Assassin's Touch, Iron Portal #1

by London, Laurie

  And he had wanted her to take off her clothes? Yeah, right.

  Without touching her, he caged her body against the stone and the air charged with energy. A low hum, which she had mistaken for the ringing sound of silence in her ears, intensified without getting louder until it rippled like waves over her skin. The fabric of her clothing seemed to vibrate. It was only when she felt the coolness of the stone against her back and the warmth from his body on her breasts, that she realized she was completely naked.

  And, of course, so was he.

  * * *

  The woman swayed, looking for the wall behind her for support, but it was now gone.

  “Right this way.” Rickert almost put his hand at the small of her back to guide her, but he stopped himself just in time. He’d seen enough arousing visions. “Welcome to the Cascadian side of the portal. Or the Barrowlands, as you seem to prefer.”

  He followed her closely in case she tripped, and they stepped into the antechamber.

  Although she tried to cover the front of her body, there was nothing she could do about her backside. His gaze swept over her shoulders, along the delicate channel of her spine, the soft roundness of her bottom, the dimples where he’d place his thumbs if he were to—

  Heat rushed between his legs, stirring his cock. Bloody hell, what was he thinking? If she saw his erection, it would only confirm her opinion that he was just a barbarian. He didn’t pause to consider why it mattered what she thought of him. It just did.

  He shoved past her and was soon rummaging through the clothes in his storage trunk. Pulling out a tunic, he held it out behind him, not turning to face her.

  “Here, put this on.” When she didn’t take it right away, he added, “Unless you’d prefer to arrive at the Crestenfahl castle completely naked.”

  She grabbed the tunic from him. “But aren’t we in the Barrowlands? In Cascadia?”

  “We are. Crestenfahl is my village.”

  “I…I didn’t know you have castles.”

  “Our realm is very different from yours,” he said, pulling on a pair of breeches. “In many, many ways.” She’d find that out soon enough. “What’s your name?”

  It took her a moment to respond, as if she were trying to decide what to tell him. “Neyla Trihorn. Agent Neyla Trihorn.” She held her arms around the shapeless tunic now covering her body. There was no sense of pride in her voice or her countenance, confirming his original hunch that, despite the uniform, she was no soldier. “And you are…?”

  He stood and finished tying the leather laces of his fly, making sure the loops were even. When he looked up to answer, her gaze slid quickly to his face and two rosy spots colored her cheeks again. He was oddly pleased he’d caught her staring at his maleness.

  “I am Rickert D’Angelus,” he said proudly. “Son of Carrick D’Angelus. Leader of a band of Iron Guild warriors from Crestenfahl.” He grabbed the well-worn weapons strap from the bench and cinched it diagonally across his body. Soldier or not, she was fighting for the Pacifican cause, which made her the enemy. He couldn’t forget that. “And what was the purpose of your unit’s mission back there in the mountains, Agent Trihorn?”

  She did nothing to hide the contempt on her face. “To prevent barbarian insurgents from infiltrating further into the Pacifica realm.”

  “How honorable,” he said sarcastically. As if her people were in that precise location only to intercept Cascadians.

  “That’s your point of entry into our world, isn’t it?”

  One of them, yes. “And your army had no other purpose for being there?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” She stared at him point-blank, her expressive eyes reflecting innocence, not treachery. She spoke the truth. Or the truth as she knew it. And something inside him threatened to give way.

  What the bloody hell were these soldiers being told, anyway?

  Although she had an air of vulnerability, there was a mental toughness in her that he couldn’t quite define. It was as if she didn’t exactly belong, but wasn’t about to admit it.

  Rummaging through his things, he handed her a small parcel.

  “What’s that?” she asked, eyeing the brown paper skeptically.

  “Dried ogappa.”

  She frowned. “Never heard of it.”

  “It tastes somewhere between a mango and a peach. Helps calm your belly after you cross through.”

  Taking the package from him, she tugged at the waxy string, plucked out a small piece, and took a bite. “It’s very good.” She popped two more pieces into her mouth. “It’s…it’s helping already.”

  She tried to hand the package back, but he shook his head. “No, keep it. It’s yours.”

  The small smile she gave him pulled at his insides. He could almost feel himself unraveling. It occurred to him then that she was an angelfish swimming in a sea of sharks.

  Of which he was one.

  “Other than your gut being unsettled, how do you feel?” He eyed the nasty bump on her forehead. It would be black and blue by morning unless it was treated. When they stopped at the Guthrie farm to pick up Duag, he’d see if one of the women could put together a healing poultice for her.

  “What do you mean? I’ve been captured by the enemy. How should I feel?”

  The ogappa must indeed be helping. The fiery nature he’d glimpsed on the other side was back. “I was referring to what that soldier did to you.”

  His mood darkened as he thought about the bastard. If Rickert could kill him again, but more slowly and painfully this time, he’d do it in a heartbeat. No one who hurt this woman should be allowed to die painlessly.

  “Smythe thinks I’m—” The agony in her voice was a clamp around his heart, squeezing until it hurt.

  He slammed shut the heavy lid of the trunk and the bang echoed loudly in the chamber. If the walls hadn’t been carved out of solid rock, he’d have punched them as well. He fought the crazy urge to take her into his arms and tell her he’d protect her. Instead, he grabbed the jewel-encrusted locket—a constant reminder of what he’d lost and who was to blame—and turned it over in his hand.

  This was madness. Sheer idiocy. Despite that stimulating vision, he did not care for this woman. At all. He needed to get his head out of this bloody fantasyland before it affected his judgment any further than it had already.

  The powerful sensations those misty images stirred up were wrong on so many levels. They were enemies on opposite sides of an age-old war and he couldn’t forget that.

  “What about Smythe?” he asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “Good. Because the bastard is dead.”

  Chapter Four

  Dread crept up Neyla’s arms as she looked around. She was really in the Barrowlands. Or as he preferred, Cascadia. Home of the enemy. Maybe she should’ve felt some sort of remorse that Smythe was dead, but she didn’t.

  The antechamber was at least twice the size of the one on the other side of the portal. Evenly spaced storage chests lined these walls, too. But they were larger, with detailed carvings on the tops and sides and ornate metal clasps and hinges. In front of each one was a small wooden bench. The center area was open—big enough for dozens of men to gather.

  She shivered. This was where the insurgents staged their attacks on the Pacifica realm.

  The man—Rickert—was absently fingering a jeweled pendant of some sort as he opened trunk after trunk, searching for something. Over and over he swung the cord around his finger, first one way, then the other. Light from the torches occasionally reflected off the colored stones and danced on the walls. She’d been so disoriented from the portal crossing she didn’t remember that he’d lit them. At least the ogappa seemed to be helping. She didn’t feel on the verge of puking any longer, although the butterflies remained.

  As he closed yet another heavy lid, the pendant—a locket—fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. It skittered like an open clamshell across the flagstones and stopped near her feet.

 
“Bloody hell,” he growled.

  She scooped it up and handed it back to him, but not before glimpsing a miniature portrait inside of a beautiful woman with dark hair and porcelain skin.

  He grabbed the piece from her and examined it closely.

  “Is it broken?” she asked, trying to ignore the echo of his brief touch on the palm of her hand.

  He stuffed it into his pocket. “It’s fine.”

  “You should be less cavalier with something so fragile.”

  His head snapped up, fire burning behind his icy blue eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “You were swinging it around by that cord and flipping it in your hand.”

  “I was not.”

  She didn’t want to argue with him. “I don’t know the value of something like that over here, but it’s clearly the work of a talented artisan. What is her name?”

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “The woman in the locket.” Clearly, she held a special place in his heart.

  “Was,” he said quietly. The word hung in the air like a hangman’s noose. “Maris is dead.”

  The simple, matter-of-fact way he said those three little words underscored the depth of his loss. “I’m…I’m truly sorry.”

  “I’m sure you are,” he said roughly, tossing her a pair of leather boots. “Put these on.”

  She picked them up, but kept thinking about the woman. Was she his wife? His lover? How had she died?

  “I doubt they’ll fit,” she said, examining the boots. They were huge.

  “This isn’t one of your shopping malls, Agent Trihorn. They’re the smallest I could find.”

  He held a cotton shirt by the sleeves and wound it a few times as he approached.

  She didn’t like the looks of this. “What are you doing?” she asked, quickly slipping her feet into the oversized boots.

  “It’s a blindfold.” Before she could protest, he covered her eyes with the shirt and tied the sleeves behind her head. “You don’t think I’m going to let you see where you are, do you?”

  Why would it matter? Unless… It occurred to her that it meant she might get out of this predicament at some point. That he was concerned she’d lead someone back here if she saw where they were going.

  She held her hands out like she had in the tunnel. “But I can’t even see to walk.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage.” She jumped at the sound of his voice—he was in front of her now. Then a rope tightened around her wrists. “Better?”

  “But—”

  “Follow me.”

  The rope jerked. She had no choice but to start walking.

  In a few minutes, they exited the dampness of the tunnel. Birds chirped around them, a rooster crowed somewhere in the distance, and the air smelled cool and fresh. It must be early morning here, just like it was on the other side. She found this strangely comforting. From the sound their boots made on the ground and the occasional tickle against her arms, she assumed they were trudging along a forest path. And when she felt the warmth of the sun at her back, she wondered if they were walking west.

  At some point during the journey, she stumbled and caught herself by grabbing onto the back of his shirt. He let her continue on like that for a while, but when she kept stepping on his heels, he quickly tucked her fingers into the welt pocket on the back of his breeches.

  “There,” he said. “Hold on and stay to the side. Off my boots.”

  He said nothing more to her as they walked, and she found herself silently counting the rhythmic flexing of his muscles against her fingertips.

  She was actually glad her face was covered. One—he wouldn’t be able to see how red her cheeks were. Physical contact may not be a big deal to him, but where she came from, people respected their personal space and certainly didn’t touch strangers like this. And two—with her eyes covered, she wouldn’t be able to see another vision, which might be triggered by touching him.

  After crossing several streams and walking for what seemed like hours, they finally stopped. “Wait here.” His footsteps crunched away from her on gravel.

  Her heart thundered in her chest. Were they at the jail pits?

  Awkwardly, with her hands bound together, she pulled off the blindfold, fully prepared to run if he had been fool enough to leave her unattended. What she saw surprised her.

  A small cottage stood at the edge of the forest, a white picket fence surrounding the front yard. From this angle, she could see part of a barn and a large field behind it. Several chickens scattered out of Rickert’s way as he strode down the flagstone path, and a dog barked from inside. A full-figured woman stepped out onto the porch and gave Rickert a generous hug. She wore a fuchsia, sari-like tunic that draped over one shoulder and matching pantaloons that gathered at her ankles.

  It was clear they were talking, but from this distance, she couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Rickert pointed in her direction a few times. The woman glanced over, nodding her head as she listened. A moment later, she threw up her hands at something he said and stepped off the porch.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” the woman called over her shoulder as she came marching down the path. With her hands on her hips, and slightly out of breath, she stopped in front of Neyla.

  Being an enemy combatant, Neyla wasn’t sure what she should or shouldn’t say to the locals, so she pressed her lips into a tight smile and examined the woman’s gorgeous outfit instead. The weave of the fuchsia fabric was too fine to be cotton and yet it didn’t quite look like silk, either. Complicated gold embroidery lined the neck and hemlines. The garment’s seams were done with tiny, pinprick-sized stitches, making Neyla wonder if the whole thing had been hand sewn.

  “You,” the woman commanded in a heavy accent. “Let me see your hands.”

  Neyla did as she was told and held them out, noting that the woman had a presence similar to that of Captain Gravich. People like them gave orders, expecting others to comply.

  The woman clucked as she untied the rope, then turned Neyla’s palms face up.

  “Sorry they’re so dirty,” Neyla said, embarrassed. Had she realized how filthy they were, she’d have tried to wash them in the stream they crossed a few miles ago. There wasn’t much she could do about it now.

  “That is to be expected,” the woman said gruffly. She passed a gnarled hand over Neyla’s palms and briefly massaged the base of her thumbs.

  Stifling a sigh, Neyla managed not to close her eyes in bliss. She loved hand massages. And foot massages, though the blisters on her heels wouldn’t appreciate one right now.

  “That wrist of yours came close to breaking,” the woman said, letting go of Neyla’s hands.

  “It did?” Then she remembered falling onto the ledge. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, but how did you know?” Suddenly, it dawned on her. “Are you a…healer?” The army was always looking for Healer-Talents, but she’d never met one before.

  A shadow passed behind the woman’s eyes. “I’m no healer, child, though I wish I were.”

  The sound of laughter drew Neyla’s attention. She looked up to see two beautiful young women exit the cottage to join Rickert on the porch. The short, curvy one wearing a vivid blue sari handed him a large mug, and he responded by kissing her on the cheek. She must’ve blushed, because she held her hands to her face and laughed. The tall, willowy one wore a butter-yellow sari, but instead of pantaloons, she had on fitted, pale beige pants, possibly made of leather. She hugged him as well, and he kept a hand at her waist as he drank.

  They obviously knew each other well, she thought, and for some inexplicable reason, her stomach tightened. Who were these women? Was the tall one romantically involved with Rickert? Or maybe they both were. It occurred to Neyla that she knew nothing of the customs in the Barrowlands. Did men here take several wives? Have multiple sexual partners? She turned away, not wanting to speculate further about his love life.

  After examining Neyla’s hands, the woman studied the r
est of her as if she were trying to figure out a mathematical equation—intense thought coupled with no emotion. Neyla shifted her weight and bit her lip, unsure of what to say or do, before a peculiar sensation washed over her. A sudden prickly awareness. It was as if the woman knew her already—her history, her background—and yet, they’d barely said two words to each other. Strangely, Neyla found herself wanting to measure up to the scrutiny.

  Finally, the woman broke her silence. “He knows the truth about you,” she said flatly.

  Okay, so Rickert had explained to her that Neyla was their enemy, but wasn’t it obvious already? She rubbed a tender spot on her wrist where the rope had chafed. “The truth?”

  “Yes.” The woman nodded. “He just doesn’t know he knows.”

  * * *

  “You’ve been smoking too much prath,” Rickert told Rosamund as he led Duag out of his stall. “Did Mr. Dunmire send some back with Antonia and Katla?” It certainly wouldn’t surprise him. The proprietor of Crestenfahl’s hookah pub was always doing little things to get Rosamund’s attention. Rickert wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the man sent the young women home with some of his private stash.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I haven’t touched that stuff in ages. I’m perfectly lucid.”

  Maybe it was a mistake to bring Neyla through the portal. He didn’t need the headache.

  “What are your plans for her?”

  “Please, Rosa. It doesn’t concern you.”

  He glanced at Neyla. She was sitting on the front porch of the cottage, a stone’s throw away from the barn. At Rosamund’s insistence, Antonia and Katla had brought food and drink for her, but they didn’t stay to talk. Rubbing her wrist, Neyla bit into a crust of bread and stared out across the fields toward the forest.