His mother’s face suddenly flashed across his mind. She had been a strong, passionate warrioress with a good head for strategy. Like all the Witches of Bandar she tended to be bloodthirsty and savage when it came to fighting but she had been putty in the hands of her lover, Garrick’s father King Lorrian. She had loved the man to distraction. As much as she loved Lorrian, she had despised his wife, the queen. Given the chance she would have gutted the bitch and taken the crown for herself.
“When you want something, Garrick, go after it tooth and nail,” she’d told him. “Let nothing and no one stand in your way. If you let slip through your fingers that which makes it possible for you to rise each morning, take breath, and fight through the day, you will lose a part of your very soul. You will regret it ’til your dying day.”
He thought back to the day she’d said those words to him. She was lying on her deathbed with her shield maidens surrounding her. He, as her son, was the only male in the entire encampment. She had sent two Hell-hags to bring him to her and those two were glaring fiercely at him from the other side of his mother’s cot.
“I bitterly regret not slitting that bitch’s throat,” she’d said, her voice growing weaker.
“Who, milady?” Garrick asked.
“The Modarthan queen,” she told him. “I will not allow that woman’s name upon my lips. I hate her and she hates me.”
“She is no friend of mine, either,” he stated.
His mother had smiled nastily. “That is because she looks at you and thinks of me.”
“Take what you want from this life, my son. No one will simply hand it to you. I see…” She’d coughed—her body racked by the evil eating through it. He’d held the pan to her chin as blood speckled the enamel. When she’d been able to talk again, she’d used the last of her strength to reach up and grip his wrist. “I see a girl who will be your all. Promise me you will let nothing come between you and your heart’s desire. It will be necessary for you to kill the man who would take her from you. Swear to me you will not let anything—love, honor, or truth—stop you from taking his life.”
“I swear it,” he pledged.
The last words his mother spoke were, “Kill him or you will never know peace.”
And he would. That was a given. Not just because Clay was his enemy in war. Or because the man had tried to have him murdered in a horrendous way. And it wasn’t because of the lies he had told Antonia. The reason Alyxdair Clay would soon be tossed into the arms of the Gatherer was because he had dared put his filthy body to Garrick’s woman.
For that, the bastard’s life was forfeit.
Chapter Fourteen
Antonia leaned back in the carriage seat and looked out the window at the passing scenery. The Moon was so bright she had no trouble seeing the little creatures that hid among the bushes and behind the trees as the carriage rolled past. Her vastly improved night vision was one of the things she had come to enjoy about the Changing. The fleetness of her feet, her upgraded strength, the ability to speak with her mind were assets she begrudgingly admitted she liked, but it was the enhancement of her five senses that she found most appealing. Things were sharper, clearer and more intense now.
The drawbacks—not being able to go out in the Sun and the need to consume Sustenance—were things she would need to accept. As yet, she had not. Her first taste of Garrick’s blood had been a wild, intoxicating experience that had left her invigorated, satiated. The next night’s taste had disturbed her for she knew it would be necessity from there on out. It had not been his blood she had consumed but that of one of the animals kept for that purpose. The taste was like river water compared to the finest wine but she had refused to drink from Garrick’s vein. Now, all she could think of was pressing her lips to his throat and drawing into her mouth the sweet, rich essence that coursed through his body.
“Stop thinking about it,” she mumbled.
Marc looked over at her. “Beg pardon?” he inquired.
She shook her head. “I was talking to myself.”
“They say that’s the first sign of senility,” he quipped.
For some reason his banter irritated her. “Why aren’t you out riding beside your commander?” she asked.
“He didn’t want my company and he doesn’t need my protection,” he replied. “Am I bothering you?”
She sighed. “Everything bothers me, Zoltán,” she snapped.
“I’ll be quiet then,” he snapped.
“Dial down the attitude, warrior,” she ordered and saw his face darken even in the murky interior of the carriage.
“Aye, milady.”
They were silent until she shifted in her seat and took a deep breath. He looked up inquisitively from a semi-doze.
“He said he looked for me,” she stated.
“He did.”
“Tell me.”
“He was like a caged animal as we waited for the ruins to cool enough to send men in to clear away the debris. I thought we’d have to shackle him to calm him down. He was yelling at everyone, threatening the workers, cursing anyone who dared cross his path. He thought he had seen you die when the keep collapsed and he was intent on finding your body to give you a decent burial. He would have stayed after the dawn light scorched him had Oran and I not dragged him to that cave that led to the keep’s shelter room. He was up before the Sun went down and racing back to the ruins. He set to digging in the debris himself. When no body was ever found, he became obsessed with finding you. He sent search parties over every inch of ground surrounding the keep in the hopes you had somehow been thrown free before the walls came down. It was wishful thinking on his part and we all knew it but the absence of a body was puzzling. All the servants were accounted for so who that woman was in the window is a mystery.”
“Did anyone else see her?” she asked.
Marc tilted his head to the side. “Actually, I don’t think anyone did.”
“Then mayhap it was his guilty conscience that put her there,” she said.
“Mayhap you’re right. I never looked at it in that way,” he agreed. “At any rate, he had the search perimeter expanded to a five-mile radius. We brought in dogs to track you but without a garment, a scent for them to go by, they went every which way. I suspect they were chasing rebels.”
“And I was among those rebels,” she pointed out.
“Every village we entered, every city, every encampment, he had all the women brought before him in the hopes you were among them. For months, years he did that,” he said. “He refused to believe you were dead, that you were lost to him. The nightmares began the night after the keep fell and have lasted all these years.”
“What does he dream?”
Marc shrugged. “I have no idea. He won’t talk about them.”
“When did he stop searching?”
“Only in the last couple of years,” Marc replied. “I think he finally came to accept you were truly gone.”
She bit her lip then rushed her next words. “What of other women?” she asked.
“There have been no other women, milady,” he said. “Not in the way you mean. There have been whores who have eased him but that is only because a man has needs a woman cannot understand.”
“As a woman has needs a man cannot understand,” she stated.
“He has been faithful to you, milady,” her told her. “He has not entered the body of another nor would he have ever done such a thing. He has mourned you every day of his life and would have continued to do so had he not found you again. He would have gone to the Gatherer mourning you because he loves you. You are his Chosen as he is yours. The question is, do you love him enough to forgive him?”
She turned her head to the window once more. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “There is much to forgive, Marcus, and if he goes after Alyx—”
“Which he will.”
She flinched. “If he does, I’m not sure I will be capable of forgiving him.”
* * * * *
&nbs
p; His mind on his woman, Garrick did not sense the trackers who were keeping pace with him on either side of the road that led to Warwyck Castle. Nor was he aware of the crossbow aimed at his back—the quarrel carved from whitethorn wood centered on his heart.
In his state of mind, he had galloped ahead of his guard and though they thundered after him, he was alone and open there on the roadway, unprotected. The trackers were not alone in their stalking of him. Six battle-seasoned warriors accompanied them. All rode atop black stallions bare of trappings—no saddle or bit to cause the slightest noise, hooves wrapped in heavy burlap. All were dressed entirely in black with their faces hidden beneath black masks with only their eyes showing. They blended in with the night shadows and were careful not to venture into the Moonlight.
He did not hear the quarrel as it sang through the air toward him but he saw it as it flew past for his mount took that moment to sidestep a critter that ran across the road in front of it. Whipping his head around, he became aware of his would-be attackers. Fury lanced him with a sharp point and he wheeled the horse around to confront them head-on. He hadn’t counted on there being eight rebels coming at him but it didn’t matter. With the fury had come pitiless intent to put the men down hard and to put them down in a way they would never rise again. In the blink of an eye he shifted from human form to that of a Panthera Reaper, flinging himself from the stallion to leap upon the closet rebel with a roar of rage.
A bloodcurdling scream was cut off in mid-vibrato as Garrick sank his fangs into the man’s neck and with one powerful jerk ripped the head from his flailing body. Growling, he sprang at another attacker and took him down as well, snapping his neck like a twig before spinning around to face a third warrior.
The quarrel hit him in the shoulder and he stumbled but continued to charge. Lips peeled back over his bloody fangs he hit the archer mid-body and knocked him from his mount. The horse reared up—its legs pawing the air—then a hoof came down on the archer’s head.
Peripherally he was aware of his men engaging the remaining rebels. He was panting from the pain of the quarrel buried deep in the muscle of his shoulder. Dropping to his belly, he watched the carriage roll into view, saw Marc jump from the opened door to run to him. The last thing he saw before he passed out was his friend leaning over him.
* * * * *
Antonia stood at the window as lightning jagged across the pre-dawn sky. The fierce storm had rolled in out of nowhere and the torrential downpour that had started as the carriage rolled under the portcullis of Warwyck Castle was already making quagmires of the road leading up to the keep. She knew the river that ran past the castle grounds would soon be overflowing its banks if the heavy rainfall continued.
“Whitethorn is an evil wood,” she heard the healer remark. “Especially to one of his kind.”
She glanced around at him. “How so?” she inquired.
“For centuries the whitethorn has been used as a protection against evil. It is the wood of choice to be driven through a vampire’s heart. The quarrel the general took to the shoulder was doubly dangerous to him. It had been dipped in a mixture of pulverized calla lily, bloodroot and columbine—all plants toxic to cats. The breathing problems and seizures he experienced when he returned to human form were a direct result of the poison.”
“Had all the quarrels been dosed with the poison?” she asked.
“Aye, Your Grace,” the healer replied. “If his heart had been pierced…” He shrugged. “He would not have died from the wound but he would have been rendered much sicker than he is now and unable to defend himself.”
“Good thing the archer wasn’t that good a shot,” Marc said from the chair beside Garrick’s bed.
“What of the men you captured?” Antonia asked Marc. “Have they given you any information?”
“We know they were sent to capture Garrick,” Marc replied. “They were to take him to Clay.”
Inhaling a long, deep breath, Antonia faced the flashing night sky again. A smudge of the dawn’s early light was creeping over the mountains and the titanium blinds would soon be rolling down from the overhead cornice to block out the sunlight.
She exhaled slowly. “The keep is secure?” she questioned.
“No one can get to him, milady,” Marc said. “I swear it.”
She nodded. “Make doubly sure, milord,” she ordered. “I want guards at the base of the staircase as well as at the top. I want them along the corridor not just the ones outside his door and these here.” She looked to the warriors standing to either side of the door.
“It will be seen to,” Marc agreed.
“You have my order to shoot to kill any rebel who attempts to enter this keep,” she said. “Save Alyxdair Clay. He, I want alive.”
Marc’s eyebrows lifted but he didn’t question her order.
“As long as he is incapacitated, I want to be very sure my husband is protected,” she stated.
“Aye, milady. He will be,” Marc assured her. He went to the door to issue the order to the men outside.
“I will be checking on him periodically,” the healer said. “I know the three of you will be retiring for the day so I will endeavor not to wake you.”
“Wake us if need be,” Antonia said. She eyed the three cots that had been brought for Marc, Oran and herself. They would not leave Garrick alone even with the two guards who had been handpicked by Marc flanking the door. She doubted any of them would sleep easy this day.
“Send for me if there is any change in his breathing or if he seizes again,” the healer said. He bowed to Antonia then left.
“I trust him but I wish Healer Frye was with us,” Antonia said.
“I wish we had the TAOS unit still,” Oran said. “We should never have sent it back to Modartha.”
“That is true,” Marc acknowledged as he rejoined them. “But I have sent word to the king to have it returned as quickly as possible to us.”
Antonia left the window and walked to the bed. She shook her head when Marc offered her the chair. “I’m too nervous to sit,” she said then jumped as the blinds began to lower over the windows.
“You know what would have happened had Clay’s men taken him,” Marc said softly.
“Aye, Zoltán,” she snapped in as imperious a voice as any her husband would have used.
Standing at his bedside, Antonia looked down at Garrick’s still face and thought he looked much younger than his thirty-eight years.
“He will come for you,” Marc said.
“I am counting on it,” she told him. “When he does, I want him arrested then immediately put on a transport destined for Modartha.”
“Milady?” Marc queried, his brows drawn together.
“Where he will stand trial for his crimes,” she said. “That way, his punishment—and I am sure that punishment will be hanging—will be out of Garrick’s hands.”
“He’s not going to like that,” Marc warned.
“I imagine not but such will be the case,” she stated.
She felt the sun rising and her body growing weak. Glancing to Oran, she saw the young man was already nodding off though he was sitting upright on his cot. She looked at Marc and smiled tiredly.
“Rest, milady,” Marc said. “I’ll keep watch as long as I can.” He nudged Oran with the toe of his boot. “Lay yourself down, Ori. I’ve no desire to pick your ass up from the floor when you face plant the rug.”
Oran nodded and fell sideways, fully asleep before his cheek hit the pillow, his legs hanging over the side of the bunk. Marc chuckled and lifted the young man’s legs onto the mattress.
Antonia smoothed the hair back from Garrick’s forehead then leaned down to kiss his brow. She watched a ghost of a smile touch his lips but he didn’t wake.
“He knows you’re here,” Marc said.
“Aye.”
“Is he forgiven?”
She looked up at Marc. “Only time will tell,” she said then turned away. She went to the cot and sat down, her shoulders
slumping, her eyelids drooping.
“Rest,” Marc told her again. “You are new at this.”
She nodded and swung her legs onto the cot. She turned to her side with her hands thrust beneath the pillow and within seconds was deep in sleep.
* * * * *
The rain was still falling heavily on the third day of Garrick’s convalescence. He had yet to wake from the poison invading his system but his breathing was easier, the shivers that racked his body from time to time diminishing.
“They say the southern courtyard is underwater,” Oran told her as he brought supper to her. “Marcus has men digging trenches and stacking sandbags.”
“Why?” she asked as she took the food.
“Water is seeping into the keep.”
“Castle Blackthorn never had any problems with flooding,” she commented as she dragged a spoon through the stew in her bowl. “Mayhap the engineer who built this keep was not adept at his job.”
“He won’t like it when he finds out,” Oran said, looking over at Garrick. “He designed the keep and told the builder to use the best materials available. I don’t think the builder did that.”
“You think he skimped on materials?”
“I think he used inferior materials and if that is the case, Rick will have his ba…” Oran blushed. “Head.”
“And his balls,” Antonia said with a grin.
Oran laughed. “Them too,” he agreed.
“He is not a forgiving man,” she said. “I should know.”
“Have you forgiven him?” Oran inquired.
Antonia sighed. “Why do you and Marc keep asking me that?” she said, her lips pursed.
“Because we love him,” Oran said. “And we want to see him happy again.” He sat on his cot tailor-fashion and propped his chin on his fist. “You have no idea how bad things were when he thought you lost.”
“And you have no idea how bad it was to lose him,” she countered. “He is my Chosen, Ori.”
“Yet you married another man,” Oran accused. “And his enemy at that.”
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