by Leigh Evans
He’s mine. He’ll always be mine. Through life, through death, through beyond.
I touched my tongue to his.
At that first touch of wet to wet he turned into the Alpha that he was. His hands moved down to my ass. He cupped my cheeks and pulled me punishingly hard to his length.
He was ready. Pheromones spiced his scent, rutting heat radiated from him.
Then he kissed me. Not softly, not sweetly.
He took; he claimed; he imprinted.
He memorized.
We could have been lost—the not-here forgotten. And perhaps for a few seconds more we were. Then fresh air cooled the back of my neck and I heard a feminine gasp, followed by the quiet click of the door. I jerked my mouth from his. Twisted my head to check for the source of the noise.
Mouse and Gwennie stood against the door. She looked horrified; he looked fascinated. The old man looked intrigued. They knew. They could smell the sexual want, see it in our flushed faces. Five minutes more and I would have let Trowbridge take me against the wall. In front of the mage. With dead bodies on the floor. With Fae gold working its way toward a sealed door.
It is always that way between us.
It always will be that way.
Trowbridge’s hands slid off my ass and tightened into a locked fist at the small of my back. He lifted me, turned so that his back was facing them, and then he walked us over to the corner, barely missing the stream of glinting gold at his feet.
I tightened my arms around his neck.
He lowered his head so that we could talk. “You know what I’d be without you?”
“A very pretty corpse.”
“I was going for heartbroken, but yeah, you had to point out the obvious.”
I issued a faint smile. “Being subtle is for pussies, Trowbridge.”
“I love you,” he said, plain and simple.
And then he kissed me again, except this time tenderly on my forehead. He eased me back to the floor. “Now take your hit.” He pulled out the bottle from his cutoffs’ back pocket, uncorked it, and brought it to my lips. I could smell the scent of the other Raha’ells on the rim of its glass neck. Woods, earth, wolf. I smiled for him again—this time showing teeth—and took my medicine.
The potion left a trail of warmth down my throat that warmed my belly. My wolf started to pace, anxious at these new sensations, and my Fae began to nod in happiness, and me? I leaned against my lover and let him hold me as the potion’s pleasure swept mildly over me. I was getting too used to it—the high faded faster than an interrupted orgasm.
When I felt relatively normal, I said, “Time to do this.”
The Son of Lukynae released me. He straightened his cutoffs, then walked stiffly to the door. He checked the corridor, then jerked his head at Mouse. “How far to the first staircase?”
It was where we’d part. Trowbridge and his Raha’ells would go their way to face their individual destinies, and the old man and I would head toward ours.
While Lexi would sleep.
“It’s close,” said Mouse. “Follow me.”
* * *
As it turned out, “close” was an understatement; there was a staircase fifteen feet to the right of the room of riches. It was circular, windowless, and steep. Mouse led the way. Sword in hand, Trowbridge followed, then me, and then the rest of our posse.
Okay, I couldn’t help it. I flashed to The Princess Bride.
On the ninth stair, the whole file of us came to an abrupt halt when Mouse suddenly flattened himself against the wall. He mouthed something to Trowbridge, then disappeared around the corner. Trowbridge’s arm swept backward to press me against the staircase’s wall. Danen edged past me, dagger drawn.
“Come back, you!” I heard someone shout.
Mouse came haring back up the staircase, moving so fast past me and the other Raha’ells that I could swear he left a vapor trail. A guard wearing a red uniform came clattering up the stairs in pursuit. Danen’s dagger found the guard’s heart before he had a chance to do more than widen his eyes.
We left his body there, crumpled on the fifth riser. There seemed little point in hiding his corpse. We had set fire to the jewel room. Already the scent of smoke was wafting its way up the staircase.
Let the mayhem begin.
Four more stairs and we hit the landing. The old man and I were to take a right here, following the corridor until the next staircase, while Trowbridge and his people would continue downward to the ground floor and then part—Mouse and Gwennie taking the disguised Raha’ells to the kitchen; Trowbridge going it alone.
I didn’t feel much like the Princess Bride anymore. There’s no romance when your stomach spasms in jittery fear, no soft focus against the brightness of blood on Danen’s blade.
Besides, Trowbridge and I had had our kiss. I couldn’t bear to know that the old man witnessed the intimacy again, noting that this time my hands shook and my lips trembled.
So I said, “Don’t get yourself killed.”
And My One True Thing said, “Ditto.”
Then we—the Romeo and Juliet of Creemore—went our separate ways.
Destiny called.
The utter bitch.
Chapter Twenty-five
“What is the delay?” inquired the Old Mage as we stood in front of the door to his old lair.
“The door is locked.” The metal flange bit into my palm. I placed my other thumb on top of the one already set on the handle and tried it again. Nada.
Open up, you freakin’ door.
I shook the handle. I needed to be inside. Positioned by the window so I could stare down at the Spectacle grounds and witness whatever would happen. Be ready to give the sign. Say the word.
I’ll kick you into splinters if I have to.
“It’s not locked; it’s magicked. Stand aside. I will open it.” The old man moved before I could; the sleeve of his cloak brushed my shoulder and the length of my brother’s muscled arm grazed the side of my neck.
Sickness rose.
He flattened his hand on the wooden door and said something low under his breath that I couldn’t catch. Sparks—their hue a color-match to the cable of green that streamed from my own hand—flashed between the seam of his fingers.
Me and magic-mine jerked back.
With a small smile the mage worked the handle, and the door swung open as easily as if it had been greased. Pride of possession was stamped by the set of his shoulders. These rooms once belonged to him.
“Enter,” he said quite unnecessarily.
I squeezed in sideways, taking care not to touch him.
The square room was a pack rat’s delight. Shelves lined the available space of the mage’s lair, and they were filled with bottles, some dusty, some gleaming, and books, some with spines soldier straight, some left cracked open.
Despite the clutter, the furnishings were meager. A hard-used pine table, its wood nearly buried under a haphazard pile of dried herbs. A few baskets on the floor filled with twigs and pinecones. A tall stool, the middle rung of which had been worn by a few centuries of foot use. And in the middle of the room, a wooden lectern, on which a heavy book lay open.
The wizard hurried to the lectern. “The insufferable, ass-sniffing toad,” he muttered, flipping through it. “Helzekiel’s perused all but five pages.” His cheeks reddened and his jowls seemed to quiver, an old man enraged. “How dare he claim my work as his?”
He used my brother’s voice. And he carried the scent of my blood on him. And the sour stink of Trowbridge’s mud shield. And the faint aroma of Danen. And the sweetness of old magic.
I hated him with such a sudden surge of heat that my own face flushed. “Start working on the wards,” I said through my teeth.
“Time,” he murmured. “It is ever your enemy, is it not, nalera?”
I’d like to kill you now, I thought, watching him push up his sleeves and bend over the book.
Later.
I swung away.
The tower
room had two windows. One was full of light, offering a picture of rolling hills. The other was dark, the late-afternoon sun seeming unable to pierce the depths of the mother jinx, whose roiling mass was just visible at its top corner.
Shrugging off the cloak I’d worn to cover my non-Fae-issue jeans, I went to the dark window. It was sealed, and the glass was watery. I found the casement’s crank and turned it slowly, inching it open.
Hot air slid into the room and with it the pungent perfume of the Raha’ells.
Their combined smell could be reduced to wolf musk and woods, but Goddess, there was so much more. The scent of the people in those pens spoke to me in a language I no longer needed an interpreter for.
With emotion. Anger. Fear. Desperation.
Maternal grief.
I looked down to the Spectacle grounds.
The area contained by the palisade’s towering wall amounted to a patch of land, not much bigger than Trowbridges’ front lawn. There were three holding pens, lined up like a row of matchsticks. Each was long and narrow. A press of men had been crammed into the first pen. The next was filled with female Raha’ells and their children. The third was empty.
That’s all?
There’s so few of them.
Over the last day, I’d grown to think of them as a small army—a hundred strong or more. But now, staring down on them, I realized I’d made the mistake of equating the strength of their reputation with the size of their pack.
There couldn’t be more than fifty of them.
How many men were crammed in the first cramped pen? Twenty? Twenty-five? It was difficult to guess, as no one was lining up for a roll call. A few of the men were wounded. They sat slumped at one end of the corral, using the wooden rails as their backrest. The rest were ambulatory, but they milled about restlessly—the fluid grace I expected from their lupine heritage missing. I frowned, studying those men, and realized all of them held their necks stiffly.
Oh Goddess, they’d been collared with silver.
My gaze moved on to the next tight corral. The Fae must have run out of collar restraints, because none of the women wore them. Again, I tried to count heads but soon gave up, because most of those women kept pacing, constantly moving from rail to rail—penned wolves pacing off their prison.
There was no sanitation.
And the Fae had kept the Raha’ells thirsty. The day was hot, despite the approach of sunset, and the splintered bottoms of the water troughs placed between the three pens were bone dry.
I twisted my head and turned my focus to the cluster of Fae who were gathered on the back wall’s terrace. The Black Mage stood at the edge of them, easily identified by his somber clothing. Unlike those around him, Helzekiel’s interest was not pinned on the cloud over him. He watched the grounds, and the wolves, and his guards.
Next, I searched for the king and found him by the grandeur of his crown. Unnaturally pale, he was a tall man with very long straight platinum hair. He wore a blue jacket, the edges of its sleeves almost as heavily encrusted with jewels as the crown he wore. He stood alone, surrounded by a fan of women.
Behind me, the Old Mage cleared his throat.
“Mutter, mutter, mutter,” he began.
Within those three indistinct words the room’s temperature abruptly plunged from warm to chill. Then, sparks—lime green, gold green, and citron yellow—started circulating over the Book of Spells. The wizard waved his gnarled hand over them, and those lively glittering bits blew apart in a bright flash that turned his face a grassy shade.
One page down.
His thin lips began to move again.
I swung back to the window and the Spectacle beneath it.
Where was Trowbridge? And how long did it take to go through the kitchen and grab a bucket? Shouldn’t Danen and the others be there by now? Had someone stopped Gwennie and Mouse? Had Plan B been scuttled before it had a chance to spread its sails?
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
Another pop, definitely louder than the first.
Two down.
My heart leaped as Mouse finally walked into the grounds, accompanied by Danen, Brutus, and a barely recognizable Lily. A large pole had been strung with buckets. Danen had one end of it braced on his shoulder; Brutus, the other. Lily trailed after them, her head down, her weary posture transforming her into a lowly servant tasked with taking water to the animals in their pens.
I heard a page turn.
Reaction rippled through the prisoners in the first pen as Danen and Brutus drew close. My gaze darted to the guards. Surely they’d notice the stiffening of the wolves crammed in the corral. Surely they’d notice how one of wounded men struggled to his feet. Couldn’t they smell the scent of hope was rising?
And sure enough—one did. He started to turn toward the pens, but Mouse approached him, offering a dipper of water. He accepted it, for the day was hot. Mouse pointed to the sky, and the guard nodded. They both looked up.
Good boy. Keep distracting him while the word is passed.
Behind me—mutter, mutter, mutter.
It was Lily who told the men in the pen. I could tell, even though her mouth barely moved, because those lining the rail closest to her seemed to lean forward as one, straining to hear every detail. Then, one man turned to mutter to those who stood in a close press behind him, and from that word spread faster than virus in a classroom.
Their scent changed, defeat sinking under a layer of hope.
Pop!
Three wards down.
“Where’s Trowbridge?” I whispered to Merry.
Just then, Brutus looked up, searching for my window. When he saw me, he widened his eyes meaningfully and he looked toward the castle’s back gates.
Had he heard something with his ears that I had not?
The answer to that was simple.
Hell yes.
* * *
From outside the tower there was a hoarse shout, and then another, and then the guards were sprinting toward the inside courtyard while the archers on the back wall turned as one to train their bows on the disruption.
Don’t fire on my mate!
The Black Mage raced to the terrace’s wall and braced his hands on it, stretching to peer down at whatever was taking place. Those of the court members closest to the inner wall followed, anxious geese clucking in alarm.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Trowbridge’s diversion in torturous detail. My man alone, swinging a sword against a horde of armed men. My mate falling, his body pierced with arrows …
Don’t let them hurt you too much. Don’t let them—
More shouts.
Behind me, mutter, mutter, mutter.
Pop!
That’s four.
“Talk faster, Mage!” I pressed my cheek painfully against the window’s stone surround, craning my neck, hoping for a glimpse of the inner courtyard through the gates.
Anxiety was a gorge rising up my throat, ready to spill into a shout of frustration. But before it could spill out of me, the Raha’ells began to keen as one.
I closed my eyes in relief.
The Son of Lukynae had been captured.
* * *
My mate entered the Spectacle grounds heavily flanked by a bevy of guards.
He appeared incapable of walking.
Two Fae dragged him across the rough ground. They gripped him just above the elbows, a position that forced his arms to twist back painfully. As he passed through the gates, Trowbridge lifted his head just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his battered face. Ralph was cinched close to Trowbridge’s throat. The gold of his pendant writhed, and his amulet shone so brightly, it was hard to look at.
A woman’s voice cried out, “Alpha! We are yours to command!”
The guard trailing behind Trowbridge slammed the end of his staff into the muscles between my mate’s shoulders. My mate’s face twisted in a rictus of pain.
I can’t bear this.
I wanted to be down there with the Raha’ells, growli
ng low in my throat as they growled. I wanted a staff of my own, which I’d use with extreme prejudice. I wanted to grow wings. Huge black ones like an avenging angel’s. Wings so powerful and filled with such dark promise of retribution that the guards would tremble and cower as I swooped toward them.
But those are wishes.
And wishes never really amount to squat.
Not when you’re standing by a fucking window. My magic flared inside me, hot and wicked. It rose up, up, past my heart, down my shoulders, coursing through my veins, to burn the ends of my hand.
Pop! The fifth ward snapped with a sharp crack, the dispelled magic briefly tingeing the mage’s lair acid green.
One to go.
They brought Trowbridge to a patch of beaten earth and forced him to his knees. Then, they all turned expectantly toward the gate.
* * *
King Jaden was all about the show. He was the peacock in full display as he sauntered across the grounds, followed closely by his entourage.
“Hurry up, Mage!” I hissed over his mutters.
My love’s mouth was bloody, his teeth red rimmed.
When the king stood over the kneeling Son of Lukynae, he raised his voice so all could hear him. “On your belly, dog.”
For this, my mate mustered a short, but pithy, reply. “Fuck. You.”
Jaden gave an amused huff and raised his arm high over Trowbridge’s head. Then, smiling, the king started to lower his arm, a few inches at a time.
Very, very slowly.
As if he were pressing down on a great weight.
From what I could see, the Fae didn’t have anything in his hand. No weapons, no whip. Nothing except his magic. But it must have been powerful, because Trowbridge flinched as if he’d been struck.
“We are with you, Alpha!” shouted that Raha’ell female again. Except this time she added, “Resist! Resist!” Which prompted another of my mate’s pack to begin chanting, “Son of Lukynae! Son of Lukynae! Son of Lukynae!”
Yet another pack member picked up the chorus, and then another, and then they were all chanting, their clenched fists pumping as if they were at a concert, instead of an execution.
