by H. D. Gordon
Surah tried to throw her hands up, and winced when the cuffs tightened again and realized she couldn’t. “That’s all you have to say?”
Charlie shrugged. “I try not to say anything when I know I won’t be heard.”
“You’re a true gentleman, Mr. Redmine. You know that?”
Charlie set the guitar gently on the ground and folded his hands in his lap. “All right,” he said. “You got any ideas, then?”
Surah laughed again, and the harsh sound of it reminded her that she was losing her composure. She pulled it back to her with some effort. “Oh, I have plenty of ideas. I just don’t think you or your crazy brother would go for them.”
Charlie sighed and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Try me.”
Surah’s brow furrowed. What in the world was going on with this man? His words didn’t match his actions and his actions never matched the emotions hidden behind his eyes. For a moment, she couldn’t think of anything to say.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
Charlie gestured to the black chains around her wrists. “Got any ideas on how to break those?”
Surah looked down at the cuffs and back up at Charlie, her eyebrows still furrowed in confusion. “Why would you want to do that?”
Charlie pulled his knees up and rested his arms over them, rolling his neck slowly so that his dark hair fell into his face a little. Then he looked up at her, and Surah hated herself for again thinking how attractive he was.
“Because whether you believe it or not, I didn’t want any of this to happen. I had nothing to do with it, just like my brother said. He’s left for now and he knows I won’t leave this place without you, but he’ll be back, and we need to not be here when he returns.”
Surah just looked at him, the disbelief evident on her face.
“And,” he continued, his voice dropping a fraction, “I have no intention of letting Michael hurt you again. I could’ve killed him just for hitting you the first time.”
“Really? Well, you’ll forgive me for calling bullshit on that one.”
Charlie shrugged, held up his hands, as if to say “See.”
“Why is that, Mr. Redmine? Because you are so loyal to the kingdom that you would betray your own brother?”
He was silent a moment. Then, he shook his head. “Not to the kingdom.”
It took Surah longer than it should have to recognize the implication there. When she did, she tried to force it away, knew that it would be foolish to believe it, but a little hope spiraled in her chest nonetheless.
“Then why did you take me to that Witch’s house?” she asked, not liking that her voice came out smaller than she intended.
Charlie shook his head, as if he wondered the same thing himself. “I should have known better,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. This is my fault.”
“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said since we met.”
“No, it’s not.”
Surah tried to throw up her hands again. The cuffs tightened. She winced.
“Stop doing that.”
“Then stop saying things to irritate me,” she snapped.
Charlie rubbed a hand down his jaw again. “Look, we can sit here and argue until my brother gets back, or you can start telling me how those chains can be broken. You’ve got to get a hold of your emotions and think, Surah, because I don’t have the slightest clue how to help you. All magic can be broken, right? So…how?”
“Stop calling me that.”
Charlie sighed.
Surah stared at him, her mind flying a mile a minute. She knew she couldn’t trust him, but what choice did she have? No one was going to find her in time, and her father was as good as dead if she didn’t find a way out of here. She was as good as dead, too. She bit her lip, tasting the blood there from when Black Heart had struck her, and tried to think.
Charlie was right, all magic could be broken, just like the demon poisoning could be cured with the Black Stone. So there had to be a way to break these bonds. She was sure she had read about just such a thing in her studies at some point, but could not recall any specifics.
But she knew someone who might know a way. It was a long shot, but it was all she had.
“Bassil,” she said.
“What?”
“Bassil, the Warlock who works at my father’s castle. He might know a way.”
Charlie straightened up and leaned forward, emerald eyes intense. “How do I get to him?”
Surah’s eyes flicked to him, and she hated that his very serious expression caused more hope to spiral in her. “Do you still have the piece of Black Stone your brother gave you?”
Charlie nodded. He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt and pulled out two items. Surah gasped and her heart nearly stopped when she saw what they were.
“How did you get those?”
Charlie smiled, the small quirk of his lips making heat pulse in her midsection in spite of herself. “I took them from Carolyn’s,” he said. “Thought they might come in handy.”
Surah stared at the stone vial and other one with a dark purple liquid inside—a shading spell. The stone vial could be used to capture power from the Black Stone, enough with which to save her father, and the shading spell was for invisibility. Surah was so relieved she thought she could kiss Charlie Redmine. Then she remembered how ridiculous that was and shoved the thought away.
“They could help,” she said.
Charlie stood, his movements smooth and graceful, and came over to Surah, kneeling down in front of her. She could smell the clean scent of him, which was like rain and pine and sunlight blown to her by a warm breeze. His handsome face was level with her own, his bright eyes standing out like gems in the darkness of the cave.
“Tell me what to do, princess,” he said, the slow drawl of his voice somehow very intimate in the small space.
Surah found that she had to swallow before she could speak. Twice. Her voice came out low and husky, almost a whisper.
“You have to go to the castle and find Bassil. Explain to him the situation. He will help you…if he believes you’re telling the truth.”
“No trouble there.”
Surah found a smile trying to touch her lips, but stopped it before it could make an appearance. “Of course not,” she said.
One side of Charlie’s mouth pulled up. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, and then, as if he just couldn’t help himself, he reached up and brushed back a lavender curl that had fallen forward on her face, covering the purple bruise where Black Heart had struck her. His fingertips were calloused but gentle, running lightly over her soft skin, making her shiver in spite of herself.
“This won’t happen again,” he added, voice low and deep, studying the bruise with what Surah thought was concealed anger and something else she didn’t care to contemplate. “You have my word on that, princess.”
Surah’s heart did a flip. There was nothing she could do to stop it.
“Okay,” she said.
Charlie’s hand lingered by her face for a moment, then he stood to go. Surah called out to him before he slipped beneath the waterfall.
“Charlie?” she said.
He turned back to face her.
Her voice was small and soft and completely unguarded when she spoke. She didn’t hate it as much as she thought she would, as much as she probably should. It was almost liberating to speak so truly.
“I really hope you’re not lying.”
Charlie smiled, and she hated that it was impossible to hate him when he did so.
“I’m not, princess,” he said. “I’m not.”
Chapter 22
Samson
He was exhausted. Pain-in-his-side, panting-for-breath exhausted. He was not built to run very long distances, more so for short, quick bursts of speed, but he could not stop. No matter how tired and hungry and thirsty he was, he could not stop.
He was headed for the jungle to the south of the kingdom, and he still
had a good distance to go. Time was his greatest enemy right now, because time was also hers. Who knew what that man could be doing to her? The thought made fury burn in his chest.
Samson held his head low as he crossed the grasslands, his powerful legs propelling him forward. The scents of the land assaulting his nose; pollen and pine and wild honeysuckle and so on. The sunlight beamed down on him harshly and made his eyes slit to half-mast. This was not the ideal way to spend an afternoon. He much preferred napping.
But Surah needed him. Now more than ever before, she needed him. He had no doubt in his mind that the man who called himself Black Heart would kill her; if he hadn’t done it already. How badly Samson had wanted to rip his throat out back in that Witch’s rank cabin. How badly he’d wanted to kill them all. Black Heart and the Witch and Charlie Redmine, that deceitful bastard. He could practically taste the tang of their blood on his tongue now.
He couldn’t believe he’d told Surah to give that man an inch. He couldn’t believe his instincts were wrong about Charlie. He’d known upon first smell of that cottage that darkness lived inside. He could smell it on Black Heart as soon as he’d appeared, all the way from the field behind the cottage.
But Charlie Redmine hadn’t been like them. He’d been almost an exact opposite, actually, all calm waters, where the other two were raging seas. Samson couldn’t ever remember being so wrong about someone before.
Now he had to fix it. And he would. They would pay for every hair harmed on the princess’s head in flesh and blood. As far as Samson was concerned, they were dead men walking.
He stopped only once because he had to, at a small river about halfway to his destination. He not only drank the water, but waded into it, letting it cool his hot fur and soothe his parched throat. Then he was on his way again, racing under the sun with wide strides and a heaving chest.
When he came to the edge of the Southlands jungle, he nearly collapsed into the shade of the thick green trees. His tongue felt like a very large, dry sponge in his mouth. His eyes were wind-burned and his jaws agape as he sucked in painful air. He knew he needed to hurry, but he also knew it would be a death wish to head any further into the jungle in such a weak state.
So he slept. Well, he napped. Only for twenty minutes or so. He just lay there, on the edge of the jungle, in the partial shade of the trees, his eyes closed and his troubled mind letting go for a moment. Then he was up again. Rested and ready to move to the next necessities. More water. And food.
And precious time was ticking away. But he couldn’t very well help her if he was dead. Also, he was resourceful. He could probably kill two birds with one stone. But, first, the water.
His head lifted as he tested the air, searching for the scent of moisture. He found it and followed its trail, his ears perked, amber eyes watchful as he passed beneath the trees.
He could feel them out there, the other beasts, watching him, their own heads surely cocking or tilting as his smell found them on the breeze. It made a rush of exhilaration fill him, his heart kicking up in speed. He was already fantasizing about the hunt ahead.
Nothing attacked him, and he made it to the source of the water, which was little more than a stream running over a bed of jagged rocks, one he could easily hop over. He lowered his head to the edge and drank for a long time, until his belly sloshed inside when he moved. When he was finished he looked all around, trying to figure the quickest route to complete his task.
He had heard Surah say that the Black Stone was in this jungle, after the tracking spell she’d performed with Bassil using the eagle’s blood. The Southlands jungle was the second smallest of the eight, and also the jungle where he’d been born and raised before Surah had found him.
It was just a patch on the map compared to most of the others, but if he was going to hold someone prisoner, this is where he would come. It was a good distance from the city, and also had the most hidden caverns and small caves. You could hide someone in one of those small spaces for an eternity and not have them found.
If he had a hope of finding Surah in time, he would need to speak to the beast king in this land, and there was a whole history between them that was sure to complicate things.
Well, he had to find him first.
Samson lowered his head between his shoulders, his body slinking low to the ground. He found the trail of a female panther and followed it, his paws moving silently over the earth. High above him, great birds called out to the open skies, serpents wound around branches, and primates sat atop limbs. The canopy was a thick, impermeable green, only traces of sunlight forcing through. The ground was soft with moisture, the air free of the smells of men. Sometimes Samson longed to roam free again, to prowl the jungles, stalking at night, hunting and eating and sleeping on low tree limbs during the day, letting the sunlight sink into his fur, letting his instincts rule him.
But he had given that all up, and would do so again, for her. She had given him a greater purpose in life, one he wouldn’t have ever known existed. She had given him love. He simply could not fathom a life without her.
He stopped when he heard the female panther up ahead, only twenty feet or so southwest, downwind. She was a young one, by the smell of her, and in the middle of a hunt. He could smell the trail masked beneath her own, that of a buck. His eyes narrowed as he smiled inside, thinking of how right he was about two birds and one stone. This was almost too easy.
The female panther broke her cover, charging ahead. Samson followed and watched as she leapt into the air, the buck realizing she was there just a moment too late and trying to break into a run.
The black panther landed on its back, square between the buck’s shoulders, powerful jaws sinking into the meaty flesh of its neck, claws digging deeply into the hide for purchase. The buck reared, sharp antler’s slashing the air as its eyes went wide with terror. It ran thirty feet or so and fell to the ground, blood seeping down its neck where the female was busy ripping and tearing, trying to get at the throat without being snagged by those deadly antlers.
Samson watched from the sidelines, his blood rushing in his ears, his heart racing like a prize horse. He watched and waited. Slowly, the buck ceased its fighting, one dead eye staring heavenward where it lay on its side.
The female dismounted her kill, her midnight coat as black as oil. She delicately licked the blood from her face, then moved in to claim her prize.
Samson moved forward.
She was mid-bite when she saw him step through the trees, and a low growl issued from her throat, her eyes locked on his. She was smaller than Samson, of course, but not by too much, standing nearly six feet tall from head to paw. Her head lowered and her slim legs coiled, determined to keep her kill.
Samson couldn’t help an internal chuckle. The female was no match for him, and they both knew it.
Her voice sounded in his head, a husky, deep growl riding the words.
“Get your own, tiger.”
Samson took a few steps forward, amber eyes locked on hers. “I think not, panther.”
He rushed forward, jaws wide and snapping, slashing at her with his sharp claws. The female snapped and slashed as well, but she back-pedaled, nearly tripping over her prey in her escape.
Samson stood over the buck, his head still low, daring her with his eyes to try and take the kill back from him. When she just stood there, her black chest heaving with anger, he bent down and tore at the flesh of the buck with his teeth, swallowing large chunks of raw, bloody meat.
The female stood watching him. “You fool,” she growled. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
Samson continued eating, flicking her a look that said he couldn’t care less.
The panther narrowed her silver eyes. “My father is king in these lands, and he will have you killed for this. I will taste your flesh by nightfall.”
Samson lifted his head, really looking at her for the first time. He saw now what he should have seen before. The silver of her eyes, the scar on her left flank,
the arrogant tilt of her head. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it in her scent, but he could smell it now. His rough tongue ran out slowly over his lips as he tried to jumpstart what were suddenly his frozen thoughts. It had been over a decade since he’d last seen her, since that day when Surah had saved him from the serpent and claimed him for her own.
“Mila?”
The panther’s head tilted, her eyes narrowing. “Who are you?” she asked.
He stepped back from the buck, which was a mess of entrails and torn flesh, his eyes on her. Her defensive posture relaxed as she raised her head to her full height. The angry growl was gone from her voice when she spoke again in his head.
“Sam?”
Samson lifted his head in a nod.
“I thought you were dead.”
“I almost was.”
She was silent for a moment, as if she just couldn’t believe it.
“Where have you been all this time?” She asked, and Samson felt a little guilt spiral in him at the slight hurt in her tone.
He was almost ashamed to answer. “Living with a Sorceress.”
She took a step forward. “You were captured?”
“No.”
She paused. “What do you mean, no?”
Samson sighed internally. There was no way to explain this that she would understand. Beasts, as a rule, did not live among people. They certainly didn’t leave the jungles to be with them. He didn’t even have time to begin to explain Surah to Mila. Surah didn’t have time.
“The day the serpent attacked us, when we were both cubs, you remember?”
Mila gave him a look that said that was a stupid question.
Samson continued on. “I tried to fight the thing, and sent you off to find help.”
“I know, and when I got back with help, you were gone. I thought you were dead, digested by that snake and being shit out somewhere. You think I would have forgotten? What does that have to do with living with a Sorceress?”
Samson could tell she was angry, and he couldn’t blame her. He remembered now how vulgar she could be when she was angry, so different from Surah with her constant composure. It brought back many memories he didn’t care to think of.