by Aja James
“Sometimes I see shadows of anguish and torment in his eyes.”
“Why did he put himself in such a position?” Aella asked, sounding rather frustrated at Valerius for pushing himself too hard.
“I’d guess because he found something more important to focus on than his own substantial pain,” Ayelet answered. “Though the Healer can only cure our bodily wounds, perhaps in this instance she can work her magic on the Protector’s soul as well.”
*** *** *** ***
Valerius gunned his Hayabusa around a sharp corner then swerved at the last second to avoid an oncoming truck, barely missing the sixteen wheeler as it blared its horn at him in passing.
Tristan struggled to keep up in his Lamborghini Murciélago, the twists and turns of the mountainous roads lending advantage to the adroit Hayabusa.
The Champion cursed beneath his breath as Valerius took another sharp turn without any regard for safety, riding the edge of the single lane, a foot away from opposite traffic to pass the slower car in front of him. If Tristan got into an accident or got stopped by cops because of Tron Legacy wannabe over there, he was going to drag the Roman off his bike and pound him into mincemeat for making Ayelet worry.
If Tristan could catch the suicidal maniac that was.
They were on their way back to the Shield from a full day’s hunt and search for Leonidas. Tristan was surprised at first that Valerius was accompanying him instead of Dalair or Aella, as the Consort seldom left the Healer’s side in order to best Service her needs. At least, that was what Tristan understood from past Consorts—which included each of the male Elite except himself since he was Mated to Ayelet shortly after his revival.
Duty and Service aside, Tristan assumed any full-blooded warrior male would prefer to stay with the female who required his Nourishment just for the sex and release this small loophole in the Sacred Laws provided. Having had more than his fair share of women in his human life, and then having his days and nights full with Ayelet, Tristan considered himself extremely fortunate, ridiculously fortunate, to not have had to live out even a year of celibacy. He’d like to think he wasn’t a weak man, a man without some semblance of self-control, but where sex was concerned, well, he was a male of voracious appetites. The Goddess, in Her infinite wisdom, blessed him with Ayelet who was every bit his match, and then some.
So having the Protector partner him on this day was deeply perplexing to the medieval knight. It was as if Valerius was purposely avoiding his duty as Consort, which just didn’t make a lick of sense to Tristan.
Tristan flashed his fog lights at the crazy bastard when Valerius pulled another kamikaze maneuver that made Tristan struggle to prevent his Murciélago from heading into a tail spin as he spun the wheels away from a Tahoe that had swerved into his lane to avoid the Haybusa.
In response, he saw Valerius hold up a middle finger, then gun the Hayabusa into a roar that left Tristan to eat up his dust.
Oh yeah, there was going to be some serious throw down in the training room tonight. Tristan cracked his knuckles with anticipation.
*** *** *** ***
Ayelet stood before two giant digital monitors with the Scribe and Seer on either side.
She pulled up the first image from her final search compilation and recited, “Name, Cloud Drako. Current residence, Lushui County, Nujiang Lisu Autonomous Prefecture in the Southwestern border of China, Yunnan Province. Current occupation, local artist and calligrapher. Probably around two thousand years old. Took some digging and calling on favors to find him. He certainly doesn’t seem like he wants to be found.”
“By any chance is he related to Rain?” Orion asked with a straight face.
Ayelet shot him a quick glance and realized that he wasn’t jesting. She suspected he wouldn’t know sarcasm if it bit him in the ass. The Scribe was as serious and as dry as they came.
She answered him with a similar expression of solemnity. “Not that I am aware. Cloud is just his chosen name as a Pure One. I haven’t been able to determine his real name.”
“Then how can you be sure he’s of warrior class?” Eveline inquired.
Ayelet often wondered why the Scribe and Seer didn’t get together. They seemed so well suited for each other. On the other hand, their personalities were so similar they could also pass for siblings.
“My sources tell me there are legends about him throughout China, or at least, about the human warrior he used to be. In fact, those legends have spread widely around the world, though how much is truth and how much fiction I can’t say.”
Ayelet clicked the mouse to open a video showing the warrior in question concentrating on forming a particular work of Chinese calligraphy art.
“This was shot a few days ago by one of my human sources posing as a tourist in Kunming. Apparently, there was an annual art fair and Cloud’s work was one of the main attractions. Rarely does he venture out of his village in the mountains, but for this fair, he decided to make an exception. You see the way he holds the brush?”
Orion and Eveline peered at the display closely, noticing the leanly muscular forearm that strained gracefully beneath the thin fabric of the warrior’s sleeve as he held a long, large calligraphy brush whose head was as big as a fist. The way he stroked the brush down the floor-length scroll was deceptive in its power, graceful and fluid in well-practiced technique, and somehow militaristic in style.
Ayelet clicked on another video that opened beside the previous one. “This was taken by the same tourist early the next morning. Drako apparently rode to Kunming on horseback, eschewing modern modes of transportation. They say his horse, a distinctive white stallion, is also immortal and is his constant companion.”
She zoomed in on the video image. “You see how he sits astride the horse? As if he were born atop it? As if their bodies were one? That is not something a calligraphy artist hidden in the remote hills of Lushui County should know how to do. That posture and power can only be achieved from years of riding, and from the alertness of his body language, years of riding into war.”
As they watched, the warrior turned towards the hidden camera and looked straight at them. They could almost feel the intensity of his gaze from within the display monitor.
“Does he know we’re searching for him?” Eveline whispered, mesmerized by the startling laser blue eyes, a shock to see in an Asian face. The image was taken too far away for them to see his face clearly, but she could still feel his spell-binding eyes.
‘I’m sure he does,” Ayelet replied. “Don’t stare too long.” She abruptly closed the videos, and Orion and Eveline had to blink rapidly as if to clear the descending fog in their heads.
“Even though it’s only a video capture, his power is so great the intent behind his gaze can still be felt,” Ayelet explained. “I believe his Gift is one of telepathy. When I first watched the video and came to this frame, I stared blankly at the screen for several minutes before Tristan shook me awake. Then I felt like I wanted to erase the images and the file entirely and almost did except for Tristan’s help. He pulled me away from the monitor and traced back with me what I was doing and thinking before I watched the video, and I realized that this warrior had been trying to convince me to stop searching for him with his gaze.”
“I felt it too,” Orion said, still shaking the cobwebs from his head. “He is incredibly strong if he can force his will upon us from just a video that was taken days ago. This will make our efforts to recruit him far more difficult than we expected.”
“Indeed,” Ayelet agreed. “But he is my first choice to…” she hesitated with a pang of sadness, but plunged on resolutely, “to replace the Sentinel.”
She read the expressions on the Scribe and Seer’s faces. “Looks like you both would agree with me?”
Orion and Eveline nodded in chorus. “This warrior definitely fits the description from the Zodiac Scrolls and Prophesies,” Orion said, “but show us the others you have discovered. We must ensure we consider all possibilities.”
Ayelet proceeded to show them the files on a Viking warrior residing in Sweden as a university professor on Norse mythology and history and a Russian living in St. Petersburg as the CEO of a local oil and gas company.
They agreed in the end that they needed to hasten the recruitment process, with not a moment to delay. The Seer and Scribe would depart immediately for Europe while Aella would take Rain and Valerius to China, given Rain’s familiarity with the landscape and people.
It was a risky move since the Shield would only be left with four Elite guards, one still recovering from his extensive injuries, one handmaiden on whose small shoulders rested the health of an entire encampment, and the Seer and Scribe would travel without protective escort.
But Orion and Eveline insisted that their skills were not simply limited to the cerebral. The Scribe had the power of telekinesis and the Seer had the ability to see events five minutes before they happened. Though untrained in combat, they had strong survival instincts and could take care of themselves and each other.
And so it was decided. On the morrow they would embark on their journey.
*** *** *** ***
Valerius rammed his left shoulder into Tristan’s taut belly and ground his right fist into the Champion’s ribs, pushing him into the wall with bone-jarring force.
Tristan took the impact with a grunt but didn’t lose a beat. He jack-knifed his knee into Valerius’ sternum and stabbed the warrior’s neck where it joined his shoulder with a well-aimed elbow, making him step back half a pace to twist out of range.
They carried on in a blur of sharp fists, elbows, knees and feet. Tristan’s brute strength was staggering when he landed a blow, while Valerius’ more agile maneuvers delivered hits where it counted the most. Finally, both males paused in their no-holds-barred fight to regard each other warily, chest heaving and sweat running in rivers down their faces and bodies.
“Fuck,” Tristan ground out, shaking his head like a wet dog, sending bullets of sweat in all directions. “Who taught you to fight like that? I’m pretty sure those moves aren’t legal. At least Xandros and Leo never pulled any like that when we sparred.”
“Necessity,” Valerius answered grimly. “There are no rules in the gladiator arena.” Or when you were trying to escape over a decade’s worth of brutality and imprisonment.
Tristan nodded with respect. “More power to you, my brother. You gotta teach me some of those moves.” He then promptly descended onto his ass, sprawling against the wall in sheer exhaustion. Valerius eyed him for a moment, decided they’d worked out their frustrations enough for one day, and joined the Champion against the wall, keeping a foot of distance between them.
“So you wanna tell me why you’re hell-bent on suicide?” Tristan asked without preamble.
“I know how far I can push myself,” Valerius replied in a low voice that vibrated with the message “back the fuck off.”
“Yeah, okay,” Tristan said, “but it’s not just yourself you have to worry about now, it’s the Healer too. What would become of her if something should happen to you?”
Right now, in the middle of the Phoenix Cycle, it didn’t bear thinking, but Valerius knew that after she survived him, there would be other Consorts. It wasn’t as if her longevity depended solely on him. The thought of future Consorts Nourishing the Healer made his heart shrivel and his soul recoil, so he focused back on the present. As much as he hated to admit it, the knight had a point. But with things as they were, he was hardly of use to the Healer.
He was a sorry excuse as a Consort.
For the past few days, Rain had barely fed from him. And then, only from his wrist when she was obviously starving and couldn’t help herself any more. She went about her days as if they had never been bonded, as if she were perfectly well and Nourishment was a luxury rather than a sheer necessity. He’d tried to tempt her into more than just taking his blood, but she resisted gently, always with a ready excuse, always with a tender smile as if he were a fragile, wounded animal who couldn’t withstand further injury.
And he was so useless he constantly flagellated himself with derision and hatred. He knew any Pure-male worth his salt would be able to drum up a seduction to break through her reticence, but he didn’t know the first thing about seduction. He was overwhelmed with uncertainty and mortification every time he tried to offer himself to her, and then he wallowed in hurt and self-disgust so acute from her gentle rejection that his blood turned to ice in his veins and tears of acid corroded his throat.
He didn’t delude himself of the truth: she no longer wanted him.
After he’d told her the horrors of his past, sparing the details but still revealing the sordid reality, she’d let him hold her tight, let him find redemption and comfort in the heat and softness of her body, like a lost little boy hugging his security blanket.
But everything changed after that night. She no longer looked upon him with covetous, desirous eyes. She barely looked at him at all. He felt the distance between them stretch into a veritable chasm, and an excruciating hollowness grew within him in equal proportion. He disgusted her now, he knew. She was too kind to give it expression. He felt her pity in the gentle tone of her voice. He saw her recoil whenever he tried to get closer.
It was killing him by slow degrees.
All the pain and torment of his past paled in comparison to how much it hurt to be rejected by her, to know that she would never want him again. For the first time in his existence he wished he’d never been born. He’d always fought the demons in his private hell without complaint, his only regret that he couldn’t protect his family. With his Gift and his power to defend the weak he’d accepted his past as payment towards a greater good.
But now his skin felt too tight for his flesh, blood and bones. Every breath he took in her presence felt like he was sucking sulfuric acid into his lungs rather than air. He felt defeated.
Destroyed.
Like his soul had splintered into a million shards and he was an empty shell going through the motions of a well-practiced routine.
And the worst of it was that he knew she was steadily weakening. At this rate, his insanity to apply to be her Consort would lead to her death. She’d been right at the very beginning.
He could never fulfill her needs.
“Snap out of it.” Tristan smacked Valerius’ head against the wall with enough force to make stars flash before the Protector’s eyes. “I don’t know where your mind just went, but I don’t like that look on your face.”
Valerius decided not to respond to the head banging with equal violence, but instead started to rise. Tristan pulled him back down with a hard yank.
“I’m not finished lecturing you,” the Champion said, keeping a restraining hand on Valerius’ arm.
Valerius resisted breaking the hand off for Ayelet’s sake but he speared the knight with a glare of warning.
“Yeah yeah, you’re going to shove my own fist up my ass if I don’t let go, I get it,” Tristan said without much concern, though he did loosen his hold on Valerius’ arm. “Just sit down for a minute and hear me out. Then you can wallow in self-pity to your heart’s content.”
Valerius scowled ferociously at the Champion’s words, but sat back down again, the determination and—strangely—understanding in the other male’s gaze making his body obey despite his mind’s rebellion.
“Look, I haven’t known you as long as Leo or Xandros. One might say I barely know you at all,” Tristan began in a low serious tone. “You’re not exactly the chummy sort. We’re probably polar opposites where our personalities and preferences are concerned. But I trust you as a comrade. I care for you as a brother. I know you’re uncomfortable hearing it, but you have to know that.”
Tristan waited for Valerius’ reluctant nod.
“And as a brother, even when I don’t understand it, I can feel your pain. It’s my pain too,” Tristan continued, his gaze focused on the wall of weapons in the far end of the training room.
&n
bsp; “I can even recognize the source of it, the real source of it,” he added when he felt Valerius’ dubious gaze. “There’s only one source for such depth of feeling, my man, and its name is woman.”
Valerius looked straight ahead again, realizing Tristan saw more than he let on.
“You have that same glassy eyed hypnotized look on your face that I used to have, and still have on many occasions, when I first found Ayelet, or rather when she found me. It’s called love.”
Valerius was well familiar with that particular beast. He’d wrestled with it everyday for ten years.
“And when a Pure-male falls in love, hell, when any male falls in love, you’re a slave to age-old instincts to win her, protect her, provide for her, Nourish her,” Tristan said with passion. “It has nothing to do with being her Consort, my brother, and everything to do with being her Mate.”
Tristan looked over at his silent comrade and sighed. “I see you’ve come to terms with the obvious. Now the question is what you’re going to do about it. In love, there’s no holding back,” Tristan told him with sudden, uncharacteristic insight. “You have to lay yourself bare, everything you are, at her feet and pray that she’ll put you out of your misery and accept you.”
“And if she doesn’t,” Tristan went on, “it has no bearing on what you have to do. You’re hers regardless of her choice. It is your duty, your very purpose for existing, to ensure her strength and vitality. You have what she needs, Val.”
When Valerius’ eyes became shuttered with self-doubt, Tristan laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You have what she needs,” he said again. “And you’re capable of giving her more than she’d ever bargained for because you love her. Whether she wants it or not, it’s your gift to give her. True love requires no reciprocation. True love is unconditional.”
