“That awful awful witch!” Edine whispered harshly.
Before the conversation could continue, the door opened, and all eyes shifted in the direction of the entrance. Lyssa’s heart took a strange little flip. Edine sighed, softly enough but in a manner totally unsuited to a happily married woman with two children and another on the way. The man who entered the shop was tall, and his raven black hair was pulled away from a strong face and back into a long, neat braid. He was clean shaven, with a proper chin and a nicely sharp jawline. He was not pretty, not at all, but his face was masculine and very nicely arranged, she had to admit. It was a man’s face, strong and... interesting. His suit was plain, but well made of fine material; his boots were polished. There was something intriguing about the way he moved, with strength and a masculine grace that spoke to the woman in her.
Why could she not have met him last night?
As that thought crossed her mind he looked at her and squinted a bit, narrowing his gaze like a hawk honing in on its prey. With a start she recognized those eyes. No other man had eyes like those, brilliant blue and disturbing. She had met him last night. This intriguing, handsome man was her husband.
Chapter Six
Blade watched as recognition dawned on his wife’s face. Recognition and surprise. She was so easy to read. It was if every thought that passed through her brain was instantly transferred to her face. Only an honest person could be so open. He hadn’t known anyone truly honest in a very long time.
Once Lyssa’s surprise passed, she began to panic. She didn’t squeal or jump up and down, but that panic was visible in her eyes and the flushing of her cheeks, and in the way her delicate fingers fluttered. She didn’t move, other than those fingers, and she didn’t say a word. She looked as if she wanted to screech, but she did not. Obviously she hadn’t told her father—a busy man who stood just a few feet away—about her marriage, then. She looked Blade in the eye and shook her head quickly, barely moving it side to side.
By the light of day, last night’s plan must seem foolish to her. They were married, she was well and truly his wife. Still, perhaps she wasn’t prepared to proceed as they had planned. He read her expression, seeing all too clearly that as she stood there and stared, wide-eyed, she was formulating yet another plan in her mind.
It would be easy enough to fabricate a brief courtship, then go through yet another wedding ceremony, one her parents could be a part of. He imagined that would be preferable, from Lyssa’s point of view, to simply announcing that they were married and then taking on the questions about the hows and the whys.
But he no longer had the time for such a game. He’d learned just that morning that Volker would soon be traveling to Tryfyn to meet with their Foreign Minister. If he didn’t move fast, he would lose this opportunity.
Lyssa stepped toward him quickly, her chin up, her eyes bright. She was even prettier by the light of day than she had looked last night, well-rested and not nearly as worried as she’d been then. She shook her head again, so slightly no one but he could see the movement, as she stopped directly before him. Her eyes widened a bit more when they met his. He half expected her jaw to drop. She was still surprised.
That he was here, or that he knew how to shave?
“Mr. Renshaw, isn’t it?” she asked politely.
Since he needed her assistance, he decided that he had no choice but to play along. For now. “Yes, Miss Tempest.”
Lyssa turned her pretty head and smiled at her father. “Mr. Renshaw stopped by last week when you were out helping Sinmora with the delivery from the butcher. He’s interested in some fabrics, but he didn’t care for what we have in stock, and I told him we wouldn’t have anything new until later this week.” She looked at Blade again. “I’m afraid the shipment has not yet arrived.”
The explanation seemed unnecessary to him, but no one else seemed to wonder about it. He glanced around and saw the display of fabric at the back of the store. “Perhaps I will look again at what you have in stock. Would you care to help me, Miss Tempest?” He walked toward the rear of the shop, where there would be some distance and a crowded shelf or two between them and her father.
“Of course,” she responded brightly.
When they had almost reached the display of fabric, he turned and stared down at her, narrowing his eyes. Like it or not, he remembered too vividly taking her against a wall, making her a wife in the most basic of ways. The memory was a strong one. He wanted her again. In a bed. Naked. Lit candles all around so he could see all of her. And he wouldn’t leave her wanting next time.
But that wasn’t why he was here.
“I take it you did not tell your father that you and I were married last night.” He kept his voice low.
Lyssa shook her head. “I couldn’t. I thought and thought, but there is no reasonable explanation. How could I tell my father that I ran out of the house after he retired for the night and married a complete stranger I found in a tavern I should never have set foot in?”
“Perhaps in just those words. It is the truth, after all.”
She pursed her lips, glancing to the side as if she no longer wanted to look at him. “I have a better idea,” she whispered, and then her voice rose to a pitch no one in the store could possibly miss. “Why, I would be delighted to take a stroll with you, Mr. Renshaw.” She paused for a moment. “Sunset? Lovely. I’ll see you then.” She lowered her voice again. “Stop by the church and tell Father Kiril to keep last night’s ceremony to himself for the moment. Promise him more money for the roof if he objects. He is a man of God, but he also has a great liking for coin, and the building does desperately need a new roof.”
Just as he had suspected. She had a new plan, a game to play. He leaned down close. “Of course, my dear. Whatever you desire, you have only to ask.” For a moment their eyes met and held. For years, he’d wanted nothing more than revenge. No, not revenge. Justice. But for a moment, for an unexpected split second of time, he wanted something else even more than he wanted Volker.
Her.
***
Delivering a basket of fruit, tobacco, and candies to the elderly Madam Azar took Lyssa past the palace. As she walked the streets of Arthes—past stone houses as much green as gray, thanks to healthy vines; past a smattering of brightly colored doors, red, blue, and green; past neighbors she recognized and those she did not; past the stone palace, well guarded and an impressive ten stories tall, with two additional levels below ground—her mind was on a dozen matters, not the least of which was what she might wear tonight when Blade escorted her on a romantic stroll. She normally wore clothing that wouldn’t call unnecessary attention to herself. Dull colors, simple cuts, no frills or bows. Being called Bad Luck Lyssa for years was embarrassing enough without intentionally drawing the attention of those she passed. Who is that? Oh, yes, Bad Luck Lyssa... Terrible Tempest... Don’t look her in the eye or you might drop dead on the spot....
Her wardrobe was not extensive, but she had a few good frocks to call her own. They were all brown, drab green, or faded plum. Perhaps a colorful scarf and a flower in her hair would brighten the ensemble enough to make a difference. Why on earth she cared about impressing Blade Renshaw she did not know. They were already married. He was a temporary solution to her problem. She barely knew him.
But last night, for a few minutes, she had known him very well. Thinking about those minutes, reliving them, was unusually enjoyable. She could almost feel guilty for having these unexpected feelings, but she did not. Blade was, after all, her husband. Even if just for a while. She wondered if they would join again as man and wife, perhaps in a bed this time.
Why did she feel as if taking him as her husband had changed her in some elemental way? In a matter of minutes, he had awakened a part of her that she hadn’t known existed. She was a woman now, but... why was she so certain the change went deeper than that? Perhaps relieving the worry about being forever on her own was enough to make her feel this way. Stronger, prettier. Near giddy,
if she were to be honest with herself.
Suddenly her mind cleared as if a strong gust of wind had whipped through and wiped out all thought, and she spun around to face the palace. Her gaze was drawn up and up until it landed on a window of the level just below the top. Level Two. No one lived there, not anymore. Those higher rooms were used for storage, or at least that was what she had been told.
But they were not empty now. She knew it as surely as she knew her name was Lyssa Renshaw. And what waited there, high above the ground, was not good. Not good at all. Darkness dwelled beyond that window. The kind of darkness a witch had used to frighten a young Lyssa years ago. Evil, and somehow that evil was looking at her the same way she was looking at it.
Not it, her. Lyssa’s spine tingled; the tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood and danced. A strong breeze rose up out of nowhere and hit her in the face, and she smelled rain in that breeze. Rain and lightning. She could almost hear the thunder, though above the sky was clear and blue.
She shook off the strange feelings that had come over her and spun about, forcing herself to turn away from the palace. The wind—had it been real or imagined?—died. The past couple of days had been much too exciting, and her mind was playing tricks on her. That was the only explanation. Time to get back to what was really important. What to wear.
Not darkness, not evil. Those were thoughts for another woman, not her. Not Lyssa Renshaw.
Madam Azar met Lyssa at the door, as she always did. Her legs were not as strong as they had once been, but her hazel eyes were bright, and she had a good mind. Her late husband had been an assistant to some minister or another for many years. One of her sons had taken to the sea, the other... well, no one knew where the other was. He had always been a bit of a wastrel.
“Lyssa, you are positively glowing!” Madam Azar said with a wide smile. She still had all her teeth, but they were crooked and stained. The tobacco was for her own use, after all. “Marriage agrees with you.” With that, the older woman winked.
Hiding the strange feelings that wink aroused in her, Lyssa stepped inside the house and carried the basket to the table, focusing her thoughts on the task at hand and dismissing her earlier imaginings about evil in the emperor’s palace.
Madam Azar and her husband had once lived in a fine home on another street, but since his death she’d lived here, in a cottage not even as large as the one Lyssa shared with her father and Sinmora. The older woman said it suited her to live in a place where she did not see her husband in every corner, where she could live her new life as a widow and not be haunted by the past.
She rarely left this house.
After taking a deep breath for courage, Lyssa said, “I am sorry to say, my groom ran off with another woman.”
“Not again,” Madam Azar whispered. “Oh, my dear.”
“It was rather upsetting at the time, but I’m fine now, really.” Lyssa smiled.
Madam Azar wrinkled her brow. “You do look different, though, I swear it. Brighter. Happier. I would almost swear something momentous has occurred.”
Was she so transparent? Did others see the change she felt? It would be easy to tell the old woman the truth: that she’d found another husband quite by chance. That she was well wed and no longer a virgin, and didn’t mourn the loss of groom number four at all. But not until she’d told her father. Even if it was unlikely that the old woman would step foot outside her door, even if she had no one to tell, it just wouldn’t be right.
“No. Nothing has changed.” She sounded quite convincing, at least to her own ears.
Madam Azar sat and began to sift through her purchases. As she did, Lyssa’s eyes were drawn to an odd spot on the woman’s knee. She reached forward, then pulled her hand back, uncertain. What she saw—or thought she saw—was surely an illusion of some kind, a trick of the light. But the spot was very strange. It was not on the fabric that covered the knee but seemed to float above like a small bit of misplaced, dense fog. Yellowy and greenish, and flitting about as if daring Lyssa to snatch it up.
First Level Two and now this! She was losing her mind.
She tried to convince herself that she didn’t see anything at all, but the green mist continued to dance. Finally, unable to help herself, Lyssa reached out and clasped her hand over that knee. Her fingers tightened there of their own accord. The spot disappeared, perhaps had never existed to begin with, and yet she did not let go. The flesh beneath the heavy fabric was hot, then cold, then warm and normal.
Madam Azar jumped a bit and stared at Lyssa, as she finally lifted her hand away. “What was that about?”
Lyssa glanced down at her hand. It looked no different than it had before, but it felt very different. Cold fire; that was what she felt on the palm of her hand. Cold fire. Her palm tingled for a moment, and then the sensation faded. “I thought I saw a spider on your knee, but I guess it was just a trick of the light.” A small lie seemed a better response than the confusing truth.
Madam Azar reached for her purse, which was sitting on the table, and withdrew the coins to pay for her goods. She counted them out, one at a time, and then handed over a list for the next delivery. Then she stood to escort Lyssa back to the door. She took one step and stopped, gasping.
“I can show myself out,” Lyssa said, reaching out to assist the woman back to her chair. “You should not hurt yourself....”
“It’s not that,” the old woman said. “In fact, quite the opposite. My knee has bothered me for years, and there are times when I’m just sure it won’t support my weight, but right now there is no pain.” She stared hard at Lyssa. “None at all. The knee you touched, there where you thought you saw a spider, it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“All pains come and go, do they not?” Lyssa said. That was the only possible explanation, the only logical reason for Madam Azar’s knee to be so much better than it had been just moments earlier.
“Yes, but...”
“You sit and rest.” Lyssa placed her hands on the old woman’s bony shoulders. “I’ll be back at the end of the week with your next delivery.”
“Yes,” Madam Azar whispered. “I will enjoy the respite while it lasts.”
Lyssa smiled, though she did not feel at all like smiling. She left the house in a hurry, and once she was outside she stopped, leaned against the door and closed her eyes. Three deep breaths, then she opened her eyes and looked down at the palm of her hand. It still looked no different, the sensation of cold fire had gone, and yet... something was different.
All she wanted, all she had ever wanted, was a normal life. An ordinary life. And yet at every turn she was faced with obstacles. The curse, the dreams, the lost grooms, Blade... and now this.
What was happening to her?
Chapter Seven
Blade fought for patience. He had no time for courting. He did not have a spare minute to waste pretending that he was someone he was not. And yet here he was, strolling along the streets of Arthes as if he didn’t have a care in the world beyond wooing the pretty woman at his side.
Knowing that Volker would be leaving Arthes in a few weeks didn’t change his plans, but he now had to deal with the issue of time. He could not—would not—wait.
The demon daughters, born during and just after the war with the Isen Demon, were a bone of contention in an otherwise peaceful country. Some Columbyanans thought the half-demons should all be executed the moment they were identified. Others had qualms about putting fifteen- and sixteen-year-old girls—pretty and innocent-looking young women, for the most part—to death. It had been proven that some of them were more human than demon, that some of them could be, should be, saved. But who made the decisions, and what happened when those decisions were wrong? Was it preferable to put an innocent to death or to allow a monster to live?
Since many of the children had fled to Tryfyn, that country now faced the same problem, and according to the man who’d informed Blade of Volker’s plans—unintentionally sharing important informat
ion over beer and a meat pie—that was the reason for the upcoming journey. As if a handful of over-fed, pampered appointed officials could put their heads together and come up with a solution.
His own goal was smaller. Simpler. Clearer. He needed only to avenge one little girl. He cared nothing about the rest.
Volker would be much too heavily protected on the road; Blade had already discovered as much. That meant he had little time to make himself a part of Lyssa’s family and enter the palace as a seemingly harmless merchant. Hell, he’d tried everything else. Everything but an all out attack that would endanger not only Volker but those around him. He could not allow any innocents to be caught in the crossfire. He might have done murder in the past, but he’d only sent those who truly deserved death into the Land of the Dead.
“If we are going to be man and wife, even temporarily, then I should know more about you,” Lyssa said as if their evening stroll was nothing more than it appeared to be. “Where are you from? Is Blade the name your mother gave you, or is it a nickname because you’re so good with a knife or a sword? Do you have brothers and sisters? Are your parents living?”
“I’ve told you all you need to know about me,” he answered curtly.
“You’ve told me practically nothing,” she said, and while she sounded a bit peeved, she was far from angry. He looked down at her. Lyssa was short, her steps were not long enough to suit him, and she was slightly built. Fragile, even. A print scarf had been wrapped around her shoulders, but other than that the outfit she wore might almost have been chosen for its lack of color. Unlike the friend who had been in her father’s shop earlier in the day, unlike the other young women he saw walking on this evening, she did not dress to call attention to herself.
But when she looked up at him and narrowed her eyes, he saw power there. Power and beauty. Not just in her glare, but in her entire body. At first glance she might be a perfectly ordinary woman, but if one were to look long and hard enough...
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