by Dani Harper
Slowly, he reached a hand towards her smooth face—only to have it knocked away by the young man who hovered within reach of both of them.
“Don’t you touch her, man! Don’t you dare fucking touch her.”
Aidan struggled to disobey his first inclination—which was to silence the interrupter with his fist. But he was Annwyl’s companion and admirably trying to protect her, however ineffectively, and so Aidan held himself back. For now.
“George, stop,” she said firmly, holding up a hand to the barbarian. “I can feel that it’s okay. A little weird, but okay.”
Her voice…it was the one Aidan wanted to hear above all others, and yet there was something not quite right. Familiar, yes, and yet unique to itself. Time. Time was surely the cause of his confusion. So damned much of it had passed.
Her eyes were wary, however, when he traced her left brow with his fingertip. What had happened to make her so suspicious of him, so distrustful, he wondered. And why was one of her fine brows white? Had she been injured? What things had happened in her life while he was gone, while he was a captive all these years? While he wasn’t here to protect her…
Sense penetrated his brain then: Why was she as young as ever? Neither care nor weather nor age had lined her face. Her hair was still glossy like a starling’s wing—although above the strangely pale brow was something else new to him, a single delicate lock of snowy white. He wound it gently about his finger and released it, knowing that years had not given her this pale tendril. Its softness encouraged him to reach gently behind her head and slide his hand into her hair. It was full and thick, silky and…
Shorn. He’d been expecting it to be bound up at the nape of her neck. Instead the entire length fell barely to her chin. Had she cut off her long beautiful tresses in mourning for him? If that were so, then why were her arms not wound around his neck? Why were her lips not seeking his? Finally, he gave up asking himself questions and allowed simple instinct to take the lead. Instead of withdrawing his hand, he cupped the back of her head in his palm, slid his other arm around the small of her back, and drew her into a long, lingering kiss.
He poured all that he had into it, every yearning moment, every aching emptiness, every longing, every wish, every sigh—all for her. The strange barbarian she had called George was shouting something in the background, but Aidan blocked out the words. All of Aidan’s senses, all of his awareness, were in this moment, as was everything he had been unable to express for longer than he could call to mind.
Aidan could taste her surprise, her hesitancy. He closed his eyes and softly coaxed her lips to open to him, traced the sensitive corners of her mouth with his tongue, held her close enough to hear her heart beat, and sensed the instant it began to match his. He shared her breath and held it in as if he could keep it there inside him, mingled with his own. He held her gently yet firmly against him, close enough that the scant layer of fabric she wore couldn’t hide the press of her nipples against his chest. It was all so right and yet…
Not.
Confused, Aidan pulled back to look at her. The wariness had left her beautiful blue-green eyes and been replaced by puzzlement and a kind of wonder, but he could see no sign of recognition in them. None at all.
“Surely, I have not changed so much,” he chided, but icy fingers of doubt had already crept into his mind and he cupped her lovely face in his hands. “Have you not missed me, my love, my dear one? Is there no joy in your heart that I have returned?” Anger and panic collided then, and his voice rose accordingly. “Know me, Annwyl. In the name of all that is holy, you must know me.”
She didn’t try to pull away from him, but instead laid a hand on his cheek. “I’m so sorry that I don’t know who you are—but I sure wish I did.”
How could this be? His body called out to hers, and her body had answered. She was warm and right in his arms—he knew it, he could feel it—and yet he was a stranger to her?
Meanwhile, her companion had yet to stop speaking, and his tongue was sharp, as if to make up for his lack of success in defeating Aidan. The words finally penetrated his awareness. “I don’t know who you’re looking for, dude, but you got the wrong woman. She’s not your girl.”
Conscious thought had nothing to do with what happened next. Aidan simply picked up the young barbarian as though he were nothing more than a sack of flour and hurled him across the room to strike hard against the heavy oak door. Annwyl gasped, but to his credit, George was quick to get to his knees and was working to shake off the blow. She, however, suddenly shoved at Aidan’s shoulder. He automatically turned towards her…
Just in time to get knocked on his backside with an uppercut to the jaw that was completely out of proportion to her size.
Aidan sat staring up at her, dazed in more ways than one. This had to be a dream or a faery-constructed fantasy. Had to be.
“That wasn’t about the kiss, mister, in case you’re wondering,” she said. Her hands rested on her curved hips, and her eyes had darkened to turquoise. “I enjoyed that. But you just crossed the line by putting hands on my friend. I’m not in the business of hitting people, but I will absolutely spell you into the middle of next week if you do that again.” She called over to the friend in question, who had gotten to his feet. “Are you all right, George?”
“Never better.” He coughed and spat as he rolled his shoulder. “Can I kill him now, chica?”
“No. Maybe later if you behave.”
He snorted. “You always spoil my fun, you know that?” He made his way over the debris and put an arm around her. To Aidan he said: “Look, I told you, man, she’s not your girl. She’s not the woman you’re looking for. So maybe now will you get some effin’ clothes on and explain what the hell you’re doing here? Because I am more than ready to take you out.”
Aidan was perfectly aware of his nakedness, but surely that would not bother Annwyl overmuch. A betrothal was every bit as binding as a marriage, and they had lain together more than once. For the first time, he dropped his gaze from her face to consider the rest of her. She had always favored a flowing chemise with a green kirtle, but there was no sign of those. Only dark blue leggings like her male companion wore, but narrower, and over them rested a black-on-black tunic that left her arms bare. Stranger still, the finely woven fabric was patterned with life-size shadowy skulls and strange ornate symbols amid a Latin inscription, Audaces fortuna iuvat. He had no trouble reading it—Fortune favors the bold. It was a warrior’s creed, not a saying that many women ascribed to. Certainly far removed from anything his careful and practical Annwyl would ever say—or think.
Common sense returned to him in this uncommon situation, and he realized that his own gentle woman would never, ever, wear such masculine garments. Coupled with the slight difference in eye color, and the presence of the snowy brow and matching wisp of white hair above it—not to mention the stunning impact of her small fist on his jaw—there was only one crushing conclusion: however much his body claimed to know her, however much he wanted a miracle, wanted her to really be his betrothed, this woman was a stranger.
And that meant Annwyl was dead.
It was right there in his mind, mixed in with all the other memories that had come rushing back to him: the utter horror of what Celynnen had done, the coldness with which she destroyed mortal lives—including the one most dear to him—to suit her own selfish ends.
Aidan stood then, and straightened his shoulders to bear this new pain, even as the disappointment rose thick in his throat, choking him. Fresh grief was in the air he breathed, as tangible as ash.
The strange woman saw it too, as if all of Aidan’s thoughts had played out before her like a tragic story. “I don’t know who Annwyl is,” she said, and his heart was squeezed by an unseen fist. It was not his beloved’s voice, not at all. How could he have been so mistaken? “But she is very fortunate,” she continued, stroking his pain unawares, sending daggers into his chest with every syllable. “It’s obvious that you love her ver
y much.”
The strangeness of his surroundings, the way this woman was dressed, the bodyguard with his hair dyed blue like the ancient Picts of Britain—what could it be but some grand game of the Tylwyth Teg, a new and novel form of entertainment? Perhaps he hadn’t escaped Lurien after all, perhaps he was still a captive grim…
But he wasn’t Death’s herald anymore—he was human. He’d gained that much at least. It was his own body, and it was very mortal indeed. When the slash from the warth had ripped his left leg from hip to knee, he’d bled blue. The transformation from grim to human had sealed the wound, but the thick angry scar hurt like blazes—an unpleasant novelty, since it hadn’t caused that kind of pain when he received it.
He was bleeding red, however, from other places, from too many nicks and scratches to count. Not only that, he felt like an entire team of draft horses had kicked him, but every bruise and cut seemed a victory of sorts. He was a man again, and just to be able to feel something, anything, was cause to celebrate. No wonder the Fair Ones would stop at nothing to gain sensation and emotion.
Including trying to deceive me with a look-alike of Annwyl.
“Annwyl is dead,” he declared, saying it aloud for the first time. The words sounded harsh and absolute in his ears. “I have been deceived. You are not her.” Then, not certain if he was trying to convince an unseen fae audience or maybe just himself, he added: “You are nothing like her.” It came out like an accusation, and an angry one at that.
She paled. “I didn’t realize—I’m so very sorry to hear that. But no one was trying to deceive you. Maybe you were just a little confused, you know, from falling through the roof and all that.”
He said nothing for a long moment, thinking, considering. This woman sounded sincere, and he wanted to believe her. Yet she might actually be one of the Fair Ones; it was a simple matter for a fae to assume a glamor, taking on any image desired, including that of the woman he loved. If that was true, then more was at stake than deception—for him, it could be extremely dangerous. To touch a disguised fae might enact a spell, or perhaps give consent when none was intended. It is something Celynnen would do…By the gods, he’d actually kissed her—and a large part of him wanted to do it again. He could already be compromised.
The woman tried again. “Look, my name is Brooke Halloran. You’re bleeding from the glass and I can see a couple slivers from here,” she said. “Will you let me help you? How badly are you injured?”
“Not badly enough,” muttered George.
“Your concern is unnecessary,” Aidan said. He was still naked but, at the moment, it would have to be her problem, not his. “Tell me where I am and how I got here,” he demanded sharply, and with more than a little anger. “And tell me truly who and what you are, Brooke Halloran. I do not know you for friend or foe.”
“Know me for your foe, then, asshole.” George stepped between them, putting his face directly in Aidan’s line of sight. “You don’t talk to her like that, ever.” A shaft of sunlight from the ruined roof turned the young barbarian’s eyes to sudden bright gold—and it took everything Aidan had not to jump back in surprise.
Brooke Halloran had a demon for a consort.
NINE
Demons did not willingly associate with the Fair Ones, not even with the darkest of the fae. The woman currently elbowing the one called George out of the way could not be of the Tylwyth Teg, then, or of any of the other faery races. She must be mortal, reasoned Aidan, like himself. It was a relief, and yet she was very far from ordinary. For one thing, she was now in front of the demon. What creature from the pit would permit that, unless she was in command of him? He could feel George glaring daggers at him with those hideous eyes, but Aidan was once again looking into the face of the woman who had identified herself as Brooke Halloran. And suddenly he realized something that had been niggling at the edges of his awareness since the moment he’d kissed her. There was magic here, a tremendous well of power—and it was coming from her. “You’re a gwddon,” he guessed. “Some would say a witch.”
She frowned. “Well, that’s awfully damn perceptive for a first meeting,” she said, and her demon snorted.
“Have you looked at this place, chica?” he whispered to her. “It doesn’t take much perception to see that either C-4 or Gandalf was involved.”
Surely, no good could come of acknowledging demons. Aidan had ignored George since the beginning, and he stuck with that strategy now. The woman was the one in charge here. He must be far too accustomed to living in the faery realm, where magic was as elemental as air, not to have recognized her power sooner. “To what craft do you owe your allegiance, witch? Dark or light? I warn you, do not seek to make me your servant.”
“Are you kidding me?” Indignation flashed in her blue-green eyes. “Are you kidding me? I take back what I said about being perceptive.” She took a step forward and actually poked him in the chest. “If you can tell I’m a witch, you can also tell there is no evil here.” She punctuated every word with another sharp poke. “My calling is to help and to heal. As to why you’re here, I could ask you the same thing. What the hell are you doing in my goddamn house? It’s about time you told me why I shouldn’t have your naked ass dragged off to jail.” She folded her arms to mirror his and jutted out her chin.
Even if she hadn’t had the power to bring him here, even if she hadn’t knocked him down, even if she didn’t command a demon, if there was any lingering notion in his mind that this woman might be Annwyl, her demeanor alone would have just dispelled it. His betrothed would never have stood up to him in such a way. She had been raised to be an obedient daughter, devoted to serving her father and her household; she would have been a dutiful and submissive wife. In fact, she would never have given Aidan any cause to be angry in the first place.
And she most certainly would never have used a tavern maid’s language.
It was difficult, though, to separate disappointment and grief from anger, and Aidan’s anger would not leave him. There had been a time when he had been a reasonable and fair man, a generous and kind man, and most of all, a man in control of himself. Right now, though, his emotions settled uneasily like wary wolves, ready to rend and tear at the slightest provocation. At least his voice, when he found it, was somewhat quieter than it had been to this point. “My senses tell me you intend no harm,” he said to Brooke. “But I do not know if they are guiding me aright.” It galled him to admit such a weakness, especially to strangers. Yet of what use was it to play games? Games were for the fae. He needed answers, and maybe some basic human honesty was the only way to get them. “Over the years, I have learned never to trust what I see and hear and feel, and even my instincts are suspect.” Did I not just mistake this woman for my betrothed?
“That is a difficult state to be in, and I do not envy you.” Her voice had also softened, but it had lost none of its firmness. “But don’t you ever, ever, question my motivation again. I may not be perfect at being a witch, but I take the responsibility damn seriously.”
No, she was not his beloved, but she was human—and he was surprised to find himself hanging on her every word. No spell compelled it, but rather, he was hungry, nay, starving, for simple human speech. Not for words that flowed around him and through him, not words intended for others as if he were not present, not words that commanded him or mocked him, but words being directed to him. By other mortals. Had he not drunk in every word that Maeve Lowri Jones had said to him? It had been more than comforting; it was an acknowledgment of his existence, his identity, even within a fae-contrived canine body.
Not conversation but connection.
Now he was in his own body, and to hear this unusual mortal woman addressing him was like rain on parched earth. Though he knew now she was not Annwyl, the act of being acknowledged was still life affirming. Even if she had cursed him, he would still have been grateful for every damning word.
In fact, perhaps it would be better if she shouted curses at him—he wouldn’t be so c
onscious that despite her shorn hair and strange dress, she was pleasing to look upon. Now that he was a man again, he was rapidly becoming aware of things he hadn’t noticed in a millennium. Annwyl or no, parts of him were in imminent danger of responding…
His tad—his father—had been fond of saying first things first. Aidan glanced around and spotted the strange cloth that George had thrown at him. It was stiff and shiny on one side, with bright-colored creatures on it, backed with some kind of soft fabric. He girded himself with the awkward material as best as he could, and a great deal of tension left the room at once, including some of his own.
He regarded Brooke, who was still waiting for an answer. Aidan was not afraid of so-called witches—every community depended on those who were skilled with herbs and healing wisdom. Perhaps he could make some peace and win some cooperation if Brooke and her demon knew that he intended no harm to her. “If you do indeed follow the light, then I have naught but praise for you and your kind. A wise woman with skills in your art healed me of a fearful burn when I was but a very young apprentice.”
Aidan extended his left arm and turned it to reveal the underside. The skin was faintly shiny from palm to elbow, but it was smooth and unmarked. “I stumbled and fell upon the forge, into the coals. I would not even have had the use of this arm had she not been very skilled and much devoted. She cared for me for days, and as you can see, there is no scar to tell the tale.” He didn’t bother to add that the blessing had turned into a curse. Had he borne a scar, Celynnen surely would have lost interest in him. She cannot abide imperfection.
