“What—” she halted her whisper at the sharp turn of his head. In the receding darkness she saw the flash of his eyes and marveled at their golden, shimmering intensity. She bit her lip, head spinning as she clenched her hands in the fabric of his shirt. How was any of this possible? How was she...here? With him. Part of her didn’t want to know. Part of her just wanted to enjoy whatever fantasy this was.
Bowen shook his head, his long hair brushing over his shoulders to caress the back of her hand. She ducked her head while she tried to ignore the heated pressure building between her legs. Never in her life had she experienced such an intense—and immediate—reaction to a man. Any man let alone one who looked as if he’d stepped out of every fantastical hero-centric book she’d ever read. He was blindingly gorgeous, intensely overwhelming and could no doubt short circuit any electrical outlet with a mere glance. If any outlet could be found here.
She let out a long, slow breath and tried to ignore the desire pulsing through her. Forget electricity. It was as if he’d struck a dormant match inside of her and set her aflame. The way his body pressed into her, the way his hands caressed her, or even the way his arms held her left her reeling. What had happened to her in that bookstore that took her dreams to a place of such intense reality?
Maybe it was the nutmeg. She remembered smelling it when she’d entered. Nutmeg had been known to cause hallucinations, right? That had to be it. She’d never had such vivid dreams before. Such physical ones. She gripped her fingers harder, felt the firmness of his arms and chest beneath her grasp. She couldn’t explain a single thing that was happening including why she felt safe with him. So aroused with him.
The second the word slipped through her mind, Bowen eased away and her feet touched the ground once again. Had he read her thoughts and was offended? Did he not feel the same? Ridiculous. There was no mistaking his physical reaction to her. The flush that warmed her cheeks brought a shy, knowing smile to her lips even as the angry and frustrated shouts of men echoed beyond the mouth of the cave.
The light drew her and she moved in beside Bowen. He stood stone still in the center of the opening, as if daring those on the other side to attempt entry. This place was so odd. Where thick green brush and shrubs and draping tree limbs should be reflecting every shade of green, they glistened in reds, blues, and yellows, refracting against the moonlight. Flowers and blossoms glowed bright enough to cast light through the darkness which she only now realized was devoid of stars. Just a black blanket over hanging the space above the unending treetops.
She watched a group of armored men hacking their swords through the nearby brush. Flickering torches lit the area outside and cast panic-easing fragments of light into the cave. She looked at Bowen and pinched her lips tight to stop from asking how they weren’t seen, especially with the way the men violently searched the area. She brushed her fingers against his arm and felt a slight relaxing in his muscles. As she trailed her hand down, his fist opened and he wrapped his hand around hers. Instantly, she calmed.
The sound of hoof beats echoed in the night. A large horse-like creature, as black as the surrounding sky and adorned with a saddle and bit of sparkling bronze, came to a halt at the edge of the clearing. The rider’s muted command didn’t make sense to her, but the men on the ground scattered and reassembled in a razor sharp line on either side of him.
Clara couldn’t tear her eyes from the creature he rode. Iridescent scales covered its massive body and shimmered against the threadbare moonlight. The slick silver tail and mane glistened like liquid mercury and draped over the creature like a blanket. “Olappa,” she whispered and jumpedwhen Bowen squeezed her hand as a reminder to remain quiet. She remembered the creature from the storybook—part dragon, part horse type creature, an Olappa blood-bonded to its rider at birth. They were, in essence, one being. If one were to perish, the other would follow. Loyal beyond fault, the Olappa was one of the few creatures she, Nellie, and Amber had always agreed would make the perfect pet.
Nellie. Amber. Fear Clara would never again see her sisters nearly choked the breath from her lungs.
“What is this?” The question exploded through the darkness and made Clara jump. She gasped and followed the direction the rider’s sword had taken toward one of his soldiers.
The tension in Bowen’s body returned. Clara stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his.
A soldier stepped forward and into the thicket. “It is a book, my liege.” He clutched it against his chest and carried it over.
“Open it!” The rider ordered.
“Sir.” The soldier sheathed his sword and removed his black glove. The second he touched the brass lock on the cover, he began to shake.
Bowen released her hand and slipped his arm around Clara’s shoulders, turning her into him. “Don’t look,” he whispered as he bent over her. He attempted to push her face into his chest, but she turned at the last moment, clinging to him as she peeked out.
Yellow flames exploded from the lock and into the soldier’s fingers. He dropped the book and leapt back. Clara watched, horrified, as flames erupted inside the man’s body, illuminating every vein, every vessel, every bone and muscle before engulfing him in fire. Clara cringed as the man’s screams ripped through the night before falling heavily silent.
For an instant, Clara thought he’d survived. Until the ash of the soldier dropped to the ground and was carried away by the midnight breeze.
Nausea roiled inside her. Her entire body went cold as dreaded realization dawned. This wasn’t some drug-induced dream or hallucination. She hadn’t fallen asleep last night and neglected to wake up. Her fingers gripped Bowen’s shirt as she inhaled the warmth of him tinged with fresh air and determined strength.
Whatever was happening to her, around her, was real.
The rider slung his leg over the front of his saddle and dropped to the ground. The bronze helmet covering his face glistened in the firelight of his soldiers’ torches. Clara could hear the leathery squeak of his uniform as he moved. His men backed away as he approached the book.
He bent down and brushed his gloved hand over the cover to clear the remains, then traced a finger over the embossed image. With a shake of his head, he lowered his chin and removed his helmet.
Bowen’s arms tightened around Clara; whether in reaction or in protection she couldn’t be certain. Not until she looked up at him as shock crossed his handsome, scarred features.
She wanted to ask him who the man was; she wanted to ask him why he looked—for want of a better word—horrified. But voicing any question now would only add to his stress. Instead, she found herself reaching her hand to his face and brushing her fingertips lightly against his cheek.
Tears glistened in his eyes, but only briefly. So briefly Clara was certain she’d imagined them.
“Rivalin,” Bowen whispered as a coldness draped his face.
Clara looked back to the rider as he carried the book to his charge and remounted. That wasn’t possible. The Rivalin she’d read about was a hero, not a villain. He was good, pure of heart and one of the Goddesses’ chosen warriors. Warriors closer than brothers. Inseparable since childhood; chosen by the Goddess herself as her personal guards and warriors. They were the only ones she’d trusted with her last living child, a girl, unnamed in the stories, but considered the last hope of her people.
Clara cringed and wondered what was going through Bowen’s mind. How utterly betrayed he must be feeling. And yet....
How had he not known?
“Spread out and search the forest!” Rivalin ordered. “This book would not have arrived on its own. It came with someone. I want that someone found and brought to the keep to present to Lord Dracha. Move!” He bellowed. “Now!”
Clara followed Bowen’s lead and remained frozen where she was. Rivalin disappeared into the darkness of the woods as the torch-carrying soldiers dispersed. Darkness descended once more, punctuated only by the still-glowing wilting flowers, pitching Clara into the panic at
tack that had nearly suffocated her. She squeezed her eyes shut, chanting in her mind that she was safe, the darkness couldn’t hurt her. That in a few minutes Bowen would remove the covering to the entrance and she would once again breathe fresh, clean air in an open space.
Seconds ticked past. Minutes. Clara shifted on her feet, the hard soles of her boots little protection against the rocky ground of the cave. The ridiculousness of her situation began to dawn as doubt slipped free of its rational tether and floated away.
She was trapped in a book. With a warrior who had just learned one of his best friends had betrayed their oath. Clara giggled and tried to catch the sound behind her hand. Too late. She glanced up and found Bowen watching her, his expression furrowed to the point his eyebrows merged.
“If I start talking will you kiss me again?” She’d meant it as a question, not a request. But the second the words were out of her lips, she realized how easily he might misinterpret. Rather than wait for an answer, she stepped in front of him and reached for the covering to the cave.
“Wait.” His quiet command had her doing as he requested, but not without a tinge of irritation.
Did he really think she was dumb enough to go gallivanting out there with those soldiers still around? Soldiers she knew were looking for her? Resisting the urge to salute, she moved aside so he could poke his head out. Yeah, great idea. Let him get himself killed and leave her all on her own to deal with this Dracha person.
“Dracha.” Now it was Clara’s turn to frown. “Who is he?”
“Overseer of this land.” Bowen’s voice was back to its normal timbre and made her shiver. He had a deep, baritone voice that a woman could feel from her toes to the tip of her spine. There was a fluidity to it that drew her in, like the welcoming tide of the ocean drawing tempted toes to the shoreline.
“And what land is that exactly? This isn’t the Eastern Realm,” Clara told him and earned an arched brow in response. “I’ve read The Bruadarach since I was a little girl. I know all about you and Keane and...Rivalin. Or at least I thought I did.” She winced as he looked away and leaned further out of the cave. The air had warmed. Perhaps remnants of the torches? Or for another reason? “The three warriors charged with protecting the Goddess’s daughter. Bowen of the East, Keane of the North, and Rivalin of the West.”
“And what of the South?” Bowen asked.
“Alastrine, Goddess and Warden of All. The Southern Continent is a place of peace, whereas the other three are...not.”
“The Southern Continent was a place of peace,” Bowen corrected her. “Before we failed to protect Alastrine and all her people. Before our banishment to this prison realm. Before Keane and Rivalin were lost...”
He ripped the covering down and threw it inside the cave. His fists clenched and the muscles in his arms bulged. Clara could feel the rage building inside of him, like a fireball building to explosion and yet he couldn’t release it. Not without bringing the soldiers back.
“So this is a penal colony.” If only that information provided more answers rather than more questions. “How many prisoners are there?”
“I am one of thousands.”
“Quiet for such a crowded place.” The only sounds she did hear, other than the wind rustling through the leaves, was an odd growling sound as if a frog had a, well...a frog in its throat. “Where is everyone?”
“Cosanta Baile.” At her arched brow, he thought for a moment. “A place of protection. Inside the stone walls, people are left to their own devices. Mostly.”
That mostly didn’t sound entirely convincing. “Tell me what happened to your friends.” Uncertain what else she could do, she grabbed hold of his hands and slipped her fingers through his. He’d helped calm the panic inside of her earlier and while she didn’t think it a good idea to repeat his method of distraction, the least she could do was attempt to quell the rage coursing through his body. “Tell me what happened to Rivalin. Why would he be on the other side of good now?”
“I cannot explain it.” Bowen closed his eyes and took a long breath. “I saw him die with my own eyes. Pierced by Dracha’s sword the moment he arrived....” He looked up into the sky. “None of this matters now. What matters is that you need to be taken somewhere safe while I set out on this quest.”
“Somewhere safe?” Clara echoed. “Cosanta Baile?”
“Yes. Miranda will know what is best.” He shook his head. “It is not safe there for everyone.”
“Do you mean it’s not safe for you or for me?” What possible use could anyone have with an ignorant liability like her? As far as Bowen was concerned, okay, sure—she could see where some might consider him threatening, but—
“We will find out.” He stalked past her into the cave and after a few seconds, soft light erupted to illuminate the space. What she’d seen as grey stone now glowed an odd, deep purple, sparkling against the light like a geode. Caves normally smelled of stagnant water or moldy earth, but there were no suffocating aromas here. If anything, the air smelled a bit sweet. He’d fashioned a table out of chunks of wood, and she saw a collection of bowls, cups, and utensils lining a rudimentary shelf wedged into the side of the wall. A large, wide bed strewn thick with hand-woven blankets and rudimentary stitched cushions lay across the room as round, uneven candles flickered stronger rays of light than Clara would have thought possible.
But it was the sight of Bowen himself that stole what little breath remained inside her. Her earlier shadowed glimpses and imagination hadn’t done him justice. She’d suspected he was handsome—what dream in her head wouldn’t have provided a pretty picture?—but seeing him now, up close, the way he commanded the space he occupied with every long stride, the way the fabric of his pants and tunic stretched tight over his muscular form...she had to wonder if perhaps the Goddesses themselves had paid special attention to this man. The tiny scars that marred his angular face did nothing to detract from his good looks, framed by long, gold-tipped hair the color of rich espresso. Fearing she might be ogling a bit too much, she looked for something—anything—to distract her from staring.
“You have books.” The small shelving unit beside the table drew her close and she plucked one of the tattered, worn hide-covered tomes free. She didn’t recognize the language. To her it looked like a cross between runes and hieroglyphics. “Where did you find books?”
“The marketplace.” Bowen dragged a satchel free from one of the carved out spaces in the wall. “It’s a day’s walk from here. I can find most of what I need and want. Provided I have something to trade.”“I’m guessing they don’t take PayPal.”
Bowen stared at her.
“Yeah, bad joke. Sorry.” She stood up and rubbed her hands down her sides. “So, what are we going to do about getting that book back? I’m assuming if that’s how I got here, that’s how I get home.”
“We?” Bowen halted stuffing what looked like clothes into the bag and turned to face her. “This quest is for me alone. I will take you where you’ll be safe.”
“Oh, I heard you the first time. And no, you will not take me anywhere other than with you.”
He shook his head. “I am not accustomed to my orders being disobeyed. You will allow me—”
“Let’s put a pin in that male ego of yours for the time being, okay?” Clara struggled to maintain her patience. He had to be feeling a bit stressed out, but it wasn’t as if she’d had a Shirley Temple Good Ship Lollipop kind of day. “Even after a few minutes of knowing you, I feel safe in saying you aren’t going to leave something as powerful as that book in the hands of some evil warlord. That’s what Dracha is I’m assuming?”
“War. Lord.” Bowen frowned. “An odd phrase but accurate. He has fought in many wars. And you are correct. I am going after the book.”
“Huh. Wherever women go, misogyny follows. Even into other realms. Good to know.”
“Who follows?” Bowen demanded and darted back to the cave’s opening.
Clara grinned. Oh, she was really going to
have fun with this man. “In a nutshell, it’s a word that means sexism. The belief that men are superior to women and therefore are entitled to control their every move.”
“A fallacy.” Bowen’s gold eyes glimmered dangerously in the cave light. “Women are not only equal, but in my experience, far superior to the male species. It is why they lead our people. Women are far more rational and reasoned than brute men.”
“You don’t say?” Clara took a seat on the bed next to the bag of clothes. “Well, if I needed proof this world is fictional, there it is. And yet I’m not allowed to go with you to find the book. The book I brought here, by the way. The book that apparently only I can open. Unless you’re looking to be ashes in the wind.”
“You need to be protected,” Bowen said in a tone that made her think he thought her stupid. “You are of Shona. You are of the Goddess Alastrine and it is my obligation to keep you safe. I cannot do both that and retrieve the book from Dracha. That is the end of the discussion.”
Whatever Clara had been expecting to hear in regards to her mother, it certainly wasn’t that. “I’m sorry, what? I’m of the what?”
“The Goddess. Shona was—is—the Goddess’s only surviving daughter. You are, if what you say is true, therefore—”
“Stop! Just...stop.” Clara held up her hand. She might be willing to accept she’d been transported into a magical realm. She might be willing to accept an evil tyrant wanted to capture and maybe imprison her. But being descended from a Goddess?
Clara shivered.
Nellie she could probably buy. Her middle sister had a spunk and spirit that allowed her to make friends with everyone and anyone. Amber? Absolutely. She was never a woman to take no for an answer. But plain old librarian Clara who fell in love with fictional heroes rather than take a chance on a real man?
There wasn’t anything Goddess-like about that. Or about her. Nevertheless, clearly Bowen believed it to be true and it was going to take some serious negotiating to convince him leaving her behind was not in his interest.
Issue 7, Febraury 2018: Featuring Jayne Ann Krentz: Heart's Kiss, #7 Page 18
