Salome crouched by a small fire, stirring a pot, her bottom lip caught under her teeth. Her face was dirty. Mussed and tumbled around her head, wild tendrils escaped into the air, and the gold tie at her nape hung loose. Her arms were red with raised scratches from armpit to wrist. The beautiful sunrise silk of her chiton was dulled and torn at the knee. He’d never seen anything so alluring.
Wide eyes leaped to him and her smile reached into his chest, gripped his heart and squeezed. “It’s late. I began to worry. I started some food. It’s just the last of the beans with some salted pork. I found wild onions. I know you like those.” She looked down at the pot and shrugged. “It doesn’t smell too bad.”
“Jester threw a shoe. That put me behind. The food smells good.”
He looked around the space in awe. His bedding was perfect, the neat row of supplies aligned, and fresh water hung in the skins. Two new torches burned low in the wall cracks. No dirt or dust lined the floors or walls. She’d gathered rocks, built a ring and started a fire, which meant she’d had to cut the wood. Quickly he counted. All ten fingers in place. She cooked. And it didn’t smell burned. Though far from luxurious, the cavern wasn’t so alien now. It had a homey quality that he never seemed to be able to reproduce. Maybe it took a woman’s touch.
He bent and set the supplies on the ground, careful to keep one arm across his waist. “You’ve been busy.”
A satisfied gleam twinkled in her eyes and she nodded. One hand reached to smooth the hair from her eyes and he grasped it, turning it face up. Broken blisters and rubbed-raw skin filled her palm. “Oh, Salome, what did you do?”
Salome tugged her fingers free and tucked them behind her back. “The hatchet. It was hard but I did it. I meant to shift before you returned but I got distracted with cooking. I can go now.”
“No, don’t leave. I got something for you, a little gift, nothing much but…”
“A gift?” A frown crinkled her nose. “Why?”
“Why not? I just wanted to. Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”
Two painful-looking palms held out, she closed her eyes and waited. Bryton reached into his tunic and peeled his gift from his skin, wincing in pain, then cradled her hands around it. Her eyes flew open with a gasp.
Impossibly small-but-sharp teeth and a pointed pink tongue yawned widely. The calico head shook quickly with a waking sneeze, then it mewled, blinking yellow-green eyes. Salome’s chest rose rapidly and her lips curved to a fragile smile. The smile spread until her entire face transformed in joy. Sunlight burst his chest.
“Oh, Bryton, she’s beautiful. Thank you. Has she a name?”
“I’m sure she does, you just have to give it to her.”
She hefted the tiny body and looked up into the feline face. One brow slanted downward as she studied the animal, then she nodded and brought it back to her lap. “Her name is Leaf. She has all the colors of an autumn day on her head.”
“Leaf. Okay, that works.” She could name the cat Dog if she liked, he didn’t care. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her mouth, the plump pink softness he craved. His gift gave him courage and he laid a sweet kiss on her lips. She leaned closer, pressing firmer, but he pulled back. “I’ll get the rest of the supplies.”
At the entrance he turned back and paused. Grime-covered, hair every which way, sitting in a pool of dancing golden light, his peacemaker cuddled the kitten. A soft purr echoed from a contented feline and a blinding smile streamed from Salome’s face. Taric could keep the crown jewels. Bryton had found his treasure in a cave.
The beans weren’t burned, they’d simply had no flavor until Bryton added salt and a few of the spices he’d brought back. Still, Salome was pleased he ate two bowls. The new utensils touched her but she preferred to keep using his old ones, the spoon especially. He shrugged with a laugh.
He’d purchased a loaf of crusty brown bread and a small wheel of dark orange cheese. The sharp flavor melded with the bread in perfect harmony and Salome ate three small wedges just to feel the tang turn to creaminess on her tongue. Leaf chased her hem, snagging the fabric and meowing until Bryton mashed some of the bread into the rich pork broth. The kitten now lounged with a plump round belly in her lap as Salome sat beside him around the fire. Contentment hummed through her soul.
The lanterns shone brightly, illuminating the corners of the stone room and casting off long shadows. Bryton sipped from a small corked bottle with a fiery, stinging odor. Whiskey, he called it. She refused a taste, which made him snort but he did not offer again. Dark wrath lingered in his eyes when he spoke of the encounter with the goldsmith and the Skullman. A leather folder from his pack held many sheaves of parchment. He thumbed through them with a grim twist to his mouth until he found a large map.
Eldwyn was a large triangular land mass divided into twelve provinces, the southernmost point carrying the name Sotherby. Across a blue-inked ocean, a squat stone building had been drawn above a tiny island.
“Here, see, this is the prison where Marchen bought the Skullmen, Bone Island. It’s why they have the painting on their skin. The Master there had them marked so that if they ever escaped, they would be easier to find. Most come from here.” His long finger pointed to a smaller green blob below the waters.
“Have you been to this place?”
“To Bone Island, yes, but not Lacornia. They don’t care much for foreigners, keep to themselves. Taric has tried to open diplomatic relations. They’re polite enough but don’t interact with any outside their homeland.”
He folded the map, drank a long swallow from the bottle and took another parchment out. Strange symbols lined the page and her human heart began to pound. Bryton didn’t notice, his gaze boring into the drawings.
“All the Skullmen have the bones on their faces and arms, some have it on their backs. Karok is the only one with other marks. These are from the prison records. They’re up and down his body. I thought they might be religious marks at first but I can’t get any answers from the Lacornian government on them.”
“They’re wards.” Her soft murmur brought his head up sharply. “Against magic.”
“Wards?”
Leaf offered a sleepy protest when Salome removed her from her lap, but she ignored it. She scooted closer to Bryton and her rounded nail skimmed each drawing. “Yes. As you mark your flesh to display bravery, his is marked for defense. See, this one, the crosshatch. It’s for protection against death. The animals, the star signs, the abstracts, they all carry meaning but the intent is the same. They protect him from magic.”
A lock of copper hair fell as he bent over the parchment, studying it as if looking for the first time. Her fingers twitched to smooth it back but the intensity in his stare held her hand to the paper.
“Why didn’t Myla know this? She’s seen it. Taric has a matching copy in his study.” Salome licked her lower lip and pointed to a mark near the bottom. Bryton glanced and shrugged. “It’s a blank spot.”
Her hand jerked from the paper. “You see nothing there?”
Bryton bent closer, angled the parchment and shook his head. “No, there’s nothing there, just empty space.”
“Tell me of Myla’s magic.”
“What do you mean?”
“She called for me and was a guardian. What else is her power?”
A loud-blown breath moved his chest. “Well, the foreshadowing. She gave me a bit of that. She was strong, like more than six men strong. She was a warrior and can still knock me on my ass in footwork. Like you, she had a purple smoke thing that wrapped around her before she shifted.”
“Shifted to what? What is her form?”
“Jaguar. Or I guess feline since Taric said she could be a house cat, too.”
Salome swallowed and blinked. “Jaguar?”
“Yeah, a black jag, why?”
Breath caught in her throat and Salome struggled to breathe. “Felines are the fiercest guardians and the most potent magic. Where my magic is strong, hers knows no match. The one who called her must have been immensely powerful.”
“Yeah, it was a sorceress, Taric’s mother, Tarsha. She’s the reason they’re both alive right now. Her spirit came to him on the rooftop where Myla died. It was her that switched King Balic’s place with Myla’s so Taric wouldn’t be alone. Tarsha called Myla from fire to be his guardian when he was born.”
“Fire born,” Salome murmured. “What do you know of the roots of magic, Bryton?”
“Not much. I mean, I wasn’t born like this, my visions or whatever you want to call it came from Myla. So I never had the training.”
“Not all magic has the same roots, not even in my realm. There are two fundamentals to every magic, animal and element. She is feline, born of fire. I am avian, born of wind.”
Bryton lowered the parchment, a studious slant to his burnt-ginger brows. “But what about me? I mean, I have a power even though I can’t control it. I was born in winter. And Katina had magic, she was winter born, also.”
“No, you were both born human. Your human life essence is your power base. That is why you cannot shift. Any magic humans possess is blood-granted, like that which Myla granted to you. Your wife’s ancestor received a gift and the blood carries it from generation to generation.”
His eyes went wide. “I had this when…and Kat…Oh, God, are you saying Jana got a double dose of this magic shit?”
“I would not call it magic shit but yes, your daughter has blood magic from both sides. Still, she may or may not harness the gift. I cannot tell you.”
“Well, shit.” Palming his forehead, Bryton grumbled low under his breath then wiped a hand down his face. His mouth inched high on one side. “Then I pity Taric. Batu has a magic mother and grandmother. He thinks the kid gets into messes now? Wait until he starts noticing girls. Taric’ll want to chain him in the cell.” His mouth firmed. “And he better keep that little shit away from my daughter. He wouldn’t be the first Crowned Prince I knocked on his royal ass.”
His fierce protection warmed her soul but his words sent a blast of envy, curdling the cheese in her belly. “Myla birthed a child?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t explain why if she’s so powerful she didn’t know about these marks?”
“Karok blocked her magic. Here, see these, these are star signs and plant life. That magic is vague, simply calling on the heavens for aid, the earth for protection, healing, things like that. Useless, really. Here, he has mythical creatures like a dragon and a gryphon. They do not exist so…useless. But here, the animals are more distinct and hold more power. This one, it protects against wolf magic. Wolves are leaders and work in groups. This one, the rat, is a ward against rodents, sneaky and invasive magic. The serpent pr—”
“I get it,” Bryton huffed. “So if your magic comes from one of these animals, what, it doesn’t work on him?”
“No, it won’t and it prevents the magic from seeing his course. He has all these wards? There is everything here—wolves, snakes, rodents, boars, deer. Rabbit? Why would he guard against rabbits?”
“I don’t know. He’s a murderer. He can paint an extra asshole on his forehead and I wouldn’t care.”
“You should,” Salome snapped. “This, what you call a blank space, it is a cat’s eye, Bryton.”
“Okay, so what’s that mean? Myla can’t use her powers against him?”
“Your blood carries her feline essence, though you show more tiger than jaguar traits.”
Pressed against her arm, the muscles in his bicep tightened, fingers whitening around the half-empty bottle. Every movement stopped. His chest didn’t rise, his eyes didn’t blink. “I don’t control the visions. If it comes I see it, if not, I’m shit out of luck.”
“But you cannot see the charm. He may be immune to anything you do to him. I don’t know how much magic she gave you but the ward may be powerful enough to prevent you from killing him.”
“The hell it will!” Bryton surged to his feet. Blistering waves of fury shimmered around his aura, the indigo singing in a soprano’s silent scream. Salome cringed as it raked across her essence. “That motherfucker is dead, do you hear me? I’m going to feed him his own beating heart.”
“Please, Bryton, I didn’t say you couldn’t kill him. Only that I don’t know if you can.”
“I know it and I can. I’ll kill him if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.”
The clack of his boots echoed in the cavern, empty beats of an emptier heart. He strode outside the cave and Salome bowed her head. His human bravado and bloodlust blinded him. Salt pricked her eyes and she blinked the sting away. Though she had no gift of premonition, a sad acceptance welled within her. It swept into her soul with solemn whispers tinged with heartbreak.
No, Bryton, he will kill you
.
The whiskey burned down his throat and set fire to his belly. He’d put down the bottle months ago, but today, being close enough to the Skullman to smell the evil had stretched his nerves taut. Knowing that Salome would be here, silk dripping over her curved body and his to take at any time, had twanged the tight nerves like a mandolin. Now if he could just get drunk enough to forget for a night…
He’d bought four bottles of the cheap liquor. He told himself it was good for washing wounds. He was doing some washing right now, splashing the alcohol down to wipe the stain off his heart. She said he couldn’t kill the son of bitch. He’d prove her wrong. He wouldn’t use magic, just good old-fashioned hate and steel.
Legs dangling over the ledge, he sat at the entrance and took another, longer, deeper pull. Rustling and gentle murmurs to the kitten warned him Salome approached but he fixed his gaze on the rising moon. Half-full and only a third of the way on its trek across the sky, it ducked behind fluffy charcoal clouds then burst out with icy light. A sad memory touched down, caressing his mind with ghostly fingers.
The moon had been half-full the night he married Katina. From the window of their chambers, he’d watched the moon’s path and waited, waited on his new bride to join him in their marriage bed. Granted, they’d used that bed before but not as husband and wife. He’d vowed to that silent celestial cup that he’d make her the happiest woman alive. He never knew that less than two summers later he’d stand over her grave.
A long chug scorched a blaze in his throat. Fuck magic and all its elements. Myla’s gift was a joke. Why hadn’t that vision come earlier, why hadn’t he known the Skullmen were so close? He wouldn’t have stopped, would have made it home with his family intact. Now Salome said that gift prevented him from seeing Kat’s murderer bleed out? No way in hell’s asshole was he letting that bastard live.
Salome knelt beside him, those quicksilver eyes trained on his face, but he stubbornly refused to look at her. She wanted to give him peace. Peace would be Karok rotting in the ground. Peace would be Eldwyn free from terror for the first time in over thirty summers. Peace would be his body left behind, his soul embraced in Kat’s spectral arms. Salome couldn’t give him peace. Only the sword could. The whiskey helped, it numbed his mind and slowly spread throughout his body.
A gentle hand landed on his shoulder, caressed up to his neck. He pulled away. She couldn’t touch him now, not when he was so angry and with the whiskey surging through his blood. He’d have no willpower, would bed her in a heartbeat. Even that tender touch brought his body roaring to life. He pulled one knee up, bracing a forearm on top to hide his half erection. Somehow lusting for Salome after thinking of his wedding night seemed a sin. Her hand dropped away.
“I must leave Leaf here. I cannot take her with me.”
“It’s fine, I figured you would.” Swallowing again, he swiped the back of his hand along his mouth and dared glance her way. She hadn’t yet shifted and the smudges of dirt on her nose and temple only highlighted her grace. He’d tightened her hair tie for her and a blush had warmed her cheeks. If he were honest with himself, and the alcohol prevented him being otherwise, he’d simply wanted to feel her hair. It was thick satin sprigs that wrapped around his fingers. He’d wanted to bury his face in it, smell the sweet floral fragrance that teased him. A deep vibration brewed in his bones. He wanted her no matter how wrong it was.
She stood and a mist of lilac circled around her. The mystic wind fluttered her gown and his chest lurched. He didn’t want her to leave.
“Where do you go when you leave me at night?”
The purple faded away and she turned to him. She lowered once more to her knees, a wide smile rounding her cheeks. “Anywhere. The land here is so beautiful. I fly over the waters sometimes, watch the great fish swim and play.”
“I saw a whale once,” he offered, the whiskey freeing his tongue. “On the way to Bone Island. I didn’t realize how big they were until I saw one with my own eyes. It was three times the size of the boat. They sing, too.”
“Yes, it is a wonderful song, so poignant. The mountains too have a song as do the prairies and the fields. East of here there are deep valleys with no green but amazing shades of amber and reds. The wind sighs against the stone like an old man settling after work.”
Her words, her poetic turn of a phrase, the melodic hum of magic, invaded his inebriated soul. He grew drunker on her face. She was so beautiful. The thrust of jaw, what he had taken as sharp, was character and strength. The cream of her skin glowed, luminescent in the pitch-black night. Streaks of amber in her long hair reflected both the icy moonlight and the fiery glow of the campfire. Silver fought gold and the gold outshone the moon mightily. The swanlike grace of her throat, the delicate hollows and valleys along her collarbone, the rounded knot of her shoulder, all entranced him.
She cared for him, tried her best to make him happy, comfortable. Her smudged face and raw hands only made her smile. She didn’t care about her own well-being, only his. The altruistic gestures reached into his body and stirred the primordial metals in his blood. An ancient cadence formed in his bones, rising in an instinctual urge.
Provider to nurturer. Hunter to caretaker. Man to woman. Mate to mate.
Always bigger than most men around, he’d learned early to handle women with care, to use tender touches, be gentle, hold back. He’d been drawn to sturdier women, bolder, less willowy. Without bragging, he would say he was a large man everywhere. He was no gentle lover given to pretty phrases and soft moves. Oh, he could flirt with the best of them, but when it came time to get naked, he was raw, hungry, and liked his lovers to be the same. He’d tempered his coarsest lust with Katina. Whores could be paid to accept anything. Salome was too tender, yet he wanted her like no woman he’d ever met.
Part of his captain’s training had been basic survival. He’d spent two weeks in a forest with nothing but his wits, learning to read the elements, the landscape, himself. He’d never known how pampered he was until he’d not had the simplest of things. Finding water had been the toughest challenge and he’d gone near four days in high summer without. He’d grown up in the royal court but would have sold his soul for water when his tongue swelled and his lips cracked. He prayed for rain but the skies stayed clear.
Finding the small stream had been more miracle than skill. He’d never taken water for granted again. He remembered the panic of agonizing thirst. The same burning craving radiated through him now. Salome was a spring, a cool trickle of glistening water and he was parched. He drank more from the bottle but the bite of liquor only heightened his thirst. It loosened his tongue.
“I want you.”
“I am yours.”
Salome brushed a lock of hair from her cheek and his hand caught hers. He adored that long curl, the flyaway piece that continued to caress her skin, defying her attempts to restrain it. Her fingers intertwined with his, she brought his knuckles to her lips.
“Will you let me sing to you?”
“A song isn’t what I want right now.”
Infinity existed only in her eyes. It captured his gaze as she leaned close, skimming a down-soft kiss across his lips. Hunger mixed with thirst and he thrust his tongue deep, tasting the sweet waters of her mouth. Her palm, abraded and jagged, scratched across his cheek but she didn’t pull away. She angled closer, nipping him back, sliding her mouth along his, fanning the growing flames.
One arm curled around her waist, bringing her closer. Small, firm breasts pressed into his chest and the fire built. Her fingers slid up his face, dipping into his hair and gripping tight. Her other hand fisted his tunic at his shoulder. A shudder balled in his belly. She was so responsive, matching his every nibble and lick. His mouth glided to the sweet spot beneath her jaw, the tender flesh more potent than the alcohol. The taste buzzed through his veins with a lusty burn and his control cracked. Like a moth to a candle flame, he couldn’t resist her even if the scorch would mean his end.
The bottle in his hand prevented him from cupping her ass and hauling her to his lap. If he pulled her astride him, the temptation to sink into her softness would be too great. Her nipples scraped against his chest, hardening and thrusting out. His hands ached to cradle them, to run his thumbs across those small crests, feel them on his lips.
Salome made a low, pleased sound that rippled across his tongue. An answering call rose swiftly in his chest and he took her mouth, bruising, savage, famished. His lips whispered across her jaw, tongue licking at the hollow of her throat. Against his mouth, her skin flowed like heated honey.
A moan rose from his gut. “I can’t help it. I ache for you. I want to feel your skin next to mine. I want to taste every inch of you. I want to hear my name echoing off these walls as you fly beneath me. I want—oh, God, Salome, I want you.”
“I am yours,” she whispered into his hair. “Take all that you wish.”
The bottle lowered to the stone.
It hit a tiny rock, tipping over with a sharp ping. Her mouth tore from his as she lunged for the glass. Wet whiskey splattered her raw palm and she hissed in pain, yanking her hand away.
An ironic groan bowed his head. Alcohol and pain obliterated the sensual haze surrounding them. They were his salvation as well as his damnation. They kept him from losing the last of his honor. He’d nearly given in to the baser urge and lost himself in her arms. His embrace fell away and Salome jerked straight, cradling her hand.
“You need to wash it out, stop the stinging.”
“It’s not so bad,” she murmured, leaning back to him. He averted his face, keeping his jaw stiff when a confused wrinkle sliced into her brow. He could still feel her, taste her. His breeches stretched too tight and one touch, one gentle touch, and he’d crumple, take her and feed the need still clamoring in his blood. Then come morning he’d regret it. He had enough regrets and would not add her to his list. She deserved better.
Her chin raised and he fought a sigh. How courageous she was. Even as he pushed her away, she refused to pout, to whimper and cast blame. The blame was his. Ego made him brave. Her tenderness made him weak. The liquor made him stupid. Righting the flask, he brought it back to his mouth, draining the last few swallows. Now if it would just bring him oblivion.
Salome began to sing. Inhaling her honey scent mingled with the moist night, he closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the stone. The same song she’d sung in the wind reached into his soul and caressed his heart. The beats slowed, his eyelids grew heavy and tension ebbed from each muscle.
What did those words mean? The foreign language melted from her tongue in calming notes. He’d walked Jana when she was restless, humming wordless songs and letting her feel the vibrations of his chest. This was no different. The subtle waves in the air washed over him, pulling him toward darkness.
His hand was too heavy to grasp the bottle and he didn’t fight when she plucked it away. “Come, my charge, rest. Sleep. Sleep and heal.”
He floated. There was no ground beneath him, no boots on his feet, no belt at his waist. He was weightless, drifting, sinking. Fingers threading through his hair bought a smile and he turned his head toward the touch. Silk and velvet brushed his cheek and he sighed as the deep fathom of slumber took hold. His last thought was never had his pillow felt like heaven. Heaven dropped a kiss on his brow and kept singing.
Dreams of gentle waters, huge rounded backs arching out of the ocean, and the soothing lap of waves filled his sleeping mind. Rest as he’d not known for months whispered to him, the song calling deep into his spirit. Salome was there, as a bird high above the water. Her windsong caressed him and he tilted his face up to feel the warm sun bake down. Colors so vivid they nearly hurt shone in azure, cerulean and sapphire. Sky and ocean, both endless, both eternal, stretched wide and welcomed him.
“He’s unimportant,” Karok grumbled, tossing the ruby on the side table.
“He knew who to contact to get a message to you. That tells me he’s important enough to investigate,” Chakor spat.
“If you want to kill him, do it. I’m busy.” Karok pressed his hands on his pet’s blond head, forcing her to swallow more of him. The gagging noises were less this time. She was learning.
Chakor spun on one heel, headed out of the massive sanctuary.
Karok halted his exit. “Wait, if you kill him, bring me his head. I want to see this
old friend
of mine.”
His man left and Karok leaned back in the huge stone throne and spread his legs wide. He tightened his fist in her hair. She was learning well. The rhythmic sucking let his mind drift and he picked up the ruby. The torches created bloody light shimmering from it. Someone was looking for him. It wouldn’t be the first or the last time some piss-ant with a grudge stomped their foot for attention.
This country pissed him off. Everything was too damn green, and the people were like slugs—weak, mindless insects to be crushed by a heavy boot. His own country had once nearly worshipped him, the mighty revolutionary who would overthrow the ancient and archaic government. But even then his followers were unworthy, unable to see his vision of the new order of things. They had no revulsion when he skewered their enemies and took their lands, their daughters, their riches. But they whimpered and bawled like sick calves when he did the same to them. Mewling little worms, all of them.
In the ultimate betrayal, they’d banished him to that dismal island with the stone walls and rat-infested rooms. But the Great One watched over him, sent him deliverance in the form of Emerto Marchen.
Some men didn’t want to follow Karok. They either died by his hand, his followers’ or the king’s swordsmen. It didn’t matter to Karok as long as they were dead and out of his way. But he’d lost too many to the Royal Guard’s blades. That rabid bastard who sat on the throne was nothing to scoff at. A curl peeled the lip away from his teeth. He’d enjoy beheading that cretin…after making him watch as Karok took the queen over and over.