Dreams Made Flesh bj-5 Page 5

  "Or one hungry man," he'd replied, grinning.

  Why hadn't she smiled back when she'd prepared the basket of food for him?

  As he landed lightly on the flagstone courtyard, he sent a thought out on a psychic spear thread. *Tassle?*

  *Yas.*

  The wolf sounded sulky, almost edgy.

  *What's wrong?*

  A pause. Then, *I don't like that female. I don't want to be friends.*

  Lucivar felt his temper unsheath as he studied the front door of his home. An Ebon-gray shield formed a finger-length above his skin, an instinctive response to walking into a situation where it was safer to guard against a potential attack. The fact that he was reacting that way before entering his home honed his temper until the slightest push would have him riding the killing edge.

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The female psychic scent hit him the moment he crossed the threshold. He knew that scent. Loathed the young witch it belonged to.

  Roxie.

  She'd been one of Luthvian's students when he'd first come to Kaeleer…a Rihlander witch from Doun whose family was aristo enough that she thought she could do anything she pleased. She used lovers the way other women used handkerchiefs. She soiled them, then tossed them aside. But from the first day she'd met him, her goal had been to corner him and force him into bedding her. The bitch had never understood that if she had managed to corner him, bedding her would have been the last thing on his mind.

  And now she was here. In his home.

  He moved silently until he reached his bedroom door. The wide corridor reeked of her.

  As he pushed the door open and walked into the bedroom, Roxie raised her bare arms over her head and smiled at him, her body clearly defined under the sheet that covered her.

  He usually had a hot, explosive temper. As he approached the bed, he felt chillingly calm.

  "Get out of my bed," he said softly.

  She shifted a little, the movement uncovering more of her breasts. "Why don't you join me? You want to. You know you do."

  The revulsion that washed through him almost sheared his self-control.

  A triumphant look filled her face when he stepped up to the bed. A moment later, the look changed to terror.

  He hadn't consciously made the decision to call in his Eyrien war blade. But the edge of that blade, honed so sharp it could make air bleed, suddenly hovered just above Roxie's neck. If he relaxed his hand, the blade would slide through skin and muscle until it gently came to rest against bone. He wouldn't have to do anything, wouldn't have to exert any force. Just relax his hand.

  "If I ever find you in my bed again, I'll slit your throat," he said, his voice still calm and soft.

  Roxie swallowed. The movement was enough to push her skin against the blade.

  Lucivar watched the blood trickle from the shallow wound, becoming seduced by the heat of it, the smell of it. He stepped back before the temptation to let the war blade sing became too great. As he stepped back, the cold inside him broke and hot temper flared.

  Vanishing the war blade, he scooped up her clothes in one hand, hauled her out of bed with the other, and dragged her through the eyrie, ignoring her squeals and protests. He flung her and her clothes out the door and slammed it shut, not knowing or caring if she got hurt when she landed.

  Then he stood with his teeth clenched and his hands curled into fists, fighting the urge to open that door and purge the memories of all the witches he'd known in Terreille who were just like her. He wanted to pound those memories into her flesh, exorcising them from his own.

  Minutes passed, but the feelings didn't. He still rode the killing edge.

  Violence still sang in his blood. He had to purge that violence…or have it purged out of him. There was only one person who could do that for him.

  Roxie was gone when he left the eyrie. That spared him the inconvenience of killing her and taking the bitch's mangled body back to her family. He would have killed her if she'd still been there. He couldn't have stopped himself. A Warlord Prince was a born predator, a natural killer, and the "training" he'd received under the hands of the witches in Terreille had honed that killing instinct instead of providing a sheath for it. Right now, he was a danger to everyone.

  With one exception.

  He opened his psychic senses, searching until he brushed against the dark power that eclipsed his own.

  Launching himself skyward, he flew to the cottage beyond the outskirts of Riada. He landed close enough to the porch that two steps and a leap had him standing in front of the door of the neat little cottage Saetan had built for Jaenelle as a place where she could spend solitary time when she needed it. Not that she was ever really alone. There was always a kindred male with her, but a wolf or dog was content to nap for hours while she got lost in a book or would walk with her for miles without wanting conversation.

  He hesitated a moment, then opened the door and entered the cottage's main room. Jaenelle stood near the hearth as if she'd been expecting him. She probably had. She would have felt that flash of temper, would have sensed him coming toward her.

  He stood close to the door, wanting to go to her, needing to go to her. He couldn't do that. Not yet. Not until he'd smoothed some of the jagged edges off his temper.

  "Lucivar," Jaenelle said quietly.

  He stared at her, focused on her sapphire eyes.

  She walked up to him and placed one hand against his cheek. "Lucivar."

  He closed his eyes and breathed in the physical scent of her and the dark psychic scent that was both a balm and an enticement. He didn't want her sexually…had never wanted her that way…but the hugs and sisterly kisses kept him balanced in a way nothing else had ever done.

  Hold the leash, he silently pleaded. Choke me into obedience if that's what it takes.

  She just stood there, her hand against his cheek, until those jagged edges of temper receded…and made him aware of something that brought a different edge to his temper.

  "Where's your escort?" he demanded.

  "It's been a warm afternoon," Jaenelle replied. "Jaal is sprawled in the stream out back."

  Lucivar snarled. "He didn't even rouse himself to find out who had entered the cottage."

  Jaenelle lifted both eyebrows to express surprise. "You wanted to be pounced on by a wet tiger?"

  Being near her had restored enough of his balance that he took a moment to consider that. "No."

  "Didn't think so. That's why I told him to stay where he was." She stepped back and turned toward the archway that led to the kitchen. "I have a small keg of ale."

  "I have half a steak pie, cheese, and a fresh loaf of bread." Jaenelle grinned at him. "In that case, you can stay for dinner."

  He waited until they'd eaten and were sitting on the porch, watching twilight smudge the land into soft shapes.

  "I need help, Cat," he said quietly, using his nickname for her to indicate he needed help from his sister, not his Queen.

  "Still being overrun by helpful ladies?" Jaenelle asked.

  "No. Well, yes, but…" He took a deep breath, knowing he was about to walk the crumbling edge of a sheer cliff. "I found Roxie in my bed when I got home today."

  "Roxie," Jaenelle said in that midnight voice that chilled her court.

  Roxie didn't like Jaenelle, and Jaenelle didn't like Roxie. The difference was Roxie didn't have enough power to do anything with that feeling. Jaenelle disliking someone was out and out dangerous.

  Lucivar rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "I need a housekeeper. I need a dragon who will…"

  Jaenelle cocked her head and looked at him.

  "No." His nerves jumped, making him feel like he had tiny bugs skittering all over his skin. "Not a real dragon." Not that he didn't like the dragons who lived in the Fyreborn Islands. He did. He enjoyed wave whomping with them whenever he and Jaenelle visited the islands. But the last thing he needed was a dragon the size of a pony…not including the tail…waiting by the door to flame
anyone who crossed the threshold.

  "It would solve the problem of uninvited guests," Jaenelle pointed out.

  "No."

  She got that half-puzzled look on her face that always made him think of a kitten puzzling over a large, hoppy bug. "I wonder if any of the kindred have witches with a gift for hearth-Craft. What would they use it for?"

  "It doesn't matter." His voice sounded firm, didn't it? Hell's fire, he hoped it sounded firm. "I need a human with enough housekeeping skills that Helene and Merry will be satisfied that the eyrie is being tended and whose presence will keep any other females from thinking that…" He bit back the words. Best not to mention Roxie again.

  Jaenelle hesitated. "There is a hearth witch who has come to Kaeleer recently."

  "Through the service fairs?" Lucivar asked, wondering about Jaenelle's hesitation. The twice-yearly service fairs in Little Terreille had been set up to deal with the flood of Terreilleans fleeing the cruelty of the courts and Territories under the influence of Dorothea SaDiablo, the High Priestess of Hayll.

  "No," Jaenelle replied. "I brought her in."

  What in the name of Hell were you doing in Terreille? He knew better than to ask her that question. He'd just visit the Hall in the next day or two and ask his father.

  "She may be… content… where she is," Jaenelle said, "but I can ask if she'd consider being your housekeeper."

  "All right."

  Jaenelle nodded. "I can…" Her mood turned grumpy, and she rolled her eyes. "No, I can't. I have to do Queenly things tomorrow, and there's a formal… something… late in the evening."

  Lucivar grinned. "Something that requires getting all polished and dressed up?" Jaenelle hated fancy dress.

  "Yes," she growled, "it's dress-up. But there will be time to come back here after your usual dinner hour."

  "That won't give you much time to get ready."

  The look she gave him could have frozen blood.

  "I could still see if there are hearth witches among the dragons," Jaenelle said.

  Feeling more relaxed than he'd felt all week, Lucivar stood, stretched, then bent over to give Jaenelle a kiss on the top of her head. "Don't threaten your older brother," he scolded mildly. "Especially after I took the brunt of Father's snarling over the raft."

  Wincing, she looked up at him. "Was it bad? He just kept gritting his teeth when he saw me and refused to talk about it."

  Lucivar straightened up and leaned against one of the porch's supporting posts. "No, it wasn't bad. He was actually quite calm about our making a raft out of what he called 'twigs and kindling'…"

  "Which is what it was," Jaenelle said.

  "…and holding the whole thing together with nothing but Craft."

  "Which is what we did."

  "And he said he understood why we felt we needed to be standing on the thing when we put it in the river to test it."

  "How else were we supposed to find out if it worked?"

  "He even managed to sound calm about our not abandoning the raft after we hit the rapids. And he didn't yell about our going over the waterfall." Lucivar scratched his neck. "Although, I still haven't figured out how he could speak so clearly with his teeth clenched like that."

  Jaenelle leaned forward. "You didn't tell him the raft started breaking up before we. went over the waterfall, did you?"

  "Do I look like a fool?" Lucivar demanded. "Of course I didn't tell him that. Besides, what threatened to pop a few blood vessels was his finding out that we went back to the starting point and did the whole thing all over again."

  "Oh, dear," Jaenelle said. "I'm surprised the walls of the Hall didn't shake when he started yelling."

  "He didn't have a chance to yell." Lucivar smiled that lazy, arrogant smile that always signaled trouble. "Before he got started, I ended it."

  "How?"

  "I told him he was jealous."

  Jaenelle's mouth fell open. "Lucivar! You told Papa…"

  "That the only reason he was mad at me was because you'd invited me to go with you to try out this idea instead of inviting him."

  Her silvery, velvet-coated laugh rang out over the land. "Oh," she gasped. "Oh, that was mean. What did he say?"

  Lucivar laughed with her. "He just gave me that stare that will burn holes through bone, then threw me out of his study. He hasn't said a thing about it since then."

  "Poor Papa." Jaenelle sighed. "I guess I'll dress up special tomorrow to make it up to him."

  "You do that, since my wearing a dress won't do anything for him."

  She looked at him and howled with laughter…which brought an answering roar from behind the cottage.

  Great. Any moment now, he'd be trying to explain to a baffled feline Warlord Prince why their Queen was making those funny noises.

  "I'll see you tomorrow." He leaped off the porch, spread his wings, and launched himself skyward.

  "L-Lucivar!"

  Nope. Fair was fair. He'd dealt with Saetan on his own over the raft, so she could explain her behavior to the "kitty."

  He didn't let Roxie's lingering scent spoil his mood when he returned home. Besides, by tomorrow evening, all his female problems might be solved.

  SIX

  As she set the brass basket next to the woodpile, Marian felt her back muscles protest and threaten to seize up. Again. Studying the woodpile, she raised one hand and used Craft to lift the pieces of wood and set them in the basket.

  Luthvian would criticize and sneer, saying…again…that it was laziness to use Craft for simple things, but Marian didn't care. Using Craft instead of straining muscles wasn't laziness, it was practical…especially since her back had seized up once today while she was scrubbing the kitchen floor.

  Odd how gentle Luthvian had been when she'd come into the kitchen and found Marian on the floor, unable to get up. At that moment, she had been all Healer, skilled and efficient. But the quiet words she'd said as she eased the pain were the same ones she'd been saying… the useless wings were causing the back pain. Removing them was the only way Marian would fully heal.

  Since she wouldn't let Luthvian remove her wings, she couldn't say anything about the chores that made her back hurt. She knew the wounds had been healed, but when she ached, she could close her eyes and mentally trace every knife slash the Warlords had inflicted.

  Gritting her teeth, Marian reached for the handle of the brass basket.

  The basket vanished before she touched it. It reappeared a moment later, waist high and just out of reach. Then it fell to the ground with a heavy thunk.

  "Perhaps I wasn't clear enough when I told you to take it easy for a few days." The voice didn't quite hide the ripple of anger beneath the mildly spoken words.

  Marian turned. Jaenelle stood a few feet away from her.

  "Lady Angelline." Marian swallowed hard, unable to look away from those sapphire eyes. She felt as if fingertips were passing over her body, just above her skin.

  "You haven't done any permanent damage," Jaenelle said, "but…"

  "Marian!" Luthvian's voice lashed out through the open kitchen windows. "Are you going to dawdle all night over a few pieces of wood? You have chores to finish."

  Something deadly flashed in Jaenelle's eyes, gone so fast Marian wasn't sure she'd actually seen it.

  "Pack your things," Jaenelle said quietly. "You're leaving."

  "But…"

  "Now."

  She wasn't going to argue with that voice. Moving as fast as her stiff legs could manage, she reached the cottage's far corner just as Luthvian stepped out of the kitchen door.

  "Hell's fire, girl," Luthvian snapped. "Where's the wood? Can't you do anything…" She froze for a moment. "Good evening, Jaenelle."

  "Good evening, Luthvian." Jaenelle moved forward until she stood next to Marian. "Marian is leaving. Her skills are required elsewhere."

  Luthvian looked as if she'd been slapped, but she recovered quickly. "We need to discuss this."

  "Fine," Jaenelle replied. "We'll discuss
it while Marian packs her things."

  The air crackled with suppressed temper. Marian stepped back and swung around both women, too nervous to step between them. As she entered the kitchen, she heard Luthvian say, "She's adequate, but anyone who pays wages for her work will be disappointed."

  She didn't wait to hear Jaenelle's reply. She simply hurried up to the small, second-floor room Luthvian had given her. There wasn't much to pack. When Jaenelle had brought her to Luthvian's cottage, she had only the trousers, tunic, and underthings she'd been given at the Keep since her own clothes had been destroyed in the attack. Luthvian had given her a skirt and two tunics the Healer no longer wanted and had grudgingly purchased two sets of underthings for her. Her only other possessions were the things that, through Craft, she always carried with her…her moontime supplies, the hairbrush and hair ornaments her sisters hadn't permanently "borrowed," the book she'd asked for last Winsol and had actually gotten as a gift from her mother, and the small loom and cloth bag of yarns.

  She vanished the clothes, since she had no other way to carry them, and had just walked out of the room when thunder shook the cottage. Her heart pounded as she rested a hand against the wall to steady herself. There had been no sign of a storm when she was outside a few minutes ago. Where had the… A different kind of thunder.

  A chill went through her. Her heart pounded harder. The kind of thunder that happened when a witch revealed enough of her temper to be a warning to those around her.

  Biting her lip, Marian gave herself a few seconds to gather her courage before going downstairs to the kitchen. Luthvian sat at the kitchen table, her gold eyes full of resentment and fear. Jaenelle stood in the doorway, not actually in the kitchen but also not waiting outside.

  Marian hesitated. She should say something to Luthvian, but she didn't know what it would be. She couldn't thank Luthvian for the hospitality since she'd more than earned her keep while she'd stayed at the cottage…and hadn't felt welcome in the first place. And she was afraid that no matter what she said right now, Luthvian's response would be brutal and heart-shattering. So she looked away and walked to the outside kitchen door.

  Jaenelle stepped back and to one side to let her pass. The door closed behind them with a gentleness that was worse than a bad-tempered slam.