The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3)

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “Methinks the lady has claws,” he purred.

  Little John swore, one arm flying up to slap his hand over his forehead, fingers carding through his thick hair. Robin’s brain whirled, absorbing this information like a child hoarding a new piece of candy. A picture started to form, the answer to the riddle just out of his reach. Huntress. Enhanced senses. Red eyes. Claws.

  “What is she?” Little John demanded. He was pacing now, footsteps light despite his size.

  “Let me think!” Robin snapped.

  “There’s no time for you to think, thinking is something you should have done before you started this nightmare! We have to stop her before she kills someone.”

  “I’ll stop her,” Will offered, his voice a skin-crawling sing-song that made his bloody visage all the more macabre. He opened his mouth a little wider, thin, almost-reptilian tongue sliding out to sample the blood dripping down his face.

  “No.” Robin looked Will in the eyes when he said it, holding the spriggan’s gaze. “I’ll stop her.”

  “How are you going to catch her?” Little John shifted uneasily on his feet, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Maybe you should let Will handle this. He won’t hurt her, you know that.”

  “No worries that she might hurt me, then?” Will snickered as if he’d made a joke, earning him a disparaging look from the bear shifter.

  “I don’t have to catch her.” Robin didn’t look Little John in the eye, focusing instead on the flashes of red hair he caught through the trees as Marian continued her strange circles. He wanted to stop and think, to reach for that knowledge that danced just out of his grasp, but Little John was right. He’d started something he might not be able to control, and he had to stop it before he became the irresponsible hazard that so many of his people thought he was.

  He followed Marian on her next circle, waiting until she broke through the tree line, erupted back onto the broad field where they’d first gathered that night. She raced up the side of the hill, her body still human in form, but moving as if she had extra muscles, possessed by a grace not usually found in the human form. Little John’s presence pressed against his back like a physical weight as Robin drew his bow and plucked an arrow from his quiver. The pleasure he usually found in the smooth craftsmanship of his bow, the slender perfection of his arrow, eluded him, leaving the gestures empty and cold. He pushed that feeling away and nocked the arrow, aiming for the crest of the hill.

  “You’re going to shoot her?”

  “Wound her enough to stop her, yes.”

  Little John didn’t say anything more, but his disapproval didn’t need voiced to make itself heard. Robin ignored him, steadied his arrow and held his breath.

  Marian reached the top of the hill. Reality froze, giving him all the time in the world to admire her silhouette against the moon, the glorious waterfall of red hair, the billowing folds of her dress. Some fanciful part of his brain imagined he could see tears in her eyes. Tears he’d caused. Again.

  I can’t do it.

  “Will.”

  “Yes?” The spriggan’s voice was uncharacteristically sober, almost gentle.

  Robin turned to face him, the words to tell him to go after Marian on the tip of his tongue. He looked into Will’s face, at the blood drying on his skin, the wounds already closing—

  Oh, what an idiot I am!

  “Nevermind.” The bow slid against his back as he replaced it, keeping only his arrow in his grasp. Little John and Will stared at him as he drew the tip of the arrow over his flesh, reopening the wounds from the same area she’d bitten him yesterday—the skin that had healed so nicely. He flexed his hand a few times, getting his blood flowing, letting the cut ooze until a thick line flowed down into his palm. Giving his companions a reassuring wink, he took off running again—away from Marian.

  He shortened his breath, adding a gasp here and there, and trying to wheeze as if his injury were not a superficial wound in his wrist, but rather a more serious internal wound. Marian hadn’t engaged fully with Will, had taken a swipe at him and run off. But there were few predators that could resist easy prey. Wounded prey.

  He felt the moment Marian noticed him, the moment her attention locked on his fleeing form. There was nothing quite like the sensation of being hunted. Even when it was planned, when he’d wanted her to chase him, the sensation was unsettling, touching instincts buried deep in primal memory. The hairs on the back of his neck rose on a ghostly wind, as if he could feel her hot breath on his skin, the promise of teeth close enough to send chills down his spine. Despite intentionally making himself a target, he couldn’t help the real flutter of panic that made him run faster, that made him forget for a moment that the idea was to let her catch him. He needed to slow her down, stop her, snap her out of the mindset he’d unwittingly plunged her into. And he couldn’t do that if the chase continued.

  That being said, he couldn’t help but remember Will’s face. And Marian had been all too willing to use physical violence with him before. He didn’t like to think about what she might do now that she seemed to have taken full leave of her senses.

  You wanted excitement.

  With a mental nudge of encouragement, he slowed, every nerve ending screaming in terror as he anticipated the moment she would catch him. The world screeched into sharp relief, every sound pounding against his eardrums, every breeze scraping over his skin. His stomach dropped out as her shadow fell over him and he pivoted just as he felt the first breeze of her hurtling form, turned in time for her to collide with the front of his body.

  He was ready for the impact and let her momentum carry him backwards, down to the ground. He lifted his legs, channeling her momentum to flip her over and land astride her middle. It was a familiar position, an echo of their earlier tussle, and this time he was careful not to try and hold her arms down, nor to let his weight settle too firmly in front of him. Instead, he centered his weight, hips loose to move with the writhing and bucking of her body as she tried to throw him off.

  She swiped at his face, but he saw no claws, just pale fingertips crooked as if ready to snag the flesh from his bones despite their bluntness. Her eyes were still a burning red, locked on him without a trace of recognition. He batted her hands away, using the pressure of his thighs on either side of her body to keep her from squirming out from under him.

  Push her. Find out her secret.

  The thought whispered through his mind, a tempting, lilting voice from the darker side of his psyche. It would be so easy. So easy to increase the violence, smear his blood on her mouth, coax out that other nature that was so very close, that was practically winking at him from behind those red eyes. He could have the answer he wanted so very, very badly.

  “You don’t really care about anyone else. All you really care about is your own entertainment, avoiding boredom. You are no hero.”

  He stared down at her, the pink flush in her pale cheeks, that strange sheen over crimson eyes. “I wish you were right.”

  Holding her down wasn’t easy, not with how hard she struggled and his determination to de-escalate her mania. And if he were perfectly honest with himself, it was an interesting buffet of sensations, her body rubbing against his, her flesh hot from her mad dash burning through their clothes, inspiring thoughts of what it would feel like to hold her without the hindrance of clothing between them. Her struggles had tugged at the bodice of her dress so it was off kilter, the blouse dipping dangerously low on her left side, giving him an extra inch or two of pale skin to admire.

  Don’t be a cad.

  He pushed those thoughts from his head, a tiny voice promising him that he would consider them in more detail later. He watched her carefully as he shifted his weight with her movements, fighting to keep her down, but not imprisoned. He wanted to contain her, but not hurt her.

  “Marian, listen to me.” He kept his voice low, soothing. “I’m sorry, Marian. Do you hear me? I’m sorry.”

  She ignored him, didn’t even see
m to hear him. Her head snapped up, teeth bared, ready to bite him. He scrambled to keep his flesh out of the way without falling into the same trap of leaning his full weight forward, cursing when she bucked her hips again and nearly threw him over her head.

  “It’s possible I may have over-stepped my bounds,” he grunted. “Truth is no excuse for rudeness, so I am often told. I meant no harm.”

  Her struggles slowed, eventually stopped, but the red glow in her eyes remained, her stare like twin coals blazing in an open oven. Her lips moved and he leaned a little closer to hear her.

  “They loved me.”

  She didn’t say who, but she didn’t have to. It might have been wiser to go along with whatever she said, say whatever it took to calm her down, but he couldn’t quite make himself do it. Marian’s delusions were hurting her, even if she couldn’t see it. Facing unpleasant truths was the only way to live through them. Not just survive them, but live through them.

  “I’m sure they did, in their own way.”

  She closed her eyes and turned her head to press her cheek against the grass. Her arms grew limp in his grasp and she lay like a broken doll, wide eyes unblinking, staring into the night. Her breathing shuddered and slowed until her chest rose and fell with a smooth, steady rhythm once again.

  Robin eased his weight off her, watching her arms carefully for any telltale muscle twitch that might alert him that she was about to reach for him, attack him. The nerves in his legs trembled with awareness, ready to stop her if she tried to buck him off, tried to run again.

  She remained calm and he shifted into a sitting position beside her. Marian rolled to her side, curled up to hold her knees against her chest. Robin’s brain played tricks on him, and for a moment he imagined the pool of her red skirts was a spreading puddle of blood, that she was curled up not in mental pain, but physical agony. He blinked, shoving that imagery away.

  “They did love me, they just wanted more for me then what they thought I was creating for myself. They were afraid of what my life would be like if I followed the wrong path.”

  “My mother used to say something very similar.” Robin propped his chin on one hand, his elbow resting on his knee. An image of his mother hovered before him, her long golden hair flowing to her hips, every lock bedecked with fresh flowers and precious stones. Her dress a glorious ball gown that hugged her tiny waist, squeezed her delicate, bare shoulders, and cascaded down to the floor in a glittering waterfall of greens and blues found only in the most pristine parts of nature. Tatania in all her summer beauty.

  “She used to tell me that if I continued my ‘childish pursuits’ then I would ostracize myself from those of our people who could benefit me. She warned me that the path I was on would lead to the very bottom of our court, would cost me the safety and success that power and high-standing could offer.”

  He met Marian’s eyes again, encouraged to find they were once again the same green orbs he’d grown so accustomed to, only a hint of fire dancing in the centers. “My foster mother, on the other hand, encouraged me to be exactly who I wanted to be. She told me the only true measure of success is happiness. If what you are doing makes you happy, then that is precisely what you should be doing.”

  Marian’s brow furrowed and she sat up, her movements sluggish as if waking from a dream. Her lips moved, but suddenly she froze. Her eyes widened and her hand flew back, touching her back. Anguish creased her forehead and she sucked in a breath.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My bow. My arrows—they’re gone.”

  She said it the way most noblewomen would whisper of a missing gem, a priceless family heirloom. It made him like her more.

  “Come on then,” he said, getting to his feet. He offered her a hand and she stared at it before planting her hands on the grass and pushing herself up. He grinned. That’s the spirit.

  He started off toward the forest, scanning the ground as he went. She fell into step beside him, not so close as to give the impression they were a couple out on a romantic midnight walk, but close enough that they could continue carrying on their conversation if they so desired.

  Robin lost track of time rather quickly, absorbed in the tricky task that was locating a bow and quiver specifically colored to blend in with the forest in said forest—at night.

  “You’re adopted?”

  Her voice held the slight monotone that suggested she was still absorbed in her search, but there was a definite curiosity there too. Robin nodded without taking his eyes off the forest floor.

  “In a manner of speaking. My mother felt it was best to distance herself from me as much as possible. She got rather tired of ‘making excuses’ for me.” He shrugged. “I think I embarrass her. In any case, Dubheasa, my foster mother, felt no such embarrassment. Quite the contrary, she enjoys my escapades nearly as much as I do and she often offers ideas during tea, proposals for how I could ‘wring even more fun out of life,’ as she puts it.”

  He scratched at his wrist, then winced as he remembered his self-inflicted injury. Blood smeared his pants as he wiped his fingers off. “When you hunt, you look happy—excited and at peace all at once. You run through the forest like it’s your true home, and it welcomes you.” He risked a glance at her and for a moment the intense concentration on her face as she searched for her bow reminded him of the look she’d sometimes got when she was hunting him. Is it odd that I miss being hunted?

  Shrugging off that thought, he continued. “Then you go back to your manor. I watch the light bleed from your eyes and your shoulders slump as though someone’s laid a lodestone on your back. You walk to your house like a woman going to the gallows.”

  “And you want to know why I’m so miserable at home, is that it? Why I can’t be happy in the lap of luxury as you put it?” She scooped up a dry stick from the ground and snapped it in two, throwing the broken pieces into the brush as if they’d personally offended her.

  Robin frowned and tore his attention away from the tempting skin of her throat, the graceful line of her jaw that led to soft red lips. There was something so attractive about her when she was annoyed. “No. I want to know why you keep going back.”

  Her brow furrowed and she took her eyes off the ground for a moment to look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You have money, yes, but you don’t seem to really want it. You don’t want the land, you don’t want the responsibility, you clearly don’t want the people. Why don’t you just take what you need and go live in the forest? You could feed yourself easily enough and you could sell furs or meat to make the living you want. Why do you keep going back to a life that makes you miserable?”

  She pulled away then, and it was more than just a physical withdrawal. She turned her face, hiding those expressive features from his scrutiny. “My parents—”

  “Your parents are dead.” She flinched, but he didn’t back off, didn’t let her retreat. He took her hand, forcing her to stop and stand with him, ignoring the blood on his palm as he brought her hand to his chest. “You can’t please them now, so it’s an excellent time to stop trying. Please yourself, Marian. Be happy.”

  He’d half-expected her to jerk her hand away, maybe slap him for good measure. At the very least she should have taken the opportunity to call him a child, shout at him for caring only about pleasure, shirking responsibility or some such nonsense. Instead, she stared at her hand held over his heart. One finger slowly extended, caressing the leather of his vest, brushing the end of the lace that fastened it.

  It wasn’t a sexual gesture, and yet Robin’s nerves sizzled to life, every fiber of his being hyper-aware of her nearness, of her willing touch. She curled that finger away from him, clenched it into a fist, and he felt the withdrawal as if her fingers were attached to something inside him. It was a strange sensation, and he pushed it away to consider later.

  After what felt like an eternity, she looked up at him. Her chest rose and fell a little faster and she swallowed twice before speaking.

&n
bsp; “Do you like who you are?”

  Her voice held a note of an emotion he couldn’t quite identify and he held her hand a little tighter, some instinct telling him she was slipping away, that he was losing her. “Yes.”

  “Then you can be who you are and be happy. You can choose a life without guilt.” She shook her head. “Even if I were to do as you say and live the life that would please me, follow my own pleasures, I would not be happy. I could not find satisfaction in being myself because I do not like who I am.”

  The urge to brush her hair behind her ear became too much and he gave in, relishing the silky texture, the cool shell of her ear. “Marian, love, how do you know? You’ve never been who you are.”

  The last sentence drew her eyes to his, had her staring at him with an unsettling intensity. She held that stare for a long time, as if she were searching for something in his eyes. There was a yearning in her face, a temptation to believe what he said, but underneath it was a sadness so deep she was drowning in it. And he had no idea how to save her.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle, resigned. “I cannot give you what you want, Robin Hood. Release me from my promise, and from your company. Give me the year to pay you back—a year during which I will not see you and you will not follow me, or spy on me in any way. Believe me when I say I will never be more than an annoyance to you, a frustrating refusal to be what you seem to want me to be so badly. If you truly care for me as you pretend to, then you will trust me. And you will leave me alone.”

  He should have said yes. There was a seriousness in her face that couldn’t be pretended, a seriousness he felt down to the core of his being. She believed she could not change, believed that she could not be happy. Whatever her secret was, whatever she was underneath that human façade, it was something she didn’t want to be. Didn’t want to face. Who was he to force it out of her, just for his own satisfaction?