Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  She kissed his neck, reveling in the salt of his skin, its firmness against her lips. At last, she threw open his shirt, baring the divine artistry of his body. A winding maze of sigil tattoos, firm corded muscle rippling beneath her touch, pure strength begging to be worshipped.

  And worship it she would.

  He threw off his shirt and doublet, then caged her between his arms, and she pulled him down to her. Her body pulsed in need; a loud exhalation, and she knew he’d felt it, too.

  Dizzy and squirming, she craved his mouth, craved him, and what only he could give her. The press of his lips against her chest, and the tension in her body had reached its limit.

  She reached for his waistband; he took in a sharp breath, then began unfastening the laces.

  Great Divine, yes. Heart hammering with anticipation, she threw her head back.

  Voices came from outside the quarters, from the resonance den.

  She held her breath. Not now, not now, not now. But Jon paused above her, too.

  Heaving breaths, she looked up at him, acceptance slowly sinking in. Divine’s flaming fire. “Our time’s up, isn’t it?”

  A grin broke through the determined frown on Jon’s face, and he laughed.

  More noise came from the other side of the doorway, and she turned an angry eye on the lock. She glanced around the room until she spotted a full bath. Gesturing a spell, she pulled the water to ice the lock—and the door, and the frame, and the wall.

  Perhaps her body, too. And the rest of her. For several hours.

  “It’ll hold for a little while, at least,” she said, “but not nearly long enough to... finish what we started.”

  With a sobering breath, he rose from the bed only to descend to the floor, his hands palm-down under his shoulders. His back straight, he lowered himself nearly to the floor and pushed back up again, then repeated the exercise. And again. And again. And again.

  “Is now really the time?” She righted her clothes and grabbed for her cloak.

  He didn’t stop. “Give me a minute.”

  “For what? Must you do this now?” She gestured toward the door, where more voices now murmured on the other side. “They could be—”

  “Yes, I must,” he bit out between repetitions.

  She left the bed and watched him with a raised eyebrow. He did a dozen more before the doorknob rattled. As the blood rushed to his face, her own cheeks heated.

  He jumped to his feet, threw on his shirt and doublet, then grabbed his weapons belt. He secured it and took her hand, remarkably composed. “Let’s go.”

  He led her out the back of the resonance den.

  A quick survey of the alley—no one was about—and they slipped out into the night. He looked back with a roguish grin and gave her hand a squeeze.

  He’d said he was in love with her. Warmth rose to her face, and she fought back a smile of her own.

  “Back to the inn?” he offered readily.

  This time she freed her smile. Every part of her yearned to return to The Crowned Stag as soon as possible, to finish what they’d started.

  “With all haste,” she said, earning a puckish grin from him in return. “This way.”

  Chapter 30

  Rielle glanced over her shoulder. No one followed them. Good.

  With a spell of earthsight, she scanned their surroundings. A healer here, another there; a few city folk with magic. No sign of a shadowmancer or an illusionist.

  She held Jon’s hand, and in the street’s faint light, they made their way back to the inn. A group of laughing people crowded the street.

  Sensations from the resonance den flooded her mind. Raw breaths. A hungry mouth. A firm hold. An intense gaze. I’m in love with you.

  Her heart raced, a runaway horse galloping far from restraint, logic, reason. Divine, he’d said the words. And they’d felt like a soft caress that stroked beyond her longing flesh, deeper, found a flower in the shade and coaxed it toward the sun.

  Fureur. Heartbreak. These shades lingered in the darkness of her, haunted. Letting Jon in opened a doorway that risked both fureur and heartbreak. She could close it.

  Jon’s grip on her hand tightened. A paladin patrol passed by.

  But his face lit with a warm smile, summoning that dimple that made her melt. Not worry. Happiness. She mirrored his expression.

  She could close that doorway. But she didn’t want to. Not now, not tonight, perhaps not ever. Not to him.

  Fureur, heartbreak—she had fought powerful mages, assassins, armies... She would fight these shades, too.

  The night streets of Bournand’s thriving textile district did not ordinarily teem with folk as they did during the day, here in the center of the Weave, but tonight unfastened the ordinary and embraced the extraordinary. Even in the dimness of lanterns and candlelit windows, boots clicked on the cobblestones as people wove into taverns, out of inns, and between shops. Smiling. Happy. Together.

  As she and Jon avoided a small crowd leaving a smoke shop, laughter burst nearby.

  A group of carousers exited a tavern. Above them, a signboard hung, bearing the weather-worn script: Cosette’s Inn and Tavern.

  “Cosette’s,” she whispered. Where Flame had been staying. But they’d left the room key at The Crowned Stag.

  Next to her, Jon paused, his smile fading to the grim line of duty.

  Her runaway heart slowed a little. Flame had come after them. Shadow and Phantom were still out there.

  He creased his brow. “There could be some trace of Gilles’s whereabouts among the mage’s things.” He hesitated. “Shouldn’t we...?”

  Although he studied the signboard, his thumb softly stroked her hand in his. She gave his hand a squeeze, and he looked her over, sucking in a breath as his gaze lingered over certain of her curves.

  The feeling was mutual.

  “The Crowned Stag,” he murmured. “Definitely The Crowned Stag.” He fixed his eyes on hers and held them.

  Desire pulsed like a drum.

  Great Divine, yes—they could lock themselves in their room for the next two nights to learn the meaning of exhaustion...

  But Flame’s room could be cleared by then. If it hadn’t been already. And they’d be as blind going forward as they’d been so far.

  With a heavy sigh, she tore herself away and looked out at the tavern. “As eager as I am—and believe me, I’m eager—we need to know why Flame attacked us. Since we’re already here, we should investigate his room.”

  A pull at her hand, and she tumbled into his arms. He raised her mouth to his, claiming her lips with a hungry kiss.

  “I’d love to disagree,” he whispered, his voice deep and sultry, “but you’re right.” He brushed his lips against hers and exhaled a shaky breath.

  Hunger. Him.

  He pulled away.

  She nearly stumbled—

  Legs. Feet. Street.

  But he offered her his arm. She grasped for some sobriety. A blur of people moved past them as he walked her to Cosette’s.

  Protecting Jon came first. Had to. If Flame left behind any information, it could help keep Jon alive.

  The thoughts straightened her spine, and she took strength from them, raising her chin as they approached. Focus.

  Below the signboard, an image of a hummingbird sipping from a tankard made plain the nature of the establishment.

  She leaned in close to his ear. “Pretend we’re very anxious. Rent us a room for an hour.”

  Jon stiffened, then raised a teasing eyebrow. “Pretend?”

  His eagerness coaxed a small smile from her.

  The inn’s door swung open, and revelry spilled out, along with a dance of lamplight and shadows. As Jon caught the door, she tucked herself under his arm and sauntered in with him.

  The tavern swelled with wenches, merrymakers, carousers, and drunkards at tables abundant with food and drink. Laughter, song, and conversation dominated the atmosphere. This was a crowd trying to ignore the plight of the kingdom. Trying
very hard.

  A large fireplace graced the center of the room, its flames playing around the reddened embers and roasting chickens.

  At the counter, a flush-faced woman with flyaway curls greeted them. She glanced expectantly from Rielle to Jon and back again while a loud guffaw echoed from the tavern.

  “A room, please,” Jon said.

  Here to work. Intent on that reminder, Rielle nuzzled Jon’s arm. A cheerful drinking song started nearby.

  “And how long will you be staying?” The woman dipped a quill in an inkwell and opened a book.

  “An hour,” Jon replied.

  The woman winked and grabbed a set of keys from a hook. “That’ll be five cuivres.” She placed the keys on the table. Tankards clinked behind them.

  Jon slid over five copper coins and picked up the keys. “Our thanks.”

  Lips twitching in an almost-giggle, the woman gave them a gladdened nod and gestured toward the stairs. “If you’d like some ale, just let one of my girls know!”

  The innkeeper tipped her head toward a serving woman, and Jon nodded.

  He swept Rielle off her feet and carried her to the stairs in what had to be an inspired bit of acting, earning whistles and cheers from the tavern-goers. As he carried her upstairs to the accompaniment of the crowd’s lively encouragement, her blush required no pretending at all.

  The noise returned to drinking songs and laughter, and Jon set her down on the second floor.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you to be that shy,” he teased in her ear. His low, husky voice made her wish they’d actually be using the room. “It was entirely unnatural.”

  “Underestimate me at your peril, Jonathan Ver.” Flashing him a playful grin, she breezed past him.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He unlocked the door.

  With a gesture, she lit a nearby candle. The room was tiny but cheery, its drabness warmed with a vase of wildflowers on the nightstand and a bright needlepoint of a sunflower hanging on the wall. A colorful, homespun patchwork quilt perked up the small bed. The personal touches made her sorry they actually weren’t staying.

  Jon’s breath warmed her ear; his gaze locked on the quilt, too.

  “Well,” she said with a cleansing breath, “we have some business to attend to.”

  “Business. Of course.” His whisper teased her ear like a wisp of smoke. She longed to breathe it in, deep, slow...

  Business.

  Smiling to herself, she opened the door and checked the hall; it was empty. As she exited, Jon was right behind her and shut the door softly.

  At one end of the corridor was a small stockroom, and at the other end, a door and an alcove for linens off to the side. Although she had left the key at The Crowned Stag, the fob had said 3 on the back; she matched it to the corner door.

  They were almost at the door when footsteps sounded from the stairwell. She grabbed Jon and pulled him into the linen alcove, pressing her back against its wall. The footsteps neared, a door opened, and there was a short lull before the door closed, and the footsteps departed.

  For a moment, there was only breath, warmth, and close proximity.

  “The room,” Jon whispered, taking a step back.

  With a glance down the hallway, she moved toward the door and reached for the doorknob. The chances of it being unlocked were slim, but she had to try.

  No good.

  “It’s locked,” she said softly.

  He nodded for her to stand aside, and she took a couple steps away. He faced the door squarely, his knees slightly bent. When a wave of merrymaking sounded from downstairs, he snap-kicked the lock with the flat of his booted foot.

  The door swung open.

  He moved to catch it when she glanced at the floor just inside the room.

  She pounced on him before he could enter, tackling him to the floor in the hallway. The noise from the tavern below drowned out the sound.

  Shocked, he fixed her with a wide-eyed stare. “What—?”

  “My knowledge of healing magic doesn’t extend to reattaching limbs.” She cocked her head toward the doorway. Just inside the room, an ornate fire rune was inscribed on the floor. Upon contact with anyone but the caster, it would explode. “And I happen to like your limbs. Very much.”

  He flashed a brief smile. “I’m sigiled, Rielle. All paladins are. Direct spells, even runic spells, can’t hurt me.”

  Of course. She shrugged. Smart. Really smart.

  She held her hand over the fire rune and dispelled it. Standing, she scanned the floor for more runes. When she found none, she was about to enter when Jon preempted her. Per usual.

  Inside, she spelled the candle aflame and took inventory. On the desk, papers of all kinds lay scattered and weighed down with a variety of items—focus crystals, inkwells, coin purses, candles. A thick book lay on the nightstand, a partially written letter upon it. Perhaps Flame had been composing one the night before he’d left to attack them on the road.

  Jon approached the desk and picked up a paper, frowning. He held it out to her, a full page of unintelligible script.

  “It’s written in code.” She took it from him, folded it, and tucked it into her shirt. Leaning over the desk, she pulled out papers, searching for anything useful while Jon riffled through the book from the nightstand.

  “Ancient blood rites,” he said, presumably reading the title.

  She paused—the Moonlit Rite and the Rift. Perhaps the book contained answers. “Take it with us.”

  A stack of letters on the desk were written in plain Emaurrian, a personal correspondence with no names or locations. Some details on recruiting efforts and replies to Flame’s status reports.

  There was a crackle of folding paper.

  Jon held up the partially written letter from the nightstand. He read, “ ‘I’m heading out onto the Kingsroad to handle the problem.’ A message left for someone?”

  “One of the other captains?” I hope not. “Any clue on who it was meant for?”

  Jon fanned out the papers before him and shook his head.

  She gathered the letters and stuffed them into her clothes. Jon paused, a frustrated crease etched on his brow.

  “Anything about Gilles?”

  “No.”

  A creak came from the window.

  Behind the glass, a shadow darkened the view of the Weave’s streets, hanging from the window frame. A hooded figure.

  The spy dropped from view.

  Jon bolted from the room, book in hand.

  “Wait—” Rielle spared a fleeting glance around the room—out of time—and ran to the hallway. By the time she reached the lower level, Jon was already out the door.

  Ignoring the dumbfounded innkeeper, she burst out into the crowded street.

  Jon broke a path through the people. She chased after him, shouldering through the drunkards and carousers.

  Ahead, a blade glinted in the light of a shop’s lantern.

  She began to close the gap, focused on Jon’s back, but then a hand grabbed Jon’s arm, twisting it behind his back.

  Chapter 31

  Pain seized Jon’s shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, earning a low laugh in reply. His captor drew Jon’s arcanir dagger and flung it into a wall twenty feet away.

  A burst of fire flared around him—it had to be Rielle, although he couldn’t see her. But it didn’t slow his attacker.

  He wrenched his arm loose and turned, meeting the thrust of a dagger with the book he held. The blade would have slid between his ribs and pierced his heart.

  A woman.

  With the dagger stuck, Jon dropped the book and grabbed her gloved hand, twisting it into a wrist-lock. He kicked at a knee.

  Dodging, she swept back and around him. He released her, evading a kick to the head. Fast. Too fast. She struck at his face with a palm. He pulled back.

  A punch to the gut followed—he couldn’t dodge, but he braced. Unyielding, she doled out strike after strike with nary a breath in betw
een, met with blocks.

  Sparks of fire blazed nearby, but she was too agile. Passersby darted away, screaming. Magic in the streets of Bournand—

  He blocked and evaded her attacks, but it couldn’t last. He would have to go on the offensive or lead her somewhere emptier, away from bystanders.

  He dodged a short side kick to the head, seizing the opportunity for a hook kick to her jaw.

  Evaded.

  Dropping to the ground, he swept his leg in a low roundhouse kick.

  It didn’t connect. She evaded him in a puff of shadowy smoke that obfuscated his immediate surroundings—magic.

  A shadowmancer.

  Shadow.

  Alert, Jon listened for anything that would give away Shadow’s location.

  Nothing.

  A hand to the front of his chest, and a pair of thighs closed around his neck. Within seconds, Shadow threw him onto his back. His breath burst from his lungs. He wedged a hand into the lock to create space and struck her in the kidneys.

  Her thighs released him, but hands closed around his neck. He reached out and grabbed a smooth neck in turn, his other hand seizing her wrist in a crushing grip that made her arm tremble.

  His reach and strength was far greater. Her neck in his grip, he managed to push her away, forcing her to choose between continuing to choke him or having her own neck snapped.

  Shadow threw the weight of her body to the side, her thigh perpendicular to his arm. He had to let her go lest his elbow break.

  Still unable to see anything in the shadows, he sprang to his feet.

  Noise—panicked sounds of the escaping crowd—he tried to filter it out.

  Thunder rolled. Magic. A crack of lightning rent the air. A gust of wind blew past, and the shadows receded. She fled.

  As the smoke cleared, Rielle raced past him, bringing her hands up in a green glow.

  Roots erupted through the cobbles after Shadow, green sprouts surging from the tree-flesh in winding vines amid clouds of dust. At the head of the chaos, Rielle ran, Shadow just ahead of her.

  He chased after them, leaping over the arcs and spikes of wood erupting from the cobblestones. He evaded the smaller hooks and notches, then jumped over a large loop. Shadow rounded a corner and disappeared in a wisp of darkness.