by Kara Jaynes
The door creaks open and an elf peers in. I stare back at him. He looks familiar, with short, spiky blond hair.
Recognition flickers in his gaze. “I remember you,” he says. “You’re the girl Geldyn hauled out of the trash.”
“Sol.” I remember him now. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to take you to training. You’re to begin your lessons, today.”
“I . . . what?”
A faint line furrows the elf’s brow, and he tilts his head. “Are you stupid? The prince didn’t mention that.” A genuine question.
“I heard you,” I snap. “And by the way, your hair looks ridiculous.”
Sol arches a blond eyebrow. “That makes two of us.”
It takes all of my willpower not to run a hand through my hair. I’ve showered, but I haven’t brushed it since I was brought here, and I’m sure it looks like a rat’s nest at this point. “What kind of training?” I ask.
“Combat.” He pushes the door open further, but doesn’t step into the room. He tosses me a bundle of clothing. “I’ll wait out in the hall.”
The outfit consists of neatly folded loose black trousers and a fitted, long-sleeved black shirt. I hurriedly dress, then pull my hair back with an elastic tie. Digging around on the floor of the wardrobe reveals a pair of brown lace-up boots. I put these on and meet Sol out in the hall.
Sol’s gaze roves over me. “You’re still a scrawny little thing,” he says. “Are you getting enough to eat?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I think so?”
“If you don’t want to get pummeled in training—in the future, that is, ’cause you’ll get pummeled today—my advice is to eat as much as you can. You'll need all the muscle you can get.” He strides down the hall, and I have to scurry to catch up.
I peer around as we walk. Soon we are taking halls I'm not familiar with. We walk down some stairs, and the paneled walls are replaced with plaster and iron. Lanterns hang from the ceiling, emanating a cold light. When we come to a couple of large, iron strapped doors, we’re well underground. I shiver as a cool draft of air wraps around me.
Sol grabs the handle, and it opens with a shriek that makes me wince.
The room inside is massive, opening into an almost stadium-sized space. I look around, not quite sure how they managed to fit this room in. I’m almost certain these underground levels weren’t built with the original structure.
Several people are down here. The room is lit by lanterns hanging overhead, washing the room in a strange mix of silver light and shadow.
Sol strides confidently ahead. I hang back, trailing behind him. I’m intimidated as I realize this is a training hall for fighting and magic.
I don’t fight, and I definitely don’t use magic. Watching these elves spar, their movements fluid, graceful, and almost inhuman, I feel awkward and useless.
I catch a glimpse of two of the human magic users I'd briefly met my first night here. The woman who could control plants, and the boy who controlled water. Both breeze by me, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they sprint in a wide circle around the perimeter of the hall.
This is not going to be fun.
Sol looks over his shoulder at me, his lips curving into a slow smile. “Ready to show us what has the prince so interested in you?”
I stumble and almost fall, but Sol reaches out and steadies me with strong hands. Elves have stupid-fast reflexes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie. It seems that Eldaren hasn’t told anyone about the Kenelky. I tuck that bit of information away for later. I might need it.
“Humans are terrible liars.” Sol’s voice is almost conversational. “You could at least make some effort. Do you have a hidden ability that no one else has seen?”
“I make a mean PB and J.”
“What’s that?”
“A sandwich.”
“Ah. That is good to know. I do like sandwiches.” Sol winks at me.
I look away and peer at the elves closest to us. They are locked in combat, swords spinning in graceful arcs as they match each other in speed, neither getting the upper hand. “Why don’t they use guns?” I snort. “You think humans are behind the times.” My mood darkens when I remember we are.
“Our swords have magic woven into them,” Sol replies. “It makes them more versatile and lethal than the primitive swords you humans created in the past.” He shrugs. “We have guns, too, but these halls aren’t for that sort of training. We like to be proficient in all weapons.”
He halts, and I almost walk into him. He points. “There. Climb that.”
I crane my neck to look at a tall, wide rock wall, pitted and lumpy, obviously perfect for climbing. I shrug. “I can totally do that.” Stepping forward I reach out, my hand grasping the rough stone. Easy. I begin to scale the wall. I like climbing. It feels safe to me. It puts me further away from the dangers that lurk on the ground.
I reach the top and hoist myself up to sit.
“You climb faster than I expected.”
I jerk in surprise and almost fall off the wall. Sol’s arm shoots out and steadies me. “Easy, there,” he says.
“How’d you get up here so fast?” I ask.
Sol lifts a shoulder. “I climbed, naturally.”
The door we’d come through earlier, opens, and in strolls the elven prince. I try not to stare. Clad in only his trousers and boots, the pale silver light and shadow play across his chest and arms in a hypnotic dance. He stalks forward, holding a sword of cold steel.
“What do you think of your prince?” Sol asks.
“He’s not my prince,” I reply, still watching Eldaren. Three elven men have come over to stand with him, and Eldaren moves into a defensive position. The guards spread out, surrounding him.
“He’s toasters,” I say. I smirk. “Pity he’s not in a real fight.”
“He is,” Sol replies.
“What?” I lean forward, watching intently as Eldaren explodes into action. The other elves lunge toward him at once. Eldaren twists like a snake, his sword seemingly everywhere at once. He weaves and ducks through his opponents, dodging and deflecting their attacks.
“He’s only defending,” I say.
“Wait for it,” Sol murmurs.
There. The prince’s sword slips forward, and the hilt smacks one of the elves in the head. His attacker goes down, blood streaming from the wound.
“Wow,” I say. “He actually hurt one of his own subjects . . . make that three.” I grimace as he takes down the other two in moments. “Betcha they didn’t hurt him cause he’s the prince.”
Sol arches a pale eyebrow at me. “You’re wrong,” he says.
“Yeah?” I tilt my chin up at him. “Eldaren is a prince of elves. No one would hurt him intentionally.” I don’t like the look of condescension in Sol’s eyes. “Fine,” I say. “Prove it.”
“He has a scar on the top of his left hand,” Sol replies. “Ask him how he got it.”
Then he’s scrambling down the wall, reaching the ground in seconds. I follow him, more slowly, my mind mulling over Sol’s words and the spectacle I’d just witnessed. Why had the blond elf wanted to show me that? Did Eldaren have him set me up to watch that, or did he have a motive of this own?
Or maybe it meant nothing at all.
15
Stella
My feet touch the ground, and I feel a flicker of regret. Heights do not frighten me. Being high up makes me feel detached from the world around me. Like I’m a wisp of wind, wild and free, above the troubles of mere mortals.
Except I’m just a street rat named Stella, and I’m up to my elbows in trouble.
Trouble named Eldaren.
I approach the elf prince. He’s standing at a side table, applying something to his arm, and as I draw closer, I see he’s cleaning a shallow cut.
When he sees me, he puts down the bloodied rag, picks up a gauze bandage, and holds it out in my direction. “Help me put this on.”
“I didn’t
see you get cut,” I say. I try not to look at his abs. Stars in the sky, they look like they’ve been chiseled from marble by a master artist’s hand.
“Elves move much faster than humans,” is his reply. He’s still holding out the bandage.
“I’m sure you’re more than capable of patching yourself up,” I say with a wry smile.
“I want you to do it,” Eldaren says. “Maybe this will strengthen your side of the bond. Physical touch can have that effect.”
“Maybe I don’t want to touch you.”
“You’ve looked at my abdominal muscles no less than five—now six—times, since you’ve approached.” Eldaren’s face is expressionless. “That would indicate that you either find me extremely attractive or repulsive, and based on the physical condition of my body,” his lips quirk in a faint smile, “you find me the former.”
I snatch the bandage from his outstretched hand. “You’re ridiculous,” I mutter. “I’m going to apply this so you quit saying stupid things.”
His arm feels like stone. He's probably the fittest male I've ever met. Wilder’s muscles had never been this big.
Shame bites through me at the thought. It doesn’t matter that Wilder had been thin and decidedly lacking in muscle. He’d been perfect just the way he was. Before he slipped away, never to be seen again.
“What are you thinking about?” Eldaren asks.
“None of your business,” I growl. I stick the gauze wrapping in place and smack it with the palm of my hand.
“That was completely unnecessary,” he replies with a frown.
“Just making sure it sticks.” I wink at him.
Eldaren watches me like he can’t tell if I’m being serious. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says at last. “There should be no—”
“Secrets between us, I know.” I crumple the bandage wrapper in my fist.
“Then why do you keep them?”
I swallow, feeling the hazy fog of attraction for this man that is becoming all too familiar. “Because I don’t trust you.”
Eldaren's expression—or rather, his lack of one—doesn't change, but he raises a hand, and says something loudly in Elvish. The room clears, elves guiding the magic-wielding humans out. Both Sol and the water boy give me considering looks as they leave, but there is no resistance, and soon, Eldaren and I are alone, in the massive training room.
“Why do you not trust me?” Eldaren asks. “I would never hurt you, Stella.”
He is trying to keep our bond a secret. Interesting.
I wrinkle my nose at his words. “Are you actually serious?” I say. “You feel a shot of magic-y attraction and boom—” I snap my fingers in his face, “—just like that, you want to be mates for life?”
Eldaren shrugs, unfazed. “That’s how the Kenelky works, Stella.” He tilts his head, a quizzical look in his eyes. He tends to look confused when he’s studying me, like I’m a puzzle that won’t quite fit together. “No one else argues when it flares between them.”
I laugh. “That’s crazy. You guys are crazy, and the women are even crazier for going along with it.”
I turn away, and freeze when he places a hand on my shoulder. Goosebumps prickle my skin at the contact. “Stella. Wait.”
“What?” My voice trembles and I swallow, working moisture back into my mouth. “What is it?”
“I picked up a human dictionary,” he says. “I looked up the word ‘courtship.’ You mentioned that it’s the protocol that humans follow rather than the Kenelky. Courtship is a period of time where two individuals develop a . . .” He trails off for a moment. “Ah. ‘Romantic.’ Another word I had to look up. A romantic relationship, with the intent to marry after the set time of courtship.”
My heart begins to pound. “Okay,” I reply. “What is your point in telling me all of this?”
“I want to court you, Stella.”
I turn around to face him. His face is as pale as ever, except for a bit of flush in his cheekbones. His gray eyes are oddly bright as he gazes down at me, decidedly anxious.
“Why?”
Eldaren blinks. “I should think the reason is obvious. I read in a human book that ‘the world must be peopled.’ I most heartily agree with the author’s observation.”
I snort. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
“So, you’ll let me court you?”
I hold up a hand. “Not so fast. How long is this courtship?”
Eldaren swallows. “One year.”
“And what happens if you fail to achieve your goal in this time?”
“I will let you go, and you’re free to leave when and where you wish.” He licks his lips, and I can see the alarm he tries so hard to hide.
“You think you can make me fall in love in a year?” I’m unable to hold back an amused smile.
“I certainly hope so. If I fail, then I can expect a highly miserable existence for the next several decades.”
“You could just kill me and end it, you know,” I say drily.
Eldaren inhales sharply. “I’d die first myself, Stella. Please understand I will never wish bodily harm on you.”
“That’s a relief.” I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. One year. And you let me roam as I wish.”
He shakes his head. “Not until I can be sure you won’t slip away. You may walk freely here in the fortress, however.”
I frown. That won’t get me any closer to Quinn, but it’s better than nothing. If I agree, I’ll have more of his trust, which is definitely a step in the right direction to getting out of here.
Mother and Father were always big on honesty, and I put the thought firmly away. Survival is the name of the game, now. “Deal.” I stick my hand out.
Eldaren’s face splits in the most dazzling grin I’ve ever seen. “You’ve made me very happy, Stella, mine.” I expect him to shake my hand, but he instead takes it in his and kisses my fingertips. “You won’t regret this.”
I feel a pang of guilt at the besotted look in his gaze. I’m still not entirely sure how this Kenelky thing works with the elves, but if Eldaren can truly be believed, the elven prince may become clay in my hands.
It feels strange, having such power over another person, and I’m not sure I like it.
16
Stella
“Now.” The prince drops my hand. “We shall fight.”
Blinking up at him, my brow furrows. “What?”
Eldaren strides to the sparring area he’d been in moments ago. “I’ve seen your pathetic attempts at escape,” he says, “and Geldyn reported that when he captured you, your fighting skills were woefully lacking. We must remedy that.”
“I’m loaded with ferocity,” I growl.
Eldaren laughs, and the sound makes my stomach flip. “I do not doubt it,” he says. “I’ve seen it myself. But you need to learn how to channel that ferocity more effectively.”
A thin trail of blood is on the mat, and I repress a shudder. “Just don’t stab me, crack my bones, or knock me unconscious,” I say.
Eldaren swivels to face me, his dark hair whipping about his face. He drops into a crouch. “You have an opponent coming at you,” he says. “What do you do?”
“Scream at you to come help me, of course.”
Eldaren stops in his tracks, his face scrunching. “Is that the honest truth?”
I shrug.
“Stella. All elven women know how to fight and defend themselves. To not have that knowledge is extremely foolish, not to mention dangerous. What if I am not there to help you?”
“I know how to fight,” I protest. “I just don’t fare well against creatures with superhuman strength and speed.”
Eldaren smiles faintly, pleased by my words. “I will teach you.” He strides up to me and takes my hand. I see the scar that Sol mentioned, a crescent-shaped curve of white above the knuckle of his index finger.
“Straighten your fingers, like a knife,” he says. “You can strike the throat here—” he guides my hand to settle against
his neck, “—and here. You can use your knuckles to strike the temple here. Use your palm to hit the nose like so; just not on me.”
I bite my lip, trying to hold back a giggle at the serious look on Eldaren’s face. He frowns disapprovingly before continuing. “You can also gouge your attacker’s eyes out by—”
I hold my other hand out with a shudder. “I don’t even want to think about that.”
“You must,” Eldaren says. “It’s important to know how to kill someone. Where’s the ferocity you claim to be loaded with?”
“I thought elves were all about healing and stuff.” I loathe the idea of hurting another. Yes, I attacked Geldyn when I’d been captured, and smacked Eldaren, but violence isn’t something that comes naturally to me. It fills me with a creeping sort of dread, leaving me feeling shaky and sick.
I switch tactics. “Where did you get that scar, Eldaren?”
The prince’s face is carefully guarded. “I have many scars on me, Stella.” He gestures to his chest. “As you can see.”
I can see. He has several that crisscross over his chest and stomach. I shake my head. “The little one, above your knuckle, shaped like a crescent moon.”
“I’ve changed my mind. We will fight later. I want you to run. Three laps around the room. Go.”
“I hate running.”
“Now.”
I stick my tongue out at him before I move into a jog. He tilts his head at my reaction, confusion sweeping over his features. For looking so human, Eldaren doesn’t understand me at all.
My amusement is short-lived. I’m fast, but I don’t know how to pace myself, and I’m gasping for air before long. It’s a shame he’s so bossy. It is fun to argue with him, though. I discovered that today. It’s surprisingly comforting, and completely at odds with my past relationship with Wilder.
Wilder and I had never argued, except that one night. The night I discovered he was addicted.
I shake my head as if the motion can banish the memory, but it’s a futile effort. I will remember that night until the day I die.
Wilder had given me a ring—the ring that was still tucked away under my pillow at home. It’d cost him all the money he’d had. We were going to marry. We’d already shared almost every aspect of our lives. There were only two things we hadn’t experienced. Marriage, and—
