The arrow he’d had poised at a stag large enough to provide meat for the season had lost its target. Frustration over wasted time almost overcame the unease circling inside him. He slung his bow onto his back and stalked through the knee-deep flora, shoving the arrow into its quiver. He made quick work of the woods, having traversed them every day since his arrival, his soft leather boots barely touching the ground.
He couldn’t remember the last sight of magic he’d beheld let alone felt. But he felt it now, coursing across his body, caressing his soul before moving away and into the darkness. The longing for the powers he’d been born with nearly drove him to his knees. Powers that had been stripped from him the instant he’d arrived in this world. A world both familiar and foreign. A world that had stolen everything from him.
A world from which he’d never escape.
While the light in the distance dimmed...it continued to glow.
The rustling in the trees ahead had him pulling his dagger from the sheath at his waist and he crouched to scan the area. A dark shape shifted into his line of sight. Dark but...small. Delicate almost. He narrowed his eyes and let the moonlight aid in his evaluation. Arms and legs like himself. More slight—fragile, even—as the figure tumbled and stumbled along the worn path he’d created upon arriving in this place. Drunk, no doubt. Or soaring along the hallucinogenic waves of Lovara root.
He gripped the hilt, planning his attack, determined to rid this world of another of Dracha’s soldiers. It would be a merciful death, Bowen told himself. Dracha was not known for his tolerance of wayward soldiers with a penchant for intoxicants.
Bowen shifted on silent feet, ready to pounce, waiting to see a telltale sign of stark yellow hair tied in intricate braids.
The odd squeal that erupted from the creature had him reconsidering. High-pitched, panicked, almost, and most definitely—
“Holly hell in a hand basket!” The squeal ended in a stream of words. “What in the crappety-crap just happened?”
A woman.
Bowen’s insides tightened as he shot to his feet. Knife still in hand, he moved forward, every step deliberate. He’d never seen a female sentry before. “Who are you?”
The woman yelped and spun so fast her feet flew out from under her. She hit the ground hard on her backside, long red hair spilling around her head as her skull smacked the ground. “Well, that’s just great. Ow.”
Bowen crept closer, his grip loosening as he reexamined his prey. He stood over her, marveling at the odd fitted cloak she wore and the pants covering her legs. And that hair. He hadn’t seen hair that color in.... What kind of magic was this? Where had this woman come from? “What are you?”
“Right now, I’m pissed off.” She shoved herself up on her elbows and glared at him. “And who—or what—are you?”
She didn’t seem intent on attacking him or defending herself. Either she was that certain of her power or she was completely out of her element. He would bet his last pelt on the latter. “I am Bowen.”
“Yeah, right. Bowen.” She snorted. “Next I suppose you’ll tell me you’re the Warden of the Eastern Realm.”
Bowen gnashed his teeth as his past shot back at him with the speed of an arrow. So their sacrifice had not gone unnoticed? Their battle to protect the Goddess’s daughter hadn’t disappeared into the ether of history after their disobedience? Their families...his heart stuttered. Did their families know the truth? Did his family live?
He focused his attention back on the stranger. “You know me?”
“Only in my thirteen-year-old mind. Although, I gotta admit”—she skimmed her eyes up and down his body in a way that reminded him he was most definitely male—“I think adult me is appreciating you in a much different way.” She dragged her feet underneath herself and pushed herself up. “Okay, Elya! Game’s over! Whatever you’ve done—”
“Elya!” Bowen raised his blade, ready to plunge his knife into the heart of the one who had betrayed them. His body stiffened as he scanned the sky and tree line. “The traitor! You’re one of hers! She’s here? With you?”
“Woah, hold on.” The woman scrambled back a step and held up her hands as he advanced on her. “I’m no one’s but my own. And this Elya person poses no threat. She’s probably older than that tree over there. So back up, Conan, and tell me what LARPG I’ve stumbled in to.”
“Ell-ay-are-pee-gee?” Such strange words coming from her lips. Determined lips. The moonlight caught her in its beam and she blinked green eyes at him; alarmed green eyes that, in the next moment, almost had him dropping to his knees. Instead, he lowered his blade and braced his feet apart as any warrior would when facing his goddess. “Shona.”
She stared at him and didn’t move. For an instant, Bowen wondered if time had turned against him and slowed even more.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she muttered. “I go twenty-seven years with barely a mention of the woman and the second I hit Edinburgh, I can’t get away from her. Nellie put you up to this, didn’t she? You know, I bet she and Amber planned this entire thing and they dropped some sedative in my tea this morning. Really good tea, which totally explains why I’m suddenly standing in front of a man who looks like he could rip that tree in two.” She reached up and pinched her cheeks repeatedly. Hard. “Come on. Wake up. Wake. Up.”
“Stop!” Bowen sheathed his blade and moved toward her, ignoring the flash of panic that shot into her face. “You are hurting yourself.” He caught one of her hands in his. “Please. Stop. I will keep you safe.”
Admiration speared through him as she inched up her chin and braced her feet.
“Right.” She gave a slow nod and dropped her gaze to their linked hands. “Not sure we’d
agree on what you consider safe. Whatcha doing there, Robin Hood?”
These names she called him, they made him want to smile. Her fingers fit perfectly between his, the touch of her skin as smooth as the water that rushed over the rocks in the nearby river. He rotated his hand, rubbed his thumb over the pulse pounding unsteadily in her wrist. An unexpected—and most welcome—heat blasted through his body and settled heavily in his groin. How long had it been since he’d touched a woman? Seen a woman? Interacted with anyone who didn’t try to kill or trap him? Or betray him to those who wanted him dead.
Which was why he lived alone. In the middle of nowhere. As far from the marketplace and central community as he dared. He’d all but arrived with a target on his back and a price on his head: a trophy to be won for Dracha, his men, or Bowen’s fellow prisoners. Alone he only had to worry about protecting himself while not being surrounded by those willing to do—or say—anything to make their own existence more tolerable. Now his only companions were the knots of dread that had tightened in his belly upon his arrival.
As he inhaled, above the night aroma of lavender heavy thistle-ferns blooming beneath the moon he caught the scent of something spicy and warm. Much like the woman standing before him.
Her mouth opened and closed, as if she struggled to speak. Had a spell overtaken her? Had she brought magic back to him with her mere—and unexpected—arrival? He felt her tremble under his touch and with his other hand, he caressed her cheek, catching her chin in his fingers and angling her face up and into the light.
“You are bewitching.” He couldn’t help it. His hand moved to the length of her hair that tumbled in thick waves over and behind her shoulders. Even strewn with leaves and sticks, he’d never beheld a more beautiful sight than the pale-skinned woman with a small nose and sparkling, jewel eyes. Innocent eyes that looked to him in uncertainty. “Your name. Tell me your name.”
“Clara.” There it was, the melodious voice he’d worried she lost. “Clara MacQueen. And you’re one hell of a welcoming committee.”
He watched as she lifted a hand to his face, stroked his cheek, and had him resisting the urge to haul her into his arms and carry her into his dwelling.
“Remind me to thank my sisters for however they managed to pul
l this off.” Her fingers curved around to the back of his head as she rose up on her toes. “No harm in playing along, is there?”
“Sisters.” Her mouth was a mere breath from his. “You are of Shona. You and your...sisters.”
She licked her lips, the tip of her tongue darting out ever so slightly; ever so tempting. “Shona MacQueen? Yes, she’s my mother. But we can talk about that later—”
“Hell and hail fury.” Bowen released her and stepped back, forcing the attraction growing inside of him back to its dormant state. He stepped back, shifting his hold so he grabbed her arms and kept her at a distance. Shona was not old enough to have a child of this age. “Dark magic enhanced by lies.” Even as he uttered the words he knew—as certain as he continued to draw breath—this Clara was precisely what she claimed.
Shona, only reaming daughter of the Goddess, had birthed children? Had continued the magical line? Shona was...alive?
Relief would have driven him to his knees had he surrendered to it. Instead, all he could do was stare at the woman who had brought not only light to this dark world, but also...hope.
“Not the magic I was going for.” Clara muttered. “Ease up there, Hercules. I’m not going anywhere. Yet.” She kicked at the book at their feet as Bowen heard a crack in the distance.
He hauled her closer before shoving her behind him and this time, he drew the broadsword he’d not used in many cycles.
“If you’re trying to scare me—”
“Quiet!” Bowen sliced the word as sharp as he could, angling his head as the sound of voices and booted feet echoed through the woods.
“Look, this has been fun and all and whatever theater group Nellie found you in, I’ll leave you a great Yelp review. Totally authentic, really. But I need to get back. You hear that, Elya? You can wake me up any—”
“I said quiet!” Bowen reached back and gripped her hip. “Dracha’s men are determined and cunning. They will not give up until they find the source of the fire that streaked the sky. We must go.” He sheathed his sword. “Now.”
“That’s what I just said.”
When he turned around he found her staring at him. Whatever fear she’d been displaying earlier had vanished and instead, he found nothing but muted humor reflected on her face. The woman didn’t have any idea what was going on, did she? His stomach quivered as he found himself reciting the oath he’d taken all those years ago. The oath he and his friends had broken by disobeying orders. This woman, this Clara, was his chance for redemption.
“Just like a man to usurp a woman’s idea for his own,” Clara muttered. “You know, I have a good mind to just wait here for your friend Dracha and—Hey! What are you doing?! Put me down! Wait! The book!”
Her screams of protests cut off abruptly as he stooped down and threw her over his shoulder. She kicked her feet, the toes of her boots hitting disturbingly close to where he’d much prefer her hands. Her fists hit him hard at the base of his spine and he grunted. She was strong for such a little bit of a thing.
“Since you are not inclined to move on your own, I shall move for both of us.” He made quick work of the twisting path to the mouth of the cave that lay deep in a clearing among a thicket of Farrengold trees and vicinta shrubs, a prickly yellow plant with thick stickers which burrowed under the skin.
She twisted her body around and her fists unclenched so she could grab at him. “Oh, no. Do not take me in there.”
“I mean you no harm.” What would it take to keep this woman quiet? “We must hide. You will be safe here.” The inclination to hide went against every instinct raging through him. He was a warrior, a soldier, sworn to protect the Goddess and all her kin, but the only way he could fulfill that obligation was to stay alive. And taking on a battalion of Dracha’s men was only going to be a fight in futility. Not without a plan at least.
“Put. Me. Down!”
Once inside, he did as she demanded. “Now will you be quiet?”
“Just tell me to do that one more time.” She moved closer, planting her hands on her hips, and stared at him, eyes to chin. “I dare you.”
Reminding him of a scared rabbit, she attempted to dart past him, which he prevented easily by holding out his arm. After shoving him proved fruitless, she tried the other side. He caught her around the waist and shifted her back. Then she attempted to dive under him. He bent down and hauled her up. Finally, she stopped and crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. Bowen’s lips twitched. If only they had more time to play this game.
“If you don’t stay still and be quiet, I shall be forced to restrain you.” He reached over the entrance to the cave and untied the animal skin covering he’d fashioned soon after his imprisonment in this realm. The skin of the eloquine, a large animal normally used for transportation over vast distances, would reflect any light cast on it and make it appear as if the opening did not exist. At least that was the theory.
Bowen had only tested the curtain on intoxicated interlopers and never well-trained, let alone sober, soldiers. He could only pray it would continue to work.
“I’m all for hiding from...whoever they are.” Clara’s voice lowered but trembled none the less. “But not here. I can’t do close dark spaces. Nothing I can do about it. Crap.” She patted her hands on her sides. “Left my cellphone in my purse. Along with my sanity, apparently.”
“It’s not dark. I can see you.” He could hear her breathing, ragged, short, shallow breaths that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He looked over his shoulder to where she stumbled over to the cave wall.
Frustration and sympathy intermingled as he reminded himself that The Forgotten Realm was a place of nightmares. Growing up, he and Keane and Rivalin had been warned of the prison world reserved only for those who had committed unforgiveable crimes or had dishonored themselves or their families. Half the lunar cycle was spent in varying degrees of darkness. Light was used as a weapon and could ignite curiosity from both man and creature. Advantage was often given to those who had been here longest, but his training had given him an instant reputation. That said, he’d lost count of the scars he’d accumulated proving he should be left alone.
If it had been difficult for him to adjust, he could only imagine how terrified Clara must be. Clara. His heart twisted in his chest even as a newfound sense of pride swept over him. This was his chance to prove himself worthy once more—to the Goddess, to his dead comrades. To himself. He would protect the woman to whatever end the Goddess deemed fit. And earn his honor back in the process.
He shifted position so he could see both outside the cave and keep watch over her. Even from the vast distance, he could see the outline of the book she’d arrived with lying on the ground near the underbrush. She was clearly not of this world. Her words, her attitude, none of this fit in the world he knew. But he knew there were far more mysteries in life than anything that had explanation. To discount something as unbelievable simply because he’d never seen or experienced it himself...the concept simply didn’t make practical sense.
Had the book acted as a type of portal? In which case, Clara was right and he’d been wrong to leave it behind. Magic like that, power like that, in Dracha’s hands would only mean more trouble for him and the others who dwelled in this realm through no choice of their own.
He shifted his fingers under the edge of the curtain, fisting the thick fabric in his hand as he debated his odds of being able to retrieve the book and return without being noticed.
His eyes narrowed against the flicker of torch flame as the soldiers came closer. Over the unnerving mumbling and whispers of Clara’s unease, his fear was realized as saw one of the silver armored soldiers carry the book into the clearing and uttered an excited cry of triumph over his fellow men.
Bowen cursed and withdrew his hand from outside the cave as Clara let out a whimper. She had her arms wrapped so tightly around herself he wondered how she could breathe. A thin thread of moonlight trickled in from an overhead crack in the stone, enough
for him to see well enough to move. Which he did. Toward her.
“Clara.”
She started at the sound of her name as Bowen marveled at how it sounded coming from his lips. Clara. So natural, so beautiful. So...perfect.
He didn’t know why, but he left his sentry post and moved toward her, held out his hand to guide him, only to find it caught hard in hers. The second she grabbed hold of him, that odd flame of connection shot through him and for the first time since he arrived in this realm, the knots of dread loosened inside him.
“I hope you have a paper bag around here somewhere, Tarzan.” She squeezed his hand hard. “Because I’m about to have a major panic attack.” The air in her lungs sounded heavy, as if she’d been caught in a rushing river’s undertow. “Crap. Can’t. Stop. It.” She shook her head and he felt her hair brush against his face as the footsteps of the soldiers drew closer. “I’m sorry. Always. Had. Them. Can’t—”
He silenced her the only way he could think of.
He pressed his mouth to hers.
* * *
The pressured panic twining through Clara’s chest took a side route and shot straight to her toes which curled in her boots. His lips were softer than she imagined, stronger than she anticipated, and more tempting than reason dictated. Without a second thought she surrendered to the sensations coursing through her and rose up. Her hand flattened against his torso as she trailed fingers up toward his heart where she gripped his shirt. The weakness in her knees faded as the urge to draw closer to him overrode the confusion fogging her brain. She clung to him and surrendered to the power of his kiss.
The soft moan that escaped her throat didn’t get very far as he angled his head and, after a gentle brush of fingers against the side of her face, deepened the kiss. She opened her mouth beneath his and their tongues brushed, relishing in the sudden tightening of his body as he moved forward and pinned her against the cave wall.
The clanging of metal against stone outside the cave had her gasping as Bowen tore his mouth away, but instead of abandoning her and letting her drop to the ground, he moved closer and braced her body against his, his leg sliding between hers to hold her up.
Issue 7, Febraury 2018: Featuring Jayne Ann Krentz: Heart's Kiss, #7 Page 17
