Sword's Call (10 page)

What’s happening?

Trik sent an answer to her mental question.

Cera felt the concept of
together
from him. The wolf was telling her they were together, as he understood it. Closer than normal. Sharing mind-space, as Jorrin has put it.

It wasn’t a word from her bondmate, but the idea was clearer than the pictures and emotions he usually thought-sent to her when they communicated.

Her heart sped up. She saw the ground and the woods, but her own eyes were closed . . .

I actually did it!

Excitement took over, concentration slipped away.

Opening her eyes, she had to blink several times to clear and focus her vision. Pulling away from Trikser was more tangible than when she had finally joined her mind with his.

“What?” Jorrin leaned forward.

“I . . . I think . . . I think I did it.” Cera smiled and looked at her bondmate.

Trik wagged his tail, so she reached for him, gazing into his amber eyes and scratching his ears.

He lay across her lap, stretching and rolling his body into her.

She giggled and rubbed his belly.

He wagged his tail harder, making her laugh.

“Tell me about it,” Jorrin encouraged.

“I pictured our magic as a rope and wrapped it around us. I stepped into him, making us one. I concentrated and I saw you; but then I also saw me. My eyes were closed, and I felt like I was sitting beside myself. It was . . . unsettling, at first; but then Trik told me we were together. Then I saw into the woods, he moved his head. . . he turned, right?”

Jorrin grinned. “Yes, he did. You
did
do it.”

“His eyesight is so sharp. It was a wonder to see.”
Their eyes locked and held. Air ruffled her hair, causing gooseflesh to rise on her neck as a substantial breeze kicked up.

Trikser made a noise in his throat, but Cera ignored him.

Jorrin looked so wild and beautiful with the wind in his dark hair, his high cheekbones flushed with color to the tips of his slender tapered ears. Her heart skipped as his blue eyes darkened and she read intense heat there.

Last night he’d been in her dreams.

Try as she might, Cera could no longer deny that she was attracted to him. That she’d liked that kiss he stole, what seemed ages ago.

Will he kiss me again?

Heat crept up her neck and burned her cheeks.

The way he was looking at her made her lose her train of thought and her worries.

“Tell Trikser to move.”

“What?” But Cera already sent the mental command.

Her bond slipped off her lap with little encouragement. He’d caught sight of a rabbit, and took off after it.

Jorrin grabbed her hand and tugged forward.

She fell onto his lap, moving to him instead of away, ignoring mental cautions that this wasn’t a good idea, despite her dreams, her admitted attraction.

Their lips met in heated rush. Cera’s arms shot around his neck and she pressed closer. His body was hard against hers and a tremor shot down her spine.

Her breasts pressed into his chest as he pinned her against him. Jorrin shoved his tongue into her mouth and groaned.

She clung to him, moving her mouth under his.

When she touched her tongue to his, he moaned, his hands shooting down to cup her bottom.

Cera wiggled in his arms as an unfamiliar warmth enveloped her like an embrace. Jorrin’s erection pressed into her hip, and she clutched his tunic with both hands.

When he kissed her harder, her head spun.

Feeling his urgency, confusion rushed her. She whimpered, fighting the sensation of his warmth, his strength as he squeezed her against him.

Her desire for more. Her desire for him.

She couldn’t lose control.

Yanking back, she panted against him.

Jorrin’s chest pushed into her breasts as they both struggled for breath. “What’s wrong?” he croaked.

“I’m sorry,” Cera breathed. Fighting the protests of her body, she scooted off his lap, gently slipping from his arms.

Hurt flashed through his sapphire eyes, but she didn’t focus on it.

“Did I hurt you?” Jorrin asked, dark brows drawn tight.

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s not that.”

“Cera, I—”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

Jorrin’s expression fell, and her heart thundered.

Cera could feel his pain.

They already had a bond she couldn’t deny.

Biting her lip was the only thing that held back the threatening tears.

She didn’t want to hurt him.

She . . .
cared
about him. More than she should.

It’s too dangerous.

Avery appeared in the cabin doorway and shouted for them. “I found it. I really found it!” Oblivious to what had just happened, her cousin pumped his arm, smiling brilliantly.

****

Sweat beaded on Avery’s brow and slid down his temple on the way to his cheek, only to be replaced with more when he wiped it away. He had to put forth a substantial magical effort to keep up with Hadrian and Jorrin.

His limbs tingled as if they were on fire. A slow burn started to take his muscles over. Ignoring what was starting to feel like pain, he leaned forward, brac
ing his hands on his knees. He wasn’t used to casting where it required such energy, but they needed him to endure a while longer.

Finding the spell hadn’t been enough.

Its complexity required their combined magic to strengthen it.

They needed it to go as far as it possibly could. There was no way of knowing where Jorrin’s father was.

Hopefully, he was on the northern continent.

Avery had discovered a way to prevent them from having to cast continually, because it wouldn’t be possible to pour unending magic into it.

Even a wizard with the skills of Hadrian would tire after a few hours.

So they cast small centers of energy in various locations, so the signal would bounce off and go even farther. The reverberation should keep the signal clear, but he’d never tried it before.

That was his main contribution to the spell. He’d gotten the idea from the bubbles Varthan’s shades had cast over the Provinces.

Hadrian had told him he would’ve never thought of such a thing. The praise had made him flush.

The spell itself, and the bounce points, would fizzle out in about a sevenday, and they planned to recast if Braedon didn’t show up by then.

His cousin had fervently expressed her dismay if they had to cast the call again.

It meant the journey to Tarvis would be delayed even more.

Avery had tried to assure Cera his mother and father would be fine for a bit longer. Her tears had about killed him. He’d never seen his cousin cry so much.

He understood she was grieving for her parents and younger sister—who wouldn’t—but she’d
always
been the strong one. He’d always admired her, looked up to her, and even wanted to be like her.

To see weakness in her scared him more than he cared to admit.

Avery didn’t want to lose his parents like she’d lost hers.

His heart ached, and it had little to do with the magical energy he was exerting. He saw his mother’s smiling face in his head and forced a breath.

Emeralda was well trained and had much greater abilities than he himself.

His mother would have to handle protecting the entire Province.

She’d struggle if Varthan had a great number of shades, but he didn’t want to think about that. Avery couldn’t give in to heartache or worry.

He wasn’t there, so his mother
had
to handle things.

His father was one of
the greatest m
en he knew.

Their family’s personal guard was made up of brave, honorable men who would protect Castle Lenore and the Province of Tarvis to the death.

Surely both his parents would be fine.

Avery believed it with all his heart.

Braedon opened his eyes. His magical senses had to be fooling him.

He heard, or
felt
a call . . . no, it couldn’t be . . . it had been turns, so it
couldn’t
be real.

It had to be due to his recent dreams . . . dreams of a home he’d fled some twenty odd turns ago. His beloved lifemate—as the elves called spouses—and the infant son he’d left in the mountains of Aramour.

Dreams he dreaded more than welcomed.

Cherished the memories, but they were rather like a double-edged sword—reminders of what he lost, what he’d had to leave behind.

His body ached for the touches of Vanora’s slender elfin hands in his dreams to be real again. She’d not caressed him, embraced him in turns, but her touch was as vivid in his mind as the night they’d first joined. He’d not taken another since he had left, his heart would always be with his son’s mother.

Braedon sighed.

What about Jorrin?

He hoped his son had grown up to become an honorable man, and had honed the magic he was born with.

Just as the elfin wizards and mages, Braedon had sensed the magic present in his small son not long after his birth.

He prayed to the Blessed Spirit Jorrin had embraced it, and wasn’t ashamed of his human father.

A human father he didn’t know.

It’d almost killed him to leave, but it was necessary to ensure his family’s survival. They would’ve come to Aramour for him and killed his wife and child. If he wasn’t there, they’d leave the peaceful elfin community alone, and they had; Braedon had been in hiding all these turns.

He’d been running the entire time he’d been gone, but for the past several turns, he’d not been pursued. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d managed to cover his trail with magical spells, or if they’d given up the search.

Looking around the crowded, noisy tavern, he shook his head. He’d not been in the small village very long—only two days—and he didn’t plan on staying.

Running was ingrained, and though he didn’t sense anyone after him, he couldn’t change his ways. So Braedon would move on, to the next town or village, as always.

He set down the empty mug and decided not to have another. Perhaps the drink had made him feel the magic call.

But . . . there it was again.

Right?

Cocking his head, Braedon listened harder, squinting to concentrate. He blocked out the noise in the bar.

His body hummed and heated as he called upon his magic. Sending out magic feels, he tried to ascertain if it was real or if he was going crazy.

“Shall I get you a refill?” The pleasant, normally-welcome voice of the young barmaid broke into his thoughts, destroying his concentration.

He listened for a moment before looking up at her, but it was gone. “Drat,” Braedon muttered.

Almost had it.

“What was that?” Big brown eyes looked at him expectantly. She’d told him her name was Lilia, and she’d been flirting since he’d ventured into the place.

When he’d rented a room upstairs and paid, she’d offered to join him.

He was flattered and told her so, but declined gently and would continue to do so if she persisted.

“Oh, sorry, it’s nothing. No, I don’t need anything else, thank you. I’ll be heading out in the morning.”

“That’s a shame.” Lilia lifted his empty mug and put it on the tray. Leaning in more than necessary, she flaunted her ample bosom in her low-cut bodice. She grinned, flashing dimples.

Braedon found himself smiling back at her.

She
was
a beauty.

“She’s a lucky woman, your wife.” Without another word she went toward the bar, setting her tray down.

His wife’s smile danced into his mind.

Blessed Spirit, he missed Vanora.

What had gotten into him lately?

Braedon wasn’t prone to dwelling on his memories, or former desires. For the most part he was able to distract himself. There
had
to be a reason his family haunted his mind after all this time.

Shaking his head, he sucked in a breath and mounted the stairs leading to his rented room. It was on the corridor with the larger suites—nicer linens and bigger beds.

The tavern’s working girls stayed here. He’d heard many a moan of passion from neighboring quarters and heavy foot traffic during the previous night. Booted feet and enthusiastically closed doors.

Braeden had no doubt Lilia had placed him here in hopes of being his bedmate for the duration of his stay.

He didn’t have many things, but there was no harm in preparing his belongings for his journey in the morning.

He’d leave early, before the bar got busy.

Hopefully, Lilia would forgive him for leaving.

Braedon chuckled.

Chapter Eight

They arrived in Tarvis faster than Lucan had thought possible, but as they entered Tarvis Main, it was obvious their arrival had been foreseen. Someone had evacuated all the townspeople, even from the slums.

Lord Varthan would be angry.

Lucan stifled a wince.

His master chuckled, and he jumped in his saddle.

Dagonet caught his gaze and stared for a moment, but the older shade said nothing.

“Dagonet, Markus, and Athas, each of you take a direction and scout the city. Take notice of anyone or anything that may post a threat to us and dispose of it. Lucan stays with me. Report back at city center in two hours.”

“Yes, milord,” the eldest of the four, Athas said, inclining his head and turning his black stallion south.

Dagonet went east and Markus west, leaving Lord Varthan and Lucan to the north.

“What do you see?” his master barked.

The blood drained from his face under the weight of Lord Varthan’s stare.

“Well? Tell me where magic is, boy.”

Lucan shifted in his saddle as the lord growled at him, but he wouldn’t even think of delaying his master’s demands. He closed his eyes, searching for magic. Lucan gripped the pommel of his saddle for balance.

He was able to probe great distances, taking mental notice when the source of magic was significant. He passed over his fellow shades, seeing them riding, their magical auras glowing with the different colors of their strengths.

Searching toward the castle—the center of the normally busy Province—he saw the sign announcing Castle Lenore.