At least for the time being.
As usual, his mind had jumped to Patience’s worst-case scenario without evidence to support the claims. He took a deep breath to calm his pounding libido and scraped the hair off his forehead.
Would his mental trauma ever heal and leave him in peace?
“Do you feel up to joining us in a briefing on our preliminary plans for locating the traitor faction?” Rhy asked. “You’re an important part of my investigative assignment, so I thought you should hear everything firsthand.”
Her hazel eyes stared back at him, and it was her turn to cock a brow while she looked him up and down. “Do you always talk like that?”
The question took Rhy completely by surprise, and with an emotional one-eighty, he barked out a laugh. “Me? The way I talk? You’re the one who speaks a bizarre dialect of English.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t understand what you’re saying half the time.”
She scooted backward to lean against the headboard, bringing the blanket with her. A loose thread entertained her busy fingers. He thought of other ways to keep them occupied.
“So I’m not perpetrating Poppins here, can I borrow some duds?”
He threw his hands up. “Thank you for proving my point.” He chuckled. “Help yourself to whatever you need. There’re clothes in the closet and some stuff in the dresser. But,” he paused, scanning the outline of her slim body, “I doubt anything will fit you.”
“Thanks, I’ll make do. I just need threads for chillaxin is all.” She slipped off the bed and tossed the throw blanket toward him. A scrap of pink lace fluttered to the floor mere inches from his boot.
He rubbed his neck and backed away, sexual temperature rising. When he paused at the open door, trying to puzzle out her last sentence, she let out a delightful laugh. Manipulated like a stringed marionette, he turned back.
“I’ll make a concerted effort to speak clearer to you,” she promised, and disappeared behind the closet door.
He must have been frowning when he rejoined Aleksander in the living room, because his long-time friend seemed concerned. “Is your patient all right?”
Oh yeah . . . Patience is more than fine. Her physician is the one messed-up in the head.
“She’ll be out in a few to sit with us.” Rhy scrubbed a hand over his face and dragged it along the back of his tight neck. Alek wasn’t going to like this next bit of news, and he didn’t know how else to dish it out. “There’s something else.” He cleared his throat. “I need her briefed on our orders.”
Aleksander leaned back on his haunches, swishing his tail at the same time. “You’re not serious. A civilian?” His hand dropped to rest at his hip.
“She’ll be an asset to the operation and has the mediation skills we need.”
Alek lowered his coal-black brows and narrowed his eyes on Rhy. “Go ahead. Drop the other shoe. I know there’s more to it than what you’ve let on. We have specialists in our military trained to perform that duty. What’s up?”
Careful to regulate his breathing, Rhy concentrated on oxygen moving in and out in a steady rhythm. Lungs expanded and contracted. He rolled his neck and cracked his spine into place. Aleksander’s question was perfectly normal. There was nothing accusatory or aggressive about it.
Damned PTSD. Like a spoiled kid who didn’t get their way and pitched a fit in return.
He mumbled an answer. The words stumbled past his lips, not in the least bit coherent.
Alek leaned forward on his dark front legs, the flooring beneath his hooves creaked. “What did you say? I didn’t catch that.”
Rhy rubbed the back of his neck—again. “I said,” he repeated louder, “the Wood Nymphs will listen to her because . . . .” He swallowed and took a deep breath. “She’s one of their own.”
Alek’s face drained of color, and he rose to all four legs. “The hell you say.” He moved away to pace, resting his hand on the hilt of his belted sword, black hooves stepping slow. Savella’s insignia winked at Rhy from the domed concho decorating the front of his leather vest. He swept past on his first lap. “A pixie patient in the Remedy Maker’s home?”
Rhycious kept his sight trained on Alek’s sword hand, waiting for the sharp blade to emerge. He reached for his own weapon, and fisted his loose shirt instead.
The buzzing of a thousand insects droned in his head. The sound refused to dissipate, even when he covered both ears. Should this danger come to pass, he didn’t carry so much as a dagger to protect Patience. She needed him as much as he wanted her. Nothing would hurt her.
Patience belongs to me!
“I’ll kill you before your fucken sword is drawn,” Rhycious threatened, his anger unchecked.
The battle-seasoned warrior before him released the handle of his sword. Aleksander held both arms away from his body. Lines of confusion and worry creased his friend’s forehead.
Stuttered images projected like an old-time movie in Rhy’s splintered mind. It drudged up a long ago battle scene; slain female Centaur casualties and their colts—throats slit and bellies gutted.
Sweat beaded his upper lip, as it did back then. His memory provided the nauseous stench of blood that’d been everywhere. Aleksander blurred before him, and Rhycious fought the disconnected sensation.
“Rhy. Hey man, it’s me.” Alek backed toward the apothecary table, keeping space between them. “Breathe, Rhycious. Look at me.”
“I won’t let you hurt her.” He shook his head to rattle away the strike of a hundred Centaur axes falling on Nymph trees. Imprinted like a hide brand, the sound thudded dully in his mind. “She wasn’t a part of it. She wasn’t there.”
Palms upraised and held apart, Alek stopped in his tracks. “Who wasn’t there, Rhy?”
“Patience.”
“Look, dude. That’s one thing I’m running out of here. Gamóto! It’s me, Rhy. Aleksander. Take some deep breaths and focus on the present.”
Rhycious stepped closer to Alek and glared him straight in the eye. Could he be trusted? Aleksander was a soldier with orders to kill or be killed. The Kempor who was his . . . friend.
The Centaur was right. Taking a deep inhale, Rhy blinked rapidly to clear his foggy mind. Mists of confused hostility broke off and melted away with each exhale.
Good pal that Alek was, Rhy gripped his forearms and maintained eye contact.
“The female. Her name is Patience,” Rhy said.
“Everything cool out here, boys?”
Rhycious turned his head in the direction of the beautiful voice and his jaw slammed hard to the floor.
In addition to bulging, saucer-sized eyes, Alek had the same mouth-dropping affliction.
Rhy’s clothes had never looked so good.
Seven
“Holy Bacchus,” Alek breathed out in a low voice.
Rhy released the grip he had on his friend’s arm. “Pan’s horn.”
Like a runway super-model launching the latest designer fashion, Patience strutted toward them, head held high. She wore his multi-striped, button-down, Ralph Lauren shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and an Armani hickory-colored calfskin belt wrapped twice around her tiny waist. Were those his boxers?
In irony, or possibly fate, ZZ Top sang Legs from the radio in tempo to her hip rolling stroll. A floating cloud of sable hair surrounded her like a feather boa. She’d caught up the side bangs and held it away from her face, pinned in place by a small screwdriver from off his dresser.
Rhycious dragged his chin off the floor and lifted a finger to shut Alek’s mouth, too. The two of them stood there dumbstruck while she planted her fists on curvy hips.
“What the hell’s going on?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Rhy flicked a glance toward Alek like a guilty little boy.
Alek nodded. His jaw slipped into another downward droop, and his gaze flew over her fetching figure from top to bottom.
“Fine. Don’t tell me then. I don’t want to know anyway.” Patience glided into the kitchen, pushing back her
hair, while her hips performed the drag and wag. She plucked an apple out of the bowl on the counter and spoke over her shoulder. “Weren’t you going to brief me?”
Note to self: Buy Patience some briefs.
Second note: Seeing the happy place in person works instantly.
Rhy swallowed with difficulty, his mouth Kalahari Desert dry. “Bring your apple and come sit down.” His voice sounded like it had gone a lap over a cheese grater. “And . . . I need some tea. Alek, you want anything before we get started?”
Alek’s lips lifted in a wolfish grin, watching Patience like a predator while she settled herself on the couch.
“Except for that!” Ironhanded protectiveness flooded Rhycious’s overloaded system. He was ready to fight Aleksander over the Nymph, and he wasn’t sure why. “Coffee’s on the stove. Get a cup if you want.”
Rhy made damn sure he sat next to Patience. The stallion in him roared to life; a need to defend his territory became paramount. His harsh, brawling nature stepped out, one solid hoof at a time. If the pressure for dominance kept up, at this rate he’d soon mate her and claim her for his own.
For Patience’s sake and safety, that could never happen.
Alek’s smirk faded. He folded his legs under him on the rug, placing the coffee table between them. Setting his mug down, he closed his eyes, and tilted his head back with a deep breath. Since Alek was a religious man, Rhy assumed he sought to center himself, or ask the gods for divine intervention. After a moment, Alek was ready.
“Rhycious, you know your assignment already. Locate the insurgents and nip the uprising before it generates popularity. I’ve been ordered by Savella to assist you.” He turned his attention to Patience. “I understand you’ll handle the Wood Nymphs in securing their alliance.”
“To the best of my ability, I’ll help the Centaur Clan.”
Alek brought his fist to his chest and dipped his head. “On behalf of Queen Savella and her kingdom, we thank you.” His eyes took on a sad expression. “So much prejudice remains between our races.” His steady gaze slid to Rhy, then resettled on Patience. “An emissary of their own race would help to alleviate distrust and open channels of communication.”
Rhy caught her subtle eye roll when she turned her sweet apple breath toward him. “Do all Centaurs conversate this way?”
They settled back and got to work. For the next few hours, conversation revolved around strategy, recon reports, and possible rebel suspects. Thinking back to being drafted into this mission unwillingly, even arguing his case before the queen, Rhy wondered why the gods would want him involved.
First, the Nymph shows up, and now this.
“So, step one is finding your informant?” Patience asked Alek.
“Yes, but Pennelope isn’t a snitch. She’s a Troll who lives—”
“A Troll!” Patience turned her smiling face toward Rhy. Excitement sparkled in her eyes like sun off the water. “Do you know her, too?”
Rhy shook his head. He pulled the leather thong out of his hair and scrubbed at his scalp. “Haven’t met her yet, but I’ve heard she’s very beautiful and has a few remedies of her own.” He shifted his gaze to Alek, who nodded.
“Nobody knows how old Pennelope is.” Aleksander said. “She’s always been in Boronda. Very reclusive, more so than our buddy, Rhy, here.” Alek reached over to pat him on the arm.
Rhycious swatted his hand away. “I’m not a hermit. I choose to live in peace.” Or rather, he used to live in peace. “So, piss off, Alek.”
Patience giggled and snuggled closer, leaning against his side. He liked the way she fit against him, and dropped an arm around her shoulders, giving her an affectionate squeeze.
“When will we look for my sister?” she asked.
Rhy drew lazy circles on her shoulder with his fingertips. “I’d like to begin right away, but it’ll have to be a conglomerate. We’ll look for Serenity the same time we search for the insurgents.”
Patience smiled and rubbed her hands together. “When do we get started, boys?”
Alek resembled a grinning maniac. “You have a sister?”
* * *
Hermes, the god of luck, smiled down on Pennelope. At least she thought so.
Green lichen grew in crevices and spilled like paint over her home. Bright orange moss splattered her boulder, blending with the other thousands of stones littering the rock-strewn ground. High in the afternoon sky, a red-tailed hawk soared in ascending spirals, floating out of sight over the tops of slow swaying trees.
Pennelope breathed deeply of the sun-drenched day. Rejuvenation of spring in all living things pulsed with energy. Rich scents of dirt and grass cloyed heavy in the air, and vibrations under her sandaled feet spoke of life. Sprouts of new growth pushed upward, demanding the ultra-violet light shine upon their leaves.
Spreading her arms overhead, her bracelets chimed a merry tune. “Thank you, Pan, for reminding me of the beauty of nature’s spirits.” When she lowered her arms, the wide neck of her peasant blouse slid to uncover a sun-kissed shoulder.
Happy that life was going her way, she twirled around, skirt flaring outward. In mid revolution, scrub jays took flight in a startled panic. Feathered wings flapped a rousing chorus, their sharp cries distressed. Nearby crickets silenced their mating chirps.
Pennelope swiveled her pointed ears to the crunch of leaves and snapping of twigs.
“I have visitors,” she hummed to herself. Three of them, by the sounds of it. She blew a kiss to Pan in the sky, and skipped toward the beech tree abutting her rock.
Before melting out of sight into the life-giving soil beneath the boulder, her Troll curiosity flamed to life. She brought her hands to her short styled hair and ruffled the auburn layers into place.
“Gods, I hope one of them is hedonistic and hot!” She gave her head one last shake before peering around the wide trunk.
A Centaur, palace guard and upper ranks by the looks of him, stepped into view. His long ebony tail swished the air, chasing off the springtime gnats. The close-cropped hair he ran his hands through glistened a handsome blue-black.
“It’ll take more than your sexy tail to drive me off,” she murmured. “Because you are dee-licious.”
Too bad he’s a Centaur. Though that species fought and killed for hundreds of years, Centaurs believed Trolls the least intelligent of the woodland. Pah! Your ignorance is my gain.
The sun shone on the guard’s strong back; thick arms gestured in her direction. His reddish coat gleamed and the feathery tuffs above his hooves, those sexy wet-my-pants tuffs, bounced with each step. A long sword hung at his hip, sunlight reflected off a knife at his waist. She’d bet her precious store of algae he had a human’s gun on him, too. The crossbow on his back evidenced his preference for modern weaponry.
The companion he spoke to ventured into sight, her smooth legs pale in contrast to the Centaur’s. She was a petite thing, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. A youthful aura surrounded the Nymph and enriched her inner glow. But something is amiss, Pennelope mused. The beautiful female used the Centaur’s arm to rest against, holding herself up as if she might collapse. Odd actions for a Nymph of so few seasons . . . unless the chit was injured.
A two-legged Centaur strode out of the trees and hauled the woman against him. When he wrapped a possessive arm around her waist, curiosity won out and Pennelope stepped out from behind the tree.
Arms waving and tones heated, the two males argued away. The longhaired man holding the female rubbed her back in long caressing strokes. The goateed guard gestured toward Pennelope, where she sat watching them on her rock. He did a double take when he spotted her.
Interesting.
Armed and dangerous, the Centaur with military bearing bore down on her. Nonplussed, she wrapped her arms around her bent knees and waited. His surrounding blue aura showed balance and survival, non-threatening. Every hoof step in her direction swung a gold chain around his neck, and swayed the swords and daggers he dr
ug around with him.
Pennelope cocked her head, watching a grin spread across his handsome face, tickling a memory long suppressed. His infectious smile spread from ear to ear, and she found herself smiling back.
“Greetings, Centaurs,” Pennelope inclined. “Greetings, little Nymph. ‘Tis a fine day for a walk.” Although the Nymph no longer strolled—the two-legged Centaur carried her like a sapling in his arms.
As the equine guard spoke, his eyes traveled over her face and figure with familiar interest. “Hello, Pennelope. It’s been a long time since my last visit.” He stomped a hind leg to kick at the flies gathering under his belly.
“Has it?” She stared back at him. His eyes and face were familiar, but the well-defined warrior’s body didn’t match her three-hundred-and-some-year-old memory.
She shifted her gaze to his traveling companions. “My dear, are you not well?” Though she smiled, the girl’s complexion appeared pasty, sweat beading her brow. The inner-joy aura of yellow sparked in this innocent one, but discrete vibrations of the white aura of death stabbed intermittently. Pennelope reached out her hand and patted the girl’s arm, her bracelets sliding to jangle around her wrist.
“I’m alrightish, thanks.” The Nymph stroked the neck of the Centaur who held her.
Now that’s something you don’t see every day. Interesting.
The large bodied man who carried the pixie furrowed his brow, but didn’t pull her away. Instead, he looked as though he was sizing up the entire Troll race, based on her representation.
“You haven’t aged a day in the past century. Just as beautiful as I remember,” the weapon-clad warrior intoned.
Pennelope turned back to the familiar man, snapshots of memories flooding into her. “I know you now.” Her heart skipped a thudding beat. No longer able to keep still, she hopped off her rock to stand between the towering males. “You’re that naughty little Centaur who used to come calling, faking his ailments to receive my . . . treatments.”
She laughed and dusted her hands off, pleased to see Aleksander’s smile grow wide.
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