Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology

by Michelle Diener

  "Do you know where these paragons of, er, congeniality might be found?" he inquired, placing his glass in the pot of the nearest tree.

  Teddy laughed and beckoned him forward, closer to the dancers. Jean-Paul had chosen the rear of the ballroom, far away from the area kept cordoned off for the imperial family and their chosen guests. The perfect vantage point from which to survey the entire ballroom. Helped by the fact that his height allowed him to see over the crowd with ease.

  Teddy, only an inch or two shorter than Jean-Paul, gestured across the room. "There, the girl in the deep red dress. That's Chloe Matin, Henri's daughter."

  Jean-Paul found the girl—young woman—Teddy meant. Her gown, the pinkish-red of good wine, wrapped around a very nice set of curves, highlighting creamy skin and blending with the touches of red and black in her hair. But then she stepped to one side, and he saw the woman standing next to her. She wore blue that gleamed like the finest sapphire and, as she turned to laugh up at something Chloe had said, the angles of her face caught his eye and held it. Her hair was darker than Chloe's, the original deep brown of it still twined with the red and black streaks that proclaimed her to be an earth witch and a water mage, like her friend. Her skin was paler than Chloe's, too, cool pearl against the blue. And her eyes, well, those were as bright as her gown. She looked across the room toward him, but her gaze flicked past him with no sign of recognition. But the brief touch of that look sizzled through him like lightning.

  "Who," he breathed, "is the one in blue?"

  Teddy's brows drew down as he contemplated the question. "Imogene...something. She's in the mages, apparently. Friend of the Matin lass."

  "Which part of the mages?" Jean-Paul asked. He wasn't sure what he'd thought someone so...vivid might do for a living, but the army wouldn't have been his first choice.

  Teddy shrugged. "I don't know." He nudged Jean-Paul's ribs with his elbow. "Perhaps that's a question for the lady herself. If she's caught your eye."

  Jean-Paul was still watching Imogene, too riveted by her still to react to Teddy's jab—either the physical or verbal one.

  "She has, hasn't she?" Teddy said with another nudge. "Good choice. A career girl, if she's in the mages. She won't give you any grief."

  Jean-Paul didn't really register the words, but he knew what Teddy meant. A mage—a career soldier—would know how things worked. She wouldn't be after marriage. Might be amenable to a dalliance to burn out this fire leaping in his gut and speeding his heart.

  He ignored the part of him that had a vague notion that a heat like this might not be so easy to douse and stepped out onto the dance floor.

  Chapter 5

  Imogene accepted a glass of campenois from a circulating servant, waving her fan idly in her other hand. The ballroom was becoming, as ballrooms always did, overly warm now that the dancing was underway. She was glad to sit out the current round of dances. The emperor's ballroom was large, but so was the number of people filling it. She'd wanted another drink more than she wanted to dance her way through the crush with the last nervous young aristo who'd approached her, so she'd declined him with a smile designed to be both firm and politely demure, pleading a need to retire temporarily. He'd shrugged and moved on to another group of young ladies, not seeming fazed by the refusal.

  The pale blonde in bright yellow he'd asked next had accepted, and Imogene had watched them join the dancers before she'd made her way back toward Chloe. She had no idea how many people were in attendance, but it would be easy enough to lose someone in the crush. She and Chloe had agreed to stay close while they got the lay of the land, so to speak. Imogene had spotted a few faces she recognized from the Imperial mages and the Academe, as well as the odd aristocrat or politician, but those had been few and far between so far. She needed to take some time, gather some information, before she made any choices that might lead to something more than being steered around the dance floor.

  She'd so far danced with four of the men who'd asked. Two had been pleasant, but nothing more than that, and the third dull. The fourth had earned himself a well-stomped set of toes when he'd attempted to let his hand drift farther down her back than was acceptable, given she'd offered no encouragement for him to take liberties and that they were in a very public place. That would be another benefit if she bonded with a sanctii—handy for dealing with wayward suitors.

  Illvyans, on the whole, didn't have the ill-informed superstitions and fear of sanctii that some of the other countries in the empire—and beyond—did, but they still viewed them with a healthy degree of respect. Or the ones who had any brains did. Of course, she couldn't say for sure that the young man in question met that criterion.

  That was the problem with balls. There was no time to converse with a man before having to accept or decline an invitation to dance. No time to judge his intelligence or personality before being stuck with him for the duration of a set.

  She needed a different strategy. Retreat from the dancing and try to find men who were keeping farther afield of the festivities to talk to. Of course, that would mean abandoning Chloe, who loved to dance.

  She glanced over at her friend, who was happily talking with several other men and women their age and didn't look as though she needed any assistance.

  Good. With Chloe occupied, Imogene was free to explore for a while and see what she might find in the quieter parts of this ball. If such places existed.

  But before she could decide which direction she might try first, there was a minor commotion to her right, and she looked up to see a man—or perhaps a small mountain—striding through one of the sets of dancers, moving in her direction.

  A sensible person would have backed away. He really was unreasonably tall and wide and looked capable of flattening anyone in his path. The dancers dispersing to either side of him seemed to have formed the same conclusion. But Imogene, instead of being sensible, found herself unable to look away. He wasn't just tall. There was strength to go with the height—not even the excellent work of his tailor could hide the powerful lines of his body completely and make him look like a tame courtier. But he was more than any other well-built man. No, he was more...arresting than that.

  His face was carved from planes and angles that shouldn't have added up to pleasing but somehow did. His hair was black—curly, possibly, if it hadn't been tied back. His eyes, well, she couldn't tell yet if they were blue or gray or something in between from where she stood. And the only thing about his eyes—whatever color they were—that seemed important was how firmly they were fixed on hers with the kind of intent determination that, again, would have made a sensible person retreat.

  She couldn't look away. And had to fight a startling desire to walk to meet him.

  It would have been easy to do. A path was rapidly clearing in front of him, as though a blood mage had cast a spear of power straight across the room to push people out of his way. But she saw no sign of magic. It was just self-preservation on the part of those moving. And, she realized, as heads began to turn in her direction to see where this mountain of a man was headed, self-preservation was fast being replaced by curiosity for those who had made it safely out of his way.

  She lifted her chin. Most of the people at the ball had no idea who she was. Which was fine by her. The life of a courtier had never been her goal.

  The mystery man was getting closer. And his gaze didn't break from hers. Her dress felt too tight, as though Dina had just freshly tugged on her corset strings. Her breath didn't want to come easily, and she was suddenly far too aware of how overheated the room was.

  Ten feet away. Five. A step more. He stopped there. She just had time to register that his eyes were indeed a thunderous shade of gray before he swept into a flawless bow.

  So flawless he had to be nobility. Only one raised to court from birth would have that degree of effortless perfection in his gestures.

  As he straightened, she dipped into her best curtsy. It might not have been as perfect as his, but she fancied she
managed it gracefully enough. Diplomats were also schooled in manners, after all. Reyshaka utilized a complicated system of bows with matching hand positions depending on gender, rank, and age for both sexes, so it was something of a relief to return to the simplicity of a curtsy, even though executing it did nothing to ease her breathlessness.

  When she rose, he was smiling at her as though she were his favorite dessert. Behind him, interested faces were peering in their direction.

  "My lady, may I be so bold as to introduce myself?"

  She snapped her fan open, pretending to consider. She wanted to know his name. From the interest of the courtiers, he was clearly someone important. "I suppose I might as well make the inconvenience of all those dancers you displaced serve some purpose and say yes."

  His smile widened. "Excellent. I am Jean-Paul du Laq."

  He didn't add any titles. He didn't need to. She didn't know the name of every minor nobleman who decorated the court—it wasn't required for her current rank in the mages—but she was well versed in the names of the highest families. After all, some of them passed through the Academe di Sages where she had done her schooling—schooling which included many hours of the history of the empire and those who'd done the conquering—and a number of them graced the ranks of the Imperial mages. And even without that, anyone who read the news sheet stories about court life could hardly fail to know who was who in the upper ranks of nobility.

  Du Laq was the family name of the Duq of San Pierre. The only way to hold a higher rank would be to be a member of the royal family itself. They were a family as old as the bones of the empire and had served generations of emperors.

  And the name of the oldest son of the Duq of San Pierre was Jean-Paul.

  Chapter 6

  Well. That was convenient. The son of a duq—what's more, the heir himself—might very well serve her purpose of finding a man to share her bed for a night with no risk of entanglement, even though she may not have thought of setting her sights so high.

  That he was the very handsome son of a duq was even better. A man of his rank wouldn't be looking for anything more than a dalliance with someone like her.

  The likes of him didn't marry women who came from very middling families like hers. Not if they had no dazzling dowry to make up for the lack of rank. Though the du Laq family didn't need money. Unlike some noble families, they held firmly to their power and grew their fortunes with the same level of determination.

  But even so, families like his married their own kind.

  Which she was not. Though with his gaze still heating her skin, she thought they had, perhaps, at least some level of... connection. Even if it was the most basic kind.

  "I see I have stunned you to silence," he said dryly, breaking the silence her whirring thoughts had stretched too long.

  "My pardon, my lord. I was trying to recollect your title but cannot bring it to mind." Most courtiers would rather die than admit such a thing. But she wanted him to be clear about who she was. And that his title was of no use to her other than to render her safe from a man seeking something serious.

  Anything that might come after would be entered into with no misunderstandings. She smiled at him to emphasize the fact that she had no shame about her lack of recollection. "But I am pleased to meet you, regardless."

  "And I am very glad to hear that." His eyes, now that they were so close, proved to be not only gray but full of mischief. "And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name, Mamsille?"

  She folded her fan again. He was, when you got right down to it, breaking protocol to speak to her without an introduction. As long as they continued to entertain each other in this conversation, she didn't think it would take any particular convoluted method of flirtation to get to the point. "Lieutenant Imogene Carvelle," she said. One of his brows lifted, and his gaze drifted down. Looking for a ring on her hand, perhaps? Wise. By telling him her title instead of repeating his “Mamsille” or correcting him to “Madame,” she'd avoided confirming his assumption that she was unmarried.

  Her hands were bare except for the black pearl ring she wore on the index finger of her right hand—a gift from her parents when she'd manifested her magic.

  Indeed, that seemed to please him. His smile widened as his gaze lifted. "Ah, a soldier. Which regiment?" His tone was distinctly approving.

  "I’m in the mages," she said, not wanting to provide him with too much information immediately.

  Another lift of that very dark brow. "I haven't seen you before."

  "You're in the mages?" She couldn't remember meeting him. And he would have been difficult to forget. Belatedly she thought to look for his magic, but if he had any, he wasn't using it. She saw no connection to the ley line that ran beneath the palace and none of the glittering colors dancing over his skin, which was how she usually saw magic.

  "No, just the regulars." He shrugged. "I have a little magic but not enough to be of interest to the mages. Fortunately, I have other talents."

  Plus no lack of confidence, it seemed. That went with being the son of a duq, she supposed. And, truthfully, it wasn't unattractive. His tone wasn't smug, just matter-of-fact and, unless she was mistaken, somewhat flirtatious. She smiled back at him. "I'm sure you do, my lord."

  His nose wrinkled. "Jean-Paul, please."

  "That is hardly proper on such a formal occasion."

  "It's a ball. The purpose of a ball is to let people socialize and get to know one another, surely?"

  "I always thought a large part of the purpose of imperial balls was to get nobles such as yourself safely married off." She looked pointedly down at his hand so he'd understand she'd noticed his inspection earlier. The long, tanned fingers were bare. "Is that why you're here, my lord?"

  "I'm sure it's why my parents wish I was here," he said. "But no, Lieutenant, I have no particular desire to rush headlong into marriage. My father is young and healthy, and I have siblings should something unfortunate happen to me. I'm here to enjoy myself. Drink some campenois, dance with some pretty women. Would you grant me a dance, Lieutenant?" He proffered a hand.

  She stifled the immediate instinct to reach out and take it. "Is one of your talents dancing, my lord?"

  "I get no complaints," he said. "And a new set is forming." He crooked his fingers. "You wouldn't want us to be late."

  "I haven't said yes yet," she pointed out.

  "You haven't said no either. I'll take that as a promising sign."

  "You, my lord, may be overly sure of yourself."

  "Perhaps. But that doesn't mean you don't want to dance with me."

  He had her there. Because she did want to dance with him. Wanted to feel his hand on hers and see if moving with him to the music was as fun as this initial conversation had been. After months of familiar squad members and politics in the Reyshakan court, which had involved just about the opposite of flirtation, his attention was somewhat dizzying.

  So, in the mood to be a little giddy, she reached out and took his hand.

  Chapter 7

  Jean-Paul du Laq may have crossed the ballroom like a mountain on a mission, but he definitely didn't dance like one.

  No, being on the dance floor with him, strong, warm fingers wrapped around her hand and touching her waist, was perhaps more like being swept around the room in the eye of a storm. She had the oddest sensation of something swirling around her, huge and important and wild, but also of perfect stillness as she stared up into smiling gray eyes and let him lead. Just her luck that the orchestra had decided this was to be a set of waltzes rather than some of the statelier Illvyan dances, where she would have had time to step away from him now and then to catch her breath and to let her brain regain control.

  Instead, she whirled around with him, barely aware of the music, somewhat breathless from more than the fit of her dress and completely unable to stop herself from smiling with delight.

  Perhaps he was an illusioner, this son of a duq? He'd claimed to have little magic, but that could be a li
e. A way to disarm an unsuspecting female so he could work some sort of dazzlement. But she saw no spark of magic around him, none of the glimmering haze of power that marked a mage at work to her eyes. So there was nothing to blame for this giddiness but the man himself.

  The music started to slow as the musicians began the transition to the next dance, and Jean-Paul eased their pace. Unfortunately, he also pulled her closer. Not more than was acceptable in public, but close enough that she could feel him radiating heat and smell warm linen and warm man.

  A scent she wanted more of. But no. She bit down on her instinct to close the gap between them farther still and forced herself to speak. "So, my lord, you said you were in the regulars? What exactly do you do?"

  "I'm in the centiene."

  Hardly the regulars. The centiene were the emperor's elite cavalry. Which made sense for a man of his rank. She tried to picture a warhorse large enough to carry him comfortably and felt her mouth quirk again. Not a beast she would like to tangle with.

  "Captain?" she ventured. Her brain was failing to provide his age or his exact title. Older than her, she thought, but less than thirty. There were no gray threads in his hair, and while the lines by his eyes crinkled attractively when he smiled, she judged them to be from time outdoors, not age.

  "Major," he corrected.

  "Impressive," she said. Either he was very, very good at command or he was older than she would have guessed.

  "Did you think I was a dilettante who had purchased a commission on the merits of my family's name rather than earning my command?"

  "My lord, I have not known you long enough to judge, but no, you do not strike me as anything but competent." He was hardly the languid, foppish sort of aristo who largely seemed to spend money rather than do anything to earn it that she had sometimes encountered. He was the scion of an ancient family. Destined to lead and protect. She doubted he had been raised to be anything but determined and accomplished.