Secrets of the Night Special Edition (7 page)

She took a deep breath and spoke with resolution. "I'm from Ros Creda. My stepfather wanted me to marry a man I didn't love, didn't even respect." She told him the whole story then, about her stepfather locking her in her room, her escape down the ivy-covered wall, her misbegotten trek to the capital. "I must confess I lied to the tavern keeper, made up a name," she concluded her tale. "You already know my real name. I fear my father or Angus will come after me, or send someone after me. Either way, I'll have to keep my identity a secret." She prayed he would, too. "In the tavern, I am known as Angharad Cullain, so you must use that name when addressing me there." What if she had to move again, go to another city or village? The fear remained a continual torment.

Throughout her tale, he'd said not a word, but now looked her way again. "Then perhaps it wasn't wise to seek employment as a scryer. Bound to attract attention."

"That wasn't my original intention." As others strolled past them, she held up a hand to indicate she'd explain momentarily. They passed the library and the hospital, the temple across the avenue, the streets quiet now, their footsteps the only ones in this part of Moytura. They reached the meadow, the grass dry beneath her bare feet. She sank down under a magnificent oak and arranged her long skirt around her ankles. He dropped down next to her, spreading one leg out, the other brought up close to his chest.

"I didn't seek employment as a scryer," she explained. "I wanted to find a position as a seamstress. But I saw no advertisements for such a job at the community tack board." She agonized anew if she should be telling him so much, but there was something about him that inspired confidence, a quality that made her want to reveal all her secrets. It was gratifying to have someone to talk to, a man who appeared to have no ulterior motive in listening to her tale. She studied his face for a moment, a face of sharp angles and lines, and a shapely, sensual mouth. She recalled his kiss in the cave, and her body heated as a longing spread through her to have him kiss her again, hold her tight against his chest.

     His fingers were long and tapered, his eyes quite the darkest she'd ever seen. His obsidian eyes stared into hers, as if searching, probing, and a warm lassitude claimed her, prompting a desire to lean against him, feel his arms around her. She wanted to dismiss the inclination, too well aware she hardly knew this man, her earlier doubts about him returning. Could she trust him? What if, by some act of fate, he met Angus? Surely her would-be fiancé would offer a reward for her.

Fianna turned away from him and stared across the meadow, toward the rippling, glistening waters of the Nantosuelta in the distance. Insects buzzed around them, and she brushed them away. Here and there tiny fairies slumbered in tree branches, their silvery wings spread out at their sides.

Much as she wanted to, she couldn't forget her dilemma. How much longer did she have here in Moytura before Angus caught up with her ... if he caught up with her? She prayed to the Goddess Talmora that her luck would hold, that she could continue living and working here in the capital, a futile wish, she feared, as soon as it entered her brain. No doubt she'd have to leave the capital soon and search for employment in another city, but she didn't want to leave, now that she'd found employment on such favorable terms.

And now that you've found Gaderian, her heart whispered. She dispelled the thought as soon as it entered her head, for the last thing she needed now was an entanglement; she'd learned long ago not to lean on others.

His deep voice enticed her back to the present. "Gladly would I grant you sanctuary at my house. No obligations on your part," he said with a slight smile. "The renovations are nearing completion, and I expect to move in soon."

"I thank you, sir–"

"Gaderian."

"Thank you for the offer, Gaderian, but I want to get by on my own." She knew better than to depend on others, for too many times other people had disappointed her. "The innkeeper has been more than generous. I'll be fine," she said, aware she was trying to assure herself as much as convincing him.

He nodded. "Very well, but please remember the offer stands."

And what if she did move in with him? Her every sense told her he'd be a difficult man to refuse, a temptation she couldn't handle. Best to stay away from him. If only she could.

Chapter Five

After Gaderian returned Fianna to the Snow Leopard, he continued along the near-empty streets, unable to evict her from his mind, all those endearing qualities he could never forget. He smiled, reflecting his good fortune that he had found a quick feed before Fianna had emerged from the tavern, else he wouldn't have had the opportunity to escort her to the
Nantosuelta
River
. In a moment of all-encompassing pleasure, he recalled everything about her: the provocative lilac scent that clung to her hair and clothes, her every gesture, her expressive face and smile, but especially her low, sultry voice that aroused him like a lover's kiss. Despite every internal warning that told him he must avoid the lure of a mortal woman, he wanted to see her again and again. No use denying–even to himself–he wanted to make love to her, to feel her heart beat next to his, to hear her love sighs in his ears, feel her fingers on his skin. But more than that, he was attracted to her spunk, her bright personality in the face of all the obstacles that challenged her, to her ability to rise above these hindrances and make the most of her situation.

But what if she guessed what he was? When she had scried for him, she'd spoken of rivers of blood and asked him if he'd had a recent wound. He should have lied to her, told her, that yes, he had received a severe wound that had caused much bleeding. Her very essence, her loveliness had interfered with his thinking, causing him to miss the chance to mislead her.

As he headed for the main city stable at the southern entrance to the city, he tried to think of other matters, to drive Fianna from his thoughts. The bandregas remained an ever-present and deadly danger, a threat he must defeat. But how? Possibly he would talk to Queen Keriam, he considered on a wild flight of imagination. Could he convince the queen that it was the bandregas and not the vampires who posed a danger to the country? For sure, Orrick, the current leader of the undead, was feckless, unable to mount a challenge to these fiends. The dilemma cried out for leadership, but Orrick had done nothing about the threat, as if he didn't care. And maybe he doesn't, Gaderian agonized.

For once in his life, Gaderian yearned for fortitude, to prove himself a leader. In his mortal years, centuries ago, he had considered himself a failure, one who could never attain his goals. As if it were yesterday, he recalled how he'd longed to practice medicine, to heal others. He swallowed, the pain still fresh in his mind and heart. His father had refused him permission to study medicine, telling him he needed help in his apothecary shop.

"You are my only son," his father had said, "and for years, I have waited for you to grow to manhood, to help me here in the shop and carry on after I leave for the Otherworld. Best that you don't attempt to rise above your station, for I fear you will suffer nothing but disappointment if you do. My father was an apothecary and his father before him. You will gain enough useful medicinal information working with me." His father nodded. "And at sixteen, 'tis time you assisted me in my work. Forget about studying medicine."

Returned to the present, Gaderian absently glanced in the window of a jewelry shop as his mind switched back to Fianna, she of the lustrous auburn hair and green eyes. He spied an emerald pendant in the window, an adornment that would surely enhance Fianna's beauty. If only she cared for him, too, he would buy the gem for her. Foolish thought. As if he would wed a mortal! Or she would marry a vampire!

What if her father came after her, or if the man she was to marry pursued her to Moytura? What would happen to her then? No need to ask. She'd be dragged back to Ros Creda, forced to marry a man she didn't love, nay, didn't even respect. Gritting his teeth, he determined he would not permit that to happen. Even had he cared nothing for her–and he did, no use denying his attraction–he would hate to see an innocent lady dragged back home and forced to marry a man she loathed.

He stopped walking, his mind in turmoil. He would not permit any harm to come to her. In the short time since he'd met her in the cave, she had worked her way into his heart. He must protect her, even if nothing ever came of his fascination for her. And nothing would come of this sweet temptation, for he and Fianna could never have a future together.

* * *

"Madam."

Outside the Snow Leopard, Fianna glanced around, her heart jumping, but she quickly realized the voice didn't belong to Gaderian, although the greeting was the same. Fierce disappointment tightened her throat, and she chided herself for the foolish attraction she felt for the man she'd first met inside the cave, a man of whom she knew so little.

A blonde man approached from the dark shadows, one she recognized as a frequent patron of the Snow Leopard. She had just finished for the night and was looking forward to sitting on a nearby bench. Alone.

He inclined his head. "Permit me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Stilo, and no doubt you've seen me in the tavern." He paused. "May I walk with you? Did you have a particular destination in mind?" He spoke with a deep, gravelly voice. Slightly taller than she, he had a brawny build, his linen tunic stretched across his broad chest. 

Desperate thoughts raced through her head. By now, she knew she could trust Gaderian, but she knew nothing of this man, one she recognized only by his appearance at the tavern.

"Sir–"

"Stilo is my name, madam. And I know yours as Angharad Cullain, from hearing the other patrons sing your praises. You're quite a skilled fortune teller, I understand."

"Scryer," she corrected. "And just because you told me your name doesn't mean I know you." She tried not to wrinkle her nose at his heavy musk fragrance. And let him think her name was really Angharad, for she must never reveal her real name to this stranger.

Stilo smiled. "If you could spend a little time with me, we could become better acquainted." He held up a hand. "I promise you I mean you no harm. A man gets lonely at times. It's pleasant to have someone to talk to, a pretty woman like you."

Your compliments will get you nowhere, she wanted to say. A strong warning vibrated in her head, quickening her heartbeat. How did she know she could trust him? Yet he'd given her no reason not to. She sought a compromise: she certainly would not allow him to walk with her to the river, a distance of several blocks. Only vagrants wandered the streets at this hour of the night, hardly dependable rescuers should this man pose a threat. She was a fast runner; she could escape the tramps, should any of them come after her. But she might not be able to evade this stranger's proximity.

Fianna nodded toward a bench several yards away that rested under the canopy of a stately oak. "Let's sit there for a while, not long, mind you, for I should go to bed soon."

"Of course."

They headed for the wooden bench, Fianna's new leather shoes squeaking with each step. Her new shoes would take some getting used to, she thought on a note of uncomfortable endurance. A warm breeze ruffled the oak leaves and carried the sweet-spicy scent of night-blooming jasmine. Stilo walked with a swagger, shoulders thrown back, a brisk step in his high boots.

After she sank onto the bench, he followed, a look of mild curiosity on his face. "You are new to Moytura, are you not? Your accent sounds a bit different. From one of the southern provinces?"

"Yes." Aware she trod on risky ground, she refused to divulge any more information.

"You're living with your parents?" He flicked a lock of hair from his forehead, and she noticed his blunt hands, his stubby fingers.

Resentment stirred inside her. "Sir, if you've seen me at the tavern–which you have–you know I live alone."

He shrugged. "Only desiring to become better acquainted with you, an endeavor that surely requires no explanation."

"But I don't know a thing about you except your name, and only your first name, at that."

"Easily corrected. My last name is Mongan." He slid a bit closer, a movement that sent her easing away from him. 

"So, Stilo Mongan, where are you from?"

"Lived in Moytura all my life." He grinned. "And I must say I'm happy to be here now, to have met you. Ah, I see by the expression on your face that you doubt my good intentions. If I may, let me tell you a little about myself. I'm an architect, live in an apartment by myself. My parents are dead, and an older brother lives on the outskirts of the city." He gave her a quick smile.

As he spoke, she thought she saw a feral gleam to his eyes and sharp ears. Images drifted in and out of her eyesight, but just as quickly, his face reverted to what it had been. She wondered if fatigue was distorting her vision, or was it her imagination. She shook her head to clear it and told herself she should get more sleep.

Time flew past as casual conversation followed, and her doubts about him gradually dissipated, replaced by a renewed confidence, and an appreciation of his appreciation. For the first time that evening, she felt a lift to her despondent spirits, the hope that things would work out for her. She now had two male friends, and had already gained the confidence and friendship of the tavern waitresses; she didn't feel so alone anymore. Besides that, she knew she could make it on her own, because so far she had earned enough coppers to total three silver pieces. Up to now, no pursuers from Ros Creda had found her, if indeed, her father or Angus had sent anyone to search for her.