Warrior's Curse

by Alexa Egan

  “I’m sure they do. The enforcers defend and protect the clans from all threats.”

  Jamie’s gaze flicked to his. “Including from people like us?”

  Gray tossed away the flower, catching sight of the crisscross of scars on his palm. “Especially from people like you.” He ran a thumb over the spiderweb of knife cuts, barely a place on his hand untouched by the silver blade. “No, Jamie. You and your siblings are not the first half-breeds. There are graveyards full of those who came before.”

  Jamie ran a hand over the balustrade, hair flopped forward to cover his eyes. “Funny, but I felt as if all those months . . . all those times they dragged me before Sir Dromon and asked me questions about the rebels . . . all that time, Sir Dromon was more scared of me than I was of him.”

  “He is scared. But his fear is what makes him dangerous.”

  “Kelan said the Arch Ossine would never let you live long enough to take over leadership of the clans. That we were fighting a rearguard action and it was only a matter of time.”

  Gray closed his hand around his scars, but he could still feel them like a ghost pain, a threat of what awaited him if he didn’t break the curse. Then he reached out one last time to feel the bright glow of Meeryn’s happiness, the promise of what could be. “Kelan was right about that.”

  * * *

  They lay side by side upon the soft turf beside the murky pool, hands clasped, bodies cooling. Savoring the last fading echoes of pleasure dancing through her sluggish limbs, Meeryn stared up through the trees at the fragments of night sky. A star glimmered, unchallenged by the moon which had set an hour ago. A soft splash broke the quiet as a frog entered the water.

  A perfect idea. She rose from the soft bower they’d made among the ferns, to dip her toes into the chilly pool. Stretched her arms over her head and launched herself like a knife into the water. The cold snatched her breath away, but by the time she surfaced, the shock had become a delicious caress. Gray rolled up on an elbow to watch her, his eyes seeming to burn like blue fire in the dark. She sensed his smile even though she couldn’t see it.

  “Join me?”

  His smile faded. “Probably not the best of ideas.”

  She swam to the edge, then hoisted herself back upon the bank beside him. He rolled up to sit, his thigh lying warm against her own. So close she could feel his ragged breathing and the new tension ratcheting his shoulders. “You used to swim like a fish. They couldn’t keep you out of the water.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “It’s like riding a horse. Once you learn, you never forget.”

  “That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? The not forgetting.”

  “Someone once told me not to dwell on a past that’s long gone. To look to the future.”

  “Wise words. But it’s not always so easy to do what we know we should, is it? There’s no way to know what that right path is until we take it and then it’s too late.”

  “Is this the right path?” She said it and immediately wished the world would swallow her whole. A fool’s question with no good answer. It was like asking him if she were too fat or if the dress she wore made her look like a sack of potatoes. Of course, he’d say what she wanted to hear. That’s what smart lovers did.

  “Honestly? I don’t know.”

  Maybe he wasn’t as smart as she thought.

  “But it’s the path I’ve chosen,” he continued solemnly. “And right now, it feels damn near perfect.”

  He slid his hand into hers, his touch shooting sparks through her insides until she felt as if she glowed. She leaned her head on his shoulder as he put an arm around her waist.

  She smiled into the dark, memories unearthed from a deep place where she’d held them tight. “Remember the cove we found that we promised to keep secret from everyone?”

  “Until we realized Ollie had known about it for years?” He stared down into the rippling water. “I remember.”

  “I was sure you’d told. I wouldn’t talk to you for a week.”

  “It was closer to a month.”

  He was quiet for so long after that she thought she’d put her foot in it. The topic of Ollie was still tender to the touch. Gray might have allowed himself to be swayed by his desire, but his guilt remained like an old battle wound, twinges felt whenever it was jarred too cruelly.

  “I have a confession to make, Meeryn,” Gray said softly.

  She held her breath, an unexpected shiver overtaking her despite the humid night air.

  “I . . . ah . . .”—he stared up into the trees, down into the water, everywhere but at her face—“I did tell Ollie about that cove.”

  Her head snapped up and she shook off his arm. “You bastard. You scared me to death.”

  He laughed, the shadows lifted from his eyes and his voice. “Had you going, didn’t I?”

  If he’d seen her answering smile, he’d have fled. But he was too busy feeling proud of himself for nearly stopping her heart. So when she grabbed his hand and half-leaned, half-shoved against him, he had nowhere to go but in.

  They landed together, the water closing over her head, his hand still in hers. She felt his grip tighten in a spasm of panic, felt his first flailing kicks. He ripped his hand from hers as his body descended. Now it was her turn to panic. What had she done? As far as she knew, Gray hadn’t voluntarily gone into the water since the shipwreck. He was probably terrified, frozen with horror.

  She dove, seeking him amid the dark murky gloom of the pool. Felt for the churning stir he would make in the otherwise calm water. Gray! Where are you?

  By now, her lungs were screaming for air. Her feet still hadn’t touched the bottom, while her arms reached and felt nothing beyond tangled strands of duckweed and frogbit. She surfaced with a strong scissor kick, bursting free with an anxious gasp, to find him treading water a few feet away, the water slapped from his grinning face.

  “Are you mad? Was that your idea of a sick joke?” she growled, furious and frightened at the same time. Foolish tears formed at the corners of her eyes, and a lump choked off her words. Just as well. She couldn’t trust herself to speak without tearing him tooth and claw.

  His grin vanished as he crossed the distance separating them with a few able strokes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He curled an arm around her waist, legs tangled with hers as they buoyed them both up. “I was afraid I’d plant you a facer with one of my more awkward flounderings.” He traced her eyebrow and down around the curve of her cheek with one finger. “Coming to the breakfast table with a black eye might beg a few awkward questions.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers, pond water sliding to mingle with the teasing heat of his tongue. She answered by wrapping her legs around his waist and lowering herself onto his shaft with a hiss of pleasure as both water and skin caressed her throbbing sex.

  “Are you trying to drown us both?” he said, voice raspy with arousal as she withdrew, only to plunge down once more in a wriggling, hip-tilting exploration of this new and interesting manner of lovemaking.

  They went under still locked together. He shoveled them up with one powerful churn of his arm. Toward the shore with a second sweep as his other hand cupped her rear. She felt when his feet gained a foothold upon the pond’s sloping floor. The dreamy curvette of cool water and slow sweetness increased in tempo and vigor to a powerful, frenzied thrusting as he took her deep. Her body welcomed the demanding crush of his body, desire building at the point where they joined before hitting a crescendo as he drove into her, her name whispered over and over like a prayer.

  Afterward, they lay back upon the soft carpet of grasses, neither one finding the will to break from this intimate interlude. She knew why she lingered. To return to the house was to return to the fear and the uncertainty. Out here, among the pinprick stars and the velvet night sky, she could forget what the dawn might hold. Gray sought to bury the past, but with no idea how many days might be left to them, she wanted to hold tight to it with both
fists.

  “You’re right, Meeryn” he said, eyes closed in drowsy contemplation. “Once you know, you never forget. And fortunately that goes for the good memories, too.”

  * * *

  Sir Dromon stood before the Gather elders, hands behind his back. He was not on trial, nothing of the sort. In fact, he had brought them here; Lord Carteret; Glynjohns from Wales; and The Skaarsgard, who watched from the corner, arms folded over his chest, feet up in a brazen display of disregard for the seriousness of this meeting. Only Sir Desmond Flannery had yet to arrive in answer to his summons.

  They had come for the Duke’s funeral. They had stayed because Sir Dromon wished them to stay. He wanted them to witness de Coursy’s punishment. It would be a good life lesson to see what happened to one who sought to defy Imnada law—his gaze flicked to The Skaarsgard—so brazenly.

  The Orkney clan leader noted the Ossine guarding each doorway to the salon where they had gathered. His lips curled disdainfully. “Do you expect Halvossa to come barging in pistols blazing and army at his heels?”

  “I expect his head on a plate in less than a week. My enforcers have guaranteed it.”

  “You don’t fear repercussions?”

  “Sympathy for a murderer and a thief?”

  The Skaarsgard lifted his brows in mild surprise. “Loyalty to the proper duke and heir to the throne.”

  “He’s emnil. Stripped of his rights. Poisoned by Fey magic.”

  “Yet you invited him to Deepings under a flag of truce.”

  “I sought a way clear of this quagmire of killing and bloodshed. I was repaid with treachery of the most fiendish kind.” He nodded toward one of the Ossine, excitement rising to a fever pitch. This was the moment, the point at which defiance collapsed. “Not once,” he proclaimed, “but twice by those in whom I placed my trust.”

  The door opened. Mr. Thorsh entered, dragging a body behind him, a trail of blood smearing the newly waxed floor, soaking into the salon’s Turkey carpet. The men leapt to their feet in unison. The Skaarsgard’s smirk wiped clean off his face, replaced with a white look of shock.

  “Gareth!” Owen Glynjohns lurched toward the battered, nearly unrecognizable body pooling scarlet beneath it. “What have you done to my son?”

  Sir Dromon stroked his chin, his lips quivering with distaste. “I’ve rooted out another head to this hydra. Gareth Glynjohns was found to be in alliance with de Coursy and his traitorous clansmen. He was dealt with as we deal with all traitors to the Imnada. A stake to the heart.”

  The usually clever and quick-witted Glynjohns now cradled his son to his chest, his keening like nails on a slate, his body collapsed like a bladder emptied of air. Sir Dromon wrinkled his nose. Such effusive displays disgusted him. They reeked of sentiment and overwrought passion. Neither emotion served a purpose. Detachment from these weaknesses led to clarity and a clear path.

  “Treason is a matter for the full Gather to review.” The Skaarsgard’s eyes glittered. “You are not the leader of us yet, Pryor. You do not act on your own authority.”

  “Wrong, my reckless Nornish seal. I’ve led you for years. It’s just taken me this long to ascend my throne and take my place among the Imnada kings of old.”

  “The Gather will never allow it.”

  “The Gather is a farce. Four preening coxcombs, an old dottering fool, and a voiceless N’thuil without the power the Mother gave a goose. I’ve kept your clans safe while you played at ruling. I’m the one who protected your peace, and I’m the one who has defended your borders despite the Palings’ weaknesses. The Fey-bloods beat at our gates. Do you think they’ll be content to treat us as friends? Or do you think they will drain us of our blood before they hack us apart for their amusement? The Fealla Mhòr comes anew, and my Ossine will meet them in battle. Them and any who stand with them . . . including treacherous clansmen.” He spat on Glynjohns’s corpse. “And the one you believe is the rightful ruler of us all.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I would and I have.” At his signal, the Ossine stepped closer about the men. “Escort these men to the guest hall. Offer them all conveniences, but they are not to leave. And they are not to path.”

  “You would take our krythos?”

  “Would you rather I take your son, Lord Carteret? Or your daughter, Skaarsgard? All it requires is a word from me . . . or a wrong word from you.”

  Lord Carteret blustered while Skaarsgard merely met Sir Dromon’s gaze with one as steady and as determined. “De Coursy will return. And when he does—”

  “De Coursy is as good as dead. If the Ossine don’t kill him, the curse will. I have it on the best authority.”

  “Whose?”

  “Someone who’s always available to the highest bidder.”

  12

  Meeryn floated on her back, the cool water lapping softly around her, buoying her up. Her hair spread out in a trailing wave to tangle with the grasses, and now and then a tiny fish would inspect her toes. Afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of leaves, dappling the pool in greenish light. She closed her eyes, hoping to calm her thoughts enough to take stock of her situation. But the fear that left her ice cold and knotted tight in her chest wouldn’t leave her. Not even in this oasis where the world felt a million miles away.

  Despite her best intentions, the sun still rose and set, the days moved on, and events closed around them. Meeryn couldn’t hide from the coming trouble. It seemed to close in from all sides. The best they might hope for was to delay it for a little while.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting, but what a perfect place for a private heart-to-heart.”

  The world had just landed on the banks beside her with a thud. Meeryn opened her eyes to see Lady Delia watching her from her seat upon a fallen log, gaze narrowed in catlike expectancy.

  “I’d almost forgotten about this place. It’s gone a bit brackish and green these days.” Delia dipped her hand in the water and shivered. “Ugh, but still just as cold.”

  Meeryn trod water, droplets sliding fresh down her cheeks like tears. “Is there something you needed, Lady Delia?”

  “I thought we might have a cozy chat, just you and me.”

  “Cozy” was not an adjective that sprang to mind when dealing with Lady Delia Swann. Cunning, clever, sinister, subtle; these were far better words to pin to this blond goddess. But Meeryn wasn’t surprised she’d been followed. She had a feeling Delia would seek her out sooner or later.

  As with all unpleasantnesses, best to get it over with quickly. Meeryn swam to the shore, climbed out onto the bank. Water sluiced off her body, puddling at her feet. Cold rivulets dribbled off the ends of her hair and down her back.

  Lady Delia’s brows arched in approval. “The Imnada got one thing right—they aren’t ashamed of their own bodies.”

  “The eagle doesn’t hide his feathers nor the seal her fins. It is who they are.”

  Lady Delia flashed her a toothy smile as she arranged her skirts to drape more artlessly. “How philosophical of you. But forgive me if I feel it seems a tad ironic for a race that hides its very existence.”

  Meeryn snatched up the chemise and gown she’d left hanging from a nearby branch. “Only after your people left us no choice but secrecy or slaughter.”

  Lady Delia flicked an imaginary piece of dirt from her bodice, gazing up at Meeryn through her lashes. “Did you think we could allow our king’s murder to go unavenged?”

  “Babes at the breast? Mothers and daughters cowering in corners? Boys put to the sword as their fathers looked on? They weren’t soldiers on a battlefield. They were innocents slaughtered.”

  “Does one kill only the rat that steals the grain? Or does one seek out and kill the entire nest of vermin?”

  Meeryn scooped the undergarment over her head to fall clinging against her wet skin. “Interesting comparison for one who professes to side with those seeking peace.” Her gown followed, which she buttoned with fumbling fingers, noting absently that while Delia�
��s outfit made her look graceful as a Grecian statue, Meeryn’s borrowed wardrobe made her feel frumpy as a spinster aunt, tight across the chest, narrow in the waist, and at least six inches too short.

  “I don’t choose sides. It hampers my options. I assist Gray because he amuses me. And because . . .” She gave a halfhearted shrug and a wave of her hand.

  “Because you care for him.”

  Delia stiffened, her smile slipping. “Actually, I was going to say because he pays me well to do so.”

  “Someone whose loyalty is bought with coin, can be bought again.”

  “Did I say Gray bought me with coin, Miss Munro?” she said, gliding her hand down her body to illustrate her point, as if Meeryn needed to have the rest spelled out for her in big letters and small words.

  She ignored this obvious attempt to goad her into an argument and instead twisted the water from her hair, hastily pinning it atop her head, her manner as cool as a queen’s. Two could play at this little game. Meeryn was not the shy retiring miss this woman expected. “If you’re looking for prey to bat between your paws, Lady Delia, look elsewhere. I’m not in the mood.”

  The courtesan lifted her chin, gaze clear of artifice or animosity. “Did you mistake my good manners for subtlety? Oh no, my dear, I’m not looking to play at anything. I’m here to warn you.”

  “Warn me? Or warn me off?”

  “Perhaps a bit of both. He is a delectable creature, after all, and I haven’t quite tired of him yet.” She waved an airy hand. “But a word of caution before you fall headlong in love with our tragic hero. Gray might offer his body. He does not offer his heart. I’m not sure he even has one, come to think on it. It’s why we were so perfect together once upon a time. We had white-hot passion, and that was more than enough for both of us. We wanted nothing else. We needed nothing else.” She spun a leaf between her fingers. “I can see how you’d hope for more. The tale is an affecting one: our fair hero returns to slay the dragon and sweep the fair damsel off her feet. But the hero doesn’t always win his faery story ending, does he? Sometimes he dies. Sometimes the damsel ends up alone.” Her face hardened, the leaf shredded in her lap.