Barbour, Carolina - Watch Me, Desire Me (Siren Publishing Allure)

by Watch Me, Desire Me

  Juden sat astride his mount and scanned the vast valley below the precipice where he stopped his horse. His body still, he appeared comatose, yet alert. The only movement he made was the constant flicker of his eyes over the area while he listened and waited.

  The sound behind him was barely audible. He inhaled filling his nostrils with the familiar scent. A slight smile curved his lips as he recognized Keaton. He taught him well, and his son thrived under the tutelage, but there were still lessons he needed to learn.

  Keaton lunged through the air like a cat.

  Juden waited the scant second before Keaton would have been on his back before he turned around and caught him. He pulled the boy up against his chest, mussed his hair, and broke out in ruckus laughter.

  Keaton eyebrows wrinkled, and Juden knew the boy wasn’t as amused as he was that he hadn’t managed to sneak up on him.

  “Father, how did you know it was me? I was quiet as an insect and moved stealthily as you taught me.”

  “Aye, your scent gave you away. I told you fear releases a unique odor?”

  “I don’t understand. Ole’ Hersay made me bathe today, twice, even though I didn’t want to do it,” he said, and then looked up at Juden. He asked, sheepish. “Will I go to the pits of damnation for having such thoughts?”

  “Cleanliness should not be looked upon as loathsome. I doubt Oslei will consider your admission a great sin, as there are other transgressions that lurk, which are far more offensive. Putrid things,” Juden said, inhaling the scent of danger around them.

  Keaton whistled for his mount. Juden let the horse come, but didn’t allow his son to go to the animal. He held him close, scanned the area, looking into the surrounding dense growth of trees for signs of movement.

  The hour grew late, already the sun began to fade into the backdrop of trees and mountains, and the landscape became shrouded in shadows the further he moved along the narrow path. The light disappeared, dimness settled, as he led them through the collection of trees, overgrown brush, and plants that lined the passageway. He kept his ears tuned to the sound the pebbles made when the horse hooves crushed the small stones. He deciphered the normal noises of the woodland, animals scurried, the flutter of bird wings, a rushing stream of water gurgled in the distant, as it moved over the rocks, from the unfamiliar. He not only heard the creatures, a distinct acrid smell invaded his senses as the Kelts drew closer, circled them like a pack of predators, and steadily moved forward intent to entrap them.

  Juden stopped his mount in the center of the clearing. Keaton looked up at him questioningly. He didn’t speak even though he knew his son wanted to, he awaited instructions silently as any good warrior would do.

  The forms moved ghostly through the thick of trees. Still as a cold night, like whispers in the dark, figures watched him and Keaton.

  For a brief moment, Juden had regrets. He should have gone with instinct and not brought Keaton to Wraith so late, but he promised him they would come so he could further instruct him on the ways of a VanZandt warrior.

  The woods at night were no place to linger pass daylight without good reason. The dangers that existed were many, and even to a seasoned warrior could be dangerous.

  Now, he realized his decision might cause him his life. The thought inconsequential, and wasn’t a paramount concern to him. Men were born to live and die, an existence designed by Oslei the God. Who was he to question such?

  He did not fear the creatures would harm his son. The code of the land: No innocent women or children shall die by the hands of ill-intent. The offender offers his soul and purges his offense with screams as he suffers in the fires of Oslei’s wrath for eternity.

  Keaton would survive this day. The thought brought Juden relief. His distress came with the knowing his son would know the heartache of losing his father. Though he did not want this for his child there was nothing he could do about it.

  * * * *

  Juden dismounted. He unsheathed his sword. The release of the blade sent a frigid breeze through the air. He walked toward where the mast of forms gathered, another smaller, but just as deadly, knife was unleashed, he stood before the cretins.

  As he stepped into a sliver of light filtering through the trees, his face became identifiable, a frenzy of distressed noises and low mewling sounds escalated and buzzed through the band of Kelts.

  He glared at the beasts, humpback, winged gargoyle-featured creatures with bulging eyes. They shuffled backwards when he advanced. He listened to the dialect, clicks and clucks of their tongues. It sounded as if they argued amongst themselves, but Juden couldn’t be sure because he was unfamiliar with their language.

  The others shoved one forward like a sacrificial lamb.

  Juden showed his canines and hissed. That was the only warning he would give them.

  A feverish murmur increased between the creatures. One said, “‘Tis Black Bastard.”

  Juden did not take offense to the byname. He was what he is and never judged a man by the truth he spoke. Variant blood ran in his veins, but he was also a Chosen One, because his mother bore a lord a son. It did not matter he was a bastard.

  The reluctant lamb stepped forward, kept his head lowered in servitude, saying, “VanZandt, we did not know it was you.” The pack nodded, backing up, none of them met his stare. “Show us mercy.”

  “Who sent you?” Juden did not raise his tone. The creatures trembled as if he roared.

  “If we tell…he will kill us!”

  “You imbecile, for your offense, you will die regardless.” Their silence irritated Juden further. He advanced, ready to strike first, when a distinctive sound made him freeze. He whirled around to see to the welfare of Keaton. What he witnessed made his heart stutter.

  He took off running toward Keaton, arriving in time to see his son’s head fall backwards, and to catch him when he fell from the horse. He held him in his arms and gently laid the small body to the ground. He stared at the arrow sticking from the small chest. Juden paused to throttle the fury simmering through him. Carefully, he took hold of the arrow, snapped it in two, and pulled the end free. He placed his palm over the wound to stem the flow of blood. He felt his son’s heartbeat stop.

  “Keaton!” Juden threw back his head and howled in anguish. His cry echoed through the trees and startled the birds into flight.

  There was a flurry of movement. When he spun around in search of the offenders, his eyes pierced through the swine as they scattered like rodents to escape.

  Juden’s vengeance was merciless and swift. His blade, a continuous slash through the air, easily severed flesh and bone, gutted bellies, sliced throats. He drove his sword relentlessly until only a single vermin remained.

  When the lamb attempted to take flight, Juden sprung into the air and brought it down by wrapping his powerful arms around the massive wings. Then he yanked hard and slammed it into the earth, pounced, driving his knee into the vulnerable area of the Kelt. He shoved his knee forward into the fleshy part of the thing’s neck until it squealed and squirmed to get free. Juden grabbed his throat, squeezed until the Kelt’s eyes bulged unnaturally, and jerked him forward until their gazes met.

  “You killed my son, you infidel!” Juden roared.

  “No…never a child. ‘Tis against the code,” the Kelt stammered.

  Juden shook the disfigured gnat like a wheat sack, whipping its head back and forth until it threatened to pop from his neck. “You dare lie to me?” he growled.

  “We-we were not told it was you they were after. Or a child was involved. I swear. We are animals in your eyes. We are not soulless. Our kind does not break the code of the land.”

  “But, you did, whether intentional or not,” he said between clenched teeth. “For that you will pay.”

  “No—please.”

  Juden showed no mercy. He jerked back the scrawny neck easily, sunk his fangs into the exposed throat and ripped it to shreds before he tossed the body aside, spit in disdain, and then turned and stalked awa
y.

  He had needed to retrieve his son, take him home, and prepare him for burial. He knelt down beside Keaton’s body, stroked his hair gingerly, before lifting him in his arms. He went to mount his horse, hesitated, as a swarm of emotions invaded his mind and demanded his attention. Slowly, he turned around, sniffed the air filling his nostrils, and branded the odor in his brain.

  There were much nefarious energy out there, more bastards responsible for murdering his son, and if it were the last thing he did, he would ensure they paid as Keaton did. The only way he would feel vindicated for the atrocity is when their blood was on his hands.

  Today, he intended to serve justice or die trying, Juden swore.

  He secured Keaton on his horse. Then he shifted his attention to the thicket of trees where his nemesis hid like cowards.

  A swooshing sound whistled through the trees.

  Juden grunted when the first arrow slammed into his shoulder with enough force to spin him around. He faltered, wobbled and managed to stay on his feet. Another arrow hit its mark, burned into his flesh, dug into his back. A stinging pain escalated as the third, fourth, and fifth arrow pierced his lower spine. His knees buckled, he collapsed falling face first into the dirt.

  * * * *

  A rumble like thunder echoed in the distance. The ground vibrated beneath the men standing around Juden VanZandt’s body. His guards came fast and furious.

  “They come,” Maynard said, looking toward the horizon where the mountains loomed over the treetops. The leader of the renegades looked down at Juden’s body, and turned to the others. His personal entourage, five in total, served no one except themselves. They worked for coins, and leant their assassin services to the highest bidder. No matter what the deed, they showed loyalty only to money.

  Lawry, the youngest and newest member of the group stepped forward. “We should go before VanZandt’s guards see us.”

  Hilfen agreed and nodded. “If VanZandt’s men find us here the valley will flood like a river with our blood.

  All the men sided with Hilfen. Each nervously glanced over their shoulders as the sound of galloping horses drew closer.

  “Maynard?” Hilfen said.

  Maynard didn’t respond for a long time. He rubbed the hair on his chin wondering whether to risk defying the specific orders given regarding VanZandt. An arrow through the heart, his body buried deep, the gravesite exposed to direct sun. It was important Juden VanZandt’s soul feel as if it were burning in the fires of damnation.

  “I was given precise orders to follow,” Maynard said.

  Hilfen stepped forward to challenge Maynard. “We do not have time. The slimy Kelts did not do as ordered. Too much time passes whilst they tried to barter for their lives. Now, I say we go.”

  Dru, who was older and wiser, remained silent until now, finally spoke, after listening to Hilfen and Lawry’s argument. “Aye, I agree with the others. We should take our leave before it is too late. VanZandt’s guards will slaughter us if we are found.”

  “Who is to say we did not do as agreed upon, Maynard,” Hilfen said.

  “VanZandt is dead,” Lawry added.

  Maynard had second thoughts. He kicked VanZandt in the side, rolled him over, and shoved his boot into his ribcage. He kneeled to one knee, unsheathed a small blade, and pierced Juden’s chest. When there was no reaction, he made up his mind things were settled satisfactorily.

  As VanZandt’s lifeless body lay on the ground, Maynard and his men rode off, barely escaping, as they disappeared in the forest just before Juden’s guards found his body.

  Chapter 3

  Megatha DeCapri made the temperature in the room chilly, Saxby thought, entering the great hall. She observed the rigidness of her back, in perfect alignment with the wood chair, her bosom overstated by her soldier posture made the cleavage of breasts strain against her flouncy lace bodice, and protrude embarrassingly. Megatha was well pass her prime, not elderly, but mature enough Saxby thought she should dress with more discretion.

  Her face appeared pale due to too much powder, caked-on rouge, and little masking tricks Megatha used to hide the crows feet, and the fact the wrinkles around her lips were present. She was not aging gracefully, a fact Megatha tried hard to hide, and as a result, she acerbated the truth of the matter. She was not the raving beauty she once was, if ever, and Saxby knew it piqued Megatha. Because of this, Megatha took out her frustration with Mother Nature on everyone around her, but mostly her young daughter Carline.

  Carline had delicate, waif-like features and large, blue, inquisitive eyes, and a slender shapely appealing frame. She was quiet, unassuming, and held a reserved demeanor because Megatha derailed any attempt the girl might shine by continuously berating and squashing her self-esteem until Carline appeared a mealy-mouse. While Megatha paraded around in the latest fashions, designed for a youthful figure, she ensured her daughter dressed like someone who should reside amongst monks. Carline may as well have dressed in a burlap sack and blended into the backdrop of any bleak landscape.

  Saxby ignored Megatha, who eyed her as if she expected her to steal. Megatha kept her beady eyes peeled on her every move while she did what she liked best. She chastised Carline relentlessly, using the girl as a whipping post.

  Megatha considered herself a saint of Oslei. Her tone high-pitched and shrewd, she berated the girl for one offense after another. Megatha scolded Carline, lashing her with a bitter tongue while she preached with fire and brimstone bluster about the girl’s sinful ways.

  As usual, Carline suffered through the vicious attack silently. She focused on the tabletop, hands folded and placed in her lap, while she listened to Megatha.

  Saxby squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and continued toward the table. There was no pretense between the two. She wanted nothing more than to toss the impossible woman out on her butt. Milo would not allow it, so she managed Megatha’s presence with all the aplomb she could muster.

  Megatha overstayed her welcome. She came to assist with Milo’s convalescence after the accident, but, as far as she was concerned, the woman exhausted her visit. It was her fear that Milo’s sister never intended to leave Dandelion, as her stay extended into months until she wondered if she would ever rid herself of the nuisance.

  She ignored the disdain Megatha showed when she took her seat at the head of the table. She displayed a credible smile and tempered her tone to be respectful even though her husband’s sister didn’t deserve such. “Good day, Lady Megatha. Carline,” she said, with cheery pretense.

  “Lady Saxby,” Carline said, in a hushed tone.

  “The hour grows late and my brother waits overly long to be brought his meal whilst you dally, Lady Saxby. Why is this?”

  Saxby signaled for the cook to serve the meal. She purposely did not respond to Megatha to make a point. As mistress to Dandelion, she did not answer to her.

  She knew Megatha thought it disrespectful to begin a meal without the priest present, and for a pause, she considered Megatha might challenge her authority. Blessedly, she did not.

  These days she worried where Milo and Juden were concerned. Milo summoned Juden. She knew this, but had no idea when, or if, he might arrive. This bothered her, and she did not need Megatha’s foolish antics heightening her weariness. The forefront of her concern focused on the guilt about Milo’s accident. Not to mention what she must do with Juden. The totality of the burdens she harbored was already great and left her feeling overwhelmed.

  She tried not to think about her troubles and focus on the cooks who balanced platters of fowl, squash pie, lentil soup, and other items in their arms. She looked over the food to ensure it was prepared adequately before her thoughts wondered.

  A year had almost passed since Milo’s accident. The guilt had not waned, and nor had the details of the incident. The horrible day remained alive and vivid as if it happened yesterday.

  Milo shouted a warning for her not to test the spirited mare she rode. She thought he was being overly cautious,
and continued to spurn the mount faster and faster. She could hear Milo gaining on her, knew he rode furiously to catch up, but she hadn’t stopped. Not until Milo warned her she was reaching the end of the bend and headed straight into the cliffs. She tried to pull back on the reigns to stop Tibby, but the powerful animal kept going. She saw the edge of the precipice in front of her. She feared the worst…struggled to control the animal, but realized her attempt was futile.

  She recalled breathing a sigh of relief when she saw Milo beside her. He reached out to grab her reign, and couldn’t, so he’d tried to grab her around the waist and lift her from the horse instead.

  She went into his arms, held him, until she felt his body suddenly snatched free. She wasn’t aware what happened until she looked down and saw Milo entangled in the leather strap fastened underneath the horse’s belly.

  “Milo—Nooo!” she cried.

  Desperately, she tried to help him, but there was nothing she could do. The horse charged ahead, dragged Milo behind him, pulled his body over the rough terrain. When she finally managed to get the horse under control, Milo laid on the ground motionless.

  She hurried to his side. As soon as she saw the odd angle of his legs, twisted opposite from his upper torso, she knew something terribly wrong happened.

  Megatha’s voice snapped Saxby out of her thoughts. Her tone snippy, crisp, she said, “My brother is no better today than last week.”

  Saxby eyed Megatha. “Really? He seemed more alert than normal to me.”

  Megatha sniffed, saying, “He is asking for the grainroot more frequently, which means he is suffering and needs the concoction to ease his discomfort.”

  “He did not tell me this.”

  Megatha’s features turned smug. “Perhaps he doesn’t wish to confide in you.”

  “Or maybe my husband does not want me to worry overly much,” she countered.

  “You say things to appease your guilt and nothing more.”

  “If it is your intent to have me admit fault, you are wasting your time. Milo and I made peace about the unfortunate accident. We make the best of our lives as it is, and you cannot make me believe differently we aren’t content,” she said, calmly, refusing to allow Megatha to rile her.