by Chelsea Fine
“Yes, I am.”
He was insane.
“No,” Scarlet repeated. “You’re not. You could die, Tristan. We can’t touch and we certainly can’t…sleep together.” She felt her face flush.
A look of amusement crossed his face. “I meant sleep, Scar.”
“Oh. Well.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to wake up next to a corpse, so, like…scram.”
“No.”
She moved to push him out the door—on the off chance that she’d suddenly obtained superhuman strength and would be able to move his big body—but he reflexively drew back from her hands, keeping himself from her reach.
He froze for a moment and stared at her hands in a weird way.
“What?” She suddenly felt nervous and dropped her arms.
His lips parted in awe as he tilted his head to the side and looked her over.
Happiness. Relief. Wonder… His emotions were all warm and fuzzy.
“Tristan, why are you—”
“I don’t have to keep away from you anymore,” he said in realization. “My touch no longer hurts you.”
His eyes traced back down her neck and he reached his hand out.
Oh crap.
Scarlet opened her mouth to protest, but his soft fingertips stroked along her jaw and she forgot what speaking was. Liquid warmth slid into her skin beneath his hand, swirling into her stomach and drying out her throat, and Scarlet had never felt anything so amazing.
His fingers trailed down her neck and softly stroked up and down her throat, his eyes watching the movement in complete fascination. She absently lifted her chin, giving his fingers more room to roam as her eyes fluttered with the curse-granted pleasure his touch brought.
“This,” he moved his hand to her mouth and ran his thumb across her lower lip, “doesn’t hurt you.” He spoke softly and every fiber in Scarlet’s body tightened with desire. “My touch isn’t dangerous anymore.”
Oh, his touch was dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
He could die.
Scarlet’s eyes fell shut as his hand trailed down to the collar of the shirt that smelled like him and drew a hot line along the exposed bit of her collarbone.
“You have no idea how wonderful it is to be able to touch you without hurting you.” The pads of his fingers moved back up her throat.
She was starting to sink into a deep and dreamy pleasure…
He could die.
With a strangled inhale, Scarlet opened her eyes. “Stop,” she commanded. “You could die.”
His fingers halted their traveling and he slowly drew his hand away. Scarlet willed her body to calm down as Tristan continued to stare at her in wonderment.
“So, yeah.” She swallowed. “Why don’t you back up like two hundred feet and go sleep in your own bed, and I’ll stay here.” And try to get my heart under control.
He took one step back—not two hundred—and frowned at her, all wonderment gone from his face as he shook his head. “The pain is worse at night, Scar. If I stay with you, you won’t hurt so much and you’ll be able to sleep.”
“If you stay with me, you’ll get sick.” She shooed him away with her hand, growing irritated. “Quit trying to die. I can handle pain.”
“I know you can, but I don’t want you to.”
She sighed. “Your bedroom is right next door. I’ll be fine. Go.”
He didn’t move.
“Tristan. Come on.”
He hesitated, looking her over. Fear, concern, love, frustration.
“Fine,” he finally said and turned to leave the room. At the doorway, he stopped. “But I swear to God, Scar. If I hear you in here crying or something, I will break down your door and tie you to my body.”
Her cheeks flushed again.
“Thanks for the warning.” She smiled tightly. “Now, get out.”
Scarlet locked the door behind him before crawling into the big, white guest bed, images of being tied to Tristan’s body floating through her head.
Damn him.
She wrapped herself under the plush comforter, but knew it was useless. She wouldn’t be sleeping.
Too much had happened. Too much was yet to come.
With a heavy sigh, she stared at the ceiling and tried to figure out what she was going to do about the fountain. She stared and thought and stared and thought. She shifted uncomfortably as pain slid up and down her body like a slab of cheese on a grater, growing more intense by the minute.
She stared and thought and ignored the cheese grater for an hour before she couldn’t help but bunch her body into a ball against the pain and bite back a curse. The white bed creaked as she tried to get more comfortable.
It felt like her muscles were twisting together and pulling apart at the same time. Her head hurt. And her lungs were tight—like air was impossible without Tristan. But he was only one room away.
Certainly he hadn’t been in this much pain when she’d been so close in the past. Right? Why was her connection to him so much more intense than his connection had ever been to her?
She tossed and turned, the bed creaking with each of her movements, until she heard Tristan’s bedroom door open. She froze, afraid he’d break down her door and try to snuggle or something. Which would be…well, it would be awesome. But it would also be stupid. He’d better not try to be stupid.
Scarlet listened for a few more minutes, but when there was nothing but silence in the basement and she was sure Tristan had gone back to bed, she let out a long exhale and went back to staring at the ceiling again.
Her pain subsided a bit. Not much, but enough for Scarlet to stop thinking about cheese graters.
She inhaled deeply, smelling Tristan on her shirt and fighting back the sharp pain of sorrow that bit into her heart as she thought about the Fountain of Youth.
The minutes dragged on and—against every desire she had to stay awake and worry about Heather and Gabriel and the curse and the fountain—Scarlet fell into a fitful sleep.
Tristan would never forgive her for what she was going to do.
CHAPTER 4
England 1539
It had been five days since Raven had killed Scarlet and Tristan was drunk.
Again.
It was late in the evening and Gabriel sat in the throne room, watching his twin brother stumble through the doors with a jug of wine.
Tristan pointed a wobbly finger at Gabriel. “You may be in need of a new court healer. Your current one just ran away.”
Gabriel hung his head. “What did you do to him, Tristan?”
He chugged at the wine. “I merely asked him what form of magic could make a body disappear.” He took another swig. “I may have also threatened his well-being if he refused to tell me all he knew.”
Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “You cannot continue threatening the servants. They do not have the answers you seek.”
“But they do!” Tristan swung his arms out and wine sloshed from the jug onto the floor. “They must! Bodies do not disappear, Gabriel! They wither and dry up, but they do not vanish!”
Two mysterious things had occurred after Raven had shot Scarlet.
The arrow she’d shot had first gone through Tristan’s body—which he’d thrown in front of the arrow to protect Scarlet—yet he was fine, save for the abnormally green hue his eyes had taken on since that day.
And Scarlet’s body—which had been pierced through her heart despite Tristan’s best efforts—had fallen dead. Yet shortly after, her body completely disappeared.
Gabriel could not explain either phenomenon. A body that heals itself was almost as mysterious as a body that vanishes. But Tristan seemed to care little about his ability to self-heal
“Bodies do not vanish!” Tristan repeated, and the ring of desperation in his voice had Gabriel drawing in a long, patient breath. Tristan had loved Scarlet and, when he was sent away from her, asked Gabriel to marry and care for her on his behalf.
Only to have Scarlet die on their
wedding day.
“You should go to bed, brother,” Gabriel said. “You are too drunk for conversation.”
“On the contrary, brother. I am not drunk enough.” He turned his attention to the wall and muttered, “I am never drunk enough.”
Gabriel watched as Tristan walked the length of the side wall, his footfalls echoing around the room as he stared intently at the royal weapons hung in pride alongside tapestries and flags.
“I know you’re in pain, Tristan. And I know you loved Scarlet. I loved her too—”
Tristan’s eyes shot across the room and ran through Gabriel like a blade. “You do not know love as I know love.”
Gabriel sighed and leaned back in the throne. “Are we going to be dramatic now? Maybe I shall call for some wine of my own and we can both wallow and aimlessly fight through our miserable drunkenness.”
Tristan turned a hazy smile to him. “Ah, yes. You are the earl now. I forget this sometimes. Earl Archer.” Though he tried to pronounce the title carefully, it slurred on his lips.
Tristan’s eyes went back to the wall and he reached above his head to lift a sword from its hook. He took another pull of wine before tossing the jug to the floor, a trickle of red liquid dripping from its spout.
“I enjoy weapons.” Tristan turned the sword over in his loose hands. “They make me feel powerful. Capable.”
Curse the stars, was he rambling now?
“Yes, well, that particular weapon is an heirloom, so if you would be so kind as to replace it—“
“Did you touch her?” Tristan’s lax body language stiffened, but his eyes stayed on the blade.
“What?” Gabriel tried to sound exasperated, but his stomach tightened ever so slightly. This was not a conversation he wanted to have with a drunk Tristan—especially when that drunk Tristan was holding a sharp object.
“Scarlet.” He ran a lazy finger down the edge of the sword. “Did you touch her?”
Gabriel paused for a long moment. “Does it matter?”
Tristan inhaled long and slow through his nostrils as he looked up at the ceiling. “I haven’t decided.”
Rubbing the side of his face, Gabriel said, “You are drunk. Now is not the time…”
“Did she touch you?”
Oh, for the love.
“Tristan, we were engaged. And might I remind you, it was your idea for me to marry her.”
“Yes.” Tristan shifted the sword to his other hand. “I believe I asked you to care for her. To protect her.”
Gabriel moved uncomfortably in his seat.
“Yet somehow,” Tristan continued, looking at the hilt of the blade as he squeezed the handle, “Scarlet ended up dead.”
Tension filled the room.
Tristan’s voice was deceptively soft as he looked at Gabriel. “You let your whore kill the woman I loved.”
“I did not let Raven do anything. Scarlet was my wife—”
Just like that, Tristan was upon him, the sword pointed right at Gabriel’s throat and held by the very steady hand of a very broken man.
Tristan’s voice was low and hard, his slur completely gone. “She was not your wife.” His eyes darkened. “She was not yours at all.”
Gabriel did not breathe for fear the movement would bring his throat against the blade. He knew Tristan would never harm him, but he also knew what it felt like to lose a loved one.
Just months ago, when word had come that Tristan had died in battle, Gabriel had been turned inside out and made hollow and fierce with the notion that he would never again see his brother. To lose his best friend—to lose a piece of his blood and soul—had been unfathomable. Tristan’s “death” had nearly destroyed Gabriel.
And it seemed Scarlet’s death was wreaking the same havoc upon Tristan; breaking him down, emptying all he was, driving him to desperation.
It was not Tristan who stood with a blade to Gabriel’s throat, but rather his broken heart. Gabriel understood this, even if Tristan did not.
Calmly, slowly, Gabriel answered, “I did not touch her.”
It was the truth and, although he knew it would not ease the ache in his brother’s chest, Gabriel knew it would at least remove the sword from his neck.
Tristan paused. Then whipped away from Gabriel, dropping the sword to the ground as he started for the throne room doors.
Gabriel ran a hand across his face. Whatever would he do with his wrecked, unstable brother with new, green eyes and a body that could magically heal itself—
“Wait.” Gabriel called after Tristan, a memory hitting him. “Do you remember when we were young and we saw that boy by the caves nearly cut his hand off?” Gabriel leaned forward in his seat. “It was a bloody, mangled mess and we watched him hold his hand in place while it healed. Do you remember?”
Tristan turned around and squinted. “Vaguely.”
“What if your body’s ability to heal itself is somehow linked to whatever that boy was able to do?”
“I do not care about my body, healing or otherwise.”
“Perhaps not now, but someday you may.” Feeling reenergized, Gabriel stood from the throne and made his way to the doors. “Sober up, brother. Tomorrow, we are going for a ride.”
***************
Damn the happy sun.
Tristan’s head ached for wine as he rode alongside Gabriel to wherever the hell they were headed as the rising sun bit into his eyes.
A new day. A new nothing.
“Is it not nice to leave the castle?” Gabriel took a deep breath. “You lived as a dead soul this week, brother. Wallowing in darkness, consumed with sadness. I think this outing will be good for you.”
“I was not dead,” Tristan said, though he wished he were.
As a memory of Scarlet snaked inside his chest, he clamped down on the tight emotion it brought. He would not think of her.
Alive or dead. In his arms or gone forever.
He would not think of her at all.
Gabriel scoffed. “No, you were just in a drunken haze that lasted five days and cost me eight servants and two court healers. Who knew you were such an awful drunk?”
Tristan glowered at his twin. Awful or not, being drunk kept the memories away and, therefore, kept him sane.
“Here we are,” Gabriel said as they came upon a large house. He quickly dismounted his horse.
Tristan followed suit, but not as quickly, his sluggish body unaccustomed to being upright with the sun. “Where are we?”
“The Fletcher home.”
“The house of witches?” Adrenaline shot through Tristan’s body. “Is this not where Raven lives?”
“It was. But she is no longer here.” Darkness clouded Gabriel’s eyes. “If she were, she would already be in shackles.”
“If that horrendous woman is not here, then why are we?”
“Because her cousin, Nathaniel, is the boy from the caves. And he may have answers for us.” Gabriel strode to the front door and knocked.
Tristan followed after him and watched as a small, square panel in the center of the door slid to the side, revealing a pair of nervous eyes.
“Earl Archer,” said the eyes, blinking rapidly.
“Are you Nathaniel Fletcher?”
“I am.” The eyes widened. “But I do not know where my cousin is. Please do not kill me.”
“I am not here for Raven,” Gabriel said.
Nathaniel’s eyes shifted to the side. “Are you here about the pheasants? Because that was an accident.”
“What pheasants?”
“Nothing.” Nathanial seemed relieved. “One moment.”
The small panel slid back into place and the door opened to reveal an odd-looking fellow with bushy brown hair that stuck out on one side and a pair of eyeglasses caught in the mess. Despite the warm weather outside—and the fact that he was, indeed, inside—Nathaniel Fletcher wore a thick, black cloak that hung too long for him and dragged across the dirty floorboards.
“Welcome to my home, Earl Arc
her.” Nathaniel nodded at Gabriel as they entered and shut the door behind them. He then eyed Tristan and took a step back, stumbling over his cloak. “You must be the earl’s twin brother. But your eyes…how are they so green?”
“They were brown until your heathen of a cousin shot me through the heart,” Tristan said crossly.
“Ah.” Nathaniel nodded. “She used magic on you.”
“No. She used an arrow.”
“Then it must have been laced with magic.” Nathaniel examined Tristan’s eyes more closely. “Only powerful magic can alter physical appearances such as that. Perhaps a spell or a curse—oh! You were shot through the heart! And you are not dead?”
“Unfortunately, no.” The snaking started around Tristan’s heart again.
Bloody hell, he wanted wine.
“That is why we are here,” Gabriel said. “My brother’s body is able to heal itself and I’ve seen yours do the same.”
”But I—but that—”
“I am not here to threaten you,” Gabriel continued, “but I need to know what witchcraft allows you to heal. I believe the same magic has been used against my brother and may be responsible for the disappearance of my bride’s body.”
Nathaniel sucked in a breath. “Then it is true! She did disappear? I had heard the rumor, but was not certain.”
“The arrow went through Tristan’s heart first, then struck my bride before her body vanished. Do you know of this magic?”
Nathaniel scratched the back of his head. “I know of magic, but this….” He retrieved his spectacles from the nest of his hair and put them on before tripping his way over to the tower of books. “Was she human?”
Gabriel blinked. “Pardon me?”
“Was your woman human?”
“She wasn’t his woman,” Tristan said.
Gabriel slanted his eyes at Tristan before answering Nathaniel. “Of course she was human. What else would she be?”
Nathaniel shrugged as he pulled a thick book from the stack in the corner and shuffled to a nearby table. “A demon. A shape-shifter. A nymph. A mermaid.” He turned through several crinkly pages. “A vampire. A ghost. A siren. A sea creature—”
“A sea creature?” Gabriel looked incredulous. “You want to know if my bride was a sea creature?”