A Lion's Heart

by Kracken

  Tamarind felt an uncomfortable heat again, the same heat that had come over him when he had caught Shakra's new scent. Something about the prince drew him, but Tamarind didn't understand what that something might be. The prince was arrogant, rude, and commanding... yet, he had shown Tamarind kindness. Tamarind didn't want to warm to him or be grateful. He was still hurting from his capture by the werecheetahs and he had seen enough of the political and social intrigue of the Keep to have a bad taste in his mouth. Allowing any kind of... friendship... to develop, between himself and a prince of such a place... Common sense told him that it could only end badly. Better to be alone and hope that the hyper werefox would keep his promise to take him home.

  Yet... Tamarind sighed. Werelions fought for leadership so they could mate with females. Tamarind had never felt the urge, had never wanted to challenge Katze or leave to find his own pride. He had been comfortable among the females and being friends with Kiva. Kiva had joked that he was still a cub, and to give it time, but even Kiva had begun to wonder about his friend when he himself had followed the scent of a female and dallied in secret, while Tamarind had felt complete indifference.

  The strong feelings that Shakra's scent had ignited... was that what he was supposed to feel for females? Tamarind chewed on the end of his tail, ears down, as he thought about it. What had he wanted to do when he had smelled Shakra's scent? Tamarind blushed hotly and tucked his head down, curling up tighter. He had wanted to... dally... Tamarind was honest with himself. He had seen Katze mate. He knew how it was done. Somehow, he didn't think it was something that two males were supposed to do, though. His imagination painted options, painted a detailed picture of Shakra and himself doing something like...

  Tamarind groaned and hid his face completely. The need between his legs was suddenly very intense. It wasn't pain, but it was something that begged the same respite. He felt... this had to be wrong, what he felt. It had to be something to be ashamed of. He was wanting a werewolf, a male werewolf; a bad tempered prince of a foreign land who was about to go to war with the prides.

  It had to be wrong. This new place was confusing him. If he just ignored it, until he returned to the prides, he would become normal and he would want females like he was supposed to. He would meet up with Kiva and he would convince the werelion to go with him and form their own pride.

  In the dark, and in a strange place, it was hard to convince himself of those things. Tamarind's thoughts wandered back to Shakra as if Shakra had become his mental lodestone. Why had Shakra suddenly become more appealing than his best friend? At that moment, it was Shakra he'd rather be with, Tamarind realized; Shakra whom he wished would follow him, not Kiva.

  Tamarind bit into his tail, punishing himself. He needed sleep. He needed to be sharp and ready to hunt and defend himself. Worrying about something he was sure would never come to pass, was a dangerous waste of time. Even if his body had lost its senses and wanted a werewolf, Prince Shakra didn't have any interest in him like that.

  Tamarind slipped into sleep at last, but he wasn't given any rest by his confused hormones even then. In dreams, Shakra chased him playfully. Tamarind bounded ahead, laughing, and then suddenly allowed Shakra to catch him. They tumbled together, rough chocolate and white fur mingling with cinnamon brown, and then Shakra kissed him...

  **************

  Shakra started from a dream, feeling heat and hormones raging. Ducking his head into cold water banked it, but it simmered under the surface and refused to go away entirely. He tried to remember the dream as he loped to the kitchens. Something out a wide, brown Savannah and chasing Tamarind...

  The werewolves in the kitchen were honored to have their prince visit them so early in the morning. The butcher slaughtered fresh meat and then packed it into a metal pot, with a lid, to keep it as warm and as fresh as possible. Shakra sprinted out of the back door with a barely muttered, thank you, and slipped as inconspicuously as possible from the Keep.

  Without guards or friends, Shakra felt doubts about his mental state, but the less people who knew where Tamarind was hiding, the safer the werelion would be. It was better to leave a few false trails, use his hunting skills to lay low long enough to make certain that no one was following, and to meet Tamarind by himself.

  Shakra hoped that Shang wouldn't find out.

  The meeting place was empty when Shakra arrived, but he wasn't surprised. He sat in plain sight with his gift and waited.

  Tamarind stared at Shakra from the ferns, belly on the ground and ears back. He longed to go to him. The struggle made him pant. Shakra's ears cocked, hearing the sound. Tamarind tried to quiet himself. These feelings were frightening, painful, and confusing.

  “Tamarind,” Shakra called softly and Tamarind heard the slight begging tone.

  Tamarind was frozen, the part of him that wanted to be free, that wanted home, that wanted to deny what it felt, fighting with the other part of him that wanted close to Shakra, that wanted to feel his fur, nuzzle his skin, and see what two males could do together.

  Shakra put down his pot. He looked angry, lost, and then looked hurt as he turned and loped back the way he had come.

  Tamarind slipped out of the ferns and approached the pot. It smelled like Shakra. He nuzzled the metal, rubbing the scent against his face, and then he picked up the pot and slipped back into the forest's shadows.

  Shakra had stopped. He had slipped back and seen Tamarind. When he saw Tamarind rub against the pot, the rush of heat was blinding. Shakra felt a very alpha urge to pounce on Tamarind, to overpower him, to show him who was dominant. Shakra throttled that with all the training that Shang had taught him. He was not his urges. He was not an animal. He would come back the next morning, and the next, however long it took for Tamarind to trust him and come to him.

  Chapter Eight

  Kyrill stretched out in front of the hearth, tail waving and a gentle smile of contentment on his face. Lormar, curled up on the divan nearby, watched the unconscious, enticing beauty of the werefox indulgently.

  Shakra was pacing. Every third circuit of the living room, he stopped at a window and stared out at the darkness.

  “You've tried five days now, Shakra,” Kyrill said. “In a short time, my caravan will be ready to return to the desert. I think you should try another approach.”

  Shakra scowled, his ruff rising stiffly. “I take him food. I leave. He eats it and leaves the pot for me to find and refill. I've become nothing but his servant.”

  Lormar snorted. “Because you allowed it, my Prince.” That was daring and Shakra gritted his teeth. For Kyrill's sake, Shakra had not said anything when the mountain were had chosen to stop acting like a guard and more like a noble guest, but there were lines he wasn't willing to let the werewolf cross.

  “Lormar! Mind you manners or Shakra will have you taken to the dungeons!” Kyrill admonished, “and rightly so!”

  Lormar made a small noise of temper, but then said more politely, “I didn't mean any disrespect, but, if you will allow me, I can give you good advice, my Prince.”

  Mollified, Shakra replied impatiently, “Tell me, then.”

  Kyrill glared. “Lormar, you are truly an artist in some respects, but in romance, I doubt that you can give the advice that Shakra needs.”

  “Sometimes, simple and direct wins the day, Kyrill,” Lormar argued.

  “And, sometimes, it loses it,” Kyrill retorted.

  There was a knock on the door. Shakra answered it and found a timid servant. “Warden Tal wishes to see you, your Highness.”

  Shakra looked up and down the corridor, his temper not improving. “Where is he, then? Does he think I am someone to come when he calls?”

  “N-no, my Prince,” the servant stammered in fear, “but he says that it is a delicate matter concerning his ward, Tikena. He begs your time and indulgence.”

  “Not today,” Shakra growled and began to close the door.

  The werewolf stammered quickly, “This meeting, I've been told to sa
y, was sanctioned by Warden Kol.”

  “Then Warden Kol can go and discuss whatever Warden Tal desires,” Shakra snapped back and slammed the door closed. Glaring at nothing, he stood for a long time before he could trust himself to say, “Enough for tonight.”

  Kyrill and Lormar rose, Lormar with unconcern and a sympathetic smile, and Kyrill with a worried expression. “Should you refuse to attend, Prince Shakra?” Kyrill wondered. “Tikena and her warden are very important to Warden Kol and to your kingdom. To risk breaking an alliance now, with a hasty-”

  Kyrill was right, but Shakra didn't want to acknowledge that. He was tired of playing politics, tired of stepping over the eggshells of intrigue, and tired of pretending that he was interested in an alliance marriage with a female, any female. Shakra knew why he was being called. Shang never spoke idly, so when he had mentioned Tikena's emerging maturity it had been with a purpose; a warning of things to come.

  “Not tonight,” Shakra almost begged and went to the window to stare out at the dark again. He thought that both Lormar and Kyrill had left, but he sensed the werefox standing behind him.

  “Prince, your heart is heavy,” Kyrill said softly, “but if you want to continue being a prince there are certain duties, certain concessions that you have to make. You know this. You can't follow your heart and chase after a werelion, when so many people are depending on you to protect them from the prides. That protection comes in the form of keeping peace with your allies... even if it means paying court to Tikena.”

  “Are you asking me to give him up?” Shakra demanded, fist pounding on the stone wall before he turned to confront Kyrill.

  Kyrill was undaunted. He reached out and touched Shakra's arm, looking up into his face. “I wouldn't ask you to do that,” he replied. “I only ask that you don't forget about your people.”

  “And if that means the same thing?” Shakra wondered bitterly.

  Kyrill looked pained. “I followed my heart and left duty behind. I can't tell you what decision you should make for yourself.” He smiled gently. “Love often finds a way, my Prince, truly it does, even when it seems impossible.”

  “You are a dreamer,” Shakra told him as he pulled his arm away. “I don't have that luxury. If I don't sit my throne, then Warden Kol will.”

  “You've made your decision then?” Kyrill wondered, saddened.

  “I don't have to, not yet,” Shakra replied as he walked towards the door.

  Kyrill was worried. “Where are you going?”

  “To Warden Tal,” Shakra replied angrily, “and to my duty as much as I hate it.”

  It was much like Shakra expected. Warden Tal was a thin werewolf with a thatch of ragged hair on his head that made a strange impression that a large mushroom was growing there. His eyes were piercing and his nose was rather long and hawk like. He looked down it fiercely at Shakra even though his tone was pleasant and deferential.

  “Thank you for coming, Prince Shakra. I am honored. When Warden Kol informed me that you were of an age to choose a consort, and that my Tikena was your first choice, I was very surprised.”

  There was an edge to that last sentence and Shakra pricked his ears. It told him that Tal wasn't at all fooled and that he knew very well that Shakra hadn't had anything to do with their meeting. Shakra also noted a hint of disapproval and that had him perplexed. Why would the warden of an eligible female not be happy to see her married to a prince?

  Tal led Shakra into a well-appointed reception area. Shakra sat on a divan while Tal called for refreshments. Shakra expected a servant to bring them in, not Tikena herself. The pale, golden werewolf moved gracefully with a tray of food and drink, and bent low to offer it to Shakra. Her blue eyes were hidden under long lashes and her cheeks were blushing pink. Gold flashed at her ears and trembled at her throat on a necklace. She smelled of flowers and...

  Shakra couldn't help snorting the scent back out again. It was cloying, strong and like... His nose wrinkled. Sandalwood? Sweet musk? He wasn't certain. He only knew that he didn't want to keep smelling it and he was glad when she left the room again.

  Tal was apologetic. “As you can see...?”

  The smell, he meant, Shakra thought sourly.

  “...Tikena is of age as well,” Tal continued. “I am concerned, though.”

  Shakra had taken a drink of a strong cider to get the smell out of his throat. He looked over the cup's brim, curious.

  “Tikena has a great deal of potential, my Prince,” Tal told him. “She would make an excellent consort. However, I am concerned that she will be kept away from any real decision making. It would be a waste, and a grave mistake, to ignore what she has to offer.”

  Shakra's short ruff raised and he growled. “I rule, Warden Tal.”

  Tal bowed his head, “Of course, my Prince, but as a counselor, perhaps... She has some very interesting ideas about how our lands may be at peace, and remain that way.”

  Shakra tried to school his temper. “She may speak with me as she wishes, but her concern as consort, would be to birth and raise the next heir.”

  “Very primeval,” Tal replied dryly, “but how likely will it be that such a role will be created for her to play?”

  Shakra felt a chill. He tried not to let it show.

  “She was attracted to you, Prince Shakra,” Tal pointed out. “But her scent only annoyed you. That is not the reaction I would have looked for in a young male. I think you have a secret you would rather not let Warden Kol share.”

  Shakra was not an innocent when it came to politics. He said through his anger and fear, “and you wish me to buy your silence by allowing Tikena to rule? How is that different from Warden Kol removing me as unfit?”

  “Not rule,” Tal corrected. “Share in the rule. You will not find it as terrible as you imagine. She will keep your secret and so will I, if you allow her plans for peace to be enacted into law.”

  “You believe in them that much?” Shakra scoffed as he slammed down his mug of cider and stood up.

  “Yes,” Warden Tal told him seriously. “I'm willing to risk my life for them.”

  “I'm promising nothing at the moment,” Shakra spat back as he headed for the door, “and neither you nor Tikena will have proof of anything until we marry... and I may yet have some say about that!”

  Furious, Shakra slipped from the Keep, ignoring danger and common sense as he ran into the forest and tried not to think about future wives, a childless marriage, and a scandal that might pull him from the throne and end his life. He reduced himself, instead, to pounding blood, aching lungs, and mindless exhaustion.

  The roar took Shakra by complete surprise. He crouched in terror and watched as the dappled moonlight picked out the form of Tamarind, claws outstretched and fangs bared, leaping right at him-no, not at him, but over him. Tamarind flew effortlessly over his crouched form and Shakra picked out the scent that was all Tamarind's, a scent so welcome to his senses that his body responded instantly even in the grip of his utter fear. If he had doubted his attraction before, he didn't doubt it now.

  Tamarind barreled into something behind Shakra. It cried out, whatever it was, but it didn't live long to make any other noise. Shakra was witness to the ferocity and strength in Tamarind that everyone had warned him about. Tamarind wrapped himself around the creature as if he were hugging it with arms and legs. Tamarind's jaws broke through the beast's neck with a snap and Tamarind's silver eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he jerked his head backwards and took out the throat completely. Shakra felt blood splatter him.

  Tamarind held on, lying on his side with the creature still in his embrace. Then, finally, he broke away and came to Shakra's side. It was then that Shakra saw the bear. It was large enough to do damage to a young werewolf, but it hadn't been a match for a werelion.

  “Can I eat that?” Tamarind panted as he sat and tried to get some of the blood off of him.

  Shakra stared, said, “No,” and he laughed. Tamarind grinned back.

  “You have
a nice laugh,” Tamarind said. “You should do it more often.”

  Shakra grew more serious and sighed as he sat as well. “There's never been much to laugh about around here.”

  “I could see that,” Tamarind agreed.

  Shakra studied him. Tamarind kept grinning, an expression as out of place as Shakra's laugh.

  “I was worried about you,” Shakra admitted.

  Tamarind's grin turned into a frown. “I know. I had to... find my feet, though.”

  “Have you?” Shakra wondered.

  Tamarind looked around them. “This place is so full of green, but I managed to make a territory and make a kill. I can take care of myself. That's made all the difference.”

  “That's important to you?” Shakra asked.

  Tamarind nodded. “Yes. Wouldn't it be for you? Wouldn't you want to know that, if things went very wrong, you could survive on your own?”

  “I've never had to think about it,” Shakra replied, wondering at Tamarind's sudden openness. Was it because of his new confidence and independence, or had he finally decided to trust Shakra more? “You need to wash.”

  Tamarind blinked at the change of subject, but then he found his grin again. He rose stiffly, tail twitching with adrenalin, and said, “This way. There's a pool of water. I learned to sit in the trees and jump on the animals that came to drink.”

  “You can climb?” Shakra wondered as he followed Tamarind.

  “It's not easy, but yes,” Tamarind replied.

  It was then that Shakra noticed that Tamarind was limping. “You're hurt?” Shakra asked in alarm, his nose trying to catch the scent of the werelion's blood over the stench of bear.

  “He was strong,” Tamarind replied as he crouched near the water. The moonlight flickered over the surface and a light breeze rippled cattails and water reeds along the bank. “I think I pulled muscles in my back trying to hold him.”

  Tamarind washed without getting into the water. He didn't seem to like the feel of it on his fur or skin. He cleaned himself thoroughly, though and, when he was done, he stretched out on a patch of soft ferns. He winced and groaned.