by Candy Nicks
"So, madame deigns to return.” He swept a mock bow and attempted unsuccessfully to rise. “Where have you been?” he said with all the petulance of a five year old boy.
"To see Jana. I did tell you."
Ancel pushed himself upright and lurched towards her. “Drink with me,” he said, offering her the bottle.
"It's empty. Go and lie down.” She nodded towards the bed. “I need to bathe, and you need to sober up."
"You insult me lady. This piss wouldn't get a baby drunk.” His gaze swept the length of her, eyes darkening. “Come here, beautiful one."
His image wavered, like a desert mirage, swaying from side to side as she fought to stay upright. Her lips still stung with Brynn's kiss and her injury ached with every movement. She wanted to fall into the tub and soak away the numbing effects of the drug. Or better still, drown herself and have done with it.
"Why so sad?"
"Jana,” she said thinking on her feet. “I can't stop thinking about poor Jana. She hasn't much longer in this life."
Ancel hiccupped, then belched loudly. “Never mind Jana. What about me? Don't I deserve your attention once in a while?"
"When I've bathed,” she said patiently. “Ancel, you're very drunk. Go and sleep off the effects and then I will rub your back."
"Want to come riding with me?” He raised his eyebrows, laughing at the joke. “To the top of Mount Helios, on Bocado, my destrier. Have you ever ridden a war horse? Just got to get this off first,” he said clawing at the slave bracelet adorning his wrist.
"Yes, I'd like that. After you've slept. Be a good boy and lie down.” She pressed a palm to his chest.
"Yes mother.” Ancel swayed dangerously, before falling backwards full length upon the bed. It gave with a protesting creak of springs. He closed his eyes. The bottle dropped from his limp fingers and clattered to the floor. She watched him for a moment, listening to his soft snores, his face relaxed in sleep, free from the horror that was now his life. He killed for her when necessary, each death another mark on his soul. Usually without emotion, but lately with a silent remorse that she knew weighed more and more heavily on his conscience.
He refused the drugs that Vin pushed so insistently on them, but accepted the bottle and the oblivion it promised. His mouth turned up in a faint smile and she left him to dreams of happier times. Peace. Such a precious commodity and one she'd taken far too much for granted. She watched the water flowing into the tub. Since her capture there hadn't been one single moment of true contentment. The pleasure she found with Ancel was guilt-ridden and fleeting. Here instead of birdsong and the smell of sweet meadow grass, the dawn brought the clamour and stench of the refuse carts collecting the trash. Nights were spent entertaining worthless decadents who cared for nothing but their own gratification. Sweet dreams were a thing of the past.
She climbed into the tub, careful to keep her wound dry and dipped the washcloth into the steaming water. She washed methodically, but quickly, wanting to rid herself of the stench of the club before Ancel awoke. The ritual grounded her a little, helping her to form a bridge between the sleaze and the relative normality of life in this small room with Ancel. It had started to feel normal and the thought made her heart quicken and the breath catch in her throat. Was Ancel right? Did acceptance in order to stay alive become plain acceptance without you knowing it? Was she destined to become like Jana, who sleepwalked through her days with no recollection of who she was, or where she'd come from?
Carine closed her eyes and pictured the Temple, the grey stone calm and serene, the window-glass shining like jewels in the evening light. The gardens laid out for meditation. The laughter and the quiet chatter of the novices. Memories of her Crystal made her heart ache for times past. If Vin didn't take up her offer, she might never again feel its burgeoning power. Might never find out what she could have achieved, had she completed her studies.
Mother Goddess, she whispered. Bring me another Crystal and I will worship you all my days. Help me to set Ancel free and I will worship you all my days. Wherever I am." She lay in the bath, the water lapping over her dressing, wrinkling and repeating the entreaty over and over, each time with increasing fervour. The Goddess seemed so far away right now.
Chapter 8
"By the Gods, my head is about to explode."
Ancel made it to the toilet before throwing up the contents of his stomach, feeling only mildly contrite when he spotted Carine in the tub. Mumbling an apology, he dipped his head into the washbasin and turned on the tap. The cold rush of water battering against his skull washed away some of the fog and with the relative clarity came the inevitable shame. Time and again he'd cautioned himself not to sink his sorrows in the bottle. What good did it do other than to anesthetise him from all this for a few measly hours?
He brushed his teeth and shaved. Glanced only briefly in the mirror, since the person he saw reflected back didn't resemble anyone he knew. The old Ancel would have been out of here on the first day, or dead in the attempt. This pathetic creature with his bloodshot eyes and cropped spiky hair might as well be wearing a dog-collar and leash. He wasn't a man—that was for sure.
"Why do you let them watch you?” he said, feeling a surge of impotent anger at her acceptance.
"It's just a small thing. Don't break the camera. It's not worth the beating it will earn you."
He reached up, fully intending to smash it to pieces, then caught a glimpse of her lovely imploring face. Instead of impressing her, his defiance upset her beyond all reason. He couldn't for the life of him understand why. “For you,” he said, throwing a wash cloth over the lens. “I put up with all this only for you."
"I know, Ancel. And I thank you for it."
"Where do you go?” he said, turning away. She swayed him with a look, a simple touch and when that happened, the argument was already lost.
"To see Jana. Talk with Martha."
"You can talk to me."
"I need female company once in a while. I thought you understood."
"Lately I understand nothing.” He turned around to face her, determined to have this out. He was a fighter, not a statesman. More used to the thrust and parry of swords, the flash of the blast-gun, than words. Carine was a true Moon-Child when it came to weaving a snare out of the truth. “What happened to you?” he asked, distracted by the dressing under her rib-cage, and the scratches on her face.
Carine drew up her knees defensively. “It's nothing serious. Martha attacked me, but it really is only a scratch. She didn't know what she was doing.” The words tumbled out in a rush as his face darkened with anger. “She's just a mad old woman. I won't be alone with her again."
"Pray that I never am.” Crouching beside the tub he touched the pale red line on her cheek, the smaller mark at her temple. Immediately contrite for his earlier anger, he wanted to kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness for failing her. The symbols moved towards each other of their own accord. They'd know something was wrong; he'd been too drunk to notice their agitation. A deep ripple of pleasure stirred his loins at the joining of the marks. Carine moaned softly and closed her eyes.
"Talk to me.” He bent to kiss the curve of her shoulder, knowing, by now, that the way through her defences was by stealth rather than a storming of the battlements. “Run with me."
"And how far would we get, with these on?"
He'd touched her everywhere, tasted every inch of her skin and yet the fascination remained. Her trembling eyelids, the tip of her nose, the deep, secret place at the apex of her thighs. He could spend a lifetime exploring her and still be left wanting. He ran his lips over the slave bracelet, snug about her wrist. Felt for her pulse with his tongue.
"It won't disable me. I'm strong."
"You are strong, I know that. But they say the charge would knock out a Termagor. Cross the perimeter and you won't be able to move, let alone run."
He dipped his hand into the cooling water. Swept it along the inside of her thigh. Brushed his fingertips over the
soft, dark hair covering her mound, pulling back when she arched slightly into his touch. Her hips lifted, searching for his hand. He turned his attention to her calf, her foot, holding back what she really wanted. It was the only leverage he had.
"It's not logical. You must know that. You let me risk my life for you on that circus of a stage and yet you won't let me do that to get us out of here?"
She reached for his hand and placed it back on the inside of her thigh. “Here,” she said. “I want you here. Make me come, please Ancel."
As he had the measure of Rock and everything else Vin had thrown at him, so she had the measure of him. To hear her ask for what she wanted, his name on her lips, he found insanely exciting. And also ridiculously distracting. Already he'd half forgotten their conversation and instead his mind overflowed with images of them together, in the tub. Grasping her hand, he held it tight.
"It's not just about skill. One day my luck will run out. A slip, a lapse of concentration and I'm done for. And you..."
"Shh. Don't go there. Vin isn't going to lose you on that stage. You're too valuable to him. They have you well covered."
"And if I'm disabled, knocked out? What happens to you?"
"You won't be. I have faith in you."
"Not enough,” he said. “Not enough. You know what will happen? He'll run out of slaves to pitch against me and open the contest to all comers, with you as the prize. The betting frenzy alone will fuel the fire. I'm a warrior, Carine. A damned good one. But I'm not invincible."
"But you will keep me safe until the best opportunity to escape arises. I know it. We can't go until we have the access codes for the bracelets. Come, join me. I'm cold. You can warm me up."
His resistance lasted three heartbeats. Carine kneeled and made short work of his shirt buttons, pushing the garment down over his shoulders to flutter to the floor. He flicked open the fastenings of his pants, freeing his painful erection. She was cold. He was burning up with desire. First quench the fire, then continue the argument. In this state of arousal there could be no rational conversation.
"Move up,” he said, sliding in behind her. She shifted to accommodate his large frame, pressing back into his lap when he'd settled. Water lapped over her dressing. He held her carefully, mindful of the injury, but also of her need to come and his need to lose some of his pent-up frustration. Raising her up slightly, he positioned her for a slow, deep thrust, inching himself inside until they were flesh to flesh, with no space in between. One hand on her breast, enclosing, squeezing gently, the other between her thighs, fingers searching, stroking. He understood the way she clamped him to her and yet, at the same time, sought to push him away as her climax built and she hurtled towards a loss of control that put her entirely in his hands. He reined in his own climax, focusing on her pleasure. Thrusting his cock as deep as he could, fingers torturing, relentless. Teeth nipping her neck.
She came, first in a convulsive rush, slumped panting against him. Again, with a small anguished cry, her head laid back upon his shoulder. He dipped his own head and kissed her mouth, a languid and seductive counterpoint to the frenzy of their coupling. Kissing her was a delicious indulgence he couldn't get enough of. Her sweet lips fit perfectly to his. Her tongue met his in a rhythm that matched the now-lazy movement of their hips.
Her needs sated, he let himself come with a grateful groan and then held her, in the heated silent aftermath. The world concentrated down to just the two of them when they made love, the respite, brief, but welcome. He stuck to their unspoken agreement that, whatever lay unresolved between them, this time was sacred.
"I think I love you,” he murmured against the shell of her ear, making her smile and squirm in his lap.
"Magic,” she replied, with a tinge of sadness in her voice. “It's just the Magic.” She gazed up at him. “But I think I love you too."
"It feels real enough."
"Have you ever truly been in love?” Despite the cooling water, Carine settled comfortably into his arms, inviting him to snatch a few moments of peace with her. “You mentioned a daughter,” she prompted.
"In lust, perhaps. Love ... Well, I'm not proud of what happened."
"You don't have to tell me."
"No, it should be told. The lady was the daughter of a high-born family. A guest of Faylar. I like to think I seduced her, but looking back at my fifteen year old swaggering cock-of-the-walk, self, I was lost the moment she looked at me. Flattered by her attention."
"She had your child?"
"A daughter, that's all I know. The lady was taken by infection soon after the birth. It caused a terrible scandal, for which her family, and my father, never forgave me."
"What happened to the child?"
"I don't now. I was young and foolish and I never asked.” He closed that particular conversation with a kiss. Some things were best not revisited. “Vin told me what you're doing. I want you to stop."
Loose and sleepy in his arms, Carine took a while to respond to the sudden change of subject. “He shouldn't have said anything. I ... I'm cold. I need to get dressed,” she said and wriggled free to climb out of the tub.
I should learn to bite my tongue. Ancel berated himself for spoiling the moment of connection He watched Carine slip into a robe and walk from the bathing-room, leaving him to his frustration and pounding head. She was right about the access codes; he couldn't deny that. Perhaps he should wring them out of Vin. Take him with them, force him to get them out of the compound. Then kill the miserable son of a whore. But how did they get within ten paces of Vin without him reading their minds? And besides, he was never without protection. Vin had been in this game for a long time.
The water cooled, sobering him a little. He bent his knees and lay back, submerging his face, shutting out all distractions, and concentrated all of his thoughts on one thing—escape. For that he needed to stay alert, to remember who he was. And most important of all, he needed to stay alive.
* * * *
Love? Not a word either of them used lightly. And yet, more than once, he'd said he loved her. If only it could be true. To have a man like Ancel care so much that he would die for her was beyond anything she'd ever experienced.
Carine stopped the thought. Too many things she shouldn't be thinking about. The warm safe feel of Ancel's arms holding her. The way his slate-grey eyes darkened with desire. The uncontrolled rush of lust-filled words that poured from his mouth when he took her, hard and swift. She was beginning to take all these things for granted.
A stark choice faced her. Ancel was here now and hers. But he was right, one day his luck in the arena would run out. The alternative? Find a way to let him go and give him a better chance to survive, even though that meant giving him up. Could she live without him? Was he worth the price of her soul?
She remained at the window when he wandered from the bathing-room, casually naked, rubbing a towel over his head. Despite his captivity, he was still honed for the fight, his warrior's body hard and unyielding. Dropping the towel, he rooted in the chest for a black tank top and leather pants and threw them on. Effortlessly sexy. Arrogantly confident. She could well imagine that, up until now, he'd cut a swathe through life getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. Leading men. Charming women. One day when he took a wife, he would be head of his own branch of Faylar, doling out justice, mercy and retribution as he thought fit.
Once dressed, he measured the length of the room in strides. Turned and did it again, each time hitting the wall with the flat of his hand. The pace increased, until he was almost running, thumping the wall on each approach. Confinement was driving him mad.
"I need to see the sun rise,” she said quietly. She hated being out of tune with nature, the rhythms of life. Behind her, Ancel ceased his pacing. “Would you have killed me, back in the slave cart? If you'd not been wounded, and if I'd not saved you and Bonded with you?"
"That's a lot of ifs.” His large bulk overshadowed her. Both hands on the window-sill beside hers, he enclosed her
with his body and gazed out at what passed for a view.
"Your people. Do they really hate the Children of the Moon as much as they claim?"
"They'd never accept you in Eyrie. If that's what you're asking."
She felt herself heating up. “No, I wasn't asking that. You Eagles swagger and talk a lot, but is it really still so bad between our tribes? After all these years?"
He laughed, low and close to her ear. The sound made her shiver.
"Swaggering, and boasting, eh? We Eagles have certainly turned that into an art form. I don't know, Carine. I was so angry at having been captured, I think I was capable of anything. Ready to blame anyone.” His lips touched her neck, lightly. “I didn't bargain for you. You give as good as you get; better even. I'm glad I didn't do anything ... impetuous."
Another reason to break the Bond. In this place, their pairing was so fascinating, people paid money to see for themselves that it was true. They came in their droves to see the legendary Eagle Warrior kneel at the feet of a Moon-Child. Here, their union commanded awe, but once outside the City gates, life—as they'd known it before capture—would go on.
"Perhaps we cling too much to the old ways. Maybe it's time to change. I believe my people would tolerate you amongst them. As long as you learned to temper your voice,” she added mischievously.
"I shout? Surely not?"
She pressed back into his embrace, wishing she were stronger. This is what she would miss when he was gone. These moments of contentment, of easy banter. His dry sense of humour, which offset the haughty arrogance that had been bred into him.
"Carine, I could never live amongst your people. You know it. We'll go west. To the Settlements. Make a new life for ourselves. Found a new dynasty."
"You'd live in the Settlements? With outcasts and runaways?"
