The Hunted (Guild of Assassins Book 1)
Page 8
“Though, I find your back as compelling as your front,” she said, “I am at a loss as to what I am supposed to see. Throw me a bone here, will you? At least a hint?”
Taren turned to face her, a tentative smile on his sexy and very kissable mouth. “No tattoos?”
“No, why?”
With a laugh, he pulled her to him and captured her mouth in a devastating kiss. “It’s broken. You broke the beholden vow when you accepted my claim and allowed me the bonding bite. Through your love, you gave me my freedom and made me your very willing captive for the rest of my days.”
“What exactly was your vow?”
“I promised on my life to protect the only thing Doreen held precious. You. The vow could only be broken should you hold my life above all others. To defend me with your last breath. Doreen didn’t count on your heart being big enough to love a demon. A gift I will devote my life to be worthy of.” Taren’s eyes glowed with love as he looked down at her as if she were the most important thing in his life.
Leigh wrapped herself up in his strong arms, soaking him into her skin. His scent, the strong beat of his heart, the safe haven he gave her. Their future brightened as the sun rose pushing back the night, holding the promise of a future filled with possibilities. And love.
What more could any woman ask for?
The End
Soul Fire
Book One of the Guardians of Drakkan
Shannan Albright
13th Century Brittan,
Eve of Beltane
The sun sank beneath a restless sea casting the heavens in a glowing nebulous of red orange and gold. Dark shadows swallowed the thick forest leading to the sheer cliffs plunging into the sea. Draghar Keep rose up to touch the jagged outcroppings of rock, reaching to the heavens like the arm of some ancient Titan. Built into the side of the mountain, the Keep boasted high, arched fenestra windows overlooking a small fishing village at the base of the great mountain. Torches flared to life looking, weaving, and darting like an army of fireflies in the gloaming.
An undercurrent of excitement carried in the air, anticipation for the night’s festivities. The sound of a bodhran beat out a lively rhythm while the sweet undertones of a lute carried the melody. The music, slow and sensual stirred the blood with thoughts of the upcoming communion between the goddess Flora, the May Queen and the God Jack-of-the-Green.
The lighthearted nature and irony of the holiday were not lost on Egan. The air pressed down on him, heavy with the impending doom. He could not advert, even with his wisdom and power to heal, there seemed naught he could do to prevent a tragedy from unfolding.
“’Tis not right! The gods are displeased, I tell you,” the aged woman muttered, her gnarled hands worrying the fabric of her rough wool apron.
“Still your tongue, old woman!” Egan admonished gently, taking her arm in a firm grip and led her down the stone hallway toward the servant’s quarters. “Now, get you to bed while I attend to Lord Crispin.”
“Aye, I will be going Egan Thorne,” the woman grumbled, narrowing her rheumy stare on him. She thrust one boney finger into his face. “Best mark my words, all is not well with our king, and his downfall will be the end of us all.”
Egan ignored the superstitious warnings of the old crone; her mutterings regarding their king and their demise was her favorite ill omen to recite. They were an ancient race of beings humankind called dragons. Their ability to shift their shape was a gift given to them by their deity Drakkan, who watched over them before humans walked the earth, but in their hour of greatest need, no sign of Drakkan could be found.
Egan hustled the frail woman to her room and heaved a mighty sigh once alone. Standing among the many colorful tapestries adorning the walls in the winding hallway, he never felt so helpless. Unease fell heavily about his shoulders. His worry over their king was a dark pall from which he could find no escape. Time stopped for no man, or in this case, no dragon, and precious little of it remained.
The agonizing truth facing Egan with sharp clarity mocked him. Crispin as a new hatchling, his bright, multi-hued eyes far too old for one so young, Egan loved him as his own the instant his stare focused on him. He vowed to Crispin’s father, he would protect the prince with his life if need be.
Alas, ’twas the last vow he would give to the king as he passed only days later. He followed his mate in the afterlife hours after her untimely passing. Tomorrow would denote the three-hundred-year anniversary of Crispin’s birth. ’Twould have been a joyous event, if the al-matar, or mating fever in human language, did not lie heavily over their king.
If the signs were accurate–and in Crispin’s case, they held true–his bouts of irrational rage, restlessness, high fever, and lack of appetite marked the stages of mate fever. The urge to find a mate would burn away all logic and humanity, reduced to a ravaging beast bent on destruction and death. Lost for all time to an unholy rage. None ever came back from the madness, going on a rampage, laying waste to everything in their path until death claimed the beast. Either from the fever or by the hand of a slayer mattered little, the final result never changed.
None of their greatest healers, or soothsayers could determine when the mate fever would strike down their males and, indeed, most thought of it as a curse from the great Wyvern for Drakkan’s actions. Whatever truth the old legends held interested him naught. Only the reality of their dilemma remained chillingly accurate. Their unmated king would die by fever or blade within a fortnight if he did not find this true bond mate.
Egan wept for the impending loss. Any search for his quiv-etal was an exercise in futility. The only mate truly compatible must hold the blood of the Wyvern. He flinched inwardly as memory threatening to rise to the fore. He pushed it back. There were no females of the Wyvern’s blood left in this world. Pondering upon the loss would do nothing to aid his ailing king.
The firm pounding upon the door pulled Egan from his dark thoughts and brought him quickly to attend the unannounced visitor.
A tall imposing figure stood against the backdrop of the darkening twilight. His dark cloak flowed about his long legs in the gentle breeze filled with the scents of burning wood and blooming wildflowers. The dying sun illuminated the man’s dark, hawkish looks, amber eyes glowed with inhuman brilliance, searing into Egan with unspoken sorrow.
“I came as soon as I heard the news, Egan, where is he?” He strode into the hall with an inhuman predatory grace.
“He is presently in his rooms, Lord Rogan. I can only hope seeing you will bolster his spirits.” Egan sighed, leading the way into the great hall.
More tapestries in vivid hues of reds, blues, greens, and gold covered the walls depicting dragons in various poses among armored knights astride their steeds. A large oak table occupied the center of the room, and woven rugs spread nearly the length of the room. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall. The hearth decorated in sprigs of Ronan and Hawthorn. Bright colored ribbons weaved between them for the Beltane holiday. Birch chairs covered in soft hide were arranged around the fireplace. Coals from the dying fire still sent warmth through the room chasing away the slight chill in the air.
He studied Rogan, who draped his cloak over one of the chairs and stood watching the embers deep in reflection. The same age as Crispin, the two were inseparable. Egan witnessed his growth from young hatchling to the imposing figure before him. The tall and broad shouldered leader of Crispin’s elite cadre of warriors accomplished more than any other dragon Egan ever knew. Few who could equal his fighting skills as human or dragon, and the only one who stood any chance at besting Crispin in a fight.
“Why am I here, Egan? Do not tell me it is to distract Crispin from the al-matar, for there is no distraction to be found for the curse. What is the true reason for my summoning?” Rogan demanded, his golden eyes darkening with dread.
“Aye, you know why. I need your oath. You are the only one who could do what needs to be done when the time comes.”
“You ask too muc
h,” he snarled, hands fisting at his sides as he glared at the older man. “He is like a brother to me.”
“Better by the hand of a loved one than that of the enemy.”
“Nay, I shan’t stay and listen to this,” Rogan rasped whirling to grab up his discarded cloak.
“What better man than you, dear friend, to see me to my final rest?” A deep voice queried bringing both men’s attention to the sudden arrival of the man standing at the entryway.
As tall as Rogan, Crispin Fin Auld Napp, Lord of Draghar Keep, and King of dragon kind raised a golden eyebrow. Multi-hued eyes swirled with blue, green, and silver, holding his friend’s gaze. “You will do what must be done, even if I have to make it a royal decree.” The firm resolve in his voice brooked no argument.
Egan lowered his head in a sign of deep respect. “Majesty, how do you fare this e’en?”
Crispin gave him a weak smile. “As fair as the circumstances allow. ’Tis good to see you, Rogan. Alas, I wish it were under better circumstances.”
Rogan strode to his longtime friend and clasped his arm. “Well met, my friend, though I am disturbed you are so willing to succumb to the damnable al-matar without a fight. This is not like you.”
“Oh, I will fight have no fear. I need only your word to do what is necessary should I fail to succeed.”
Determination surged through Egan, burning in his breast by Crispin’s encouraging words. He knew he must prepare for the worse, yet perhaps the answer could be found in the bowels deep in the cavern beneath the Keep. Yes, he would spend some time with the old tomes, and if the gods were kind, something would spark a memory. He lived for a thousand years, forgotten as much as he learned in his long life. “Mayhap, the answer can be found within our history.”
“I’ve been searching the tomes and found nothing to aid us.” Crispin frowned.
“Those musty old books we used to play around as children? I have not thought of them in centuries,” Rogan mussed. “If there is any way to detour the mating fever it would be there.”
Crispin scowled, his eyes shifting to pure silver as his agitation prickled the air with icy fingers, a deep rumble poured out from his chest. “There is naught for it. Do you not think I have looked? I’ve done nothing but spend my time buried in tomes for a fortnight.”
Egan felt his heart beat hard with both warning and expectation. He needed to tread lightly for Crispin’s mercurial moods were becoming much more dangerous. Yet, he could help with the search, far better than most. “Aye, mayhap there is something you may have overlooked. Some cryptic phrase or quatrain gone unheeded. Sometimes it is best to have another pair of eyes searching.”
“Then by all means, my dear Egan, look your fill and mayhap you will discover what I failed to uncover.” Crispin sighed, clasping Egan on the shoulders. “Forgive me, my anger should not be directed toward you, old friend.”
Rogan frowned. “Then I too shall look with you, Egan, if there is the smallest of hopes we can find a solution to this dilemma.”
“With Beltane upon us? I thought you would pursue more earthly pleasures this e’en?” Crispin grinned wide. His humor fully restored.
Rogan’s golden gaze held his. “There is nothing I wish more than seeing you free of the al-matar. If I must miss this Beltane, so be it. The cause is worthy.”
Crispin looked away, and Egan knew by the tense set of his jaw how deeply Rogan’s words touched him. Clearing his throat, he gave each of them a nod. “I am humbled by the friendship you both have given me so freely. I feel the need for air, the wind beneath my wings and the freedom of the skies. I shall join you anon within the cavern.”
He didn’t wait for a reply as he turned and moved out of the room. A moment later the sound of the door opening and closing told them they were alone.
Egan glanced at Rogan to find a troubled look shadowing his eyes.
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For more information, visit www.shannanalbright.com.
About the Author
Growing up she was the dreamer in her family, something not always thought of as a positive thing. As a child, she would draw and build stories around her pictures, so writing was a natural extension for her.
When not writing she spends her time between oil painting and reading. She favors writing paranormal, urban fantasy, time travel, and fantasy romances. She loves developing dark, edgy heroes and heroines who overcome impossible odds internal and external.
She considers herself a “hopeful” romantic who believes in a healthy relationship built on respect and a strong partnership. For her, this is the key to a happy ever after.
For more info about Shannan, visit her website at www.shannanalbright.com.