Heartless

by Gena Showalter

  He scanned her face, as if he needed to double-check the intent behind her words. “You will carry the bag, Chantel, or we will leave your provisions behind.”

  Ugh. His flat tone promised friction if she protested. But so what? “I’m already weak and tired. I’ve been on the run forever because you didn’t find me fast enough.” She couldn’t mask her whine as her fortitude wavered. “And I’m starving.”

  His eyelids lowered a tad. “You’re the one who insisted on our current arrangement,” he reminded her. “I’m your paid-for guide through the forest, nothing more. Though you broke your promise within minutes of giving it, didn’t you?”

  “No way. I exercised my caveat. What was I supposed to do, anyway?” she huffed. “Stay put and let Jareth nab me?”

  He thought for a moment. “I made sure to pack you clean clothes, toiletries and even the weapons you begged for.”

  Weapons? “Really?” she squeaked. Finding new strength, she hooked the satchel’s strap across her chest. “Okay, yes, I’ll carry the bag.”

  “That’s my princess,” he said, his lips twitching. He reclaimed the boots and knelt before her. He clasped her ankle, his gentleness surprising. “First, let’s prepare your poor feet.”

  As she gripped his broad shoulders to steady herself, he secured the boots in place. She expected pain, but her gashes must have healed. A welcome development. Though she would have endured any amount of agony for these boots. They were the most exquisite pair she’d ever seen, studded with sapphires, yellow diamonds, obsidian and pearls to create a Starry Night effect.

  None of her footwear at home compared. “To be clear, these boots are mine to keep forever?”

  “They are.” The moment he tightened the laces, the boots warmed and shifted, conforming to her feet, as if made specifically for her.

  She moved around, testing out the fit as Kaysar straightened. Perfection.

  “We are ready.” The gleam in his whiskey eyes did odd things to her insides as he offered his hand to her. “Come then. Our journey begins.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  KAYSAR LED HIS charge through the Forest of Many Names, pretending to be the gentleman she’d hinted about wanting. Being solicitous didn’t come naturally to him, but his mood remained bright.

  A novel experience for one who existed in a haze of fury.

  He thought he might even hover at the edge of giddy. He had his princess again. The day and night without her had been torture of the worst kind, his mind constantly on the verge of a breakdown.

  Now, here she was, alive and well, panting her breaths and mumbling her complaints as she trudged behind him. She struggled under the weight of the bag. Possibly because he’d added a rock every few miles, but who could say?

  He hadn’t forgotten Eye’s warning. She is the skin she wears.

  He simply didn’t know what it meant or how it affected his plans. Nothing will affect my plans. Every step impelled him closer to Jareth’s endless suffering.

  Once the prince and his bride were dealt with, Kaysar would focus on King Hador for a while. Rumors suggested the old king desired a wife of his own.

  I can take her, too...

  “How far are we going to walk today?” Chantel asked, no longer content to mumble.

  Do not grin. “We’re almost there.”

  She puffed a breath. “That’s what you said an hour ago.”

  “And now we are even closer.” Her misery had only begun. Soon she would realize her complete dependence on him and beg for aid. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “My feet are sore,” she whined. “These boots are the best, yeah, and I love them dearly, but they are also the worst, and I hate them with the heat of a thousand suns.”

  “You’d rather go barefoot?” On alert, he maneuvered around trees, ducked under gnarled branches and avoided webs of any kind. They currently meandered through Autumn Court territory, where the Frostlines had many allies.

  Trolls and ogres kept their distance. Pixies, too. Understandable, considering what Kaysar had done to the pink one. He’d been in the midst of a battle with Jareth when she’d swooped in and hobbled him, running the edges of her dagger-sharp wings through his Achilles tendons. Her version of retribution for slaying Race.

  Had she flown away immediately afterward, she might have survived the encounter. Instead, she’d circled back to finish him off. Though pixies appeared fragile, they were incredibly strong. Even still, he’d had no trouble catching and crushing her in his fist, then stomping on what remained.

  Remembering her attack renewed his fury. He almost wished someone did hide nearby, thinking to attack him. If nothing else, he’d have an opportunity to test Chantel’s fae powers. What more could she do? What were her limits? How would she react to his song?

  “Slow down already,” she griped, and he cast a glance over his shoulder. Sweat dampened her radiant skin, glistening as if she’d been dusted with diamond powder. “The land is treacherous. The rocks are sharp, the tree bark is spiked, and what is that awful smell?”

  Despite the clenching in his chest, there was no preventing his grin. “That, princess, is the stench of death. We near another field of slaughter. My enemies and their allies thought to invade my land weeks ago.” Months? Days had blurred together for Kaysar. “I attacked first and left their bodies for all to see. Care for a viewing?”

  “No, thanks,” she said, but he thought he might have heard a note of curiosity rather than distress or disgust.

  His grin widened. There was darkness in this woman. He’d realized the truth when she created poisonvine rather than ivy. A development Jareth was sure to lament. The fool. No appreciation for the finer things.

  Perhaps that darkness explained Kaysar’s inexplicable pull to her? Throughout his endless existence, few had understood his drive to devastate the Frostlines. The citizens of Astaria called him evil, as if he had no right to entertain such malice. Of course, few knew the abuse he’d suffered.

  Months of pain. Degradation. Endless loss.

  The past rose from the mire of his mind, a treacherous tide intent on swallowing the present. With a hiss, he shoved his metal claws deep into his wrist and dragged the tips to his elbow. Blood gushed from the four furrows. Map. Sister. Calm.

  Better.

  “Kaysar! You’re injured,” Chantel cried from behind him. “There’s a trail of blood—”

  “I’m already healing.” Her concern did something to him. He hardly noticed it, though. Yes, it was already forgotten.

  Lying to yourself now?

  He sliced a tree limb blocking his path, then ushered her along a line of azure bushes. A small, circular clearing overflowed with sunlight and wildflowers. The entrance to his territory.

  “Shall we rest here?” he asked and commanded in unison.

  “We—” She gaped at the terrain, suddenly speechless, and his chest puffed with pride. He’d paid for every square inch of the Nightlands with misery, countless battles with monsters, and starvation, often going weeks without food or even comfort of any kind.

  As she looked everything over more closely, her lustrous skin reveled in the sunlight, aglow with life and vitality.

  When can I hold her again? How will she react?

  He couldn’t wait to find out. Remembering how her body had trembled against his, how her pulse had jumped and her soft curves had melted over him, he throbbed. Throbbed. For her. A Frostline. As if she controlled his body, and he did not.

  Kaysar scowled, frustration entwining with anger and desire. His stance hadn’t changed. Women were tools to be exploited for his cause. They were useful until they weren’t, and they weren’t worth any effort otherwise.

  Did the princess release a special plant pheromone that heightened his senses and unlocked a wanton nature he’d previously known nothing about?

  Too often in th
eir short acquaintance, he’d caught himself deliberating what sex with her might be like. How it might vary from the sex he’d had with past targets. How she might prefer it. Hard or soft?

  He’d always tailored his seductions to the individual, taking no thought for his own pleasure. He’d simply done whatever he’d known the other person wanted. Some had feared violence. Others had begged for it. Some had required demands, and a few had felt inclined to issue them. But which had he favored? He didn’t know. His broken mind had never cared, his body’s sensations dulled.

  But they weren’t dulled anymore.

  “That tree.” She pointed to a massive okatriva. A tricolored sapling with a black trunk, white leaves, and red fruit. “That looks like a Tree of New Beginnings found in The Forest of Good and Evil.”

  Tree of New Beginnings? Forest of Good and Evil? No doubt she referred to her former mortal world. Key word: former. Meaning, the information mattered not at all. She had a new home now.

  During their trek, she’d asked numerous questions about different landmarks, poisons and animals, using names he’d never heard of. She’d asked questions about everything—except Kaysar himself. The insult of it all. As her guide, her safety was his responsibility. Shouldn’t she wonder about him? At least a little?

  He definitely wondered about her. Did a mortal husband or lover await her at her former home? How did she like to spend her days?

  Irritated, he told her, “I suppose those who eat its fruit do receive a new beginning.” He shrugged. “Since they die seconds later.”

  She grimaced, but cast the fruit a longing glance. “Is the death permanent or is there wiggle room?”

  “Yes.” Hungry, was she? Good. He’d devised the correct strategy. Her needs would herald her capitulation.

  Except, the instinct he’d combatted intermittently whispered once again. Feed. Satisfy. Protect.

  The conundrum threatened to incite his rage. He gnashed his teeth, then gnashed harder when he noticed more of her hair had pinkened. The light shade lent an undeniable illusion of vulnerability to her delicate features. My own personal doll.

  Still, he missed the rich sable locks. Were the strands as silky as they appeared? He almost reached out, when Eye’s warning echoed inside his head, stopping him. She is the skin she wears.

  “What?” Chantel gave herself a self-conscious pat. “I have bugs in my hair, don’t I?”

  Her irises. They’d changed, too. A golden starburst had exploded around her pupils, spilling deeper into her emerald irises. The effect was startling. Stunning. Mesmerizing. And oh, the scent of her. Her innate perfume had developed a spicier undertone. A powerful drug meant to lure unsuspecting males to their doom.

  “Seriously,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip. “What is it?”

  “You are—” He clenched his teeth until his jaw protested. Compliment her, while he orchestrated her misery? No.

  Movement pulled his gaze to the left, where a two-headed snake unfurled from a tree limb, nearing Chantel. A bite wouldn’t kill her, only make her wish she’d died, accelerating her reliance on him.

  Do not reach out. Do not.

  Kaysar reached out, raking his claws through the reptile’s body. Both heads plopped onto her shoulder, then tumbled to the ground.

  Fool. He’d wasted an opportunity.

  “What the—” She peered at the bodiless heads and screamed, then darted behind him and grabbed fistfuls of his tunic. “Save me!”

  She feared snakes to such a degree, she was willing to use him as a shield? He stood in shock. The last person to use him this way had been Viori.

  The pang returned to his chest, and the sensation was not unpleasant. Rather than resist it, he leaned into it just as he leaned his body into hers, winding an arm around her. “No one will save you better,” he told her. The vow sprang from the depths of his soul, unstoppable.

  “Oh, um...I misspoke. I don’t need saving.” She scrambled away from him, her cheeks flushed a deep red.

  Too prideful?

  Her hair had grown, and she tripped over the ends. “Argh!” She lifted her fists high and shouted indecipherable words. “I hate this world.”

  She could not have been more adorable.

  Adorable? He frowned as he approached her, saying, “Allow me.”

  She froze as he gently collected her hair and twisted the mass in his grip. The red returned to her cheeks and spread into a rosy flush as he unsheathed a blade with his free hand. Her incredible eyes rounded, and her breathing quickened, but she didn’t fight him.

  He sawed through the pink mass, careful not to apply pressure or pull.

  “Oh, thank you,” she moaned as the shorter hanks fell into place. She rolled her head over her shoulders. Longer locks framed her face, reaching her collar, while other strands stacked over her nape.

  The uneven style amplified her delicacy, which amplified his pang. He cleared his throat, keen to look away from her or stare forever, he wasn’t sure. Either way, the beauty refused to release his gaze, peering into parts of him he’d never wanted another to see.

  A flush burned his cheeks. When he unearthed the strength to tear his attention from her, he plunged forward, resuming their trek.

  “Come,” he called.

  She caught up with him, huffing as she stayed close to his heels. “And I thought I was bad at peopling. You have to be the worst peopler in history.”

  Whatever that meant. He still held her wealth of hair, he realized. That might be...disturbing? He should release it.

  But he didn’t want to release it.

  Disgusted with himself, Kaysar pried his fingers from the curls one by one, letting the silken mass slip away. At the last second, he snagged a sable lock and stuffed it in his pocket.

  On they marched. Chantel chattered away, asking more questions about foliage. Still no queries about him. “Shall I tell you the entire history between mortals and fae?” he sniped.

  “Let me guess.” How bored she sounded. “Your kind lived in harmony with mine until we persecuted you. Some ancient fae banded together, using magic to create a new world. Without a common enemy, fae kingdoms are now divided against themselves, always at war.”

  “We never lived among you,” he grumbled. Not for long. His ancestors had visited the mortal world to offer aid, and they’d died for their efforts.

  “So, what’s the biggest danger out here? To me personally, in case I wasn’t clear.”

  Me. “Some would say a stickypit.”

  “Stickypit?”

  “Trees like the one ahead. They bleed when they’re wounded. Watch.” As he passed it, he raked his claws through its trunk. Thick red liquid oozed out. “Once a trickle begins, it can’t be halted. Soon a pool will form at the trunk’s base, and anyone who comes into contact with it will remain glued there for the rest of their life.”

  “What?” She threw herself against him to escape the sap. He’d expected the action—had hoped for it, at least—and coiled an arm around her, pulling her to his side. As he continued walking, he kept a tight clasp on her hip.

  He liked the way she fit his grip.

  “I would have believed you without an example,” she stated. “Why’d you have to go and murder an innocent tree?”

  “Because your husband is following us, and I will relish his bellows if he’s caught.” Oh, yes. The prince had found their trail a few miles back.

  “What!” she cried again.

  “If you have a message for him, thirty-eight pixies are hiding nearby, happy to carry it to him.”

  “Pixies suck. Oh, yeah. Speaking of, I overheard you tell Jareth you killed the pink one.”

  Would she dare complain about his savagery?

  “Thank you,” she said, flicking him a glance laden with...something. What was that? Awe? As if he were some kind of hero? “I owed
her a whole lot of nasty.”

  Forget the pangs. Kaysar’s chest blistered. “You’re welcome?” He didn’t know what else to say. No one had ever thanked him for ending a life.

  When the hairs on his nape stood up, he realized an outpost neared, a place where fae purchased food, lodging and supplies. Chantel would never know. Outposts were pocket realms hidden by an invisible curtain or veil.

  He would thrill in her ignorance, of course. The worsening pang meant nothing.

  Miles beyond this particular outpost was the waterfall. The entrance to the Dusklands. His home away from home. A desolate kingdom with few other inhabitants.

  Though he hadn’t visited in, what? Twenty years? He loved the kingdom few others dared to enter. Or rather, he liked it. Kaysar wasn’t sure he was capable of loving anything. But he did enjoy the solitude he found in the Dusklands. The few remaining citizens always hid from him, and the monsters who usually tormented them always provided an outlet for his worst rages.

  He quickened his pace, forcing the princess to jog to keep up.

  “Speaking of Jareth,” Chantel said, bringing his thoughts back to the present. “That man disgusts me.”

  Shock. Tenderness. Both hit Kaysar, and he slowed, basking in their warmth. Then a worry sprang up, as cold as ice, ruining everything. Would Chantel feel the same disgust for him, when she learned the truth about what really happened to Lulundria?

  Could he win her back when he had yet to win her in the first place? Maybe. But she’d want to leave him first, and he’d have to go more days and nights without her. He didn’t want to go more days and nights without her.

  Faster. His stride lengthened.

  “So, how do you spot a doormaker?” Chantel asked.

  Why. No. Curiosity. About. Him? They were teammates. She’d said so. She should care about his interests. “You don’t spot a doormaker. You hear rumors, and you pay him a visit to perform a test.”