The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  And yet . . .

  Mehcredi intruded at every turn. Godsdammit all to hell, she had a Magick of her own. One moment his mind would be ticking over as it should, making plans about routes and horses and provisions, the next all he could see was her crestfallen face as he’d left her in their chamber with a bucket of warm water.

  “But I’m filthy!” she’d wailed.

  “I know.” He cleared his throat. “But you can’t go to the bathhouse. It’s men only.”

  She’d kicked the bucket so hard water slopped over the tiled floor. As she hopped about on one foot, swearing, he hadn’t been even remotely tempted to laugh.

  At the most inappropriate times, he’d flash onto visions of the things they’d done together, out in the desert dark, the fresh green scent of crushed feathergrass rising around them. He’d been a randy lad once, but that had been a lifetime ago. He had no desire to revisit his adolescence. But oh gods, the piquant contrast between her breasts—the right creamy and un-Marked, topped with a crest like a pale pink summerberry, the smooth flesh of the left proudly bearing the swirling brand of his Magick, the dark lines caging the innocent sweetness of the nipple.

  Fuck, his mouth watered every time. He’d even found himself trying to decide which he preferred.

  It was asinine.

  21

  Deliberately, Walker chose a coarse sponge, sat up and scrubbed with vigor. His body was his own to control, as was his mind. A Shar warrior did not buckle under pressure, not even when problems beset him like so many corpsebirds, each squawking for its share of attention.

  The door opened to admit a corpulent merchant and his clerk. Walker nodded curtly in response to their greeting and ignored them thereafter.

  Welderyn’d’haraleen’t’Lenquisquilirian would honor his name. Bestowed by the Elders at the initiation that came with puberty, Shar names were long, involved and descriptive, an integral part of Shar culture. Name the child, shape the life.

  A short literal translation would be something like Sheltering Branches, though entwined through the lilting syllables was the sense of a great green canopy stretching protective arms across the sky.

  Walker allowed himself to slide completely beneath the surface of the water.

  The spirit of it, though—that was another matter, and infinitely more complicated. The Ancestors had gifted him with Magick, made him a shaman so he could be the guardian of his people, their shelter and their refuge. And though the Elders had recognized that innate talent in him as a youth, they hadn’t known how catastrophically he would fail.

  Without warning, his guts cramped and he emerged, gasping, slicking his hair back with both hands.

  At his elbow, someone coughed politely. “Room for another?” said the clerk, gesturing at the huge square tub. In the other bath, the fat merchant lolled in solitary splendor, jowls shiny with sweat and water.

  “I’m finished.” Walker glanced up and froze.

  Here was Mehcredi’s someone decent. About thirty, neat dark hair, only the slightest thickening about his waist, clean soft hands, no scars. There was no cruelty, no slyness in the fellow’s face, only a dawning embarrassment as another man raked his nakedness up and down.

  “It’s yours,” Walker snarled, water streaming off bronze skin as he rose.

  “Uh, right. Thanks,” said the clerk, but Walker didn’t hear him.

  Father’s balls, he’d been lounging about taking his ease like some godsbedamned pasha while all she had was a bucket and a washcloth. Worse, she would have finished long since. What was she doing right now? A cold void opened up under his breastbone. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Swiftly, he blotted his hair dry, tying it back into a long dripping tail. Then he scrambled into his clothes and took the stairs two at a time.

  The room was empty, the covers on the two narrow beds firmly tucked. Her pack lay partly open on one of them.

  Whirling, he charged downstairs to the bar. A dozen men glanced up with varying degrees of interest. Shit, no Mehcredi.

  “My companion,” Walker growled at the barkeep. “The boy. Where is he?”

  But the man only shrugged. “Haven’t seen ’im.”

  “Meck, is it?” said another voice.

  A tall stooped man in a blue head cloth stood at his elbow.

  Walker cleared his throat, subduing the impulse to wrap his fingers around the man’s throat and choke the information out of him. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “My apprentice.”

  “Bright lad,” said the tall man, his faded brown eyes lighting up. “No shyness about him at all. We had an interesting chat.”

  “You did? About what?”

  “The palace, the city. He asked excellent questions.”

  “I bet he did,” Walker said sourly.

  The other man cocked a brow. “You’re training him for the sword?”

  “Yes. Where did he go?”

  But the man said slowly, “I know boys, used to be a teacher. He’s a clever one, your Meck.”

  The words could do better hung in the air. Walker gritted his teeth. “Believe me, I know. Where did he go?”

  “Oh.” A rather wobbly smile. “Only around the corner to the Tygre’s Den. He wanted a decent place to eat and it’s cheap and clean.”

  Gods, was she insane? A muttered word of thanks and Walker strode down the street in the direction indicated.

  Trimegrace was a beautiful city, the jewel in Trinitaria’s crown, with buildings constructed of well-dressed seastone in every shade from purest white to sandy pink, and hanging gardens tumbling luxuriantly from roofs and balconies shaded by fretwork screens. Walker curled his lip. To one desert-bred, such a waste of water was downright obscene. But if it meant the Grand Pasha could gaze down upon his city from the towers of the Tri-Lobed Temple and rest his eyes on greenery, what the hell did it matter if the crops withered in the ground and his people starved?

  The Three Rivers Inn was centrally located only two blocks from a popular souk, a clean well-lit area full of dining establishments ranging from outdoor cafes to expensive restaurants. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen it—that and some stupid desire to let her rest in comfort before the rest of it. An adventure, she’d said, eyes shining. After the charnel house they’d encountered on the road, he wondered if she still thought it so.

  It took him no more than a single sweeping glance to locate his quarry, seated at a small outdoor table under an awning, an ornate brazier on a stand keeping off the night chill. Despite the tinted spectacles and the carefully arranged head cloth, Mehcredi’s elegant profile showed in relief, so clean and pure it could have been stamped on a coin. Beneath her chair lounged a small scruffy dog and next to her—

  Walker inhaled sharply and his lips drew back in a snarl. What the fuck did she think she was doing? I’ll take care of it myself, she’d said, but he’d thought she’d try it dressed as a woman. She was going to get herself killed, the stupid little fool.

  Because she’d caught herself a three-name, for sure, a perfect little lordling from the rings on his manicured fingers to the silk of his flowing robes with the understated embroidery down the front. Even in this part of the city, the man had to be slumming it, yet he looked—Walker frowned, so ferociously that the waiter who’d been about to approach him veered off to unfold already ironed napkins and refold them into fancy shapes.

  The Trinitarian was everything he could have wanted for her, everything he’d promised her if only she’d wait. Young and strong and clean. His eyes were a trifle close together and his nose long and thin, but like the clerk, all Walker could see was ordinary. A Trinitarian, yes, with all the inherent bastardry of the race, but not a bad man.

  Mehcredi leaned back, one arm thrown casually over the back of the spindly chair, those endless legs stretched out before her, a handsome youth on his first visit to the capital. The Trinitarian spoke rapidly, his features animated and intent, while she listened, a faint smile curving her pretty lips.

  Walker narrowed his eyes, every inst
inct clamoring. No matter how innocuous the man seemed, one hunter recognized another. The Trinitarian’s gaze flickered from Mehcredi’s mouth to the open collar of her shirt, to her thighs in the snug trews. Naturally, the assassin was oblivious. His lips thinning with impatience, the man did it again, his posture a flagrant indication of what he desired.

  No reaction.

  If Walker hadn’t been so furious, he might have laughed at the other man’s discomfiture. But the instant the Trinitarian decided a direct approach might succeed where subtlety failed, all the turbulent thoughts coalesced into a flare of pure icy rage. The scene shifted into sharp-edged focus, one of those moments burned so deeply into memory, he knew he’d be able to recall it in every detail on his deathbed—if he lived long enough to have one.

  All the essentials crystallized. The assassin bore his Mark, she was his to punish, his to pleasure. Her life belonged to him. Therefore he would not permit her to throw it away for any reason whatsoever, let alone rank stupidity.

  He wasn’t aware of moving, but when the Trinitarian reached out to place a casual hand on Mehcredi’s knee, Walker caught his elbow in a crushing grip. “I wouldn’t,” he said, and watched the blood drain from the man’s face.

  “Walker, what the—”

  “Shut up, Meck.”

  From under the table, the dog whined, sensing the tension.

  “Who—?” spluttered the man. “Who do you think you are?”

  “I am Wajar and this”—Walker turned so that his body screened the scene from the other diners—“is my boy.” From the back, they would appear to be engaged in a friendly conversation. When he dug in with vicious fingers, the man hissed with pain. “Mine, understand?”

  The Trinitarian glared. “He’s of age.” The man had more nerve than he’d given him credit for.

  “Meck,” said Walker without turning his head. “Whose boy are you?”

  A pause and the scrape of a chair, then, “Yours, Wajar.” The tremor in her voice filled him with savage delight.

  “Do you know who I am?” spluttered the Trinitarian.

  “I imagine you’re related to someone important.” Slowly, Walker released him. “Whereas I am but a one-name. Scandal means nothing to me.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  The swordmaster held his gaze. “Try me.”

  The Trinitarian’s face went the same color as the ashes in a cold brazier.

  “As for you . . .” Walker turned to Mehcredi.

  What she saw in his face he couldn’t be certain, but she rose and took an involuntary step backward, her throat moving as she swallowed. “Don’t kill me,” she whispered.

  “Oh no,” said Walker grimly, hustling her off down the street with a merciless grip on her arm. “That would be far too easy.”

  But because she was Mehcredi, and therefore irrepressible and infuriating, she’d bounced back by the time they reached the chamber in the Three Rivers Inn. “All I wanted was a decent meal,” she argued as Walker bolted the door in the dog’s hopeful face. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Really?” Something ugly twisted inside him. “You’ve got balls, I grant you, but what did you intend to do when he discovered you don’t have the cock to go with them?”

  She gaped. Even beneath the stain of the blengo juice, he could see the dull red of a flush rise in her cheeks. Her mouth shut with an angry snap. “That’s not fair! He was just being nice. He actually lives in the palace, can you believe it? He was telling me all about it. And wait ’til you hear about—”

  “I’m sure he was highly entertaining.” Walker sat on one of the beds to pull off his boots, his blood buzzing with fright and fury combined. To the seven icy hells with scruples, she’d come within a whisker of discovery and ruination. And all because—he ground his teeth—she wanted someone decent. Gods, what would she do next? Who would she choose?

  He said, “The man likes boys, Meck. He would have taken you there, to the palace.”

  The angry color receded. “No,” she said, her voice thin.

  “Yes. To his bed, to fuck. Imagine how well that would have gone.”

  He had to close his eyes for a second. ’Cestors’ bones, it didn’t bear thinking of. Helpless and raging, unable to reach her, while the Janizars—Oh, gods, gods . . .

  Mehcredi tossed her spectacles onto the dresser with a petulant clatter and his eyes snapped open.

  “You nearly got yourself killed because you had an itch to scratch,” he growled. “That won’t happen again.” He shrugged out of his robes, his heart hammering. “I told him you were mine and I meant it. Strip.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” He ripped the shirt off over his head. His pulse pounded hard and heavy between his thighs, his body racing ahead, exulting. “You’re about to get exactly what you want. Pleased with yourself?”

  Her eyes were huge, the same shade as storm clouds. “But I wasn’t going to—” She stopped and started again. “I only said that to make you angry.”

  “Congratulations,” he snarled, reaching out to remove her head cloth with a flip of his wrist. “You succeeded.”

  “But you don’t want me, you said so. Not enough, remember?”

  A growl rumbled in his chest. A half step forward and he had her shirt gripped in both fists. A quick wrench, a tearing noise and it ripped straight down the middle. “Fucking breastband.” His blade appeared in his hand as if by Magick. “Hold still.”

  “Walker.” She put out a hand. “I changed my mind.”

  “So have I.” Grasping her wrist, he spun her around and slit the laces at the back with a single stroke. The fabric fluttered unheeded to the floor. Dropping the dagger onto one of the narrow beds, he released a long breath of pure relief as he pulled her back into his chest and her breasts filled his palms, warm satiny weight, the blood beating hard just beneath the skin. When his thumbs rasped her nipples, Mehcredi cried out, bucking against him.

  Gods, yes! The ch’qui surged through his blood with an almost discernable roar, potent as the best brandywine. Exactly as he remembered, but this time . . . this time, he’d be deep inside her when he came. Unable to deny the instinctive desire to thrust, he pressed his cock against her gorgeous ass, eyes sliding shut with the delightful friction.

  She rose on tiptoe against him, her head falling back on his shoulder, baring the long lovely line of her throat. Everything male in him roared with triumph. His!

  Bending his head, Walker buried his nose behind her ear and inhaled deeply. Loosening the laces of her trews, he skimmed a palm over the slight curve of her belly, feeling the nerves flutter in response to his touch, her breathy gasps and sighs.

  The trews slipped to her hips, hung for an interminable second and slithered down to pool at her boots. His fingertips brushed a silky tuft of hair, his smallest finger tracing the tender crease where hip met thigh. Gods, he had to see!

  In a single smooth movement, he swung her up into his arms, ignoring the yelp of surprise. Mehcredi the assassin was hardly a lightweight, but at this moment, he could have carried her against his heart from one end of the Spice Trail to the other.

  Two steps and he had her on one of the beds, tugging off her boots with ruthless dispatch, ridding her of the trews. He thought she might be speaking, but the words were a meaningless jumble on the periphery of his consciousness. He couldn’t take his eyes from the juncture of her thighs, the sweet cleft bisecting a plump little mound.

  Nearly bare, no more than the thinnest silkiest covering of fine blond hair. ’Cestors save him. He couldn’t breathe.

  Her eyes wide and smoky, Mehcredi pressed her thighs together. She was blushing, so fiercely that the rosy color began on the pale silky skin of her breasts and extended upward, to disappear under the brown of blengo juice. Suddenly, Walker loathed that stain, and the necessity for it. He wanted his assassin as the gods intended, all long strong limbs and cool blond beauty.

  “What?” he rasped. “What did you say?�
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  “Your hair,” she whispered, folding her arms across her breasts. “Untie your hair.”

  Even a single word required concentration. “Wait.” Kicking off his boots, he unlaced his trews and let them drop.

  Mehcredi made a noise like a surprised kitten, but Walker gave her no time to stare, descending on her like a storm front, grabbing her wrists and pressing them into the pillow.

  Skin against skin, all the way from thigh to shoulder. Mind-numbing, cock-searing sizzle. The breath punched out of her in a gusty rush and she undulated beneath him, all woman. “Oh,” she whispered. Her lashes fluttered. “That’s—You feel—Oh, gods.”

  It was difficult, but Walker forced himself to loosen his grip. Then he pulled the tie from his hair and shook his head. When he bent to nuzzle the pit of her throat, a curtain of sable silk spilled onto her shoulder and slithered over her breast. Another of those small shocked noises and she turned her head, her lips brushing his ear in a shy caress. Fingertips skated gingerly across his shoulder blade.

  Mine.

  He slid a hand under her neck, where the fine hairs were soft and life pulsed warm beneath the skin. So fragile for all her strength. A quick twist, that was all it would take to end her. His guts clenched. No more intrusive questions, no more foolish trust and big eyes, that quicksilver intelligence gone forever, condemning him to the dark.

  Never.

  Fitting his lips to hers, Walker set himself to seduce her with all the ruthless skill of which he was capable. Her lips, at first cool and smooth beneath his, warmed and grew pliant. When they parted on a sigh, he slipped inside, caressing her tongue with his, not coaxing or asking permission, but demanding. Mehcredi quivered. With a little moan, she dug her fingers into his skin, her hips rising against his. The kiss became deeper, wetter, harder. Nothing existed save the woman beneath him—and the green sapling strength of the ch’qui filling his balls and cock, the pressure and scalding heat driving him out of his mind.