Amidst the black hair covering his face was a wide, taunting smile.
"You bastard!" she cried, spending the air in her lungs.
Terror took root. She kicked and butted him with her head, but he held fast.
Pieces of her life flashed through her mind. From childhood to her present predicament, she suffered each mental assault. Dying was hard enough. Why her conscience felt it necessary to rehash her every indiscretion, her every condemning word and cruel action, her every cheating, manipulating, lying and betraying moment, had to be the work of hell preparing her for the final judgment.
Her struggles slowed to lethargy. The gargoyle's realm was Hell and the barbarian, Satan, himself. Leave it to her to antagonize the prince of nastiness.
Withdrawing from her musings, she stared into the dark eyes and wondered why he was willing to drown. A spark of anger charged her brain. Her heart thumped faster.
Granted, he had reason to be furious with her. Tying and dunking a man had to be tough on the ego. But to deliberately take her life? She had returned for him—although now she wished she hadn't. Her conscience couldn't have chosen a worst time to kick in.
I'm not ready to die, she thought. Heat suffused her brain. Damn you, I want to live!
From an inexplicable well of strength, Taryn drove the heels of her hands into his ribs. In lieu of air bubbles, water surged from his mouth and his arms fell away. She pushed off the pool floor, then again, using her feet to further cast off from his chest, and surged upward. Not once did she look back. It occurred to her that she had been underwater too long. Her lungs were airless. Resisting the urge to inhale, agonizing.
She was close enough to the surface to make out rock shapes around the pool, when she unwittingly inhaled through her nose. Liquid flooded her nasal passages, mouth, throat and lungs. Maddened with terror, she clutched at her throat and chest and attempted to spew the water. More rushed in. The sensation was hot and cold, throwing her reasoning into a frenzied whirl. She flailed head over heel, head over heel, lost and confused and frightened of the unknown.
Darkness closed in. In her mind, she saw the Grim Reaper come toward her, his black hooded robe spreading out around him. He was absent his scythe but not the look of death in his piercing dark eyes.
Before she lost consciousness, one coherent thought crossed her mind.
He resembles the barbarian.
Chapter 7
From a realm of darkness and serenity came more terror.
Taryn's insides erupted. Pain seized her muscles, joints and nerves as her organs attempted to escape their shell on the tides ejecting past her lips and nostrils. She wanted death, or at least a semblance of death that would spare her further mental and physical agony. She lay prone on rugged hardness, her head to one side, her mouth opened like a gasping fish abandoned on an embankment.
"Breathe, lass," a voice demanded, the tone edged with impatience.
Hands pushed on her back. Water trickled out the lowest corner of her mouth.
"Curse ye, lass, breathe!"
Instinct told her to feed air into her starving lungs, but she was afraid to. Afraid searing water would rush in once again.
"Are ye wantin' ma own breath in ye? Is tha' it?"
Her eyes shot open.
What?
She inadvertently inhaled. Sucking in water had hurt far less than the breath she drew in, air she was sure contained blue flames when it hit her lungs. Whooping coughs echoed around her as she fought to expel and not inhale a second time. Again clutching her chest and throat, she flipped onto her back. It was then she saw the barbarian sitting next to her, an arm casually draped over a raised bent knee, his face a mask of comical disgust.
"Ye are a wee slow in the mind," he said, tapping one temple with a finger.
Still coughing, Taryn eased into a sitting position.
"I would have thought ye would have figured ou' we canna die in this world, wha' wi' the plunge from the steps and all."
Taryn heard his words through a painful ringing in her ears, but her mind couldn't digest their meaning.
His eyes narrowed in contemplation, and he scratched his chin through the curly, unruly thick strands of his beard.
"Och, leave yer tongue in the bottom o' the pool, did ye?"
"You tried to kill me," she said, her tone a discordant rasp.
"As much as the thought intrigues me, I canna."
"You tried to drown me!" she cried.
His eyebrows lifted. "Scare ye, aye. Ye deserved no less."
"You tried to drown me because I gave you a bath!"
"The dookin'? Fegs, womon, if no' for this bloody spell on this place, ye would have drowned me!"
"You asked for it!"
A hand went over his heart. "If I recall, m'lass, I was sleepin'. Mindin' ma own!"
"And reeking like last year's garbage!"
Taryn sucked in a breath and was relieved the pain in her chest was easing. Trembling overcame her. Hugging herself, she closed her eyes and willed the rest of the haziness from her mind.
"What do you mean we can't die here?"
"Just tha'," he said bitterly. "I thought ye knew. We can breathe the bloody water like air, although tis a wee difficult at first. Goes against our nature, so to say."
Her trembling intensified. "How is this possible?"
"The beast."
"The gargoyle?"
"Aye."
"Let's cut through the crap. You knew I thought you were dead!"
He shrugged then scowled at her. "Mayhaps."
Tears brimmed Taryn's eyes and escaped down her face. "You cruel sonofabitch."
"No less so than ye tyin' me up like a lamb for slaughter."
All Taryn's willpower was required to get her onto her feet. She staggered in the direction of her den, hugging herself, what had once been her spirit now a cold small stone behind her breast.
"Lass."
She didn't have the energy to respond. By the time she reached her bedding and collapsed atop it, she couldn't stop crying. Eventually, even that took more energy than she could spare.
"We canna live in this world thegither."
The surprisingly gentle tone caressed Taryn's ears but didn't dispel her sense of identity loss. She curled into a semi-fetal position, wishing him away.
"He'll no' let ye leave till ye sleep wi' me and he's convinced I want ye to stay."
"You disgust me."
She heard his bare feet pad across the floor, and the splatters of water dripping from his clothing and hair.
"Twas ma only defense," he murmured. "Ye took it from me."
Turning her head, she spared him a harried look. "What are you talking about?"
"Ma precious stench."
"You're a slob. I've known a few—though not in your league."
He watched her speculatively. "Twas ma only armor against him. Have ye no' noticed there are no odors down here?"
"I thought yours had killed my ability to smell anything but you! Just...go away!" She turned and nestled deeper into the bed of leaves.
"He doesna tolerate odors."
"So you decided to pay him back by turning yourself into a filthy animal?" she asked with contempt.
"Aye."
"Have you no pride?"
"Mayhaps too much. But tha' aside, we must get done wi' his plan and see ye ou' o' here."
Taryn slowly cranked her head around and glared at him. "Satan wouldn't expect me to sleep with you!"
"He's usin' ye to hurt me."
"Listen, you delusional parasite, get the hell away from me and don't come back! Crawl into a cesspool for all I care!"
He stared at her for a long moment before leaving the den. Taryn watched until he was out of sight then succumbed to a new rush of tears.
* * *
Four sleeping cycles passed before Broc left his chamber, his restlessness making his own company unbearable.
The gargoyle hadn't made an appearance and not so much as a peep ha
d he heard from the woman. Despite the long years of his self-training to block out mortal needs, her presence had nonetheless affected him—as Karok well knew it would.
Alone, he could pretend this prison was but a dream. She made it all too real.
Five months. Did she even realize how long she had been below?
Probably no’. Time is a human state o’ mind in Beastieland.
Recording each sleep cycle on his Wall of Remembrance was all that kept him abreast of the years he had resided here. That, and the dates on the story-sheets the clan above left him in his gift offerings. He knew numbers. Could write to one hundred. His vocabulary was another matter. Most times he couldn't follow the stories the sheets provided. He did realize the world above had changed dramatically. He belonged here now more than above.
A mon wi’ou’ a country.
A mon wi’ou’ a time.
He doubted another man in history had paid such a long punishment for a crime—exempting death, of course. Death was an end at least. A living death was everlasting.
He shuffled through the passages, resisting an urge to scratch where the "new" clothing abraded his skin. It wouldn't be difficult to convince Karok he wanted the woman to remain. He did, somewhat. He relished the bantering, and her ability to take him by surprise. She was spit and fire, and a distraction from his accursed boredom.
Muttering beneath his breath, he combed his long beard with his fingers and did likewise with the sides of his hair. He had even dabbed on some of the good-smelling white stuff he'd received from above. Amazing how the modern world had created a cologne that didn't spill.
As he neared her quarters, a tightness formed in his chest.
What if cleaned up, she still rejects me?
A grim grin twitched at one corner of his mouth. If that happened, he would have her company a time longer.
He frowned.
Boredom, now that he thought about it, was less trouble.
Entering her den took all his willpower. Finding her gone, his heart rose into his throat, and a fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his brow. It was just like her to not be available when he was ready to seduce her.
Damnation, she pulled his strings even when she wasn't aware she was doing it.
A scream shattered the stillness. He bolted back into the main passage, stopped and keened his ears, and mutely ordered her to make another sound. Excruciating seconds ticked by. The hammering of his heart thundered in his ears, and his lungs felt weighted and lacking air.
"Help!" shrilled, resonating through the corridors like a rampaging banshee.
"Where are ye!" he bellowed, his hands fisted at his sides.
Sobs traveled through the rock-walled passageways.
He ran and ran, searching every vacant den, every nook and cranny, fear companioning him like a specter of death at his heels. As he approached Karok's temple, he heard weeping, and, "What can I do? How can I help?"
He crossed the threshold and stopped short when he spied a new scene gouged into the wall across the way. It was of the woman and himself, from her first fall from the steps, to their confrontations, to their joined plummet, to her bathing him. There was enough room on the wall to continue the story, as well Karok would as it unfolded.
Thirty feet away, in front of the standing altar stone, the woman knelt alongside the Gargoyle, who lay on his back, writhing. Low guttural moans emanated from the beast, and with each, a new sob wracked her violently trembling body.
Her head shot up and she looked at him as if he were a savior bathed in celestial luminance.
"Hurry!" she cried. "He's dying!"
Approaching, Broc stared down at his nemesis, apathy born of a hatred deeply rooted in his soul. The creature's skin was as pale as ash and cracked with dryness, its eyes glazed, unfocused.
Taryn tugged on Broc's kilt. "Don't just stand there! Do something!"
"Naught I can do," he said coldly. "Tis his way o' grievin'."
"He's dying!"
"Leave him be," Broc said bitterly. When he attempted to pull her to her feet, she fisted his hand aside.
"He's in pain," she wept. "Where is your heart?"
"Scattered abou' down here, no doubt."
Karok's coarse fingers folded about Taryn's left hand and, to Broc's unease, the fool woman lowered her head to the beast's chest and wept all the harder.
"Bloody hell, womon," he grumbled, and went down on a knee. "Fetch me some water. Now!"
"Water? Why—"
"Twill ease his fever. Do as I say!"
Hesitating due to a suspicion that he meant to harm the creature, she slipped her hand from Karok's grasp, jumped up, and dashed from the room. When she was out of sight, Broc braced a forearm across his raised knee and narrowed his eyes at his enemy.
"Got to her, didna ye, ye deil?"
The green eyes strained to fix on his face, their dullness telling Broc the creature was suffering the most difficult phase of its grieving process.
"Surprisin', isna she? Miss Spit an' Fire aweepin' for the likes o' ye." He shook his head. "Does it hurt ye bein' like this? I hope it hurts like bloody hell. Hurts till ye think yer bones will shatter for the pain o' it."
"Leave him alone!" Taryn said sharply as she crossed the room, balancing a bowl in her hands, water sloshing with each step she took.
She knelt at the creature's other side and shakily lowered the bowl to the floor. Broc scowled as she dipped her hands into it and tenderly patted water on Karok’s brow and craggy cheeks. The creature moaned and turned its face to her. Taryn cupped water in one hand and held it to his lips. A thick tongue languidly drew the cool liquid into its mouth, lapping like an old hound too hot and tired to expend much energy. With her free hand, she continued to transfer the water to his neck and chest.
Unbearable heat bled into Broc's gut. She had long, slender fingers and, until now, he hadn't thought her capable of using them in such a caring manner. Unbidden, memories of the last woman who had touched him in such a way, dominated his mind, and prompted a painful lurch of his heart. In that brief week so long ago, he had lived a thousand lives in her arms. Unlike this crude-tongued temptress before him, that woman had been soft-spoken and refined. He believed then, as he did now, that he was unworthy of her understanding, her gentleness, the pleasures her body had afforded him.
As Karok had hoped, her departure had nearly rendered him insane. The loneliness he had come to terms with had returned tenfold, and he'd vowed he would never again submit himself to that kind of pain.
Now, watching this woman administer to Karok, he yearned to know her touch. A warm, naked, submissive body to comfort him did not require her personality to equal that other woman's. If anything, unbridled, lustful fulfillment would prevent his heart's trespass, and Karok’s intent to exact yet another punishment on him, would fail.
Karok released a long, liquid-sounding, hoarse sigh. His eyelids closed, and his chest rose and fell in a gentle rhythm, signifying the beast had at last fallen asleep.
Brushing the back of an arm across her brow, Taryn stood and stretched a kink in her lower back. Broc positioned himself behind her left side, his gaze taking in the riotous layers of curls trailing down her back to just below her waist.
"Come wi' me," he said curtly.
Taryn turned, the fiery anger in her eyes lifting his eyebrows in a challenge.
"Go away," she said in a stage whisper, and pointed to the entrance. "I'm staying with him. We don't need or want you here."
"He will wake his old self. Now...come wi' me. I've words to—"
"You smell like toothpaste," she said, eyeing him speculatively. She sniffed, then leaned closer and sniffed again. When she straightened back, she was frowning. "Why do your clothes smell like toothpaste?"
"Cologne," he corrected.
"Toothpaste." Her gaze ran down and up the length of him. "Clean clothes. What crawled up your ass?"
Perplexed by her words, he scratched the back of his head and scow
led.
She offered a nasty, little chuckle. "Ahh. I get it. A bath. Clean clothes. You were hoping to seduce me, but our friend here side-tracked the plan, huh?"
"The time be now."
Taryn blinked. "I see. Barbarian says ‘spread ‘em,' and intended says, ‘yes, sir.'" She made a caustic sound in her throat. "I wouldn't surrender my corpse to you."
"If ye want ou' o' here—"
"Not even my corpse," she said through clenched teeth.
"I can pleasure ye."
"Pleasure and puking don't exactly make for a romantic interlude."
"Pukin'?"
She pointed to his beard as if it were something slimy and skirmy.
"Wha' be wrong wi' ma beard?" he bit out.
"It's repulsive."
"Ma beard?" he asked, incredulous.
"I don't let men with a mustache touch me, creepzoid! Go...away."
"Ye expect me to—"
"I don't expect or want anything from you."
"So...ye plan to live here always, do ye?"
Taryn glanced at the peaceful features of the gargoyle. "When he's feeling better—"
"He willna care wha' ye have done for him," Broc hissed, and gripped her arm. "He cares for naught but his revenge, ye foolish womon!"
"Keep your voice down!"
"Then come wi' me!" he snarled, and dragged her behind him into the corridor. No sooner had her feet crossed the threshold, he shoved her against the wall and placed a restraining forearm against her throat.
"I want ye away!"
"Back off!"
Breathing heavily through his nostrils, he glared into her eyes for a time before lowering the arm. "I want ye away," he said, emphasizing each word. "Beddin' ye is ma only recourse."
"I would sooner sleep with him!" she spat, jerking a thumb toward the entrance.
Broc shuddered then ran his palms down his face. When he looked into her glower, he decided it was futile to continue the argument.
"Ma beard." He wearily shook his head. "Ye spare a mon no quarter," he grumbled. "I'll return when the deed be done."
With a brisk stride, he headed down the corridor, leaving Taryn to stare after him. When he was out of sight, she muttered, "Shave your attitude while you're at it," then returned to Karok’s side. She settled comfortably on the floor, drew her legs to her chest, wound her arms about them, and rested her chin atop her knees.
Time Everlastin' Book 5 Page 10
