by Hazel Hunter
“After the stars disappeared, the sword wasn’t broken anymore,” Kayla said. “It looked brand new.”
Her sister wrapped her arms around herself. “What about Ryan? What can he do?”
“Aside from change a motorcycle into a horse? I don’t know yet. I’ve been kind of dodging him.” She rubbed her temple. “He never practices in any of the duels they do. No swords, no staffs, nothing. The rest of them do, so that’s a little weird.”
“He’s like the biggest guy here,” Tara pointed out. “Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt anyone else.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Kayla sighed. “Look, kiddo, I have to go back and get the horses ready. Just, please be patient for a little longer. I’ll find what we need, I promise.”
“Sure.” Her sister sighed and sat down behind the ancient foot-pedal contraption. “Just add a real sewing machine to that list, will you?”
Chapter 11
“Hey, big guy.” A brass-haired wench dressed in shabby garments perched her broad ass on the stool beside Dirk Blackstone. “Ain’t see you around here before.”
Over her shoulder Dirk saw his cousin Beck emerge from the shadowy corner his men occupied. Dirk shook his head slightly to send him back into the dark. Unlike the last tavern they had visited, this one was not full of mortal bikers eager to clash and draw blood. The Blackstone clan had left that one littered with their corpses, but not without cost. Dirk’s wounds throbbed as he regarded the pushy mortal.
“I have never come here before today.”
“Well, I have,” she said. She leaned forward, pressing her arms against the sides of her large, drooping breasts. They bulged up from her too-tight, spangled top. “My name’s Tina. Buy me a drink?”
He nodded to the bartender, who trotted over to give Tina a knowing smirk.
“A dirty martini, Jeff,” Tina said as she shifted her thick body closer to Dirk’s. “So what brings you to Chattanooga, big guy? Got family in town?”
The smell of the sweat under her perfume filled Dirk’s nose, bringing with it the acrid stink of chemicals. Dirk could see the cause in the faint needle marks in the bend of her arms, and the small open sore in the corner of her mouth. Yet atop her stench lay a far more inviting odor—that of his prey.
“Well?” Tina demanded.
Dirk imagined telling her that he and his clan had come on his father’s orders to capture a cursed Fae woman who possessed enough power to level the city. Or maybe he would just tell her that her breath smelled of corpse rot.
“No. No family here.”
She giggled. “Then why’d you come to Nooga, big guy?”
“I am looking for…” What was the word they used for their comrades? “Friends. Two sisters who travel together. One has light eyes, and the other is younger, and fair. Perhaps you have seen them.”
“Waste my time checking out some other bitches?”
Tina made a flatulent sound with her thin lips as she accepted her drink from the bartender. From the glass she removed two small fruits skewered by an even tinier plastic sword.
“Not when there’s a eye candy like you around,” she said.
She watched him as she slowly sucked one of the fruits into her mouth.
Naught about the woman aroused Dirk, but her clumsy efforts at seduction brought back a vision of Tara Rowe. How pale her face had turned as he’d dragged her from the cloth shop. How viciously she had fought him. He’d held her close for a moment before she’d used her sharp little teeth on him, and wriggled free. The memory of how her slim, ripe body had felt against his could still made his cock stiffen. Someday she’d open her mouth for him. Someday very, very soon. And Dirk would wind his fist in that long, winter moon mane of hers, and make her pleasure him until her lips split.
“Come on, baby–” Tina placed her hand on his bicep, but snatched her hand back. She stood, staring at the dark wetness staining her fingers. “Shit, man. You’re bleeding.”
He seized her wrist before she could back away and shoved her back onto the stool.
“The women I seek. You have seen them.”
“No, I told you,” Tina whined. The wench whimpered as his grip on her tightened. “You’re hurting.”
“You are lying,” he said through clenched teeth. Pain rose from her flesh and spread into his, seeping up his arm until it settled over the open wound. Dirk felt the edges closing and decided to attend to both his needs. “Come with me.”
He hauled her behind him through the tavern and out the back entrance, where he found an empty alley. The wench was still whining and writhing when he turned and pushed her up against the brick wall, but once she looked into his eyes she fell under his power, quieted and went still.
Dirk grabbed a handful of her stiff curls and pulled until her eyes went wet. “Reveal.”
“I’m a drunk and a drug addict,” Tina said, the magick he cast rendering her voice flat and lifeless. “I short-change customers, and steal tips from the other waitresses. I shoplifted a bracelet to pawn it–”
“The sisters,” Dirk said, twisting his fist in her hair until she released a high-pitched whine. “Are they here, in the city? I can smell them on you.”
“There was a gal, last week.” She stared past him as her voice softened. “She had coffee and toast at City Cafe, the diner where I work. Pretty little girl. Prettier’n me. Strange, too. Like someone from a faraway place–”
He let go of her hair and grabbed her arms. He shook her hard enough to slam the back of her head into the wall.
“But you touched her. Why?”
Tina squinted at him. “She handed me a five and told me to keep the change. It felt so good when she touched me. Better than the meth.”
So this one could still feel something other than her craving for oblivion. He released her arms and tore open her dress from collar to hem.
“Spread your legs.”
Dirk unfastened his trousers and freed his shaft. He spat in his palm and dampened his club-like cockhead before stroking himself a few times. The wench stood unresisting as he kneed her legs apart and guided himself to her dry opening. Getting inside her meant fighting his own lack of desire as much as hers, and he could only shove half his length inside her before she began to mewl with pain.
“Please don’t,” Tina begged. “It hurts too much.”
“Shut your mouth,” he told her, gripping her throat and squeezing until she fell silent. Her funerary breath made him turn his head away and look down the alley as he forged deeper.
It would not be like this with Tara, Dirk thought as he mechanically pumped in and out of the wench. Tara already had the look of a wild thing about her. No, she would fight him, scratching and biting as she had before, until he beat her into submission.
Tina made a gurgling sound, distracting him from his fantasy, and he tightened his grip. “I told you,” he muttered as he hammered into her. “Shut up.”
He wouldn’t fuck the little one on her feet, Dirk decided. He would strip her naked and tie her down. He’d fill her over and over until she cried out his name, and made herself his slave. He closed his eyes, imagining it was Tara sheathing him, and felt the hot surge tighten in his balls before he began to jet.
“Yes, you’ll like it, little one,” he murmured, driving himself into his root for the last, long spurt. “I’ll make you love it.”
A dark energy burned over Dirk’s wounds, which the rough sex had been slowly healing. But Tina began to slide down the wall. He had to tilt his head to look into her bulging, dead eyes. Her protruding tongue made him jerk out of her in disgust, and she crumpled like a broken doll.
“You don’t have to fucking kill them, Cousin,” Beck said as he came out of the bar and nodded at the wench’s corpse. “Or is it kill them fucking? I can never remember how ’tis said in this mortal prattle.”
“Who fucking cares?” Dirk grumbled as he straightened his clothes. He lifted his hand, channeling his restored power at a broad swath of shadow. “One
of them was here last week. Get the men. We’re leaving.”
Beck nodded. “And where are we to go now?”
Dirk reached down to grab Tina’s hair and dragged her toward the writhing pool of darkness he’d created. “Some swill hall called City Cafe.”
Chapter 12
Ryan knew that the old Moffett lodge had hosted many guests over its long history. A few illustrious politicians, country singers, and businessmen had even graced the wood-paneled halls where he now strode. But it had mostly served as a haven for renegades. Elias Moffett, the banker who had built the place before the market crash of ’29, had hated the new-fangled electricity of his time, and outfitted the lodge to run on coal and gas. During the Great Depression Moffett had refused to sell the place, instead moving there to live with his wife. All their wealth gone, they had sometimes had to live on whatever wild game Elias could find in the woods, until their fortunes reversed again.
As Ryan exited the lodge and headed for the dressing tent, he still smiled a little when he remembered Elias. Like him, Elias had been exiled for marrying a mortal. The old Fae huntsman had welcomed the Forever Faire each winter, providing haven and kinship for Ryan and his men while they rested from their long year of traveling. Elias had also adored his lovely wife, Lily, despite the fact that she had never been able to give him children. She died smiling in his arms shortly after celebrating her ninetieth birthday. The next morning Elias had sent a courier with one last letter and the deed for the Moffett Lodge to Ryan, before choosing to follow his wife to the next place.
Once in the dressing tent, Ryan began to prepare for the bout by donning his armor. But his thoughts remained with Elias and his wife—and Ryan well knew why. He’d been in a melancholy mood since his encounter in the woods. Perhaps the joust would dispel his gloominess. If naught else it would give him something to do besides think of her.
The tent flap opened, and Colm stepped inside. “Our new groom’s a female.”
“What?” Ryan retrieved his chest protector and checked the straps before fitting it into place. “Why?”
“I asked Lawrence that, and the addlebrain swore—swore to me, Ryan—that he’d hired a lad. I went to the barn to tell the boy when to bring out the horses. And there she was.” Colm brought over two lances and held them out. “The eight or the ten?”
“The ten, brother.”
Ryan was set to ride against Gavan, who had been a champion of the tourneys since their invention.
“Is she a mannish woman?” Ryan asked. “What do they call it...transforming?”
“Transgender,” his second said, but shook his head. “A wee thing, but definitely female. Could be Lawrence simply neglected to look down.” Colm checked the length of the ten-foot lance for defects. “Titan’s taken to cuddling her.”
Ryan uttered a sour sound. “My horse doesn’t cuddle.”
“He does now. Hung his head on her shoulder and nuzzled her neck, as besotted as a boy. So sweet he was, it set my teeth to ache.” Colm picked up his helmet and turned it over in his hands. “My gut says she’s trouble.”
He stopped cinching his straps. “How so?”
Colm made a frustrated sound. “I can’t fault her work. She’s managing it. The barn and the mounts are in good order. Our lads like her, too, rather a lot—even your Titan. She’s a bit cheeky, but what female isn’t these days?” He hesitated but then pressed on. “I just know there’s more to this little wench than can be seen. I can’t put name to the cause, but she unsettles me. The eyes, maybe. Like a cat’s.”
Ryan considered all that. “You’re sure she’s mortal, then?”
“Aye, as they come. I took a look from toe to head, and there’s not a bit of Fae about her.” Colm held up his right hand. “I saw a bridle about to fall and caught it. I mindfogged it from her in a blink.”
As his second Colm bore many burdens. He kept a keen and perpetual watch over their troop. His instincts, honed by battle and loss, always made the mark. If he thought the wench was trouble, then no doubt she was.
“Send her on her way after the bout,” Ryan said.
“She’ll need wages,” Colm said, but he seemed relieved. “Enough to keep them until they find something else.” He caught Ryan’s glance. “Lawrence hired her sister as our new seamstress. You’ve seen her?”
“Aye.” Ryan recalled the slim, ashen-haired female with the sulky eyes, fitting a vest on Gavan. He hadn’t liked that she was fair, but her hair had none of the golden color so many Fae women possessed.
“They look naught alike.”
Colm shrugged. “Sisters often don’t, brother. Our groomswoman is the older, and to my eyes, more fetching.”
Colm’s concern for their temporary nuisance wasn’t unusual. Although they treasured mortal females, the rigors of the show demanded the sort of stamina and strength rarely possessed by them. His second’s interest stirred Ryan’s curiosity.
“How long has it been since you’ve taken a lover?”
“Since I was cast out, as well you know,” Colm told him. “Even if I had a mind to, which I do not, Kayla’s too small. More than a peck at her would likely break–”
Ryan’s gaze snapped to Colm’s face. He quickly stepped to within an inch of the man.
“Kayla?” Ryan demanded. “Kayla Rowe is our new groom?”
“Aye.” His second’s brows rose as he glanced down at his shirt. The center of the garment was bunched in Ryan’s fist. “You know her?”
“No,” he said, almost shouting. He released his second and turned away. “I but let her warm herself at my fire on a cold night.”
“Is that what they call it now?” Colm said. As Ryan spun around Colm held up his hands. “’Twas a jest, my liege. If you want her gone, she’ll go.”
Avoiding temptation by sending Kayla away was the only course that made sense. But as Ryan met his second’s gaze, he remembered the delicious feel of Kayla’s lips under his. Just the mention of her name buoyed his spirits. He’d let her go once, and it had taken every bit of willpower he possessed.
“Let her stay, for now.”
If Colm had something to say about his decision, he kept it to himself.
Ryan draped his mail standard around his neck and picked up his jousting helmet. As he tucked it under his arm he picked up the ten-foot lance and stalked out of the tent.
Outside sunlight poured over the faire grounds, gilding dozens of tents, shoppes, gaming stalls and performance stages. The sharp scents of ale and wine blended with that of roasted joints, sugared nuts and ginger cake. Mortals clustered and crowded everywhere. Despite the outlandish costumes that many wore, Ryan smiled. Somewhere out there, too, was Kayla Rowe.
“Good day to you, sir knight,” said a willowy woman dressed in a neck ruff and low-cut scarlet gown. She dropped into a wobbly curtsy before him. Her long curls bobbled and her earrings glinted as she drew a small square of red silk from her sleeve and offered it to him. “Will you carry my favor?”
He eyed the over-large dagger she wore on her leather girdle, which was tied in the sheath with thin leather straps.
“Do you vow to keep your blade peace-bonded should I lose, milady?”
“But of course.” She produced an ornate fan and peered at him over its edge. “You shall owe me a forfeit, however.”
Colm stepped between them. “Alas, Sir Ryan of the Sheridans does not carry colors, but he is grateful for your favor just the same. If you would accompany me, I’ll see to it that you have the best seat in the jousting arena. It is just the spot where all may admire your beauty, milady.”
Wallace joined Ryan to watch Colm lead the simpering fan away.
“Should someone tell milady,” Wallace said, “that back in those days, the only women who let their hair down, bared their ears, and wore red were trollops?”
“Best not to,” Ryan replied, searching the crowd for Kayla’s petite form. He handed the smith his helmet. “How is Gavan’s mood?”
“His town we
nch threw him over for a mortal. You’ll need that ten,” the smith said as they walked over to the entrance of the jousting arena.
Kayla checked over Sampson and Titan one last time before she took hold of their reins and led them out of the barn. The high pommels on the saddles looked odd, and she still couldn’t understand why they needed to wear tail guards, but neither horse seemed to mind being laced into their armor. Someone took very good care of the mounts’ gear, too. The riveted slats of the cruppers over their hindquarters had been lovingly polished to a mirror-brightness. Every bit of leather trim had been kept oiled and clean.
One of the performers halted in their path and stared.
“This is getting old,” Kayla muttered under her breath as she stopped and looked up at yet another broad, ordinary face. “Hi. Kayla Rowe, new groom. Not a lad.”
“I can see that,” the man said, his tone as cold as his frosty amber eyes. “You’re the sister, then.”
This was Jannon, the drunk she had seen spoiling for a fight at the bonfire. “I am. You’ve met Tara?”
His jaw tightened. “Aye. She doesn’t belong here anymore than you.”
Kayla returned his evil glare. “You got a problem with us, pal, tell it to Colm. Or come find me and we’ll chat. Leave my teenage sister out of it.”
He stepped toward her, shook his head, and then pivoted and stalked away.
“So he’s not a fan, obviously,” she said to Titan.
Kayla felt suddenly cold, and looked down to see patches of frost on her jeans and jacket. Similar scrolls of ice appeared on both horses’ armor.
“Looks like we’ve got an iceman to go with the horse-changer and the sword-mender.” Titan nudged her shoulder and whickered. “Right, we have to go rumble with the other boys.” She sighed. “Come on.”
Once she reached the performer’s passage into the jousting arena Kayla inspected the horses one final time. Satisfied, she led them out into the open-air makeshift stadium. A wood-post barrier divided the dirt field into parallel courses. Pennants and flags fluttered above the crowded stands. On either end of the field three men stood with a knight dressed in armor. The broad hilts of their lances matched the trims on their horses, so Kayla took Sampson down to Gavan. But as she returned to lead Titan to Ryan, she heard the bridle rattle as her hands shook. Sunlight glinted from Ryan’s metal suit, almost blinding her. Even so, she couldn’t help but stare. Heart pounding, she stopped and offered him the reins.