More Than Friends

by Celeste Anwar

  A feat quite possibly easier said than done, but she could not allow doubts to sway her from her purpose. Her people needed her.

  She sensed a presence near her from behind, warned by the crackle of dead leaves beneath softly padding feet. The movement halted a short distance behind her.

  A voice rumbled from the dark, gravely and coarse as though unused, “My lord, we are sworn to uphold the pact...”

  Raphael’s hands tensed on her arm. “You need not remind me of my duty, Arion.”

  “That was not my intention, my lord--”

  “Good. She is mine. Until it is decided what to do with her.” He prodded her forward.

  Swan was near blind, helpless to find her own way--and it rankled, as did his possessiveness. “I belong to no one, man or beast. Release me.”

  He ignored her demand. Swan attempted to jerk her arm from his grasp, to no avail. Her strength was no match for his. She stumbled with the effort, but he righted her before she could fall.

  His grip tightened as he guided her through the forest, as though to dissuade her from further escape attempts. The precaution was unnecessary. It was less than futile to run again--not while under heavy guard, as she knew she must be.

  In any case, where would she run to if she succeeded in escaping? Into the loving arms of the man who’d placed the curse upon her to begin with?

  Raphael, Lord of the Hunters, might offer little hope, his possessiveness, his arrogance might rankle, but he represented the only hope she had at this point.

  As she struggled blindly to keep up, the wound on her hand, the magically clipped finger, began to throb anew, forcing itself to the forefront of her mind. The pain from the myriad of cuts, scratches, bruises and aching muscles of her flight receded into the nothingness of minor twinges as raw agony from the injury pounded through her with every step she took. Had it only been a day since her life had been shattered irrevocably?

  The terror, the rushing adrenaline of her flight had vanished, leaving her weak, susceptible once more to the pain she had not felt in her shock. She began to realize she had nothing to sustain her, that she not could remain on her feet much longer. Unused to vulnerability, to being one of those needy females now made her despise herself. A simple wound should not affect her thus, she chided herself. The blood of kings ran through her veins. She shamed her ancestors with her weakness.

  No thought could bolster her flagging endurance, however.

  Each second weighed like a minute, each minute an eternity. The world slowed around her, sounds distorted like screams under water. Her legs, leaden from running, weighted her down. It was becoming increasingly difficult to move one foot in front of the other. Raphael’s pace allowed her no reprieve.

  “Let me go,” she demanded again, a wave of dizziness washing over her in a nauseating wave.

  “You should never run from the pack. It increases their appetite. How can I trust you would not do so again?”

  The absurdity of her outrunning the hunters nearly made her laugh, especially considering her current condition. She would not be such a fool as to try again with their hunger unappeased, but it seemed unlikely he would believe her assurances. She was loath to reveal her weakness, but much longer and she would be unable to hide it from him. “I can only assure you that I will not,” she said finally.

  He seemed to consider her a long moment, then said, “Share with me but your name, and you may walk freely. Unless you enjoy my touch....”

  That he would concede some ground was all the incentive she needed. “Swan of Avonleigh,” she said.

  He released her, to her immense relief. Swan cradled her left arm, terrified to feel the heat of infection suffusing her hand. It was as she’d feared. Her steps slowed as she probed the wound, hoping she was mistaken. A sharp stab lanced up her arm with the light touch, and she groaned without thinking.

  He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  He cursed in a strange language. “Do you make a habit of lying?” He touched her hand, and she gasped and stumbled against him. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Who has dared harm you?” he demanded angrily, gripping her shoulders.

  “Morvere....” she whispered, clenching her eyes tightly shut. She was fading away. Faster and faster. Was day approaching? Was she changing yet again? It was her last thought as warm arms closed tenderly around her.

  * * * *

  “What ails her?” Arion asked, kneeling beside the fallen woman. Her ragged garment had been retrieved and draped around her shivering form.

  Raphael looked down at her, his anger building. “Other than an abundance of pride? She is injured. Someone has broken the heart line ... taken her finger.” He despised the harming of women. The pack members who had disobeyed his word were being punished even now. That he knew not who maimed her, and therefore could not exact vengeance, infuriated him beyond measure.

  Arion spared him a look before turning back to examine her. “Sounds like foul magic to me.”

  “Yes,” Raphael said. It was undeniable that she was under an enchantment. Magic clung to her dark, caramel skin like an invisible film. He would have sensed it even if he had not seen her change into the swan near the border firsthand. He had ordered his men to keep watch. He had not expected they would give chase. She’d nearly paid for that misjudgment with her life.

  “It smells unnatural, tainted by some magic. Illness has set into the wound. She is likely to die if it worsens.” Arion looked up at him, his face grave. “We’ve not the skill to care for humans, let alone one bewitched.”

  Beastmen had no need of healers, for they had the ability to regenerate and heal their own wounds. “I know of another possibility. But it cannot be done here.”

  “If it works, you must teach me the skill that can break a spell,” Arion said.

  “If it does, all beasts should learn.”

  He could spare her the indignity of more exposure, but there was no guaranteeing what he planned would even work. The kharez was a phenomenon so rare, he’d only heard of it happening once in the entirety of his life. His friend, Blasien, had been healed by just such and still knew not the nature of the kharez.

  A melding of essence and sexuality--the basis of creation--the powerful healing could only be used between normals and beasts for reasons unknown. And humans never mixed with their kind unless to kill them. Certainly never sexually.

  Still, it was the one chance the woman, Swan, had. If it worked, she would likely kill him when she recovered, but he thought it a small price to pay for life.

  Bending, he gathered her effortlessly into his arms. She trembled but remained unconscious. He nodded at Arion as he stood. “Let us make haste. We must reach Barakus before the silver moon sets.”