Elijah (29 page)

These were not just showpieces. He had practiced with them all and had used more than half of them in actual battle. Now he surveyed them slowly, waiting to see which one would speak to him the loudest.

The katana won his attention.

The blade was tucked tightly into a pure silver scabbard, and the light of the lantern flickered against it in a way that made the etchings on it come to life. He reached for it, then hesitated and lowered his hand. He tried not to remember the last time he had used it, knowing Siena was so close to his thoughts.

The blade that killed my father.

Elijah winced, not even realizing her tone was speculative, not accusatory.

I am sorry, Siena.

Do not be sorry, warrior. You changed both of our worlds for the better with the stroke of that blade.

Overwhelmed, Elijah backed away from the blade and dropped awkwardly into a nearby chair.

“What do you want from me, Siena?” he asked aloud, his voice hoarse as he tried to filter out his emotions.

I want to know what you want from me.

“Nothing,” he whispered. “I don’t want anything from you.” He paused for only two strong heartbeats. “Except you,” he said at last.

He stood up and walked to the glass doors leading from the library to a balcony that wrapped halfway around the house. He exited the house and took in the night air with a deep breath as he leaned on the wooden railing.

Your touch, your laugh, your beautiful eyes, Siena. Your temper, your brilliance in both your skin and your mind. I want to wake in the morning wrapped up in your hair and looking into your eyes. I want to learn what it truly means to know you.

Elijah’s eyes closed as he felt physical pain singing through every fiber of his body.

I am not such a mystery, Elijah. I am the woman who wants nothing more than to lead her people into an era of peace and comfort.

Nothing more, Siena? Elijah lifted his hand to rub at the pained furrows of his forehead.

There is one other thing I want.

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And that is?

I want you to see me, Elijah.

Elijah straightened away from the railing when she said that. His heart jumped erratically with a sudden surge of hope. He narrowed his eyes and peered into the darkness, the night breeze blowing over him as clouds moved across the face of the waxing moon.

He caught a faint, familiar scent and he felt every blood cell in his body suddenly rush to all sorts of locations, leaving him a little dizzy in the aftermath.

And then he saw the gleam of moonlight on gold.

Bracing a hand on the railing, Elijah leapt over it, dropping two stories down to the ground. He broke into a run, but stopped when the soft scent disappeared. He looked around for the source of the golden light and suddenly saw something hanging from the bony fingers of a tree limb. He reached for it, pulling it free and turning it over in his palm. It was an armband, made of gold and moonstones in a fashion as intricate as Siena’s collar.

Tell me what this means, Siena, he demanded.

It is the band of the Queen’s Consort, Elijah.

She said nothing more, explained no further. She knew she did not have to. Elijah was a man close to the details of a monarchy. He knew full well what it meant to be a Royal Consort.

Elijah’s heart was pounding so hard, he barely heard her. In that moment, everything seemed to change. The feelings overwhelming him were irresistible, longing and craving and just shy of maddening.

“Tell me where you are, Siena. Tell me right now!”

I am home, Elijah. And I am waiting for your decision.

Siena knelt before the beautiful stone altar, carefully lighting the natural, homemade incense that Anya had given to her as a gift last Beltane. She sat back on her heels, closed her eyes, and tried to focus on her prayer. It was difficult, however, because she felt him coming with more than just her heart and her soul, and definitely more than her body. What that was exactly…she could not fathom in the moment. Nevertheless, it was as impossible to ignore as it was to explain.

He was still an ocean away, but she already had goose bumps rippling up her arms, across the back of her shoulders, and swiftly along the back of her neck until the sensation was prickling over her scalp in a way that made her hair rustle to attention.

Her chamber was already full of the scent of incense. It had been burning all day, according to tradition, in preparation for the night to come. Also according to tradition, Siena had spent the entire day doing nothing more then sleeping, bathing, perfuming, shampooing, and smoothing on a variety of oils and lotions meant to make her skin the utmost in soft perfection.

She had been a Princess before she had been a Queen, all of her life spent at the court. So all the fussing and primping and the attention she had been paid was exactly what she was used to, and exactly what she enjoyed. In fact, the familiarity of it alone had helped her to keep calm, relaxed, and focused on most levels. As a result, there wasn’t a spot on her body that was not soft and delicately scented, and she was still able to maintain an image of dignity and calm while she was waiting.

Just the same, Siena had been lucky.

Elijah had been asleep until fairly late that night, up until about an hour ago. If he had woken up sooner, she might not have been able to conceal her activities, or excitement, as she prepared for a night he didn’t even know about. As controlled as she was, this connection that was growing stronger between them would have had the potential to give her away. She could conceal so much from a great many others, but Elijah was embedded in her very spirit, and soon, she had finally realized, there would be nothing she could keep from him. And as he came for her, she felt the rushing of his heart and his blood, his adrenaline and every other endorphin in his biochemistry flooding into his system. It was like a stunningly potent drug, making her head whirl and rush as if she were swimming in stimulants.

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Technically, she should wait for him to give her a proper response about becoming her Consort.

But she had felt, in her heart, the minute the warrior had come to understand the meaning of the armband, and any step he made in her direction had been everything a voiced acceptance could have been.

Siena pushed up from the floor, the stone cold beneath her warm, damp palms as she did so, and stood up. Her quarters were filled with women in the form of aides, guards, and ladies-in-wait. And, of course, Anya and Syreena were right by her side.

She was flanked by them, each dressed in a very specific ceremonial robe. Each robe was loose with long angel-wing sleeves. Anya’s was made of a sheer green material, a very thin, fine silk that only their oldest and most accomplished artisans could create. Woven into the pattern of the silk in a way that, by touch, could not be discerned from the silk itself was the image of a vixen whose tail wrapped over Anya’s hip and down her thigh.

Syreena’s robe was made out of the same sheer silk, except hers was cerulean blue. Twisting in one direction around her body was a dolphin, and in the other, a peregrine falcon. Sparkles of diamond-dust sprinkled about doubled for the splash of the ocean and the starlight in the night sky.

Siena extended her arms palms up, and each aide took one side of the white lace and satin robe she was wearing over her own gown. Slowly, their fingertips moved to the ribbons in the front of the gown and they began to weave them intricately together, as if tying shoelaces, except that they each used only one hand, the other’s hand acting as their second. It took concentration, coordination, and cooperation to be successful at such a task, and Siena’s best friends, sisters of her soul, if not both in her blood, performed it flawlessly.

When they were finished, Siena picked up Anya’s hands in her own and squeezed them affectionately.

“You have been my most trusted companion for almost all of my life, and it honors me to have you here by my side during this…this event that neither of us thought we would ever be a part of.” Siena pulled Anya’s hands close until she was pressing the palms of them just above her heart. “But by tradition I can no longer choose you to bear the marriage dagger. That honor must go to my sister, Syreena, despite her protests otherwise.” Siena’s golden gaze flicked up to quell the supporting protest on Syreena’s lips. Syreena had felt that Anya deserved this right, no matter whose blood was whose. “It is her right,” Siena continued, her eyes warming, softening as she looked from one to the other. “I have longed to honor her in a way that a sister honors a sister. For though she hardly knew me when this ruling journey began, she has earned every reward for her unquestioning loyalty.”

“I know, My Queen,” Anya said softly, her expression softly amused because they both knew she was not the one who needed the reassurance of such gestures. Despite her constant countenance of independence and confidence, Syreena’s heart was a social one, in need of acceptance and supporting love.

Anya pulled her hands free slowly and then turned to face Syreena. The Princess’s eyes were closed, and the half-breed gave her a moment. When her dual-colored eyes flicked open at last, the dampness on her lashes glittered like the diamonds of her dress.

The Princess then held out both hands, palms up, while Anya withdrew the ceremonial dagger from its scabbard, the sharp singing of metal ringing off the high ceilings of the bedroom. The sound was echoed by the abrupt stamp of the guards’ feet as they suddenly came to perfect attention. All of the guards drew their swords with the echoing song of finely honed blades, slamming them down hard, point first, into the stone floor. Sparks flew as stone chipped away and metal was bent or pitted.

By tradition, all but two of these guards would now spend the night reforging their blades.

Supposedly, the heat of the forge was a blessing on the marriage bed, that it be equally well fired and able to mold the future protection of the throne. But the symbolism went deeper than that.

The guards would shape new blades to serve the new shape of the regime. A Consort lacked
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direct ruling power politically and legally, but he was given all the social respects and courtesies of a King.

An equal in all things…except her sovereignty.

Anya placed the dagger on Syreena’s fingertips. Syreena bowed in gentle respect.

At about that moment, a chill rushed into the room. The bed curtains and the tapestries that hung around the room began to snap louder and louder as the subterranean breeze grew stronger and stronger. Unable to help herself, Siena breathed a little quicker. Her cheeks flushed, contrasting sharply with her unusually pale complexion. But it only served to flatter her beauty and set up a contrast to the white gown that she wore.

A remarkable sound, like the sound of rolling thunder, reverberated around them. All of the women in the room gasped. There was no such thing as foul weather in a subterranean castle. It seemed to pique everybody’s excitement about their soon-to-be-arriving guest. Half of them did not know whether to be afraid, upset, or just plain curious.

The one thing that they did know for sure, however, was that life at court and life in general was never going to be the same again. What that meant exactly was unknown to any and all of them, including the Queen herself. But fate had spoken, and the Queen as well as The Pride had said they must comply. They must welcome yet another Demon into their court.

But such a Demon? The Butcher himself?

Those closest to the Queen would of course accept anything she asked them to, but they feared for her life and for her safety. Growing up on stories of Elijah’s infamy had done its damage.

Plus, to any Lycanthrope, a Demon was so alien. So different. The women who watched the Queen prepare for this unorthodox wedding were filled with questions that were even now echoing through the court.

Would she be murdered in her sleep? The Queen was a huntress through and through and the warrior Demon would not find her an easy mark, but the Queen was actually excited by this coming prospect, and that was the most confusing part of all. True, the male Demon in the court, the one called Gideon, was a remarkably handsome creature and fascinating for the mind, but he was an educated man of uncommon wit and skill.

One could hardly expect the same from a barbarian who swung a sword and slaughtered enemies for a living. Was he attractive enough to hold the interest of a mate who took the form of the lusty cat? Would he, in fact, be affected by the meshing of the mating and be forced to keep to the Queen’s bed only, or would they experience the first royal affair in the history of their race at some point?

Would their chemistry even be compatible enough to provide heirs for the throne? Now this was the most important question. Even with the existence of half-breeds proving that breeding across species was apparently possible, there were no creatures alive in their culture who had been concocted from such a volatile DNA cocktail as Demon and Lycanthrope. What would a blend of the animals and the elements produce, if indeed it could produce anything at all?

That was actually the most fascinating question of all of them. Lycanthropes found mutation interesting and exciting. The more powerful, the better. It was why Syreena was so coveted. This could perhaps be the only aspect of the marriage that would win over the more distant members of their society, who would not be so easy to please or so quick to comply when it came to the topic.

But the Queen had been quite blunt when she had announced her intentions of taking this man to mate. This was a duty, yes, but she had not sobbed and sniffled about it, she had made sure everyone knew it was an arrangement she welcomed quite deeply. She had confessed the doubts she had mulled over these past few days. Then she had told them of her solution. He would only be her Consort and not her King, certainly not their King, and he would be neither if he would not accept that condition.

Many thought he would not accept these terms, by which reasoning they thought they were safe from ending up with a Demon anywhere near the throne. The Demon ego, they thought,
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