Captive Desires

by Diane Whiteside

  There are twenty thousand witnesses watching everything I do, Boris protested.

  Speak the words and it will act immediately. The longer you delay, the greater your peril. But the sooner you come, the greater your reward. His great beak clacked shut on the last words, as if savoring a particularly tasty morsel.

  Like Bhaikhal and the Dragon’s Hoard’s hundred concubines. He could have that many women serving him any time he snapped his fingers.

  All he had to do was fight his bout against Alekseiovich, not Kyle, the team’s nominal leader. He’d already bribed the marshals to schedule him against anybody he wanted.

  Hell, maybe he should use his true blade in this bout and not the rattan one. That would guarantee him a win.

  But the amulet would be hidden underneath the bastard’s coif and hauberk.

  Do you balk at shedding a little blood? inquired his master. What can these peasants do to you once you rule with me?

  True, oh very true, my lord! He dipped his head in homage.

  If Alekseiovich didn’t take his gear off fast enough, well, he’d just have to do it for him. Heck, he might need to provide a little forceful persuasion, too. Then he could escape to Torhtremer, before anybody had a chance to stop him.

  And, of course, any injuries the bitch’s bodyguard might suffer along the way would only be his just desserts for causing last night’s debacle in the parking garage.

  “I still think you’d have been better off watching it from the hotel room,” Larissa grumbled, heedless of the other contestants around them. The costumed entries’ private section was just above the floor, where the judges could easily summon the winners—or neurotic contestants could quickly retreat to private restrooms.

  Danae shot her a sideways glance. “No stalker’s going to do anything in such a big crowd,” she repeated for the umpteenth time since she’d arrived. “There’s tons of security and I’m perfectly safe.”

  Sasha shot her another seething glance but said nothing. He’d been furious when she’d arrived but she’d flatly refused to go back to the hotel until after the masquerade. To her considerable surprise, Nora had championed her presence. He’d finally backed down, having learned from bitter experience not to fight that former dance mistress. Now he curled his hand around his wife’s and she leaned against his shoulder, pulling his support around her as much as she did her cloak.

  Would she ever have anything like that? She knew too damn well she’d thrown away her best chance when she refused Alekhsiy’s offer. Impossible conundrum. She desperately returned her attention to the combatants in the center of the arena.

  The judges had readily accepted her explanation that the entry was a two-person one after all, not one. Hers and Larissa’s performance had gone off quite well, considering she hadn’t been present for the technical rehearsal. Now they waited for the final bout of the evening—the fully-armored combat between Turner and Alekhsiy.

  Alekhsiy had already wrestled—and won—once not long ago. She was hardly an expert in Greco-Roman wrestling but he’d certainly impressed the crowd. She’d simply prayed he wouldn’t be hurt or exhausted.

  Selfishly, she hadn’t worried about Kyle’s bout. It had been close, much to Nora’s white-knuckled fidgets down in the team support area directly under them. But Kyle had beaten his opponent, making the title come down to whether Alekhsiy or Turner won.

  The two fighters squared off in the center of the arena, garbed in glistening chain mail. Conical steel helmets now crowned both men, with crisp nose pieces to protect their upper faces. Heavy mail coifs covered their heads, necks, and shoulders. Their brilliant shields and surcoats—green and gold for Yevgheniy’s Spears, black and white for The Northern Wastes—were the greatest differences between them.

  Overhead, the great monitors showed their every detail, including their deadly intensity.

  God help her, she hadn’t had a chance to talk to him privately yet. Having twenty thousand people hanging around didn’t allow any comforting feelings of intimacy.

  Turner attacked fast and hard, starting with his sword held high. Alekhsiy blocked it with his shield and counterattacked.

  The two swords came together with a thwack! rather than the dull clack! of rattan striking together she was used to.

  Danae’s heart stopped beating. What was wrong?

  Alekhsiy twisted his wrist and disengaged. His blade shimmered briefly and the yellow stripe marking its cutting edge disappeared so rapidly, one could have almost sworn it had never existed.

  Turner attacked again, his mouth contorted into an ugly snarl.

  CLANG! The two blades rang together in the pure music of fine metallurgy. Several contestants pointed and murmured from behind her.

  God help them all, Turner was using a real weapon—and Alekhsiy’s spell had ripped off his sword’s camouflage to protect him.

  Alekhsiy could be badly injured or killed.

  She glanced at the marshals, willing them to stop the bout.

  One of them whispered urgently but the other brushed him off impatiently. They finally assumed their most impenetrable observers’ pose, their staffs of office haughtily erect at their side.

  Crap, had Turner bribed them not to interfere? Did they think that the duty to provide entertainment would excuse any injuries to combatants?

  Clang, clang, CLANG!

  The quick exchange of blows brought the crowd screaming to its feet. Danae yelled, too, but in fear, not approbation. Her heart slammed against her ribs and her fingers twitched, longing for her Mac. If only she hadn’t left it in her room.

  It wasn’t until she paused to draw breath that she realized she’d been shouting in the Language of the Beasts, one of Torhtremer’s two spellcasting languages.

  TWELVE

  Alekhsiy warily circled his enemy once again. Turner had been given wings since he’d fought in the earlier rounds. Now he was far speedier than most mortals, almost catalyst fast.

  The bout had lasted longer than any others but nobody paid attention to that, least of all Turner’s puppets, the marshals. They stood on the sidelines and muttered over their papers.

  The two swordsmen paid no heed to niceties, such as fighting on their knees to show another type of skill. No, this was a brutal fight to the finish between two warriors who’d enjoy seeing the other die.

  And Alekhsiy’s arms and legs burned with a bitter pain, almost worse than actual fire. His lungs were tighter than the bands hammered around a barrel. But his head was clear and he still brought up his sword and shield fast and clean to block and parry—and thrust. Still, he needed his shield more often and longer than his enemy did, damn the maggoty spawn.

  Turner knew it, too.

  Danae was out there, cheering for him. Every time he came close to where she sat, fresh chi flowed into him. He could glimpse her out of the corner of his eye, dressed in those glinting jewels. He could hear her voice, chanting spells to aid him in the Language of the Beasts. Every note added more grace, more life to his movements.

  Perhaps if he tried something else . . .

  He attacked in front of the gaudy masquerade contestants, coming in high and a little wild as if on the verge of exhaustion.

  Turner’s eyes narrowed behind his helm and he swept his shield into place to trap Alekhsiy.

  Alekhsiy brought his sword down to the outside, leaving himself apparently open.

  Danae’s voice reached into his bones and buoyed him up.

  Turner charged forward a step too far, his sword held just a little casually in anticipation of the coming victory.

  Alekhsiy sidestepped and whirled. Instinct told him where the target was and he brought his sword swinging down onto Turner’s blade. Steel forged in his father’s blood smashed through metal bought and paid for.

  Thunk!

  Turner’s sword shattered a few inches above the hilt and crumbled to the floor.

  Joy, tempered with caution, danced through Alekhsiy’s veins and he stepped back. The cro
wd was shouting somewhere beyond the arena but he didn’t care.

  “Foul! I claim a foul!” Turner shouted. “I demand a rematch with new weapons.” He glared at Alekhsiy, his face white about the lips.

  The two marshals hastened up to them and the noise began to die down.

  “You must give me a rematch,” Turner demanded. “This man brought real weapons onto the field of combat.”

  “Well, I know somebody did,” retorted one of the marshals, pushing at the sword’s shards with his toe.

  Turner flushed and bit his lip, then turned away. A covey of officials gathered to squawk like geese. Cursing, he snatched off his helm and accepted a drink with ill grace.

  Alekhsiy sheathed his sword and also doffed his helm. It was far too hot here in this strange place, under these batteries of glowing suns, to wear headgear any longer than necessary. Dealing death to Turner would have to wait until he could find privacy.

  Danae hastened up to him with a large flask of water, followed an instant later by Kyle and Nora. “Thank you, my lady.”

  She smiled at him, her expression softer and warmer than ever before. Blessed be the gods, she seemed to hold no ill will against him.

  He filled his eyes with her beauty, as necessary to him as the fluid itself.

  Danae nestled herself as close to Alekhsiy as she could, laughing a little shakily at her sudden liking for hard chain mail. But after spending so many minutes watching him and Turner fight each other, she was simply glad to have him back where she could sense his solidity through her own clothes. She might never again be able to comb out his hair or pet his naked skin. But she could help mop the sweat off his brow, give him water, and hold his hand.

  She twined her fingers a little more tightly through his.

  He glanced down at her, then raised her hand and kissed it.

  Larissa sighed sentimentally.

  Danae simply leaned her head on Alekhsiy’s arm to soak up his nearness while she still could. Larissa could take that attitude because she had a husband to provide reality’s warmth. Danae would be alone again the minute Alekhsiy left and she needed to build her memories.

  The marshals broke their circle. The Grand Marshal, a sharp-featured graying man, called for attention over the public address system.

  Everyone fell silent. Even Turner came back from where he’d been keying into his BlackBerry.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Grand Marshal intoned in a voice designed to draw attention at places lacking electronic amplification, “we have reached our decision. Since both combatants fought with identical weapons and no injuries were suffered, the bout is deemed valid by GriffinCon rules.”

  Thank God. Danae’s knees almost buckled in relief. She didn’t think she could have endured watching Alekhsiy fight another round like that.

  Cheering broke out from the upper rafters but was quickly hushed.

  Turner’s expression hardened.

  “Accordingly, Mr. Alekseiovich is declared the winner of the bout and Yevgheniy’s Spears have triumphed in the heavy combat team portion of the tournament.”

  Nora flung herself into Kyle’s arms. He swung her around like a child before kissing her. Alekhsiy laughed and pulled off his mail coif.

  “Wicked,” Evan enthused, bouncing on his toes. “Torhtremer!” he shouted, echoing the crowd.

  Danae kissed Alekhsiy, his hard hands stroking her hips with all his old enthusiasm. He still seemed to care a little for her and she definitely wanted to talk to him, and do other things if she could. Maybe she could persuade him to stay overnight before he returned home. Warmth stirred in her mouth and through her lungs whenever his tongue dipped and dived across her lips.

  “Hey, where did Mr. Turner go?” Colin asked. “Aren’t all the teams supposed to shake hands or something?”

  Kyle rumbled something about typical rudeness and went back to his circle of reporters.

  “Masquerade winners . . .” the PA system shouted again but nobody listened. Nobody cared.

  Danae leaned her head against Alekhsiy’s chest and reminded herself that public places were not the right setting for making out.

  “My lady, my love,” he whispered to her.

  Could she feel anything through his chain mail? Anything small and interesting, like his pecs or maybe his nipples? She knew where his thighs were, of course—she wiggled happily—but the others would take handiwork.

  She started to walk her fingers up his chest and he watched her, a bemused smile playing around his lips.

  Suddenly Alekhsiy jerked erect and spun around. He shoved her behind his back so hard she almost fell onto the ground.

  Turner backed away from him. He waved Alekhsiy’s amulet in the air and it blazed like a golden sun in his hand. God help them all, there was magic in it for him.

  Danae recovered her balance. Her lips began to move, spilling words beyond her volition.

  Overhead, Azherbhai swam through every giant monitor, in a sea of icebergs and scudding seas. If she strained her eyes hard enough, she could glimpse mountains and a rocky beach through a single corner screen.

  The audience turned to stare, swinging between the man on the floor and the beast threatening them from above.

  “You may think you’ve won,” Turner shouted, “but I have everything! I will truly be the Dark Warrior!”

  Azherbhai clacked his beak approvingly and dived, bursting out of the monitors and into the arena in a single vaporous image. He soared its length and breadth, swooping toward individuals until they screamed and ducked.

  He zoomed over the arena floor, avoiding only Alekhsiy and Danae. They alone still stood, locked together by her arm around his waist and surmounted by Alekhsiy’s drawn sword. Somehow Alekhsiy gave her strength to withstand the stench of Azherbhai’s breath, which was worse than any ancient sewer.

  “Come with me, my catalyst!” Azherbhai rolled arrogantly, as if he already reigned supreme in Torhtremer’s seas—and Earth’s. “It is time to come home.”

  Turner ran forward eagerly and Azherbhai eased him onto his back with a single giant flipper. The man held the amulet up and Alekhsiy cursed bitterly, then ran forward. But their enemies were too high up for him to reach.

  A sheet of swirling colors dropped over one end of the arena, more intense and faster moving than any vision of the Northern Lights. The air stretched somehow, as if pulled unwillingly. But there was no exit nearby big enough to provide that much wind.

  The colors began to spin faster and faster, catching at every hair and bit of trash in the hall. Blackness appeared in the center, darker and more final than anything seen through a space telescope.

  Azherbhai lifted an insolent flipper and tossed Turner into the maelstrom. He howled and vanished, plummeting down its maw.

  BOOM! The great curtain and Azherbhai disappeared simultaneously. The house lights swayed wildly overhead and dimmed down to a few scattered bulbs. People screamed and lost their footing.

  Danae was very, very cold. Dear sweet heaven, Turner had gone to Torhtremer with Azherbhai.

  She shoved her way over to Alekhsiy, who’d charged toward the blank wall through which Turner and Azherbhai had disappeared. A few tournament warriors started to lift their heads from the floor.

  Alekhsiy turned to face her, his expression grim and hard in the emergency half-light. “That thrice-cursed Chaos spawn will destroy Torhtremer.”

  “He won’t have the chance.” She wrapped her hands around his free one to comfort him.

  He shook his head, the lines in his face deepening. “I must follow immediately, since time passes so much differently here than there.”

  Ouch. If five minutes here meant a month there—or something worse. Horror knotted her stomach.

  “Will you help me?”

  “Of course.” What wouldn’t she do for him or her friends in Torhtremer?

  “Yet where can we find the chi? Or the dragon’s blood?”

  “You have the dragon’s blood in your thigh.�
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  “From my old wound? But there’s not much there,” he protested, reluctant hope starting to replace the agony behind his eyes.

  “Enough for a sorceress to work with. Plus, the crowd will provide plenty of chi. Come on.” She ran him over to the central mike. The marshals and Master of Ceremonies, gobbling on the sidelines about proper procedures, were absolutely useless to do anything quickly, of course.

  Everything had happened so fast that most of the dazed onlookers were still in the arena, although a few had started to gather up their possessions. The tournament warriors were clustered in the center, bitterly complaining about Turner’s breach of chivalric honor. The gaudily dressed masquerade contestants hovered in the stands or along the edges, uncertain whether any of their results would ever be announced.

  The entire arena reeked of opportunity waiting to be seized. The finely tuned hairs along Danae’s skin lifted in response and she smiled in anticipation.

  Good, Andrew had proven himself a genius yet again and had the lights working already. If she knew him at all, he was pissed as hell that management was standing around trying to figure out something to calm down the masses. Fine, she’d provide it.

  She waved at the control booth, completely certain he was watching from within. Then she significantly pointed at the mike, adjusted it to her height, and waited.

  Come on, Andrew, let me have my chance. You must have seen Alekhsiy and me try to fight off Azherbhai. The only ones who were still standing, thank you very much.

  The house lights dimmed abruptly, cutting off all conversation. A single spotlight caught her, then another and another, bringing Alekhsiy’s mail and her uniform to glittering life.

  “Friends of Torhtremer!” she called.

  The few people climbing the stairs turned to look.

  Alekhsiy’s arm locked around her waist and his free arm came up proudly to display his sword.

  Courage flowed into her, rich and sweet as the blood swelling her veins.

  “Do you believe Azherbhai can defeat us?”