“Hold Sly’s weight while I get the door,” Joe said. “I didn’t realize he was so heavy.”
“We’ll tell him he needs a diet once he regains consciousness,” Saber joked.
They half-lifted, half-dragged Sly to a narrow bed, both grunting as they dropped him in place.
Saber pulled out his com and messaged Casey. She must’ve been nearby, because he soon heard the clomp-clomp of her boots, signaling her arrival.
“What’s wrong with Sly?” she asked, her dark hair ruffled from her race to the infirmary.
“We don’t know,” Saber said. “He’s breathing, but he hasn’t regained consciousness. There was a bright light, so bright it hurt my eyes. By the time I focused again, Sly was on the floor.”
“That’s all I saw, too,” Joe said. “He dropped without warning. I didn’t have a chance to catch him. Have you seen anything like this before?”
Casey ran her hands over Sly’s body, then stalked to a drawer. She pulled out a medi-comp and ran it over him. When it beeped, she frowned at the results. “No known cause. According to the medi-comp, he should be walking around.”
A former marine, Casey had a vast amount of medical knowledge collected in the field during encounters with other races.
Concern gripped Saber. Sly’s skin felt cool when his feline genes usually generated warmth. “What do you think?”
Casey worked her bottom lip between her teeth as she repeated her sweep with the medi-comp. “No one else was hurt?”
“No,” Joe said. “I’m fine. So are the women we were speaking to at the time.”
“I’m sorry, Saber. I’ve no idea what’s wrong with him. I’ve never come across anything similar. All we can do is watch him, keep him warm. I’ll try my contacts for information.”
“I have to return to the mixer and do my welcoming speech,” Saber said. “Joe, can you come back with me and speak with the blue ladies? Maybe they saw something that one of us missed.”
Joe nodded. “I’ll do that.”
“I’ll stay with Sly,” Casey promised, and gave Joe a swift hug.
“Thanks.” With a last glance at his brother, Saber guided Joe from the infirmary. Worry bounced inside him like a fidgety child. Joe and Sly were close. He’d need to watch Joe, keep him busy while they worked out what ailed Sly.
Chapter Six
Sly bolted upright, his gaze snapping around the room. Bed. A bedroom. Gray-and-maroon cloth shaded the windows. Pictures… No, tapestries covered stone walls, the silk threads gleaming and giving him an impression of an old-fashioned room in a historic house. And the bed. A four-poster complete with gray-and-maroon curtains, carved posts and—he blinked—nymphs. Naked nymphs doing naughty things.
He glanced down and lifted the sheet covering his lap.
Naked.
He sniffed and smelled nothing more than a floral note. Probably the vase of deep red flowers by the window. Not roses but something similar.
He searched his memory.
Nope.
This wasn’t home.
No woman or indication of a hook-up. No lingering scent of sex. No impression on the pillow beside his.
Yet something was off.
A buzz, a scratching of fingers, directed his attention to the wooden door with metal decoration in the far wall.
“Sir?”
“E—” Sly cleared his throat. “Enter.” Despite swallowing, his voice emerged with a croak.
A tall, upright man, dressed in gray trousers and a matching short jacket with maroon trim, opened the door and glided inside, a tray in hand. Weird clothes. Formal and prissy.
The scent of food distracted him, and Sly’s belly rumbled on cue. Chocolate, if he wasn’t mistaken. He sniffed again, catching a waft of the aroma coming from a silver pot. Yes, chocolate. And the food scents…
The dome over the plate prevented visual clues. He couldn’t identify the delicious smell, couldn’t seem to pull the information from his sluggish brain.
“Breakfast, my lord.”
The man’s bony fingers pushed a button on the silver tray and it rose, hovering for an instant before gliding toward Sly.
Sly sucked in an astonished breath when the tray halted in front of him and continued to hover.
“Ah, thank you. Ah…”
“Alfric, my lord.” His thick black brows pinched together briefly as he removed the dome cover to reveal eggs, some type of meat, a red substance…vegetable? And a crunchy bread roll.
“Thank you, Alfric, but I’m not a lord. Call me Sly.”
“Oh, no,” the man said, aghast. “That wouldn’t be showing my respect. Will that be all, my lord?”
“Thank you,” Sly said, his thoughts racing and not coming up with answers.
The man dipped his narrow head in acknowledgment, giving Sly a glimpse of shiny skull before he straightened. “I will return with your clothes. It is an exciting day. A betrothal. Your arrival is a surprise, but we are pleased that Princess Iseabal has found love.”
Sly frowned. In the end, he remained silent because nothing resonated with him.
“The princess said she intended to show you the castle this morn. It won’t do to keep her waiting. Eat. Eat, my lord.”
My lord? That still didn’t seem familiar. “Thank you,” Sly said again, for lack of something better to say. Princess. Betrothal. Castle. He picked up a fork and concentrated on the easy stuff. “This is tasty.”
Alfric beamed and bobbed a quick bow before leaving the room. The instant the door closed, Sly dropped his fork, shunted the tray aside and jumped from the bed. The tray continued to hover in readiness. A handy gadget. He sidestepped it and strode to the window.
Nothing seemed familiar.
How did he get here?
He knew his name—Sly Mitchell.
But that was all…
He scanned the green square below, the graceful wings of stone to his right and left, ending in round towers, which told him the castle…castle? He continued his scrutiny. The castle flowed around a grass square with another courtyard farther away. There was an archway below and several people rode through on strange shaggy creatures. Other men and women followed on foot.
Beyond the castle walls, trees in different shades of green covered the steep hillsides. The sun glinted off a body of water. Sly pushed open the window. Fresh air tickled his face. Voices drifted to him. A bird with big round blue eyes regarded him from a stone perch. With its upright body and large head, it reminded him of a statue. Until it blinked.
A sense of familiarity claimed him. He’d seen this bird before, yet everything else seemed foreign.
The door opened behind him.
“My lord.” Alfric stood in the doorway, his butler-straight posture spoiled by his gaping jaw. Four men carried a large trunk and a gaggle of women followed, tittering loudly upon noticing his nudity. “Leave the trunk there,” he ordered. “Cease your prattling, women. Place the garment bags on the bed and leave. And if you know what is best for you, you won’t gossip about seeing Lord Sly.” He strode to a wall, waved his hand and pulled a robe out of a wardrobe that appeared as if by magic.
Meanwhile, Sly stood frozen until the women’s comments registered. His hands darted down to cover his groin.
“You do not wish to anger Princess Iseabal,” Alfric snapped, and the discussion abruptly halted. The servants hustled to carry out his bidding, and then left. “Your robe, my lord. Were you not hungry?”
“No, I—” The rumbling of his belly belied his response.
“Come, my lord. Sit and break your fast.”
Sly followed Alfric’s urging and applied himself to eating. The eggs and meat tasted delicious, as if he hadn’t eaten for a lengthy period. He sipped his chocolate drink but that tasted bitter, so he set it aside.
“I knew you must be hungry, my lord,” Alfric said with approval.
Sly caught a faint hoot before Alfric closed the window.
“Step into the en suite and refr
esh yourself. Your clothes for today are here.” Alfric indicated a maroon suit made of velvet and a frilly cream shirt. I will unpack your trunk while you bathe. “It won’t take long.” He snapped his fingers and the trunk sprang open. Then Alfric waggled a forefinger at the trunk and the clothes within sprang upright and floated toward the wardrobe. They hovered while Alfric opened it then they sailed inside, settling on hangers and in cubbyholes.
Sly shook away his astonishment and focused on the suit of clothes Alfric had set out for him. He winced. Unsure of his reaction, he rifled through his memories. A blank. His mind felt like the green square—surrounded by walls. He pushed and shoved and bullied those barriers in his mind, but they remained solid and impenetrable.
Weird. Plain weird.
Everything in him screamed with wrongness, yet he couldn’t decide what bothered him.
Wait. Observe. Gather facts.
An unknown voice spoke the words in his mind, a voice of authority and reason. It made sense. Even though it was a stranger speaking, he decided to follow the suggestion.
Once Alfric bustled from the room, he removed the robe and wandered into the en suite. Glossy ruby-red tiles covered the walls and a white bathtub sat against the far wall. A pale green tube filled a corner, and Sly thought the nozzles in the wall to his right looked like some sort of showering system.
He strolled over to the bath. After trial and error, he learned the water ran on voice control. Finally, he climbed into the fragrant bath water. The heat relaxed tight, sore muscles, and he leaned back in enjoyment. After lingering for a time, he decided to get dressed before Alfric returned.
He dried off in the green tube thingy, it’s purpose discovered by accident when he was searching for towels. Clothes next. He donned a thin pair of black underwear, then thrust his legs into velvet-like maroon trousers. Whoa! While loose when he pulled them on, the fabric quickly tightened against his limbs.
Cursing, he grabbed the waistband, but the trousers continued shrinking until they clung to his hips and legs. Then they stopped. Warily, he removed his hands from his stomach. The waistband drew in until it fit snugly against his belly.
Sly waited, relaxed a fraction. The shrinking process had ceased. He eyed the cream shirt with trepidation. The garment appeared large. Okay. No shirt scared him. He slipped his arms into the cream sleeves and fastened the wooden buttons down the front. Instantly, the shirt contracted in the same manner as the trousers. Sly jumped, startled by the weird sensation. Groped by a shirt. Every muscle in his body constricted. Long moments later, he pushed out a shaky chortle.
Surely he should remember this, yet dressing seemed a new experience.
Did they do things differently at his home? Alfric had indicated he’d just arrived. Maybe that accounted for the weird vibes. But his home—shouldn’t he remember?
The bell on his door tinkled. “Sly? Are you awake?”
The door burst open and a woman with straight black hair and golden skin stood in the entrance. She beamed at him, her blue eyes sparkling with happiness, and practically flew the distance separating them. Sly flung out his arms to catch her and before he knew it, they were in a lip-lock.
Male. Beautiful woman.
Sly did the natural thing and settled in to enjoy the exchange. Her shapely curves melded against his chest. Her exotic floral fragrance surrounded him. With her long ebony hair, the blue-blue-blue of her eyes, balanced features and golden skin, she was a looker, a woman who drew a man’s attention, yet Sly felt…
He felt nothing.
He drew back, forcing a diplomatic smile while his mind jumped hurdles. How had he arrived here? Shouldn’t he remember? The reasons? The journey? Hell, where had he come from?
For a fleeting second, another face—big blue eyes and red hair—flitted through his mind, but when he attempted to grasp the memory, the recollection faded into mist.
Another layer to add to the confusing puzzle.
“Sly, I’ve missed you so much. I’m so glad you’re finally here. I can’t wait to introduce you to my father. He will love you. I know he will. And I’m sure he will give us approval to wed.”
Married? This must be the princess Alfric had mentioned. “Iseabal?”
“Princess Iseabal,” she chided. “You must observe the formalities.”
“Princess Iseabal,” he repeated.
Surely, if they were to marry, he’d call her Iseabal? Everything he learned added more doubt to his mind. While the princess seemed familiar, he didn’t recall their first meeting or agreeing to visit the castle. Which was where? Where the hell was he?
He clasped his hands behind his back and pinched the tender skin of one wrist. The nip of pain convinced him. This wasn’t a dream. More a nightmare with the questions jamming his thoughts and clogging his brain.
Sly opened his mouth to ask a question—which one, he wasn’t certain—then he thought better of revealing his bewilderment. His teeth clacked together.
“Are you almost ready? Don your boots and we’ll go to meet Father. If we hurry, we can have breakfast with him.”
Not a suggestion. An order.
Sly turned away to pick up the knee-high black boots. They didn’t seem like his style. Shrugging aside the strangeness of the boots, he sat on the edge of the bed and thrust his right foot into one of the boots. Like the clothes, it shrank to fit. With his boots in place, he grabbed his maroon jacket. This shrinking business disconcerted him, which told him his home didn’t enjoy the same technology.
When he stood, the princess hovered by the open door, practically vibrating with impatience.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Sly offered his arm. He’d gather knowledge, fill in the gaps.
She placed her fingers on his sleeve and her exotic floral fragrance filled his next breath. Wrong. Yet he couldn’t explain why that raised his hackles.
“Which way?” he asked.
Princess Iseabal tugged on his arm. “We’re going to my father’s private salon in the west tower.”
“Tell me about your father.” Sly’s fingers itched to tug at his jacket and high-necked shirt. “Will he approve of me? Wouldn’t he want you to wed someone of his choosing?” He surreptitiously yanked his waistband with his free hand. The fabric gave at his touch, yet discomfort pervaded, hence the urge to tug, to jerk, to find something less…colorful to wear.
Sly caught a flash of his reflection in a shiny metal urn and groaned inwardly. He looked like an uptight…popinjay—whatever they were. His mind twisted and prodded at the foreign word. Another mystery to add to the pile.
“No. Well, yes.” A bell-like laugh tinkled from the princess.
The tuneful glee relaxed something inside him. Sly’s shoulder muscles slackened, every instinct telling him to hoist the charm flag. “Which is it? Yes or no?”
“If Father wished me to meet a man, I would. No question, but he values my opinion. I’ve told him you’re strong and loyal. Handsome too. He wishes to judge for himself although I don’t have any concerns. You’ll charm him as easily as you did me when we met at my friend’s house.”
Sly still didn’t recall their first meeting but inclined his head and continued strolling at her side while taking stock of his surroundings.
Luxury. Everywhere, the impression of wealth.
It whispered from the elegant marble columns. The paintings. Tapestries. Statuary in alcoves. Fresh flowers in painted vases.
And servants. They passed several maids, who ducked their heads and dipped polite curtsies. As they neared a large and tall wooden door, two security guards straightened, their eyes stern and watchful, impassive expressions on their golden faces. Both wore swords rather than guns. Strange, but then his entire day resembled a jigsaw with ill-fitting pieces.
“The king is expecting us.” Princess Iseabal practically skipped toward them, barely pausing in her determined journey.
“Aye, Princess Iseabal,” the larger of the two men said. He jerked a thumb at his partne
r, and they pushed open the door and stood aside for their entrance.
A thin and drawn gray-haired man sat at a table over the far side of the room. It was another of those floating tables. A ray of sun poured through a window, highlighting the pallor of his golden skin, yet his delight shone sweetly when he spotted his daughter.
“Iseabal, it is lovely to see you this morn. And you’ve brought a guest.”
“Father, this is Sly. Remember, I told you about meeting him. I’m so glad he was able to visit. I so wanted him to meet you.”
“Sir.” Sly inclined his head in greeting. “Ah, how should I address you?”
“I am king of Seelie. You may call me King Fionnghall.”
“Sly, I’m sorry. I should’ve explained things better. Father, it is my fault. I’m just so pleased Sly is here and forgot my manners.” She squeezed against Sly’s side, an impish grin on her face.
“Father, have you seen—”
The new arrival—a woman—came to such an abrupt halt, the man following in her wake bumped into her and shoved her two steps farther into the room.
Sly’s eyes widened. He glanced from the new arrival to Iseabal and back again. Twins. Both had black hair and glowing golden skin. Both possessed blue eyes. But the newly arrived sister wore her gray gown buttoned to the top, her black locks severely restrained, her expression neutral. A drab imitation of the Princess Iseabal, who sizzled with vitality.
“Here you are,” the newly arrived twin said. “I’ve been searching for you. I wanted to discuss Father’s medicine with you. The pills and potions the doctor prescribed aren’t helping. Calum thinks we should call a specialist.”
“Don’t fuss, child,” the king said. “I’m fine.”
But his hand quivered and his sallow skin and bony appearance spoke to the contrary. It didn’t take a medical person to discern an ailing king. Sly waited and watched, still trying to make sense of his position. A guest at a fancy castle. Friend to a princess. Her hand curled around his fingers. Close friend.
“Now that you’re here,” Iseabal said. “This is Princess Katrina, my sister, and her husband, Lord Calum. This is Sly Mitchell. I met him last time I visited Lady Jessika. We got on so well I persuaded him to visit.” She pressed herself against him again and sent him an intimate smile, one that spoke of more than friendship. No, this smile said lovers and a serious stay-at-your-side future.
Spellbound with Sly (Middlemarch Capture Book 4) Page 6