Avisha

by Vi Lily

  And he would spend the rest of her too-short human life watching over her from afar.

  He wondered why the Creator would give him a mate who was already bonded to another. While Avisha had certainly committed his share of erring and had well-deserved the punishment the Creator had deemed as fair and just, he didn't think that the Creator would be so cruel as to deny him what his soul now longed for.

  A longing that would last for all of eternity.

  He shook himself. It wasn't his right to question the Creator's methods. He'd certainly learned that lesson the hard way. But his teeth were clenched as he made a vow to return the girl to her human mate.

  A frown creased his leathery brow as he remembered his other vow—the one he'd made to make sure the lass was happy, well-fed and lacking for nothing. Those were things the lass had certainly been missing in her life. He growled. What type of man would allow his woman to be so thin, to the point of starvation?

  He wondered if maybe he should ignore his vow to return her.

  First and foremost, though, before anything else could be sorted out, was the fact that the girl needed a healer. He scowled as he looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings. He had no idea how to find such a healer, especially since the lass made it clear she did not want to visit a "doctor."

  Avisha groaned in frustration. He didn't even know the time period in which he had awakened and had no idea how to find someone to help…the woman. He was not going to think of her as his mate again.

  There was only one answer to the dilemma of how to help her. It wasn't the best solution. He wasn't looking forward to the pain that would most definitely come, and the thought that the girl might awaken and suffer too caused his heart to ache. It certainly was not his choice…but it was truly his only choice.

  He'd have to go back in time.

  Chapter 4

  T HE FIRE feels like it's going to consume me. It licks at my feet, my fingertips, my face. I can especially feel it along my back, where the skin seems to be searing and crisping. I'm a piece of meat left on a barbeque grill a little too long.

  Strangely, the fire isn't causing any pain. But there is pain. Lots of it. Like every centimeter of my body aches in agony. And I'm pretty sure I yell and maybe even scream a time or two. Or a dozen.

  I admit I'm kind of a baby when it comes to pain.

  Through the fiery haze, I know that the dragon is taking care of me. He's never far away and seems to sense my needs before I even come to think of them. My lips are a bit dry; he's rubbing soothing ointment on them. I'm a little thirsty; he's spooning sips of cool water into my mouth. My back aches; he's fluffing pillows.

  The dragon is better than any nurse.

  I like being hovered over by the mythical creature, mothered even. Surprisingly—or maybe it's not surprising, since this is my crazy fantasy—he can talk, and he whispers the sweetest things in my ear, things a lover might say to his beloved.

  Like I would know anything about that, but still…I've read my share of romance novels.

  Somewhere in the less confused area of my mind, I know I was shot. By the DEE-men, no less. I was in danger of being caught, I was running, then I woke up in some stranger's arms. A stranger, but a kindhearted man.

  But then he wasn't a man anymore. He'd turned into a dragon.

  I kind of remember yelling at my dragon—yeah, I'm claiming him as mine, since I dreamed him up—a couple of times too, trying to warn him to watch out for the DEE-men jerks. Except I'm pretty sure I called them something worse, especially when my dragon chuckled at my word choice.

  "I'm no' sure what a 'douchebag' is, lass," he'd said quietly in his grumbly Scottish accent that made my ears—and other parts I don't want to thing about—tingle, "but ye need no' fear anythin', no' while I be watchin' o'er ye."

  I could swear he'd licked my ear then with his soft dragon tongue. Or maybe it was a kiss. Can dragons kiss? I do know that I was finally able to relax then, knowing my dragon was on the job.

  I think I already mentioned that I love dragons. Like fangirl-love them. Since I was little, I've had a bit of an obsession with the mythical creatures. I went through dozens of drawing pads and boxes of crayons creating their likeness. My mom always oohed and ahhed over them, then would hang them on the fridge with little magnets, like they were great masterpieces.

  My parents used to buy me little dragon trinkets all the time. I probably had over a hundred: Pewter dragons with little glass "gemstones" for eyes; carefully carved wood figures with amazingly detailed scales; delicate blown glass creatures with swirls of color in their wings. I even had a dragon that had been carved out of the legbone of a wolf. I never had enough and every single one was my favorite.

  Sadly, I'd had to leave my extensive collection behind. I sometimes missed having them, little reminders of a time long gone, a time when chivalry was not dead and buried, and honor meant everything—a man's word was his bond. In my fantasies, it was a time when a princess anxiously paced in a high tower, awaiting that prince to climb the battlements, battle the dragon, and rescue her. Except in my girlish fantasies, it was always the dragon who rescued the princess.

  And now I have one of my very own…even if he is just a figment of an overactive, pain-hazy sickbed imagination.

  As I come out of the haze and move slowly into the realm of reality, whoever it is that I cast as the lead dragon in my fantasy seems to sense that I'm awake. I feel him move next to me, near my head. He runs a hand over my hair, whispering gravelly things as he wipes a cool, damp cloth over my face.

  "I think the fever has finally released its hold on ye, lass," he says in a quiet voice that deeply reverberates in my skull. My pounding, aching skull. Good Lord, it feels like a thousand woodpeckers are in there, trying to pound their way out.

  "Ohhhhhhh," I groan after trying to open my eyes. Uh uh. No way. The soft light in the room is too much for the screaming pain in my head. It might as well be Friday night stadium lights.

  At first, I don't understand why my head hurts. But then my thoughts clear a bit and I remember that I ran into a tree when I was running from the DEE-men, right after I'd stashed Carlie…

  Panic slams into me so hard that I gasp. Ignoring the horrendous pain in my head, I struggle to get up. That's when I notice I'm lying on my stomach, which is weird, because I never sleep on my gut. I'm always on my side, a knife in my hand and Carlie behind me.

  My baby girl needs me. Injured or not, I have to get to her. I push against the soft mattress, but I can't manage to move more than a few inches, I'm so weak. And to top it off, my back screams in agony at the effort, so I let myself fall back down and gasp.

  I know I'm in a strange place, but as I lie here with my face in the mattress, gasping, I notice the bedcovers smell familiar. I can't place the earthy, comforting smell though, not when I'm so worried about Carlie.

  I turn my head. "Where's my sister?" I try to cry out to whoever is in the room with me, but it comes out as a raspy whisper.

  I hope whoever it is in the room with me is a friend, not an enemy. But I dismiss the thought that the stranger means me harm. For one thing, I'm pretty sure they've taken care of me. And for another, I feel nothing but concern and caring filling the room.

  A part of me really wishes that it was an actual dragon who had swept me off to his castle and now hovers over me, ready and able to beat the crap out of anyone who might hurt me or my little sister. A badass dragon would certainly be capable of taking on the DEE-men.

  But I obviously know that my "dragon" has to be the product of an overactive and wishful thinking imagination, or maybe was the product of a fever. Especially since whoever it is hovering had said my fever had broken. At the moment, I just really want to know who's in the room with me…and how I can get back to my sister.

  I try to turn my head to look around, but I can't even lift it. I'm as weak as a newborn kitten.

  There's movement behind me. Normally, that would cause a panic, not knowing who—
or what—was at my back. But I don't feel worried or vulnerable at all. Instead, I feel safe, protected. It's the same way I had felt back in the woods when that naked man had held me.

  Couldn't even explain the feeling if my life depended on it. It has to be that empath stuff at work again.

  But I can't relax until I know where my baby sister is. Flashes of memory assault my brain then, and I remember trying to tell the naked man not to take me to the hospital, to a doctor, even though I knew I'd been shot.

  I can't risk them taking my DNA. It's a global law now, that every medical practitioner has to collect a patient's DNA and immediately put it into the database, and then Bam! Within a half hour, DEE-men are blasting through the door to nab me. And, of course, Carlie.

  Hell to the no.

  I relax a little when I remember that I'd also asked the man to find my baby sister. Or I'd tried to ask him, anyway. I was foggy on whether I'd managed to get the words out or not. What if I hadn't?

  The panic rises up yet again. I'm like this stress-relax-stress yo-yo. I can tell I'm going to really start to freak out. The idea of Carlie in the woods alone, scared…and how long have I been out?

  The man—at this point, I just going to have to assume it's the same weird naked dude who held me in the woods—apparently comes closer to the bed because I feel the soft mattress dip with his weight. I think that it's strange that he's staying behind me, out of my line of vision, but I don't think on it too hard.

  Maybe he's still naked.

  "Did ye ask aboot yer…sister?" the man asks me in that grumbly voice, the confusion in his voice obvious.

  Oh my gawd…I can't breathe. The guy doesn't know about Carlie. That means she's still out there, alone, afraid…

  I can't stop the tears then. I think I already mentioned that I hate crying and never do it. Well, hardly ever anyway. But the thought of that precious baby being lost in the woods, or still huddling in that little cave, hugging her fairy dolls for what little comfort they give her…

  "My little sister! I have to find her!" I manage to say in a voice that's at least a little louder than a whisper.

  "She's all alone out there. The DEE-men could find her—"

  The bed dips again as he moves closer. Still out of my line of vision though. "Demons? Yer bein' chased by demons, lass?" The man's voice rises an octave and yet is still deeper than any I've ever heard.

  I shake my head as best I can against the soft pillow. Seriously? He thinks I was being chased by demons? Get a grip, dude. Welcome to the twenty-first century.

  "No, not demons. They're just bad guys, okay? The ones who were chasing me, who shot me." I sob then and immediately feel a hand on my hair, soothing me. Trying to at least.

  "They want Carlie. If they find her, they'll…they'll hurt her. Bad."

  The thought of that—well, let's just say I start ugly crying, so hard my body actually starts shaking with the sobs. It's just seconds before strong hands gently gather me up and I'm turned into a warm chest—a hard chest, but super warm. I think it's kind of weird that he's wearing a leather shirt, but I don't think too much on it. At lease the guy found some clothes.

  I'm immediately enveloped into a cocoon of strong feelings, even stronger than they were before. The feeling of being comforted is…amazing. I can sense that this guy wants more than anything to protect me—and hey, after the life I've led, that is freaking awesome.

  But that isn't all. My tears apparently are causing him pain, so much so that I get the feeling he'd do anything to stop them. If I were that kind of girl, I'd make note of that fact for future exploitation. Lucky for him, that isn't in my makeup.

  There's even more, though…an emotion I can't quite wrap my head around. I struggle to place it, but it's unlike any I've ever felt. No wait, that isn't right…I have felt it before, but not this strong. It was something I had felt from my parents. It's…love?

  What the…?

  Okay, so that's weird. Seriously. Some random stranger couldn't just love me without knowing me, right? Without knowing all my quirks and the bad stuff. Like, that I drool when I sleep and I have a tendency to pop my knuckles when I'm upset. Or that I go ballistic if someone pulls my hair…like I will punch you in the throat repeatedly until all you make a noise like a squeaky dog toy.

  I chalk up the last emotion to an empath misread. I'm probably just tired—and I'm conveniently ignoring the fact that I have apparently just been sleeping, and probably for a long time judging by the stiffness of my joints. But I'm not ready to accept the fact that Mr. Random Stranger is somehow unexplainably "in love" with me.

  So, I don't try to process those feelings that seem to be coming from the man holding me. And by "coming from," I mean, like waves of feelings are washing over me. It wouldn't take an empath to feel them, they're so strong.

  The man shushes me, whispering words of comfort. I tell myself that I don't want to be comforted; I want my sister. So, I gather every last ounce of my tiny bit of strength and push hard against his chest and shove myself back so that I can look him in the eye. He needs to know how serious I am about my sister and her well-being.

  I don't scream.

  Later, I'll be proud of that fact. I mean, I did say that I have always loved dragons. But to find that I'm face to face with one and actually being held by him—and it isn't a leather shirt, by the way, it's his skin—and said creature is actually petting me…well, I can say with absolute freaking certainty that I'm shocked.

  No kidding, right?

  >†<

  Avisha cringed when the lass surprised him by shoving out of his hold. He'd never intended to let her see him as a gargoyle. At least, not until he could break it to her gently, preferably after she'd gotten to know him and to know that he would never, could never, hurt her.

  At the moment, he wished desperately that he could shift back into his human form, but it wasn't possible. Not yet, anyway. He'd hoped that he would have been able to explain things to her as a "normal" human, to ease her into understanding. To explain that he was not just a gargoyle, but also a fallen angel, an immortal…and her mate.

  The last thing he ever wanted was for her to be frightened of him. But she'd caught him unawares with her strength. When he'd watched her try to push herself up from the bed, he could tell she was weakened from her injuries and the fever. He figured it was probably the worry of her sister's fate that had caused the surge of strength.

  Understandably, the girl was staring up at him in shock. He knew his face probably mirrored the shock on her own...as expressive as a gargoyle face could be, that is. But he was in shock because she didn't scream. She didn't even peep. The lass just sat there with wide eyes, her wee hands splayed on his chest, staring at him.

  His heightened senses in his gargoyle form could hear the frantic staccato of her heart, so he knew she was frightened. Another tell was her pupils were dilated, but that could have been a side effect of her injuries. She opened her mouth then and he cringed, preparing himself for the scream to come.

  "You're real?" she whispered.

  Avisha tried not to let his mouth flop open, but it did. When he snapped it shut again, it popped right back open again. He knew he looked like a bass on the banks of a pond, gasping for breath. But he couldn't help it; the girl was surprising him as much as he apparently surprised her.

  She didn't scream…

  He felt a corner of his mouth lift in a smile. Another surprise. He was fair certain he'd never smiled in his present form and he wasn't even sure his facial muscles would cooperate in the endeavor. But this girl made him want to shout for joy.

  What was making his heart sing, though, was the realization that his mate apparently hadn't bonded to another, since it was her baby sister she'd been looking for. Though he wondered why the wee lass, Carlie, had never corrected him in that mistake. It did explain why she never called the woman "mum."

  A chuckle escaped him as he answered her whispered question. "Aye lass, I am real," he told her as he
slowly ran a paw over her head again, watching as the tangled strands caught at his claws.

  He couldn't seem to get enough of touching her dark locks. While she'd lain in his bed, racked with fever, he'd spent hours just smoothing her hair, trying to offer comfort where he might. She'd been in sore need of comfort, after the ordeal she'd gone through, even though she'd been thankfully unaware of that ordeal.

  The fortress's healer had been able to remove the bullet from her back. The thing had impacted itself into a rib and Maeve had spent a long time trying to grasp it with her pincers. Avisha was thankful the lass had been unconscious, even though she moaned in pain throughout the entire process. It had taken all of his control not to launch Maeve through the tower room's window. He didn't want anyone hurting the girl, not even when it was for her own good.

  "I…uh…who…umm…" It was the girl's turn to look like a fish out of its element as she tried to form coherent thoughts through her shock. He took pity on her.

  "My name is Avisha," he said by way of introduction. He hoped she'd give her name in turn. When he'd searched the pack she'd carried, he found she had all manner of strange cards and folded parchment, none of which he could read. The writing was mostly indecipherable to him, not in any English or Gaelic letters—or any other language for that matter—that he'd ever seen. But most of the cards had amazingly lifelike and detailed paintings of the lass, so he had to assume it was some sort of unknown, strange identification.

  When he'd brought Carlie to the room to comfort the wee lass so that she would know the woman that he'd assumed was her mother was there, in the fortress, he'd asked the babe for the woman's name. She'd shrugged.

  "I dunno who she is today," was the strange answer he'd received. When he'd prompted the wee one for more information, she'd gotten very quiet and said that she "wasn't s'posed to tell no one nothin'."