Remedy Maker

by Sheri Fredricks

  The only way out would be through a window.

  Rhy’s plaid flannel shirt lay across the back of the chair. She grabbed it for warmth, remembering the chill when she’d walked him outside earlier.

  The high set window rested cold against her hand. When she pushed the pane, it didn’t open. Patience blew a short breath and tried again.

  Dammit.

  The front door rattled loudly in the quiet cabin. Anxiety spiked, and blood rushed through her ears. How did Rhycious do it, living in the open as he did? Two deep breaths later, she gathered her frazzled nerves—which did little to combat the edgy sweat dampening her brow.

  A glance around the room showed zilch for a hint on how to escape. Rhy’s silver pocketknife flashed at her from the top of the tall standing dresser against the wall. She sprang over the bed and grabbed it, sliding the four-inch blade open.

  Silent, quick steps tracked a path back. She stabbed the knife’s tip into the left side of the window frame, nearly bending the blade trying to pry the glass open. First pulling toward her, and then pushing away.

  How in the hell do these things open?

  Footsteps battered the porch stairs. She held her breath, straining to hear which direction the humans would take.

  Silence. After a few moments, the footsteps returned. A hammering bang rattled the door’s hinges, jolting the walls, as though someone outside had kicked the crap out of the door.

  Her mind and body slowed, wanted to petrify in suspended animation like some low ranked food chain facing its predator. Bullshit, I’m tougher than that. The knife quivered in her grasp, shaking worse than a quaking aspen.

  Patience threw her weight behind the knife, prying repeatedly, wondering who in the hell invented glass panes. Despite her bladed plea, the window refused to open. She tamped down fear, stark and vivid, as it rose in her throat. Being scared wasn’t an option, she had to think rationally and be alert.

  Maybe she was working the window backwards. She tossed Rhy’s flannel shirt to lie over her shoulder and pulled the knife’s blade out of the sill. On the opposite side of the frame, she plunged it in.

  Sweat flushed across her brow. Her racing heart kicked up another gear. She began to shake as scary-go-round images built in her mind.

  Another vicious kick pounded the front door, and she jumped. The deadbolt proved worthy and held—for now. The cabin was made of wood—dead wood. How much kicking could the dead take before caving in to splinter apart?

  Panic thrummed through her body in a shock wave. Her sweaty palm slipped on the pocketknife’s handle and it skidded away. She threw out a hand to catch the knife before it hit the floor. A split second too late, she realized how stupid her move was.

  Stinging pain sliced into her palm and across two fingers, crimson beads rushed to the surface. Damn! Not a deep cut, but enough to burn and drip red sap on the floor.

  Outside the cabin, male voices spoke louder. The humans were arguing, or shouting to the occupants of the house. Whatever, it didn’t matter what was being said. It’s not as if she’d smile and invite them in.

  Breath rasping hard and fast, her erratic thinking flew out of control. She rested her uninjured hand on the window’s top frame.

  Click.

  And the damn window slid open—just like that. Thank you, Pan!

  Patience threw the pane open as far as it would go and peered out, scouting the area behind the cabin. Within ten running strides, she’d be in the forest, hidden and safe. Between the cabin and trees, however, lay wide-open space.

  Not wasting time, she hoisted herself up on the sill. The slider’s aluminum track dug trenches into her belly. Her toes caught leverage on the rounded log wall beneath the window, reminding she was barefoot, her shoes were on the other side of the house. Better a stomachache and stubbed toes than a party-down time she’d rather not repeat.

  Patience pulled a leg through the window. The sharp metal frame pressed into her bleeding hand. Bolts of pain shot up from her palm, and she jerked back from the source. The flannel shirt fell to the floor.

  It was too late to go after it now.

  Booted feet drummed on the porch and she didn’t know if the humans were going up or down the stairs. Her palms, damp before, now ran wet with sweat.

  Patience pitched a knee under her, and made a jump for it. Landing outside on her feet in the dirt, she reached up and slid the window closed. A wild taste of fear flooded her mouth and she choked it back for survival’s sake. Leaning her upper body forward, she forced her leaden legs to move.

  No time for a countdown—she turned and ran. Childhood fears mixed with her kidnapping and churned a bubbling cauldron inside her. When shade from Boronda’s canopy covered the ground, she slowed her steps.

  Patience didn’t need to run far, just enough to be completely hidden. Her leg muscles burned, and she leaned heavily against a tree. Shaggy bark of an ancient hickory stood strong against her spine. Despite her fears, she fought to steady her wobbly nerves and take in air. Rough textures beneath her fingers helped calm her down.

  Other than the light breeze, the woods stood motionless. As if every woodland creature and the gods themselves held their collective breath to see what would happen next.

  Patience needed a place to hide and time to think. Adrenaline sucked her reserved stores of energy. At this rate, she would be a broken twig before too long. Turning, she pressed her face against the tree’s wide trunk. She was tired—so damn tired.

  Visually trembling, she raised a fist and knocked twice, hoping the dweller within wouldn’t mind an unannounced guest.

  Twenty-Six

  Bored in the Communal Chamber, Kempor Aleksander cocked a rear leg and grimaced while observing the method in which Albion Yerdank prostrated himself before the dark priest.

  The Satyr tucked his hands inside the dolman sleeves of his tan robe, setting the material to flare at his thick waist. Pocket-sized horns, buffed to a gleaming alabaster shine, bobbed as the goat-man bowed like a dippy-bird.

  Twenty minutes ago, the binary meeting of the woodland nations had adjourned. Small clusters of representatives remained, talking amongst themselves. Savella, looking regal and elegant in a glittery blue gown, worked the room and performed her political best maintaining relations between the dignitaries.

  “Yes, I agree with your reasoning. However—”

  Templar Khristos interrupted Albion’s words mid-sentence with a hoof stomp, and glowered at the runt. “If you agree with Her Majesty’s objectives, then there’s nothing to debate.”

  Khristos ruffled his coal-black cape, freeing his arms from its draped confines. His fingers meticulously straightened the cuff of his shirt, and moved the ironed crease to its exact position. Minerals glowing in the ceiling reflected off his medallion of office, flashing his imperial station to remind the annoying billy goat.

  Albion raised himself higher on his two hooves, lengthening his neck, clearly not ready to end their discussion. “Yes, yes. It’s true. The existing tribes of Boronda have been criticized for lacking social criteria.”

  Does Albion realize he just slighted himself with his own comment? Alek gazed the circumference of the room, and returned to the pair forcing niceties. Even if the Satyr had strapped on platform shoes, the top of his kiss-ass head would only reach the bottom of the Templar’s chest.

  Khristos’s mouth pulled down in a frown, and his black tail swished imaginary flies. “If you’d paid attention to Queen Savella’s speech instead of stealing the royal pencils, you’d know Her Majesty’s views. Social criteria are difficult to integrate inside Boronda in a method that’d make them practical to use.”

  Albion blinked and kept his pie-hole shut. Khristos straightened his shoulders on an indrawn breath and towered over the male. He continued speaking, looking down his Roman nose at him. “Not that it concerns the Protectorate of Domains, but contemplations such as ‘unbiased sharing of benefits from the forest’ are difficult to put into operation. Those remuner
ations are often imperceptible, and it’s challenging to make them comparable.”

  Alek snorted, catching Hippy’s eye from across the chamber. She cocked her head in question.

  With a widening grin, he pointed with his chin toward the tense pair in front of him. She nodded and used her hand to cover an understanding smile.

  Little Albion, full of himself and his elected title, used his position to the extreme. Talk about little man syndrome. He liked to remind those who would listen that he was the people’s choice, not appointed to his office by a long dead king—as in the case of the templar priest.

  Of all the species represented in the chamber, why Albion chose Khristos—the person Aleksander would vote mostly likely to spit on a Satyr—to strike up a conversation was anyone’s guess.

  Alek shook his head. Whatever fallout came Albion’s way, the goat deserved. The priest made no secret he believed in the old ways of King Nickolaus; Centaurs are of a higher class and above other creatures. Not that there’s anything wrong with the ideology.

  “I thank you for your clarification, Templar—”

  Khristos raised his gaze above Albion’s line of vision, and gave a tight smile to someone off to the side. Alek swiveled his head to see who the priest’s next victim would be, but didn’t see whoever was acknowledged. The Satyr craned his neck to gaze over the taller members.

  Without a word of apology to detach from their tête-à-tête, the indignant priest turned away, cutting Albion off again.

  Chin hair all aquiver, the Protectorate gaped in disbelief at the back of Khristos’s swaying cape, watching him meander through binary meeting attendees. Albion’s tawny eyes with oblong pupils narrowed at the retreating figure, fists clenched. He quickly scanned the chamber, assessing who’d witnessed his public humiliation.

  Aleksander glanced up and considered the twinkling ceiling, keeping Albion in the reaches of his peripheral vision.

  Goat-man wanted to play hardball with the big boys, so he had run for the newly created office the previous year. Satyrs didn’t garner a whole lot of respect to begin with, but when he failed to produce on campaign promises made, he sealed his political fate.

  Albion Yerdank pulled his robe tighter about him, tugging down the hem. He took one last look around, spun on his little black hooves and bee-lined for the door. His white tail held stiff at attention, back straighter than if he’d swallowed a sword.

  Aleksander gazed after him. From the backside, the Protectorate reminded him of the cocktail waitress at The Three Legged Mare. Rapid intensity carried his cloven hooves forward. Why was he in such a hurry?

  Bathroom break, perhaps.

  Alek shot a glance to his watch and wondered long the political dick stroking would continue.

  Queen Savella stood gracefully next to the Minotaur representative and ignored the fact the jackass practically had his tongue cemented to her chest. He said something and she nodded, hands clasped in front of her. No doubt to keep from pulling the knife she kept hidden and stabbing him in the eye with it.

  Hippy inserted her shoulder between the Minotaur’s face and the queen’s bosom, effectively forcing the bovine back, smiling all the while. Even from twenty paces away, Alek saw the wink she gave Savella. With an incline of her head, Hippolyte directed the regent to her “next appointment”.

  The Troll ambassador, whose name Aleksander could never remember, lumbered behind Khristos, following like a heel-trained dog with extra-large feet. Short and squatty, the Troll measured his steps in accordance to the priest’s stride. It gave him a lunging gait that rocked from side to side, all in the name of schmoozing the high-ranked official.

  Bastian kept himself stationed opposite of Hippy. Balancing off her position, he moved around the chamber diagonally to her, always keeping Queen Savella between them. No chances taken with the recent attempts inside the palace. Security this morning was tight as a pixie’s ass.

  This brought Daisy to mind. Alek would mull over her invitation later, during down time. The train of thought, however, left the station, leading straight to Rhycious, Patience, and the whole Wood Nymph clusterfuck of the forest.

  Out of the corner of his eye, rapidly moving chestnut caught his attention. Aleksander glanced in time to catch a blur of red hide slip through the exterior door. The same door Albion had used.

  Sergeant Dryas. Don’t tell me he needs to use the little boys’ room, too.

  Alek focused his sights on the oak door several Centaur lengths away, and moved toward it. His hooves carried him three steps before Ambassador Koviac blocked his path.

  “Kempor Aleksander, pardon me.” Accented R’s rolled off the older man’s tongue. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

  “Of course, Ambassador.” Alek leaned to the side and glimpsed the finale of Dryas pushing the door shut. He adjusted his depth perception to the Wood Nymph with shoulder length gray hair, styled in a wind-blown fashion. Koviac’s disheveled appearance always reminded him of a mad scientist. “How may I serve you?”

  The ambassador rubbed his cropped beard with an open palm, appearing to gather his thoughts. Alek resisted the urge to rear up and paw the air with his hooves. The whole reason he’d requested Dryas be in the chamber was to keep an eye on him. Now the AWOL guard was hot trotting down the corridor toward the loo on the far side of the palace.

  If, in fact, that’s where everyone was going.

  For the love of Bacchus. Politics and pansy-ass politeness seemed the order of the day.

  Koviac met Alek’s eyes. “My sentries have noted an increase of hunters in our sector. We’ve increased surveillance measures to counter the growing concern of safety for our people, especially the children.” His gaze dropped to the grass floor. “As a parent myself, I share in these fears.”

  Sky-blue homespun cloth tightened across the Koviac’s chest at his deep breath. Arthritic fingers toyed with the knot of his loose-fitting shirt in tactile distraction. Being a large guy himself, Alek could appreciate the comfort of the garment, not to mention the ease of the dark baggy pants.

  “I understand your concerns, Ambassador. The Royal Remedy Maker was also involved in an involuntary confrontation with these humans. The old stories must be circulating again for the influx of hunters.”

  Behind Ambassador Koviac, Hippy guarded the queen but searched the chamber occupants for someone. When she locked onto Alek’s eyes, she frowned and mouthed the word Dryas. He acknowledge with a single nod.

  Hippolyte could not, and would not, leave the queen’s side. Her primary directive was to guard Savella’s life with her own. Dryas’s accountability fell under Aleksander’s jurisdiction and was, therefore, his sticky wicket.

  Having maintained dogmatic courtesies long enough, he’d have to address this pressing issue with the Wood Nymph ambassador later.

  “Sir, will you have time to discuss this at a more opportune time? There’s somewhere I need to be at the moment.”

  Koviac nodded, some of the tension in his face eased and he grasped Alek’s outstretched hand. “I’m staying the night at the palace. Please send a message and I’ll accommodate you.”

  Ambassador Koviac’s grip held strong as they shook hands before parting ways. Not much should overwhelm a man built like a brick shit-house, and one who had lived through The War.

  Unless—

  Alek put it out of his head. Pondering the personal life of Koviac was best done over a pint of oat-soda.

  Hippy’s sharp eyes tracked his serpentine path to the exit. Before he opened the door, Alek caught her eye, pointed to himself, and indicated his intended direction. She answered with a single nod. Plenty of back-up guards in a room full of dignitaries.

  Security in place, Aleksander opened the door, and stepped into an empty hall.

  * * *

  Rhycious zipped the last baggie of harvested Echinacea closed and slowly straightened his legs amidst popping knees. Golden sunshine chased the morning chill away, burning off the lingering fog.


  Standing still and absorbing the change in weather, an odd sensation lifted inside, specifically his heart. He breathed deeply, oxygenating his brain. Euphoric lightness floated, tickling his lips and causing him to smile.

  Life. It filled him.

  Rhycious looked forward to going home to someone he’d spent more time with than anyone outside the military. In fact, a personalized welcome by a hot number wearing his bandana for a shirt topped his to-do list.

  After he screwed her silly and satisfied their lusts, he’d work on drying the plants and mixing remedies for his patients. I do have my priorities.

  The backpack swung easily onto his shoulder. Incomplete royal assignments niggled the back of his mind. Life threatening responsibilities crowded in. There was no running away from it all, but his shoes picked-up the pace regardless.

  The palace needed him. So did Patience.

  He had sworn an oath to Savella. He made a promise to Patience.

  Rhycious felt torn in two directions—his duty to serve the queen, and a chance at gaining true control over his disorder. Both paths were within his grasp. Restless energy built and he picked up a jog.

  What fairytale did he live in? There was no way in hell their prejudiced societies would allow them to be together. Pressure from both sides would rip into their relationship.

  How could they be together?

  Could he live without her?

  Nearly stumbling with the last thought, Rhycious straightened himself in time to pause at the edge of the trees. Across the clearing, the cabin’s blinds were partly cranked open, allowing light in while keeping curious eyes out. His wary gaze slipped over his home, taking in every detail and every shadow. All appeared normal—leaves blew roundabout the porch, weeds grew along the stairs. Quiet blanketed the area.