Spellbinder
Page 29
For the first time since the ghoul had stabbed him, he could rest for an entire day. Tonight, he would slip back to the night market to get more food, and he would go to Sidonie again. He could heal and feed her, and he could even offer any comfort she might be willing to accept, but there weren’t any long-term solutions for her in that either.
But if he could win enough freedom for himself from the geas, perhaps he could find a way around Isabeau’s orders enough to free Sidonie too.
Sometime over the past few days, his point of focus had shifted, and it was time to acknowledge that. Instead of fighting against the urge to help her, now he wanted to. He even needed to.
When he had discovered her in the prison cell, her utter devastation had shot past all his barriers. The spirit that carried such joyous, bright creative energy had been crushed. After he had spelled her unconscious, he had sat with her broken hands in his lap and absorbed the enormity of what had happened, the wisdom in Isabeau’s cruelty, the profound depth of Sidonie’s pain.
He would not abandon his quest. He couldn’t. But now, taking his revenge against Isabeau and Modred was no longer enough. Destroying them for the sake of all the people Isabeau and Modred had killed so long ago was no longer enough.
Now he had to fight for Sidonie’s sake.
The drugs kicked in, and he closed his eyes. As the narcotics opened doorways in his mind that were better left closed, he spent the heat of the day restlessly twisting in slumber as he dreamed of people and events long past.
Kill them.
Kill them before they destroy your king and everything you love.
Kill them before they destroy Sidonie for good.
The refreshing cool of the evening air woke him. Rising stiffly off the dusty bed, he fueled his body with food, water, and more pills. This time he only took the antibiotics. At this point, coping with the discomfort was better than enduring the narcotic-laced dreams.
Drawing more water from the well outside, he washed, dressed, doused himself with the hunter’s spray to disguise his scent, and headed down to the city below to steal clean clothes for himself and enough food for both him and Sidonie.
He didn’t like taking from the hardworking merchants, and he had plenty of money, but he was also too well-known. He didn’t know what orders might have been sent down to the city, and he couldn’t risk running into any castle guards or possibly running into Hounds.
So theft it was.
As always, the night market was crowded. Torches and lanterns provided plenty of golden light that threw deep shadows and was a pickpocket’s delight. The aroma of food, spices, and fragrant oils mingled with the scents of overwarm Light Fae bodies, along with the occasional human, ogre, Hound, and sprite.
After having lived so long as a lycanthrope, he had gotten used to the assault such places were to his sensitive nose and had learned how to identify and filter through the mélange of hundreds of scents without giving it much conscious thought.
But then he caught a hint of something that made him pause.
That scent.
That shouldn’t be here. Not down in the night market.
Just as it had in London, he could feel the magic that bound him shifting uneasily again as the various orders Isabeau had given him clashed. Familiar with the strain, he stiffened and waited to see which one would gain supremacy.
When the geas settled again, he relaxed as his imperative remained clear. Isabeau’s last order was still the strongest. He did not have to obey any earlier orders.
He tried to follow the scent back to its source, which proved elusive. Either the source had left some time ago, or it was remarkably wily and knew how to dodge Morgan when he was on the hunt, even cloaked as he was.
After a short while, he abandoned the effort. Every moment he spent at the market was a calculated risk. Once he had gathered everything he needed, he made his way back to the cottage to pack the canvas bag, leave the clean clothes for himself, use more of the scent-masking hunter’s spray, and fill the water flasks. Then he walked down to slip through the gate in the castle wall and into his tunnel.
Sidonie was waiting by the cell door when he arrived. As he picked the lock and eased inside, she rushed to him, touching his cheek, his shoulder, and the front of his shirt in rapid, agitated movements.
She told him in an explosive whisper, “I don’t know how you kept yourself sane down here for a whole year. I’m going crazy!”
One corner of his mouth lifted. The feeling of pleasure as she touched him seemed incongruous with their surroundings, and inappropriate, but he had no intention of squashing it.
“I never claimed to be sane,” he told her drily.
Her snort was adorable. “You’re a lot more sane right now than I am. I can’t stop imagining all kinds of monsters locked up in the cells. There’s something down here that won’t stop sobbing, and I keep hearing rats.” She turned her head as if to listen. “I think you scare them away. I never hear them when you’re here.”
He was the worst, most dangerous monster she could ever face down here in the dark, but he didn’t tell her that.
Instead, he captured one of her hands to press her fingers against his mouth. They were long and slender, those clever, strong fingers of hers, and callused in places. He liked that, liked the evidence of how hard she worked at her craft.
As his lips touched her skin, she froze.
He froze too, listening as her breath hitched, and that was when his conscience caught up with him.
What was he doing? She was a prisoner in this ugly place, and he was her only lifeline. The balance of power between them was wildly skewed. He had no business indulging in such gestures. She would most likely feel she had no choice but accept them or risk angering him so he didn’t return.
His hold loosened, and her hand slipped away.
“I survived because I didn’t have any other choice,” he told her, turning toward the cot. “You’ll survive too, for the same reason.”
Sitting, he opened the canvas bag and pulled out a flask. As she sat beside him, he nudged her hand with it. “Water first.”
She didn’t argue. Opening the flask, she drank until she drained it. Heaving a sigh, she capped the flask and handed it back to him. “Having the fruit during the daytime helps, but I’m not used to going so long without access to water,” she said. “Especially after I exercise.”
He nodded in approval. Excellent. She wasn’t giving in to despair. “I exercised every day I was down here too.”
But if he could win enough freedom for himself from the geas, perhaps he could find a way around Isabeau’s orders enough to free Sidonie too.
Sometime over the past few days, his point of focus had shifted, and it was time to acknowledge that. Instead of fighting against the urge to help her, now he wanted to. He even needed to.
When he had discovered her in the prison cell, her utter devastation had shot past all his barriers. The spirit that carried such joyous, bright creative energy had been crushed. After he had spelled her unconscious, he had sat with her broken hands in his lap and absorbed the enormity of what had happened, the wisdom in Isabeau’s cruelty, the profound depth of Sidonie’s pain.
He would not abandon his quest. He couldn’t. But now, taking his revenge against Isabeau and Modred was no longer enough. Destroying them for the sake of all the people Isabeau and Modred had killed so long ago was no longer enough.
Now he had to fight for Sidonie’s sake.
The drugs kicked in, and he closed his eyes. As the narcotics opened doorways in his mind that were better left closed, he spent the heat of the day restlessly twisting in slumber as he dreamed of people and events long past.
Kill them.
Kill them before they destroy your king and everything you love.
Kill them before they destroy Sidonie for good.
The refreshing cool of the evening air woke him. Rising stiffly off the dusty bed, he fueled his body with food, water, and more pills. This time he only took the antibiotics. At this point, coping with the discomfort was better than enduring the narcotic-laced dreams.
Drawing more water from the well outside, he washed, dressed, doused himself with the hunter’s spray to disguise his scent, and headed down to the city below to steal clean clothes for himself and enough food for both him and Sidonie.
He didn’t like taking from the hardworking merchants, and he had plenty of money, but he was also too well-known. He didn’t know what orders might have been sent down to the city, and he couldn’t risk running into any castle guards or possibly running into Hounds.
So theft it was.
As always, the night market was crowded. Torches and lanterns provided plenty of golden light that threw deep shadows and was a pickpocket’s delight. The aroma of food, spices, and fragrant oils mingled with the scents of overwarm Light Fae bodies, along with the occasional human, ogre, Hound, and sprite.
After having lived so long as a lycanthrope, he had gotten used to the assault such places were to his sensitive nose and had learned how to identify and filter through the mélange of hundreds of scents without giving it much conscious thought.
But then he caught a hint of something that made him pause.
That scent.
That shouldn’t be here. Not down in the night market.
Just as it had in London, he could feel the magic that bound him shifting uneasily again as the various orders Isabeau had given him clashed. Familiar with the strain, he stiffened and waited to see which one would gain supremacy.
When the geas settled again, he relaxed as his imperative remained clear. Isabeau’s last order was still the strongest. He did not have to obey any earlier orders.
He tried to follow the scent back to its source, which proved elusive. Either the source had left some time ago, or it was remarkably wily and knew how to dodge Morgan when he was on the hunt, even cloaked as he was.
After a short while, he abandoned the effort. Every moment he spent at the market was a calculated risk. Once he had gathered everything he needed, he made his way back to the cottage to pack the canvas bag, leave the clean clothes for himself, use more of the scent-masking hunter’s spray, and fill the water flasks. Then he walked down to slip through the gate in the castle wall and into his tunnel.
Sidonie was waiting by the cell door when he arrived. As he picked the lock and eased inside, she rushed to him, touching his cheek, his shoulder, and the front of his shirt in rapid, agitated movements.
She told him in an explosive whisper, “I don’t know how you kept yourself sane down here for a whole year. I’m going crazy!”
One corner of his mouth lifted. The feeling of pleasure as she touched him seemed incongruous with their surroundings, and inappropriate, but he had no intention of squashing it.
“I never claimed to be sane,” he told her drily.
Her snort was adorable. “You’re a lot more sane right now than I am. I can’t stop imagining all kinds of monsters locked up in the cells. There’s something down here that won’t stop sobbing, and I keep hearing rats.” She turned her head as if to listen. “I think you scare them away. I never hear them when you’re here.”
He was the worst, most dangerous monster she could ever face down here in the dark, but he didn’t tell her that.
Instead, he captured one of her hands to press her fingers against his mouth. They were long and slender, those clever, strong fingers of hers, and callused in places. He liked that, liked the evidence of how hard she worked at her craft.
As his lips touched her skin, she froze.
He froze too, listening as her breath hitched, and that was when his conscience caught up with him.
What was he doing? She was a prisoner in this ugly place, and he was her only lifeline. The balance of power between them was wildly skewed. He had no business indulging in such gestures. She would most likely feel she had no choice but accept them or risk angering him so he didn’t return.
His hold loosened, and her hand slipped away.
“I survived because I didn’t have any other choice,” he told her, turning toward the cot. “You’ll survive too, for the same reason.”
Sitting, he opened the canvas bag and pulled out a flask. As she sat beside him, he nudged her hand with it. “Water first.”
She didn’t argue. Opening the flask, she drank until she drained it. Heaving a sigh, she capped the flask and handed it back to him. “Having the fruit during the daytime helps, but I’m not used to going so long without access to water,” she said. “Especially after I exercise.”
He nodded in approval. Excellent. She wasn’t giving in to despair. “I exercised every day I was down here too.”
