Creche (Book II of Paranormal Fallen Angels/Vampires Series) (13 page)

She wore short trousers of leather, a shift of white linen, and no shoes. I had been instructed to remove all but the linen trunks she had given me.

She flexed the muscles in her arms and raised her eyebrows. “After this, you may have many.”

I laughed at the joke. “Many flowers?” I retorted.

“No.” She smiled and winked at me. “Many wounds.”

“I thought you were teaching me how to fight, not how to lose.”

“I shall teach you both.” She bent to pick a snow lily and tossed it at me.

I picked another bloom, a sprawling, soft-scented flower the moon had silvered, and threw it to her.

“Elfskiss,” she identified. “Good for the heart. And this...” She found another, a tubular, delicate flower with the fragrance of coconut mixed with honey. “Angel’s trumpet.”

“For the digestive system.”

“No,” she scoffed. “That is roseapple. Angel’s trumpet is an aphrodisiac.”

“You learn this from childhood?”

“Not about Angel’s trumpet.” She winked and returned to her routine.

I marveled at the precision of her movements. She had already shown me several times, but each time it looked more graceful, more difficult.

Skylar pulled me up from my position on the grass. “Enough watching. It is time to learn. How have you fought them all these centuries without knowing Itsomai?”

“It is called Itsomai?”

“Yes. It is an art form, more dance than fight.” She set her feet and moved only her arms. Lifting one leg, she struck upwards so swiftly and spun, her wings corkscrewing her up, and I jerked my head back in surprise. It was graceful, mesmerizing, and deadly—like Skylar herself. Despite its elegance, I knew its application. I had seen how quickly she could kill.

“The mortals practice something similar in the East, I am told. Here.” She put a hand on my stomach, and I tensed my abdominal muscles reflexively.

One of her eyebrows quirked up. She smoothed her hands over the muscles with the palm of her hand. “Not like that. Not tense, not tight. Relaxed. At ease. You must move freely to fight quickly.”

At her touch, my muscles felt even more knotted.

“Breathe.” She slid her hands down, over my abdomen. “Breathe deeply into here, and then hold it. Let the breath travel around your body like a blood-beat. Feel the energy feed your veins and muscles.”

I closed my eyes, listening to my own ragged inhalation of breath.

“When you breathe out, strike out. Feel the power like a release. Let it fill the air around you. ”

I tried to keep the smile from my lips. It seemed so foolish, but I did as she asked.

“Not floppy.” I felt her hand move to my back as she walked around me. “Straight. Poised. Like a cat before it leaps. But relaxed. Focused.”

My mind’s eye followed the motion Skylar had made with her arm earlier, a sliding movement from one side to another, thinking of Sabine’s low crouch just before she pounced.

“Feet apart more,” Skylar instructed, taking my hand and leading it across my body. “Harness your strength. Draw it up from the earth and pull it down from the sky.”

I opened my eyes again to follow her example. She stood in front of me, stretching, and her eyes closed for an instant as she inhaled. “All sources of strength come from the same place, from within.”

One of her arms shot out in a punch that whizzed past my ear. “Anger and passion are very powerful, but when not controlled ... they are a danger to you more than to others.”

I closed my eyes too, trying to tap into the anger that usually flooded my being, but it was absent. “It is hard to be angry in Silvenhall,” I told her. “Bring me Beltran and you will see the extent of my anger.”

“I have seen it. Although mighty, it lacked purpose.”

I bristled, eyes snapping open. Was she goading me deliberately? I kicked out at the padded dummy of straw and fur she had set up earlier in the clearing. It swung back only a little under my force. I had expended too much effort and, swaying, felt my other leg slide beneath me.

“Too much.” She waggled a finger at me. “The breeze wears away stone more surely than a gale. Take a small part of your passion and give it direction. Like this.” Rocking back onto one leg, she swung the other around in a graceful arc. It was light, rhythmic—the motion of a dancer, not a fighter—but when her foot met the straw-stuffed head, it bobbed on its makeshift shoulders and straw spilled from the seam.

“Less power, more passion, more purpose,” she chanted.

Rocking back as she had, I struck out again, spinning on my body’s axis so that my heel caught the target beneath the chin. It split the sack, collapsed it into straw.

“Better.” Skylar nodded. “Much better. Should we try archery?”

Never having had cause to fire a bow, it struck me as odd that it was Skylar’s weapon of choice.

“I am smaller than you and slighter,” she told me. “My bow disadvantages an assailant at a distance, before I must be at their throats to drink from them. A silver-tipped arrow takes down a Vampire without the need for close contact, especially if there are many. Many Cruxim favor the bow for that reason.”

It made sense. I wondered that I had not thought of it before. Even if I had, I knew I relished too much the crunch of vein, the rush of blood to my mouth, and the euphoria that rose in me with each death.

“Many of the movements of Itsomai come from those we make when holding a weapon.” She showed me as she spoke, drawing her hand back to the nape of her neck and then drawing back a fist and letting it fly—as if nocking an arrow and shooting it into a Vampire’s heart.

“While we slice with our arms and hands, our feet are grounded lightly.” She bobbed side-to-side and pivoted on her heels. “That way we might spring up into the air if we need to. It is too slow to rely on our wings to lift us into flight. Breathing deep but light helps us stay buoyant, ready to rise up.”

The precision of her movements was beautiful. Bending, she took up the quiver and slung it over her back. Then she scooped up the bow and flexed the string, checking its tautness.

“Female Cruxim make their own bows,” she instructed. “A bow must be a part of you, as much as a sword, a trident, or an axe.” She looked at me sidelong. “Or a lover. It should know the touch of your hands, understand your mind.”

I kept my eyes on the arch of birchwood, contoured to match the curves of her body. “How long does it take?”

“That depends on the bowyer—and on the Swan.” Skylar nocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring. The missile flew through the clearing and out through the gap in the trees to pierce the night sky; only the fletched feathers marked its fall in the darkness.

“The Swan governs archery too?” I queried.

She grinned. “A real one this time.” Another arrow was removed from the quiver and inspected for flaws. “See how the arrows are fletched?” She turned the end toward me. “On making our first bow, we must catch an adult swan and gentle it until it lets us pluck twelve feathers for our arrows. Then the arrow will fly as true as the bird and will always seek the heart of our enemies. It is said, also, that the swan may one day save the life of our intended.”

She half-closed one eye as she let fly another arrow. It moved so quickly that it had twanged into a bull’s-eye at the far end of a clearing before I saw her nock it.

It was an impressive shot. Once more I thought I should like to see Skylar in action with the bow amid a coven.

“One day soon, perhaps you shall,”
came her thoughts.
“But do not wish it. Let us enjoy this time of peace before war comes to us.”

She passed me the bow. “Try it.” 

My bicep bulged with the effort of drawing back the string. It was heavier than it looked and well made; even knowing so little about bows, I knew that. I tried to imitate her stance and the confidence with which she had released the arrow, but mine fell short, barely clipping a shrub halfway down the clearing.

Skylar shrugged. “Perhaps you should try the sword.” She laughed.

“S
kylar, you cannot truthfully expect me to wear this.” I looked at the cotton shirt, sun-bleached whiter than the inside of a shell. A fringe of feathers ruffled the neck, hem, and sleeve.

“All dress like this for the Cygnus Amoratus, all who have not yet nested.”

Rolling my eyes, I grumbled, “Tell me I don’t have to wear feathers in my hair.”

She laughed, patting the feathered rosette that pinned her hair behind one ear. “No. Only here.” Her hand warmed the hollow of my throat.

“Let me help you.” She pushed my arms up, slipping the shirt down over my head and then batting the ruffle of feathers at my throat into order.

The action brought her closer than I expected, her face just inches from my own. I felt her breath, warm against my face. Her hands halted, as if wanting to move up to trace my lips as her eyes did.

Taking her forearms in my hands, I stepped back away from her, dropping my eyes down to her gown, which skimmed her hips and fell away in a confection of feathers at the skirt. It was tight at the bodice, enhancing her womanly waist and the high fullness of her breasts. I felt my face flush as I noticed they might have spilled from the neckline if not contained by a lace made of down. A single white feather, silver-dipped at the shaft and the tip, swung from a chain at her throat, rising and falling with each breath. She had added a bracelet of woven feathers, crystal, and shells and her hair was loose and swinging but for the rosette of feathers. She had never looked more beautiful.

I wanted to lean forward and kiss her lips, reddened with berry juice and half-parted as she watched me appraise her.

I let go of her wrists.

I stepped back.

Guilt crashed down on me. Sabine had risked her life to save me from Gandler. She had borne his tortures. More than that, she had depended on me to save her from her nightmares and her loneliness. I had failed her once. I could not fail her again, not like this. Had my heart always been so fickle, I supposed so. Each half gifted to a different woman. Was it possible to love just one? Was it possible to truly love more than one?

“You’ll need to wear them here, too.” Skylar bent to scoop up the matching trousers, feather-free except for the hems of each leg. She threw them at me.

I grimaced as I rubbed the cotton and feathers between thumb and forefinger. “And everyone will be dressed like this?”

“Yes, except those who have already nested.”

I quirked one eyebrow at her, suspicious. I had seen the nest. I knew what affect it had on me. “What is this ritual?”

Skylar smoothed her gown. “Cygnus Amoratus is the dance of the Swans, a celebration for those who are betrothed.” Her gray eyes were dewy as spring as she lifted them to mine. “It is a day of love.”

M
oths danced like small, pale moons in the air before us as Skylar and I followed a path down the mountainside to a field thick with wildflowers. A cascade sang in the distance, the slippery, moving sheen of its waters tumbling from a knot of white crystals in the cliff face. 

“It comes from Cascadia,” Skylar said, gesturing to the waterfall. “From the snow caverns beneath. But tonight, we are going there.” She pointed to a billowing white shape at the edge of the field.

“Another tent.” I smiled. “You have not forgotten what happened last time I was in a tent?”

She led me through the flowers. “This time, you will stay.”

Snow lilies and angels trumpets rose, open-throated, toward the moon, their long stems twining through elfskiss and a shrub of tiny purple berries I could not identify. The scattered white petals of another flower, blown from their crowns, coasted on the breeze. Here and there nodding blooms of scarlet added color.

I put out a hand to a snow lily. The breeze nodded its waxy petals toward my hand, as if the plant might nuzzle it. Even that felt possible here.

“Those are cinderberry.” Skylar touched the pale mauve bloom. “And lividia.” She did not reach for the scarlet blossom.

Cupping a palm, she trapped one of the floating white blossoms. “We call these love-in-a-mist.”

“What are they used for?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Only this.” She pursed her lips and blew gently, sending the blossoms dancing in the air.

“This is magical.” I smiled at her.

Skylar’s return smile was demure. “It is home.” She spun, her arms wide, breathing in the night air, the feather stirring on her chest.

“For some.”

More tiny white parachutes, adding to the love-in-a-mist already on the wind, drifted around me, loosed by her movement.

“Would you like it to be home, Amedeo?” She picked another knot of love-in-a-mist and blew. I wondered if it were like dandelions and what she wished for. What did one who lived here, in the sanctuary of Silvenhall, wish for?

My wish would be for a fang in the vein of my enemy. For justice. For death. For hatred. Or for the ability to live the past over, to right the wrongs done to me. To absolve myself of regrets.

But Skylar was not like me. Her wish... ?

I shook my head. She lived here, in the present, but I had seen in those silver eyes glimpses of the future. I knew too well what her wish might be, and I put it from my mind. It was a woman’s wish, and one I knew I could not make true.