Broken Dove

by Kristen Ashley

  I heard a thud of a body hitting floor (though not a second thud which would indicate a head hitting the floor) and I again swallowed bile and terror as police sirens sounded in the distance.

  I didn’t know if this was good or bad. I could explain my need for a gun and I’d do my time if a jury of my peers thought I deserved it.

  I couldn’t explain a beheading.

  “We must leave tout de suite.” The woman said and she didn’t sound bored anymore. She didn’t sound freaked like I was (in a big fucking way). But there was a hint of urgency to her voice.

  I opened my eyes just in time to be lifted up in romance-novel-cover Pol’s arms.

  Uh-oh.

  This wasn’t what unconscious felt like. I’d been that way often in my life and not just due to sleeping. I knew what it felt like. And this was not it.

  His arms around my middle back and behind my knees caged me iron tight to his broad chest as he peered down at me, straightened and turned, walking to the middle of the room and stopping.

  I would have protested. I should have protested.

  I didn’t protest.

  This was because I was looking in Pol’s eyes.

  But this was not Pol.

  I’d seen a myriad of looks in Pol’s eyes. Love. Hate. Fury. Annoyance. Passion. Humor. I could go on (and on).

  This man in his weird clothes did not have any of the looks Pol had given me over the way too many years we were together.

  He was gazing at me with a tenderness that was so acute I swear it looked like he was in pain.

  And not a little of it, the tenderness or the pain.

  “You’re not Pol,” I whispered.

  “No. I am not,” he replied, steel threading through his tone, his voice Pol’s voice and yet…not.

  His arms held me close as all around us went black.

  The loss of the green didn’t concern me. This guy concerned me. This guy who wore weird clothes, knew how to wield a sword and didn’t hesitate using it and looked at me like I was his reason for breathing concerned me.

  So I kept talking.

  “You’re not a hallucination.”

  Some of the tenderness leaked from his eyes but only so amusement could replace it and this was far from unattractive.

  “I’m not that either, my dove.”

  My dove?

  What the hell?

  “Do I have a brain injury?” I asked, figuring this was the only explanation, and his eyes dropped to my cheek.

  The tenderness and humor vanished before his gaze came back to mine.

  “We shall see.”

  That wasn’t a good answer.

  I mean, I was uncertain about a reality where some dude had beat the shit out of Pol, cut off his hand and maybe his head, but only because there’d be a lot of explaining to do with the police. And I didn’t care what that said about me. Perhaps dismemberment was a wee bit harsh a punishment for all of Pol’s transgressions. But only a wee bit.

  I wasn’t uncertain about not wanting to have a brain injury. Pol had inflicted a lot of damage over the years (broken wrist, broken ribs, concussions, contusions, sprained ankles, etc.) but he’d never put me into a coma.

  Before I could come to terms with any of this, new Pol was gently lying me down on a bed and it was a fluffy bed that felt great (thus I knew it wasn’t my lumpy bed in my apartment that didn’t feel great).

  He muttered to the room at large, “Light,” which I took as an order to the unknown woman I sensed still with us because, within seconds, weak light lit the room.

  I didn’t get the chance to process this new impossibility of me being on a comfy bed because he sat by my side and lifted his hand to rest it on my cheek. The flat of his thumb was just below the still stinging, tightening (thus swelling) flesh where Pol hit me with the butt of the gun.

  Oh, and he’d bent deep, his face was close to mine and that sweet look was on it again.

  “What did you endure prior to our arrival, Ilsa?” he asked, his voice low, deep, warm and chock full of concern.

  And near as sweet as his look.

  Right. Time to reassess. I was all geared up to defend myself when Pol found me, so geared up I was ready to go down fighting (if I had to, though obviously this was not my preference). I’d even shot Manny, who was a dufus and a pathologically mean one and those two things didn’t go well together, but I still didn’t want to shoot him (or anyone).

  I was not prepared for whatever the hell was currently happening.

  Therefore I answered, “Uh…”

  “Do I need to call a physician?” he asked.

  I knew the answer to that. It might have been years and that pistol whip hurt like a mother but this was tame in comparison to what Pol could do to me.

  “No, thanks,” I answered then stupidly got chatty. “I’m good. I’ve had way worse. Thanks to uh…you, he didn’t get the chance to get started so I’ll be all right.”

  This was the wrong thing to say and I knew it instantly.

  His adoring look fled. His jade green eyes got hot, his strong jaw went hard and a muscle ticked straight up that jaw into his cheek.

  Oh boy.

  There it was. That was the Pol I knew and I shrank back into the pillow as my body prepared to flee.

  He saw it and I was guessing, like Pol, he didn’t miss much. Or, with the shine of intelligence that Pol did not have emanating from his eyes, not exactly like Pol, perhaps he didn’t miss anything.

  “I would not harm you, Ilsa,” he gritted from between clenched teeth.

  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled unconvincingly as anyone would, seeing as I was staring at the wrath in his eyes and listening to him talk between his teeth.

  The pads of his fingers pressed surprisingly gently into my cheek and he dipped his face closer.

  “Never,” he whispered, his tone fierce and still angry but something struck me.

  This was not just a word. It also wasn’t a promise.

  It was a vow.

  What the hell was happening?

  I knew what wasn’t happening. I wasn’t in my bed. There were no police sirens sounding. And the green was gone. Giving that a millisecond of reflection, that green was not right.

  Nothing was right.

  So, considering nothing was right, I knew I had to get this new Pol out of my face so I could take stock and make a new plan.

  Therefore I breathed, “Okeydokey.”

  His head tipped slightly to the side and his dark brows twitched.

  “Okeydokey?” he asked.

  Oh boy.

  Why did his deep voice saying that ridiculous word low and bemused make my mouth get dry at the same time it made me want to smile in a moment that was so far from smile-worthy, it was not funny.

  Shit!

  I didn’t know who this guy was or what was happening. What I did know was that I’d been here before. I’d looked at that handsome face with those fabulous lips and that head of rich, dark, thick hair. I’d looked into those amazing eyes that were pure jade. No joke. They were a milky, translucent green that was so beautiful, once you caught sight of it you never wanted to look away. All of this on a tall, commanding body that made my knees weak and my nipples get hard.

  Years ago, I’d looked at all that was him and I’d made the biggest mistake in my life.

  And that was not going to happen again, even if I was currently comatose from a pistol-whipping brain injury and not experiencing any of this at all.

  His hand at my cheek slid down to my neck. I focused on him when it did and he spoke.

  “I don’t know his word, my dove.”

  Who didn’t know the word “okeydokey?”

  I didn’t ask that.

  I explained. Quickly.

  “It means okay. Fine. Good. All right. In this case, I believe you.”

  “If you do, why do you press yourself against the pillows still?” he asked.

  “Habit?” I said the word as a question as well as an answer and it w
as another mistake.

  His face started to darken again with anger so I lifted up a hand, palm toward him and kept babbling.

  “Okay, don’t go all freaky on me again. It’s cool. I’m good. I’ll relax.” I forced myself to relax (slightly) and pointed it out by indicating myself with a sweep of the hand. “See. Relaxed. I’m chilling. It’s all good. I’m fine.”

  “You lie,” he said softly. “You lie with very strange words, but you still lie.”

  God!

  I needed to get myself together. Although he said that softly, my guess would be he didn’t like liars (because no one liked liars) and I needed to keep him calm, not rile him up.

  “I—” I started to try and cover my lie but he cut me off.

  “You don’t know where you are or who I am. You’ve been kicked and sustained a blow to your face. And you’ve witnessed—”

  I closed my eyes tight and requested, “Please, let’s not do a blow by blow.”

  His fingers gave my neck a squeeze and I opened my eyes. “I needed to disarm him, Ilsa,” he explained, his voice still soft.

  “By cutting off his hand?” I asked and his brows drew together.

  It was a scary look.

  Uh-oh.

  “You concern yourself with his welfare?” he asked back.

  “I actually don’t care what happens to Pol. I just don’t want to see it happen. And that was some sick shit, but cutting off his head—”

  He interrupted me, his brows still drawn, his look no less scary. “I did not take his head.”

  He didn’t?

  Well, I guessed that was why I didn’t hear a head hit the floor.

  I thought on this a nanosecond and decided to take it as good news.

  “And if he gets attention for his wound and it’s cauterized, he’ll not lose his life due to losing his hand,” the new Pol went on.

  I decided to take that as good news too simply because I was a human being and it was required of me.

  The new Pol then finished, “I hit him on the side of his head with the flat of my saber. He lost consciousness, but not his life.”

  Well, there you go.

  “Okeydokey,” I replied, his eyes lit and his mouth quirked.

  Oh boy.

  That look wasn’t scary. It was something else altogether.

  “Could I interrupt at this juncture, chéri, and suggest you get a cool compress, ice if it’s available, raw meat if it’s not?” the polished female voice came at us and I was glad of it because new Pol lifted a few inches away and turned his head to peer into the shadows.

  I looked beyond him and saw, through not very good lighting, a willowy redhead in a fabulous green dress and way more fabulous green slingback platform pumps, top to toe as slick and urbane as her voice would lead you to believe.

  “Her cheek is swelling. It may not be too late for the ice to contain some of it,” she continued and the new Pol was up in a flash.

  “I’ll see to this immediately,” he stated, moving swiftly, his cape swinging out dramatically behind him (which unusually, but awesomely, was set at a slant along his back—over one shoulder, under the other) and then it swung again when he stopped and turned back to me. “Rest. I will return shortly,” he ordered then he looked at the redhead and kept at it. “See to her until I return.”

  After issuing his commands, he disappeared into the shadows and I heard a door open and close.

  My eyes shifted to the woman.

  When they did, I saw her move into the shadows but she came back into the circle of weak light pulling an elegant armchair with her, positioning it close to the bed.

  Without a word, she again disappeared into the shadows. I stared in the direction she disappeared, my focus on her and what might come next in this bizarreness, only vaguely noting that I was on a somewhat large bed with an arched footboard that had light-colored padding on it which was just as elegant as the armchair. I also noted the coverlet I was lying on was quilted, it was satin (satin!) and it looked in the dim light like it might be some shade of blue.

  She reappeared carrying two wineglasses filled with red wine. And they were not just any wineglasses. Like the chair, footboard and coverlet, they were elegant—finely etched and gracefully blown.

  I knew nice things. I had champagne tastes and studied the finer things in life with great energy and rapt attention. Pol was just like me and lived a life where he was certain to get them for himself, and, by extension, for me.

  So I knew everything around me was most definitely not my shabby, cheap, furnished apartment in a crappy neighborhood.

  I just didn’t know where I was.

  Or how I got there.

  She set one glass of wine on a nightstand by the bed and seated herself probably like a ballerina would take a load off (not that I’d ever seen that, but still). She slowly crossed her legs and her knees dropped to the side but her back and shoulders stayed straight so she looked like she was posing for a picture, not relaxing for a chat.

  “Fleuridian wine,” she murmured, tipping her head slightly to the glass on the nightstand all the while lifting hers close to her lips. “Have some. It’s superb.”

  I’d never heard of Fleuridian wine.

  I didn’t ask. I also didn’t reach for the wineglass.

  I held her eyes.

  She took a sip of wine not releasing my gaze.

  Then her hand slowly fell so she could rest it against the arm of the chair and she continued to hold my eyes.

  Finally, she announced, “I am Valentine Rousseau. Like you, I’m not of this world. I live in New Orleans. And I’m a witch.”

  I stared at her, feeling my lips part and thinking one word.

  Fabulous.

  Chapter Two

  Deep to Extremes

  “Not of this world?” I asked quietly when she didn’t continue.

  She nodded her head but said, “I would advise, beautiful Ilsa, that you listen closely and quickly come to terms with all I’m about to tell you. I have little time before Ulfr gets back. He’ll want to make certain you’re seen to, but he’ll not want to be separated from you for long.”

  I ignored that and repeated, “Not of this world?” Then I kept at it without giving her a chance to respond. “What is this world? And you’re a witch? What does that mean?”

  “We’ll start at the beginning,” she offered.

  “That’d be a good idea,” I replied, pushing myself up in the bed so my shoulders were against the headboard and I managed to do this only flinching a little bit at the pain.

  She watched me as I moved and her eyes narrowed slightly, like I’d surprised her.

  But she didn’t mention that.

  She started from the beginning which should have been a blessing but it turned out to be somewhat of a curse. Or, if not a curse in the strictest sense, it was definitely bizarre, confusing and maybe not so good.

  “I am a witch from a long line of witches,” she began. “And when I say that, chérie, my people have practiced the craft in New Orleans for centuries, and before that we practiced in France. Before that Rome. And before that…Egypt.”

  Visions of faces forming out of sandstorms and massive armies of huge-ass beetles crawling all over the place a la the movie The Mummy collided in my head even as I blinked in shock at what she was saying.

  Then I made the best decision I’d made in a long time. I reached out to the wineglass, nabbed it and took a big old sip.

  As I did so, Valentine continued. “Therefore, the craft being passed through my line for millennia, I am powerful. Very. This power gives me the ability to move between worlds, which is very difficult and consumes an enormous amount of magic. And with the strength born in me through countless generations of witches, I can not only move myself at will and as often as I like, I can also move others.”

  Move between worlds.

  Oh boy.

  I was already ready for her to be done but, alas, she kept going.

  “And you
will see, of course, looking around you, that you are no longer in our world. You’re in a parallel universe. Specifically Fleuridia, my favorite of the countries in the Northlands. Though, saying that, I have no favorite in the Southlands.” She gave a delicate shudder that was barely a movement but said it all about whatever the freaking Southlands were. Then she finished. “And you will have noted that in this parallel universe, we have twins, as you’ve already met your husband’s.”

  Okay.

  Seriously.

  How hard had Pol hit me with that gun?

  “I see you don’t believe me,” she stated, telling me I was not hiding my reaction in the slightest. “And this is what I wish for you to come to terms with quickly, for I speak the truth.”

  When she quit talking, I held her eyes and laid it out.

  “Let me get this straight. Twenty minutes ago, I was running from my husband, a really not very good husband I’ve been running from for years. He caught me, started to do what he does best, that being inflicting pain. Then you and that other Pol show up, coming from another dimension. The other Pol wears romance novel guy clothes and he also doesn’t hesitate in cutting off the Pol of my dimension’s hand and whacking him upside the head with the flat of his sword. After that, you spirited us to wherever-we-are-now which is someplace that has twins of people in our dimension, very comfortable beds and really lovely wineglasses.”

  “We are not in another dimension, chérie,” she corrected. “We are in a parallel universe.”

  “There’s a difference?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” she answered. “There’s only one parallel universe but there are many different dimensions and you don’t want to go to any of those.” Her lip curled in a refined sneer that, no matter how freaked I was, I had to admit was all kinds of cool. “The creatures there…” she trailed off as she shook her head.

  “Well, thanks for not taking me to another dimension,” I muttered and sucked back another healthy sip of wine.

  She leaned slightly forward, again catching my eyes and her smooth voice was deadly serious when she stated, “Ilsa, this is not a jest. This is not a hallucination. This is not a dream. This is real. All you will experience in the coming days and weeks will seem very strange to you and you must prepare for it, accept it and adapt to it. Quickly. That said, you are here now, you’re safe, and you’re not going back. But with what is to come, it’s important that you adjust swiftly to your new circumstances.”