Autumn Moon (20 page)

As always, the siren's song of fermented spirits called—but there were other ways to find oblivion. A willing woman's flesh was a good start. Opening his mind's eye, he searched for one who could handle a vigorous session. Music immediately wove about his senses, his vision lured to the nightclubs nearby, where bodies danced and writhed.

The women are too thin in this modern day.
He shook his head, searching further through the crowds. He preferred well-rounded curves over jutting bones. Ah, there she was, sitting against the wall, sipping her blue drink.
Jenna.
Her name whispered through his thoughts as her sensuality hit him in waves, neglected by the blinded men of this century. She watched with brown eyes feigning boredom while her friends danced on the floor. Her skin glowed, not deprived of nutrients. A slow smile of anticipation curved his lips. He would be tasting every inch. But first, Jenna deserved to dance.

And the hunt for oblivion
began.

I shall cause a field of blood, on it a hundred warriors . . .

—T
ALIESIN
From
The Mabinogi
Patrick K. Ford
translation

Her monthly flow had come and gone twice. That was how Elen kept her time, for there were no suns or moons that shined in her cell. Her and Cormack's child, if there'd been one, had never implanted into her drugged and blood-drained body. She mourned, because their mating had been too climactic a binding for there not to have been a conception, and in her heart she knew it to be true.

Pendaran sat in the corner on a metal stool, always keeping his distance away from her touch. He wore a modern suit this visit, with his sword encased in a new scabbard that resembled a cane, honed of iron instead of wood. It lacked the power of the Great Oak. He appeared the dapper lord, with dark hair and pale green eyes—almost handsome, if not for the cruel slant of his mouth and the venom that leeched from his spirit.

The manacles remained about her ankles and wrists, but
more chain had been added to move about the stone room when the servant came to clean. Her hair grew to brush against her shoulders and curl under her chin, but there was no mirror to see, just a bed and a metal bucket for relieving her needs. She wore a plain shift that tied around her neck and back like an apron, or hospital garment without sleeves to maneuver around the chains. Made of plastic fibers, a ridiculous precaution to her powers when she was in the bowels of a dungeon so deep not even Air responded to her call. Even beyond the stone walls, she felt the emptiness of the earth around her, the clay that held no life, deep below the roots of trees.

The servant who washed and fed her was always the same woman. She never spoke, nor had Elen ever addressed her. The
Hen Was
in Pendaran's keeping began as slaves, and while their shackles were invisible and honed of fear, they held just as strong as hers. Scarred beyond recognition, with fair hair growing in clumps, this servant reminded Elen of a pale Maelorwen. The reason, perhaps, for her prejudice. Or perhaps not.

If Elen were to harm her, she wondered if the woman would care. She had been tempted nonetheless. Hatred was an infections shadow that bred its deeds.

An aggravated sigh fell from Pendaran's lips. “I suspect your Bleidd is planning another scouting of our territories.” A battery-powered lantern provided weak light in the dank room. “It is time to rid you of that bind.” Impatience filled his tone. “Mated wolves are such a nuisance. He should have accepted your death by now. All the others have.”

“Fuck off.” Yes, Elen had learned to appreciate that word. Cormack, along with her brothers, had come to their homeland, hunting the grounds of known Guardians, only to leave with no evidence of her being held directly under their feet.
Her family still lived, according to Pendaran. All reports had been given by him in great detail; therefore she didn't know what to believe. She suspected this place was Hochmead, but she wasn't sure.

Standing before him, she was forced to listen yet again as the mute servant washed her back. A daily ritual, as if Pendaran needed assurances that she remained clean and well fed. Elen received a warning pinch where it wouldn't be seen. It was the first covert interaction in two months, and she barely managed not to jump.

Pendaran, however, did. He stood to inspect the stone wall behind the stool. Holding the lamp high, he searched for crawling creatures that knew not to enter her domain. A rainbow sheen of wax colored the wall under a ledge, scraped to the stone, but residue remained. Turning back, his eyes narrowed on the woman.

“I am at a crossroads, Elen.” He sat in a manner that concluded his suspicion false. “I am in a conundrum I did not foresee. If you had but cooperated with me, we would not be here now.” He waved his hand about the room. “I would have dressed you in silk and jewels, and your apartments would have been filled with books and entertainments.”

Like a silken creance used for birds of prey, tethered to his will in an illusion of freedom. “I'd rather know the true nature of the chains around my feet.”

“You are prone to dramatics, my dear. It is not an attractive quality. I brought you here because of what has grown in my forest, but I am not a stupid man. You would use your gifts against me, would you not? So here you remain, and I am once again bored.” The last was given in a sharp tone that warned she'd pushed too far. He never named what she had grown, as if doing so would validate that her power was greater than his. “I would have answers from you, but you
will not give them. And I am stuck with you now. I cannot let you free. What am I to do?”

She didn't repeat her earlier words, just raised her eyebrow instead, sending them with her eyes. He ignored her insult like all the others. Every night he wanted answers about her gift and how she'd gained Otherworld knowledge. Every night she refused. Why hadn't he tortured her yet? His earlier reaction made her curious, and she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

He scowled as his lower lip twitched.

Her chest tightened with suspicion. “What did Mae do to you?” If anyone had the skill to bind a dark curse, it was Maelorwen.

“Nothing.” Standing abruptly, he raised the key and gestured to the servant, who tied the garment at Elen's back, gathered her cloths and scurried out the open door without a parting glance. “Maelorwen is dead, as your mate and family will be if you do not heed my warning. I have been patient until now, but as I have said, I am growing bored.”

Metal chains scraped over stone as she returned to the bed. Once again in darkness, she waited until all sounds disappeared to ponder that information.
Maelorwen is dead.
Did she believe him? Moreover, did she care? The tears that gathered proved she did. But Elen had already mourned that betrayal. She was tired of sorrow and incapacity. She must find a way to fight back.

Elen's heart began to race with ideas, always tainted with his threats. He
would
use her family if she pushed too far; of this she had no doubt. Her new suspicion required patience and testing. But she had other gifts that had abandoned her in this place. Or perhaps she had abandoned them. How many times had she called to the elements, begging them to answer? Thousands maybe, in desperation and prayer, but
they thrived above, beyond her reach. They never responded to her call.

But she breathed, did she not? Even if the oxygen tasted of residue and stale leavings, like dead molecules sloughed off to sink into the crevasses of the earth. Could it be enough to carry a dream?

“Carry my fantasy,” she whispered in conviction. No pathetic prayers or desperate wishes, but an offering given on a playful challenge. “Carry my fantasy to the one who is pictured in my thoughts.”

Needing serenity for conjuring happy memories, she let her eyes flutter closed; it didn't change the absence of light but helped relax her mind for pleasant thoughts. She recalled Cormack's face after her last parting promise. The memory hurt, and that was not what Air, the element of procreation, would carry. So she imagined the bubbles sliding down his stomach. Instead of walking down that hall, she twirled and returned, as she should have done.

Laughing deep, he caught her in his arms as she jumped, kissing her with a mouth that was meant for pleasure—
her
pleasure. His stomach flexed as she traced circles in the contours of his abs, massaging the suds into his quickly rising flesh. The door slammed shut. She imagined that too, so she could sink to her knees inside their room without distractions. Cormack devoured her with his gaze; his lips peeled back into a feral growl as she grabbed the base of his shaft.

In the pit of her reality, the barest of tingles brushed her skin. She smiled her first smile in two months. Air liked this fantasy.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the chilled room, reminding her of the unforgiving iron that bound her down and the constant cold that seeped into her bones despite the blankets provided. No, she brushed that image aside. She
was
not
in this place but back at Avon, where Cormack's hand rested on her head, twisting her hair about his arm. It was still long enough to wrap around his wrist to steady her mouth before his jutting erection. She ran her tongue along the underside, and then up, wrapping her lips around the tip, reveling in his tortured growls.

Take it all in,
Cormack ordered.

The crudeness jarred her. It was not a command that came from
her
mind. It was too forceful, too masculine, and undeniably dominant. It was a man's fantasy—not hers. Had Air carried her dream? Had a connection been made? Was Cormack sharing this too, unknowing of her current state?

She could only hope.
I'm alive, Cormack. I'm alive and I love you. I'm being kept by Pendaran below one of his homes. I think Hochmead. Come find me.

Empowered, she took him in as far as he would go, and then tightened her lips as she dragged her mouth up, swirling her tongue. Again and again, she repeated the motion until he stiffened, shouting her name . . .

*   *   *

“Elen . . . !”
Cormack shot awake, spilling his seed in the damn sheets. He slept in the barracks of Avon, with guards snoring in bunks beside and above him. And still he came, gritting his teeth to quiet his sounds. Worse, so much worse . . . his pleasure turned to sobs as reality intruded and the dream faded—and he knew it was just a mirage sent by sadistic Gods to rip out what was left of his heart.

He had gone to his homeland twice with her brothers, a place he vowed never to return to; they searched and questioned on desperation alone. Merin hunted for answers and reported her findings to Dylan, or rather lack thereof. She had gone and stayed, moving like a nomad in private meetings
with Council members who, in her words, had secrets they didn't want revealed. None had information about Elen, or so she'd said; her ragged appearance made him believe her words true. He'd returned to Rhuddin Village to hear her report, otherwise he stayed in Avon where Elen had last been seen.

Everyone suspected Pendaran's hand in her death, but without proof, no other leaders would commit to a full assault that required a gathering of the Council to achieve success. Isabeau, their closest ally, was dealing with her own Guardian issue. Edwyn, a Council member, has begun to visit her. He had yet to attack, but his threats had become less veiled. Their allied leaders agreed to help during assaults but were not leaving their territories unprotected on suspicions alone.

Doubts had caused dissension.

Cormack had gone a third time on his own to search the other Guardians' holdings, only to return with no evidence of Elen. Everyone believed her dead. Was his uncertainty another mirage of misery? The doubts ate at his soul. If she were alive, Elen
would
have found a way home.

But—
bloody hell
—why did her scent linger? Was he not tortured enough? He stayed in the barracks because reminders of her were too painful. Crueler still, he
felt
her. The heat of her mouth, and the drag of her tongue. And her voice . . .

I'm alive, Cormack. I'm alive and I love you. I'm being kept by Pendaran below one of his homes. I think Hochmead. Come find me.

“Cormack?” A feminine voice encroached—but not Elen's. A shadow moved, followed by the yield of his mattress as she sat. Tesni or Bethan? He didn't know, didn't care. Had she been sleeping in another guard's bunk to be so near? “I will ease you,” she offered, “if you need.”

“No.” His voice was hoarse, gruff—
angry
that she would
disturb him when he could still feel the one he wanted but lost. “Leave me, and don't ask again. My answer will always be the same.”

Shoving the blankets aside, he yanked on his jeans and made his way out of the castle. He needed to run. More often than not, he stayed in the form of his wolf. Why live as a man if Elen wasn't here? Why suffer a longing so acute he couldn't breathe for want of her scent and presence around him, laughing with him, loving him?

His wolf only knew hunger, hunt, survival and sleep—basic instincts that blunted his rage.

It was safer for those around him if he returned to the beast he was meant to be.