by Dani Harper
George smiled about that as he worked. Morgan had worked her butt off to achieve her dream of becoming a veterinarian, and had eventually opened her own clinic. In fact, Brooke took her spoiled cats there for their annual checkups and shots. But last year had been special. He and Brooke had gone together to Morgan’s wedding, one of those trendy Celtic handfasting affairs. It had been held outdoors at Morgan’s farm and more than half the guests came dressed in historical costumes. Bride and groom had their photos taken on the back of the biggest horse George had ever seen up close (though he admitted he hadn’t seen many). Lucky for him, the silvery gray monster was docile enough to be allowed to wander freely with its best buddy, Fred—a brindle mastiff that was almost horse-sized itself. George had created some great sketches that weekend, with Fred helping inspire new details for the hellhounds in the Devina of Hades comic series.
All in all, the Celtic theme had been pretty cool. There was plenty of good food. And while the ale and mead had been old fashioned, there’d been plenty of it as well, so the décor could have been all pink roses and tuxedos and George would have been okay with it. Personally, though, he’d prefer a Vegas wedding, maybe something with Elvis just because that was kind of classic, but each to his—
George suddenly paused in midscoop, oblivious to the plinking sound of glass shards sliding to the floor from edge of his shovel. Wasn’t Morgan’s new husband from Wales? His name was Reese or Rhys or something like that. And they and their friends were experts on all kinds of historical stuff, too. I wonder if that includes relics like Aidan? George made a mental note to talk to Brooke about it—he would have whipped out his cell right now to ask her, but he’d insisted she go home with his mom for a while. His mom had needed a break, but so did Brooke—even if she kept saying she didn’t. He was still having trouble wrapping his brain around whatever the hell had happened here, and it had shaken him right down to his Doc Martens that his friend could have been seriously hurt.
Traveling to Morgan’s, however, just might fix everything. They could drive up to Spokane Valley and deliver the stained glass in person—but better yet, they could take Mr. I’m-a-Blacksmith-Who-Used-to-Be-a-Dog with them. George would be more than glad to see that walking, talking problem handed off to somebody else. Not that Aidan appeared dangerous or dishonest or anything like that. No, George was much more concerned that given Brooke’s overdeveloped sense of responsibility, her devotion to the Gift, and her tender and compassionate heart, she’d adopt the stranger as a project. Or worse. Just what the hell was with that kiss? Brooke had had relationships before, but he’d never seen her behave quite like that. In fact, he’d never seen anything like it in connection with his best friend, and it had startled him enough that he hadn’t physically intervened.
So as best bud and big brother (yeah, yeah, she was six months older), George felt a need to protect her from herself if nothing else.
Physically, though, he had to admit, she’d protected herself from Aidan pretty damn well. He was so effin’ proud of her and, oh, man, he wished he’d had his cell out so he could video that punch. Her form was perfect—just as George had taught her. And she’d been fast enough that Aidan never saw it coming. So now the guy would think twice or maybe even three times before he touched her again, and that was A-OK with George.
The best part, of course, was that Aidan had no clue that Brooke had “cheated.” And George knew only because he had firsthand experience with her secret weapon. She’d tried out that power punch on him one day when they were practicing and sent him flying ass over teakettle. Although he felt a blow, her fist had never physically connected with his face—only the explosive force of her magic. Somehow she’d mustered the energy from deep within herself, probably drawing it up from her very toes. And, man, she had let him have it. He’d had a headache for a week, and he cheerfully hoped Aidan had one for twice as long.
Meanwhile, he was forced to give Aidan full creds for at least being a hard worker. George had caught sight of him carrying a metal garbage can down the stairs to the alley by himself. The loaded cans were goddamn heavy, and normally both men would have had to work together to heft them down the steep steps. Hell, George knew he couldn’t do it alone even though he worked out two to three hours a day, and sometimes more. Aidan, however, had astonished him by making it look easy. No complaining either. Sure, the dude was bigger than he was—but size alone didn’t always determine strength, something he’d often witnessed at the mixed martial arts gym.
Still, truth be told, George’s pride was smarting a little that he hadn’t been able to take the guy down. Hell, he hadn’t been able to slow him down. He’d never run into an opponent like that. And could you even call Aidan an opponent when he hadn’t even participated? The big dude hadn’t so much as looked at him. Magic. It had to be magic of some kind. Maybe something just like Brooke used. What George wouldn’t do for a rematch with Aidan if that supernatural protection ever wore off…
Of course, it was hard to stay pissed when Aidan didn’t brag or show off in any way. Some of the guys at the gym would have been sure to call attention to themselves, like when they bench-pressed double their own weight or made other big lifts, but Aidan treated his strength like an everyday thing. It was like the guy was used to that kind of a load or something. It made sense that he had to be tough to be a blacksmith, but, Dios, this was ridiculous.
It was while Aidan was taking yet another maximum load down to the alley that George spotted something shiny in the rubble that didn’t glitter like glass. With his gloved hand, he brushed away some of the debris to reveal the cool gleam of something silver. Some chain from the skylight? He didn’t remember it having anything like that—to the best of his memory, the skylight didn’t even open. George pulled on it and was surprised at what came out of the rubble. The thick intricate links interlocked like Middle Earth chain mail on steroids, forming a very wide and ornate collar of some sort. At least he figured that’s what it must be, although there was no catch, no clasp or fastener of any kind. Not necessary, he supposed—it was more than big enough to fit over the wearer’s head. And it was a thing of beauty, that was for sure.
“Kudos to the artist,” he murmured, his own inner artist utterly fascinated with the weighty piece. The craftsmanship was flawless, and the links appeared to have no seams at all. In fact, when he squinted, each individual link looked to be etched with beautiful designs and symbols. How the hell had somebody done that? The heavy metal shone brightly, but not garishly, as if it had been plated with real silver. Maybe it had—but he couldn’t begin to guess what the base metal could be, because no way would anyone make something like this out of solid silver, right? He supposed it could be some kind of steampunk design—one of the girls who worked at the gym was really into that stuff. Yet even the links formed patterns, too, designs that swirled and interconnected, neither masculine nor feminine but something unique that borrowed from both and neither.
On second thought, the whole thing seemed more like a replica of some ancient design or a museum piece. In fact, it would have fit right in with Morgan’s Celtic-themed wedding, George decided.
He held it in his cupped hands, hefting the weight of it. Despite how heavy it was, the thick links of the collar poured easily from one palm to the other, like a metal waterfall. It made little crystalline sounds, and he was reminded of tiny bells on a long ago Christmas tree. Happy sounds, pleasant sounds. Before he knew it, he had stripped off his T-shirt and put his head through the wide opening of the collar. The metal was cool and smooth against his skin as the heavy links draped sensuously over his collarbones, arranging themselves in a broad dramatic circle over his tanned pecs. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made expressly for him. It felt luxurious. Like he was a king, a pharaoh, a warrior prince—better yet, George could see himself entering the ring, commanding the attention and respect of the crowd, and intimidating his opponent before the fight even began. Man, he would look like an effin’ gladiator with this ch
ain-mail collar. He had to find a mirror, now, right now, and check this out. Before he’d taken more than a couple steps towards Brooke’s apartment, however, a wave of dizziness hit him hard. His vision tunneled for a moment, as if he’d been hit with a knockout punch.
It only lasted a moment though. The dizziness vanished, his vision cleared, and he could hear Aidan coming up the stairs. Quickly, he pulled his T-shirt over his head, grateful for the oversized sports logo printed on it—a pair of giant eyes frowned from shoulder to abdomen, hiding any faint bump that the collar might have made, and the red letters on the fabric spelled out a strangely apt message: Bad Boy.
Apt because he knew the silver collar could only belong to Aidan. What it meant, what it was for, what it was worth—none of that mattered. George Santiago-Callahan didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body and had never stolen a single thing in his entire life—but he wasn’t planning on giving the exquisite collar back.
Ever.
“Aidan ap Llanfor was mine! Mine to enjoy as I chose. Mine to take to my bed, mine to take his life away or grant it continue. All mine, and you lost him!”
Celynnen threw the scrying globe she was holding. It wasn’t a surprise that Lurien didn’t bother to flinch, even though it missed his head by scarcely a hair’s breadth—but it didn’t improve her mood. If only he had not removed his helm, then the silver sphere would have dashed itself into satisfying shards against it. As it was, her latest servant, a crymbil with vivid orange eyes, caught the would-be-missile before it could strike the grand arching window over her bed. Bowing, the creature set the orb in its place upon an exquisitely carved shelf.
“Leave us,” she snapped, and the crymbil ran from the room, its stubby wings flapping uselessly.
Celynnen circled the Lord of the Wild Hunt as he stood in her palace chambers. Her golden yellow gown and cleverly embroidered shoes were the color of autumn chrysanthemums, her white hair flowing loose with pale glowing blossoms snared in it. She was as a candle flame circling the darkness, the starkest of contrast to Lurien’s black leathers, tall boots, and wild black hair. Everything about him was the very opposite of her and completely unlike anyone else in the Court. For one thing, he did not fear her. Any other male among the fae would have stood at rigid attention—had he even been received into her private rooms—but Lurien’s stance was casual. “You are entirely too confident,” she warned. “You are here only because I wish it, because I would speak privately with you. So far, I do not like the tale you bring me.”
“The truth is the truth, my lady.”
“So you say. Tell me again how it came to pass that a simple grim eluded the most skilled hunter among our kind.”
“With the escape of the previous grim, I tightened all of our precautions. My watcher alerted me that this latest grim had returned from the mortal world as expected and yet failed to arrive at the kennels. It took time to find his trail, even with the hounds, because we could not guess which way he had gone. I traced the grim at last as he left the stone path, tracked him through the royal gardens, and followed his spoor to the Silver Maples, all the way to the Gray Gate. We did not expect him to strike out over the Deep Waters. There, it proved nearly impossible to track him—I’m sure you’re aware, princess, that horses and hounds are not aquatic in nature. To make matters more difficult, it seems that the gods of the sea allowed the grim asylum. Not only would they not give him up; they would tell us nothing, and they stirred the waves that we could not find his trail again. We searched until dawn was upon us, and I had no choice but to send the Hunt back to the realm.”
She stopped directly in front of him. Like all those of the royal line, she was willowy tall, but she still she had to stand upon her toes to peer into his face—she utterly refused to look up to an inferior. In his eyes she searched not for truth but for the answers she wanted. But while her own eyes were iridescent, as pale and crystalline as her hair, Lurien’s were deep black pools. They told her exactly nothing—although a faint quirk of his mouth announced that he was amused by her efforts to read him.
It infuriated her further, even as on some level she knew that was precisely his intent.
“No choice? You had no choice but to let a valuable prisoner escape? A servant belonging to the royal family?”
“Your honorable family had nothing to do with this particular prisoner. I doubt they even know of his existence. You alone are the one who captured him and kept him for your own amusement.”
She refused to respond to that but began pacing again. Hidden within the long, deep sleeves of her gown, her delicate hands opened and closed, wishing for something else to throw, wanting even more to strike at him with her fists or claw the strong planes of his face with her curving fingernails. Her handsome mortal blacksmith, Aidan ap Llanfor, was gone. She hadn’t even finished playing with him yet—the stubborn man had refused to bargain for a return to his comely human body. She had succeeded neither in seducing him nor forcing him into her bed. He couldn’t be beyond her grasp, not yet. The game wasn’t over.
“You let him go, Lurien! What I am hearing is that you feared the dawn more than you feared me.” The light outside dimmed as a rare congregation of clouds, heavy with water that made them purple as a bruise, gathered in direct response to her temper. “I doubt that you even tried to recapture him at all!” she accused, and silver needles of rain slashed a slanted path to the ground, piercing the petals of the glowing roses beyond the great arching window.
“I said I sent the Hunt back. I did not say I went with it.” To her surprise, Lurien took a step towards her, then another, a dark panther slowly stalking. “And I fear nothing, not even a spoiled tywysoges like yourself.”
“You dare much,” Celynnen hissed, reminding him that his prey was dangerous. Instead, he moved faster than even fae sight could perceive, and seized her slender upper arms.
“Until now, I have not dared nearly enough.”
Outside, the rain fell harder, flattening the jewel-bright grass and beating down the leaves from the trees. There were cries of alarm in the distance as the intricately patterned palace gardens were washed into disarray. Lurien only laughed. “Surely you do not call that a storm, Celynnen? Come to my bed, and I will undress you by the sheen of lightning and make pleasure pound like thunder in your sapphire blood.”
He had nullified her magic somehow. And she could not free herself by struggling. No one had ever laid hands on her before, and certainly no one had ever held her helpless. “I will destroy you for this outrage!” she hissed.
“You can try. But consider this: you have taken countless lovers over the eons—hapless human pets, and Court-climbing fools, and tame Tylwyth Teg nobility. But you have never been taken, and you have never lain with one such as I. Are you not curious as to what I can make you feel?”
The tiny silver dagger was heavy in the hem of her sleeve, and her hand was already on its smooth diamond hilt. Another inch or two and she would have impaled him like an insect, although a scratch would suffice, and then laughed as the poison released from the blade paralyzed him. She would have taken her pleasure slowly then, unwrapping him layer by layer as if he were a gift. First the leathers. Then the skin…
Would have, except his last sentence completely arrested her attention: Are you not curious as to what I can make you feel?
Yessss! screamed something primal within her, aching and anxious for sensation, for emotion, for anything. And there was no more valuable currency in the entire Nine Realms than what the Lord of the Wild Hunt was presently offering her…
Something new.
She released her grip on the dagger and allowed it to slide back into its sheath in her sleeve. “We are intrigued,” she said, and it pleased her that he did not miss her deliberate use of the royal we. “You have our permission, nay, our command, to demonstrate the abilities you boast of.” Her condescending tone lit fires of annoyance in his gaze, and she met his irritation with her most dazzling smile. If he thought he was go
ing to do the taking, he was gravely mistaken.
Lurien smiled back—and in an eyeblink, they were not only within another chamber but in another place entirely. His strong hands still braceleted her upper arms, but her back was towards him, where she couldn’t help but feel the hard press of his proud cock through her heavy gown. Celynnen could also see the full splendor of the vast room he had brought her to. The high ceiling was transparent, formed entirely of enormous quartz crystals. Although there was nothing but sky above them, the glasslike structures clustered together as if they had grown there, and many stretched down into the room like six-sided stalactites. The towering walls utilized quartz as well, clear polished blocks in a multitude of shapes that fitted perfectly together with narrow slabs of translucent agate. Here and there, smaller gemstones had been inset at random—amethyst, peridot, citrine, and garnet—yet there was nothing feminine about this place. It was organic in the sense that perhaps it had not been built at all, but grown, sprouted from some mountainside, or birthed from a volcano’s maw, or seeded by some ancient meteor. It was a room meant for the night, one that would reflect and magnify the cold silver light of the moon and its attendant stars as they rode across the dark sky.
The centerpiece was the magnificent bed, six-sided to mimic the quartz crystals high above it, with six carved agate posts. Carelessly tossed upon it was the butter-soft pelt of an enormous golden lion, a creature that had not been seen in the mortal world for thousands of years. The thick luxuriant skin draped the entire bed, promising a treasure trove of sensation. Celynnen was jolted by a tiny coil of excitement deep within her as she thought of how that fur might feel against her naked—
