Rain

by Taryn Kincaid

  Was it but a week ago he’d woken with Rosina draped over his drowsy, sated body like a silk blanket?

  The best night of his life, followed by a morning of nightmare, days of regret. He’d fallen asleep and had not protected her. He had not saved her from the deadly rain.

  Pools of blood and deep gashes covered every inch of her satin skin. Nothing he did roused her from the profound abyss into which she’d fallen. Nothing shook her from her ghastly, nightmarish slumber. Only her shallow breath alerted him she yet lived.

  The amount of guilt he heaped upon himself, the depths of anguish that claimed him could not be measured. In the end, he’d failed her, after all. He’d put his own lusts before her well-being. He’d never be worthy of her.

  “Not worthy of the locket,” Nicodemus had snapped. “Not a Keeper of the Rose.”

  Clay had never before seen the odd little man angry. But nothing surpassed the storyteller’s fury…except Clay’s own grief and despair.

  “What do I do? By the thorn, there must be something I can do!”

  “By the thorn, is it? Plenty of thorns now, ye wretched boy.”

  And wretched he was.

  Tears seeped from Rosina’s eyes, and she tossed and turned, crying out, dislodging the bandages he’d wrapped her in. He twined them over her wounds again, tended to her as best he could. Only his own presence seemed to soothe her. He stretched out beside her on his cot, curling his body around her, his posture protective. But he couldn’t shut his eyes. He didn’t dare.

  “Too little, too late,” Nicodemus had told him.

  Clay hadn’t slept in a week and he had no idea what to do.

  Overcome with exhaustion, he nearly crumpled. But a vision of a castle, built of wondrous many-colored marbleized stones, suddenly popped into his head and began to eat away at him. He lay awake in his tent, with Rosina next to him whimpering in pain, and stared at the ceiling, his eyes burning, picturing the castle. Beautiful green ivy covered its walls, stretching to the tip of the turrets where whimsical flags waved in the breeze.

  Hallucinating from lack of sleep.

  No such place could possibly exist. Not anymore. Not ever in his lifetime. Fabulous flowers, bursting in all shades of red and pink and yellow, stark white and gentle salmon, filled the courtyard and ringed the gates. He’d never seen such wonders. Except….

  The knotted threads in Rosina’s locket.

  And suddenly he knew the place. Where he needed to take her.

  “Brierly,” she whispered, echoing his despairing thoughts.

  The journey was arduous. He had no idea how he would have managed on his own. But the men would not hear of him going alone.

  “For you, Major. We do it for you. For everything you have been to us. For your princess. Our princess.”

  His eyes burned at the evidence of their loyalty.

  He and the men chopped vines and made a pallet of sorts for her, carrying their sleeping princess carefully over hill and dale, long miles, many leagues. No sooner did they slice the overgrowth in front of them than the path closed up again behind them.

  Finally, they arrived.

  But the castle scarcely resembled the vision that had so teased him. The stones crumbled gray and desolate, no flowers or verdant ivy in sight. Just more of the brambles and briars clogging every inch of the earth and the insistent vines muscling their way between bricks and mortar. A shining fantasy turned grim ruin.

  Nevertheless, his ragged group had to stop. There would be no turning back. Nothing behind them. And exhaustion claimed them all. Sleep beckoned.

  Rosina barely breathed now, the rise and fall of her chest shallow, her beautiful face pale but still wrenched in pain. They were losing her.

  But he’d had enough. He really had. Fatigued beyond belief. Beyond relief. The pain in his chest, in his heart, and in his soul suffocating, surpassing debilitating. He fell to his knees next to Rosina’s pallet in the overgrown bower in a corner of the courtyard where they had laid her, her condition critical.

  Had he thought himself no longer possessed of a heart? A man without a soul? Well, he knew without a doubt now he had both. The savage, excruciating pain accompanying each breath had become so unbearable, he wanted to rip the useless organ from his chest and stomp on it.

  Was this the price for one night of glorious, rapturous love?

  Clay shook his fist at the overcast sky.

  If so, he’d endure it. He’d endure anything for that. A lifetime of hideous pain in exchange for one magnificent night.

  If only Rosina did not have to hurt, as well.

  “I am so sorry, my love. So very sorry. I wish I could take away your wounds. I wish I had protected you from the damn rain. From everything. Most especially from myself.” He leaned over and covered her mouth with his, tasting her honeyed sweetness, her fragrance, the essence he so craved. Perhaps for the last time.

  Her hand trembled beneath his, her fingers coiling into her bandages, apparently trying to pluck them away.

  “I love you, my rose, my princess, my heart, my soul, my life. I will never stop loving you, even unto death.” He kissed her again, deeper, his mouth slanting over hers in his anguish and despair.

  Suddenly, the fragrance filling the bower increased, growing almost overpowering. A gentle hand played over his hair then stroked the edge of his jaw and cupped his cheek.

  Rosina parted her lips beneath his own, sliding her delicate tongue into his mouth, taunting, dancing, the tip reaching to touch his, to taste him.

  “And I love you, my warrior, my protector, my prince. My heart, my soul. I will never stop loving you. But I’d so much rather it be unto life.”

  He raised his head. She smiled at him, a grin spreading across her face, her eyes alight and twinkling as they gazed deeply into his.

  “I could tease you about this,” she said. “You are a great deal of fun to tease.” Her bandages dropped away, her wounds healed.

  He took a huge gulp of fresh air, smelling flowers. Smelling roses. Around them, the choking briars and brambles disintegrated, giving way to pines and evergreen, to trees heavily laden with fruit, to flowers of all description. A short distance away, ivy crept up the majestic walls of the castle, glistening in the sun.

  The shining sun.

  “I will be your heart, your soul, your protector and your prince. But warrior no more. The fucking war is over. At long last, it’s over.”

  “Then kiss me again, Clay. Our happily ever after starts now.”

  ***

  They did not name their firstborn son — nor any of their sons—Nicodemus.

  A Note from Taryn

  Once upon a time…those of us of a certain generation, maybe ALL of us, have grown up with those words. So magical, so full of hope. No, we do not all need to be Disney princesses or have our own action figures and castles in Toys ‘r’ Us. Once upon a time…we can dream the dream, be anything we want to be. And still grab that happily ever after.

  Here’s my take on Sleepy Beauty. I hope you love Rosina as much as I do! And, of course, her “prince,” Major Clay Worthington, a formidable warrior who suspects he isn’t worthy.

  I love hearing from you! You can contact me on Twitter, Facebook, tsu, my website, my blog…or email me at taryn@tarynkincaid.com!

  Also from Decadent Publishing

  www.decadentpublishing.com

  Chapter One

  Summer McCoy perched in the uppermost branches of her special Ponderosa pine, in raven guise, engaging in her favorite pastime, spying on the lone wolf chopping wood below. Two days’ worth of whiskers shadowed his rigid jaw. She loved when he forgot—or didn’t bother—to shave. Scruffy stubble suited him.

  The sun beat down on the back of his bronzed neck and shone on his hair, the color of roasted coffee, a shade lighter than the dark shadow that charcoaled his face.

  She fluffed her feathers in anticipation. Take your shirt off, Brick.

  She’d heard the giant werebear, Gee, call him
that name a decade ago. He’d made some joke about a wall and the hardness of the male’s head. But Brick hadn’t laughed back then. Not ever.

  He’d fascinated her from the moment he’d arrived in the glade, bruised and battered. Once she’d learned his name, she’d treasured it, taking pleasure from repeating it often. Secretly, of course. Unwrapping the syllable frequently to admire its radiance in the privacy of her tree house, the way a woman wearing pearls against her warm skin enhanced their luminosity and iridescence.

  Now, as if he’d heard her silent urging, he complied with her plea, shrugging out of the plaid flannel and flinging it onto a tree stump. Her beak opened as she sucked in breath. Sweat glistened on his torso, glazing rippling pecs and abs, shoulders broad enough to span the Badlands. A huge, incredible specimen of masculinity. Thick biceps flexed as he wielded the ax. Her heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Heat licked her.

  Calling upon every ounce of inner strength she could muster, she willed herself not to shift into human form and topple out of the pine to land like a graceless lump of naked flesh at his feet. She recalled the first time she’d shifted and fallen, as a young cougar kit just learning to climb trees. Half skinwalker, half cat born into a shifter clan of mountain lions, she’d never taken her feline form again, to the chagrin of her dwindling clan. They’d grown fewer in number but far stronger under her Uncle Cal’s leadership, grabbing acres of land in and around the shifter mecca known as Shady Heart. More and more, Cal pressed her to pick a mate from his coterie of lieutenants and other cats vying for her hand, as he pushed to consolidate his power and prepared to seize control of the county—including the area currently occupied by the lupine town of Los Lobos. But Summer remained detached from shifter politics.

  And she only had eyes for her lone wolf.

  Brick had first come to the mountain glade—in the no-man’s land between wolf and cat territory—ten years earlier; a skinny adolescent, pulpy and wounded, splinted, bandaged, unable to walk, barely able to lift that hard head of his, the crown swathed in gauze, his shell cracked like Humpty Dumpty’s. His face resembled raw meat that had been forced through a sausage grinder. His inner scarring, from what she could glean from a distance—and from Gee’s one-sided conversation—infinitely worse.

  The old werebear had half-carried, half-dragged him in human form to the deserted cabin and left him there.

  “You’ll heal faster if you shift.”

  The sack of gauze greeted Gee’s advice with silence. And remained coiled on the floor in human form. As if he hated being a wolf. Hated being alive.

  She’d flapped from tree to tree to investigate, drawing as near as she dared. During those first few weeks, he never came out of the cabin, not even on the occasions when the huge ursine creature visited to bring supplies. She’d hopped into a birch whose branches brushed the ground floor windows of the rustic cottage for a better view, fascinated by the wounded creature. A set of carved log stairs led to a loft she couldn’t see. But Gee bustled about below in the galley kitchen that opened into a small living room, stocking shelves, examining the young male’s dressings, cajoling and arguing with him.

  After a few weeks, the giant pushed his charge, still in human form, out to the porch and dumped him there.

  “Learn from this, boy. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get strong. I’m not going to mollycoddle you anymore. You need to snap out of it.”

  But the youth had only lain where Gee had tossed him, not even bothering to drag himself to the rocker or porch swing. Had he been damaged so badly he couldn’t shift? Or…maybe he didn’t want to. As a skinwalker, able to assume different animal forms, she usually sensed the presence of another shifter in her environment. But if she hadn’t overheard Gee’s comments, she didn’t know if she’d have identified Brick as a were.

  His listlessness and melancholy tore her heartstrings back then. Physical pain blossomed in her breast, raw and ragged, as if she’d been cut by the jagged edge of a tin can. She wanted to see a smile brighten the dark face, still swollen and discolored. But she dared not show herself.

  Instead, she’d searched far and wide for the flotsam and jetsam dropped from pockets, from the wearer’s fingers or neck or tossed from moving vehicles. So much abandoned or discarded bounty. She pecked at half-buried gems and unearthed small pieces of shiny debris: rings, toy soldiers, colored glass, parts of plastic toys and gadgets, broken components off cars and electronics, sparkling gum wrappers. Taking them in her beak, wrapping talons around them, she winged back to the cabin. And then showered her tiny gifts of lost-and-found treasure onto the porch from great heights as she soared by.

  Trinkets for her…well, she didn’t know in what esteem she’d held him then. Perhaps he was just a curiosity at first. A hurt and wounded creature in need of healing, in need of cheer. But now….

  Now, he’d become something much more to her. Something vital. Something she dared not name. Dared not admit, even to herself.

  Back then, he’d finally noticed the collection of silvery bits and other oddities accumulating on the deck of the porch after weeks of inertia—and only when she’d accidentally dropped a chipped and tarnished hood ornament on his chest.

  Plunk.

  A ram’s head insignia. Shiny. Unlike the cracked blue-and-white BMW medallion already littering his doorstep. But she considered the ram a greater reward. He seemed much more of a truck kind of guy.

  He’d sat up and snatched the chunk of metal off his rib cage, stared at it, blinked and then looked around, as if for the first time. Taking in his surroundings, the half-inch of detritus carpeting the planks on which he’d lain. She’d thought he’d sweep the mess away, relegate the whole mass of junk to a garbage can.

  But he’d gathered everything together, painstakingly sorted through the lot and made groupings out of the motley hodgepodge, then arranged her offerings in precise lines and rows. Counted them. Began again. If a breeze happened to ripple through the assortment, juggling an item from its place, he’d quickly reformed his collection, aligning the trinkets once more, as if he couldn’t bear the slightest deviation from the rigid order he imposed on the jumble. He appeared obsessed. And his obsession had fascinated her. A male seeking to impose meaning out of meaningless chaos.

  She’d started looking for more and more flashy bits of miscellany to add to his cache: crackly red cellophane, the dented pipe from an old wind chime. She could barely carry some things in her beak or talons. But she had to try. For him. Her heart swelled at the thought that he treasured the cast-off items she brought him.

  After a few more deliveries, he’d gazed at the large carpenter’s box bristling with tools and stuck in a corner of the porch near the woodpile, eyes thoughtful. Selecting a large ax and a saw, he ventured down the short steps into his yard slowly, his limbs stiff as an old man’s. Cutting down his first tree, he sawed it into rough boards. Sanded the planks smooth. Then, to her amazement, he returned to the porch and started building shelves.

  When he removed his shirt the first time, the discolored patchwork of bruises on his chest and back made her gasp. Sorrow and dismay softened her heart. Clearly, he’d been abused. She didn’t know what he’d done to warrant such a battering. But no one deserved to be treated that way.

  She’d wanted, needed, to bring him joy. His elusive smile became for her a treasure rarer and dearer than any of the shiny bits she’d dropped on his porch.

  So she’d sung for him. Not a raven’s raucous caw. But a clear, sweet melodic sound. Her special gift.

  As if her song stunned him, he’d morphed into frozen marble, silent and still. Then, spitting the nails from between his teeth, he’d dropped the hammer and stepped off the porch again. He paced the yard in front of the cabin, scanning the skies, studying each of the trees. Had he found her? She couldn’t be sure.

  “Thank you,” he’d said, his voice deep, but soft as a weeping willow bud.

  She hadn’t known what to do. But her playful nature took
over. She pelted him with a black walnut.

  His mouth cracked, his lips quirking upward. He had a lovely smile, like sunlight suddenly bursting through dark, forbidding storm clouds. One that sent hot tingles rippling through her in places she’d never been warmed.

  He’d grinned up at her. Or at least in her direction. Her heart clenched.

  He’d touched her soul. She recognized a kindred being. She could no more stop watching him now, stop coming to his glade, than she could cease to soar in the bright wind, against the wide blue heaven in her favorite guise. The raven gave her the freedom she craved. Escape from the suffocating hold of her ever more greedy family.

  When he finished building his shelves during those first weeks, he once again positioned the small baubles she had dropped. Again, in precise rows, no trinket misaligned…as if he needed tangible proof he could bring order to some part of his world. He built shelves for the interior of the cabin, too.

  Gee seemed pleased the next time he visited.

  “Progress,” he’d said. “You’re making a home.”

  “I can live here,” the youth said. “I don’t hear voices. Just beautiful songs.”

  “One day you’ll need pack. As they will need you. You will have to return.”

  Ah, so he was wolf.

  “Maybe.” He’d shrugged. “But not now.”

  The older shifter nodded. “Get strong. Let the spirits of these woods speak to you. They have much to impart. Learn from them.”

  Gee showed him a martial arts technique called t’ai chi ch’uan, part stillness, part meditation, all physicality.

  “Focus. Become one with what you hear, what you see, what you sense. Use it. Control it.”

  The three hundred-pound bear had lumbered through the lithe holds and movements comically, but Brick took to them easily. He practiced for hours in the quiet after dawn or the gray, gloaming time at dusk, barefoot on the dewy grass, bare-chested, dressed only in loose black drawstring trousers, holding his poses for lengthening periods, his body striated and rippling with muscles.