it might be fun to go along with the joke and somehow turn it back on Maggie and her husband.
“This knife you’re seeking, is it sacred?” she asked, smoothing his hair through her fingers, checking his body for a lump that might indicate a concealed cell phone. No. She’d seen him buck naked and taken his clothing away with her own hands. No, any lumps or bumps ruining the smooth leather expanse of this guy’s leather pants belonged to him. The room was suddenly hot again. Sweat broke out on her palms.
“No, the dagger has no holy meaning.”
He wasn’t picking up on his cues. Most relics in the Tolemac Wars games were holy. Their value was to priests or wisemen. Warriors killed for them, or devoted their life to finding them.
“Okay. Don’t tell me why the knife’s important.”
“Okay.” He mouthed the word as if he were taking part in a language experiment. “What are you doing to my hair?” His eyes crossed as he peered up at her hands.
“I’m braiding it. I once saw this painting of a Native American who had these skinny braids down one side… Never mind. I’m fixing the dry, broken ends so they don’t show.”
“I do not care if my hair is damaged.” He began to rise, pulling her hard work apart with a jolt.
“Sit still.” She shoved down on his shoulders. It was like pressing on a steel girder. “There’s no way I’m taking someone as messy as you to my ball.”
Color heated her cheeks from her misplaced indignation. His head could be shaved and he’d be spectacular. In fact, he could stripe it blue and purple and he’d still be the best-looking man on her little barrier island—or in the state of New Jersey…or east of the Mississippi, for that matter.
Vad’s hair slid silky soft through her fingers as she redid the braids. Good old-fashioned common lust raced right through her. She bit her lip to concentrate. He was not going to be right. Women might fall all over him, but she was not going to be one of them. Ever.
She made a decision: practical joker, agency model, or nut case, she would go along with his contention he was Vad until the ball was over. Eventually he’d step out of his role, and then she’d tell him she’d known what he was up to all along.
In the meantime, if she could get him to the Music Pier, her ball would go down in history as the best Tolemac ball ever.
Finally she dug through the jumble of thread and needles in her sewing box until she found exactly what she wanted—a steel gray embroidery thread to match his eyelashes. She wove it into the narrow braids she’d constructed from his damaged hair.
When she stepped back and examined her handiwork, she knew she was a liar. She was no different from any other woman.
He was no longer more beautiful than a Nordic god. He was way past that. He was all the really great-looking gods rolled up in one.
“Well, Vad. There’s not much more I can do for you,” she said, slamming her sewing box closed. “I can’t work miracles, you know.”
Chapter Five
Getting to the Music Pier with Vad was like walking a giant two-year-old. He jerked to a halt for the fifth time, nearly pulling her arm from its socket.
“What is it this time?” A seagull he had to examine? A trash can he had to peer into, sniff, circle? A woman she had to peel off his arm?
She followed the direction of his intent gaze. A police cruiser was coming toward them on the boardwalk.
“Nilrem’s Seat of Wishes,” he said, his eyes wide. “I have dreamed of the seat many times…” He frowned. “No. The seat in my dreams is black, without…” He waved a hand at the bubble lights as the car drew even with them. “If you know Kered, do you know Nilrem? Do you know the legends of Nilrem’
s treasures?”
“No, I’m sorry, never heard of them.” She lifted her hand in greeting to one of the officers who’d come to her apartment earlier that afternoon. The cruiser stopped; the window lowered. The headlights illuminated the fine mist swirling about in the high winds like smoke curling from a chimney.
Vad’s arm tensed beneath her hand. He did not move, but she knew instantly that he was upset about something.
“You’ll get a great crowd at your ball tonight,” the officer said. “Wish I wasn’t on duty.”
“I’m sorry you can’t be there, too. See you.” She urged Vad the last few steps to the Music Pier. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head and took a last look at the police car.
“Nothing is wrong, but I do not understand what the Seat of Wishes, surely Nilrem’s most famous treasure, is doing here—beyond the ice fields.”
He was really good. Just the right touch of confusion. A soupçon of distress. The treasure idea was cute. “Well, why can’t the seat be here?” she asked. She could also tell he wasn’t budging until he’d said what he had to say.
“‘Tis said in legend that Nilrem buried eight treasures, with a challenge that any man who found them might know great wisdom. To my knowledge, no warrior has yet located the treasures, and yet there is one of them.” He turned around another time to stare after the police cruiser.
Gwen smiled. Any moment now, someone was going to jump out and yell, “Gotcha!” She just knew it. Were her friends hiding in the Music Pier restroom? Or across the way, tucked beneath the boardwalk?
This was a practical joke of the highest caliber. And her friends would be really disappointed if she didn’t at least appear to believe that this guy was from Tolemac.
Vad wiped a hand over his brow. Cracking under the pressure, she thought. It must be really difficult to stay in character so long.
“‘Tis magic,” he said.
“No. There’s no such thing as magic.”
“But can you not use the Seat of Wishes to go wherever your heart desires?”
