First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  Bolin sighed. "Aye."

  "Without them knowing?"

  "Aye." He wavered unsteadily. It took a fair amount of determination to remain standing. But if he gave in and collapsed back onto the bed, he would loose what little ground he had gained with Ciara. Donovan had planted the seeds of distrust. Bolin needed to squash them before they took root.

  "Did you do that to my aunt?"

  He furrowed his brow and rubbed at his eyes to ease the gritty feeling in them. "Do what?"

  She stood uncomfortably close, and he had lost the threads of their conversation again. He sucked in a breath and with it the heady, unmistakable spicy scent of her power. He licked his lips, and tried to drag his brain out of the fog. "Never."

  "To me?"

  Bolin took her hands and lifted them to curl her fingers against his chest. He shouldn't have. He didn't have the strength to keep his emotions in check. But he wanted to ease the hurt and confusion shadowing her expression.

  "I've done things out of necessity and duty," he said softly, and reached up to brush a strand of hair off her face, careful to avoid the bruise across her cheek. "In the name of justice, on bequest of the Emperor -- does it matter why? But I've not done so to you, nor will I." If it can be at all prevented, remained unsaid.

  She lifted her face, and met his gaze with an unblinking and far too intense one of her own. His hand warmed where it held hers, a sensation that spread up his arms and ran through his veins with the heady flush of a draught of brandy.

  "I’ll give it to you," she whispered. Her eyes were wide, mistrust replaced by blind trust.

  Bolin had seen that look before, in the faces of young warriors who never came home. Before he could question what she would give to him, Ciara's earth magic surged upwards and his breath caught then quickened as pain dissipated in its wake. Bolin traced that magic back to its source -- followed the slender, strong threads of it to where her other power lay. It rose up expectantly as Bolin drew near and he felt Ciara tremble. He held out a hand and the wilding approached, mutual curiosity driving them both. He'd touched on many kinds of power in his life, some of incredible strength, but none could compare to the lightning-like surge the wilding sent through him.

  "No!" He shoved Ciara back with more force than he intended and they staggered apart. Bolin grunted as the wall came up hard behind him. "Don't."

  "You can use it, better than I." Desperation colored Ciara's words. "You can get us away from here."

  By the Goddess! She reached for him and Bolin had nowhere to go. The room whirled in the peripheries of his vision. What little focus he had skittered away like clouds on the wind. He panted in an effort to catch his breath. Hells, he'd never need to breathe again with the power Ciara possessed -- stronger and more pure than anything he'd ever felt before. And she offered it to him willingly.

  Take it then. Donovan's voice. Bolin should have known.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. "Leave me." He forced the words through clenched teeth.

  It is what you desire, is it not? She is what you desire.

  "Bolin-"

  He flinched violently, and held up a hand to stop her from coming any closer. "Goddess’ light, Ciara, don't." His voice somewhere between a growl and a plea. "I don’t have the strength, don't you understand that? I wouldn’t be able to stop myself."

  "I wouldn’t ask you to."

  "You would try to stop me whether you chose to or not because you can't control it." He couldn't be sure he still spoke to Ciara, or if he had fallen into another of Donovan's fabrications meant to totally unhinge him.

  And if the latter were the case, Donovan could count himself successful.

  Ciara reached for him again, her touch whisper-light on his arm, and his doubt vanished. Bolin stared down into her wide, hazel eyes, and saw clear through every emotion that whirled behind them -- the pain and confusion, the uncertainty, the longing. He could have the wilding and her, both his desires fulfilled. Bolin reached out and drew her to him, bent his head and ever so lightly brushed his lips against hers.

  * * *

  Ciara should have slapped him. At the very least, she should have moved out of his embrace and stormed away, uttering curses to make the village whore blush. She should not have risen up into that soft kiss, aching for more.

  But she'd never been good at doing what she should. Standing up on the balls of her feet she leaned into him, the full length of her body pressed against his. She felt him respond to that touch through the fabric of her dress. Even then she could have broken the contact. Right up until his arms encircled her and drew her even closer.

  His hands moved across her back and he deepened the kiss. Ciara responded in kind, twining her fingers in his hair. A delicious shiver rippled through her, the rough hairs of his beard tickling her skin as he trailed his mouth down her neck. Fire centered in her belly before moving lower in a hunger she'd never known.

  The image of Scar-face leering over her crashed through the desire and she tensed, a stab of panic clutching around her heart. She pushed her palms against Bolin's chest, prepared to back out of his embrace, but he held her firm, his hands gentle and reassuring. And Ciara wanted him. He could drive the other memories from her. He could heal the wounds no one else could see.

  She slid her hands back up behind Bolin's head. She wanted to forget Scar-face, forget where they were and everything except this very moment. But Bolin pulled abruptly away from her and wiped a hand across his face.

  "No," he whispered. "It's a vision."

  "I'm no vision." Ciara moved toward him and he put a hand up to stop her. It had the same effect as walking into a wall.

  "You have to be," he said, still in a hoarse whisper. His eyes were dark with emotion so raw it hurt. "Leave me."

  He looked through her as though he were talking to someone else. A fine sheen of sweat beaded his forehead. Goddess’ light, didn't she have any sense at all? Ciara wanted to kick herself. Her earth magic still sang at the feel of Bolin's breath on her skin, and the wilding protested when she broke the contact between them.

  Bolin braced himself against the wall. Ciara meant only to guide him back to the bed, but when she reached for him his shoulders snapped back, and his eyes narrowed. They focused on her, and he spoke two words in a language Ciara didn't recognize.

  The ceiling came into view an instant before everything went black.

  * * *

  Donovan watched dispassionately as Colm lifted Ciara’s unconscious form and carried her from the room. Allowing her to be with the General, alone and unwarded, had been a dangerous gamble.

  "You could have killed her," he remarked.

  "You put her here," Bolin said, his voice thick.

  He stood by the fireplace, one hand against the mantle, staring into the low flames. Donovan could feel him crumbling, and it sent a thrill through him.

  "Are you enjoying your time with Haracht?" Donovan poured two glasses of wine from a decanter on the low table and handed one to Bolin. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the company of such a challenge. The last time they had met, they had nearly killed one another.

  Bolin gave the wine a skeptical look and ignored Donovan's question. "Now what?"

  Donovan smiled. "We continue our game. Unless you are willing to concede?"

  That got him a narrowed, side-long sneer. No wonder men willingly followed him to their deaths. Donovan suspected that, even were the General not Sciath na Duinne, he would have commanded the respect and adoration of the populace. Something which made the man an even bigger thorn in Donovan’s side.

  "I have never been able to understand your reluctance to give in when all odds are stacked against you. Do you not see there’s no way for you to win here?"

  Bolin, stoic as ever, did not reply.

  "You want her power as badly as I do," Donovan said. "Your unwillingness to admit that is what eats at you. What would you do with it if you had it, I wonder? Keep it to yourself? Offer it to the Emperor, or y
our blessed mother Goddess?"

  "If it were possible to destroy it, I would."

  Donovan arched a brow. That thought had honestly never occurred to him. "And kill the girl in the process? I do believe there may have been a time when you would have done that, before she became more than just a vessel in your eyes. We both know that is no longer a possibility."

  Bolin turned his head, his eyes cold, and much more lucid than Donovan had hoped. "Do we?"

  Donovan counted his ability to read people as one of the many things at which he excelled. The General, however, caused him to second guess that ability.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Every beat of Ciara’s pulse echoed as a drum beat in her skull. A drum beat laced with lightning, compounded ten-fold with her first attempt at opening her eyes. She didn't even want to consider thinking, not until the drumming dulled in intensity. Even then, she exercised caution when she tried to replay events in her head.

  There had been dinner. Her attempt afterward at . . . what? Had she really thought she could use her earth magic against Donovan? She reached up to touch the pendant at her throat. It lay nestled there, cold and heavy, rising and falling with her breaths.

  The breath caught and she covered her mouth with her hand at the memory of Bolin’s lips on hers. Ciara moaned. "Goddess’s light, what have I done?"

  And then Bolin had sent her sprawling with nothing but a couple of words.

  "I wouldn't think too harshly of the General, daughter."

  Ciara lurched upwards, and almost lost her balance along with the contents of her stomach as she gained her feet too quickly. Donovan leaned against the open door, arms folded across his chest. "He was merely holding to his oath to keep you safe."

  Ciara plopped back onto the couch and lowered her head to her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Laying me flat is his way of keeping me safe?"

  "In this case, yes."

  Dora curtsied her way past Donovan, set a tray on a table next to the couch, then curtsied to Ciara and darted out. Donovan indicated the steaming cup with a tip of his head.

  "Medicinal," he said.

  Ciara frowned at it.

  "If I wanted you dead, I would not bother with poisoning your tea." His eyes glittered. "I would merely allow the General do it for me."

  Her head snapped up. "He wouldn't."

  Donovan shrugged. "Perhaps not yet." Ciara hated that smug expression. "But I have almost succeeded in breaking him. You, my dear, have helped greatly in that regard."

  Outstanding. Ciara reached for the mug with shaking hands. They steadied after her first swallow, though the sweet tea couldn't quite cut the harshness of the bitterwort. A good choice if she remembered her herbal studies correctly.

  "I trust he confirmed what I told you?"

  Ciara cradled the cup in her hands, absorbing its warmth, and stared into the depths of it as though it held the answers she sought. "What do you want from me?"

  "Just what I have told you. Let me guide you in the use of your true power. It is, after all, my legacy. If the General has his way, you will be secreted off to the Sisterhood. They would strip you of your birthright, and turn you into just another of the Goddess’ hags."

  Ciara looked up at him. "And what would you have me turned into?"

  Not even the flicker of an answer. "What would you choose?"

  "I would choose to be free."

  "And free to you means what? Exactly?"

  Away from you, sounded too harsh and cold even given the circumstances. She shrugged. "I don't know. Exactly."

  "I see." The corner of his mouth twitched downwards. "You will have to tell me when you decide. Until then I think I will continue to make your decisions for you."

  "What about Bolin?"

  Finally, the familiar flash of light across the midnight sky of his eyes. "The General and I have much history. None of it good. I should have killed him when the opportunity presented itself. I suppose I should kill him now. And perhaps I may. To save you. Does the thought sadden you?"

  "What do you think?" she snapped.

  "I think there is more to your concern for the General than you are willing to admit. Or even, perhaps, than you realize. I also think you have much to learn in the manners of a lady, as well as the control of your power. Perhaps the two will go hand in hand." He pushed off the doorframe, and she tensed. "I leave you to your tea. As you are my daughter you are not a prisoner here. The servants will do as you bid them, within the scope of their instructions. I trust you to use your best judgment in your actions."

  He put a lot of faith in her, considering Ciara’s best judgment of late hadn’t been all that good. The tea provided an excellent distraction for her. She made a pretense of stirring it, and blowing on it, taking another cautious sip as she willed him to be gone. She tried very hard to look everywhere but at him.

  "Lady?"

  And then she did, only because she had to, into the darkness of his eyes. So black, and so alive with fire and light.

  "You will not seek out the General."

  No threat, merely a cold statement. A chill slid through her, into her core and past her earth magic. It touched the wilding and Ciara jerked. Hot tea sloshed over her hand as that power flared in recognition. Ciara made a desperate grab for the wilding, and its dark strands slid through her grasp. She pulled it back, forced it down within the circle of her earth magic, and glared up at Donovan.

  His lips curled. "You won’t disappoint me."

  * * *

  Donovan despised gazing. He considered it nothing more than an old woman's pastime. But he despised being summoned like some common lackey even more so he took his time responding. The image of the ancient crone wavered as he trailed a finger insolently across the surface of the liquid in the bowl.

  "You have something for me," she said, and it had the sound of a demand.

  "Perhaps." He normally considered it unwise to provoke her, but he took his pleasures where he could find them. Within the walls of his fortress Donovan enjoyed a certain amount of immunity. "It will take some time to prepare."

  "I have nothing but time," she replied, her voice heavy with bitterness. "You, on the other hand, are running short."

  "Am I?" Donovan circled the bowl on its pedestal, and, not for the first time, considered knocking it over. He would not possess one at all if not for the crone. She could not leave her swamp prison, and Donovan had little desire to visit her there, which made the gazing bowl a necessity. "Then for your sake let us hope I do not run out too quickly."

  Even though many leagues separated them, Donovan swore he could smell the rot and decay that surrounded the crone. She had been imprisoned in the swamp for so long now she had become more a part of it than the trees that grew there.

  "Watch yourself, Lordling," she warned. "Altering our bargain would not go well for you."

  "What makes you think I would alter our bargain, Crone?"

  Her laughter sounded like the creaking of dry branches. "Do you think I can't read you, even from here? You would be wise not to forget the length of my reach."

  Donovan sneered, making sure he did so out of her view. "It would be like forgetting to breathe."

  The water in the bowl splashed violently against the sides, and droplets sprinkled the floor. "Do not test me!"

  "Never."

  Her ancient eyes narrowed. "You're keeping something from me."

  Donovan's heart paused. He didn't normally give over to worry. The crone knowing who, besides the girl, currently resided within the walls of his fortress, could push him to do so. He schooled his expression into something that passed for a smile. "All in good time. You will not be disappointed."

  "I'll hold you to that."

  Bubbles broke the surface of the liquid before it smoothed once again, showing nothing but a reflection of the ceiling. Donovan curled a lip at it. If dealing with the crone would ensure his success, it would be worth the price. She had been ecstatic, in her own way, to hear Donovan had found h
is offspring. How much more grateful would she be when he succeeded in breaking the General -- a delight all its own -- and the Sciath na Duinne bowed to him and not the Goddess?

  * * *

  Ciara waited on the couch for some time after Donovan left before she placed her mug on the tray and crept to the door. She held her breath, her ear pressed against the smooth wood to listen, before easing into the dim hallway. The latch clicked loudly when she pulled the door shut behind her and Ciara tensed, trying to hear past the thumping of her pulse in her ears. What had Colm said about the fortress? If you knew where you wanted to go, and you were meant to go there, the fortress would guide you. That meant she could dismiss any hope of it leading her to Bolin.

  She rubbed her palms on her thighs. "Let's start with something simple then." She took a deep breath. "I'd like to go to the stables."

  She waited for some sign the fortress had heard her request. When nothing happened she began to walk, letting her feet chose their own path. The ever present magic trailed across her skin like an errant breeze, but gave her no indication if the turns she made were right or wrong.

  There were wards everywhere, and Ciara began to realize they were set by the fortress itself and not by Donovan. The place pulsed with an uncanny consciousness that tickled the hair along the back of her neck and set her nerves on edge. It harbored no maliciousness or overt evil, but likewise, held no warmth. It cared little who walked the halls, or who lived or died within the thick walls, only that once within, they did not leave without its master’s consent. And though Donovan currently held that title, Ciara got the distinct impression he hadn't always done so.

  A wide staircase led her down several flights, spilling into an atrium filled with the bright trickle of water and the scent of greenery. Massive beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling and fractured the sunlight coming through the windows.

  Ciara tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth. She had two choices: A corridor to one side beyond the small garden and its burbling fountain, or a closed door that broke the flow of the room's smooth, rounded walls on the other.