The Complete Fenris Series

by Samantha MacLeod

  I rocked back against the wall and closed my eyes. I wanted to think of Fenris now, as sleep claimed me again. I wanted to think of Fenris and Týr, and the loving intimacy between them I’d witnessed when the moon was full. Fenris’s auburn hair and pale eyes flickered through my mind, wavering as if he were underwater.

  But the face that filled my mind just before sleep dragged me away was not Fenris. Instead, the dark, sad expression Týr wore when he saw Fenris transform into a wolf flared in my consciousness like a flash of lightning. In the heat and intensity of what came next, I’d completely forgotten the look on Týr’s face, or the deep, cold unease that filled my heart when I witnessed it. But now that fear returned, overshadowing my memories of our night with Týr and freezing the blissful afterglow of my orgasm.

  That fear followed me into sleep, chasing me through an increasingly disturbing series of uneasy dreams.

  THE SOFT RUSTLE AND hiss of another subdued conversation woke me. I turned toward the door, expecting to see the guards in another embrace. Instead, the door cracked open, allowing a silver of torch light to flicker across the thick carpets of Nøkkyn’s bedchamber. I rubbed my sleep-clouded eyes. The moonlight had shifted, casting long shadows across the room. I saw the familiar silhouette of the tall guard vanish through the open doorway, and another man stepped in to take his place. My sore muscles protested as I tried to shift on the stones. I ached to stand and stretch, but the chain pulled taut if I so much as crouched on my knees, so I had to make do with stretching my legs.

  A moment later another man entered the bedchamber, and the shorter guard left. I almost sighed to see them go. We hadn’t spoken, but still, the bedchamber felt colder and more hostile without them.

  My lips were swollen and sore against the sodden gag in my mouth, and my cheeks ached where the fabric had rubbed them raw. The two new guards still stood facing the open door, murmuring something to the men leaving. I slid further into the shadows and brought my hands to my face, working my fingers under the gag. The fabric was tightly knotted around the back of my head, but it was old, and I was able to slip a finger under it. Then another. Slowly, with my eyes fixed on the new guards, I slid the gag away from my lips and to my chin. I sucked fresh air over my teeth, almost sighing in relief.

  Then I brought my fingers to the collar around my neck. The metal was cold and smooth under my touch. There were two hinges; one clasped in the front, and one pressed against the gentle bumps of my spine. A leather strap held the collar closed in the back. My pulse quickened. I could undo it, I was certain. I doubted it would even prove much of a challenge.

  My eyes darted back to the guards. They eased the door shut and stood apart, their bodies tall and indistinct in the darkness of the bedchamber. I couldn’t see swords at their waist, but I had no doubt they were armed. Both of them.

  I could remove my collar, but what then? Run at the guards? Leap from this window into the stones of the courtyard far below? Try to strangle King Nøkkyn in his sleep?

  My lips twitched into a sad, cold smile. I could do nothing, of course. Even if I managed to loosen the collar, I’d still be a prisoner in this room, as surely as I’d been a prisoner in the sea cell.

  But I smiled. I’d felt the clasp at the back of my collar. I knew I could undo it. Silently, I shifted my aching legs and tried to sink back into my restless dreams.

  NØKKYN AWOKE QUICKLY. He began barking commands before I was fully aware of what was happening. The tall windows behind me were filled with pale, gray light. Nøkkyn had awoken before the sun rose. He ripped back the thick curtains of his bed, and panic blossomed in my chest. I scrambled to pull the gag back over my lips. But my haste was wasted. Nøkkyn didn’t spare me a look. He pulled his dressing gown over his naked shoulders and vanished from the room. One of the guards followed him. The second guard stood in the doorway, leaning against the wall and ignoring me.

  My bladder ached, and my stomach churned with an uncomfortable mixture of hunger and nausea. I remembered the wooden platter Bruna brought me yesterday, the half-cooked potatoes and burned ribs. At the time I’d felt so grateful I wanted to cry, and so satisfied it was hard to believe I’d ever feel hungry again. Now I just felt empty, hollow.

  The beautiful women from last night danced through my memories. They were getting breakfast, I’d bet. They would wake to the same pale, uncertain light, only they had the promise of food to fill their bellies. My head rocked back against the collar, and I sighed in frustration. Without a word, the sole remaining guard opened the door and moved to stand in the hallway beyond.

  The sun rose slowly, bathing Nøkkyn’s luxurious quarters in golden light. I was the only one to witness it, and I squirmed and shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Beyond the doorway, someone laughed cheerfully. I slid the gag back down to my chin, fairly certain he would not return to check on me when he seemed to be deeply engaged in gossip just outside the door. The pressure in my bladder increased, and I began to wonder what would happen if I called out to him. But, of course, I was supposed to be gagged. I bit my lip and contemplated the absorbency of the nearest rug.

  “Ach, Yves, you let us through now!”

  That was a woman’s voice. I straightened up, pulling the chain taut as I leaned toward the door. The thick scent of something rich, like a meat stew, drifted through the open door. I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth.

  A woman appeared in the doorway. She was tall and broad, with graying hair and a formidable bosom. An enormous ring of keys hung from her neck like jagged icicles. I froze, realizing too late that I’d forgotten to replace my gag. The guard appeared next to her, flanked by two younger women in pale blue dresses. One of them carried a steaming soup bowl in her hands, and the second held a chamber pot. For a moment I could scarcely say which item I was happier to see. The older woman clucked as she approached me, and I attempted to pull the shreds of Týr’s shirt over my breasts.

  “Dear me, what a mess you are!” she said. “Fiora, Gladis, we’ll be needing some washing up. And do bring a dress. One from the rag pile will be just fine.”

  “Yes, Brunild,” the women said in unison.

  Both girls looked relieved to set down their items and scurry from the bedchamber.

  “Now,” the old woman said, raising an eyebrow at me, “which first?”

  “Chamber pot,” I whispered.

  Her eyes sparkled. She picked up the squat, round pot, then turned back to the door. “Yves! Give the girl some privacy, why don’t you?”

  The guard nodded and left the room. A moment later I heard his voice in the hallway, presumably picking up whatever conversation he’d just left.

  Brunild cackled. “Those guards! They’re worse gossips than the kitchen staff, I tell you.”

  I gave her a thin smile as I settled myself on the chamber pot, unleashing a torrent of urine. A moment later Brunild pushed open the window and tipped the pot’s contents into the cool morning air.

  “That’s taken care of,” she said, wiping her hands on her dress. “I’m Brunild. Been here a dog’s age and then some, my dear. Now, let’s have a look at you.”

  She stepped closer and raised both bushy eyebrows as she examined my face. Her eyes darted back to the open door, then returned to my face. She raised a knobby finger to her lips and reaching into the folds of her skirt. A moment later she pressed something hard and round into my hands.

  “And now you’ll have your stew,” she said, stepping back.

  I looked down. She’d handed me a small, dark loaf of bread.

  A pale heart had been cut into the thick crust.

  THE MONSTER AND THE PRISONER: CHAPTER SEVEN

  My pulse surged, and my entire body felt numb. I opened my mouth, making a small, gasping noise. Brunild met my eyes and shook her head, firmly, left and right and back again. Still chattering about the stew, she looked again at the door, then back at me.

  I shut my mouth. My heart thrummed so loudly I could hear the beat of my pulse
inside my eardrums, as relentless as the waves pounding the rocks outside the sea cell.

  A heart. In a loaf of bread.

  There was only one person who would have dared to carve a heart into a loaf of bread destined for King Nøkkyn’s prisoner.

  Did you get my message? Fenris had asked me, an entire lifetime ago.

  “Yes,” I whispered to myself. Yes. I had gotten his message.

  Brunhild settled her formidably muscular body in front of me, making it so I couldn’t see the door. And, I slowly realized, no one standing in that doorway would be able to see me. She held the steaming bowl of stew out to me with her eyebrows raised.

  “You be sure to eat it all, you hear?” she said, glancing at the bread in my hands, then back to the door.

  “I understand,” I whispered.

  My fingers tightened around the small loaf of bread. I didn’t want to eat it. This bread was a message, proof that Fenris was here, somewhere in the vast, dark bowels of Nøkkyn’s castle. Eating it felt wrong, somehow. I wanted to keep it, to hold it close to my chest, to remind myself that the message was real.

  But how would I explain the heart to Nøkkyn?

  I brought the bread to my lips. The crust had gone stale, but the inside of the loaf was rich and full of flavor. Tears stung my eyes as I chewed. The last time I’d eaten bread like this was in the cave I shared with my husband, when our greatest concern was how to introduce him to my family. When I’d thought my family still lived.

  I swallowed, choking back a sob. Brunhild was still watching me intently. For a moment I had the urge to explain myself to her, to tell her why a loaf of bread had brought me to tears, but I realized I’d never be able to find the words. My family was dead, and their unmarked graves would soon be reclaimed by the Ironwood. The bread turned tasteless in my mouth.

  “That’s a good girl,” Brunhild said, as I swallowed the last crust.

  She pressed the bowl into my hands, and I brought it to my lips. It had gone cool in the interim, and a gray scum of grease slicked the surface. The stew itself was thin, like soup at home when Ma added too much water to make it stretch enough to feed us all. Still, my stomach growled for the few slices of mushy carrot floating in the weak broth. I ran my fingers around the bowl, then licked them clean. I met Brunhild’s brown eyes as I handed her the empty bowl.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  She nodded. I felt she was about the speak, but the guard’s voice boomed from the doorway, and I jumped back as if we’d just been discovered plotting something terrible.

  “Your girls are back,” he yelled.

  The two women in blue dresses - Fiora and Gladis, she’d called them - stood in the doorway, looking small and frightened. They held a bundle of faded rags, a brush, and a large bowl. Brunhild came to her feet.

  “Thank you, thank you, ladies!” she beamed, taking the rags and bowl from them. “Now wait just outside for me, if you will. I’m sure Yves would be interested to hear where you found the Duchess of Arinth’s underclothes.”

  The girls both blushed. Once again, they looked relieved to be leaving the bedchamber. Am I so terrifying, I wondered, as I watched them hustle to the doorway? Or was it King Nøkkyn they feared?

  Yves’s laugh sounded again, this time mixed with the softer, lighter sound of the girls’ voices. Brunhild watched the doorway for a moment, then sank to her knees in front of me, silent and focused. She pulled Týr’s shirt off my chest and down my arms, then balled it up and dropped it at my feet. Tears pooled behind my eyelids. My wedding dress, Fenris had called it. One last connection to the life I’d shared with him in the cave, the life which already felt like it had been a dream, quickly receding before the unforgiving rush of daylight.

  Brunhild pulled the large bowl close. A pink sponge floated on a bed of fragrant soap suds inside. She picked up the sponge and reached for my face. Without thinking, I flinched from her touch. The collar snapped taut.

  She clucked again, low and soft in the back of her throat. “Poor thing. You’ve been through a time, haven’t you?”

  My vision blurred as the tears escaped my eyes. I held still while Brunhild sponged warm water onto my face, dabbing gently over the bruises where the tall guard had beaten me last night. She clucked and chattered, sharing a constant stream of pleasant stories about people I didn’t know as she cleaned my face, neck, and arms.

  Finally, Brunhild dropped the sponge in the water, which was now a muddy brown, and rocked back on her heels. “Now. Let’s see what they brought you to wear.”

  She pulled a tattered gray dress from the rag pile. The front skirt was badly ripped, and both sleeves were riddled with holes. After shaking it out, she held it up as though I were an elegant lady, and she was the clerk in a fancy tailor’s shop.

  “Ah, yes,” she said. “This will do nicely, I believe.”

  I wiped my nose and tried to smile with her.

  The gray dress tied in the back, so Brunhild was able to slip it over my arms without disturbing the collar and chain around my neck. It was tight, but not uncomfortable. The thin fabric added little warmth, but it was nice not to need to pull my arms around my chest and hide my naked body from anyone who may walk into Nøkkyn’s bedchamber. Brunhild cinched the laces, then stepped back, looking me over with a tilted head. I couldn’t stand, but I tried to raise myself on my knees and smooth the dress out over my chest and stomach. The cold metal collar bit into my skin.

  “Better,” Brunhild declared. “And now for your hair.”

  She sat next to me with the brush and pulled the knotted mess of my hair into her calloused hands. My freshly-washed body felt numb and clumsy. No one had brushed my hair since the day Nøkkyn came for me. And, on that day, we’d been in such a rush that my mother hadn’t had time for my hair.

  I bit the inside of my lip, remembering the thin, pale line of Ma’s lips as she’d pulled her precious green dress over my shoulders. That morning she’d asked me if I would be all right in Nøkkyn’s castle. I’d hated her for that question. I’d hated her for the way she pulled the green dress over my shoulders and untied my braid, the way she surrendered her only daughter to be raped by a monster.

  It was the last time I’d seen my mother, and I’d spent the whole morning hating her.

  I didn’t notice my shoulders were shaking until Brunhild took them in her warm hands and pulled me toward her enormous bosom. She smelled good, warm and rich, like a kitchen with bread in the oven and soup on the fire.

  “Hush, now,” she cooed. “Hush.”

  Gasping, I tried to pull myself from the black pit of grief. Brunhild leaned close to my ear.

  “He says he’s from the Ironwood,” she whispered.

  My back stiffened.

  “There, now,” she said, pushing me back on my heels. “Be a good girl and let me finish your hair.”

  I wiped my eyes and stared at her. She hummed and clucked as the brush in her hands expertly subdued my wild curls.

  “He’s a fool,” she whispered. Her voice was so low I could hardly hear it over the murmur of conversation from the hallway. “He’s a rich, handsome fool who’s looking to get himself killed.”

  Oh, stars! Fenris, my handsome, wonderful Fenris, with his bag of coins from Týr. I brought my hands to my mouth to keep from saying something unwise.

  “I told him I can’t help,” Brunhild continued, in that same low, fast whisper, the one that sounded almost as brisk and professional as the swish of the wooden brush through my hair. “All I can do is pass a message, and he paid me well enough for that.”

  Brunhild bunched my hair together, then separated it into three thick ropes. She stared at me as her fingers plaited the strands together into a gleaming braid. It seemed to take her a long time; her hands moved at a glacial pace. Comprehension slowly dawned on me.

  She was waiting. She’s waiting for a message to take back to that rich, handsome fool, the one who claimed to be from the Ironwood.

  But what in the N
ine Realms could I possibly tell him? Nøkkyn’s palace was crawling with guards. The hallways and most of the rooms were too small to accommodate his wolf’s body. Even if he managed to slip past the guards, how could he enter this bedchamber undetected? And how could the two of us escape? I had a vision of Fenris transforming, leaping from the window as a wolf with me on his back.

  But no, his wolf’s form would never fit through the windows or doors of this room. Even if he were strong enough to tear the wall down, there would be an army waiting for us outside, with swords and spears and arrows thick enough to pierce his skin.

  If we were already outside, in the courtyard perhaps, and all he had to do was run through the gate? The two of us might stand a chance if we didn’t have to escape from inside the castle as well.

  “Wait,” I whispered. “Tell him to wait.”

  Brunhild’s brown eyes widened slightly, then dropped back to the braid in her hands. “Good,” she murmured. “You may be smarter than you look, girl.”

  Message conveyed, she finished the braid in a heartbeat. Then she stood and wiped her hands on her dress as she examined me with her dark eyes.

  “Good,” she said, louder this time. “Fiora! Gladis—”

  Her voice died in her throat as the sound of heavy boots filled the hallway outside the door. She leapt away from me as though I might bite, and sank to her knees in the middle of the bedchamber, her face fixed on the silk rugs.

  A moment later Nøkkyn’s towering frame filled the doorway.

  “What in the Nine Realms are you doing?” he thundered.

  THE MONSTER AND THE PRISONER: CHAPTER EIGHT

  Brunhild remained motionless, frozen in her bow on Nøkkyn’s thick rugs. He glanced at me for a heartbeat before stalking toward her, pulling off his black gloves, and dropping them on the floor. His eyes shone, and his upper lip curled back from his teeth.

  “Stand,” he barked.

  Brunhild rose, although her eyes remained downcast. Her face had gone very pale.