Captive Desires

by Diane Whiteside

  “He is the master of winter. Where else should he come to pass?” Zhenechka asked tartly and dragged on her pack’s straps to settle them better over her shoulders. “Brats often behave much like where they were conceived or birthed.”

  Jeirgif’s eyes grew very round and somebody snickered. Someone else asked a more practical question. “How much farther will we go tonight? Onto the beach or do we camp in the mountains as we did last night?”

  Igoryok was far colder than his excellent furs should permit.

  “No, we will camp here, in the wide spot on the road. We will fight in the morning, if not tomorrow, then the day after.”

  His people’s expressions immediately turned hard and calculating as they judged the site. Igoryok granted them their explanation before they could ask.

  “This is the Gate of Belukha, through which the Imperial Terrapin’s mightiest fighters will come to give him homage. The more we can kill, the better chance General Alekhsiy will have to send him back.”

  “And very little hope of our survival or the general’s,” Zhenechka commented softly. The rocky cleft was unwontedly quiet, free from any human sounds as they waited for a differing opinion.

  “But the bards will sing our praises for a thousand years,” Igoryok offered. Sometimes a man contemplated foolish rewards for a well-spent life, like a pair of giggling dancing girls. But duty held its own pleasures, especially if it aided loved ones far away.

  “Then we had best start making our preparations,” Jeirgif said briskly, taking the lead in a manner unbecoming to his youth. “There was a clump of young barnaul trees a few miles back, clinging to the crags above the road. I may be able to cut them down if I move quickly before the sun sets. Hydras loathe their fire and we will need all the torches we can make.”

  “Go then.” Igoryok nodded. He’d agree to anything to help fight off the many-headed, poisonous snakes that had been trailing them since they’d crested the pass.

  But there would be other, worse monsters to fight tomorrow.

  ATLANTA SUNDAY EVENING

  Danae slowly pivoted one last time in front of the mirror to double-check her costume. An entertainer always made sure clothing and accessories were correct but this time? Heck, tonight the entire performance would probably be improvised. This was no time for any wardrobe malfunctions.

  Her over-dress was deceptively simple, smoothly fitted from her shoulders to her waist and hips before flaring softly out to just below her knees. Slits on each side up to just below her waist made it very easy to move. It was richly decorated at the neck and down the center to her breasts, her wrists, and the hem in a magnificent embroidered design of tigers and complex Torhtremer runes. More crystals were scattered across the body until she glittered like moonrise.

  Her softly pleated trousers were made from white silk, albeit not brocade. They were tucked into soft white boots, which carried silver beading at the top, down the throat, and over the instep. Her cream silk cloak was banded in brocade and embroidered in matching runes and crystals. Even her white leather gauntlets were embellished in silver.

  If she’d ever wanted to be inconspicuous, this was so not the outfit to do it in.

  On the other hand, this costume should make the judges sit up and pay attention to Larissa’s workmanship skills—especially when combined with the very tightly fitted Kyristari spymaster’s corset her friend was going to wear.

  They were designed to represent the top tiers of Corinne and Celeste Carson’s fantasy heroines, the two authors who’d died here at GriffinCon all those years ago.

  Danae and Larissa would contrast as much as possible, much as the two sisters’ books had. Danae would be completely covered up, Larissa would be garbed only in the corset, hose, and matching jewelry. Soft silks would whisper over her well-toned body, heavily boned armor shaping Larissa’s softer curves. Danae would be in shape-shifters’ white, while Larissa wore a sexsub’s inviting scarlet—an outfit and color guaranteed to drive her husband crazy.

  Alekhsiy enjoyed more subtle temptations and knew how to pleasure his lady no matter how many layers she’d donned.

  She was going to the arena to help Alekhsiy because she didn’t trust that Turner son of a bitch. Alekhsiy might not want her anymore after how she’d rejected him but she’d still try to help him.

  She glanced down at the innocently blinking cursor on her laptop’s screen.

  No cop will see, hear, or speak of anything Danae Livingston does in the hallway outside her room.

  She lifted the gold chain over her head and kissed her father’s Naval Academy class ring before removing it from the chain. Then she tucked it safely into the same pouch on her waist where she kept her cell phone. Every White Sorceress had a jeweled ring so she’d wear it over her gauntlet during the masquerade.

  She punched the SAVE button, her blood flowing as calmly as in any theater before opening night. She shut down her Mac to slow down anybody from finding out what she’d done. If indeed it would make sense to anybody other than a fanfic author.

  Five, six, seven, eight . . .

  Showtime had arrived.

  She opened the door and sauntered into the hallway, her head held high and her shoulders back. Miss Wilson had taught all of her pupils the same attitude and step during their first year of school.

  The cop was a thirtysomething man, fit and neatly-dressed in khakis and polo shirt. He leaned back against the wall and spoke urgently into his phone. “I don’t care what the lab says, I need that report tonight, not Tuesday . . . Yeah, yeah, but I’m stuck here on babysitting duty. I might as well get some work done, instead of just snoring.”

  He hunched his shoulder and turned away from her. “No, the wife wasn’t pleased but the overtime’s not bad.”

  Danae strolled toward the elevator, her pulse speeding up. Her plan had worked, against all odds. But what came next?

  ABOVE THE TUNGUR SEA, NORTH OF TORHTREMER

  Khyber slowly flapped his great wings to maintain altitude, his massive size enabling him to overlook most of the rough winds that tore apart travelers here.

  What could he discern through the heavy gray clouds except black sea and scudding foam blown from white wavecaps? It wasn’t easy to spot anything smaller than an iceberg, at least not so far. He hadn’t seen a seagull or albatross for leagues.

  Yet young Alekhsiy was one of his favorites.

  He circled again and prepared to come lower, as he had not dared to for millennia. Many of his kin were buried in the mountains south of here.

  Bitterly cold air slammed into his belly and tossed him high, tumbling him over and over like a dragonet. Ice formed on his wings and claws. Dearest Svetlhana yelped and dug her claws into his shoulder to stay aboard.

  His heart dived faster than their chances of survival.

  He gathered himself and dropped, fighting with armored tail and leathery wings like the demon he’d been called. Salt spray filled his nostrils but he finally found the single air current that led south and west.

  The skies were gentle and blue before he spoke. “Azherbhai has locked the doors to his kingdom,” he remarked.

  “He has never welcomed visitors, beloved. Did you sense if Alekhsiy was there?”

  He frowned, unsettled. Despite all the millennia they’d loved each other, his dragon wisdom did not enable him to delve deep if his feline lady wished to speak of trifles.

  “No, Fire Wind is nowhere to be found. I would know immediately if any dragon-forged weapon had come to the land of perpetual ice.”

  “Then at least we can believe he is still safe on the far side of the void, hunting for the potential catalyst.” She kneaded his shoulders with her big soft paws. He sighed happily and began to relax, despite his suspicion she was trying to distract him. “Do you want to travel there in search of him?”

  “No, of course not.” He almost blew a smoke ring in disgust. “I—we—cannot leave Torhtremer for even five minutes when our opponent is so active. He would immedi
ately take advantage of our absence and wreck havoc on Mykhayl and our loved ones in Bhaikhal.”

  “True,” she rumbled. “He is a disgusting creature who tastes foul.” She lingered over the last word, drawing it out until it sounded like a prescription for death. Not for the first time, he wished he could crane his neck far enough around to see her face while he was flying.

  “We are forbidden to move directly against him so we must fight with the weapons we have.”

  She loosed a mighty yowl, redolent of feline frustration. Discomfort hardened into near-certainty.

  “Svetlhana,” he warned, “do not tempt The Great Order by disobeying its strictures.”

  “I am not that much of a fool.” She sniffed.

  He had to protect her from her own folly. If she was to be banished again to where he could neither see nor touch her . . .

  “We will remain in the capitol and guard the children.”

  “What?” Svetlhana roared her challenge to his change in their plans. “What about Alekhsiy? What if he needs our help when he returns?”

  “He has his amulet and can summon us,” Khyber announced flatly, shutting down any further discussions.

  ATLANTA

  Danae arrived in the hotel lobby crushed between a giant Wookie and a lumbering multi-tentacled monster adapted from many anime classics. Normally she’d have tried to gain breathing room for her costume, but this time she kept her head down and prayed no cop would notice her. And why hadn’t she written a spell to demand that nobody would kidnap her?

  Brilliant, Danae, just brilliant.

  She sidled through the crowd and headed for the shuttle bus stop as quickly as possible. Why were there so many costumes to dodge? Wings, elevator shoes making people awkward, clumps of people taking pictures . . .

  She ducked her head, refused to acknowledge anybody with a camera, and kept going. Just a few more feet to the side door.

  Wiry fingers seized her elbow.

  “Every sorceress needs a Torhtremer soldier—Miss Livingston,” an unfamiliar voice hissed.

  She shot the obnoxious fool a haughty glance and tried to pull herself away. His bald head and skinny frame clad in yet another Torhtremer T-shirt and jeans looked familiar somehow.

  Passersby were eyeing them but giving them a wide berth. Somebody even paused to take a picture. Dammit, did they think this was staged?

  “Mr. Turner will be very glad to talk to you.” He tightened his grip on her and started to pull her closer.

  Like hell.

  She ground her boot heel down onto his instep and shrieked. “Help! Help me!”

  “Shut up, bitch.” He growled, hunching his shoulders and moving faster.

  She was cold but she could also see his movements so very, very clearly now. She kicked him again, deliberately calculating how to trip him up. She’d do everything she could to avoid Turner’s lair.

  “Help me, please! This isn’t a LARP!” She put everything she’d ever learned in a theater into her bellow. She elbowed him hard in the ribs with her other arm but he only grunted and yanked her closer. Terror chilled her blood and brought her wits to laser clarity. She used the momentum from his pull to spin toward him in a dancer’s move and jab her stiffened fingers at his face.

  His eyes narrowed in a trained fighter’s recognition of a true opponent and he instinctively loosened his grip on her, ready to begin the battle.

  She stepped away slightly, every nerve, every muscle, preparing itself for combat.

  Then a trio of white-armored stormtroopers slammed onto her would-be kidnapper and a muscular reptile assassin from the Varrain Universe piled on top. Assorted Pern dragon riders, Hogwarts wizards, and various superheroes dived onto the struggling mass and spilled over her.

  “Oof!” Danae went flat on the lobby floor. That awful clutching hand was finally ripped completely away from her wrist.

  She lay still for a few moments, her face buried in the crook of her arm. She’d never expected to be grateful to be close-up with a stained hotel carpet. Her pulse slowly eased back into something approaching normal. Some of her rescuers eased themselves off of her, reducing the weight and taking costume fragments away from the corner of her outfit.

  “Sir, will you please sit still? I’m Officer Duncan of the Atlanta PD and I simply want to ask you a few questions about recent events,” a man announced with a politeness born of long experience and few expectations. “Sir!”

  The mass heaved upward and settled back down with a hard thump. Danae began to wiggle herself out from underneath.

  “Sir, I truly must insist that you accompany me.” Inflexibility resonated through the speaker’s voice and metal clicked. Handcuffs?

  Danae reached her feet, along with one of the stormtroopers. Together they faded into the circle of onlookers, which was gathered around her assailant, a policeman, and several of her rescuers. A small trickle of blood ran down the cop’s face.

  A low murmur of concern went up from the crowd.

  Her would-be kidnapper tried to pull himself free and run but the reptilian assassin jerked him brutally back.

  “Let me through!” “Make way!” Shouts rang through the lobby and feet pounded toward them.

  For once, the great milling throng created avenues to allow passage and a dozen police stormed into the ring. Her assailant’s shoulders slumped.

  Danae smiled, in an undoubtedly feline manner, and began to work her way toward the door. She truly did not want to give her statement to the police, at least not yet.

  But she did hear one of their utterances, delivered by a cop with a very carrying voice.

  “Go ahead and run his prints but I can tell you who he is. That’s Helping Hands Harrison, the hacker king who was sentenced to three hundred years for cyber theft. The judge is going to throw the book at him for breaking probation, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer . . .”

  The hotel door closed behind her, cutting off the rest of the fellow’s known crimes. He’d probably done worse for Turner but would he talk about it?

  Danae jumped onto the shuttle bus. She’d probably have to stand all the way to the stadium but who cared? At least she was on her way and maybe she could help Alekhsiy.

  Boris judged the effect of another smile in the glass door. Last year, his victory photo had been panned by a couple of websites and he wanted this year’s to be better received—even if he wasn’t here to see it.

  This corridor under the indoor arena wasn’t much but he needed to practice for when he’d rule Torhtremer. The tiny space was full of fighters, wearing a wide variety of gear, mixed with some of the masqueraders in their bizarre outfits.

  Dammit, even Alek Alekseiovich, the bitch’s bodyguard, was here with his team. Somehow they’d gotten through the preliminary rounds, despite every obstacle he could throw in their way.

  He hissed through his teeth and turned away. His usual effort would be good enough for the conqueror.

  Judging by the monitors, the stands were almost full now, their occupants craning their necks to peer down as if they were about to see NBA finals instead of GriffinCon’s Sunday Night Finale. The arena was arranged as if for a basketball game with a long, narrow, central wooden floor, although no baskets, of course.

  Like the other tournament contestants, he was currently standing around waiting to begin the great parade into the arena. It supposedly fostered sportsmanship but give him victory any day.

  He snorted in disgust and pulled out his BlackBerry. Sooner or later, Harrison had to answer.

  Ah, connected at last!

  “Yes?” A woman’s voice, on Harrison’s phone? “Who is this, please?”

  Somebody shouted all too clearly in the background. “No, I did not pick up the medical examiners’ report for you!”

  “Sorry, wrong number.” Boris hung up quickly.

  Medical examiner? Crap, Harrison’s phone was held by somebody at the police department. Was there any innocent explanation for that?

 
Would they believe he’d called a wrong number? Did it matter, when his phone was so very, very popular with Harrison’s?

  For the first time since he’d clawed his way out of that stinking Illinois sewer called his hometown, sick fear threatened his dinner’s safety in his belly. He forced air through his clenched teeth and reminded himself who he was—the third richest man in the world, self-made billionaire, and the greatest salesman ever. A sorcerer, too, according to the Imperial Terrapin.

  Azherbhai.

  He, Boris Turner, would be the Dark Warrior, Azherbhai’s catalyst, and master of Torhtremer, if he could just get there.

  First thing’s first, though. Those pigs would have to fight their way past his lawyers to touch him. He managed a small laugh and lovingly fingered his sword’s hilt. He had two such identical weapons, of course—one for practice, like these events, and another, very real one. Letting the so-called law get past his lawyers to meet his true blade would be a truly Dark Warrior response.

  Escaping into dreams of Torhtremer was sometimes all that kept him alive—and how many people would understand that?

  Certainly Yevgheniy’s Spears would, the only team present in full gear from that wonderful world. They’d feel the same passion, even Alek Alekseiovich, the author’s bodyguard, who’d been fighting double matches all afternoon.

  As if hearing him, the fellow half-turned to speak to another, displaying a magnificent amber pendant hanging around his neck on a rawhide thong. It glowed unlike anything Boris had ever seen before. It didn’t look like electronics or plastic, which could be lit from within. The best in the world had tried to sell those to him.

  Amber, the living stone. His hand itched to hold it.

  Azherbhai’s prophecy echoed in his head. “Living stone can unlock the gate and bring you through . . . Unfledged sorcerer, you will know by touch.”

  Could it be magic? Nah, that was ridiculous.

  Azherbhai’s dark eyes snapped into being before him, deep pools of cold wisdom. Foolish mortal, why do you hesitate? You know that is the passport to my realm. All you need do is seize it.