by Cat Marsters
It wasn’t that he wanted to spend his evening in a disease-ridden hellhole with three sullen, braying teenagers, but he figured it might earn him some points with Kett. And her family would definitely think he was wonderful.
And he got to legitimately beat the shit out of someone, which was always stress-relieving.
When the pale green light of a faery lit up the ward, Sergeant Verrick looked up expectantly, but the tiny winged creature flew to Bael and handed him a small scroll.
“I’m to wait for your reply,” he said in his shrill faery voice, and Bael nodded, unrolling the paper.
“Bael, stop haring off like that. Where the hell are you? What are you doing?”
Bael sighed. Bloody Albhar never let him have any fun. Usually he’d skim such a letter, but right now, with nothing else to do, he might as well read it.
“You do have responsibilities here, you know. We had a shapeshifter almost within our grasp and now it’s escaped.”
Any second now he was going to read the phrase “your father’s research”, and that other personal favorite, “disrespecting your heritage”.
“Quite apart from being necessary to continue your father’s research,” yep, there it was, “the creature also owes you a debt, you know.”
Bael tried to remember who owed him money, or if he’d ever gambled with a shapeshifter.
“I know your father believed otherwise, but I am sure the shapeshifter was instrumental in the death of your mother. It is my belief it killed her to escape your father’s research. Such a creature cannot be allowed to roam free, Bael.”
A shapeshifter? No, a kelf had killed his mother. His father had told him so repeatedly. “Don’t trust kelfs, boy, they’re a lot more treacherous than humans think.”
This stupid damn ritual, the background noise of Bael’s youth. Find the shapeshifter. Do the ritual. Bael didn’t know what it was for, and he didn’t care either. Albhar had been wittering on about the stupid thing for years…
In letters that Bael had barely read. Gods dammit. The old man nagged so much that Bael had stopped listening years ago. As far as he was concerned, if Albhar spent his time obsessing over a shapeshifter, it just made it less likely that he’d spend his time noticing Bael was actually Nasc.
Because if he knew…if anyone knew what he was—
Bael shook himself. He hadn’t been bothered by the Federación so far. Chances were, they had no idea Nasc Magi even existed. They’d never come after his parents, for one thing. And Albhar…well, Albhar knew a lot about magic, but he had very little innate skill. He was clearly below the interest of the Federación.
He had some mad idea about a shapeshifter, always muttering on about it. Some ritual Bael’s father had been working on. Something he’d tried to get Bael to help him with, but despite his heritage Bael had never even been able to light a fire without using a match. His parents had been disgusted with him.
But why was Albhar suddenly telling him it was this shapeshifter who’d killed his mother? Was it just some ploy to get him to look for it, or had his father, blinded by hatred of kelfs, lied to him?
The story had always been that it was the kelf who killed his mother, that ungrateful kelf who escaped his parents then came back to get revenge for its servitude. The only kelf ever known to have killed a human.
Bael tried to work up some anger over it, tried to even picture his mother, but his parents had been so distant, always haring off on some trip or another, that he couldn’t really remember what she looked like.
He remembered his father more clearly, especially in that last year after his mother had died. An old man, suddenly older than he should have been, stomping about the place muttering like a lunatic. He’d brought in Albhar then, a human Mage with a minor talent, to assist him, but the guy had nowhere near the power Bael’s mother had.
Bael shook his head. If Albhar thought he could pull some emotional blackmail on him, then he’d gone about it the wrong way. It was hard to get sentimental about parents who barely seemed to know you existed. The only time Bael ever remembered his father showing him any attention was when he’d first realized his son was a Mage too.
But that hadn’t been attention Bael had particularly enjoyed. His father had never said so, but he gave the distinct impression he was trying to work out a way to exploit his son’s talents. A way to increase his own power. Because apart from Albhar, whose talents were negligible, there was no one else around whose power he could steal.
Bael read through the rest of the letter, mostly full of Albhar’s fussing about responsibilities and duties, and scribbled a note on the back to the effect that he was busy and the estates could run themselves. Hell, they always had before. He paid plenty of people plenty of money so he didn’t have to worry about them.
In fact, he paid Albhar plenty of money to worry about them.
“Anything interesting?” asked Verrick, as Bael sent the faery away with the note.
“Nah. Just business stuff. Speaking of—well, not really speaking of, but I can’t think of a segue and I’m nosy—why doesn’t Kett’s dad like you?”
Verrick’s cheeks colored. “You noticed?”
“I’m good at noticing.”
The young garda shrugged. “He doesn’t think Eithne’s old enough to get married.”
“Married? You’re engaged?”
“Well. I asked, and she said yes, but her father won’t give permission so…”
Bael made a face. “Right.” This didn’t bode particularly well for him.
“Oh, you’ll be all right,” said Verrick, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Eithne says he’s always moaning about how Kett ought to find someone.”
“Really? He wants her to settle down?”
“Well, she’s—” Verrick blushed again. “She’s not getting any younger.”
“Apart from men of legend, none of us are,” Bael agreed gravely.
“Eithne says it’s not fair, and I think she’s right.”
Well, of course you do, Bael thought, you lovesick dollop, but out loud he said, “What do you mean?”
“Well, it can’t be about age, because Eithne’s older than her mother was when she got married. And she’s much older than her father was when Kett was born.”
“Yeah? He was pretty young?”
“Only a teenager. A misdemeanor when he was in the army,” Verrick confided. “And by all accounts—” He broke off.
“By all accounts what?” Bael asked.
“Well, Kett was a bit of a wild child. I suppose he just doesn’t want Eithne growing up like that.”
In the middle of the busy hospital ward, there was silence.
“Like what?” Bael asked pleasantly.
“Well…well, like, er, well,” Verrick stammered. “Like, um, well, she got attacked by that tiger,” he said. “That was, um, bad. Could have killed her.”
“Sure,” Bael said, “but it was three years ago. Hardly when she was a ‘wild child’. And what does that mean, exactly? She shagged around a bit when she was younger? Who didn’t? Her father’s a damn hypocrite.”
“Yes,” Verrick agreed weakly.
“He’s a jumped-up highwayman,” chipped in Willifus, just begging for another beating.
“Been a while since I turned anyone into a smudge on the floor,” Bael snapped at him, “but if you don’t shut up, I’ll be glad to begin practicing again.”
Willifus turned green.
“Now,” Bael said, fixing his gaze on Verrick. “Tell me everything about Kett.”
* * * * *
It was well after midnight when Kett made her way back to her room, tired and aching more than a little. She’d been showing off, pressing into service muscles she hadn’t used since the last time she’d required wings, or legs that could leap five feet into the air.
She had a loose plan in her head. And it was a good plan; it would work. But if her Koskwim training had taught her anything, it was that a plan should ne
ver be put into practice until all the kinks had been worked out.
Her right leg in particular was killing her. She draped the slightly grass-stained dress over a chair, hoping guiltily that Nuala wouldn’t be too annoyed by the state it was in, kicked off her boots and rubbed some liniment into her thigh. Then she fell into bed and wondered, as her eyes closed, where the hell Bael was.
Five minutes later her eyes slammed open as she heard the window slide up, and a pair of feet thudded on the floorboards.
Her hand was already a claw as the figure righted itself and came toward the bed, and she tensed to attack. In the dark room she couldn’t see clearly, and any intruder was a threat.
Then she breathed in, and a scent she hadn’t even realized was familiar came to her, reassured her.
“Bael?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Kett turned her hand back to human again as he shed his clothes. “You could have used the door.”
“Why be dull?”
He slid into bed beside her, pulled her into his arms and Kett relaxed there for a moment, enjoying the feel of his body, his face and hands cold from being outside, his heart thumping against her chest.
Then she pulled away, annoyed with herself for liking it too much.
“I’m really tired,” she said.
“Me too. Dear gods, I wanted to kill those three little fuckers.”
She smiled despite herself and Bael rolled against her, his body warm and hard against her back, and his lips brushed her neck.
“I said—”
“I heard. I’m not trying to shag you, Kett, that was a goodnight kiss.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and snuggled her against him, and she told herself she could enjoy it for one more night.
* * * * *
She woke for the third morning running with Bael’s arms around her. He was solid, warm, his breathing even. And he didn’t snore.
On his body there were small scars, some fine and neat like surgical cuts, others curved, jagged and messy. One or two looked like arrow or crossbow-bolt scars, and she remembered how he’d been shot in Xinjiang by the kelf he’d attacked.
Stupid man. Why attack a kelf? They couldn’t be harmed and they lived to serve anyway. It was like shooting at a horse wearing armor. Cruel and pointless. All right, so Nasc and kelfs didn’t get on, but did he really hate them that much?
She moved away from him carefully, quietly, not especially pleased that this had become one of her talents. Of course, it was easier when you were a shapeshifter, but bloody depressing to realize she’d woken up next to so many men she wanted to get away from.
Pulling on her clothes, old jeans and a clean shirt, she looked back at Bael, sleeping there so peacefully. He looked really beautiful with those dark lashes and the stubble dusting his jaw. Great jaw, she thought, great cheekbones. Great shoulders, great chest…hell, everything about him was great.
Except that he was a complete nutcase. He beat up kelfs and he scared the dragons, and he thought she was his fucking mate, for gods’ sake. He’d been thrown out of Nihon for something he couldn’t even remember, which wasn’t a great sign. How many indiscretions had he committed if he forgot the details?
No. He might be great in bed, but Kett had had “great in bed” before, and it hadn’t been good enough for a lasting relationship. And she didn’t want a lasting relationship, dammit!
I am happy with my life as it is, she told herself, not for the first time. I like where I live and what I do, and I don’t need a man. Men screw things up. Men get you flogged or thrown in jail or cheat on and divorce you. I can live without head-banging sex.
Probably.
If he knew what she could do, he’d take it as a sign they should be together. That it was fate. And Kett believed in signs and fate like she believed in leprechauns.
If you hadn’t gotten married, he couldn’t have cheated on you. If he hadn’t cheated on you, you wouldn’t have stabbed him. Probably. If you hadn’t stabbed him, you wouldn’t have gone to jail. And if you hadn’t gone to jail, you wouldn’t have been so mad for freedom that the second you got out, you ran into a bloody tiger that ripped your leg open.
If Chance hadn’t fallen for Dark, she’d never had ended up with a sword through her back, fighting to free his sister last year. If King Talis and his wife hadn’t been so in love, the queen wouldn’t have sacrificed herself to save the people he loved all those years ago. If Striker hadn’t fallen for Chalia—well, thousands of people would still be alive and the city of Vaticano wouldn’t still be half-ruined.
Kett regarded the man sleeping in her bed. Love hurts, she thought, and I’ve had quite enough of that already. The Curse of Kett would inevitably fall upon him.
Her leg felt stiff, in need of exercise, so she headed toward the gardens, intending to change her shape and go for a run. It was still early and the only people up and about were the servants, an annoying number of whom curtseyed and bowed to her.
As she passed Tane’s room, one of the maids left with a basket of wood and fire-lighting materials. Kett paused. “Is he awake?”
The maid nodded and curtseyed. “Yes, my lady.”
Kett tapped on Tane’s door, intending to ask if he’d escorted Giselle home last night, and planning to rip him a new one if he hadn’t. She knocked then pushed the door open.
“Are you— Oh.”
A sudden flurry of movement didn’t quite manage to disguise Giselle as she ducked under the covers, and Tane tried to look innocent despite the girl-shaped bump next to him.
“Morning,” Kett said, and while her mouth was still, she knew Tane could see the laughter in her eyes. “Morning, Giselle.”
Sheepishly, the girl peeped out, her face pink, and gave a rather unconvincing smile.
“Look, I just wanted to check Giselle got home okay last night,” Kett said, trying not to smile, “but clearly it’s a moot point. See you at breakfast.”
She nodded to them both and turned to go, and Tane said, “Wait.”
She turned back, brows raised.
“Listen, Willifus is a cock and we all hate him, but his father’s really important in Elvyrn politics and—”
“Tane, you know nothing bores me as much as politics,” Kett said. “Well, maybe shopping.”
Giselle looked aghast but Tane patted her hand and said, “The thing is, we had to invite him. And now Lord d’Athinisha’s going to be absolutely incandescent that someone beat up his beloved son…”
Someone, Kett noted.
“But I’m going to talk to Dad and to Uncle Talis, tell them why you did it.”
“I don’t reckon Talis is particularly on my side,” Kett said, wincing as she recalled a couple of instances in her youth when she’d set out to humiliate the king just because she could. Her father hadn’t protected her then. No one had.
“Are you kidding? Kett, you remember the queen, right? She was a bloody lunatic, everyone says, but he adored her. Can’t stand vapid women, Dad always says. He thinks you’re brilliant.”
“The king thinks I’m brilliant,” Kett said flatly, not believing it for a second.
“He’ll think you’re even more brilliant when I tell him you saved Giselle’s life.”
“I really don’t think they were gonna kill her,” Kett said, flustered.
“They weren’t inviting me to a tea party either,” Giselle said. Her eyes were huge and solemn as she regarded Kett. “Kett, I…”
Kett shrugged, embarrassed.
“I wish I was as brave as you,” Giselle said.
“Yeah, well. There’s a thin line between being brave and being a bloody idiot,” Kett said. “Get Tane to teach you how to defend yourself, yeah?”
She backed out, feeling awkward, and walked past Eithne’s room. Her sharp hearing picked up a male voice from within.
Kett smiled, wondering if her father knew that only one of his offspring had spent the night alone.
Although she wouldn’t put it p
ast Beyla to have hidden a man in the wardrobe.
Passing a window, she caught sight of the snowy garden and decided to change her shape inside, before the cold air froze her bare skin. She rolled her clothes into a bundle and changed into a large dog with thick fur, and was almost to the stairs when Bael’s scent came to her. It was an intriguing mix of candied fruits, molten metal and winter ice. Hurriedly, she dropped her clothes and shoved them under a nearby table, then wagged her tail cheerfully as he rounded the corner.
Bael made that clicking noise people make with dogs, and she trotted over happily.
“Hey, Kett,” he said, and she froze for a second, horrified. How did he know? Could he smell her? Who’d told him?
But then he reached out and scratched her ears, saying, “Oh, you’ve lost your collar. I’ll tell the girls, shall I?”
He thought she was Kett II. Relief flooded Kett and she wagged her tail harder. Bael chuckled and stroked the top of her head, which felt way better than it ought to have.
“You’re a beauty, aren’t you, sweetheart? Not that you’d be anything else with a name like that.”
So saying, he chucked her under the chin and walked away, leaving Kett mildly stunned.
Chapter Eleven
Bael had woken alone, which was annoying, but he figured it was about time for breakfast so he got dressed and made his way downstairs in the hopes of finding someone who could tell him which of the many, many rooms of Nuala’s house breakfast might be served in.
Stopping to say hello to the leggy black hound Eithne had introduced him to last night as Kett II, he loped down the stairs, smiling to himself. He wondered if the real Kett knew she had a bitch named after her, and whether she cared. She probably didn’t. Kett didn’t seem to care much what people thought of her.
Except that she did, really. She cared very much that people saw her as someone who didn’t care. That they thought she was reckless, angry, violent, insane—but not smart, warm and vulnerable.
Her family saw it, or at least some of it. It was one of the reasons Bael liked them. Her siblings might be in awe of her—as they should, because she’s awesome—but they were proud of her. Last night he’d heard Beyla telling her friends about Kett’s dragons, huge pride in her voice.