“And what is
that, as a meal?”
He laughed. At
another time, Swan might have thought the sound pleasant. Now, it only made
her more uneasy. “There is more than one way to eat a woman. I would gladly
demonstrate.”
Strangely,
although she had no very clear idea of what he referred to, her heart
quickened, heat gathering in her loins. It disturbed her that he could
command a reaction from her body with no more than his words. Irritation
surfaced. “I never knew beasts were so obliging. I thought your kind only
raped and destroyed.”
His hands
tightened on her shoulders. “It is humans who cannot be trusted. You break
the pact coming here. Death has been dealt for less,” he said, his voice
deadly soft.
“I face it
gladly,” she said slowly. Her jaw clenched with the effort to remain calm, but
her heart drummed in her throat with the new threat.
The man was
silent a long moment, studying her, building the tension strumming through her
aching muscles. At last the vice of his hands relaxed. “You lie, little
bird. Your fear is as potent as a perfume. You would do well to remember
where you are. I tire of these games. Why have you come here?” he demanded
again, quietly. “The scent of prey is sweet ... and you have ventured where
you don’t belong. I will have my answer.”
“I have told you
what you asked. You don’t want the truth. I have no one to turn to, nowhere
else to go.”
Morvere had sent
her here, of that she had no doubt, though she could see no advantage to
telling him of a man he would not know for his treachery. She could see no way
to make him believe her tale, and it was possible that mentioning the sorcerer
might only convince him that she and Morvere had formed some plot together, to
use sorcery to get her beyond the border for some dark purpose.
In her homeland,
it was well known humans were killed in Shadowmere on sight. Those few that
survived its horrors turned mad. Morvere had sent her because he wanted her
death and torture. He knew the unnaturals horrified her. To be made one and
thrust into their midst to die was a vicious revenge for denying him.
He could not even
be brought to pity and end her life quickly. How long had he conspired to
claim her and her lands? She’d trusted him with her life, with the lives of
her people, and he’d betrayed them all.
That reflection
did much to steel her purpose. She would survive, if only to see him fall.
“Shadowmere is
not a haven for your kind.”
Despite his
assurances to the contrary, it occurred to her that it could be, if she could
convince him. Dare she pin her hopes on the people of Shadowmere? They had
fought for so long, it was unlikely she would gain anything but a swift death.
Still, she had nothing more to lose and everything to gain by asking. “I
require your assistance.”
The demand caught
him by surprise. “You do not know me, and I feel I must point out that you’re
in no position to make any sort of demands. I fear I must refuse.”
In some long
buried sense, she felt he reserved a softness toward women--many men did. He
had rescued her, after all. Of course, he might only have saved her for some
darker purpose, but instinct told her she was right. “You have not heard my
needs and I am not accustomed to being refused.”
His eyes
narrowed. “Arrogant. And naive. Obeying a woman’s demands is beyond my
experience.”
“You cannot
possibly refuse me help,” she said, astounded, her voice tinged with doubt.
What would she do? She could not go forward unassisted, and most certainly not
back to Avonleigh. Morvere would likely do something worse, perhaps kill her
on the spot for not having the grace to die the first time.
He shook his
head, intrigued despite what he’d said to the contrary, to find his beautiful
captive making demands upon her captor. But was it strength, or nothing more
than a lack of understanding of the dire situation she found herself in?
“I could, far
more easily than you seem to think. I am bound by nothing from your world, not
the position you held in your own world, certainly not your notions of
chivalry. It’s obvious you have no clear notion of your peril. Did not the
pack fill you with terror at their call? The hunters answer but to one master
... and worse terrors roam these lands.”
If had he meant
to frighten her, it had worked. The blood froze in her veins as his words sank
in. Why had she not realized what it was that pursed her the moment she
learned where she was?
The hunters.
Borderguards of Shadowmere. The pack was the essence of nightmares. They’d
chased her, endlessly it seemed, but she had thought them beasts of the natural
world, drawn by the scent of blood, not… the hunters.
Still, she
lived. If what he said was true, why was she not dead?
It occurred to
her then that there could be only one answer. “Who are you?” she whispered
fearfully.
“I am Raphael,
Lord of the Hunters.” His hands shifted to grip her upper arms as he dragged
her to her feet with ease. “And you are my prisoner.”
They were
surrounded in the next instant, wolfen men melding from the trees as though
summoned with a thought. Some growled in the language of wolf. Others spoke
in muffled tones, guttural, their menace palpable.
Knowing
instinctively that to stare at them was to provoke them, Swan kept her gaze
trained on the man who held her, Raphael, though she felt more than saw him.
She’d baited one of the most powerful men of Shadowmere, but she couldn’t dwell
on that. Her initial fear faded, replaced with a sense of purpose.
She lived because
he willed it. Whatever his purpose might be, she saw at once that he was a
potential ally capable of defeating Morvere. And while she would never have
considered allying herself with such as he, under ordinary circumstances,
desperation made strange bedfellows. She was not so haughty that she couldn’t
recognize this “man’s” worth. She had only to convince him to help her.
A feat quite
possibly easier said than done, but she could not allow doubts to sway her from
her purpose. Her people needed her.
She sensed a
presence near her from behind, warned by the crackle of dead leaves beneath
softly padding feet. The movement halted a short distance behind her.
A voice rumbled
from the dark, gravely and coarse as though unused, “My lord, we are sworn to
uphold the pact...”
Raphael’s hands
tensed on her arm. “You need not remind me of my duty, Arion.”
“That was not my
intention, my lord--”
“Good. She is
mine. Until it is decided what to do with her.” He prodded her forward.
Swan was near
blind, helpless to find her own way--and it rankled, as did his
possessiveness. “I belong to no one, man or beast. Release me.”
He ignored her
demand. Swan attempted to jerk her arm from his grasp, to no avail. Her
strength was no match for his. She stumbled with the effort, but he righted
her before she could fall.
His grip tightened
as he guided her through the forest, as though to dissuade her from further
escape attempts. The precaution was unnecessary. It was less than futile to
run again--not while under heavy guard, as she knew she must be.
In any case,
where would she run to if she succeeded in escaping? Into the loving arms of
the man who’d placed the curse upon her to begin with?
Raphael, Lord of
the Hunters, might offer little hope, his possessiveness, his arrogance might
rankle, but he represented the only hope she had at this point.
As she struggled
blindly to keep up, the wound on her hand, the magically clipped finger, began
to throb anew, forcing itself to the forefront of her mind. The pain from the
myriad of cuts, scratches, bruises and aching muscles of her flight receded
into the nothingness of minor twinges as raw agony from the injury pounded
through her with every step she took. Had it only been a day since her life had
been shattered irrevocably?
The terror, the
rushing adrenaline of her flight had vanished, leaving her weak, susceptible
once more to the pain she had not felt in her shock. She began to realize she
had nothing to sustain her, that she not could remain on her feet much longer.
Unused to vulnerability, to being one of those needy females now made her
despise herself. A simple wound should not affect her thus, she chided
herself. The blood of kings ran through her veins. She shamed her ancestors
with her weakness.
No thought could
bolster her flagging endurance, however.
Each second
weighed like a minute, each minute an eternity. The world slowed around her,
sounds distorted like screams under water. Her legs, leaden from running,
weighted her down. It was becoming increasingly difficult to move one foot in
front of the other. Raphael’s pace allowed her no reprieve.
“Let me go,” she
demanded again, a wave of dizziness washing over her in a nauseating wave.
“You should never
run from the pack. It increases their appetite. How can I trust you would not
do so again?”
The absurdity of
her outrunning the hunters nearly made her laugh, especially considering her
current condition. She would not be such a fool as to try again with their hunger
unappeased, but it seemed unlikely he would believe her assurances. She was
loath to reveal her weakness, but much longer and she would be unable to hide
it from him. “I can only assure you that I will not,” she said finally.
He seemed to
consider her a long moment, then said, “Share with me but your name, and you
may walk freely. Unless you enjoy my touch....”
That he would
concede some ground was all the incentive she needed. “Swan of Avonleigh,” she
said.
He released her,
to her immense relief. Swan cradled her left arm, terrified to feel the heat
of infection suffusing her hand. It was as she’d feared. Her steps slowed as
she probed the wound, hoping she was mistaken. A sharp stab lanced up her arm
with the light touch, and she groaned without thinking.
He stopped her
with a hand on her shoulder. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He cursed in a
strange language. “Do you make a habit of lying?” He touched her hand, and
she gasped and stumbled against him. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Who has dared
harm you?” he demanded angrily, gripping her shoulders.
“Morvere....” she
whispered, clenching her eyes tightly shut. She was fading away. Faster and
faster. Was day approaching? Was she changing yet again? It was her last
thought as warm arms closed tenderly around her.
* * * *
“What ails her?”
Arion asked, kneeling beside the fallen woman. Her ragged garment had been
retrieved and draped around her shivering form.
Raphael looked
down at her, his anger building. “Other than an abundance of pride? She is
injured. Someone has broken the heart line ... taken her finger.” He despised
the harming of women. The pack members who had disobeyed his word were being
punished even now. That he knew not who maimed her, and therefore could not exact
vengeance, infuriated him beyond measure.
Arion spared him
a look before turning back to examine her. “Sounds like foul magic to me.”
“Yes,” Raphael
said. It was undeniable that she was under an enchantment. Magic clung to her dark,
caramel skin like an invisible film. He would have sensed it even if he had
not seen her change into the swan near the border firsthand. He had ordered
his men to keep watch. He had not expected they would give chase. She’d
nearly paid for that misjudgment with her life.
“It smells
unnatural, tainted by some magic. Illness has set into the wound. She is
likely to die if it worsens.” Arion looked up at him, his face grave. “We’ve
not the skill to care for humans, let alone one bewitched.”
Beastmen had no
need of healers, for they had the ability to regenerate and heal their own
wounds. “I know of another possibility. But it cannot be done here.”
“If it works, you
must teach me the skill that can break a spell,” Arion said.
“If it does, all
beasts should learn.”
He could spare
her the indignity of more exposure, but there was no guaranteeing what he
planned would even work. The
kharez
was a phenomenon so rare, he’d only
heard of it happening once in the entirety of his life. His friend, Blasien,
had been healed by just such and still knew not the nature of the
kharez
.