“Tell me something,” Aryn asked, sliding her a glance as they left the constable’s office. “Why are you here? This has…nothing really to do with you. I can’t shut out this voice in my head. But he doesn’t hound you. He doesn’t whisper to you of the voices he can hear crying for help.”
Tyriel slowed her steps and cocked her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “I hear voices all on my own, Aryn. And I rather like you. I don’t think I want to see you in too much hot water just because that sword won’t leave you be.” Lifting her eyes to the sky, the wind drifting through the air tickling her hair, she said quietly, “But I hear the voices as well. They call to me. And you and I can help them—I feel that in my gut.”
They resumed walking, pausing here and there as Tyriel would stop to linger at a trinket booth, or to buy a sweet bun, smiling sweetly at a shopowner, her eyes twinkling brightly, her mind rapidly filing bits and pieces away as she asked nonsensical questions.
A young girl that used to sell pins. A minstrel…more missing girls.
“What are you thinking?” Aryn asked quietly as they paused in front of a particularly crowded inn.
She batted her lashes at him. Oozing female charm, she wrapped her hands around his biceps and pressed herself against his arm. “Perhaps the innkeeper would like to hire a swordsman with his lady mate. I’ll serve the food. You can watch me while I do it,” she cooed.
Aryn lifted a brow. “Any reason why he can’t hire two? Or why we don’t split up?” he drawled, keeping his voice low and backing her up against the wall, bending down as though to whisper intimately in her ear. The problem was, doing that brought her entirely too close. And she smelled rather unique. Far too good for his liking—far too female, far too sweet, and he had been so damn hungry for a taste. But they had been working together, still were. And Aryn didn’t fuck swordmates. It never fared well.
Oh, but he wanted a taste of this sweet thing…
But why did she smell and feel so familiar? Something about the feel of her body against his seemed familiar, like he had lain against her before, smelled her before, tasted her before, fucked her, held her quivering body against his while she screamed against his mouth in climax.
“I’d rather nobody know too much about me just yet,” she murmured, turning her head to whisper in his ear. The warm caress of her breath on his skin felt almost as intimate as if she had run her hands over his body and he gritted his teeth as his cock swelled in response.
“Excellent point,” he agreed, straightening and trying to think in logistical terms instead of lustful ones. If they kept her gifts quiet, that meant a weapon none knew about. She had already wrapped and stowed her blade, and none could possibly imagine how many numerous weapons she had hidden on her person.
Aryn swore silently.
He imagined he could find them—piece by piece as he stripped her naked. The dusky gold of her skin gleamed richly and she winked at him as they crossed over the threshold.
“Pretty thing, the Jiupsu women have always been lovely,” Irian rumbled in the back of his mind. “Take her upstairs¼touch her, taste her.”
“Shut up, you hunk of metal,” Aryn warned. “Or I will wrap you in silk and stow you under the bloody bed.”
Irian laughed. “Willna do ye much good now. You’ve opened your mind to me. Close me out, you can, but removing me from your body does nothing,” the ancient man said, his voice rich with amusement. Aryn could feel Irian watching Tyriel saunter through the tables, her hips swaying seductively as she tossed her hair and smiled flirtatiously at the innkeeper who was finishing up business with a vendor. “Too long since we’ve had a woman, Aryn. And you’ve never known one like her, addictive as mead, rich as honey, spicy and hotter than fire¼let’s have her now.”
Aryn’s blood pounded heavily in his cock, his head. He already ached, but Irian’s seductive voice was making it worse, and Tyriel wasn’t helping as she acted totally unlike herself, propping her tight little butt on a bench and leaning back on her hands, displaying her lithe, muscled form and firmly rounded breasts. The innkeeper smiled and nodded at them both and said, “Be with ya in a minute or so, folks. Have a seat, sirrah.”
He continued to stand, but he moved closer to Tyriel, looming over her, drawing the scent of her skin into his nostrils, shuddering as it filled his head. “She will taste so much better than she smells, brother of my soul,” Irian promised. “Come…”
Tyriel went stiff, sitting up slowly, and turning her head, the playful twinkle dying from her eyes as she met Aryn’s gaze. Irian’s eyes. Her nostrils flared and Aryn could smell the scent of her arousal as she detected his. But she said slowly, her voice deeper and full of the power that filled her, “You are not yourself, Aryn.”
“I am.” Granted, his head did feel a bit…crowded, but he had wanted her for weeks, months…sometimes it seemed his entire life.
She blinked, once, slowly, then said softly, “Enchanter, you hold much sway over his mind right now. I feel it.”
Aryn shook his head in confusion as she lapsed into a lyrical tongue—gypsy—but too archaic for him to follow. He felt Irian’s rage, his refusal, his will trying to rise up. Pictures that didn’t make sense filled his mind—Tyriel, lying on the forest floor while he spread her thighs, her woman’s flesh, and ate from her sex as she screamed out his name, him moving to cover her, riding her hard, while the ghost of another man tried to come between them. Him—his body, Aryn of Olsted, touching her, tasting her, but he had never lain with her.
But why did it feel like memory and not fantasy?
Irian reared up, tried to force Aryn out, fighting him. He wanted to grab the half-elf, drag her upstairs—ah, hell—the fighting of the enchanter was not easy when the pictures he conjured were so close to what Aryn wanted right now as well. His cock still ached, but the vicious aching inside his head intensified as he battled Irian back and tried to retain control over his body and his mind.
“Eyastian, Irian. Myiori, tymio efavo.” Tyriel’s voice came like a soft, cool breeze, full of comfort, full of power.
“You would not dare,” Irian growled, his rage thick, hot and coating everything Aryn stared at with a red film. “You break our law by even speaking to me so, woman. I am Irian Escari, High Priest of the Jiupsu, Enchanter, Swordsman. You would not dare—”
“I would. Times have changed since you walked the world, enchanter. I am not of your clan. The Jiupsu are now the gypsy and they do not follow the laws of the dominant. I owe you no fealty. And even if I did…I am only half-gypsy. The other half is elvish Princess. A Princess of the kin would be your equal, High Priest, not your submissive.” A brow lifted and she smiled coolly. “And can you truly see me submitting to any man? An elf? Even back in your time, I imagine the kin followed their own rules,” she whispered as she rose and stood staring Aryn in the eyes. But it was not Aryn she was facing.
It was Irian, who was trying once more to throw Aryn to the sidelines and take over his body. He saw the swordsman as weaker, as the submissive and felt Aryn’s body should rightfully belong to him. After all, Aryn had no true magick to call his own. He was mortal, and therefore, in the eyes of so many of the earlier races, weaker than the magicked people.
“If that were truly the case, don’t you think that by now you would have destroyed Aryn completely?” she asked. “But it is still his body.”
“A good lad. No reason he can’t be around. Sometimes,” Irian sneered.
“His body. You try to steal it. The gypsies are an honest people. I would have thought the Jiupsu were as well,” Tyriel said thoughtfully, cocking her head. “But I meant what I said. Myiori, tymio efavo. Do you wish to see if we can?”
And just like that, the enchanter withdrew his presence, and Aryn was alone in his body once more.
“I can fight my own battles,” Aryn growled, his cheeks flushing red.
She cocked a brow. “I’m well aware. But I was merely informing him that I would offer you a weapon to rid
yourself of him if he persisted in trying to own you,” she said simply, sitting back down, as if unaware of the tense state of his body.
Aryn wished he wasn’t aware.
He could still smell her, damn it, still taste the scent of her arousal lingering on the air, and he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have just given into the bastard, at least a little.
“What weapon?” he asked cautiously as he moved around the table and settled into the seat, staring into her face.
For mere moments, her eyes seemed to glow again, like they had in the inn that day they had first met. And she softly whispered, “Myself.”
Tyriel was relieved when Aryn left the room to her just a little later. She hated using any kind of persuasion, so she hadn’t. But something told her Irian had. They had gotten just the job they had needed a touch too easily, and a room, a private one to boot. Granted, the tiny little enclave under the stairs wasn’t much, but it had a door, a bed, and it was clean, quiet, and private.
She suspected the private was something Irian wanted a great deal.
Keep dreaming, you enchanted hunk of metal, she taunted as she lowered herself onto the narrow bed. It was just large enough for two. If you liked your bedmate. Reaching up, she stroked the amber moonstone at her neck with a sigh. Oh, Da…I’ve really gotten myself into a mess this time.
Daughter mine, that is what you have always done best, Josah, High Prince of the Elvin Realm of Eivisa whispered to her lovingly. And the moonstone glowed warm under her hand.
She smiled and lay back, closing her eyes.
And then she reached out.
Blackness.
Such blackness.
She had never encountered such evil. In all her years, she had met many people, and many of them had been twisted, wretched souls without a drop of goodness in them. The evil swarmed up and tried to seek her out, claim her. It touched her and she shrieked, drawing back from it. Her breath caught in her chest and in desperation, she wrapped one hand around the chains at her neck, seeking out not the moonstone, but the crucifix, whispering softly, and jerking herself out of the mire of evil magick as she flung herself from the bed, landing painfully hard on her ass.
Cleansing, purifying gypsy magick rushed through her and the touch of the pendant at her neck grounded her. Faith, that was all it took. Just the reminder of faith, she told herself.
But the slimy feel that clung to her, suffocated her was unlike anything she had ever encountered. Tyriel opened her eyes and lay staring at the ceiling, panting and gasping for breath. Whoever he was, he had shielded himself but it would not matter to her.
A sorcerer, perhaps, or another blood mage. He hadn’t acted recently, and that was all that had kept her from finding him. The kind of blood magick he practiced was not the kind that could hide from an elemental mage such as herself. The blood would sink into the earth, stain it, mark it and it would call to her.
It had been some time, so it would not be long before he struck again.
* * * * *
Aryn settled into a corner, looking foreboding and somber, his pale hair pulled back in a queue, Irian strapped at his back, a sleeveless leather jerkin revealing the long, powerful muscles in his arms, veeing halfway down his chest. From time to time, he would glance at Tyriel and smile, or glare at the men who slid her long, lingering glances, but for the most part, he remained silent. Looking grim, possessive, and serious was his role.
Being flirtatious and empty-headed was hers.
Both were doing a very good job.
The elf was gathering…feelings. She had sensed something the past night, Aryn knew. She wouldn’t tell him what. And he didn’t feel right in pushing. She was here helping him—she didn’t have to be here.
He, on the other hand, did. Irian no longer compelled him. There was a gnawing in his gut, some dark evil that lingered at the edges of this small, perfect little towne that was trying to destroy it.
“Stop it, lad,” Irian said with a sigh. He had the disturbing image of another man, a bit taller, broader, thick, wildly curling hair, black gypsy’s eyes—the man seemed to be standing beside him, watching Tyriel as intently as Aryn did. “She does have t’ be here. She feels the same gnawin’ in her gut tha’ ye are feelin’ right now. Her heart compels her t’ be here the same as does yours.”
Aryn shifted against the wall and muttered, “I liked it better when you were just a sword.”
Irian laughed. “Never was I just a sword, Aryn. And well ye know it. Part of ye has always known.” The ghost-like image of Irian that lingered in Aryn’s mind seemed to shift and he propped one fur-lined boot against the wall, watching as a man lifted his mug of ale to his lips and drank while watching Tyriel with hot hungry eyes. “He is wondering if she’s for hire. Not from here. Gettin’ ready t’ toss some coin her way for a quick fuck.”
Aryn quirked an eyebrow at that. “Is he now?” he murmured. “Apparently my possessive act needs a bit of work.”
Irian glanced over at him. “Lad, if ye only knew¼he’s a bloody fool. Everybody else knows t’ whom she belongs.” The ghostly image slid him a narrow look. “Well, almost. But he’s daft and stupid. And Tyriel is a lovely, hot young thing, he thinks, and good for no’ much more than a hard fucking. And he’s monied. He thinks that’s all tha’ matters.”
Aryn watched through slitted eyes as Tyriel returned with a fresh mug of ale and a bowl of stew for the man in question. He slid a hand up the outside curve of her hip with one hand, brandished a palmful of silvers with the other, nodding toward the stairs.
Tyriel smiled and shook her head.
As she started to turn away, he closed his hand more tightly around her hip, dropped the silvers, and reached for her, jerking her onto his lap. “Stupid,” Irian repeated as Aryn shoved away from the wall. “Verra, verra stupid.”
“That’s my lady you’re handling there, man,” Aryn said in a low growl, clamping his hand down on the back of the trader’s neck and squeezing hard in warning. “Unless you want to leave this towne with bloody stumps at the end of your wrists, and a bloody hole where your cock once hung, then I suggest you let her go.”
Tyriel was fighting not to laugh as she moved smoothly off the man’s lap. Aryn was aware how easily she could have gotten away, but not many of those ways would have let her keep her helpless guise up.
“Now,” Aryn purred silkily, jerking the man up off the bench and turning, whirling on his heels and slamming the stuttering trader into the wall. “Perhaps we should establish rules of etiquette.”
“He speaks so pretty for a swordsman,” Irian said laughingly.
Tyriel had to turn, and Aryn suspected the shuddering of her shoulders was suppressed laughter, but it looked from the corner of his eye like she was crying. “Oh, now I’m truly pissed—my lady is distraught.” Aryn jerked the man forward and slammed him back again so that his head rapped the wall.
“I didna know she had a man!” the trader bellowed. He started to shove Aryn away, but Aryn drew the long, wicked blade at his side and pressed it to the trader’s throat. “Bloody hell, she sashays around here, twitching her ass, bending over and letting men see her damn tits. What else are we to think?”
“That she is a friendly maid servant trying to do her job well and earn good tips?” he answered. “No other dared to touch her. If your cock needs a pussy, then go find the Whore’s Guild. You entered through the Towne Gates the same as we. You should have read the posting. No whoring in the taverns. No whoring in the inns. Period. It would have been bad enough if you had touched any of the barmaids in here, but you touched mine.”
Aryn wondered fleetingly if he was getting too much into his act here. But then he sheathed his knife and plowed his fist into the trader’s belly, before delivering an elbow to his jaw and sending him crashing to the floor. After deciding he was well and out, he carried him out into the street and threw him down into the dirt.
“Hope a bloody pickpocket makes off with your wealth,” he said as he
strode back into the inn and made his way to his ‘lady’. She was still ‘crying’ and distraught and none of the other barmaids could get her to look up or calm down.
Aryn wrapped his arms around her, lowering his head before he rolled his eyes and murmured into her mass of curls, “Don’t you think you’re carrying on a bit much?”
She snickered, forcing it into a fake sob as she wrapped her arms around him. “My lady? You touched my lady…” she whispered, snickering against his chest as he stroked one hand soothingly down her back and wished she would control her giggles before he lost his control and kissed her right there.
Adorable, sweet, sexy as all get out—damn it—he wanted to eat her up in one greedy bite. And Tyriel was giggling her cute little ass off.
Aryn had the disturbing image of Irian watching them. This time, with something that looked like envy in his black eyes.
Aryn lay on his belly on the bed late that night, with Tyriel on her side, spooned up against him. She slept silently, occasionally sighing or humming softly in her sleep as she dreamed whatever a magickal thing such as she dreamed.
Her scent filled his head and the feel of her skin seemed forever embedded on his hand—and his cock ached. How in the hell was he supposed to do this—sleep in a bed with a beautiful woman, and not touch her?
But a wild half-gypsy, half-elf seemed untouchable, so out of reach. She would live centuries—was already nearing her first. She had the power of divine beings running through her, and she called the two most mystical, most feared races in all of Ithyrian her blood kin. The elves and the gypsies.
And Aryn of Olsted was not going to insult her by asking if he could sate his hunger for a woman by fucking her.
“It is not just a hunger for any woman, ye daft fool. Ye ache and hunger for her.”
Aryn tried to ignore the whisper in his mind, but it was like ignoring the pressure in his loins, or the feel of her against him, near impossible.
Touch of Gypsy Fire Page 7
