Lost In You

by Alix Rickloff

  He should oppose it. Tell her to soldier on for a bit longer. That they couldn’t afford to stop. But he didn’t want to admit how nice it felt to have a woman fuss over him. For some reason, Ellery’s concern didn’t instantly set him on edge.

  His indecision must have been clear in his eyes. Her lips curved in a shy smile. “A day in bed for you, time for me to re-supply, and we can be back on the road by this time tomorrow.”

  Conor found himself focusing on Ellery’s lush full lips, before dropping to linger on the tempting body he knew lay hidden within his coat.

  She cocked her head, waiting for his answer. He turned away, hoping his thoughts weren’t visible to her.

  “Conor?”

  “All right. I do know of a place where we might be safe. It’s to the west of here. Another few miles. But we leave tomorrow at dawn.” It was the most he could compromise.

  Ellery flashed him a quick smile that lit up her face. “Done.” He turned off the track to head across the fields, praying he could make it as far as Evan’s place. One foot in front of the other. Eyes ahead. Every sense alive to the presence of trouble. Ignore the crushing exhaustion. The deep, pressing ache in every bone and joint. The throb of mage poison coursing through every vein. Just another mile or two. He could make it that far. He had to.

  They passed the first few cottages just as the rain began. He raised his face to it, letting it ease the heat of fever and frustration.

  Ellery’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Up ahead. We’ll find a room there.”

  The inn sat back from the road, light spilling through greasy mullioned windows, the steeply pitched roof black with moss and smoke and rain. As they approached, the door was thrown open and a large, ruddy-jowled man emerged, jamming a hat on his head as he muttered about the weather. Conor’s eyes flicked to Ellery.

  Damn. Speaking of breadcrumbs. He couldn’t let her be seen like this.

  He summoned the fith-fath, throwing the illusion of two well-dressed travelers over both of them, hoping his strength would hold.

  He caught and held the man’s gaze, daring him to challenge them. Praying he wouldn’t. It was taking all his strength just to keep their true appearance masked. Apparently sensing something of Conor’s true nature, the man crossed himself as he stepped aside. Conor’s lips gave a cynical twitch. Did he really think that would do any good? Cold iron. Maybe.

  The man’s gaze followed them as they passed through the doors of the inn. Superstitious he might be, suspicious he most definitely was. Conor pulled Ellery close. She glanced up, but he gave a warning shake of his head.

  The interior of the inn smelled of boiled meat and stale beer. Long scarred tables sat under each front window, two uncomfortable-looking wooden settles beside a great stone hearth. All stood empty. No sign of Evan.

  The publican greeted them before they had shaken the rain from their heads.

  “A private room if you have one,” Conor said. “Overlooking the street. And water for bathing.”

  “And your luggage, sir?” the man asked, mistrust evident in the way he sized them up.

  “I heard no carriage arrive.”

  “We lost a wheel on the road south of Bolventor. My coachman and groom are attending to it. My wife was impatient to be in out of the weather. We walked.”

  “But that’s five miles and across Maidenwell Heath. Rocky, it is. And wild country.”

  “Which is why we’d appreciate a room and not a lecture.” The floor swayed, the long tables tipping and falling like boats on a river. Black specks danced at the corners of his vision. Ellery’s hand encircled his upper arm, and he focused on the aching pressure to steady him.

  A rush of cool air signaled the opening of the door. The man from outside had returned. Conor’s hand moved to the grip of his sword. To the men, it looked only as if he dropped his hand to his empty waist. But Ellery did see. She tensed, her eyes moving from the tavern keeper to the man and back. Without warning, she went limp. Conor almost fell, trying to catch her. His arm burned, his fingers went numb but he managed to pull her in close.

  Ellery’s eyelids fluttered open as she wiped a trembling hand across her forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m feeling ill and so very tired.” She gave the tavern keeper a wide-eyed pleading look that would have done Sarah Siddons proud.

  “You have money for a room? I won’t be havin’ no tinkers or gypsies sourin’ the place for my payin’ customers.”

  “Give ’em a room, Kay.” Conor whipped around. He’d never even sensed Evan slipping in from the kitchen. But there he stood, looking as he always did. Tall and gangly with a shock of black hair and eyes dark as pitch.

  The innkeeper looked as if he wanted to refuse. He muttered something about troublemakers and brothers-in-law, but he ushered them toward a rickety set of stairs at the back of the inn. Conor had to duck as they followed him down a low-ceilinged hall, stopping at the third in a row of four doors.

  “It looks out on the stable yard. But it’s clean.”

  “And the water?” Conor asked, surveying the musty chamber.

  “I’ll heat it. But I ain’t got no bath nor help to carry it. If’n ya want it, you’ll have to come and get it. There’s a pail on the table there for washing. My name’s Kay if you need aught else.”

  The spots were back and growing larger. He shook his head to try and clear them.

  “You’re too kind. Thank you,” Ellery said firmly. The invalid act was obviously over. She pushed the man out the door, shutting it just as Conor’s control slipped and the fith-fath dissolved.

  She blew out a large breath. “That was close.” He would have nodded, but the nausea that had plagued him all day sent him diving for the wash pail.

  Afterwards, he rolled up and over onto the bed. He’d lay here. He’d rest. Just a few minutes, and he’d be better. He was sure of it.

  “So much for using that pail for sponging off,” was Ellery’s wry comment.

  Chapter Nine

  Ellery leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes. Conor lay next to her, sleeping—finally. The room had only the one bed and no chairs so it was together here or alone on the floor, and she was just too tired for worrying over conventions.

  Conor had passed between raging fevers and chills that left him curled into a ball. He’d emptied his stomach long ago, but still he heaved until blood stained his lips. She’d tried offering him water, but he pushed it away or it dribbled down the corner of his mouth, untasted.

  She couldn’t see any injuries. So why did he sicken? Where was his ability to heal when he needed it most?

  She had some nursing skill. No one could live in the tail of an army without picking up the basics. But it was just about enough to make her well aware that she was as unprepared as she could be. She didn’t even have clothes, for heaven’s sake. She needed help. Or at least, supplies. Something to fight the fever—and the Keun Marow if she had to.

  Conor’s sword belt hung on a peg by the door. Ellery rose, hoping her absence didn’t wake him. Her fingers found the worn ridges where countless others had gripped it before her. Or was all that due to one man? She glanced back at the bed. Could Conor alone have caused such wear? It seemed doubtful, but then just what did an amhas-draoi do?

  She slid the blade free, catching the awkward weight of it before it clanged to the floor. It was far heavier than her father’s saber, but looked more deadly. The polished edges gleamed red in the firelight.

  The sword was useless to her. She could barely lift it much less wield it effectively against an enemy. A knife or a dagger would stand her far better and would be small enough to hide beneath the greatcoat. Though, beneath Conor’s greatcoat, she could hide an entire armory with no one the wiser.

  She returned the sword, taking a dagger instead. Now this was a weapon she understood. Her father had made certain of that. He’d had her practice hour after hour until she could throw it with a good chance of hitting her mark, and she could fight in close
quarters if cornered.

  “It’s best to know a bit of knife play. You never know when the enemy might be on our heels.” He would eye the faces of the men as if one of them might drag her away by the hair if given half a chance. “Or when a friend might fall to drink and bad judgment.”

  Ellery had never had to use what he’d taught her. But she sent him a quick prayer of thanks tonight as she strapped the belt around her waist.

  Assessing her apparel took only seconds. Her gown was gone, her shift in tatters. What she had was a pair of worn walking boots and Conor’s jacket and coat. She would need to find a milliner’s shop in the morning, but tonight she needed an apothecary or a surgeon. She couldn’t leave Conor. And she couldn’t wander the village in what she had on. She would need to send someone. Perhaps the innkeeper. All that remained was the money to pay for it. She didn’t have any, but Conor must. He couldn’t conjure food or clothes, and she doubted he rode a straw besom from place to place. Men needed money. Even Others.

  She turned out the pockets of his coat, then his jacket. Nothing. She searched his breeches, praying he didn’t wake while she did it. She wasn’t sure how she would explain her hands placed just so or the hot flush in her face. If past experience was anything to go by, he’d have her pinned to the bed, his lips teasing a path down her neck, nipping at the flesh behind her ear. She stood up, yanking her hands away, her stomach still quivering. Where did that thought come from? What was happening to her? She shook her head, focusing again on the immediate problem. Money. Or more to the point, the absence of it.

  So perhaps Conor did conjure up what he needed with a spell or two and a flick of his wrist. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a position to spin a few straws into gold. And Mr. Kay wasn’t running her errands without payment of some kind.

  Telling herself it had nothing to do with the feel of his muscled body beneath her hands, she returned to his breeches. Passing them by the first time in her search, this time she drew out the contents of his pocket.

  Two items. Both valuable.

  The first, the pearl she had last seen pinned to Mr. Porter’s chest. A smile tipped her mouth. So he had done it. He’d recovered one of the reliquary’s stolen jewels. She could only imagine how. Mr. Porter wasn’t the kind to give up his riches without a fight.

  Her eyes jumped to the sword again, but she dismissed the idea. She couldn’t say how, but she knew there were lines even Conor wouldn’t cross.

  The second object Conor had hidden away as if protecting the Crown Jewels. His sister’s wolf-head ring.

  The delicate gold work was exquisite, and Ellery couldn’t help trying it on. It stuck at her knuckle, but she forced it, and once over, it fit comfortably. She held it up, admiring the detailing in the animal’s face, its ruby eyes like twin drops of blood. She’d never seen anything like it nor worn it. Money went for necessities. You couldn’t eat jewelry.

  She would use the pearl for the doctor. The ring, she would put back with Conor none the wiser. She tugged at it, but if it had been difficult getting on, it was impossible to remove. Perhaps some lard or grease would loosen it. The tavern’s kitchen could provide that easily enough.

  “Ysbel?” Conor mumbled. His dull gaze swept the room.

  “Ellery?”

  She closed her hand over the pearl, hiding her arm behind her back. She had hoped he’d stay asleep until she had spoken with Mr. Kay. “Feeling better? I’ve ordered some broth. I’m just going downstairs to see about it.”

  He wiped a hand down his face, grimacing as he tried to sit up. “Not going out like that, are you?”

  “Unless you want to lend me your breeches and boots. It’s fine. I’ve done it once already. Your coat hides everything.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You obviously haven’t seen yourself if you’ve come to that conclusion.”

  “You mustn’t be that sick. You’re still as nasty as ever,” she snapped.

  He fought to rise, but just rolling onto his side sent him groaning for the pail. Ellery winced at the retching that went on and on, long after Conor fell back exhausted into bed.

  “Mage…mage sickness…never like this…never so much.” His words faded out as he closed his eyes.

  “I’m sending Mr. Kay for a doctor.”

  But he was already asleep. And she hadn’t even thought to ask him if he had any money.

  She opened her hand, staring down at the stone in her palm. She would explain once they were back on the road. He would laugh and praise her resourcefulness, and all would be forgiven.

  At least that’s what she told herself over and over as she sought out Mr. Kay.

  Ellery assessed the situation from the bottom step. The innkeeper stood behind a counter, wiping down glasses while he watched a darts game. The man who’d interceded for them earlier sat at a corner table, an untouched pint in front of him.

  Mr. Kay glanced up. Catching sight of her, he stiffened, his face falling into long lines of displeasure. But when she gestured him over, he came.

  “I need you to go for the doctor.” Sudden inspiration struck.

  “Lord Bligh is ill.”

  The title didn’t lessen the belligerence in Mr. Kay’s face. “His lordship got the money?”

  “Something better.” She opened her fist, showing off the pearl.

  “What’ll I do with something like that?”

  “Sell it. Trade it. I don’t know. Whatever you like, I expect.”

  “They’ll think I stole it. They’ll be questions.”

  “I can’t help your neighbors’ distrustful natures. It’s all I have.”

  “I knew it,” he answered as if she’d just confirmed his worst ideas about her. “What’s that? On your finger there.”

  “This? A ring. It’s a bit stuck. I’ll need some grease.”

  “I’ll take that for your doctor call.” She caught her hand to her chest. “You can’t have it. It’s not mine to give you.”

  “Not yours? Stole it, did you? I knew it,” he repeated.

  “It’s been in Lord Bligh’s family for generations. It’s quite dear.”

  He grabbed her wrist, studying the ring. “A mite small, but my daughter’s wanting a bit of sparkle.”

  She snatched her hand away. “I said it’s not part of the deal.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression hardening. “No ring, no doctor.”

  Ellery thought of Conor upstairs. She thought of the battle at the cottage. The claws, the teeth, the weapons. And even if she didn’t carry the scars, she remembered the pain.

  She fingered the hidden dagger. Who was she fooling? It would be like trying to fight a tiger with a table fork. Ellery made up her mind. It was the ring or her, and it wasn’t as if Conor’s sister was going to ask for it back.

  She held out her hand to shake on it. “Very well. I’ll need some—”

  Mr. Kay grabbed her by the wrist and with one painful wrench tore the ring from her.

  “Grease,” she finished, rubbing her injured finger. “You could have given me a bit of warning. I use that hand.”

  Her words trailed off as a shadow fell over both of them.

  Chapter Ten

  Mr. Kay glanced up.

  A flash beyond Ellery’s right shoulder became the edge of a drawn sword, one she had last seen hanging in her room.

  She wheeled around, coming nose to tattooed chest with Conor. Dark swirls of color stained his arms, his shoulders. Mage marks. According to her father, the signs of magic and power. Right now, Conor radiated both with enough force to knock her back on her heels.

  “You stole it,” he said, his voice sharp as his blade and just as deadly. “You stole Ysbel’s ring.”

  “Let me explain,” she started.

  But he wasn’t looking at her. His glittering gaze was focused on Mr. Kay.

  The innkeeper backed away, shock fast becoming indignation. “I didn’t. The girl gave it to me.”

  Conor didn’t register the words,
his glassy stare remaining fixed as he stepped down off the final stair.

  Mr. Kay threw the ring at Conor. “Here, take the cheap, ugly thing.” It pinged across the floor to be lost in the dark corners of the taproom.

  Conor threw himself forward, his sword sweeping out in a wide arc.

  Caught between them, Ellery dodged Conor’s attack, an easy feat since he could barely stand, but made difficult by the fact that her coat was sliding down one shoulder. She grabbed for it while trying to hold him back, but pushing against his chest was like pushing against a stone wall. “Conor. Stop.”

  Mr. Kay called on his dart-throwing friends to help him. They stood gape-mouthed for now. Ellery prayed they remained so. At this point, she couldn’t be sure who’d win such a battle. Conor sick was bad enough. Conor dead and she may as well stake herself out and wait for Asher and his pets to come and get her.

  “Move aside,” Conor ordered.

  “No. You’re sick. You’re not thinking, and you’re going to get us tossed out of here.”

  He advanced on Mr. Kay, dragging Ellery with him. “That bastard stole Ysbel’s ring.”

  “Careful tossing that word around. I might step aside and let him have at you.” The coat fell open again, giving one and all a great look at her legs, but by this point Ellery was past caring. “Stop, you great lumpen bullock.”

  Ellery was quick. No matter which way he turned, she was there. But beneath her hands, a change was taking place. His chest was broadening, if that was possible. His arms pulsed as if the muscles would burst through the skin. His eyes glowed yellow as suns in a face that was his and yet not, the angles hardening, the jawline lengthening. And, Good God. Fangs?

  She jumped back as if his touch scalded. “He’s one of them,” Mr. Kay yelled. “Knew it, I did. One of them Others. A monster.” He plucked a knife from behind the long counter. “Boys, get him. Before he springs.”

  “Out of my way, Ellery,” Conor growled.