Kismet's Kiss: A Fantasy Romance (Alaia Chronicles)

by Cate Rowan

  He dragged the little man into the alley between the tavern inn and the mercantile beside it. “Just tell me what this commotion is about and you’re free to go.”

  The man whispered, “Quarantine,” then cleared his throat before speaking again. “Quarantine’s been called on the whole city. Half of the north quarter and all of the eastside have come down with Speckled Fever, and they ain’t lettin’ anybody out. The gates are locked up tighter than an Ulvian’s pocketbook.” He added, “Sir,” as if hoping to gain enough favor to be allowed to live.

  “Don’t call me sir,” Ertemis snapped. He released his grip on the man’s cloak. Raking a hand through his hair, he swore under his breath. “Codswallop.”

  His elven half could protect him from human illness, even if he had to suffer through it first. But being quarantined wasn’t going to help him find the man who’d ruined his mother’s life. Slodsham was a passable place to spend a few days, but that’s where it ended. Staring past the man, he exhaled in frustration.

  An enterprising light flickered in the man’s eyes. “I don’t much wanna be here, either. I got goods ta buy and coin ta—anyway, maybe we…” Another upward glance at Ertemis and the man stopped.

  “Begging your pardon, master elf…I best be off.” He shifted his gaze down to the alley and tried to back away.

  Ertemis tightened his fist in the man’s cloak. “Speak.”

  The man’s gaze darted to the alley’s entrance then back to Ertemis. “I know a way out.”

  “I don’t need your help to ditch this slum.” He’d find a way on his own, after his head stopped throbbing.

  The man frowned. “But I need yers, master elf.”

  “Why? What’s in it for me?” Ertemis watched the alley’s entrance for company. He released his grip on the man’s cloak.

  “I’m owed a favor from a rather shady fella. I reckon he won’t pay up without some persuadin’. The kind you could provide, if ya understand. It’s worth fifty silvers when we’re out.”

  Everyone always wanted something, but Ertemis needed the coin. “Seventy-five and not a silver less. What’s your name?”

  “Haemus Brandborne at yer service, fiber merchant, seller of the finest colored fabrics, yarns, and other textiles ya could ever want.”

  He grinned, showing a few missing teeth as he extended his hand. “An yers?”

  Marbled burn scars matching the one’s on the merchant’s neck covered the man’s hand and extended up his wrist and under the sleeve of his rich tunic. Ertemis crossed his arms over his chest. “Master elf will do.”

  Haemus’s gaze went to the sword at Ertemis’s side. The merchant’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Ain’t you the…” His voice trailed off as if he no longer wanted an answer.

  Narrowing his gaze, Ertemis finished the man’s sentence. “Black Death? And what if I am?”

  “The Black Death.” Haemus breathed the words out like a curse. “I didn’t think ya came out during the day…ya in Slodsham for work or pleasure?” His eyes suddenly went wide and he shook his head. “Don’t answer that.”

  With his scarred palms up, he stepped back. “I just want out of the city.” He swallowed. “We got a deal, then, right? And that makes us partners, don’t it?”

  “We have a deal,” Ertemis nodded slowly, the pain in his head not yet subsided, “but we are not partners.”

  On one last walk along the placid shores of Callao Lake, Jessalyne watched some of the resident herd of cervidae, the deer people, gather ahead. Fairleigh Grove had been home to the skin-shifters since long before Jessalyne’s father had brought her mother to this secluded vale.

  A few of the young cervidae, in human form and dressed in simple linen tunics, played on a cluster of boulders, their mothers and fathers close by. The cervidae reproduced so slowly, each child became a carefully guarded treasure.

  Her jaw tightened. How wonderful to grow up with adoring parents. A father to protect you. A mother to teach you.

  One of the male cervidae kissed his companion’s cheek. Jessalyne looked away. The sight made her ache for something new, something she could never have. Who would love someone like her? Not even the cervidae dare touch her.

  But then, they had good reason not to touch. They knew exactly why her father had left.

  Her mother had been the cervidae’s healer, caring for the deer people until her death. The skin-shifters had become Jessalyne’s only family after her father abandonment. They were kind but never affectionate, and the hole left by her mother’s passing widened with every season.

  Jessalyne inhaled the crisp air, tipping her face toward the sun’s buttery heat. A patchwork of fragrant wildflowers bordered the path along the shore. Honeybees and dragonflies buzzed by. In the distance, waterfalls tumbled from the jagged Wyver mountain range shaping the lake’s furthermost shores. Rainbows shimmered in the mist. A place this beautiful should bring happiness, and it did, but not in a way that felt like home deep down inside.

  She sat beneath a tree, twisting a lock of hair around one finger. She scowled at the snowy strands and pale skin. I look as though I’ve been left in the sun to bleach.

  She didn’t belong here, didn’t even look like she belonged here. In human form, the cervidae were so beautiful—slender builds with elegant bone structure, large russet eyes, sun-kissed skin, and tawny-gold hair.

  A fish jumped and circles rippled across the lake’s surface. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the trunk. If she packed this evening, she could leave at firstlight.

  “Lady Jessalyne, come quick!”

  Jessalyne’s eyes snapped open. The alpha buck’s daughter, Corah, was running toward her, panic distorting her pretty face.

  “Orit fell and hurt his leg on the rocks. Come, please.” Corah’s hands clenched, as if she wanted to grab Jessalyne and pull her along.

  “You should practice what I’ve been teaching you.”

  “I can’t, not on my brother. We need you.” Tears welled in Corah’s eyes as she glanced over her shoulder toward the small gathering by the rocks. “Please, it looks bad. Very bad.”

  Orit was the alpha buck’s only son. Jessalyne nodded. “I’m coming.”

  The cluster of cervidae surrounding Orit parted to let her through. She knelt beside him. The young cervidae’s eyes were dark with pain, and he’d reverted to his fawn form, another indication of how badly he was hurt. She gently ran her hand over his warm dappled coat. A long deep gash along his rear flank exposed shattered bone.

  “Oh, Orit…” Jessalyne held her pity. The child needed reassurance, not further hurt.

  “Should I get mother?” Corah asked.

  “Not yet,” her father replied. “Your lady mother need not see this in her condition.”

  Jessalyne glanced up at Lord Tyber. Not once had her father held such concern for her in his eyes. “I can’t do this here. Bring him to my cottage, but move him as little as possible.”

  He nodded and tenderly lifted his fawn-son. Orit bleated in pain at the movement. Tyber winced.

  “It’s father, Orit. Rest now,” he whispered, moving quickly but carefully into the woods toward her home.

  Jessalyne sent Corah to gather herbs before hurrying after Lord Tyber. Even with Orit in his arms, he arrived ahead of her. He settled Orit into the small second bedroom, then took up pacing the braided rug in her front room.

  Jessalyne paused on her way to the kitchen. “Please, cease that. You’ll wear out my rug, and besides, I know what I’m doing.”

  He stopped, resting one hand on the dagger tucked in his belt. “My apologies. I know you’re skilled, but I cannot help my concern for my son.”

  “I’ll do my best to heal him.”

  His expression was stony. “I expect nothing less.”

  The words spun in her head but she shook them away. There was too much work to do to worry about what Tyber expected.

  Into a kettle she measured valerian, skullcap, and nightflower to dull Orit’
s pain and make him sleep, then asked Tyber to fill it with water and set it to brew on the stove.

  Corah came in as the kettle trickled steam, her arms full of fresh herbs and roots. “How is he?”

  “Hurting. Take a mug of that tea to him and see he drinks as much as possible. I’ll be in to clean the wound shortly.”

  After adding the few last ingredients to the cleansing solution, Jessalyne grabbed some clean linen towels and joined Corah and Tyber at Orit’s bedside.

  Evening approached, muting the light filtering in the windows. The muscles in her neck tightened. She didn’t want her fear of the dark to disturb her efforts to care for Orit. Nothing bothered her so much as the loneliness of night, the empty stillness when memories turned into nightscares and unbidden thoughts ruled her dreams.

  At the cursory flourish of her hand, every candle and lamp in the cottage sparked to life.

  Lord Tyber and Corah glanced at one another, a brief wordless communication, before returning their attention to the now slumbering Orit. Jessalyne ignored the look the pair exchanged. She knew what they were thinking. Their shifting magic was harmless. Her magic was not. She frightened them.

  Just one more reason to leave.

  Lord Tyber finally broke the silence. “Corah, go home to your lady mother and gently tell her what has happened. Let her know Orit is in Lady Jessalyne’s capable hands.” Jessalyne knew the cervidae called her lady out of respect for her as their healer, but now she wondered if their fear had prompted the title.

  “But I want to stay with Orit.” Corah remained seated.

  “Now.” Tyber’s stern tone put Corah on her feet.

  She bent to kiss her brother’s head. “Yes, Papa. Good eve, Lady Jessalyne.”

  Jessalyne nodded and went back to her work. Cleaning the bits of bone from the wound and setting Orit’s leg left her drained and aching for the beautiful fawn child. Although she had done her best to stitch the deep gash neatly, it would leave a scar. He would forever bear a reminder of the pain he’d suffered.

  Hours later, Jessalyne perched on a short, carved stool near the bed sipping a cup of anise tea and watching Orit’s rhythmic breathing. Firstlight softly brightened the sky. She glanced through the doorway at Lord Tyber. He’d drifted off in one of the twig chairs by the fireplace. Would he be happy when she told him she was leaving?

  Chilled by memories of her own father, she pulled her loosely woven shawl tighter around her shoulders. She pushed hair out of her eyes and pressed her palms against her forehead to blot out the thoughts of the day her mother died.

  Those thoughts turned the sweet tea bitter in her mouth. She could count on one hand the times she’d seen her father since the day he’d left. Giving her a share of his merchant’s take seemed to fulfill what little paternal obligation he still felt, whether he did it in person or by leaving a sack of coins on her flagstone porch. Didn’t he know coin meant nothing here? Where would she spend money in Fairleigh Grove? She sighed.

  Orit moaned but didn’t wake. She got up and smoothed the coverlet over him. As soon as he was well, she was leaving. Waiting for another worthless sack of coins held little allure.

  Glass globes of phosphorescent angelmoss washed the cobbled streets with weak light. By the position of the crescent moon, Ertemis knew it was well past midnight. There was no sign of the merchant in any direction.

  Ertemis exhaled in frustration. If he hadn’t needed the coin, he never would have agreed to this arrangement. Even with Dragon, his warhorse, he could have gotten out of the city on his own. Somehow.

  A rat scurried through the gutter. Ertemis cloaked himself in elven magic and merged into the shadows, disappearing against the grimy wall of the butcher’s shop behind him. Once shrouded by the enchantment, only elven eyes could see him. There was safety and a sense of comfort in being hidden this way.

  His fey blood had healed his throbbing head, but the hush night brought to the city pleased him. He relaxed against the wall and opened his senses. A full spectrum of sounds filled his angled ears.

  The thump of his own heart, the soft snuffling of Dragon hidden in the alley behind him, the whoosh of wind through the streets, water dripping, the distant scutter of nocturnal creatures. The quarantine had made Slodsham unnaturally quiet. Focusing, he shut out those sounds and listened again.

  This time footsteps echoed in the distance. Footsteps that had better belong to Haemus. Before long, the merchant arrived at the meeting place.

  Ertemis reached out and gripped the merchant’s shoulder. The man stiffened, his breath caught. Haemus whirled around, his face gnarled in fear.

  Ertemis dropped the enchantment, stepped out of the shadows, and revealed himself. Haemus slumped with relief, then opened his mouth to speak. Ertemis put a finger to his lips and motioned for the man to follow him into the alley.

  The dank lane stunk with the butcher’s refuse. The fetor evoked memories he longed to forget—battlefields littered with sun-bloated corpses, puddles of blood dotted with flies. He forced the thoughts from his head. Dragon snuffled in recognition of his master, and Ertemis greeted the big grey with a hearty nose rub.

  The shadows sculpted Dragon, magnifying his size. Haemus eyed the beast warily. “That’s the biggest horse I ever seen. Whaddya pay for him?”

  Ertemis focused on the merchant and bolstered his gaze with a dose of elven magic to set his eyes afire. The look had the desired effect, stifling the man’s question and sending him back a step.

  “You ain’t gonna hurt me, are ya, now?” Haemus rubbed at the scars on his throat.

  Ertemis ignored the question. “Is your contact in place?”

  “Aye. We best go. I don’t know how long he’ll wait.” Haemus coughed nervously.

  The man needed be quieter. Ertemis checked the wraps on Dragon’s hooves, a precaution against clatter waking any light sleepers or busy bodies. Killing someone would only complicate his night. The wraps were snug. He nodded his readiness.

  Dragon’s leads in hand, he followed the merchant through a series of back streets and side lanes, until they arrived in Slodsham’s Stew. The mosslights here held devil’s fire, the same lights used by the Legion for night patrols. The warm-water algae shed a red glow over the bawd houses.

  Tonight, the regular bustle and hum of the Stew was silenced. The bawd house balconies stood empty of their usual painted faces. Even the pink skirts didn’t work during quarantine. Only healers were allowed on the streets during a quarantine curfew.

  Ertemis studied the rusted, rundown postern. Easy to see why it was the least used gate in the entire city. It looked barely wide enough for Dragon.

  Lantern light shimmered through the dirt-streaked window of the dilapidated guard shack beside the locked passage. Haemus walked toward the shack and Ertemis hid himself and Dragon with magic. Might as well let Haemus have first go.

  The merchant rapped twice, paused, and then rapped once. The door creaked open. A stunted creature with watery eyes and swamp-colored skin emerged.

  “Haemusss,” the goblin hissed through large, wet lips. “Twuag wasss about to leave.”

  “Good of ya ta stay since ya owe me,” Haemus said.

  “Perhapsss a little gold would help Twuag find the key fassster.” The goblin offered up his warty palm suggestively.

  Haemus sighed. “I thought ya might feel that way. Twuag, meet my banker.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder as he moved out of the way. “Ya want gold, ask him.”

  Ertemis dropped the enchantment slowly, revealing only his eyes at first. Experience had taught him just how effective the sight of two glowing, disembodied eyes could be.

  Twuag shuddered and herked his bulk back into the guard shack, peering around the doorframe. “What givesss?”

  Dragon slid his head over Ertemis’s shoulder. He dropped the enchantment altogether. Man and beast came into full view, outlined by mossglow, a glimmer of moonlight and the unmistakable sheen of elven magic.

  An uneasy smile
twitching on his lips, Haemus crossed his arms over his chest. Twuag whimpered, taking obvious notice of the high, tattooed ears. Goblins rarely fared well against the fey, be they half-blood or full.

  The squat-legged creature dug the keys out of his pocket and scuffled toward the gate. Frantically trying each key, Twuag peered over his shoulder every few moments, keeping one bulging eye on the dark elf’s whereabouts.

  Ertemis grinned slightly when he saw the smug look in Dragon’s eyes. By Saladan’s britches, that horse is full of himself. He stepped a little closer to the fumbling goblin. “Hurry, goblin,” he whispered into the creature’s knobby ear, “or Speckled Fever will be the least of your worries.”

  “Twuag isss hurrying,” the goblin whined under his breath.

  At last the lock popped open. Twuag dropped the keys and disappeared into the city.

  Haemus grinned his gap-toothed grin. “I knew ya was goin’ ta be handy with that one.” Spinning on his heel, he sauntered through the gate.

  Ertemis shook his head and began easing Dragon through the narrow space. He walked backward through the corridor, leads in hand, mindful of the limited room for his own passage. “Head down, one shoulder at a time,” he urged. “Come now, you can do it.”

  He worried the beast would be caught at the hips. “Steady now, almost through—”

  But it was not to be. Dragon stuck fast and fumed about it, snorting hot breath, nostrils flaring, eyes wild. Knowing the horse’s strength and persistent nature, Ertemis goaded Dragon further.

  “Pity you haven’t the strength to get through, old friend. If you hadn’t gorged on that second helping of oats, you might be standing next to me—”

  Dragon burst from the gate with enormous force, knocking his master back. Ertemis stifled his laughter as the beast pawed the ground indignantly, snorting and stomping his still-muffled hooves. “All right, hush, you’ve proved me wrong.”

  He righted himself and shook the dirt from his cloak. He reached for Dragon’s front hoof and stripped the wrapping off, working his way around until all four were freed. After stuffing the wraps in his pack, he adjusted the cinch on his scarred black leather saddle.