by Plum Pascal
“A what?”
She dips her chin a little, mortification stealing over her face. “It called me a whore,” she whispers.
“I hope you plucked the little bastard,” Sabre mutters.
It’s the first time he’s really spoken since Ia made her pronouncement. It’s very Sabre to sit back and watch a confrontation play out until he can be sure of a course of action. The irritation in his voice is new. He’s not prone to strong displays of emotion. My beast form shifts restlessly just beneath my skin, settling like I’ve just been spooked.
Does Carmine provoke this reaction in all huntsmen? I certainly hope not.
She lets out a breathless little laugh that sounds more like a gasp. “I would have tried, if there’d been time. Of course, you know what happened instead.”
Once again, I find myself bristling, the beast rising to defend its territory. I’ve watched over the fledgling girl for years, watched her mature into a beautiful young woman. And Sabre is the one who effortlessly draws a laugh from her? No. Fuck no. I’m not going to let my brothers come in and steal her away. She’s mine until she says otherwise.
It’s not my place to make the request. Leon was a dear friend and I’m a bastard for lusting after his daughter. But I’ll be thrice damned if I’ll let one of my brothers waltz right in and take her without a fight.
Ia’s smile warms, satisfied at last. “So you see?”
“It doesn’t prove anything,” Carmine says stubbornly, crossing her arms beneath her modest breasts, hoisting the swells just above the neckline of the dress. It’s distracting as fuck.
“No, but this does,” Ia says, reaching into the folds of what was once a black dress. She rummages before producing a perfectly round, crimson stone. She raises it to the light and, as we watch, it begins to glow a bright, sanguine color, like freshly spilled arterial blood.
Ia smooths a finger over it lovingly. “This amulet can detect the presence of a Chosen.”
“Liar,” Titus growls.
She tosses it to him and, on reflex, he catches it. He looks a little panicked. The first lesson that any child, shifter or not, is taught is not to take gifts from witches. Doing so always ends badly. He stares as the amulet as though he expects it to combust and scorch his hand off.
Nothing happens, except that the glow dies upon contact with his skin. After a second, he tosses it to Sabre, who catches it with equal ease and examines it more critically. While not necessarily a mage himself, he’s our scholar. He can recognize enchantment when he sees it. He frowns, prods the amulet with a long finger and inspects the other side.
“It’s not spelled,” he says finally. “Dipped in something magical, but it’s not a potion. I can’t fucking tell what it is, except that it has the same chemical properties as blood.”
“Precisely,” Ia answers. “Morningstar’s blood.”
“What?” Titus echoes dully.
“You heard me, huntsman,” Ia tuts. Then, when she takes stock of the room and sees the mirrored expressions of confusion and horror on our faces, she sighs.
“Get a stew going, Bluejay,” she says scornfully to Sabre. “I can tell this is going to be a long night and I am starved.”
We stare after her as she sweeps out of the room, out to the dusty kitchen and begins fiddling with the stew pot. We exchange glances with one another and, without any other options presenting themselves, we do the only thing we can.
We follow.
EIGHT
CARMINE
We’re all gathered around the small, dusty table watching Ia bustle around the kitchen, making food. After chiding Sabre on his lack of culinary imagination, she’d swiped the carcasses from his hand and proceeded to make a meal of them. The first skinned carcass was diced and put into a thick stew while the second was cut into thick slabs and spiced, though I didn’t know where in the world she’d scrounged the supplies from.
It was strange to watch her crouched over the sizzling meat, knowing who and what she once was. I’d not been old enough to see the true horrors she’d wreaked as Discordia, but I’d read about them in my history lessons. Uncle Spyros had seemed to have a special sort of reverence for the fear she struck into the heart of mortal men. Why hadn’t she been a guest of honor of my Uncle’s, instead of a condemned prisoner?
I can only guess it was because she was being truthful—she was no longer Discordia. But if she was no longer Morningstar’s general... then what is she?
“You promised us an explanation, witch,” Sabre says coolly from his perch on the window sill. Titus nods emphatically from his position by the door.
There were only three chairs set out at the table, which forced two of our number to stand or find alternate seating. The men had all but shouted me down when I suggested I lean against the wall and allow one of them to sit. Draven had been seated owing to his still healing injuries, and Ia took the third. Though they were all convinced she was evil incarnate, gallantry seemed so ingrained in their bones, it was reflex by now.
“And you shall have it, bluejay,” she says, flipping the steak in the pan. “After dinner.”
The sizzle of grease in the pan is comforting, like childhood afternoons in the kitchen, pestering the servants for stories. The cook and scullery maid used to be so kind and infinitely patient with Neva and I... But that had been before the sack of Ascor. Before my wagging tongue had brought the hellhounds to our doorstep to char my sister to ash and gut my father like a trout.
Tears prick my eyes.
Even now, so many years later.
“You’ll tell us right fucking now,” Titus growls. I can’t help but feel just a tickle of desire at the deep, commanding bass of his voice.
Draven stiffens a little at my side, nostrils flaring subtly. My cheeks burn once more. Is Titus right? Can Draven truly scent my desire? It’s mortifying, if so. Something cold flickers in his gaze, but I can’t read it. Don’t want to read it. If he’s disgusted by me, I can’t stand it.
Ia lifts her gaze from the pan. “It’s easier to keep coherency when I’m well-fed and rested. I’m not myself and, if you’ll pardon the crass speech, it’s confusing as fuck. I can barely remember the last time I was Harmonia. I’ve been her for over fifteen years. I don’t want to be her again, but she’s all I know.”
Then she casually picks a piece of the stewed meat from the pot, ignoring the searing broth. I can see the roiling from here and know the liquid has to be boiling hot. Her fingers only come away slightly pink. She pops the meat into her mouth, chews, and then lets out a long-suffering sigh.
“Explain,” Sabre says.
“I will,” Ia responds as she looks up at him. “And you’ll have to forgive the gaps, you irascible curs.”
She takes a deep, fortifying breath and lets it out slowly, her eyes sliding out of focus as she focuses them inward, on yesteryear.
“It was the battle of Osthedge, I believe. That pitiful little hamlet that lay just before the Anoka mountains and the desert around it. Morningstar destroyed it and lay in wait for the Guild attack with his retinue waiting in the wings. But he crucially underestimated Veles and his brood. Seven dragon sons...”
She gives a bitter shake of her head, pauses, frowns and confusion plays over her face, the bitterness of Discordia battling with her new priorities. After a second of contemplation, she shakes her head again, this time to clear it.
“Veles struck at Morningstar whilst they swarmed us, overwhelming us temporarily. The Blue Faerie’s magic protected them for long enough to get the job done. Just a little longer and Veles might have claimed victory over his foe. He still managed to savage Morningstar’s chest, one of his infernal claws grazing the general’s heart. It spilled onto the bald face of the mountain and the loose stones at its base. The stuff that arced into the air was carried away by the zephyr wind, which whipped it to the corners of the earth, seeking out the worthy.”
“The Chosen,” Draven murmurs to himself. “You’re saying Morningstar’s blo
od marks the Chosen as his equals? That’s why they’ll be able to defeat him?”
“It gives the Chosen power, yes. But Morningstar knows that now. Blood calls to blood. All of Morningstar’s strongest warriors have been given amulets for the express purpose of finding and eliminating any Chosen they encounter.”
“Why are you no longer Discordia?” I ask.
Ia looks at me. “I’m in the Guild’s debt for freeing me. That’s why I’m telling you all of this.” She faces the others again. “If Morningstar can easily detect the Chosen, he’ll kill them all and end the battle before it begins. You have to destroy Bacchus’ camp and steal the remaining stones.”
The men stare at her and though they’re so disparate in looks and temperament, they wear identical looks of horror.
Sabre is the first to react, sliding off his perch silently and striding purposefully toward the door. I catch a look of pure, unfettered rage on his normally stoic face and shudder. Somehow he’s more frightening than bulky Titus.
When the shock fades, Titus looks uncharacteristically unguarded. It’s an almost boyish look, and I want to cross over to him and brush his long hair from his eyes and assure him things will be alright. Before I can act on the thought, he, too, turns and walks out the door.
Draven remains still and silent, not moving but staring dead-eyed at the fire. It chills me more than the fleeing huntsmen ever could. Because in that moment, he’s not my Draven. He’s someone else, somewhere else, trapped in his mind.
“What’s wrong, Draven?” I whisper. “Why did they go?”
“They’re incredibly pissed, I expect,” he says quietly. There’s still a hint of rasp in his voice, and it seems thicker now. “They’ll need time to calm down and think logically about this.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Draven says, swallowing convulsively. “Bacchus’ revelry invaded our colony when we were ten years old. They pillaged, plundered, and raped before trampling everyone to death in one of their dances. We were the only survivors.”
NINE
TITUS
None of us can sleep and it doesn’t take long to reach a silent, mutual agreement.
We’re going to do as the demented witch says, if for no other reason than to deliver much needed justice. It’s the only exception we’ve ever agreed to make to the huntsmen code. We’re going to kill the drunken son of a bitch who killed our families, whether the justice is sanctioned or not. Kill him and all of his attendants, down to the last maenad.
The coming confrontation has made all of us restless, even the witch, a fact which should truly scare us. If she’s telling the truth, she’s an evil force to be reckoned with, only overshadowed in might by the real heavy hitters, the six other generals handpicked by Morningstar, himself. If she’s scared, I ought to be pissing myself.
But strangely? I’m not. My concern mostly centers around my brothers, especially Sabre, who I see very little of now. He stays in his jay form, flying above our heads, keeping a bird’s-eye view of the terrain, ready to swoop down and peck the eyes from any attacker. Dusk is falling over the Enchanted Forest, the flaming reds and golds reflecting off the silver trees in a breathtaking fashion.
I’ve always liked it here. It’s quiet and peaceful. Often fog-draped and cool, but dotted with hot springs to soothe the bite of the evening air. If I were ever to retire from this life, I’d come here and set up a territory. Fight the occasional monster. Maybe settle in and take a wife eventually. I’d be one of the few who ever did.
Huntsmen (and women) don’t marry for a reason. It’s dangerous to form attachments. And when we settle? We mate for life. Not a good idea in a line of work as dangerous as ours. Marry a huntsman or woman and you risk losing them to a mark they hunted. Marry a mortal? Be forever tethered to a vulnerability.
It drives Gatz half-mad that he can’t have the tenacious Tenebris. He’s long since turned his passion to lethal obsession.
I worried for Draven, once upon a time. Now that I’ve met the Princess? I can see her appeal. And with her powers, she’s far from a helpless victim. She’s actually perfect for him.
I can’t help but envy Draven, just a little, though we all knew, of the three of us, he’d settle first.
Sabre’s myopic, as sharp as his steel and just as cold. He makes killing a neat, utilitarian art form and has time for little but the relentless hunt. Me? I’m a self-admitted whoremonger.
My gaze wanders to the edge of the clearing where she sits, watching Draven stoke the fire, open tenderness in her eyes. She’s besotted and the blind fucker can’t (or won’t) see it. I want to mash their faces together and make loud, obnoxious slurping sounds until they get the message. A fuck would do them both good.
And if he can’t pluck up the stones to do it, someone should. He’s my brother and I won’t step on his toes to do it. Give him a fair shot. But if we survive and he’s not done something about it? I’m going to do my level best to fuck her. Such a beauty should not be a maid.
She’s too fucking tempting for her own good. The remains of her dress seem to disintegrate as we continue through the forest, the dangling threads catching on branches or brambles, unraveling the thing as we go. There’s precious little of it left. The skirt barely covers her hips and rides up distractedly as we walk. Her ass is smaller than I typically like, but her hips are soft and round, and I can picture slinging her slender, shapely legs around my waist as I push my cock into her.
And the bodice? All but gone. I can make out the swells of her breasts over and under the thin band of blue cloth. Her midriff is bare, revealing an expanse of ivory skin that’s flat but soft. Unsurprising for a princess. I doubt she’s done any manual labor. But it’s enticing all the same. Would she squirm if I teased the underside of her breasts? Gasp if I lavished kisses and nips down past her navel and ripped the skirts away to reveal her soft mound? It’s hard to tell with her smallclothes in the way, but I’ll bet a gold coin she’s got a thatch of scarlet hair to match the softly waving stuff on her head.
She’s painted gold now too, the fading light almost reflecting off her pale, narrow shoulders. She’s a goddess. Someone should lay her down and worship her like one.
It won’t be Draven. Not tonight, anyway. He’s taken one of the three bedrolls we were able to find at the cottage. Proud bird he is, he’s trying not to show the fatigue he’s feeling. He’s almost whole, but the brews Ia gave him manipulated his life force, turning what should have been months or years of healing into an overnight cure. The cost is reduced energy. A trade-off I’ll take any day. At least he’s alive.
Saccharine Carmine tries to tuck him in and kisses his forehead when he’s sound asleep.
I tear my gaze away when she glances up at me and catches me watching her. Hopefully she’ll sleep and I can slip away to take care of my... substantial problem. If my cock gets any harder, it’ll be painful.
The clearing is silent for a long stretch and I adjust myself discreetly, deciding it’s about time to take my leave. With thoughts of her? It shouldn’t take long. I won’t leave them unguarded for long.
And that’s when Carmine settles at the base of the tree where I’ve been situated, cleaning my weapons. It’s comforting and keeps the worst of the rage from eating at my thoughts. It won’t keep the nightmares at bay, but that’s a problem for another day. I’m on watch tonight.
The sweet scent of her stirs the air around me. I can’t pin down the scent. Magnolias? Lilacs? Jasmine? Roses? It would be fitting, given her surname. The Resia family is distant cousins to the viciously slaughtered Roses in their far-flung kingdom. But rose… that’s not it either. It’s like stepping into a flower garden, a scent so befuddling, all I can do is bask in it, trying to puzzle it out.
And her arousal? Fuck, it’s even sweeter. The most fragrant perfume I’ve ever scented. I want a chance between those legs just to see what she tastes like.
“I feel awful,” she says softly, taking me by surprise. She keeps her eye
s trained sheepishly on her slippered feet.
“Not surprised. It’s cold and you’re not wearing much.”
After a moment’s thought, I peel my shirt off and offer it to her. It’s thickly woven, designed to ward off arrows and daggers. It’s too warm for me, most days.
She stares at it, pink dusting her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Still true,” I point out. “Put it on, Princess.” I look down to her chest and can’t help myself. “Your nipples could cut glass.”
She gasps, her mouth popping open in shock. Her legs clench together on reflex as the frank but slightly filthy comment hits home. Her nipples pucker further under my scrutiny.
“That’s… incredibly crude!” she says as she stares up at me.
“Nah. Crude would be saying your tits look absolutely lickable. You ought to let Draven do that sometime. Poor bastard’s probably ready to bust a nut staring at you in that getup all this time. We’re going to have to get you proper clothing when we reach civilization or his balls will drop off.”
The flush spreads further, creeping down her neck and warming the tops of her breasts. More arousal perfumes the air. “You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t talk that way.”
“Why?” I demand as I stare at her. My cock is officially, painfully hard. It’s taking all my will not to seize her, kiss the breath out of her and drag her down to the ground for some good old-fashioned rutting. “It’s the truth.”
“I’m not so sure,” she mumbles. “And even so… you shouldn’t say… such things.”
“Then why are you so turned on?”
“I’m not,” she insists.
I chuckle. “I can smell your heat on the air.”
Would Draven mind it so much, if I wait my turn? I’ve heard tales of the late huntswoman Peregrine who was shared among seven dragons. Could Draven share? Would he let me teach this slip of a woman the meaning of ecstasy? There’s no man alive who can do breastplay the way I can. It’s a fucking gift. One I’d love to give her.