by Jaide Fox
Not from men seeking her.
The heels of her worn boots clipped and clattered against the cobbled, stone floor and the slight sound rang out loudly in the courtyard. It wasn't enough to cause any alarm to the inhabitants of the inn, but it instantly betrayed her position and opened her to danger from those who were hunting her.
If anyone was hunting her, that was.
It was feasible that lack of sleep had her so highly strung that she saw ghouls and goblins, here where there were none to see.
Resolutely, she continued on her way and when she finally exited the yard and walked down the country lane, she praised the Goddess for the moon. While it lit her path, it was not so bright as to highlight her whereabouts.
Beside her, in the tight thoroughfare, were hedgerows which were taller than even her. They also blanketed her position and for the moment, she knew she was safe.
Opening her mind, as Isabeau had learned to do, she slowly changed her appearance in the darkened protection of the rough track. Slowly, her long, dark red hair turned into straggles of lank, greasy gray. The violet eyes that garnered her attention no matter the situation and had to be constantly repressed with glamor, developed into watery blue orbs that added decades to her real age. They added a down trodden, weariness to her appearance that added to the authenticity of her disguise.
The smooth and tanned skin of a youthful young woman became wrinkled and sun damaged. A mole popped out on her chin and she grimaced as she felt the slight growth of two, three, four hairs pop out of the fleshy mound. She licked her lips to wet the dry flesh and realized that the soft and gentle pout of her mouth had become a hard thin line.
With the tip of her tongue, she prodded a strange mark on her lip and realized that it was a scar. Using her fingers, she delineated the scar and realized that it cut across both of her lips and along her chin and down her jaw.
The petite and curvy figure became skinny and lanky. The ragged clothes became even more ragged and drowned her now thinner frame. With her costume complete, she exhaled in relief, feeling almost like the tortoise, who could pop into its shell whenever it felt endangered.
Her glamor was her shell and no matter how many times she used the gift of hiding and disguising the true Isabeau, it always surprised her when her appearance changed and so thoroughly.
It was simply a case of wishing to change her appearance and her talents prevailed. Isabeau never knew how she would change or how she would look, she only had the security of knowing that she would certainly not look like Isabeau Hart! And living in constant fear for her life as she did, that was an important talent indeed.
The lane came to a sudden cessation and she had to crinkle her eyes to see into the distance. Clouds roamed across the sky, leaving her little light by which to see, and she realized that she would have to take pot luck as to which direction to take.
She hesitated, knowing that the lane could lead her to a wood, along an even lengthier country lane which would take her to the nearest town and then, according to the innkeeper, a manor house.
Isabeau wanted to enter the reasonable security of the woods, as the other two were entirely unsuitable for her needs. Biting her lip, she examined her options. She was certain the dirty pig of an innkeeper had said left for the woods, right for the estate and straight ahead for the lane that lead to town.
Deciding to trust her memory, she turned left, when all of a sudden, she heard the clatter of horses' hooves. For a moment, Isabeau froze. Her mind's eye flashed her an image of thirteen horsemen. Each dressed as darkly as the night itself, their auras ominous and grim and their faces taut with purpose. To capture her.
She dropped back into her body with seconds to spare and lifting her petticoats and skirt, Isabeau quickly ran down the left lane and praised the Goddess, when she felt the soft mush of leaves squelch underneath her boots and the darkened shade of the tall trees overhead. She had taken the correct path, thank heavens. The large and the small animals scurried away from her noisy retreat, as she tore through the woods and battled with nature to bolt away from the men who wished to capture her.
Her heart began to pound in her chest and her breath rattled and whistled through her teeth as she tried to suck in as much air as possible. A feeling of sickness settled in her stomach as she ran as fast as she could and still, the cantering hooves of the men on horseback sounded loud in her ears. She was unsure as to whether they were close by or in her thoughts, but either way, wherever they were, they were too near to her person.
Suddenly, she heard the slurp of the horses' hooves against the sodden and damp ground. Turning her head around to attempt to visually pinpoint their location, she managed to catch her cry as she tripped over an unseen tree root. Quickly jumping to her feet, she hopped into the slight twist to her ankle and urged herself into a higher speed. Only the tightly fastened boots securing her feet and lower calves kept her upright. Quickly, she attempted to heal herself with the ring, but as her thoughts were muddled, she could not concentrate on curing her injury.
The echoes of her pursuers came closer and closer, until she felt almost as though they were at her heels and all thoughts of injuries disappeared with the blast of fear that overcame her instead. Perhaps they were nearby, but she refused to look back this time. Her eyes were focused before her, where they should have been earlier and then she would not have damaged her ankle. Because of her inattention, she was now stumbling through the forest like a madwoman.
Above the crashing beat of her heart and the soughing breaths that entered and exited her lungs, she heard the slide of hooves beside her and knew that this time, they were actually there. She gulped but continued running until finally, Isabeau had to desist when she felt the horses change course and start to run in front of her. When Isabeau felt them at her back and at her sides as well, she knew that she was cornered and surrounded and had nowhere else to run.
Her knees crumbled at the realization that she had been caught and she felt the damp and moldy leaves cling wetly to her skirts. Her hands came up to support her upper body by pressing against the floor and with her head ducked down, she managed to reclaim some of her breath.
Isabeau's head shot upwards when she heard one of the men jump down from the saddle.
"Who are you?" she called out, her voice husky from her exertions. Isabeau peered into the darkness but it enshrouded the rider like an all-encompassing cushion.
Boots crunched fallen leaves as the rider approached.
"The Night Rider," came the eventual response. It was definitely a man's husky voice.
Whether it was fear or some other impossible to name emotion, his words had ripples of tension shuttling up and down her spine. The tiny hairs at her nape fluttered as she tried to calm herself down.
"Why do you hunt me down as though I'm the fox and you the hounds? What right do you have?" she declared indignantly.
The only response she received at first was a gravelly chuckle.
"As both Wolfe Sinclair and the Night Rider, I have every right to hunt you down. You know why I seek you. Just as you know why I have been following you."
Staring up at him with bewildered eyes, she felt anxiety strum her nerves to fever pitch. Isabeau had no idea as to why this man would be seeking her. All she did know was that she had been running to avoid a similar fate to that of her parents'.
As far as she had always been aware, there had been no real or definite reason for her beloved mama and papa's deaths. Only supposition.
But, was this man their murderer?
By admitting that he had been following her, was he also admitting to the slaying of her parents?
She damned her muddled brain's confusion as her thoughts were sluggishly processed and no answers, intelligent or otherwise, were forthcoming.
With a tortured voice, she replied, "I do not know why you're following me."
He laughed again and she winced at the harshness behind his tone. In her mind's eye, she saw the flames that licked at he
r family home. The thatched, straw roof smoldering as it was consumed by a fire to end all fires.
The man behind the voice seemed capable of anything. Perhaps that was her fear talking, but then, what other emotion should she be feeling in so malevolent a situation such as this one?
Wincing as she placed her scratched palms against the leaf-strewn ground, Isabeau shakily climbed to her feet and stood defiantly before him.
"You killed them, then..." she stated quietly and was horrified when he laughed. The sound menacing in the darkness of the wood. She flinched at what she took for an admission of guilt and waited with bated breath for his reply.
"Who haven't I killed? Your sheriffs would be most pleased to pin the majority of the unexplained deaths on the shoulders of my brethren and I."
She swallowed, the convulsive movement adding to the nausea that had settled uncomfortably in her stomach. "That's no answer. Your evasion does not befriend you to me, sir."
He sniggered. "And I am certain that if I treat you like the veriest maid, you would come running into my out-stretched hands. You have led me a merry chase, fair lady, but no more. You will return with me and mine to my land and submit as your kind should."
"My kind?" she screeched, her anger lifting her voice to a higher than normal pitch.
She could only thank the Goddess as the horses seemed to react to her screeching anger and they skittishly moved and jolted their riders. All of the thirteen horseman rushed to soothe their horses and she took the opportunity to flee their circle.
Within five steps, she felt herself being hurtled to the hard ground and her head simultaneously being slammed against it.
Grunting at the pain that rushed through her from both the hit to her head and the consequent heavy weight of the man's body landing atop hers, she wheezed, "Get off me, you brute!"
Instantly, she was spun around and dragged to face him. The intimacy of the position was not lost on her and she struggled to move away from him, striking out with her hands and feet. Isabeau was only allowed this freedom for a few moments, until her hands were captured and her legs pressed against the ground with the weight of his own bearing down upon them.
His hands slid upwards, along the length of her wrists and then suddenly, they were touching her fingers. A sharp zip of energy jolted her and her back arched upwards, so powerful was the strike. Breathlessly, she tried to shrug off his hand, but he wouldn't let her and Isabeau cried, "Let me go!"
"Your glamor is of no use to me, fair lady."
A sudden slash of moon light pierced through the canopy of trees and seemed to bathe them both in its pure luminescence. She stared up at him, saw the almost satanic darkness of his features and closed her eyes in terror, certain she was about to be raped or worse, murdered.
His dark black hair appeared almost as stygian as the stone in her ring and it hung untidily about his face. A queue tied the majority of his hair back but the recent tussles with her on the forest floor had added a disheveled edge to his appearance. His eyes were hidden from sight by the night, but she just knew that they would be black. Devil's eyes.
There was no gentleness in his face, no kindness, nothing that gave her hope of her safety and she slowly fluttered her eyelids open to face what was about to happen to her. She was no coward.
The four years without her parents had been difficult, the most difficult of her life, but she had grown up, become an adult and she had learned to face whatever adversity life threw at her with bravery and courage.
There was a lingering emotion in her eyes, did she but know it. It was pain from his continual touch of the onyx ring. She had never understood its powers and even to this day did not entirely comprehend how it aided her. But now, this stinging burn was enough to drive her mad. Sharp, gasping breaths escaped her lungs as it seemed to singe her flesh until finally he released her hand and subsequently the ring.
Wheezing in relief, she licked her lips and turned her face away from him.
"To deny the world your allure was an intelligent move, but during your stay at my stronghold, you will not deny me the pleasure of your beauty, sweet Venus."
She resented the order, fiercely and glared up at him. "My talents are mine to command and not at your fingertips. You may think you have captured me, Night Rider," she spat. "But you are entirely incorrect in your pitiful assumptions!"
"Ah," he said, and sighed musingly and seemingly ignored the rest of her tirade. "I notice your choice of the plural. Talents. What other tricks and sorcery do you have hidden then, I wonder?"
"Enough to curse you!" she spat and struggled against his hold.
"You must join the ranks, fair maid. You are not the first to wish me cursed and not the last to be satisfied at my current state. But you, on the other hand, dear lady, are the answer to my prayers."
"Then you shall have to pray to the Goddess until your knees bleed! I shall never help you! Never!"
An excerpt from Beastmen of Shadowmere 1: Marked by the Beast by Jaide Fox, now available:
CHAPTER ONE
“Lady Ashanti, we have captured a beastman. The curse that plagues you will soon be broken.” Lord Conrad’s voice echoed through the marble hall as he entered, the sound of his heavy booted stride preceding him.
Astonished, Ashanti dropped the heavy, leather bound Grimoire she’d been studying, her fingers gone weak at his announcement. It landed with a dull thud on the plush carpet covering the marble, forgotten.
A smile that chilled her blood slashed across his dark, weather-worn face.
The fact that he’d done the impossible struck her momentarily dumb-founded. She stared at him blankly, chaotic thoughts assailing her as the reality of what he’d done sank in.
Ashanti returned his smile hesitantly as she rose unsteadily from the scattered pile of pillows she’d been resting on. The light golden chains of her skirt jingled softly as she moved.
She had always hated the garments Lord Conrad insisted that she wear, which were more revealing than concealing. Under other circumstances, she might have found some appeal in the jewel colored, gossamer veils and intricately wrought, golden chains that made up her costumes, but she could scarcely stomach having Lord Conrad look at her at all. The lustful gleam that entered his eyes each time he looked upon her near nakedness made her feel far more than indecent. It made her feel befouled, and yet her mind was such a jumble from his pronouncement that she was only vaguely aware of the conflicting emotions that generally assailed her in Lord Conrad’s presence.
An end to her torment!
Years had passed and no end to her predicament had been foreseen to her. She thought the end of her days would be spent here, in this accursed place.
Or would it be just the beginning? She knew he planned to claim her once the curse had been broken—if it was even possible.
“How can this be? The beastpeople are forbidden to enter this land, as we are theirs.” An uneasiness assailed her at the implications, and she frowned. What had he done?
Typically, the tinkling sounds of her chains drew Lord Conrad’s attention, and this time was no exception. He ran his gaze over her body, his eyes a soulless black as lust filled him as it always did. Careful to conceal her revulsion, she endured his look, pushing it to the back of her mind as she generally did. “Please do not tell me you risked your men to enter Shadowmere.”
Much as she despised him and her virtual imprisonment, she couldn’t abide the thought of bloodshed and endangerment so needless. She wondered how many men he’d lost to his obsessions but knew it didn’t bear thinking on.
Lord Conrad continued smiling as if she hadn’t spoken, his black eyes glittering like a serpent’s. She refrained from shivering, knowing it would not help her cause. He crossed the distance spanning them and clasped her in his arms, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that she went rigid, trying to hold herself aloof from his armor clad body. His musky smell filled her nostrils and she breathed through her mouth to avoid his familiar scent.
His clammy hands smoothed over the bare skin of her waist, his clinging fingers bringing to mind leeches.
“Your concern touches me, beloved. Rest assured, we were careful and not detected. He shall not be missed. I suspect he was naught more than a rogue hunter, for the condition we found him in....He was easily taken.” He chuckled, his cruelty seeping out like oil, tainting her with his foulness. She wanted desperately to be free of him, to go and bathe his stench and touch from her skin.
She’d learned in the time she had been with him, however, not to allow her revulsion to show, or to let it rule her life. She knew, despite his cruelty, or perhaps because of it, that the certainty that she found him vile would not persuade him to release her. More likely it would only inspire him to torment her more, and if she allowed these feelings to dominate her, she simply could not endure her captivity. She would go mad.
Moreover, she felt a strange compulsion fill her that forced everything else to the fringes of her mind, felt, but tamed by a need even greater than the desire to escape Lord Conrad’s invasive touch.
Ashanti felt the need to see the creature that was to be sacrificed so that she might live.
She had never seen one of these creatures of legend, but it was far more than curiosity that sparked inside her and grew quickly to a desperate need to behold what few mortals had ever seen and lived to tell about.
Myth held that they were loathsome to look upon, that even when they assumed a human-like form, they appeared more monstrous than human, that only to look upon one was sometimes sufficient to drive one insane with pure terror. There were other tales, as well, that, with only a look, or touch, they could fell a powerful man….for what purpose could only be guessed, for in general they shifted and, in their beast form, slaughtered all within their path.
It was insane even to consider going near one of her own will, and yet she found that the need was near overwhelming. Perhaps because she hoped it would cleanse her of the guilt that was burgeoning inside her that the creature was to die only for the possibility that it might cure her?