Love is My Sin: Oathcursed, Book 2

by Julia Knight

  “Where did you get this?” His soft voice was heavily accented.

  “Not now,” the soldier said. “There’s more of them coming, a lot more.”

  “We can’t leave her here.” Slender brown fingers wrapped round the pendant. He murmured a few words, a flash blinded Hilde and then darkness swallowed her.

  Hilde landed with a crash that jarred her teeth, numbed her legs and made the claw wounds in her shoulder scream. She sat up carefully and looked round. She could make out the vague lumpy shadows of furniture. A room, of sorts. Her head whirled with thoughts that shouted at her from all directions so she could barely understand them. With a deep breath, she took a firm grip on herself.

  She had no memory of travelling, but she was in no danger, for now. The beast was not here, at least. A shred of comfort. A faint strip of light caught her attention. After a small internal debate, she walked cautiously towards it and found a door but hesitated to go through. Who knew what was on the other side? Instead, she felt around the walls with her fingers. She tried to make as little sound as possible, but could not help but trip here and there on furniture. There was no other way out.

  She pushed the door open a crack. It took a moment before her eyes adjusted to the brighter light, and then she saw a windowless octagonal room with abundant flickering torches and a spiral rune in the centre of the floor. On the rune was a heap of grubby red. She opened the door wider and stared at the ceiling, which flickered with colour and half-seen images.

  The heap moaned. It was a man. She put her back to the wall and drew her knife.

  He sat up and dislodged the large, stained yet still crimson cloak. With an almighty groan, he patted himself all over as if to check he was all there. Jet black hair fell over his face and shoulders. The man with the strange accent? Maybe. A small seed of suspicion wormed its way to her notice. The flaming face of the beast. No, it could not be. She was not about to start believing in tales.

  Apparently satisfied all was in order, he got to his feet with a groan. He was flamboyantly dressed, with a red waistcoat over a voluminous white shirt, stained leather breeches, and a belt slung at a rakish angle across his hips. Various ornaments, tassels and bangles quivered and clinked as he moved. He picked up a battered hat with a round crown, checked the jaunty red feather on it and put it on.

  She would not have called him handsome, exactly. He looked nothing like any other man she had seen. Striking in a dishevelled kind of way, with tanned skin and eyes so dark as to be black, now rather unfocussed as he tried to peer around him like a ten-pint drunk. A gash across his forehead dripped blood down one cheek. His face had few lines, and his hair and neatly trimmed little beard held no grey, so she could not tell his age. It could be anywhere between thirty and fifty.

  He spotted Hilde, grinned a wolfish sort of grin and held out his hand. “Hello, I seem a bit lost. Do you know where we are?” A soft voice, with a syrupy accent she had not heard before.

  She took another step back, but he was the first man she had ever met who did not make the sign of Kyr’s Ward when he saw her eyes, and that decided her.

  “No,” she said. He squinted at her and swayed so hard he nearly fell. Anyone that concussed should be no threat. She lowered the knife. “Ten minutes ago I was on the plains of the nomads. So were you, I think.” She slid down a wall, her legs unable to hold her. Wherever she was, this man was no threat, at least at the moment. Besides, he and his friend had saved her from the beast. The beast that knew her name.

  “I don’t know where I came from.” He frowned, and more blood dripped into his eye. He wiped it away absently. “I appeared about ten feet up in the air. The fall seems to have made me a little groggy. Have you any idea where here is?”

  A good question, one she had been about to ask him. She stood up and held out the pendant at arms length. “You used this, there was a big flash, and then we were here.”

  He steadied the moonstone with his left arm, before now hidden under his cloak. The arm was there but the hand was missing. A one-handed wizard. Foul-tempered and given to melting eyeballs.

  Ilfayne.

  He did not look anything like she had imagined a wizard to be. She had expected him to look older, for a start—he was said to be older than the Kingdom of Ganheim. This befuddled man looked more like a peacock. One of the rich merchant’s sons or idle nobles who occasionally passed through her village and did little other than preen themselves, drink, gamble and try to talk the girls into bed.

  Yet he had only one hand, and there had been that flash of fire on the beast’s face. He did not seem too foul-tempered—the soldier had sounded far angrier—but then again he was addled from the blow to his head.

  With luck, he had forgotten how to melt eyeballs along with everything else.

  Their love is a forbidden gift. Keeping it means a fight to the death…

  The Wolf’s Mate

  © 2010 R.F. Long

  A Tale of the Holtlands, Book Two

  After escaping from her Holtlands home and her brother’s madness, Jeren looks forward to a new life with her beloved Shan and his people. She doesn’t expect the Fey’na to readily accept someone of her bloodline, but she’s determined to prove herself worthy. Then the jealous eyes of the beautiful sect mother, Ylandra, fall on Shan—handsome, strong, matchless among warriors—turning Jeren’s fragile new world upside down.

  Shan wants nothing more than to be with Jeren, the courageous beauty who’s captured his heart. But their ancient enemy has attacked, and Ylandra cleverly uses an archaic oath to bind him to her service—fulltime. As he sets out on a suicide mission into the heart of enemy territory, he promises Jeren he’ll return—somehow—to claim her as his mate.

  Jeren is left alone to make a place for herself among the elite Fey’na warriors, until a Holtlands envoy arrives bearing her ancestors’ sword. This magical artifact calls to the innate magic in her blood and forces her to make a terrible choice. She could lead the battle to free her people…but only if she forsakes Shan.

  Warning: contains scary monsters, desperate acts, burning jealousy and the consummation of a timeless love.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Wolf’s Mate:

  Jeren’s owl found Shan at sunset. It watched him with a sullen glare while he cleaned his sword, repacked his belongings and spread out the cloak made from the wolf’s pelt on the floor of his solitary tent. He would be alone now, forever, and it was Ylandra’s fault. He wanted to be angry about it. No, he was angry. He wanted to express that anger. He wanted to defy her and march into the main camp, to seize Jeren in his arms. But duty demanded his obedience, not Ylandra. His duty. So he stayed.

  Jeren’s jewellery glittered in the moonlight. He’d have to find some way to get the sapphire necklace and gold bracelets back to her. It was only fair. Would she accept them as his goodbye? Could he safely leave them outside wherever Indarin had billeted her? Or perhaps he should give them to his brother for her?

  As he wrapped them up in the length of material that had once been a petticoat, his heart began that dreadful ache again. He knew it too well. He’d felt its kindred pain for all such losses. But this was worse. His sister and the wolf were dead. That Jeren was still alive ought to make it easier to bear, but somehow it didn’t.

  Shan held the wrapped treasures to his chest and closed his eyes, trying to force his emotions under tighter control. He had no idea how long he knelt there, but a voice broke his meditation, not the voice he prayed to hear.

  “There you are,” said Ylandra lightly. “I wondered where you’d got to. You missed the evening meal, but there might be some left, the most wonderful rabbit dish with rosemary and—”

  “I wasn’t hungry.” He kept his eyes closed, gripped the necklace tighter. “I thought it better that I rest.”

  “Probably wise,” she replied, unfazed. “We will start early in the morning.”

  Shan kept his peace and held himself perfectly still. She would see no reaction from h
im. Nothing more than duty owed.

  “You’re the finest warrior of our sect, Shan.” When he didn’t reply, she touched his shoulder, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. “One day you will understand, I had to pick you.”

  “She’s my mate.” Three words. That was all. The only words he could manage to bite out while controlling the surge of rage and betrayal. Was she asking for forgiveness? After what she had done?

  “She’s a True Blood, serpent-born, a Holter. She’s everything you hate!”

  Black and red threatened the edges of his vision, blurring the darkness, staining it with blood, with the need to draw blood. He clenched his teeth together and forced his breathing to calm, but barely. Ylandra’s hand retreated as if she sensed the rage. He was a killer by training, by inclination, by fate. Why did so many people forget that? Why did they think—?

  “You have another destiny, Shan,” she told him, her voice firm once more. “And I will not allow you to cast that aside for a—a woman. What you saw at Vision Rock—”

  He twisted, rising at the same time, his body surging towards her. Amid the blur of his fury he saw Ylandra’s face pale, her eyes widen. She took a step back and it gave him a single point of satisfaction.

  “I should never have shared what I saw with you,” he snarled.

  Ylandra swallowed hard, her own anger surging to the fore now, her pride wounded by her own reaction. “But you did. And I am going to help you fulfil that fate whether you will it or not, do you understand? She can have no part in it. Battle with the Fell’na is the duty of the Sh’istra’Phail since first the gods created us, and you, Shan, you will be the greatest of—”

  “The gods didn’t create us, Ylandra. Don’t deceive yourself. We’re killers, no more, no less. Even our own people would disown us if they didn’t need us. They hate us. Despise us because of the blood on our hands. But I never realised we ever betrayed our own. Not before today.”

  Ylandra sucked in a breath and the air between them chilled. The moments passed slowly before she spoke again. “You should move your tent nearer mine if you are to be my bodyguard. I will need to keep you near. Now, if you please.”

  And with that she left, moving slowly, gracefully, but Shan was not deceived. Her hands curled at her side, ready to grasp a weapon, ready to defend herself if needs be. That she believed he might attack her both revolted him and gave him hope.

  Petty, vindictive Ylandra—how was she chosen as a mother to them all? And yet he knew how. She was loyal, a devoted friend, a caring heart in times of pain. She was devoted to the sect. To many of the younger ones, she had been seen as a paragon, an ideal. That was the Ylandra he remembered.

  Having just finished pitching his tent, Shan began the tedious task of dismantling it to move some twenty feet nearer to Ylandra’s. There was no point in arguing. There was logic to her stated reasons, though they were not her only reasons, and few could argue against her when it came to logic, or the security of the Sect. No one defied her. She had become accustomed to that.

  Shan rolled the wolf skin cloak up, with the necklace inside it. He was by nature law-abiding and dutiful.

  It was time for a little defiance.

  Jeren dozed fitfully. Across the tent Lara’s breathing was deep and even now. Jeren wished sleep would claim her so easily, but the only person she had ever slept alongside was Shan and so every breath she heard just reminded her of his absence. She did her best to at least silence the sobs that came in the darkness, but she could do nothing about the tears. Her eyes had swollen, her throat felt raw. Shan was gone. Nothing mattered anymore.

  From outside she heard a wolf howl in the distance, lovelorn and lonely. Something jarred within her. She knew that sound, knew it like the beating of her own heart.

  Quick as thought, Jeren scrambled out from under the blanket and pulled on the tunic Lara had given her. It was too long and a little too snug, but she didn’t care.

  The wolf called again.

  The night air made her skin tingle and stung her martyred eyes, but she pushed her way outside, hunting for that sound and its source. On deft feet she followed it out of the camp and into the trees. But it wasn’t a wolf that called her. Or at least no natural wolf.

  Shan stood in a small hollow out of sight of the camp and its patrols. In the moonlight he might have been a statue, so pale and finely sculpted did he appear. Jeren’s throat made a small whimper and she ran, tearing across the space between them in a mad dash.

  Shan opened his arms and enveloped her in a lover’s embrace. When she buried her face in his broad chest, his face sank into her hair, his breath warm and uneven against her scalp. His scent encircled her, the deep musk that only he carried, the scent she knew and loved.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  His heart beat even harder. “We’ll find a way, little one. I love you. I will not be parted from you like this.”

  “Indarin and Lara said when—”

  Shan shushed her gently, cupping her face in his hand. His long fingers curled against her cheek, ghosting against her skin. She tilted her face up to him and met his kiss.

  His mouth teased hers, dwelling on her lips until she parted them, his tongue exploring with great care and determination. And then she realised what he was doing. He was kissing her in such a way as to impress the sensations in his memory forever. He was kissing her goodbye.

  “No,” she gasped when she could breathe again, squirming closer.

  “Jeren.” His voice was a low growl. “I will not be parted from you. But you need to learn what Indarin can teach you. He’s more than half a seer. He’s the Shaman. You need to learn not just about the sword, but also how to control your powers. And I have a duty to my people, a responsibility. You understand that, don’t you?” He played with the sensitive strands of hair around her temples, threading the silken lengths through his long fingers.

  Duty, yes, she understood duty. And responsibility. She had forsaken both for him, hadn’t she? She tried to keep that flare of anger from her face, but it betrayed her.

  Shan sighed and pulled her close again. “What choice did you have but to escape, Jeren? Would you have stayed there and wed him? Would you have let him bed you?”

  This time her anger turned incandescent. It savaged its way through her and she shoved him back.

  “No,” she said in a voice of finest steel. “I would have found a way to fight him. I would have been there to protect my people. Instead I ran. With you.”

  “You’re safe here. Indarin will see to that.”

  “I’d be safe with you. That’s why I left. Come with me now. Let’s go somewhere else. There has to be another—”

  “No.” The word was final, absolute.

  Shock and betrayal sliced deep into her heart. What? She could leave her people, but he could not leave his? She could run and hide, but not him? A wave of cold washed through her and she struggled back from him, her mouth open, her eyes stinging. He was going. He was leaving her.

  He stepped after her, his arms reaching for her. “I’m sworn here. Until the threat of the Fell’na is gone or Ylandra releases me.”

  “But she won’t do that. She wants you! She wants you for herself.”

  Realisation flooded his face. Gods! Had he not realised that? Or was his horror at the fact that it was so obvious to her? Or worse—the thought made her stomach twist—did he reciprocate Ylandra’s feelings? Why not? She was his own kind, a Sect Mother, and a beautiful, fearsome warrior.

  Jeren flinched back from that thought, even as she recognised it as the truth. They were suited—Ylandra and Shan—a perfect match. Two beautiful, perfect beings, akin in strength and skill. And what was she?

  A freak, an outcast, strange even among her own kind, serpent-born, cursed.

  Caught between love and duty, can she make an impossible choice?

  Heart of the Volcano

  © 2009 Imogen Howson

  Five years ago, Aera was called away fro
m everything she had ever known: her home, family, and Coram, the boy she was growing to love. She was given no choice. As the only living lava-shifter—able to transform her body into molten rock—she is destined to serve the volcano god as his fire priestess. Now, before she takes her ordained role, she must face her final test. Execute a criminal sentenced to death for the most unforgivable of all sins. Blasphemy.

  She’s shocked to discover it’s no anonymous law-breaker waiting chained at the center of the labyrinth. It’s Coram. For the crime of being a gargoyle, a winged stone-shifter. A gift akin to hers…except his gift is unsanctioned by the temple, his powers proclaimed unholy.

  If she refuses the test she will betray her god and condemn her family to dishonor. To pass it she must kill the boy she used to love…the man she still does.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Heart of the Volcano:

  “You want to know what it is?” said Coram. “Will it make it easier to know? Easier to kill me, when you see the abomination I’m hiding?”

  “No.” Nothing will make it easier to kill you. But she couldn’t say that aloud, standing here as they were, priestess and victim.

  He shrugged. The chains swung down as his arms fell against his body. “Very well. Watch, fire-priestess, servant of the volcano-god, standing with all your power in your very own labyrinth. See the path laid before me.”

  And he changed.

  She was looking into his eyes, and change came there first: a swirl of grey spiraling out from his pupils, swallowing up the colour, spreading to transform the whole of both his eyes into the lifeless stare of a statue.

  Then it poured over the rest of him like water soaking through fabric, a tide of grey washing from his face down over his neck and chest and arms, hardening every angle of bone and curve of muscle until they looked like contours on a cliff face. He’d been big at fifteen, and bigger still now he was grown up, but as the stony colour seeped over his skin, his chest and arms grew visibly even larger, muscles bulging under the folds of his toga-tunic.