by Aldrea Alien
Tracker grasped Dylan’s hand as he walked by, halting him. “There is enough energy left in you for a final dance, yes?”
Dylan eyed the man, not entirely sure he’d heard right. “You want to dance with me?”
A bemused smile took the hound’s lips. “That is why I asked. You have done so with all these dear women, but I am starting to feel a little left out here.”
At his back, Marin snorted. “Don’t you two do enough horizontal dancing?”
Tracker grinned and tilted his head to look past Dylan. “I would very much like to indulge in a little of the dressed and vertical kind.” He pressed the back of Dylan’s fingers to his lips. Those gorgeous eyes peeked out from beneath long russet lashes. “What say you? You follow, I lead?”
His chest constricted at the sight, becoming so tight that tears pricked his eyes. You’re getting sappy in your old age, he chastised himself. “Sure.” He let Tracker lead him out into the crowd. New music started up. Slower. The shivering notes more intimate.
Before he could register what was happening, Tracker had swung him around to stand face-to-face.
The hound entwined the fingers of one hand with Dylan’s. A small laugh slipped between his teeth. “Why the unsure look?” His free hand alighted on Dylan’s waist. “I am quite willing to follow if you would prefer to lead.”
“It’s not that. I’ve never danced like this before.” This type of dancing had been deemed as too intimate for the overseers’ liking. Standing here, with the pressure of Tracker’s chest against his, he could see why.
“Not outside of your robe as a partner, yes?” Repressed laughter creased the man’s eyes. “Dancing is not exactly required of a hound, but I have picked up a few things over the years. So do not worry, you are in good hands.”
“I know.” If he could trust the man when they were alone and intimate, then he could trust Tracker anywhere.
Something flickered over the hound’s face. The corners of his mouth wavered. The hand on Dylan’s waist moved, snaking around his back to press them tightly together. Tracker rested his cheek on Dylan’s chest. A soft, shuddering sigh slipped through the man’s lips.
“Are you all right?” It sounded almost as if the man was about to cry.
The hound lifted his head, his smile returning in full. “Of course. It is just…” He sighed again. “There are times where it is all a little… overwhelming.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No, no.” He pressed his fingers to Dylan’s lips. “There is no need for you to apologise. I—”
Someone bumped into them. They stumbled for a few steps to a chorus of curses and warnings, on the brink of falling several times before righting themselves.
Tracker regained his hold on Dylan’s waist and hand. “I should probably get us moving before someone else collides into us.”
A nervous chuckle slithered up Dylan’s throat. I can just see it now. Crushed by dancing villagers. Not exactly the most heroic way to go. “You were about to say something?” he gently prodded.
The man’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “It can wait.” He slowly swayed them to the music. Everyone else seemed to be moving much faster.
Dylan dipped his head, pressing his cheek against the man’s forehead. Should his chest feel this tight? Maybe he shouldn’t have tried so many dances in one sitting. Or perhaps something else was to blame. What had Katarina said? Think on how he felt? He didn’t need to. He knew.
“Track?” he breathed. “I—” The man’s fingers pressed against Dylan’s lips, halting the rest of the words crowding to escape.
“Hush,” Tracker whispered as he slowly turned them. “This has been a pleasant day so far, I would not wish for your memory of it to be soiled.” He tipped his head back. The smile he offered didn’t reach his eyes. “Speak only if you are sure you will not regret it.”
The tightness in Dylan’s chest grew for a whole different reason. Did the hound not understand what he was trying to say? Or had he comprehended all too well and merely sought to spare them both a few awkward days of travel? “I wouldn’t,” Dylan murmured. “I won’t.”
“Still, let us not tempt fate, yes? There is still a talk we must have.” Those long fingers caressed Dylan’s cheek and Dylan pressed into the touch. “But not here. Later. You may speak then.”
The melody finished. Dylan stepped back, bowed to his partner and went to leave the middle of the square before another dance started up. A gentle tug on his arm halted him. He turned to find Tracker still held his hand.
“Where do you think you are going?”
“The music’s over.” Another set of minstrels were settling on the temporary platform beneath the awning. If he didn’t leave by the time they were ready to play, he could wind up stuck out here until the dance was over. “I’ve been dancing half the day. Maybe we can find somewhere quiet to sit and watch them?” Or even peruse a few of the stalls ringing the square.
Tracker gnawed on his lip. “Just one more dance? I promise not to exert you too much.” The hound pressed his cheek to Dylan’s bicep. “Please?” Dylan wasn’t certain how the man did it, but Tracker’s eyes seemed to increase in size. What had Marin compared the look to? A forlorn puppy?
Dylan sighed his resignation. “One more, then I’m done.”
They didn’t have to wait long before the new minstrels started to play. The group was far livelier than the last and the rhythm they’d chosen encouraged great bursts of energy. Dylan’s pulse leapt at the beat and, even though his limbs were sluggish to respond, he couldn’t help follow along with the rest of the enthusiastic crowd.
He didn’t know the dance, but Tracker’s effortless movements helped him keep pace. They twirled and dipped between people’s upraised hands, breaking from each other’s side to form a tunnel, before falling back into the other’s grasp.
At some point, the dance required one partner to lift the other. Dylan wordlessly threw his arms around Tracker’s shoulders, his chest aglow with the soft warmth of the hound’s answering smile. The beats in the music grew faster and his heart followed.
Tracker tightened his hold on Dylan’s waist, lifted him and twirled them about as if Dylan weighed nothing. The sensation—the sheer giddy force of being spun uncontrollably coupled with the closeness of Tracker’s touch and scent—was a heady one.
Then his feet were back on the ground and he felt himself tipping back before he could do anything to stop it. Only when he didn’t immediately fall did he notice the hound’s arms supporting both his rear and back. Dylan wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders. Uncertainty bubbled in his gut. What was Tracker up to?
Their lips met.
Dylan swallowed a gasp. Indecision froze his limbs. Pulling away would only result in landing on his backside. But if he stayed—
Tracker seemed to take his lack of objection as acceptance. He tightened his hold, pulling Dylan closer, and deepened the kiss.
Slowly, Dylan’s lids fluttered shut. The music and cavorting of the village no longer seemed quite as loud. His hand slid from the nape of the man’s neck to his hair, grasping to the sound of Tracker’s delightfully rich moan. His tongue slid along the hound’s, mirroring the man’s actions.
They parted, both breathless. Then he was upright again.
All at once, Dylan felt every eye on him. He clutched at his chest and stomach, not sure whether he was going to vomit or have his heart give out.
Tracker’s flushed smile melted into concern. He grasped Dylan’s shoulders. “Are you—?”
Dylan fled the square, pushing through the throng. Along the stalls he went, seeking a place to hide that would enable him to cool his heated cheeks and slow the hectic pounding in his chest. His frantic wandering led him to a gap between the buildings. He nipped into the shadows, halting part way down to press his forehead to the brickwork.
He kissed me. Yes, Tracker had done so a dozen times since the brothel and more, but not like this. Not with such keening w
armth. It’d felt like… Home. Dylan ran a finger across his lips. The memory of the hound’s mouth tingled along his skin. And he’d done it in front of all those people. This is bad.
Tracker’s footsteps echoed in the relative silence. “Do not tell me you have suddenly gone shy.”
Dylan rubbed at his forearm, trying to make some sense of the emotions flooding his mind. He’d never experienced the giddy, flushed sensation currently suffusing his body. Nor the frenzied pulsing of his heart, so strong that he thought he might collapse at any moment. “No.” He might not be entirely sure what this strange feeling was, but it certainly wasn’t shyness.
The man’s joking, and somewhat strained, smile fell. “Did I do something wrong? If I have pushed you too hard, I—”
“It’s not that,” Dylan mumbled, shaking his head. “I’ve never been kissed in public before.” He still felt all those eyes watching them. Could hear their whispers, he was certain of it. “Not like that.” He might give a peck to a friend’s cheek for luck or the back of a hand, but never anything that could be considered as intimate.
“I apologise, I did not think you would—” A small, mirthless chuckle stalled the words. Tracker rubbed at his forehead. “Well, that is the heart of the matter, yes? I simply did not think.” Clearing his throat, he ventured further into the alley. “This is all new to you, I know, and I…” He sighed. “I got caught up in the festivities, I suppose. I had no intentions of upsetting you. If it is any consolation, no one paid us any mind.”
Dylan hugged himself. The hound sounded so certain. He wished he could say the same, but the nagging watched feeling wouldn’t fade. Running through the crowd like a madman probably hadn’t helped matters. “Just give me a minute, all right?” Hopefully, his heart would stop pounding like some enraged beetle in that time.
“Take as long as you need.” Tracker took a few steps back towards the alley entrance, clearly reluctant to leave, but doing it all the same.
“Wait,” Dylan reached for the man’s arm. “I don’t—” He might not be able to face a crowd, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be alone. “Stay? Please?”
“Of course, my dear man.”
He threw himself into the hound’s welcoming arms. His legs finally gave, dragging them to the ground. “I feel so stupid,” he mumbled against the man’s shoulder.
“Nonsense,” Tracker murmured. He stroked Dylan’s hair as if comforting a child spooked by night terrors. “We all have our little fears. Take me and tunnels for example.”
“That’s not the same.” Even if he didn’t know why, or quite understand how, Tracker was afraid of tunnels, that didn’t mean it wasn’t a legitimate fear. What he feared was a punishment that no one lived to enact anymore. “And you still went down that tunnel.” If what the man feared was being trapped underground, there had still been that possibility, despite the chance of them remaining stuck for long being a slim one.
“Only because you were there,” the hound whispered. “I would never have done it on my own, but you…” He pressed his lips to Dylan’s temple. “I can be strong for you.” The words came so softly that, had he not felt the man’s breath against his skin, Dylan would’ve thought he’d heard wrong.
He lifted his head. “I—” The wariness that flashed in the back of the hound’s eyes stilled his tongue for a moment. “There was something you wanted to talk about back at the inn. What were you going to say?”
Those long fingers caressed Dylan’s cheek. “It can wait,” Tracker breathed. “Later. When we are settled at the inn, yes?” He stood, helping Dylan to his feet.
“There you two are!” Marin’s voice boomed down the alley. She planted herself at the entrance, glancing over her shoulder as if daring anyone to come closer. “Authril thinks we should seek our room, so we’re heading there. She doesn’t trust the innkeeper not to sell it to someone else.”
“Does she?” Tracker replied. “Our dear warrior is ever suspicious of others.” He turned back to Dylan, shaking his head. A small, affectionate smile touched his lips. “I best go with them, just in case someone dares to cast a sour word their way and offends our dear hunter. I do rather fancy a roof over my head tonight. Will you be joining us now? Or would you prefer to linger?” He cocked his head, faint worry lifting his brows. “Will you be all right on your own? I can stay, if that is what you need.”
A wisp of laughter passed through Dylan’s lips. He clasped the hound’s hands in both of his. “Give me a chance to answer one of those.”
Tracker’s smile twisted wryly. “My apologies. But you gave me quite the fright when you fled.”
He squeezed the man’s hands, his heart jumping when those firm fingers answered in kind. “I think you’re right about not letting the others out of our sight for too long. We should join them.”
Those honey-coloured eyes seemed to burrow into Dylan’s skull. “Are you sure?”
Dylan tightened his hold on the hound’s hand and nodded.
Lacing their fingers, Tracker led the way out of alley and through the crowd. Most seemed focused on the dancing and the games or were busy buying wares. A few glanced their way, but their faces were of mild concern if not neutral. “They likely believe you had a little too much to drink,” Tracker said after they passed the third such person.
“I could do with another one. Or three.” The sun hung a full hand’s width above the horizon. It’d set in another hour or two. Hard to believe he’d danced most of the afternoon away. And the last time he’d consumed anything was hours ago.
“And I would prefer you do not get drunk, but I do share the sentiment. Perhaps alongside a little something to eat, yes?” He squinted at the sky. “There should be a few roasted ducks waiting for us by now.”
The women lingered between the puppet show and the barrel of floating fruit. Katarina sat amongst the children, listening to the men behind the curtain and writing in her book. Marin was attempting to fish an apple from the water, failing spectacularly. Whereas Authril stood at the hunter’s side, shaking her head whilst simultaneously trying to conceal her laughter.
As a group, they made their way back to The Broken Rod where dinner was indeed ready for their consumption. Whilst Dylan wasn’t entirely sure the bird he’d eaten was duck, it was still a far better alternative to the fish everyone else in the tavern seemed to be tucking into.
Dylan spun on his stool, leaning back on the table and listening to the music. A few minstrels had made their way inside as the daylight turned grey. They played softly, barely heard at times over the ruckus of a few nearby dicers, but the notes had been familiar. This new song was not.
A woman stood up near the minstrels and, as she plucked on a small lyre, Dylan heard Tracker humming a few bars. When the woman began to sing, so did the hound. Albeit, quietly.
Dylan listened to the song, twisting in his seat to hear Tracker better without the man knowing, and quickly realised why he’d never heard it before.
The song spoke of an innkeeper’s daughter who’d fallen in love with a rogue spellster. The man promised her a life where she would want for nothing, if only she would run off with him on the first night of the full moon.
Dylan clutched the side of the table. He’d a sick feeling of how the rest of the song went, of how many tales there were involving sacrifices, and was fully prepared to leave before such a conclusion. But there was something in Tracker’s hushed voice, a wavering note of pain, that kept Dylan from getting to his feet.
The song spoke of another man, a young stable hand who listened in on the couple’s plan and, when the hounds came sniffing, told them of the spellster’s imminent return. So the hounds waited until the first night of the full moon, then they trussed and gagged the maiden, placing her at the window facing the direction her spellster lover would come.
Dylan held his breath. Only then did he realise the rest of the room had fallen silent.
Tracker stood. “Perhaps we should seek out our room?”
As o
ne, the three women shot to their feet.
Dylan trailed behind them, trying to listen to the song. In it, the unnamed maiden struggled against her bonds, but the knots were tight and the rope bit her skin. “How does it end?” he asked as they reached the top of the stairs.
Tracker sighed. “Typically. Her lover arrives at midnight to spirit her away. When she spots him in the square, she throws herself out the window to warn him and is killed in the fall.”
“So he gets away?”
The hound turned to face him. “Do you really think that?”
Dylan shook his head. “One can hope.”
At their back came a cheer from the tavern patrons. The song was over, ending to their satisfaction.
With his throat tightening, Dylan asked, “I take it the spellster is blamed for her death?” It seemed a logical conclusion.
Tracker screwed up his nose. “From what I recall, he does indeed flee, not knowing the body is his lover’s. But he hears of her death and—”
“He dies in a futile attempt at revenge,” Authril finished to the accompaniment of the hedgewitch’s gasp. “Shot down on the roadside by the hounds who were chasing him.”
“Quite, dear woman,” Tracker murmured. He nodded at the door in the middle of the hallway. “This is it.”
The room was far bigger than Dylan had hoped. It even had a bed big enough for maybe three people in a pinch.
“Now this is more like it.” Marin flopped onto the mattress, spreading out. “So soft.”
Dylan peeked around the door, futilely hoping that there was another bed cringing against the wall. Even a couch would be welcome. His disappointment at finding nothing gusted out his mouth. It seemed the women had claimed the only actual sleeping spot.
Tracker clapped his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “It will be fine. We can borrow their blankets and sleep on the floor.”
Dylan grunted noncommittally. He’d been looking forward to sleeping on a surface that wasn’t generally walked over. “Are you certain there’s not another room? Anywhere?”
“Believe me, I would also like nothing more than a proper bed. Sadly, with the festival, and those camping nearby, everywhere else is full. This is only free because I persuaded the innkeeper to let us have their room for the night.”