Myths and Magic: An Epic Fantasy and Speculative Fiction Boxed Set

by K.N. Lee

  He could feel his king’s eyes upon him.

  "What sort of man does nothing about his brother’s collar? How can I look at you and know you’re not here by choice, and ignore that fact?"

  The words took the wind out him. "No. No, I don’t blame you for that. She didn’t know what your father was like. You had as much choice as I did. You—"

  "Did nothing," Evaron told him, and for the first time the new king couldn’t look him in the eye. "There were ways I could have played it. I might have risked it. My father was cruel, but his punishments only extended as far as the next transgressor to catch his eye. I should have risked it."

  "He sent you to those woods to die," Casimir growled, wishing the bastard had died years earlier. "You heard Hussar. Perhaps you might have risked it—and perhaps you would only have given the king the reason he needed to destroy you and hand his throne to Rygil."

  "Irregardless, I am king now and a part of me will never forgive myself for not doing this sooner." His hands lifted to the collar around Casimir’s throat, and his voice rose. "I, Evaron, first of my name, grant you your freedom. For now and for ever, and let no man dare take what was given to you from my hand."

  The collar came free, the heavy weight lifting from Cas's throat. It had been a part of him for so long he touched the skin there, feeling its loss as both a gift… and a strange curse.

  For this meant goodbye.

  Again.

  "I would name you duke and grant you the lands my father took from your people, but I know the court is not where your heart lies," Evaron said, smiling a little sadly. "You saved my life time and time again. You protected me from my brother and my father’s machinations, and now it is time to reward you for your loyalty. I name you Friend of the King, and I grant you the newly established Earldom of Gravenwold. Your lands abound the forest’s boundaries, and you may do with them what you wish. My one demand is that you attend court once a year, at least, so we can see each other again."

  "What are you doing?" Cas growled, emotion choking him.

  "What does it look like?" The corners of Evaron's eyes crinkled. "You're a free man. Free to make your own choices. Free to ride north if you wish it...."

  "But what about you?" He shook his head. "The court is dangerous. Any knife in any shadow might end your life before you have a chance to even see it coming. Any sip from any cup might steal your breath away from you before you even taste the poison. You need me. You need me to be your eyes and ears and nose."

  "Once, it might have," Evaron whispered, "but I have the feeling I'm not as vulnerable to poison or knives as I once was."

  The Well of Tears.

  Evaron shot him a sharp look. "I'm not the same prince that rode north. In more ways than one." He pressed his hand to his chest. "I feel it every day, and it scares me, for there is enough of my father in me to make me wonder if an immortal king should sit on a throne."

  "You're not your father."

  "Not yet."

  "And if you even think to resemble him, I would take you to task about it." Cas rested a light hand on Evaron's shoulder. "You have my word."

  Evaron smiled. "That's almost a relief."

  Their gazes met, as Evaron clapped Cas's left shoulder, leaving them locked together for a moment.

  "I'll miss you," he told his king. But eagerness whispered through him. A dream he'd not dared dream before.

  Freedom.

  Choice.

  The whisper of wild places in his blood, the lure of the forest and strange woods, and the light, fragrant scent that belonged to Neva alone. He could almost feel the silk of her skin beneath his fingers, and for the first time, he let himself look to the north.

  "Go," the king said, giving him a shove. "Go and find her. Go and find your huntress, Cas, and give her my regards."

  It took him three days of hunting through Gravenwold to find her.

  Neva's scent had changed, no longer that of sweat and leather, and the musk of a young woman's body. She smelled like pure wildness now, and heat and flame, and burned spices.

  And of course, she was near the bloody waterfall that had almost been their undoing.

  Cas shoved free of the forest's brambles, and brushed the sweat from his brow as he saw her standing at the top of the waterfall, scowling down at him along the edge of an arrow.

  "I was expecting a somewhat warmer welcome," he called.

  Her scowl died, and the arrow jerked up as she released the tension on the bow, her mouth dropping open. "Cas?"

  "No." He cast aside his pack, and scrambled up the jumble of rocks that lined the falls, before leaping up, and catching hold of a small ledge. Muscles bunching, he hauled himself up, until he finally gained the top. "Apparently I'm the Earl of Gravenwold now."

  Neva's face lit from within, her golden-brown skin radiant. "Am I supposed to bow?"

  "You could kiss my boots," he teased, remembering what she and her sister had been saying the night they first met. "Unless you'd rather roll in Tolbert's pigsty?"

  "I'm not kissing your boots."

  "No?" The rough edge of his voice was a challenge. "How about my lips?"

  The spring breeze swirled her periwinkle skirts around her ankles, and whispered through the sun-bleached ends of her dark curls.

  Then she was in his arms, and Cas spun her around, feeling the crush of her skirts between them. A heart skipped against his chest, and the heat of her skin seemed to hint at the furnace of magic within her. He wanted to crush his face to her abdomen and simply breathe in the scent of her.

  Home. He was home.

  "What's this?" he asked, tugging at the blue fabric. "Don't tell me you're actually wearing a dress."

  Her feet were bare too, and grass-strained. Neva shrugged, and his grip on her relaxed, until she slowly slid down in his arms, her breasts crushed to his chest. "It's spring. I was hot. And I do own dresses."

  "It just feels strange. I've never seen you... like this."

  "You came back." Her clever fingers pried his shirt open, and her lashes fluttered up swiftly as she saw his bare throat.

  "The king granted me my freedom."

  "King Euric?"

  "Haven't you heard? King Evaron," he emphasized. "First of his name."

  Neva's breath left her in a rush. "No, I hadn't heard. I haven't left the forest since Springtide." She rolled her eyes. "Strangely enough, we don't get much of the news here."

  He kissed her then, unable to contain himself any longer. Neva's breath left her mouth in a shocked gasp, and then her fists curled in his hair, and she crushed her mouth to his.

  It was a long time before he had the strength of will to draw back.

  "What does this mean?" she whispered.

  "I'm free. And I thought you might like some help in guarding these woods from the Darkness."

  "For how long?"

  His heart nestled in his throat. "Forever, if you'd have me."

  Neva's expression softened, but then her lips pressed together firmly, as if she didn't dare believe him. "What about Evaron?"

  Cas set her down, cupping her face in both hands. "Apparently he's now immune to poison—and sharp knives. And he seems to think I'm cramping his style at court. Or making his dukes wary."

  "He wouldn't send you away."

  "No." The thought had plagued him the entire ride. This choice shut one door in his life and opened another. "But he knew... he knew my heart lay elsewhere. And he said someone once took him to task over allowing me to wear that collar. He knew it wasn't right."

  "Someone wise by the sound of it."

  "Maybe." His smile softened, and his head bowed again, his lips brushing hers, lightly. Teasingly. "You didn't answer my question."

  Was there one?"

  "Mmmm." He kissed her slowly, teasing her with his tongue. Neva wilted against him, but he didn't intend to allow her to be distracted. "I said, 'if you'd have me'."

  "Of course I'd have you. Your fur will keep my feet warm on a cold winter
night. Do you want to see my cave?" she whispered, her palm splaying across his broad chest.

  A shudder ran through him. "Is that some sort of euphemism I should know? Or are you actually living in a cave?"

  "It's a nice cave. It has a tree growing inside it," she said, with a laugh. "Though I might have been hinting... I've missed you." Her expression sobered. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."

  Gentle fingers tugged him toward the gaping slit of darkness in the side of a rock, but Cas hesitated and pulled her back toward him. He wanted to do this right. Nervousness suddenly burned within him. Neva had never cared for his inhuman state, but what would her family think?

  "I might take you up on that offer. One day. But perhaps..." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps its time for me to meet your father. I don't think he'd approve of me staying in your cave."

  Neva grinned mischievously. "Are you offering to court me?"

  "Would you say yes if I were?"

  "I would say... be careful for my father's quite recovered his spirits, and he's no more inclined to handsome young men eyeing off his daughters than he ever was before."

  "But I'm not a man." His stomach twisted. "And that's not a yes."

  "Come on, you fool." Neva dragged him toward Densby. "Father won't give a damn about you being wolvren. Where do you think I get it from? And if you mind your manners, I might put in a good word for you."

  And Cas's scowl finally softened into a smile, his heart finally easing as he thought about forever. "It's a deal."

  ~The End~

  About the Author

  BEC MCMASTER is a writer, a dreamer, and a travel addict. If she’s not sitting in front of the computer, she’s probably plotting her next overseas trip, and hopes to see the whole world, whether it’s by paper, plane, or imagination. She grew up on a steady diet of ’80s fantasy movies like Ladyhawke, Labyrinth, and The Princess Bride, and her first crush was none other than the Goblin King himself. She writes kick-ass paranormal and fantasy romances, featuring bad boy shifter heroes, exiled dragon princes, sexy banter, ladies who don't need a man to save them (thank you very much), and deliciously wicked villains who just might be the heroes in a future story. Escape the Ordinary and read on to see more about her worlds...

  Website: http://www.becmcmaster.com/books/

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  Also By Bec Mcmaster

  http://www.becmcmaster.com/books/

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  Preface

  ...it will heal your body and give you the life you deserve. The life you were always meant to have.

  1

  The ear piercing shrill of the clock radio alarm tore through my subconscious; crudely announcing that it was time to get up and face the day. It was just another day, nothing more; this was how I had to approach life. The pain I faced was too great to imagine years, months, weeks, or even more days ahead of the moment I was currently in. Each morning was tainted with the fear that I would fall to my knees and break as soon as my feet landed on the cold wooden floor that surrounded my bed, and this morning was no different.

  My frizzy, auburn hair surrounded my face partially covering my eyes. The sunlight passing through the strands lit them up and reminded me of flames. For a moment, I wondered what it would feel like if the coarse locks had suddenly ignited and engulfed me in the blaze. Sure, it would be painful, but how would it compare to the pain that was already there? I flicked the hair away with one hand, and blew away the strands that were stuck to my lips.

  The ceiling above my bed usually worked as a focal point when my mind started to wander. The patterns created by the cracks in the crème colored paint, were passages for lost thoughts. Every morning was the same; I woke up to the harsh reminder of what my life had become. One unfortunate scratch on the painting of my existence had grown out of control, and branched out into a million tiny cuts; each going in their own direction birthing more fissures until I could barely recognize what I was looking at. The image had become so distorted that it pained me to think of it.

  The condition of the ceiling testified to the amount of neglect my home had taken since it been placed in my care. The house needed a lot of work; nothing too major, mainly cosmetic touch ups here and there. It needed a new coat of paint inside and out. I couldn’t say that I was completely sure I would’ve made the changes if I were physically able. Someone could have been brought in and paid to make the improvements for me, but this house, with its chipped paint, cracked walls, and rusted hinges was my only comfort. It was all I had left to remind me of a time before pain, before everything went wrong. I’m not saying there was any sound logic to my thinking, but there was a sense of comfort in it.

  This place was the backdrop to my happy childhood. I was an only child, and was happy, and surrounded by love and complete acceptance and understanding. My parents let me be myself and never questioned me for it. Even when I doubted myself, they were supportive. When I experimented with my appearance or altered my interests, they welcomed changes with open arms. I cringed as the memory of their smiling faces fixated in front of my eyes for a second before they transformed into two cold boxes. It was time to get up.

  I took a deep breath silently preparing myself and building up the courage to face the day. I gripped the edge of the covers and tossed them aside. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and my feet landed on the cool hardwood floor. It was a product of design that my slippers were clear across the room. The shock of the chill was good for me; it sent an icy wave through my legs that up the rest of my reluctant body. My limbs shivered as I quickly tiptoed across the floor to my slippers. They were my favorite pair; big, floppy, puppy faces that felt like warm clouds hugging my feet.

  After putting on my slippers, I headed downstairs to begin my usual morning routine. To stop myself from thinking of all the repairs that needed to be done, I tried to focus more on how beautiful the house was despite the obvious flaws
. I stopped on the steps, gripping the railing that reminded me so much of my father. He’d put his entire heart into every crevice of our home. Not unlike my mother, he was a stickler for details, something I had always considered to be interesting. They were both so particular, but it never seemed to cause an issue. Their eccentricities were the same. I closed my eyes as his smile flashed through my mind, and I held it there for as long as I could. It was getting harder to remember him, harder to bring his face into focus.

  He chose this house for us, small and quaint, nothing too flashy, though he could have afforded more. A successful investor and real estate agent, my father had done well for himself. Despite that, he felt it was necessary for me to live an average life, which would have been impossible if I lived in a world where everything came too easily. He wanted us to build a home, and shape it into what we wanted. He wanted me to know what it meant to take an idea and mold it until the dream became reality. The very mention of hiring a professional to touch up the place always made him shiver. He couldn’t stand the idea of some stranger tainting our home. We moved here when I was five, and I was encouraged to help with every decision, though I honestly had no real input. I just picked the prettiest colors, which is why my room looked like a disfigured rainbow until I was 16.

  My fingers dug into the grooves along the railing. My father was a talented craftsman. It took him nearly two months to finish it. I remembered it vividly; every night after dinner, he would carve away at the mahogany banister creating the intricate design, while my mother and I sat at the top of the stairs and watched as closely as we could without disturbing him. He took pleasure in his work, and he used to hum, ‘Whistle While You Work’ under his breath. The tune rang in my ears as if he was still there, humming in his own offbeat melody. He enjoyed it so much that over time, the carvings appeared in every room of the house. For years, I would find him intently working on the designs and mumbling about making them perfect. It was a better vice than alcohol or smoking.