Touch of Gypsy Fire

by Shiloh Walker

  And when he felt the man’s fear, Jaren smiled coldly as he carried his precious burden out into the silent streets.

  His elvish stallion was waiting outside the city walls. A ride that would take an average horse a week could have them at Averne in two days. Which was why Jaren had her so heavily drugged—he didn’t want her to wake until he had her in Averne. The ride would take its toll in pain.

  And for every whimper he heard as they rode, he filed it away, stored it, remembered it.

  For the time would come…

  Chapter Eight

  Five years later

  Irian was pulling at him.

  Tyriel could see the strain in his eyes, almost hear the internal fight.

  She slid the sword a withering glance and thought silently, “What do you want now, blasted enchanter?”

  “You.” He flooded her mind with images of them, nude on brightly colored silk sheets, in the tents favored by her gypsy blood.

  She blushed to the roots of her hair and turned her head away so that Aryn didn’t catch sight of her reddened face and wonder why. Irian had shielded his thoughts from his bearer, the way he always did when thinking of Tyriel in an earthier sense. “The man is a bloody fool, he is,” Irian murmured into her mind. An unseen hand seemed to stroke down the back of her head, along her thick braid and down her back to rest above the curve of her ass.

  “I thought when ye took up arms together as partners he would take your bed as well, but ‘tis pure madness. And he torments me w’ his talk of not bedding a swordmate. Bah! Five long years has he resisted…how much longer must we wait?”

  She suppressed a shiver as those final words seemed to be whispered right into her ear. “Would you leave me be?”

  “But you are so much easier t’ torment,” Irian purred. “Warm, female, sweet. I’d rather be sinking into your sweet little cleft, but your mind is almost as sweet.”

  “And is this why you torment your bearer? You insist on fucking me?”

  “Nay,” Irian’s voice grew strained. “You know me better, wild elf, pretty Jiupsu. I canna stand the thought of goin’ to Ifteril. Something is there. Something evil, something dark, something that threatens us. But Aryn says we winter there. Contracts. Fucking contracts.”

  “We’ve signed no contracts to fuck,” Tyriel answered absently. She didn’t like it. Never had the enchanter balked at the thought of going anywhere. Something evil¼something dark. A shiver took her body and she absently touched her fingers to the chains that hung between her breasts.

  “I fear for you, elf.” Irian’s voice came to her on a gruff whisper and his presence folded around her like a cloak, safe, protective.

  And Aryn rode on, oblivious.

  The blasted enchanter was talking to Tyriel again.

  Aryn could hear the throaty rumble in the back of his mind but the words were unclear.

  Whatever Irian was saying was disturbing Tyriel. And it disturbed her clear into the night.

  Her smooth dusky skin had gone pale, and her face was tight with strain. Her normally smooth, subtle movements were awkward as they set up camp that night. Lowering herself beside the fire, her eyes were haunted, dark, sightless, as she stared into nothingness. She tucked her glossy black ringlets behind her ears, the elongated point holding the wild curls away when a human’s ears would have done nothing. The left ear had a golden ring pierced through, halfway through the top, and a cuff that hugged her lobe, the gold reflecting the firelight as she sat staring somberly into space.

  “What bothers you?” he asked quietly.

  She lifted her eyes from the fire and stared at him, slowly, almost as if she were drugged, or entranced. “Irian doesn’t want to go into to Ifteril.” Her tongue slid out past her lips, wetted them, and Aryn suppressed a ragged groan as her eyes closed again.

  Fuck, we’ve got to get to Ifteril, into a city, before I lose it. For five years, he had managed to keep a hold on his craving for her, but long treks like this, between cities, when there were no women around to ride and pretend it was her underneath him—it drove him mad.

  “We signed a contract, Tyriel.” His words were strained but she seemed not to notice.

  “I do not want to go. The enchanter’s words bothered me. Greatly. Something dark…something evil,” she whispered, her lashes lifting slowly, revealing her amber eyes, glowing, reflecting the firelight, gleaming like the stone that swung between her breasts. Above it, the crucifix gleamed silver, winking at him, reminding him of the mark that marred the smooth perfection of her skin under clothes, the demon’s mark that she had received five years ago in battle. “Contract be damned, something deadly waits for us in Ifteril.”

  She was hiding something. It was there in her eyes.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked quietly.

  Her lashes lowered. “Nothing. I just do not wish to go. We can winter elsewhere. Anywhere. With the caravans again, or even in Averne. I dare say my cousins could drum up a dozen good substitutes for us, and a dozen good reasons why we cannot go.”

  “Does our word mean nothing, then?” he asked softly. “Tell me why. You know more than you are saying, elf. What waits in Ifteril?”

  Tyriel’s shoulders slumped. She shifted and lay down, rolling onto her side, away from the fire. “Very well. We go to Ifteril.”

  “Danger and darkness wait, and all for her.”

  Aryn rose from his bedroll, unable to sleep. He was pacing far away from camp to avoid disturbing his partner, and of course, the blasted enchanter couldn’t leave him be.

  Turning, he met the eyes of the long-dead enchanter as he wavered into view. “Tyriel is in danger?” he asked doubtfully. “She can handle any blasted thing that comes her way.”

  “Not this time. Turn back, before she is lost to you.”

  “Why do you insist on talking like the woman belongs to me?” Aryn growled, advancing on Irian. “She is not mine. Not ours.”

  “She could be yours. Take her. Keep her, love her.”

  “Love her? Her? Keep her?” Aryn sputtered, unaware that Tyriel had risen from her bedroll and stood in the distance, listening.

  “Aye. The girl loves you madly. The need is an ache in her belly to be with you, feel you.”

  “You’d tell me any damn thing it took if you thought it would get me to climb atop her and fuck her,” Aryn growled, his hands closing into fists as he fought the urge to do just that. “She is not for me. I am not for her. We are partners, nothing more. We will never be more.”

  “You deny that she is in your heart. You will admit you want her, because wanting a woman is easy,” Irian said softly. His long curling hair shifted around his shoulders as he moved closer to Aryn, his golden skin gleaming in the black night. His widely spaced dark eyes narrowed and he smiled slowly. “You want to touch her, taste her, fuck her…love her. Do it.”

  “No. If I need a woman, want a woman, I’ll find a fucking whore in Ifteril,” Aryn snapped, glaring at Irian with furious eyes, his body rigid and aching with hunger. His cock throbbed against his belly and all he wanted, all, was lying in her bedroll, not far away. Yes! All I want lies there. All. But he kept the words locked behind his teeth. “But I am not fucking Tyriel just to please a dead enchanter.”

  “And what about to please her? Yourself?”

  “I can please myself with my fist.”

  Her eyes stinging with tears, Tyriel backed away in silence, her belly hot and tight with grief. She made sure to muffle her presence, physically, magickally. Aryn and Irian couldn’t know she had been there.

  And she was leaving.

  She could avoid whatever danger lurked in Ifteril long enough to gather supplies. And then she’d go home.

  To Averne.

  Aryn awoke the next morning to a cold, silent camp.

  That alone told him something was terribly wrong.

  Tyriel never slept longer than he did. An elvish warrior needed so little sleep. She was always awake before him, always had
the fire built back up, breakfast ready, the camp broken down as she walked around humming under her breath.

  “The elf isna here.”

  Aryn looked up to see Irian’s form striding into camp. “I can see that, you blasted hunk of tin.”

  “She heard you last night, saw us talking.”

  Aryn’s mouth dropped open. “And you didn’t say anything?” he rasped, rising off his bedroll, chest bare, hands clenched. If, by some slim chance, the enchanter was right, and she had heard him… “What in the blasted hells were you thinking?”

  “I didna know she was there. I knew only after I worked enchantment. Watch, see.” Aryn felt his hand lifted even though he wasn’t the one lifting it. He drew his blade without realizing it and pierced his flesh—and saw the ball of smoke rising from the ground. He knew it, easily, and could do it of his own free will now. Irian’s enchantment was taking root in Aryn. The magick was settling in Aryn’s bones and blood and he could do, easily and quickly, simple, small enchantments, with no help or guidance.

  But Irian’s displeasure had him taking Aryn over, a sure and certain sign of just how fucking mad the enchanter was. And Aryn saw why as the smoke cleared, revealing Tyriel as her sleepy eyes opened. She slid from her bedroll, stretching, the camisole riding up and revealing a slim, toned belly, naked and appealing. Her hands slid unconsciously up her torso before she slid them through her tumbled curls and absently rubbed her eyes before looking around for something.

  Someone.

  Aryn knew when she spotted them. A soft, sad little smile appeared on her face.

  And he knew the enchanter had been right.

  She moved closer, in total silence, and he could sense the magick that flowed from her, and her automatic muffling of it, which is why Irian didn’t sense her. And Aryn had to watch as tears filled her eyes, as she heard his words and staggered from them.

  “Bloody blasted, cruel bastard.”

  Aryn turned and stared at Irian.

  “Where is she?”

  “I know not. I am not omnipotent. And Tyriel is not my bearer. I know not her heart and mind, other than what she tells me and what I can see for myself. But I suspect she has gone into Ifteril.”

  Alone.

  Her supplies would have to wait until she had money. She left Kilidare untethered outside the towne walls since Bel wasn’t there to keep him company and the elvish stallion took off at a wild gallop. With a stern thought, she told him, Be ready. We are not staying long.

  Ready. Ready. Promise.

  Painting a bold as brass smile on her face, she made her way through the crowded streets, unaware that she had caught the eye of somebody who knew her face, her magick. If she hadn’t been shielding so tightly against Irian, she would have sensed him.

  His dark eyes roamed over her face, his blood-red braid pulled back and tucked down under his shirt. His hood kept him in shadow. He made note of the inn she stopped in, and waited. She didn’t come out.

  Tainan Delre smiled slowly, coldly. She had walked right to him. The little bitch who had taken his power circle five years ago had walked right to him. And without the tall, warrior men at her side. Oh, aye, she had battled the demon and won. But it was the dark-haired elf that had truly frightened Tainan. A snarl spread across his face—frightened. That she had led something into his life that still sickened him, that still caused him sleepless nights…oh, she would pay for that. That she had led somebody into his world who had caused him fear—that anything had caused him fear—was something unforgivable. She would pay with blood, sex, fear, magick and death—and she would pay so slowly.

  All it would take was her blood, her magick, and he would be restored to what he had once been.

  What he had been before that battle five years ago.

  Then he could start again, anew, but he would be more careful. No cities this time. Only his homeland, and he would pluck stragglers, or lone women traveling. Even couples, and kill the man as he raped the woman—that fear and anger would be a bonus.

  Soon… he could have it all again soon.

  And all because she had wandered into this town. The blood of an elvish warrior was a fine pure rush, and such a sacrifice she would be, once broken.

  The scar marring the right side of his face twisted as he smiled. Walking away from the inn, he felt lighter, filled with purpose. He would return, tonight. And he would take her.

  Irian homed in on Tyriel like a beacon, finding the inn where she had lit within an hour of entering the crowded, dark city of Ifteril. Aryn could have searched for hours, days, or weeks, and perhaps never have seen her.

  The enchanter found her easily, quickly.

  And furiously.

  “The lass bloody well knows she is in danger¼I warned her foolish hide—she doesna listen t’reason.”

  Aryn stood in the shadow, listening to her play. She had donned one of her few gypsy garbs, a brightly colored, low-cut red blouse, with a corselet that laced over it, a full skirt, her hair flowing wild and free down her back. Looking for money, and fast. “I don’t think she is much in the way of reasoning right now, but Tyriel isn’t helpless.”

  “Tyriel isn’t thinking right now, you fucking fool,” Irian snarled at him. He shimmered into view. It no longer worried Aryn that others would see him. Irian could allow others to see him, if he chose, but only by his choosing was he seen. “There is somethin’ black, hideous after her and she needs t’ be thinkin’ but she isna thinkin’ a’tall.”

  She was so lovely, so ethereal, and so earthy at the same time. With the blood of the elves and the gypsies in her, how could she be otherwise? “Go to her.” Irian’s urging was bone-deep, blood boiling urgent. That Aryn wanted to so badly was all the more reason to resist. “She is safe, so long as she is by your side.”

  “So now I fuck her to keep her safe?”

  The lively music of the flute skipped a beat, and Aryn swore, his eyes flying across the room, meeting hers, those dark, deep eyes. She had heard him. Again. Over the music, the laugher, the shouts, those damnable exotic, elvin ears had heard the one thing he had said out loud, the one thing that sounded so damn cruel.

  Her lids lowered and the music played on.

  She had known the minute they came through the door. Irian’s presence, his overwhelming rage and relief crashed into her mind, and she couldn’t help but feel relieved herself. Darkness had eaten at her almost all day, but she wasn’t sure if it was her own pain, or something more.

  Aryn’s eyes had roamed over her, like a hand, firm and strong, almost palpable in its intensity. Her nipples were still peaked, pressed hard against her silk blouse, the gay colors of her clan bringing false color to her skin. Under the long skirt, she shifted her legs, crossed them, the leather of her thigh-high boots hugging her legs. She was wet, weeping with want for him, and his words rang once more in her ears. So now I fuck her to keep her safe?

  She hardened her heart and willed magick into her playing, uncaring that it was morally wrong. She wanted, needed that money. She was leaving in the morning, and going home to Averne.

  “Stop playing.”

  She ignored his low voice. And played.

  A dark shadow came through the door and her eyes landed on him as a cold sinking fear slid through her belly. There lies death. The man, tall, cloaked and silent, settled in a corner watching her. Tearing her eyes from him, and her concentration from Aryn, she played.

  Some time had passed. Aryn had gotten his own room, her sharp hearing told her, a large comfortable, clean one, the best the inn had to offer, and after that he had accepted some ale and food from the passing barmaid. She had offered him a bit more as well, and Tyriel wondered sourly why in hell Aryn had told this one no.

  Shoving it out of her mind, she let her eyes wander back to the man in black, whose eyes and face she couldn’t see.

  “Tyriel.”

  She stared at the man in the long black cloak and played as a hand, hard, firm, familiar came up to rest on her neck,
oddly possessive and warm. As his skin touched hers, the black, terrified feeling in her belly lightened and died away. Something inside her whispered, Forget your pride, your heart. Stay with him¼ Part of her knew that once she left him, she was no longer safe from whatever blackness Irian had foretold.

  Blackness seemed to linger around the man who had settled in a corner, staring at her.

  With malevolence and malice.

  Aryn lowered his head and whispered into her ear, brushing aside her curls, “Stop playing, now, or I’ll carry your fine little ass out of here.” He squeezed her neck in warning as he spoke then stepped back and studied her, waiting.

  She finished the song with a flourish and stooped to gather her money. With a quick, expert eye, she figured the money would buy the basic supplies she needed and then some. And she could always do some busking to earn a little extra. Scooping it into her pouch, she stowed her flute, but before she could toss her pack over her shoulder, Aryn had taken it and moved through the small door to the side that led to the rooms.

  “What?” she demanded coldly, folding her arms over her chest and staring at him, refusing to relinquish the flute or her smaller travel pack when he reached for them after closing the door behind them.

  She heard Irian¼not his words¼just a murmuring, in the back of her mind. With a snarl, she said, “Stay out of this, you bloody, blasted enchanter.”

  Aryn lifted his eyes to her face, those dark, dreamy blue eyes that had totally captured her heart almost from the first. Irian shimmered into view and stared at Tyriel as well, his intense, hungry gaze rapt on her face. “You canna understand, Tyriel, love. You didna hear all—”

  “Fuck it. And fuck you both.”

  Aryn whispered quietly, “That’s the whole problem. That’s what we both want. But I am not going to condemn myself to pining after a gypsy-elf who will be forever young and lovely while I will soon fade away. I am mortal, just a man. You are not, you have the blood of divine beings in your veins.”

  Tyriel felt her mouth tremble as she stared into Aryn’s eyes and saw an answering heat there. But it was only heat. Only heat, not love nor need. “You have never been just a man, Aryn of Olsted. But I will not stay here any longer. And we both know neither you nor Irian can force me.” She turned her back and headed for the door, uncaring that she didn’t have her other pack, just needing to leave.