Rogue Spotter Collection

by Kimberly A Rogers

  Dragging my eyes away from the beauties, I reluctantly turned my attention to the voice’s owner. A satyr stood next to the blue roan, the horses’ lead reins clasped casually in his hand. He was tall, easily Mathias’ height, with a square built torso stretched against a concert tee advertising Deirdre Ahearn’s Eastern European and Mediterranean tour from ten years ago. He was older based on the fact that the horns sprouting from his shaggy curls sported almost two full spirals along with the grey sprinkled through his dark curls, beard, and legs. Brown eyes gleamed with friendliness as he offered me a nod.

  Mathias suddenly broke his silence. “Lauren, this is Ilia. He has agreed to guide us on our journey. But, first we must go to Asen’s fortress.”

  I glanced from the grinning satyr to him. “Why?”

  Ilia spoke when Mathias remained silent. “A journey to Belintash always requires the elders’ blessing. To go without, eh, bad luck.” He paused to direct his extended index and little fingers toward the ground in a habitual gesture to ward off the evil eye. Then he smiled at me as he added, “Nisean horses are great luck but elders’ blessing, eh, it is stronger.”

  I couldn’t help smiling in reply. “I understand.” I glanced at Mathias as I added a little more softly, “We’re going to need all the help we can get including luck.” Besides, this probably counted as part of the task since we needed to show respect to other cultures and avoiding bad luck was considered a very important part of satyr culture. Of course, with their history of close ties to the old Greek pantheon . . . Well, it was very understandable that they liked official blessings on their journeys.

  Mathias made a noise that might have been a grunt or a snort. I chose to interpret it as agreement. Smiling at Ilia, I said, “We shouldn’t keep the elders waiting. Let’s go see them.”

  Ilia raised a hand as he grinned, gesturing to the palomino. “For you, Eulalia will be honored to carry. She is the sweetest.” He turned to Mathias as his hand came to rest on the blue roan’s nose. “And for you, Chavdar. He will never falter.”

  With our bags loaded on a shaggy grey pack horse Ilia called Faustus and the satyr leading the way, we rode back over the river before immediately turning to hug the curves of the river as we rode downstream and then up a narrow mountain path leading to a stone fortress jutting out from a ledge. Asen’s fortress. I eyed the square towers and the rounded roof of the chapel. The walls were low and crumbling but still stood. The horses carried us up several switchbacks until we passed beneath an open archway that no doubt held a gate at some point in the fortress’ past. Budding trees and green shoots gave an air of life to the ancient stone as we clattered into the courtyard.

  I tried not to let my nerves show as a few numbers peeked over the walls, 5s and 6s, but no one emerged. Ilia signaled for us to stop and then we dismounted. I stroked Eulalia’s white mane more to comfort myself than to praise the mare. Ilia’s cloven hooves rang out as he crossed the stone courtyard. He turned a broad grin on us and waved for us to join him. “The elders, they wait.”

  Mathias’ hand wrapped around my fingers and gave a light squeeze before he passed me, striding with complete ease toward the waiting satyr. My fingers tingled from the contact, no matter how brief, but I forced myself to pretend it didn’t affect me. I had to keep my wits about me after all. We were currently assuming no one here knew who I was or that Weard was after me, but we didn’t know that. Reaching up, I plucked at my shawl to reassure myself that the fabric still offered a slight layer of protection. Not for the first time, I thanked God that I was not even close to being considered a beauty. Passably pretty but forgettable was much safer when you needed to blend in to stay off the radar.

  Ilia led us through a covered bridge before we emerged into an older section of the fortress. The faded colored tiles formed mosaics that portrayed satyrs, dryads, sylphs, and even the Greco-Roman pantheon, especially Artemis. I noted the goddess of the hunt was often pictured beside a Golden Hind. We passed a series of fountains before we came to a small alcove where budding trees formed a natural arch at the far end and planters filled with green shoots framed the walls. Beneath the trees was an older stone wall and upon it sat three paranormals all sporting glowing 6s over their heads. In the center sat a satyr whose goat legs were completely white and only a thin fringe of wispy white hair remained upon his head, forming a ring stretching from the base of one horn to the other. His horns sported three complete spirals before jutting out a good three inches, and he wore a plaid vest. The woman to his left was waifishly thin with dark eyes and thick white hair that had been meticulously curled and pinned so it cascaded over her left shoulder. Her dress looked more like a Roman stolla in pale blue, but covered in lace that sparkled beneath the afternoon sun. She was most definitely a sylph. The other woman sitting to the satyr’s right was also white-haired, but pale silver-green leaves dotted her wild curls. The dryad’s pale green eyes seemed to laugh at us even as she smoothed a hand over her own stolla, the long draped fabric the same shade as the budding leaves in the trees above her.

  Three elders for the three most predominant local paranormal species, it seemed. Ilia nodded to them and rattled off something in what I guessed was either Bulgarian or perhaps Greek. The elders looked at him and then they shifted their attention back to us. The old satyr spoke, his voice strong despite his obvious age, but I didn’t understand a single word. Mathias’ expression didn’t even so much as hint at a change to indicate he understood what they said.

  Ilia nodded and then turned to us, friendliness still shining in his brown eyes. “Elder Andreas bids welcome. You have come from far now, eh, why you wish to go to Belintash?”

  Although habit would have made me stay quiet and let someone else explain, I knew this was part of my task. I stepped forward and offered a half bow. “We seek Belintash to honor the history of it.”

  The dryad stirred, and then rattled something off in the same language. Her pale green eyes seemed riveted to my face and unease started beating against my ribs. Did they recognize me? Fear dried my mouth as I waited for Ilia to translate, but he didn’t do so right away. Instead, he responded to the dryad. Her hand moved in an impatient flick as she rattled a reply.

  Ilia scratched at the base of his right horn before he turned to us. He still seemed friendly enough, though, as he offered an apologetic smile. “Elder Ivet, eh, she is rude. She asks do you intend harm?”

  I looked from him to the watching dryad elder. Meeting her pale green eyes, I refused to look away as I attested with as much solemnity as I could muster, “No. We do not come seeking harm. We seek only to give honor to the past and to pay homage to the history in your country.”

  The elders exchanged looks when Ilia translated my answer and murmured in hushed tones before the sylph turned her attention to us. She spoke in airy tones that seemed to flit on the breeze, her dark eyes measuring as though she perceived us as thread to be cut for her work.

  Ilia turned to us and said, “Elder Eva, eh, she asks if you have heard of Kalina Nephele?”

  I looked at Mathias but he only frowned at me. Turning back to them, I almost shook my head but stopped, not certain if they would interpret it as a ‘yes.’ Spreading my hands, I said softly, “I am sorry but the name is not known to me.”

  Neither Ilia nor the elders looked surprised although there was a definitely a hint of disappointment in the sylph elder’s dark eyes before she spoke again.

  Ilia turned back to us. “Elder Eva, she, eh, want to know whose history you honor.”

  “Thrace,” the word slipped out before I could even think about it. I bit back anything else that might give too much away. As it was, I was too scared to so much as consider sneaking a peek at Mathias.

  Ilia clearly didn’t need to translate my answer as the three elders turned to each other, speaking in a low rush of words. The satyr, Andreas, beckoned Ilia with a sharp gesture and our guide went over to the elders entering the conversation. It was only then that I dared to glance at
Mathias. He was standing with his hands in his jean pockets, looking almost too relaxed for a man with a blank expression on his face. I wanted to say something, maybe apologize for slipping up, but then the elders stopped talking and Ilia made his way back over to us. The satyr elder spoke then Ilia translated once more. “The elders are agreed. They give their blessings of safe passage, eh, to Belintash and crossing all of Thrace. I go as bringer of promised blessing and my Nisean horses, eh, they more good luck now.”

  I offered a polite half bow. “I thank you for your kindness and your blessings.”

  Mathias also offered a bow, then we followed Ilia back to the horses. When we were away from the elders, I moved a little closer to Mathias and whispered, “What language were they speaking?”

  “Ancient Greek to a one.” Mathias glanced at me and added, “The old languages still thrive among the paranormals here. It is their culture and their history.”

  I nodded. I didn’t study Greek at all beyond a few key greetings. My aversion to all things Greece perhaps offering me something of a disadvantage among the paranormal community. But it was part of the reason I had never run to Europe before now. I preferred dealing with the Fae.

  The feeling of being watched made me nervous, but I fought to keep it from showing as we mounted up and Ilia guided us out of the fortress. It wasn’t until we left the shadow of the old stone fortress that I started to feel a little relaxed. The Nisean horses’ gait was as smooth as legend claimed even as we followed a trail winding along the river before setting a more southeastern path through the mountains.

  Ilia kept up a cheerful stream of chatter as he pointed out more ruins that he assured us dated back to ancient Thrace. After an hour of riding, the trail widened and he dropped back to walk next to Eulalia’s head. He turned a wide smile on me. “You enjoy?”

  I couldn’t help smiling in return. “Yes, I do very much.” Reaching down, I patted Eulalia’s neck as I added, “She is as sweet as you promised.”

  The satyr’s grin somehow grew wider, nearly splitting his beard in two. “Yes! She is sweetest since her grandmother, eh, best of Niseans.”

  My smile grew a touch wider, showing teeth now. “When we make camp, you must tell me more of the Niseans. I know some stories but you, sir, know the breed.”

  “Call me Ilia, eh, we travel as friends, no?”

  “Very well, Ilia.” I hesitated only a moment before reaching up to tap my chest with two fingers. “Call me Lauren.” I poked my fingers at Mathias’ back. “He is Mathias, in case he was rude and forgot to introduce himself.”

  The satyr chuckled at that while Mathias twisted in his saddle enough to raise an eyebrow at me. I offered him a little smile and wiggled my fingers at him. He turned back to face the trail, but I was almost certain he had rolled his eyes at me. It would be an improvement over the cold or the stiff formality between us.

  Determined to distract myself before my treacherous mind resurrected memories best left stuffed in a dusty drawer and forgotten, I turned my attention back to Ilia. “Is it true the Niseans are coveted by all paranormals? That they are considered heavenly by the eastern dragon court?”

  That won me another chuckle as well as a friendly pat to Eulalia’s neck, which the mare accepted without so much as a flick of her ears. “My beauties are pure Nisean, as they were in ancient days. The dragons, eh, they are not wrong. The Niseans, they are swift and strong. Galloping fifteen leagues without need for rest. Only unicorns faster, eh, but they are nearly extinct. Except for their beautiful descendants.”

  Knowing where he was going and also that custom dictated I encourage the storyteller to reveal his secrets, I hid a smile as I ran my fingers through Eulalia’s thick mane. Ilia cleared his throat and I almost laughed. Playing the expected role, I let some eagerness creep into my voice as I asked, “The descendants of unicorns? You cannot mean . . .”

  “Ah!” Ilia raised a finger as he grinned at me. “But, I do. In earliest days when the Niseans were being bred in Media, the founding stallions were crossed with unicorn mares. Even today the lines will occasionally produce a foal, eh, horn says it a unicorn but only for purest of lines. That is why the Niseans, eh, they are the swiftest and strongest and most beautiful. Of all horses.”

  “There are still unicorn foals being born?” I repeated, not quite able to keep my disbelief out of my voice. “Have you seen one, Ilia? Truly?”

  The satyr grinned. “I have seen three, one born of Eulalia and Chavdar,” he stated triumphantly.

  “I don’t suppose there will be a chance for me to see this foal?”

  The satyr chuckled. “She was taken to Perperikon last fall, eh, joins the herd there for safekeeping.”

  “You are working to reintroduce new herds?” I guessed.

  The satyr turned twinkling eyes on me. “Most clever, Lauren. We will try to save them, eh, too ancient and beautiful to let die. Good luck.”

  “Very good luck,” I mused. “Tell me more of the unicorns and the Niseans.”

  I learned more about the unicorns and the local paranormals’ fight to save them from complete extinction in the next two hours than anyone could even imagine knowing about the two. Not to mention the long list of famous Niseans, including those belonging to Cyrus the Great and gifted to the royal dragons of China. As much as I adored horses and the more legendary the better, I was more than ready for a break when Mathias called for Ilia’s attention.

  We rode another hour before Ilia suddenly slowed our pace to just above a gliding walk. We emerged into a small valley, and Ilia pointed at two rounded mounds just ahead of us. “The gateway.”

  As we drew closer, I could see the mounds were actually stone with moss or perhaps sod covering the domed roofs. I nudged Eulalia into moving closer to Mathias. “What are they?”

  Mathias didn’t respond.

  “Tumuli,” Ilia answered. “Burial mounds, eh, why luck and blessing better.”

  “Is this the only way?”

  The satyr glanced at me. “Only way to Belintash through gateway.”

  I glanced at Mathias, but couldn’t catch his eye. Since he was in one of his silent moods again, I gave Ilia a tight smile. “Then, let’s continue.”

  I didn’t say it, but I would far rather deal with the plateau than spending the night among burial mounds. Hauntings were perhaps too strong a word. However, burial mounds tended to draw the more . . . creepy set of paranormals. The dark and dangerous ones. Those that thrived on death and decay. Even with a 10 and a 6 for company, I would prefer not to expose us to any sort of encounter with one of those paranormals. A shiver ran down my spine at the thought of Mathias getting into another fight. He was having enough difficulty that I wanted to keep him from fighting if at all possible. I didn’t want to risk the cold burying its hooks deeper into him.

  The thought that I might not be able to save him if he went completely cold too many times haunted me. Even more than the thought of particularly nasty paranormal species lurking around the tumuli. By the time we emerged onto the flat stone span of the plateau, it was dusk. Ilia waved his hand in front of us. “Welcome, friends, to Belintash.”

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Lauren

  I crouched in front of the campfire as I prepared the tea. Ilia was currently tending to the horses, clucking to them in his mother tongue as he groomed all three, while Mathias . . . I suppressed a sigh. Mathias hadn’t spoken a word since we arrived at Belintash. The upper platform the horses were sheltering next to was . . . menacing. The ancient and foreboding atmosphere didn’t fade even though we made camp between the platform and the edge of the plateau. I glanced at Mathias again. He was sitting on a low boulder, elbows resting on his knees as he pressed his hands together. His head was bent, gaze fixed on the crackling flames, as he rested his mouth against his fingers.

  Carefully keeping my thoughts away from anything remotely close to longing for a different scenario involving Mathias’ mouth, I finished preparing th
e tea. I poured a steaming cup of tea and carried it over to the brooding Myrmidon. He didn’t look up at my approach, and I finally touched his shoulder. Brushing my fingers over the smooth leather of his jacket shouldn’t have had any effect on me, but it still felt . . . Well, that hardly mattered right now. I forced the words past my lips as Mathias looked up, shadow and light flickering across his face. “Have some tea, Mathias. You need it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re usually a lot nicer when you’ve had your tea,” I stated simply.

  For a moment, Mathias held me captive with his searching gaze and then he looked down. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a half smile as he murmured, “Thank you.”

  He reached for the cup, his fingers brushing over mine as he took it from me. The touch was so brief it shouldn’t have mattered, but it still managed to send a tingling thrill through my fingers. Grateful for the darkness to hide my warm cheeks, I walked back to my side of the fire and sat down on a blanket I had rolled out earlier. When I finally risked a glance in Mathias’ direction, he was completely preoccupied with his tea. The sight reminded me of the first time he had sat in my apartment fussing with his tea and looking as nonthreatening as could be if not for the 10 glowing above his head.

  Ilia’s murmurs to the horses rose slightly, then faded into the background once more as I struggled to think of something to say that would break the silence without being too terribly awkward. “Mathias.” I fiddled with the edge of my shawl, tugging it forward a little as the wind picked up, before I continued, “Do you know of anyone who caught the Golden Hind before now?”

  Mathias lowered his cup and looked at me, but it wasn’t his voice that broke the silence.

  “Golden Hind?” Ilia’s accent flavored words broke over me. I twisted around to see the satyr closing the scant distance between him and our campfire. The satyr was studying me with an expression I couldn’t quite interpret as he said, “No one catches the Golden Hind since Heracles. But he, eh, cheated when he put an arrow through her legs.”