Timeless (Maiden Of Time Book 3)

by Crystal Collier

  Her shoulders dropped and she touched him.

  “There is always a choice,” he muttered.

  She hissed out, “Not when your…bondmate wants something…enough.”

  He tugged the woman to her feet. “And she speaks. Lie upon lie. There will be no coming back from this. You have overstepped our good graces.”

  Her eyes grazed over Leofrik as she was dragged away. She passed the inflictor, Sarlic, who returned and stood, hands on hips. “You awake?”

  Leofrik shifted onto his rear end.

  Sarlic knelt before him. “I would rather leave you here to be found, but we leave no trace, least of all someone who will report our numbers.”

  Leofrik laughed hoarsely. “You can all rot in a Holy Land desert for all I care.”

  Sarlic seized Leofrik’s ropes and jerked him up. Leofrik tripped and tottered forward as a dagger sliced through the ropes at his ankles. He stumbled, his legs like jelly.

  The inflictor steadied him, bearing most of his weight. “You know, I was once like you.” The gruff voice was more of a bark than a cadence. “Believed in a cause. Even fought for the holy pope in the First Crusade.”

  Leofrik flinched. That would make the man at least seventy years old if he went to war fresh into manhood. He didn’t look more than five and twenty. Not only were these creatures dangerous, but they lived extended lives.

  “I thought it was a holy war,” Sarlic continued, “but it was not. The pope, kings, all were interested in trade and resources. Money. Take what you can, fight for the rest.”

  He shoved Leofrik forward, stomping along behind him. Velia’s white back came into view just ahead where she marched next to her captor.

  “I landed with a wave of knights whose orders were to take Nicaea,” Sarlic continued. “Peasants fought against us—women and children too—until blood ran down the streets. There was no glory in it, only the dead and the men who rose up to take their places. I tired of seeing men murdered simply because a French knight possessed a sword while a Turk did not…but they wouldn’t let me abandon my post. Oh no. I was branded so as I would never forget.” He pointed to the cross above his eye. “You had best believe I never forgot.”

  On occasion, a man who loved the Church would brand himself with the holy cross, but never on the face. An arm, a wrist, somewhere that showed his might. Some place on display to fellow soldiers, evident in the heat of battle.

  Sarlic seized Leofrik’s bound arm and directed him away from the glowing fires of camp. “This mark should be stamped on every man who kills without remorse while wearing the Church’s colours.”

  The knight kept quiet, tasting bitterness at the back of his throat. They followed a line of people who thumped into the coal-black woods beyond camp.

  Darkness gathered around his escort. Leofrik wanted to blame it on his exhaustion, or the dimming of his eyes, or the thickness of the shadows, but the heaviness grazed him: the essence of despair, frustration, rage. It seeped into the torturer’s skin. Sarlic pushed him out of the line of refugees and into the woods.

  “You are a burden at this point. A waste of victuals. And I personally do not like you.” He shoved Leofrik to the ground.

  Sarlic’s skin grayed slightly, and his eyes lit to crimson.

  Leofrik scuffled backwards, fixated on the crimson pupils. It was like watching a demon come to life.

  “Allow me to show you what is to be done with unnecessary burdens.” Sarlic pulled a dagger from his hip.

  The knight shouted and twisted onto his knees. He shoved forward. The weapon sliced across his back. Pain raked up his flesh. He whirled and threw a knee into the man’s wrist. Sarlic scuffled after the weapon.

  Leofrik clambered to his knees, arms still bound, and cursed his fate. Given equal standing, he might have a prayer. This was it, the way he’d die—hogtied and in a heap.

  Sarlic latched onto his blade, the weapon glimmering in a pool of starlight.

  Leofrik slid backwards until he hit the stump of a tree. Nowhere to go.

  The inflictor rose, face hidden in shadow. Only the red of his eyes penetrated the darkness. A djinn from the underworld.

  Leofrik glanced left and right for an escape, a weapon, anything. A palm-sized stone sat to his right, one with a sharp edge. Out of reach. He’d have to throw his entire body that direction to snatch the weapon, and even retrieving it was dubious, but trying was better than waiting to be murdered in the dark. What he wouldn’t give to have his hands freed rather than trapped behind him! He readied to leap.

  Sarlic neared, his blade lifted.

  A trickle of sweat dripped down Leofrik’s brow.

  His torturer jolted forward.

  Leofrik ducked beneath the blade and sprung right, slamming into the ground with his back to the rock. His fingers curled around the sharp rim.

  Metal pierced his leg. He screamed through his teeth. The man laughed, and pain seeped into Leofrik’s every nerve. It ate through him, consuming his energy, robbing him of breath, stealing any hope of survival.

  Sarlic stood over him, blade poised.

  “Goodbye.” The weapon arced down. Light curled across the surface in curious shimmers, incredibly beautiful for being the instrument that would end a man’s life. Leofrik cringed, ready for impact. This had been his fate the instant Ulric dragged him away from the Holy Land.

  The weapon neared and he closed his eyes.

  Weight thumped into his chest.

  He gasped, eyes shooting wide.

  Velia met his stare, her meager frame pressing into his chest. She was moonlight cutting through a nightmare. A white lady. A spirit. Her head tilted, and she gave him a rueful, sad smile. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of her mouth.

  Voices filled the night, but he was fixated on the blood, black in the night.

  Her life.

  Stark against her pale skin.

  A hilt protruded from her back, the blade meant for him.

  Her head lolled and her smile faded, eyes dimming. He’d seen it so many times, the life leaving a body, but never when that life had been sacrificed on his behalf—the woman who betrayed him no less.

  “Velia,” he whispered.

  Hands pulled her away, and he reached after her with his all. Do not take her away. Let her stay with me. Let me thank her properly.

  His attacker lay on the ground across from him, unconscious. Several of these strange, gifted people stood between them. One leaned down and ran a hand over Leofrik’s chest, searching for wounds. Another cut his wrists free while yet another examined the wound in his calf. They were talking but the words were fuzz.

  Velia lay next to him, her body still, a metal cuff still clasped about her skin. As soon as his wrists were free, he flopped over and cradled her in his arms, not knowing if he would have another chance. “Thank you, dear one, for your gift.”

  A life cut short. A woman who should have lived. One who had begun to infect his soul, regardless of her heritage.

  Whispers carried around him, sad voices he didn’t want to associate with people. They weren’t people. They were creatures.

  But she gave her life for him. Was there a nobler thing in all the world?

  Perhaps they were better than any people he’d known. Perhaps he had misjudged them because of his own bias and impatience, because he was too blinded by notions that didn’t hold true. Velia said they wouldn’t kill him, yet one had tried.

  “How badly are you hurt?” the eastern man asked for the third time.

  Leofrik shook his head. Fingers grazed his back and he trembled.

  “Bandages for him.”

  “And for her?” another man asked.

  The monk was quiet. “Go.” He faced Leofrik. “My name is Lucian, and we will restore you to full health. That I promise.”

  Leofrik glanced again at his attacker, slumbering now. “I should think my demise would have been a relief.”

  The monk gave him a strange look.

  Leofrik blin
ked.

  Lucian lifted a knife. “If you will promise not to harm any here, we will release you, but we cannot have you returning to your lord.”

  “Ulric is not my lord.”

  They wrapped bandages around his leg according to Lucian’s instruction. “Sarlic would never do this. He is angry, yes, but he is not a man of blood.”

  Leofrik related the strange way the man had changed, the darkness, the red eyes.

  The monk nodded. “I see glimpses of the future, and I too saw how he changed. There is an evil following us through this land. It seems it has taken to possessing and slaying our kind. It is a dangerous time.”

  Leofrik turned to Velia. “She saved me.”

  “She did.”

  Forty-Six

  Returning

  Alexia’s legs shook, but she got them under her.

  An arm looped around her and lifted some of her weight. She looked up into eyes as vast as a starry night sky. Kiren’s eyebrow rose, asking without a word if she was able to travel. Now that she had him, she was.

  She nodded.

  He pulled her into the shadow of bush and tree.

  ***

  They didn’t stop moving except to catch their breath. The motion kept Alexia warm, although she stumbled all too often or had to pause and lean against a tree. Kiren halted with her and regarded her closely, obviously attuned to the exhaustion she was determined to hide.

  “It is not much further,” he muttered.

  Liar. Though he offered the words as motivation, she didn’t want his falsehoods—even if his truths hurt too much. He had no idea where they were going or the distance it would be to a new camp.

  She glanced at the angry red tear across his cheek, worry trembling through her. The last day, or however long she’d been conscious, had been spent in silence—a silence so thick between them, she didn’t think it could be breached. There were too many raw feelings. Too many hurtful words and actions. He’d opened up. She couldn’t. He said unkind things. She scarred him. He left her.

  Kiren exhaled. “Whatever it is you have to ask, ask.”

  She took a deep breath. “They accused you of murder.”

  His jaw squared, stretching his scar. “It is no worse than what they have done before.”

  “Whether you admit it or not, it injures you.”

  Kiren scowled at her. “Are you so concerned about my injuries in light of your own? Even the ones I have inflicted on you?”

  Her cheeks flamed at the memory: the revelation of how he’d viewed her all along. He’d chosen private moments to pursue their affections at first because his attraction to an unwholesome woman shamed him.

  Alexia turned straight ahead, unable to banish the sting and yet unwilling to connect it with the man who looked the part of her husband.

  “I did not mean what I said.” He groaned. “I did not mean any of it.”

  She held her tongue. He meant at least some of it. The fury behind his words could not have been faked, a resentment long buried by good intentions.

  “I opened myself to you, Alexia. All of me. I have never done that with anyone before, and it terrified me—especially knowing I am not the first man to care for you.”

  Her chest tightened.

  “I needed your acceptance. You dismissed my confessions, ready to move on with your life, and I was angry. I still am. I offered myself to you. Do you know how humiliating that was?”

  Every statement weighed on her more. Another leaden weight pulling her shoulders down. It was becoming unbearable. “Because embracing a tainted woman would sully you.”

  He growled. “I have never believed that, even if I wanted to. Do you know what you are to me? Every step away from you emptied my soul. When I found you in the township, I was returning. I could not stay away. You drew me, and when I heard that scream, I knew where you were and that you needed me.” He glanced at her sideways.

  Alexia bit her lip. Was he bound to her already? “I told you to stop,” she whispered. “I said we were not going further.”

  “Why did we start? How could you have—?” He shook out his hands and blew out a heavy breath. “You are married.”

  She bowed her head.

  “You should have told me,” he said.

  “Would that have stopped you?”

  He eyed her lips, and her heart did a little flip. “Any man who could let you escape him does not deserve you. But how can this work when you are bound to someone else?”

  She could barely breathe for the desire melting through his ocean tides. Every word reined with restraint, his fists clenched at his side, the pulse madly ticking in his neck—though from anger or longing, she had no idea.

  “It is not meant to work,” she said.

  His hands clamped around her arms, stopping her. “I want to know you, Alexia. I need to know you.”

  His oaken musk rolled over her, and she lost herself to memory—his bare arms wrapped around her, the press of his lips as they traveled her body. But this Kiren didn’t know that carnal pleasure. She forced the moment back where it belonged, buried. That was a different man.

  “I have to be by your side, if for no other reason than to quash the irrational fear that something awful will happen to you.” He stroked her cheek. “You have beguiled me.” His lips neared hers and she didn’t pull away, didn’t back down. His breath was warm against her lips. “Beguile me again.”

  “Kiren—”

  His mouth crushed her weak protest. He kissed her deeper than he ever had, so deep he grazed up against her barrier and she had a hard time remembering why it needed to be there. Why not let him in, let him have all of her? He was her husband…or would be. Was there anything so wrong with giving herself to him in this time?

  “My baby.” She pulled away. The child would claim her life. It would claim his. She must save him from himself, save him period. “Hate me if you must, but I stand by my decisions.” Even so, she was wavering, begging silently for him to respect her words, because she didn’t have the restraint to stop him again.

  His teeth clenched. He ripped both hands through his hair. In three paces, he whirled away and cut a steady path through the brush. She followed after, tasting his frustration on the wind.

  ***

  A shadow dropped over them as Kiren kept pace ahead of Alexia. Wings flapped. He glanced up as she waved at Zephaniah, too enthusiastic that he’d joined them. Kiren had mixed feelings. Zeph could carry Alexia to the heart of safety, but that would mean having her out of his sight. His friend’s presence would also ease the awkwardness between them, but Kiren had hoped for another chance to smooth things over.

  “Glad you are alive.” Zeph smirked at Alexia.

  “Is that why you came searching? You thought I might have died along the way? One might believe you descended from carrion crows.”

  He laughed. “I was more afraid you had taken this simpleton with you.” He wrapped an arm around Kiren’s neck and muttered quietly, “Even if this bludgeon-head is willing to throw himself in the path of the bull.”

  Kiren shrugged his friend off. “You should take her to the others. It is safer there.”

  Zephaniah’s head swiveled his direction, and he blinked several times rapidly. He brushed a hand over his own cheek. “Did that happen while saving her?”

  “No,” he said. “Yes!” Alexia insisted at the same time.

  Kiren met gazes with her. How dare she lie when he was willing to bear the shame of his actions?

  “That is up for debate,” he said, and gave Alexia a head shake. She touched a finger to her lips and hooded her eyes. She wouldn’t be revealing his secret. He hadn’t realized until this moment it would shame her as well. It was their secret then.

  Zeph gave him a look that said they’d be talking soon. “It is not far to the new camp and you look exhausted. I will be back.” He caught Alexia and carried her away.

  Kiren watched them go, debating how easy it would be to slip away rather than face his frien
d’s interrogation. Zeph would murder him for taking off alone. And his enemy must be hiding near and killing the Lost Ones—according to Alexia. That was the direction he needed to go. He only wished he was better prepared for battle.

  Long moments stretched, too solitary with just him and his thoughts.

  Zeph dropped next to him on the hilly path. “You left without me.”

  “It was not planned.”

  “And that makes it better?” His friend’s wings furled. “You could have taken me. I would have gone.”

  “You did not wish to leave.”

  “But I would have. Always.”

  Kiren thanked Zeph silently for his loyalty.

  “They think you killed someone.”

  Kiren nodded. “I know.”

  Zeph’s head was shaking. “But you know who did it?”

  “I might.”

  Silence.

  “No accusations for now?”

  Kiren lifted one tired foot after another. “Not yet.”

  Zeph shrugged. “And her? Seems like she is not having you.”

  Kiren rubbed his healing skin. “Maybe.”

  Forty-Seven

  Leverage

  “Here lies his fortress armament, and there the stables.” Leofrik pointed to the dirt outline of Ulric’s fortress, leaning back so the crowd of listeners could see more clearly. “The tower is where the child is being held, which will make for some difficulty as there is only one way up or down, a single stairwell.”

  Amos touched his shoulder. “Are you certain you are willing to do this?”

  “I bear no love for the man.” He glanced back at Velia’s wrapped body, prepared for the funeral rites. His fingers snaked into his pocket and wrapped around the toy wolf. His vow weighed on him more heavily than even his promise to his brethren knights. “And I owe her justice.”

  Nods and solemn looks passed over the group.

  After Velia’s death, the block over his mind had disappeared. He’d allowed them to examine his thoughts, because it was better to go peacefully, and he was still overwhelmed by Velia’s sacrifice. He hadn’t expected them to reciprocate. In return for his compliance, he’d been shown their previous conflicts. He’d seen account after account that mirrored Velia’s experience: men appearing unexpectedly, chaining them, killing them, using them. These people had been chased like a rare breed of panther rich men decided they must possess.