Stranger

by Zoë Archer

  “To tend to my personal needs,” she answered, level.

  “Oh.” He blinked. “Just … ah … be careful.”

  Tired and sore as she was, she didn’t feel particularly charitable toward his shyness at the moment, and said dryly, “I mastered the task a while ago.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  Gemma stepped around him.

  His voice stopped her. “The Heirs are out there, somewhere. So, please, be cautious. If you need anything just … call out.”

  Damn it—she couldn’t keep up her temper when he was so gallant.

  She hurried off to the privacy of the shrubs and, after ensuring that no one was about, relieved herself, sighing. Adventuring was all very well and exciting, but one’s bodily needs didn’t disappear just because the fate of the world’s magic and freedom was at stake.

  After she was finished, she knelt beside a nearby creek to freshen up. She dipped her fingertips into the water, then pulled them back, hissing. Too cold! But she needed to wash, so she forced her hands back into the creek to rinse, then splashed some water onto her face and the back of her neck. Her fingertips turned blue within seconds. On a brighter side, only a dead person could be unaffected by such a chilly bath. Gemma’s senses glittered back to life.

  As she knelt, she became aware of a presence behind her.

  Her hand crept toward the derringer in her pocket.

  “Only me,” said a deep, Canadian-accented voice.

  Gemma relaxed as Lesperance, clothed in trousers and an open shirt, feet bare, came forward silently and crouched beside her. A striking man, lean of body, with a profile that should be minted onto coins. Any sighted woman would enjoy looking at him, and Gemma definitely had eyes. She admired him the way one might admire any art—all theory and aesthetics, but nothing that stirred her desire.

  Not the way a reserved, bespectacled inventor with dark eyes stirred her.

  Lesperance plunged his hands into the frigid water. She waited for him to pull back or at least grimace from the temperature. He didn’t.

  “I thought my hands would freeze off,” she noted. “You don’t seem to be bothered, though. Is that a facet of being able to … change?” Only minutes earlier, he’d been flying overhead as a hawk. And before that, he’d run as a wolf. Catullus said that Lesperance could even take the form of a bear. Now she was talking with Lesperance.

  What a story he must have.

  He nodded, unaware that her journalistic impulses bubbled furiously. “Grew to like the cold, actually. Ever since my power to change showed, I run hot.”

  Oh, didn’t Gemma know it, judging by the way he and Astrid carried on in bed.

  Instead of voicing this, she asked, “When did your changing ability manifest?”

  He tensed, then realized she wasn’t employing the Key of Janus to force him to answer her question—just as she’d promised Catullus she wouldn’t. Lesperance raised a brow. “Interviewing me for a story?” Before she could answer, he asked, “You like finding out people’s secrets—is that why you became a reporter?”

  “Cross-examining me, counselor?”

  They met each other’s gaze with cool challenge. Neither spoke. Until—

  “A trade,” Gemma proposed. “We each ask a question, we each have to answer.”

  “Well negotiated.” He gave an appreciative nod. “All parties agree to the terms. As a show of good faith, I’ll start. I discovered my ability to shift just after you saw me at the trading post.”

  She gaped. “That was only a few months ago!”

  “Take that surprise you’re feeling, then multiply it by a thousand.” A corner of his mouth tilted up. “That’s how I felt when I learned I was an Earth Spirit.”

  “But … how did it happen?”

  He held up a finger. “Not your turn. Answer my question first.”

  Right. Her end of the bargain. “Ever since I was small, I wanted to be a reporter. Learning. Observing.” She mulled this. “It’s not secrets that interest me, but the truth.”

  “Once you discover the truth, what then?”

  Now she held up a cautioning finger. “Not your turn, counselor. You owe me an answer.”

  “The Primal Source released a dormant power in me.” His expression darkened. “Those son of a bitch Heirs tried to enslave my people.”

  “Tried, but didn’t succeed.”

  “Because we fought back. The Earth Spirits, and the Blades.” He scowled. “That’s two questions you asked me.”

  “Technically, I didn’t ask you anything. I made a statement, and you confirmed it.”

  He smiled, almost grudging. “You still have my question to answer.”

  She might have known that Astrid’s lover would have a will of iron. “When I uncover the truth, whatever it is, I write about it.”

  He looked at her, his gaze hardening. “Not any of what I just told you. Not my people. Merely a few printed words about them would destroy their lives.”

  The stab of conscience in conflict with her journalistic instincts pierced her. Write and publish, giving full knowledge to the world, or remain silent to protect innocents. “Damned ethics,” she muttered, “getting in the way of a good story.”

  “Try being an attorney sometime—then we’ll talk about conflict with ethics.” Yet his look didn’t soften. “I don’t want to threaten you, but I will do anything to protect my people.”

  “And I’m no threat to you, or the Earth Spirits.” She pressed her lips together, then said, “They’re safe from my pen.”

  He relaxed slightly.

  Something occurred to her then. “She asked you to interrogate me.”

  He knew precisely who Gemma meant. “’Interrogate’ is a word for criminals. But, yes, she’s wary of you.”

  “She keeps looking at me as if I were a keg of gunpowder that could detonate at any moment.”

  Rather than look offended, Lesperance chuckled. “Protective.”

  This startled Gemma. “Blindfolded, drunk and asleep, that woman could take me apart. She has nothing to fear from me. I can’t hurt her.”

  “It’s not you she’s protecting. It’s Graves.”

  Surprise gave way to annoyance. “Catullus is a grown man who can take care of himself.” She had direct knowledge, in fact, that he was fully an adult. Remembrance of the night before heated her cheeks as she glanced down at her hands. She’d touched Catullus with those hands, stroked him and felt him shudder with release.

  “Astrid told me that Graves … he’s brilliant, but bring women into the equation …” Lesperance shook his head. “Not the most worldly.”

  “I’ve never met a more complex man in my life.”

  “Doubt he’s ever met anyone like you. I’ve only known him for a short while, but I know Astrid as well as I know the contours of my own soul. She sees how you affect Graves, what you mean to him. That makes her cautious.”

  Gemma rose to her feet, and Lesperance did the same. “I’m not that important to him.” If she was, wouldn’t he be more assertive? Catullus kept backing away.

  Lesperance held her gaze steadily. “You do matter to Graves. Even I can see it.”

  She prided herself on being levelheaded. Journalists needed to present to the world an unflappable façade, needed to believe in their own sangfroid to be impartial to what they reported. Personal emotions clouded truth. So Gemma was implacable, even when presented with the most flagrant case of political corruption she’d ever encountered. She reported the facts calmly, objectively—until her editor took the story away from her and gave it to a male reporter, who then heaped adverbs, adjectives, and accusations all over the piece. Even then, she didn’t let loose her scream of frustration, but calmly continued with her work as she inwardly seethed.

  This time, however, she couldn’t hide her amazement. Catullus felt something for her, something hidden by his reticence. And what she felt for him … whatever it was, burgeoning, taking shape, she knew it went beyond hunger for simply his
body.

  She’d thought the same of Richard, too. But once she and Richard had been sexually intimate, he had tried to change her, to impose himself on her. He assumed they would marry, but never went to the trouble of actually asking her. After they wed, Richard had said, she must give up journalism. It was the only respectable thing to do. Or, if she insisted on writing, perhaps she could write more suitable material … like children’s books.

  Shaken, it had taken Gemma too long to realize Richard truly believed she would give up everything she wanted, everything she was, to suit him and his needs. She returned the ring he’d once confidently put upon her finger. He fumed, then pointedly ignored her. He married a girl from his neighborhood six months later. The girl, Gemma learned from a friend, wrote nursery rhymes.

  Catullus did not make demands. He seemed to like her exactly as she was. A tentative hope began to unfurl within her, hope for something she thought couldn’t be hers.

  “It’s never been this complicated before. Not with anyone else.” She gnawed on her bottom lip. “Nothing simple about Catullus.” Or how he made her feel.

  “Didn’t trust Graves when I first met him,” Lesperance said. “But he saved my hide a dozen times over. Aside from Astrid, there’s nobody I’d rather have at my back in a fight. He’s become a friend, and I don’t want him hurt.”

  “Why does everyone think I’m going to hurt him?” Gemma demanded. “Maybe he’ll hurt me!”

  “Never willingly.”

  Gemma let out a frustrated sigh, uncertain of her next move. “Was it this perplexing with formidable Astrid?”

  His sudden grin turned Lesperance from extremely attractive to devastatingly handsome. “A maze within a labyrinth. Kept me a shotgun’s distance away, fighting the whole time. But I knew with every part of myself that we were meant for each other. I didn’t give up, didn’t let her fear of herself stand in our way. So I learned her—pushed when she needed pushing, gentled when she needed gentleness.”

  Gemma considered this, her mind churning. “Sounds like quite an experience.”

  “Still is.” He laughed, rueful. “Damned skittish Blades. They can protect the world’s magic, but when it comes to seeing to their own hearts, the lot of them are as baffled as a pride of lions in a library.”

  Gemma and Lesperance returned to the glade. Both Catullus and Astrid, standing close to one another and talking in low voices, looked up sharply at their approach. Astrid immediately came forward, seeing only Lesperance, while Catullus remained where he stood. He looked at Gemma as if nothing intrigued him more, yet he did not know where to begin his exploration.

  Lesperance and Astrid took hold of each other’s hands and drifted off to one side. Within a moment, they were deep in private conversation.

  Thinking about what Lesperance had told her, Gemma walked toward Catullus. He held out an apple.

  As she took the offered fruit, Gemma murmured, “From the tree of knowledge.”

  His brows snapped together. “Pardon?”

  “Which makes me Eve, and you the coaxing Serpent.” She bit into the apple, and smiled at the taste of sweet, crisp flesh.

  Catullus watched her avidly. “Surely I’m not so devious.”

  She chewed, swallowed. “Maybe not, but you are tempting.” Her gaze held his, and his dark eyes widened behind the glass of his spectacles.

  “Ah,” he said. Then, as though forcing the words from his mouth, he said, “You, also.” A tentative smile, heartbreaking in its caution, curved his mouth. Then, his gaze sliding away from her as his smile faded, he removed his spectacles and began methodically polishing them.

  Gemma, eating her apple, remembered what Lesperance had said. A careful dance, learning when to push forward, when to give ground.

  “What were you and Astrid talking about?”

  He exhaled in relief at the change of topic, replacing his spectacles. Vision restored, he glanced over his shoulder, as if confirming Astrid’s presence. She and Lesperance continued to converse, their eyes locked, hands interlaced.

  Turning back to Gemma, Catullus said, “We were discussing how much distance we’ve to cover. A matter of hours to reach Glastonbury, if we keep this pace.”

  “Once we get to Glastonbury, what then?”

  Catullus rubbed his jaw with his large hand. Gemma’s mind and body both recalled the feel of his hands on her, touching her intimately, drawing pleasure from her, as she’d done with him. Desire to kiss him—in front of Astrid and Lesperance and whoever might be watching—overwhelmed her.

  She bit down hard on the apple. Sweetness filled her mouth.

  He watched her lick juice from her lips, then shook his head to clear his thoughts. “We have to try to stop the Heirs’ desires from summoning Arthur. But we might not be able to prevent that. Magic has momentum, like any force in nature. Once it has begun, it takes an extraordinary power to stop it.”

  “What will happen if they do summon Arthur?”

  “There’s no way to know.” By the light gleaming in his dark eyes, she knew the prospect of unlimited possibilities exhilarated him. “He could return as a non-corporeal spirit.”

  “A ghost?”

  “Possibly. Or Arthur could be a flesh-and-blood man that’s terrified of the modern world—he could mistake a train for a fire-breathing dragon. He might rise up from the ground like a zombie.” He gave a slight grimace. “Fought an army of those in Canada.”

  “An army? Of zombies?” She gaped at him.

  He gave a dismissive shrug, as if battling the undead were perfectly mundane. “An Heir mage resurrected them. Disgusting. And messy.” Which seemed to be the worst offense, judging by Catullus’s tone.

  “Did you fight them on your own?”

  “Alone? No. Myself, Astrid, Nathan, and the Earth Spirits.” He waved this incredible tale—one she desperately wanted to hear—aside. “Nevertheless, I hope we don’t face more of that in Glastonbury. Zombies aren’t merely revolting, they are dangerous.” His expression turned grim. “I do not want any of those creatures near you.”

  She didn’t want them near her, either, but Catullus’s protectiveness warmed her.

  “If I could just speak to King Arthur.” Her imagination burst to life, considering this. “Think of it,” she breathed, “the King Arthur of myth, made real. The stories he could tell—legends, histories. Fables and truths.”

  She had not realized she was smiling until Catullus shared in her smile. “You’re so beautiful when hunting stories.” Then he flushed, as if abashed at the husky words that had sprung from him without thought.

  Embarrassment was not what Gemma felt at his candid, guileless compliment. Thrilled, more like. Catullus Graves wasn’t a rake or flatterer, not a practiced seducer of women. What he said, he meant.

  “I’ve a feeling,” she said softly, “there are lots more stories ahead.”

  His flush deepened, but he didn’t look away when their eyes met and held.

  Astrid and Lesperance drifted over to them. Perhaps it was Gemma’s imagination, but Astrid appeared less wary when the Englishwoman glanced at her. Almost … approving. Gemma wondered what Lesperance had said to his lover to cause this change of attitude.

  From the pocket of his waistcoat, Catullus pulled out an exquisite timepiece. He consulted its face. “We can take fifteen minutes to eat, and then we have to press on to Glastonbury.” He glanced at Astrid. “Can you still feel the Primal Source?”

  “The connection I developed to the Primal Source when I studied it in Africa hasn’t diminished, not in all these years.”

  “And now, is it gathering its energy?”

  “It’s growing stronger by the moment.”

  Grim, Catullus returned his watch to its pocket. “Ten minutes to eat. No more.”

  When the meal was concluded—eight minutes later—Catullus helped Gemma back into the saddle. His hands lingered at her waist, and she felt the warmth of him all the way to her core. For a moment, their gazes locked, fraught
with significance.

  And then they were off again.

  Gemma considered Catullus out of the corner of her eye as everyone cantered through an open field. On horseback, his long coat billowing behind him, no man was as lethally attractive, so potent with movement and capability.

  He drew up beside her.

  “There’s something else Astrid and I talked about.” His words rumbled low, meant for her alone.

  Her breath quickly deserted her. “Oh?”

  “She reminded me that I don’t need all the answers. That the process of discovery has its own … pleasure.”

  A sensuous word, made even more so by his rich, deep voice.

  “A wise woman, Astrid,” Gemma said. Night drew on quickly as they rode. Barely a moment between twilight and full darkness, then, soon after, a round and shining moon breached the horizon. A strange, silver cast washed over the land. With the moonlight came a finely wrought tension, a harp string about to be plucked to sound an uncanny music.

  Gemma sensed it—the change in her connection to magic. Her whole life, what she knew and felt of it kept itself limited to the small sphere of her family. Now she sensed it stretching, widening. Or rather she felt her own awareness growing. Sensing the waves of the world’s magic lapping waves on the shore.

  At that moment, she felt a growing presence, a perception, prickling along her skin. The others felt it, too. Catullus frowned deeply, and overhead, Lesperance let out abbreviated cries. But Astrid sensed the gathering magic more than anyone else. The Englishwoman almost vibrated with awareness as she bent over her horse’s neck, plunging through the countryside.

  Not a single traveler appeared; there were no carts or carriages on the road. It was as if everyone had sensed otherworldly power rising and stayed close within the perceived safety of their homes. Even the night sounds of animals were muffled.

  Gemma, Catullus, and Astrid rode over flat country. Ahead rose the forms of hills, clustered together. Gemma knew without being told that this was Glastonbury. An ancient energy hovered over the place. She could well imagine that, long ago when swamps submerged the land, the hills appeared as islands—perhaps as Avalon.