Captive Desires

by Diane Whiteside

  Larissa blushed. Celeste Carson’s book covers were notoriously popular among female fans for advertising the hero’s attributes.

  “Or Star Wars or The Lord of the Rings or . . .”

  “Nope.” Larissa’s jaw set hard. “We’re doing a special tribute to Corinne Carson, in honor of the sixth movie’s opening this year. Although I am doing half of my big masquerade entry from Varrain, just for contrast,” she added hastily.

  “And because she and her sister Celeste died here, after that book signing.”

  “Who can forget that fire with all the smoke and flames going up from the condo’s penthouse?” Larissa shuddered, her face turning pale under her freckles.

  “Yeah.” Danae stroked her father’s class ring instinctively. She stood up and poured herself a large glass of sweet tea, that sovereign Southern remedy for all disasters.

  “Do you have one of the posters?”

  Danae stiffened. Damn, she hadn’t sidetracked Larissa.

  “You know, the one where the smoke looks like a dragon landing on the high-rise’s rooftop in the middle of the fire?”

  “Nope.” She didn’t need it because she’d been there that night—and there really had been a dragon. He’d stalked her dreams for months.

  “It’s a great photo. I’ll get you a copy of it.”

  Danae’s stomach somersaulted.

  “No, thank you, Larissa, it wouldn’t fit into my suitcase.”

  “But your New York apartment . . .”

  “Is tiny. It’s in Manhattan, remember?” Besides, it was already stuffed with pictures of Alekhsiy. Movie stuff, not the way she saw him, but it was better than empty walls.

  “That’s right. I keep thinking you still live in a nice, suburban house with three bedrooms, just the way you used to. Your two older brothers leading the way and you running after them, while your mom insisted you do an hour of ballet for every one of kung fu. And your big brother Mike was so cute, too.”

  “Nah, you just picture that because you haven’t spent as much time at any other home I’ve ever had.” Danae shook her head, her smile grown a bit too sharp.

  “Now I’ve put my foot in it. Sasha would shoot me.” Larissa cocked her head, her mouth twisting ruefully. “Forgive me?”

  “Always.” She held out her hands and they hugged again, lingering a little longer this time. They separated slowly, eyes not quite tearing.

  “Sorry,” Larissa apologized again.

  “Stop apologizing, Lara.” They had to move on; all these years hadn’t made it any easier to deal with reminders of the past. “Hey, we’ve been together since our moms wrapped Star Trek blankets around us and our dads taught us how to fetch supplies at Cons. If you can’t bring up the past, who can?”

  “You’re being nice and I’m just really twitchy. It’s my first time away from the baby.” Oh, God, don’t let her start bringing up babies, too. “And I really want to make master costumer this time around, instead of staying journeyman forever.”

  “Which you will, I know you will!” Danae leaped on the new topic. “Your stuff is awesome.”

  “Well, you’ve definitely helped by sending me all that fabric and supplies from New York and Europe.”

  “I like shopping.” Danae shrugged. “And you have a bigger place than I do,” she added slyly, “for working on it.”

  “But you have the better figure for wowing the judges—plus all those dance moves! Whoooo!”

  Danae flushed but rallied. “Bet you saved the gigantically accurate costume, with tons of documentation, for yourself.”

  Larissa’s mouth fell open. Her eyes darted from side to side, seeking an escape.

  “You did, didn’t you?” Danae hooted. “So even after I dropped out of those special kung fu workshops, just so I could strut your costumes, you’re going to wear the best one of all. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.” Larissa folded her arms across her ample chest. “And I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.” She started to grin.

  “Hmm, because Sasha will be there to celebrate with you afterward?”

  Larissa’s smirk spread across her face.

  Lucky girl to have a man she could trust, and who would keep her warm at night, not somebody looking for celebrity eye candy.

  Oh well, she could always work on another story about Alekhsiy. Even with all the reenactors here for GriffinCon’s famous tournaments, it was unlikely any of them would be hotter than a dream of him.

  Wait a minute—was she becoming too fussy, valuing a fictional creation more than a living, breathing man in her life? But she wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—settle down, given her dancing schedule. So there was every reason to enjoy herself in the meantime, right?

  And maybe at least one of the guys here would even have some real muscles, enough that she could close her eyes and pretend he was Alekhsiy for a minute or two. Stupid, stupid thought! As if she’d ever meet him in the flesh.

  “In that case, we’d better do the final fittings for the rest of these outfits. I want to steal a kiss from Sasha before you take up all his time.”

  Larissa threw a pile of green and gold silk at her.

  Danae ducked, laughing.

  Alekhsiy followed the older woman, carefully towing her heavy cart behind him. A myriad of boxes were lashed down onto it, ever urging it to proceed in an alternate direction. Two of them had dodged her rope just inside the entrance; he’d caught them for her, and she’d immediately accepted him as her esquire. She wore a short black tunic tucked into her trews, emblazoned with a snarling lion and the words McKinnon’s Smithy. Surely the gods were watching over him, to send such aid for a smith’s son. He’d never have entered here so easily without her.

  People pressed around them, bounced into them, and raced past, all carrying or pushing or pulling their own burdens. Younglings dodged between legs and carts trundled past emitting unearthly squeals. Both men and women wore a similar garb to his guide’s: a short tunic and sturdy trews. Only his height enabled him to keep track of his far shorter lady. She had only a few years on him but she forced her way through the throng with a queen’s assurance.

  They burst out of the crush into a more spacious area, marked by neatly taped lines on the carpeted floor. Here and there, men and women pushed tables into place or screwed rods together to form small booths. Ranks of whistles and drums swung merrily together in one completed stall, while a heavily shaded one offered a vast array of candles. A man was carefully hanging up tunics and brocaded coats, while a woman pinned rainbows of skirts to the walls of another. In the distance, he could see enough books to make a temple librarian jealous.

  A bazaar. Thanks be to all the gods, he’d found his way to the local market, the best possible place to hear gossip. Surely here he could find the information he needed.

  Its ceiling was low and ugly and the walls were stone, painted in an unsightly brown color. The air here was too still and dry, as if he walked through a mine in a land tainted by machines. Alekhsiy’s stomach twitched again but he forced it back into reluctant obedience.

  His guide took them directly to one of the larger booths, marked with heavier than usual rods. One side held painted images of long swords, from every possible angle and shining like jewels. A tall banner rippled along the ridgepole—MCKINNON’S SMITHY, LAKE CHAMPLAIN, NEW YORK.

  The big man assembling it, aided by a youngling and a stripling, glanced over, assessing him with a warrior’s lightning speed. His gaze sharpened.

  Alekhsiy nodded courteously to his guide’s tribe.

  “I found the last swordsman for your fighting troupe, Kyle,” his lady announced.

  Fighting troupe? Only under the direst circumstances would he ever break the peace at a festival.

  The two boys gaped at him. Poles started to plummet toward the floor but a father’s rapid elbow jab reminded his sons how to maintain their hold. The family resemblance was remarkable—carved features most notable for a beaked nose, blue eyes, close-cropped lig
ht brown hair, stocky frames without a trace of softness. All three carried small knives, half-concealed at their waists, which he’d not seen elsewhere in this fortress. An elderly lady was setting out finely cut jewelry in the booth next to them with the rapid dexterity of long practice.

  Alekhsiy set the heavy rolling ladder upright with its heavy load, freeing himself for anything that might transpire.

  “He was on the loading dock, looking a bit under the weather, poor baby.”

  Alekhsiy blinked at the many translations the wizards’ language spell offered him for her last phrase.

  “So I brought him here, knowing you could use him.” She beckoned. “Hand him a ginger beer, will you, honey?”

  Without ever taking his eyes away from Alekhsiy, the man produced a slender brown bottle from a hidden chest. A quick twist of his hand wrenched the cork out and he handed it over.

  Alekhsiy accepted the drink cautiously, startled to find it ice-cold. Yet Corinne had warned him there’d be strange magics in this far place.

  “Many thanks, sir.” He bowed slightly.

  “He’s even got the Torhtremer manners right,” the younger lad muttered.

  “Hush!” his brother hissed.

  Torhtremer? Of course he did—but how did they know what those customs were?

  “Don’t worry about drinking it. We’re a licensed micro-brewery.”

  Alekhsiy hoped he looked as if her assurances meant something to him.

  “Ginger beer will do wonders for your stomach. I always bring plenty of it along when we come to a Con.”

  Alekhsiy sipped. Bubbles exploded in his mouth and dived down his throat. Spicy, tart, then sweet—his abused innards sighed in relief and began to relax.

  “That’s right,” she urged, “just drink it slowly. And next time, don’t try to save money by eating the regular hot dogs.”

  Hot—dogs? He drank more of the glorious brew, without waiting for the spell to supply translations for trivialities.

  “Always buy kosher. It’s better to pay a little more than take your chances with crap.”

  Well, “crap” translated easily enough, at least.

  “I will heed your advice, my lady.” He bowed slightly.

  “Wow . . .” breathed both boys.

  What were they agog about this time?

  “Name’s Kyle McKinnon and this is my wife, Nora.” Their father took charge of the conversation. “Our sons, Colin and Evan.”

  The swordsmith extended his hand and Alekhsiy shook it properly, sliding his hand forward so he gripped the other’s elbow. After all, they’d shown him hospitality.

  “Alek Alekseiovich.” Best to use a simplified version of his own name, so he’d remember it.

  Kyle’s eyes widened before a grin split his face. “My god, how do you manage to LARP all the time?”

  “LARP?” Alekhsiy raised an eyebrow.

  “Still saying in character, are you? Wow, just wow.”

  “I said he was perfect, didn’t I?” his lady chortled.

  Why did admitting ignorance elevate his status?

  “LARP is Live Action Role-Play—and you’re the best damn reenactor I’ve ever seen. You’re wearing flawless Torhtremer costume and you’ve got the mannerisms down pat. Doesn’t he, boys?”

  “As good as any of the movies,” enthused Colin, the elder son.

  “And all those weapons are cool! Are you carrying an axe, too?” blurted out Evan.

  “Quiet, dammit, or you’ll bring the marshals down on us,” snarled Nora.

  Marshals? He couldn’t afford to encounter the authorities.

  Kyle and Colin scanned the room warily but Evan tried to brazen it out.

  “Oh, they won’t be around yet, Mom. It’s only Thursday, and GriffinCon doesn’t officially start until tomorrow.”

  “You know damn well they’re crawling through Dealers’ Hall like locusts, making sure all the weapons are checked in. Keep your voice low or there’ll be no time for you at the comics dealers, young man.”

  Evan’s mouth fell into a horrified gawp.

  Comics?

  “Now, go dig up some peace bonds for his sword, in case Alek doesn’t want to join our troupe.”

  “He’d rather fight,” Evan announced, bouncing back quickly from the deadly threat, and stepped back inside the stall.

  Alekhsiy hid his admiration for the lad and looked question ingly at his host.

  “This fan conference specializes in fighting—reenactments, workshops, costumes, tournaments of various sports like archery and martial arts.” Kyle rubbed his chin, laughter fading from his eyes. “There will be at least fifty thousand people here this year, more because the Fourth of July falls on Monday.”

  Fifty thousand? Only the Seven Kingdoms’ capitals were that large. How could he find the enemy amid so many people? Or the sorcerer who held the key to the lock?

  “And Saturday’s the big Torhtremer movie premiere,” added Colin.

  “Trailer,” corrected Nora.

  “Whatever,” said Kyle.

  Alekhsiy agreed with him. Two festivals, one of them to celebrate his home? He cared not what they were called, only that the event was enormous.

  “There will be lots of weapons here. Different types, too, and the marshals will be very twitchy.”

  “As would I.”

  Kyle nodded a warrior’s agreement. “So they stick to easy, obvious rules. The biggest one is that only members of fighting troupes can carry edged weapons. Otherwise, it’s either peace-bonded . . .”

  Evan held up two strips of leather, clearly designed to tie Alekhsiy’s sword into the scabbard.

  Alekhsiy’s eyes narrowed. They wouldn’t slow him for an instant, should the need arise—but every instinct revolted against any such hindrance.

  “Or the would-be fighter has to leave GriffinCon. Immediately.” Kyle’s voice held all the softness of an executioner’s axe being sharpened.

  “Indeed.” Alekhsiy had spent too many years leading his brother’s armies to let his thoughts show.

  “You’re wearing the best Dragon’s Scales uniform I’ve ever seen, as good as the movies or maybe better,” Nora commented. “General’s rig, right?”

  Alekhsiy bowed, not deeming it wise to either confirm or deny her guess.

  She whistled. “Risky to go for somebody that high ranking, but you’ve pulled it off very, very well. Cloth is easy enough to do, but the weapons and armor can trip you up any time.”

  “And he’s even got the little details right, like the wear on his sword’s hanger.” Colin pointed at Alekhsiy’s belt.

  Alekhsiy stiffened lest he bend over and study his gear like a new recruit.

  “Relax, my clumsy son is congratulating you,” Kyle soothed. “Usually leather either looks brand-new or is evenly distressed across its length so it appears old. But yours—hell, yours is worn down in very specific places. Just as if you’d walked for hundreds of miles wearing exactly that belt and sword. How’d you pull it off?”

  “I hiked through some mountains with friends,” Alekhsiy murmured. In snow and ice for far longer than I prefer to remember, and in terror that we’d arrive too late . . .

  “Look, I’ve got a troupe.” Kyle turned serious. “But we need one more swordsman to compete in the big tournament. You do have experience with that, right?”

  “Years,” Alekhsiy said flatly. Of fighting for my country and my family’s and friends’ lives.

  His tone stilled even the restless youngest son for an instant before Kyle nodded acknowledgment. “We won’t use your axe in the fighting, except maybe in an opening demonstration.”

  “Show off, talk some smack.” Evan was demonstrating with all of his previous bounce.

  Smack? His spell did not provide him with a suitable translation. He briefly wished confusion on all loving women who believed their menfolk would never need to know terms more recent than those uttered in a drawing room.

  “Frighten our opponents?”

&
nbsp; “Oh yeah.” Colin mimed whirling a two-handed axe through figure eights.

  “We’ve got the two archers for the projectile division.” Kyle brought them back to business. “Plus, two guys with karate black belts for the unarmed division.”

  Unarmed? Alekhsiy frowned.

  “Hand-to-hand combat.”

  “There are lots of really cool bouts,” Colin added. “Judo, tae kwon do, karate, kung fu, wrestling, you name it!” His blue eyes shone with commendable excitement.

  His mother rolled her eyes. “Most of us are geeks so the rules get rather complex. For example, a fighter can substitute in the other disciplines. Most don’t because it’s too exhausting.”

  “We need two swordsmen for the blades division. Will you help us?” Kyle’s blue eyes were intent on Alekhsiy. “You’ll need a shield, of course, and you’d have to prove to the marshals you can fight safely and politely. You only have to show up three, maybe four times, depending on the number of troupes. I can give you the schedule once it’s posted.”

  Alekhsiy hesitated. He could produce a shield readily enough—his mouth twitched at how easily—but dare he spend time on this? He could not afford to be distracted from his quest.

  “Finals will be held Sunday night in the big stadium by Centennial Park. Big scoreboard, instant replay.” Evan’s eyes were enormous.

  And see pictures of the combat shown again and again, far larger than life-size?

  “Very cool,” breathed Colin.

  The rings on Alekhsiy’s fingers both heated. A trap—or the culmination of his quest. The enemy and the sorcerer would both be there. He had no choice.

  “I would be honored.” He touched his fist to his shoulder, warrior to war leader.

  Traffic was starting to increase. McKinnon’s Smithy was situated on a corner close to a great stairway. Passersby would have to walk past them or their neighbor, the goldsmith, to reach any of the cavern’s exits.

  “Awesome! We’re called Yevgheniy’s Spears and here’s your badge.” Kyle handed over a small brooch, painted with a snarling, silver tiger.