Broken Dove

by Kristen Ashley

  That didn’t sound great. None of it did, to be honest. But that really didn’t.

  “With what’s to come?” I inquired when she didn’t explain.

  She threw out her hand not holding her wineglass. “That’s not for now. What you must understand for now is that you’re safe here, you must learn to trust in that, and,” she leaned deeper toward me, “the man who just left this room is not the Pol you know. He’s Apollo Ulfr of the House of Ulfr of the ice country of the north—Lunwyn.”

  “Pol is also Apollo Ulfr of the, um…House of Ulfr, I guess, but from the rain city of Portland,” I joked, perhaps getting a little hysterical (and who would blame me?).

  “Again, this is not amusing.” Her voice held a vein of impatience. “This is real. And you must understand these two men are not the same man,” she stressed.

  “I got that,” I mumbled and took another sip of wine.

  “Chérie,”—more leaning and her eyes got kind of scary— “they…are not…the same man.”

  She was freaking me out and to freak out while freaking out didn’t feel all that great.

  So the only thing I could do was whisper, “Okeydokey.”

  She studied me a moment before she sat back. “It will be difficult, with what you’ve endured at the hand of the other Apollo, to remember that. But don’t forget it.”

  “You’ve made your point,” I assured her.

  “I haven’t,” she disagreed. “You see, in each world the same people reside, yet they aren’t the same.”

  “You’ve already told me that,” I reminded her, wondering how she could forget considering we were still talking about it.

  “No, beautiful Ilsa, you’re too dazed by all that’s occurred to put it together. If there are two Apollos, then there are two Ilsas.”

  Uh-oh.

  More not good.

  She wasn’t done.

  “Alas, the Ilsa of this world is no longer of this world. She has passed.”

  Oh my God.

  The other me was dead?

  That sucked!

  Valentine still wasn’t done and she had a whopper of a grand finale.

  “And she was the wife of the Apollo of this world.”

  Oh boy.

  “Holy crap,” I whispered.

  “Indeed,” she replied.

  “I don’t get it,” I told her. “What does that mean?”

  It hit me that I knew what it meant; my eyes flew to the shadows where I heard the door open and close when Apollo left then I looked back to her.

  “Shit, does he think she’s me? Or I’m her? Or…”—I threw out a hand— “whatever?”

  “He does not. He’s aware of the twins. He knows you are not her. But that didn’t stop him from acquiring my services to find you and bring you to him. I am far from inexpensive, chérie, and I warned him of your plight in our world and that you might not receive him very well. But he was very determined. ”

  None of this was good. It was weird. Bizarre. Unbelievable. Fantastical.

  And it wasn’t getting any better.

  “I’m not certain that’s good,” I shared my understatement.

  “I agree. I don’t know how the other Ilsa died. I don’t know when she died. I do know it has been some time. And I also know that in that time, his grief has not faded. Not at all.”

  That tenderness I saw in his eyes.

  And the pain.

  Yep. This wasn’t getting any better.

  “I’m not her,” I whispered.

  “I am aware of that,” she replied, not in a whisper.

  We held each other’s eyes. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I sucked back another healthy sip of wine, straightened my shoulders against the headboard and again looked at her.

  “So, I’m in a parallel universe, safe from Pol, which is good normally but now it’s better because he’s going to be seriously pissed he no longer has a hand, as anyone would be but Pol will take that to his usual extremes. And extremes of his extremes, my guess, would be catastrophic. And I’m with another Pol, who’s not Pol but Apollo, and he brought me here to replace his dead wife.”

  She shook her head again.

  “Do not mistake that man for a man who would allow grief to dull his intellect,” she warned. “He was driven to have you here but he is also very aware that you are not the woman he loved and lost. I do not know his intentions in having you here. I know only that he is a man of character. A man of honor. A very brave man. And last, one who feels deeply. Deeper than most. I would even go so far as to say deep to extremes, even if he rarely shows it.”

  I was thinking that was good and bad. The other Pol felt deep to extremes and his extremes were no good.

  But the Pol I knew had no problems showing it. It was me who had a problem with the way he showed it.

  This was a lot to take in but I was beginning to find it hard to concentrate. Either due to the blow to the face or my adrenaline crashing, suddenly I was fading.

  Valentine saw it and I felt the wineglass sliding out of my hand.

  I blinked up at her, drowsiness coming on so quickly it wasn’t right and I knew it was no adrenaline crash.

  My eyes dropped to the wineglass.

  “Settle, ma chérie,” she murmured, pressing on my shoulder so I had no choice but to slide back down the bed.

  “You drugged me,” I accused.

  She didn’t deny it.

  Instead, she said, “Sleep is good. Tomorrow, you’ll be rested and you can better understand all that’s happening and acclimatize to your surroundings.”

  “You drugged me,” I repeated, my words now slightly slurred, whatever she gave me working fast.

  “It’s for the best.”

  Someone drugging you without your knowledge was not for the best. Maybe their best, but not yours.

  “You—”

  “Sleep,” she whispered.

  “But…”

  I heard her sigh but I said no more because, against my will, I did as I was told and slept.

  * * * * *

  I regained consciousness in a sluggish way when my body was moved.

  I was still mostly out of it but I could tell the person in bed with me wasn’t just joining me there. He was changing positions and taking me with him.

  I didn’t know how we were before, but when he settled I was tucked close to his side, my cheek on his shoulder. As I struggled with consciousness, his fingers wrapped around my wrist and tugged my arm across his flat stomach.

  I felt warm, soft skin over firm muscle pretty much everywhere.

  Crap.

  It was too bad I didn’t have it in me to protest. But I was so lethargic, I couldn’t move.

  But I could speak.

  “Pol?” I murmured and his arm holding me to him tightened as his hand at my wrist slid up my arm to curve around me.

  “No,” he grunted forcefully.

  “Apollo,” I whispered.

  That got me a double arm squeeze.

  “Yes,” he replied, gently this time. “Sleep, my dove.”

  Oh boy.

  Carefully, my voice as drowsy and vague as my brain, I said softly, “I don’t think I’m your dove.”

  His reply was immediate. “You are my dove.”

  “I—”

  Another squeeze of the arms, this could not be mistaken for anything but a “shut up squeeze,” before he said, “A dove has great beauty, but is easily broken.”

  That was nice and all, poetic even, though a wee bit scary, and last, all true.

  However.

  “But—”

  “She was ‘my beauty,’” he whispered, an ache in his voice that made my stomach hurt and my throat tingle and bad, no matter how out of it I was.

  He knew I knew.

  And he knew I was not her.

  At that ache, I didn’t know why I did it, but it was me who cuddled closer as I whispered back, “I’m sorry.”

  On my words, his body stilled for a brief moment befo
re he turned into me and gathered me even closer as he murmured, “As am I.”

  “Why are you—?”

  He cut me off again with, “I could not save her.”

  Oh boy.

  He kept going. “But I can save you.”

  Oh boy.

  “Apollo—”

  “Sleep.”

  “I—”

  “We will talk later. Now, sleep.”

  I had a mind to ask about the sleeping arrangements. I also had a mind to thank him for saving me from Pol. Even if the way he did it was over the top and grisly, he still did it. I further had a mind to explore this parallel universe thing a bit more seeing as I was groggy, but I was still obviously there with him so there was a there to be.

  Even if I had a mind to all this, I unfortunately blinked a blink that malfunctioned so that when my lids lowered, they stayed that way.

  Chapter Three

  Be Careful What You Wish For

  I felt the sunlight against my eyelids so I opened them.

  When I did, I saw a sea of satin sheets that were deep lilac in color covered in a quilted satin bedspread that was pool blue. Beyond that, a vast expanse of room that led to a wall on which there were four sets of arched French doors all covered in wispy, pure white sheers. The woodwork was painted an antique white. The walls a cool pale blue.

  Between sets of doors two and three was a French provincial table on which was a large, etched glass vase out of which burst a thick, fluffy array of hydrangea blooms, the majority of them a delicate blue with one deep purple and one rich cream stuck in as a striking, but beautiful, contrast.

  It was a room I’d never seen before. Yet I’d woken up in it.

  I pushed up in bed, muttering, “What the—?”

  Then it all came back to me.

  Parallel universe.

  The bad seed Pol’s good guy (maybe) twin.

  And a witch from New Orleans.

  “Shit,” I whispered, feeling the tightness in my face, the ache at my ribs, both very real. And also feeling the bed soft beneath me, the sheets luxurious against my hand, knowing it had all happened.

  It had happened.

  I looked around the room.

  As I’d semi-noted last night, I was in a large bed, bigger than a queen, but not as big as a king. The intricately carved and arched head and footboard were both padded and buttoned in a creamy material, the wood around it painted antique white.

  There were two nightstands, both French provincial, the carving also ornate.

  On them—I leaned to my side carefully to look closer—there was what looked like extravagant gas lamps, their bases shining silver, their globes milky, frilled and beautifully engraved. My half-drunk wineglass was still there and in the bright sunlight streaming through the curtains, that glass was even more extraordinary.

  I pushed up and continued my study of the room.

  An enormous antique white wardrobe with four doors, more carving and an arched top. A long, low dresser with nine drawers, the three in the middle narrower than the six at the sides, all their fronts having undulating curves.

  There was another bouquet of hydrangeas on the top, this one carrying a majority of creamy white blooms with a couple of pale blue ones added for contrast. On either side, milky globed lamps, taller than the ones on the nightstand but still matching them.

  The dresser also held an elegant decanter half-full of wine, with two empty wineglasses, all sitting on a silver tray with a frilled lip.

  I turned my head and saw in the far corner a squat, baroque dressing table with a three-sided mirror and a stool in front with a cushion padded in buttoned lilac velvet. The top was void—not a bottle, not a vase, but the piece needed no adornment. Still, it was clear it was unused.

  I turned my head the other way and saw a pale blue velvet covered chaise lounge with an arch to the side of the back and sweeping arms at top and foot which sat at a diagonal, aimed for a view out the French doors. In front of the doors at the other side was a seating arrangement of two armchairs, including the one Valentine had sat in which had clearly been moved back. A table sat between them with another, smaller vase filled with purple hydrangea blooms.

  The wood floors were covered in rugs with intricate but elusive designs, made so by their muted colors of blues, purples, creams and grays.

  And set in the walls were more milky-globed sconces intermingled with black framed, cream matted pencil sketches of women all wearing fabulous, chic but old-fashioned gowns from evening wear to day wear to outdoor gear (I knew the last because they were wearing hats and peeking from around parasols).

  The room was lavish, yet classy. Opulent, however still tasteful. It was more of everything I’d ever seen of this style of décor—more intricacy in the carving, the sweeping lines more delicate, the colors lusher. In fact, it was totally over-the-top. But weirdly, it managed to be gracious, not garish.

  I concluded my perusal of the space thinking, Okay, this might not be so bad—the appearance of gas lamps and the understanding that Apollo was handy with a sword and Valentine had to explain that a gun was a deadly weapon and what these might mean notwithstanding.

  I was about to throw the bedclothes back, get out of bed and find a bathroom (which I hoped they had) and take a look at my face which felt worse than normal, when the door flew open.

  My head jerked that way and I saw Apollo striding in.

  He was still in romance novel hero clothes.

  But these were better.

  Dark brown breeches that fit really well and by that I meant like a freaking glove. They left pretty much nothing to the imagination and what they did leave to the imagination, the parts that didn’t told you the rest of it could be nothing but perfection.

  And again, this proved he was all Pol because, at least looks-wise, Pol was all that, top to toe. It was just everything else that made him a jackass.

  I stopped thinking of Pol and followed Apollo’s breeches to his dark brown boots that were kind of shiny like someone attempted to take care of them, but they weren’t worn as a fashion statement. They were just worn.

  Up my eyes went and I saw topping these was a cream shirt, full-sleeved and the collar was clearly meant to go up high on his neck and cover his throat, possibly with one of those poofy neck cloth thingies, but he wore the collar open at the throat, exposing the strong column of it, creating a miracle. Because at the sight of his throat, I forgot about his breeches.

  I tore my eyes from his neck to look at his face.

  Yep, this was Pol Powerhouse.

  Or Apollo Powerhouse.

  Pol didn’t hold a candle to this guy.

  Not even close.

  I watched his gaze slide through me and he turned his head toward the door he’d just walked through.

  I looked down at the pillow beside me that was dented seeing as his head had rested on it through the night, wondering distractedly how late it was and how long he’d been gone seeing as he was dressed and had already gone about facing the day.

  Then I looked back his way to see that he was in the room and he wasn’t the only one.

  A troop of women came with him. I stopped counting at six (and maybe was half done) when he started talking.

  Or more accurately commanding, his gaze on one woman. “She’ll need to be bathed and dressed. Take measurements in order that you can commence creating her apparel without delay. You’ll have one week to provide her with a wardrobe that will see her through travel, on land and at sea.”

  Uh.

  What?

  He wasn’t done.

  “Send a missive to Lunwyn urgently. They’ll need to prepare for her arrival. We make haste to Lunwyn so inform them that they have two months.”

  Wait.

  It took two months to get to Lunwyn?

  Two months?

  He turned to me, took two steps toward the bed but stopped which put him at about ten feet away.

  His eyes were blank when they fell on me, which I
thought was weird but I didn’t have a lot of time to think on how weird it was because he continued talking immediately.

  “Obviously, I was not prepared for your arrival and in your current condition”—he looked to my check then back to my eyes—“the children shouldn’t see you.”

  All the air compressed out of my lungs, and due to lack of oxygen they started burning.

  Children?

  He seemed not to notice my response for he went on.

  “Indeed, I had planned carefully for how you would be introduced to them therefore you may be traveling separately from us so I can take that time to prepare them. We mustn’t delay in being away, however, for the witches are conniving with Baldur and whatever strike they intend to make is possibly imminent. We need to make haste in all of us arriving at the Ulfr estate in Lunwyn where I can leave you with the children in safety and rejoin Frey, Tor and the Dax.”

  Clearly he thought Valentine was a lot more forthcoming during our conversation last night because I had no clue what he was talking about but he seemed to think I did.

  But I didn’t ask.

  I was still stuck on children.

  Therefore, I wheezed, “Children?”

  “Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “Your children?” I pushed out.

  He stopped looking blank in order to look mildly impatient. “Yes. My children. Christophe and Élan.”

  Christophe and Élan.

  A boy and a girl.

  Or maybe two boys (I’d never heard the name Élan).

  It didn’t matter.

  Children.

  Apollo of this world and his dead Ilsa had children.

  Two of them.

  Two of them.

  Suddenly, I was certain I was going to throw up but luckily he spoke again so I had something to focus on and could swallow it down.

  “These women are ladies maids and seamstresses. They will attend you.”

  I didn’t need ladies maids and seamstresses. I didn’t even need a bathroom anymore.

  I needed Valentine. Like now.