by Alex Lidell
Copyright © 2018 by Alex Lidell
Danger Bearing Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Credits:
Edited by Mollie Traver
Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Design
Lera of Lunos
Power of Five, Book 4
Alex Lidell
Danger Bearing Press
Contents
Also by Alex Lidell
1. Lera
2. Lera
3. River
4. Lera
5. Lera
6. Lera
7. Tye
8. Lera
9. Lera
10. Tye
11. Lera
12. Lera
13. Lera
14. Tye
15. Lera
16. Lera
17. Lera
18. Lera
19. Lera
20. Lera
21. River
22. River
23. Lera
24. Lera
25. Lera
26. Lera
27. Tye
28. Tye
29. Lera
30. Lera
31. Lera
32. River
33. Tye
34. Coal
35. Lera
36. Lera
37. Lera
Afterword
Also by Alex Lidell
About the Author
Also by Alex Lidell
New Adult Fantasy Romance
POWER OF FIVE (Reverse Harem Fantasy)
POWER OF FIVE
MISTAKE OF MAGIC
TRIAL OF THREE
LERA OF LUNOS
Young Adult Fantasy Novels
TIDES
FIRST COMMAND (Prequel Novella)
AIR AND ASH
WAR AND WIND
SEA AND SAND
SCOUT
TRACING SHADOWS
UNRAVELING DARKNESS
TILDOR
THE CADET OF TILDOR
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1
Lera
This is a bad idea. I step forward, struggling to tune out my own warning.
The sunbathing tiger gives a sleepy snort, his orange- and black-striped body completely covering the fountain’s stone bench. Eyes closed, the great cat has his head pillowed on one large paw, the other front limb hanging lazily down to the ground. Whiskers as long as my forearm sway in the breeze, and the twitching of the cat’s closed eyes speaks of exciting dreams.
However dangerous provoking a sleeping tiger might be, the alternative—letting Tye’s animal form continue to lie in the middle of the Citadel’s courtyard—is worse still. With the rising sun now bringing trainees and staff outdoors, someone is going to get hurt. Killed. Unlike most shifters, Tye’s tiger is unaware of his fae self, which makes him as dangerous as the wild animal whose form he takes.
I take another step forward, my heart pounding. If River is willing to throw King Griorgi off his throne for the sake of Slait and Lunos, then evicting Tye from the Citadel’s central fountain is the least I can do. And then I’ll make the bastard tell me why he shifted in the first place.
I extend my knuckles toward his wet nose, the three paces between us too far for touch but too close to save me if the tiger pounces. A very, very, very bad idea.
“Good morning there, Tye.” I keep my voice low and steady, trying to slow my racing heart. There is nothing more appetizing to a predator than fear. “I know you are Tye. And you know me too, don’t you? You are Tye and I am Lera, and you are not going to maul me.”
The morning mist has burned off, leaving golden autumn sunlight, whispering red maples, and a crisp square of green grass and white marble spreading away from us in each direction. Sparrows whistle back and forth, hidden in the branches overhead. Stunning perfection—perfection that Tye’s tiger is daring to mar.
“If it were up to me, I’d string the trainee to a whipping post for this stunt,” a male says behind me. One of the Citadel guards—a pair of them appeared a few minutes ago, their eyes searing my back. With their standard-issue forest-green uniforms and air of jaded boredom, they stand out easily from quint trainees. “The male knows full well that his damn beast is rabid.”
“How long has it been here?” The second male’s voice is low, more likely to avoid attracting Tye’s attention than to conceal itself from me.
“Half the damn night. And now it looks like its breakfast is here.”
“I’ve two darts,” Guard Two says. “Want me to shoot its ass?”
I spin toward the two males, my eyes flashing. If River were here, he’d likely have some appropriately diplomatic way of sending these two to hell, but the prince is scheming with Autumn in the library as he’s been every minute of the three days since discovering Griorgi in Karnish. So the bloody guards will get me instead of diplomacy.
Power surges inside me, saturating my muscles. Not magic—I have no magic without echoing one of my males. But sheer, utter fury is a power of its own. “Hurt Tye’s tiger and I will tear your throats out.”
I little care how much smaller I am just now. How mortal. If one of them picks up that crossbow hanging on his belt, they will both have me to reckon with.
And then they can explain to the council why they killed Klarissa’s pet weaver.
The guards exchange a look and take a step back, their hands rising slightly to show no intention of reaching for a weapon.
I turn back to Tye.
“If she is too stupid to live, that’s her problem,” one mutters to his partner, who snorts in agreement.
Right. They have me there.
I step toward the tiger. Still sleeping without a care in the world, oblivious to the havoc he is wreaking in the Citadel’s courtyard.
“What do you say to napping elsewhere?” I murmur, aware that we are drawing more and more attention. Warriors in training. Visiting scholars. Staff. All gathering for a show, muttering condemnations of an out-of-control shifter. As if Tye is some spectacle to be gossiped about. I take another step toward him. “Your kitty form is . . . Well, the Citadel guards are running out of clean underwear.”
The tiger gives a small feline snort, his top lip curling up to show fangs glistening in the sun. I wonder if that’s a yes or a no. If I’m the reason Tye has taken this form to begin with. In the days since the trial—or maybe even before then—the emerald-eyed male has grown more distant. Skipping meals. Avoiding eye contact. And now this. Why? Talk to me, Tye.
My soul strains for a connection with him, its absence like a tiny, persistent nail being driven into my flesh. I want more of Tye, but he . . . I don’t know what he wants. Just that it isn’t me. Maybe that’s why some part of me is insisting on doing this myself instead of calling for River or Coal, a part that’s desperate enough to hope Tye’s tiger might acknowledge me. Might convince his fae counterpart to grant me a chance.
Still snoozing in the sun, the tiger looks like a giant orange plush toy, or perhaps an overgrown housecat. A housecat in whose world you are a mouse.
I take another step toward him, nice and easy, trying to quell the urgency in my stomach. “Could I share your bench?”
One eye opens, emerald green with an elongated pupil, and regards me lazily. The tiger is blissfully unaware of anything but the stone bench beneath him, the sun on his fur. There is no Emperor Jawrar in his world, no coiled tension of River working out a plan to dethrone his father, no vulnerabl
e human wielding more magic than she can control. I wonder what it might be like to wake up in the morning to discover your limbs aching from a hunt you don’t remember, your belly full of meat.
Someone curses behind me and I realize the little scene is gathering an outright audience. I even hear a bet exchanged and cringe with the certainty that good money is not on me.
The tiger closes both eyes, having apparently decided me not worth bothering with. Certainly not when something as important as a nap is at stake.
“Bloody stars, one of you stop that insane idiot,” a voice full of command bellows across the square. From the sudden commotion around me, I take the approaching male to be the captain of the Citadel Guard, and I curse to myself. But I don’t dare break focus to turn toward him. The voice gets closer. “Mark my words—if that mortal gets hurt on your watch, there will be more blood soaking this grass than you bastards would like. Same if I so much as smell a gaming ledger.”
The two guardsmen from earlier suddenly bracket me, one approaching from each side, their eyes narrowed, teeth bared in resentful anger. “You heard the captain.” The one on the right spits on the ground beside my foot. “Step. Back. You mortal idiot.”
Wonderful.
“You’ve my gratitude for your concern, guardsmen, but the tiger is my quint mate,” I say, summoning a calm, respectful tone on the off chance that I might still talk myself out of a confrontation. “I accept full responsibility for whatever happens.”
The spitter snorts. “Like your accepting responsibility will mend any of our hides.” His leering gaze slithers over me as he cracks his knuckles. Dark, cruel eyes linger on my breasts, where my nipples have peaked in the morning chill and show too plainly through my burgundy tunic.
I step back, my heart stuttering.
Spitter lunges for me, his fingers digging painfully into my shoulders. A full head taller than I am and stout as a wine cask, the male smells of acrid sweat and the eggs he ate for breakfast. Lowering his voice so only I can make out the words, he whispers into my ear, “Whatever reason the magic chose you, it wasn’t for brains, wench. If you like it rough—”
That is as far as he gets before the tiger, sleeping peacefully a moment ago, suddenly launches himself at the pair of us.
I feel the impact of the animal’s shoulders as he hits my hips, knocking into me so forcefully that I fly backwards. My breath leaves me as I land hard on the ground.
A pace away, Spitter screams, his voice wet and ear-piercingly high, as four parallel gashes bloom across his chest. Bright-red blood soaks his green uniform and the tips of Tye’s claws.
Setting all four paws on the ground, the tiger surveys the grass: Spitter, down and bleeding; the second guard—and everyone else—wisely backing away; one mortal female on the ground, trying to scoot back.
The tiger’s attention pauses on me and I freeze as the animal circles. Stops. Yawns. A white muzzle cocks to the side, green eyes full of familiar condescension meeting mine.
Fear dries my mouth, making the sides of my vision waver to blackness. The sun feels too bright, the wind too cold. My muscles tighten, ready to run, even as I can’t bring myself to look away from the approaching predator. Beneath me, the damp grass soaks through my pants in cold spots.
The tiger follows as I inch away. Stalking one step for every foot I move. Probably enjoying the damn game, contemplating whether human meat would be to his delicate liking.
He opens his maw, showing a full set of glistening teeth. When I shudder, he lifts a massive paw into the air, the same one that left Spitter in tatters.
The sight of blood still clinging to those sharp nails shoves all rational thought from my mind. Before I can stop myself, I lunge to my feet and sprint. My boots pound the ground, sinking into the soft earth. Warriors, trees, buildings, everything but the path forward blurs in my vision. I think of nothing but my steps. One. Two. Three. Fo—
The tiger tackles me from behind, flattening me to the ground. Air leaves my lungs again as I fall, the smell of grass and cat filling my nose. I brace for the pain, the sting of slashed flesh.
A large, warm weight settles atop me instead. Seven hundred pounds of feline pinning me to the earth, thick fur covering my face.
Squirming toward oxygen, my head emerges from what I realize is the tiger’s armpit. The weight atop me shifts ever so slightly and settles again. Heavy. Relaxed. Then the tiger opens his mouth and brushes his wide, rough tongue over my ear.
Again. And again.
An insane chuckle escapes my tight throat. Then another, before a string of deranged giggling—the kind that can only be evoked by the absurdity of a bath from a killer tiger—rushes from my chest. “That tickles,” I say, twisting my face. “That—”
Click.
The soft sound sends ice down my spine. I see it a moment later—Spitter loading a crossbow with a barb-tipped arrow. Taking aim. His partner doing the same.
“No!” I bellow into the morning air. “Don’t shoot! For stars’ sake, don’t shoot.”
“You’re as rabid as that thing,” Spitter says—and pulls the trigger.
2
Lera
A flash of light blinds me, a rush of power filling my veins as the tiger atop me shifts into Tye’s fae form. A hissing heat singes the air above my head. A fraction of a heartbeat later, two hunks of deformed metal thump to the ground. Barbed crossbow bolts melted in the nick of time by Tye’s flex-honed magic.
Whispers ruffle across the grass-covered square, the voices breathless, disbelieving.
“Impossible. Bloody impossible.”
“. . . melted a half dozen in the practice arena—you should have been there.”
“That’s . . . Do you remember Tyelor of Blaze?”
Ignoring the whispers, Tye rises from where his body covers mine, the dark pants and wine-colored tunic he wore when he shifted once more hanging loose on his muscled frame. His red hair is streaked with sweat and his green eyes are chilled enough to be Coal’s. The silver earring that usually makes him look carefree and cocky now just makes him look menacing. Heartbeats pass while his eyes focus, recognition finally flashing in them.
“Tye—” I start.
“Approaching my tiger was inexcusably dangerous, Leralynn,” Tye says quietly, stepping between me and the crowd.
My stomach sinks, hurt squeezing my ribs.
Spitter, one hand pressed against his bleeding chest while the other still clutches the crossbow, blanches. “Now you listen here, trainee—”
“Those were barbed arrows, not sleeping darts.” Tye’s voice is ice. “And there was a human in their path.”
Spitter’s partner, who fired the second bolt and now stares wide-eyed at the melted remains of it, retreats a step. “We were protecting the Citadel.” His voice rises, claiming justice. “You are the one who put the girl in danger. Who put all of us—”
Tye’s hand flicks and thin collars of white fire encircle both shooters’ necks, a finger’s width away from their skin. “You thought my tiger was the more dangerous of us?” His voice has hardened from ice to steel.
The guards’ throats bob, the crowd around us drawing a collective breath.
“It’s Tye, is it not?” The captain of the Citadel Guard, whose voice I heard earlier, steps forward through the sea of parting spectators. A distinguished, dark-haired male with gray at his temples, the captain has his hands in his pockets, his shoulders straight but easy. “Some unfortunate choices have been made this morning. Let’s not make the list any longer than it must be.”
“Get River,” Tye says coldly. “I’d like my quint commander present. Library, west wing.”
The captain snaps his fingers, sending an underling off at a trot. “Done. Meanwhile, I’d be obliged if you would release my guardsmen. One of them is injured, as you can see.”
“Your guardsmen are fortunate to be alive at all,” Tye replies, the tension in his voice and back squeezing my chest. I’ve never seen the quick-to-smil
e male like this before. Neither, I wager, has anyone else at the Citadel.
Taking a step forward, I gently lay a hand on Tye’s arm, the coiled muscles beneath his burgundy shirt as hard as chiseled stone. His jaw clenches. “Tye?” I say gently. “Look at me.”
“I am holding a very delicate piece of magic just now, lass,” he answers without turning his head. “As magic and body are connected, it would be best if you withdrew your hand lest I accidentally slip.”
I remove my hand, my stomach sinking even further. Despite standing close enough to feel the heat of Tye’s body brushing mine, to smell his fresh citrus-and-pine scent, I’ve never felt so far away from the male.
“What’s going on?” By the time River’s voice sounds a few minutes later, the guards in Tye’s hold are trembling outright. My own nerves fray at the ends as well. Hands behind his back, River strides up to stand beside the captain of the guard, his gray eyes taking in everything around him without effort. His towering height, cropped brown hair, and tailored blue jacket make my heart stutter in relief—and make every guard in this square look like a ragtag child.
Silence pulses. My ears ring.
“Leralynn?” I realize River has asked me a question. Of everyone’s here, mine is the first assessment he wants to hear. When did that happen?