"Don't panic."
The flesh of Nassar's neck crawled under her fingers, growing thicker. She turned to him and saw a sea of feathers and high above huge raptor jaws armed with crocodile teeth. Her arms shook with the strain of her dead weight.
"It's okay," the monster reassured her in Nassar's voice.
Her hold gave. For a precious second, Grace clung to the feathers, but her fingers slipped. She dropped like a stone. Her throat constricted. She cried out and choked as a huge claw snapped closed about her stomach.
"Grace?" The feathered monster bent his neck. A round green eye glared at her.
She sucked the air into her lungs and finally breathed. "Your definition of okay has problems."
The wind muffled her voice.
"What?" he bellowed.
"I said, your definition of okay has problems!"
The ground rolled past them, impossibly far. She clenched her hands on the enormous scaly talons gripping her. "Is there any chance that this could be a dream?!"
"I'm afraid not!"
Her heart hammered so hard, she was worried it would jump out of her chest. "What was it?"
"Clan Roar – our opponents in the game. Or one of their agents, to be exact. They're not dumb enough to attack you directly. Once the game is scheduled, all hostilities between the participants must cease. Interference of this sort is forbidden."
"What about Lilian?"
"She can take care of herself."
Grace shivered. "Why would they be attacking me in the first place?"
"You're my defense. If they kill you, I'll have to withdraw from the game."
"That sounds ridiculous! You're the revenant and I can't even defend myself."
"I'll explain everything later. We're beyond their range now and we'll arrive soon. Try to relax!"
She was clutched in the talons of a monstrous creature, who was really a man trying to rescue her from a magical attack by flying hundred of feet above solid ground. Relax. Right. "I serve a madman," she muttered.
Far beyond the fields, an empty piece of the horizon shimmered and drained down, revealing a dark spire. Tower Dreoch, Uncle Gerald had called it. He'd said the Dreochs lived in a castle. She thought he'd exaggerated.
Nassar careened, turning, and headed to the tower.
* * *
They circled the tower once, before Nassar dived to a balcony and dropped her into a waiting group of people below. Hands caught her and she was gently lowered to the ground.
In the overcast sky, Nassar swung upward and swooped down. The group parted. A dark-skinned woman grasped Grace by her waist and pulled her aside with the ease one picked up a child.
Nassar dove down. His huge talons skidded on the balcony and he tumbled into the room beyond. Feathers swirled. He staggered up. "Leave us."
People fled past her. In a moment the room was empty.
Grace hugged herself. Up there, in the evening sky, the cold air had chilled her so thoroughly, even her bones felt iced over. Her teeth still chattered. She stepped to the double doors and shut them, blocking off the balcony and the draft with it.
The large rectangular room was simply but elegantly furnished: a table with some chairs, a wide bed with a gauzy blue canopy, a bookcase, some old, solidly built chairs before the fireplace. A couple of electric table lamps radiated soft yellow light. An oriental silk rug covered the floor.
Nassar slumped in front of the fireplace. Bright orange flames threw highlights on his feathers, making them almost golden in the front. His feathers seemed shorter. His jaws no longer protruded quite as much.
Grace crossed the carpet and stood before the fire, soaking in the warmth. It all seemed so dream-like. Unreal.
"This will be your room for the next couple of days," he said.
"You have no idea how strange this is to me," she murmured.
His smart eyes studied her. "Tell me about it?"
"In my world people don't turn into... into this." She indicated him with her hand. His feathers definitely were shorter now. He'd shrunk a little. "People don't fly unless they have a glider or some sort of metal contraption with an engine designed to help them. Nobody tries to murder someone through magic. Nobody has mysterious castles masquerading as empty fields."
A careful knock interrupted her.
"It's your room," Nassar murmured.
"Come in," she called.
A man entered, pushing a small trolley with a teakettle, two cups, a dish of sugar, a ewer of cream, and a platter with assorted cookies. As he passed her, she saw a short sword in a sheath at his waist. "Your sister suggested tea, sir."
"Very thoughtful of her."
The man left the trolley, smiled at her, and departed.
Grace poured two cups of tea.
"I suppose in your world people don't drink tea either?" he asked.
"We drink tea," she said with a sigh. "We just don't always have servants armed with swords to bring it. Cream?"
"Sugar and lemon, please." Nassar had returned to his normal size. The feathers were mere fur now, and his face was bare and completely human.
"What's happening with your feathers?"
"I'm consuming them to replenish some of my energy. Transformations such as this are difficult even for me." He sank into a chair, took a cup from her with furry fingers, and sipped from it. "Perfect. Thank you."
"I live to serve."
His lips curved into a familiar half-smile. "Somehow I deeply doubt it."
Grace sat into the other chair and sipped shockingly hot tea, liberally whitened by cream. Liquid heat flowed through her. His magic brushed her again, but she had flown over miles bathed in it and she accepted his touch without protest. She was so very tired. "This is a dream. I'll wake up, and all of this will be gone. And I'll go back to my quiet little job."
"What is it you do?"
Grace shrugged. He knew, of course. His clan had been keeping tabs on their family for years. When you own something, you want to pay attention to its maintenance. He probably knew what size underwear she wore and how she preferred her steak. "Why don't you tell me?"
"You're a headhunter. You find jobs for others. Do you like it?"
"Yes. It's boring at times and stressful, but I get to help people."
"You didn't know about your family's debt, did you?" he asked.
"No." She refilled her cup.
"When did you find out?"
"Three days ago."
"Was it sudden?"
"Yes," she admitted. "I always knew about magic. I was born able to feel it. At first I was told I was a very sensitive child, and then, once I was old enough to realize I needed to keep it to myself, more complicated explanations followed. I live in a world of very small magics. I can sense if I'll miss the bus. In school, I could usually foretell my grade on tests, but I could never predict anything else accurately. If I concentrate very hard, I can scare animals. A dog once tried to chase me, and I was frightened and sent it running."
She drank again. "Small things, mostly useless. I thought that all magic users were like me. Working their little powers in secret. I never imagined people could fly in the open. Or walk through crowded airports without being seen. My mother is a fabric buyer. My uncle's a mechanic who really likes weapons. My dad's normal in every way. My mother and he divorced when I was eighteen. He runs a shift at a tire repair plant."
Grace drank more tea. Her head was fuzzy. She was so comfortable and warm in the soft chair. "When Uncle Gerald told me this half-baked story about blood debt, I didn't believe him at first."
"What convinced you?"
"He was terrified. Uncle Gerald is like a rock in the storm: always cool under pressure. I've never seen him so off-balance." She yawned. She was so drowsy. "I think my mother hoped I would never have to do this."
"I can see why," Nassar said softly. "We live in constant danger. I would think any mother would want to shield her child from us."
"I would." Drowsiness overtook her. Gra
ce set the cup down and curled into a ball in the chair. "Even though your world is so..."
She vaguely saw him rise from his chair. He picked her up, his magic cloaking about her. She should have been alarmed, but she had no resolve left.
"So?"
"So magical."
He drew the canopy aside and lowered her onto the bed. Her head touched the pillow and reality faded.
* * *
Nassar stepped out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. Alasdair waited in the hallway, a lean sharp shadow, with a robe draped over his arm. Nassar took it from him and shrugged it on, absorbing the last of his feathers. His whole body hurt from too much magic expended too quickly. Walking was like stepping on crushed glass.
"Is she asleep?" Alasdair asked.
Nassar nodded. They walked down the hall together.
"She's pretty. Chestnut hair and chocolate eyes — a nice combination."
She was also calm under pressure, smart, and willful. When she looked at him with those dark eyes, Nassar felt the urge to say something intelligent and deeply impressive. Unfortunately, nothing of the kind came to mind. It seemed her eyes also had a way of muddling his thoughts. The last time he felt that dumb was about fourteen years ago. He'd been eighteen at the time.
"You like the girl," Alasdair offered.
Nassar leveled a heavy gaze at him.
"Lilian said you tried to be funny in the car. I told her it couldn't possibly be true. The moment you try to make a joke, the sky shall split and the Four Horsemen will ride out, heralding Apocalypse."
"How droll. Did you double the patrols?"
Alasdair nodded his dark head and stopped by the ladder. Nassar walked past him, heading to his rooms.
"Did you?" Alasdair called.
"Did I what?"
"Did you joke with the girl?"
Nassar kept walking.
"Did she laugh?" Alasdair called.
"No."
Nassar entered his room. He hadn't expected her to laugh. He was grateful she didn't collapse in a hysterical heap. Her uncle had been scared to within an inch of his life – fear had rolled off of him in waves. In Gerald's life of some fifty odd years his services had been requested only twice, but the second time had scarred him for life. In the zone he would be useless.
Grace's mother, Janet, was always meticulous and formal. She took no initiative. Working with her was like being in a presence of an automaton who obeyed his every order while being grimly determined to dislike it. Taking her into the zone, even if he could compensate for her age and health, would be suicide.
He was never comfortable with any of them. He was never comfortable with the whole idea of the bonded servant and took pains to avoid requesting their presence. But this time he had no choice.
Working with Grace presented its own set of difficulties. He could still remember her scent: the light clean fragrance of soap mixing with the faint rosemary from her dark hair. His memory conjured the feel of her body pressed against his and when he'd picked her up to place her on the bed, he hadn't wanted to let go. He wasn't an idiot. There was an attraction there, and he would have to manage it very carefully. The imbalance of power between the two of them was too pronounced: he was the master and she was the servant. Don't think about it, he told himself. Don't imagine what it would be like. Nothing can happen. Nothing is going to happen. She's off-limits.
* * *
Grace followed the servant into a spacious atrium. Morning sun shone through the glass panels in the ceiling. The stone path wound between lush greenery, parallel to a stream lined with smooth river pebbles. Spires of bamboo rose next to fichus and ferns. Delicate orchids in a half a dozen shades dotted the moss-covered ground. Red kafir lilies bloomed along the stream's banks, echoed by paler blossoms of camellia bushes. The air smelled sweet.
The path turned, parting, and Grace saw the origin of the stream: a ten foot waterfall at the far wall. The water cascaded over huge grey boulders into a tiny lake. Near the shore stood a low coffee table surrounded by benches. A dark-haired man lounged on the bench to the left, sipping tea from a large cup.
Nassar stood next to him, talking softly. He wore blue sweatpants and light-grey t-shirt. A towel hung over his shoulder and his pale hair was wet and brushed back from his face. Poised like this, he appeared massive. Muscles bulged on his chest when he moved his arm to underscore a point. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirt. His legs were long. Everything about him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the way he carried himself —controlled and aware of his size —communicated raw physical power. His wasn't the static bulk of a power weightlifter, but rather the dangerous, honed build of a man who required muscle to survive. If a genius sculptor were to carve a statue and name it Strength, Nassar would've made a perfect model.
He glanced at her. His green eyes arrested her and Grace halted, suddenly realizing she wanted to know what he would look like naked.
The thought shocked her.
Something in her face must've equally shocked him, because he fell silent.
A torturous second passed.
She forced herself to move. Nassar looked away, resuming his conversation.
I can't be attracted to him. He forced me to come here and risk my life and I don't even know why. I know nothing about him. He's a monster. That last thought sobered her up. She approached the benches.
"Grace," Nassar said. His magic brushed her. "This is Alasdair, my cousin."
Alasdair unfolded himself from the bench. "Charmed."
"Hello." Grace nodded at Alasdair, then turned to Nassar. "You drugged my drink."
"Actually I drugged the cream," he said, "and technically it was my sister who did it."
"Why?"
"You were in shock. I wanted to spare you the break down and anxiety when you came out of it."
Grace held herself straight. "I would appreciate it if you didn't do it again. We have a deal. I'll keep my part, but I can't do it if I have to watch what I eat and drink."
Nassar considered it for a long moment. "Agreed."
"A deal?" Alasdair's eyebrows crept up. His was lean and sharp, his movements quick. His stare had an edge. If Nassar was a sword, Alasdair was a dagger.
"I've agreed to do my best to help you, and in return, you'll leave my family alone for five years," Grace said.
Alasdair grimaced at Nassar. "That's incredibly generous, considering what they've done. We owe them nothing."
Nassar shrugged his massive shoulders. "It's worth the reward to have her full cooperation."
Grace took a seat on the bench. "What did we do exactly?"
"You don't know?" Alasdair passed her a plate of scones.
"No."
The dark-haired man glanced at Nassar, who shrugged. "You tell it."
"At the end of the nineteenth century your family and our clan were in dispute," Alasdair said.
Grace was learning to decipher their code. "In other words, we were murdering each other."
"Precisely. The dispute grew out of control and so our families agreed to end it. The peace was to be sealed through a wedding. Jonathan Mailliard of your family was to marry Thea Dreoch."
"He was your great grandfather's brother," Nassar supplied.
"The wedding went well," Alasdair continued. "There was a very nice reception in one of Mailliard gathering halls, a beautiful old hotel. Everyone ate, drank, and was merry. The couple went upstairs, to their rooms, where Jonathan pulled out a knife and slit Thea's throat."
Grace froze with a scone halfway to her mouth. She had expected something of this sort. To force her family into indefinite servitude, the crime had to be horrible. But it still shocked her.
"He waited for almost two hours by her cooling corpse," Alasdair continued. "Until the party died down. Then he and several Mailliard men and women went through the hotel door to door. They murdered Thea's sister, her husband, and their twin daughters who were flower girls at the wedding. They killed Thea's pa
rents and her two brothers, both minors, and would've slaughtered the entire party, but they were seen by a Dreoch retainer, who started screaming. Our offensive magic was always stronger and we were inside your family's defenses. There was a bloodbath. Every member of the Mailliard family was killed, except Thomas Mailliard, who was fourteen at the time. He hid in a closet and wasn't discovered until later in the day, when the butchery had stopped. Because Thomas was a child and hadn't participated in the slaughter, he was given a choice: death or servitude for all of his descendants. And that's why you now serve us."
Grace sat in a sickened silence.
"Anything to say?" Alasdair asked.
"That's very horrible," she said.
"Yes, it is."
"However, I never knew Jonathan Mailliard. I didn't even know his name. I feel awful about the murder and I understand that my family bears responsibility, but I never killed anyone. I've never hurt you and neither has my mother, my uncle or my great grandfather, who hid in the closet." She tried to make her voice sound calm and reasonable. "I've done you no harm, yet you limit my freedom and force me to risk my life because of a crime perpetrated a century ago by someone I've never met. Our family has served yours for over a hundred years. At some point this debt will have been repaid. When do you think will that be?"
"Never," Alasdair said.
It felt like a slap. She looked to Nassar. "So this is how you do things? You dumped all of the blame for a bloody feud onto a fourteen year old child who hid in a closet, and because he's failed to stop grown men from killing, you keep his descendants in perpetual servitude?"
"Hardly perpetual," Nassar corrected. "Since I assumed the responsibility for the clan fifteen years ago, I've called on your family only four times."
"But we know we can be called at any point. We have to live with the knowledge that on a moment's notice we might be required to risk our life for a complete stranger for no reason and we might never see our loved ones again. We can't refuse. The terms are obedience or death. Would you want to live like this?"
Under Her Skin Page 8