Warlord (4 page)

Sara jumped up, leaving the quilt and sushi behind and ran across the grass. She stopped before him, breathless.

“What is it, Sara?” he asked coldly. “I need to get back to work and I imagine you need to get back to your classes.”

“John,” she said, looking at him helplessly. She looked across the street. The red blinking hand in the crosswalk was counting down from twenty. She closed her eyes tightly. “I can’t marry you.”

He started at her blankly for a few moments. Then he laughed. “I thought for a minute, you said you wouldn’t marry me. I’ll see you later Sara. I’ve really got to get to work.”

“I did say that, John. I won’t marry you.”

 

John pursed his lips, his mouth stretched in a thin, angry line. “You can’t ‘not’ marry me, Sara. It’s all been arranged. Your parents –”

“My parents don’t make my decisions, John. I make them.”

He stared at her as if she had gone completely mad.

“I’m sorry, John,” she said softly. “Really, I am.”

“Fine. I’ll give you more time,” he spat, looking over his shoulder as the pedestrians once again entered the crosswalk.

“No, John. It’s not that. I don’t need more time. I – I don’t think you’re the one for me.”

“What do you mean I’m not the one for you? Of course, I’m the one for you. We’ve been together four years. I’m practically a son to your parents.” His eyes shifted.

“They’ve – they’ve put a lot of money into my business, Sara.”

“Oh, so you need to marry me to keep their money?”

“No – it’s just that – well, it would make things rather awkward, don’t you think?”

“What is awkward, John, is that you asked me to marry you today and never once said you love me. In fact, you didn’t even really ask me – you just assumed I’d said yes.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is about? Romance, Sara?” he asked bitterly.

“You’ve always been the one who never wanted anything on Valentine’s Day, nothing for your birthday, no roses, no candy, everything needing to be
practical
.” He said the word as if it was profane.

“Do I love you? Does it really matter? I can provide everything you need. Money, a house, freedom for you to study, your parents’ approval. Don’t lie to yourself, Sara –

that’s exactly what you need – mommy and daddy to approve. Well, they approve . . . of me.”

Sara spluttered. “How dare you insinuate I would marry you just because my parents want me to? I have to love you too, you know.”

”Well you do, don’t you? That’s enough for both of us. I really have to go.” He turned to the street.

“Stop.” She placed her hand on his arm. John spun at her touch, his eyes angry. She quailed at the look in them, releasing him and taking a step back. “I – I don’t think I love you, John.” He continued to stare at her, his green eyes almost hateful.

“I don’t want to – I’m not going to – marry you. Not now. Not ever.” She held his gaze.

“You’re making a big mistake, Sara.”

 

She sighed. “One that’s mine to make.” She began to remove the chain with the ring from around her neck.

“Keep it,” he hissed. “It was your grandmother’s anyway. I don’t want the damn thing.”

The crosswalk light turned white. John gave her one last spiteful look and then turned on his heel and walked away.

Sara fainted.

When she woke, she felt the cool, hard stone underneath her. The well was glowing, lighting the chamber, again throwing off just enough illumination by which to see. She looked around. She was leaning against the wall facing opposite the remains of the woman, evenly spaced with the other skeletons, arranged just in the manner the mist had said she would if she ended up dead. But she wasn’t dead, was she?

* * * * *

Vapor curled on the sides of the plane, the misty being watching with interest as darkness raced through the scene, sweeping inward and obliterating the scenario the woman had created. Now that had been something different. The mist was used to seeing all manner of fears, most often terrifying, supernatural creatures, but a fear that was the mortal itself?

If the mist had eyes, tears of mirth would be leaking from them.

The mortal hadn’t even conjured a single weapon. Perhaps she was a bit dense and made it through the scenario on blind luck. The mist was unfamiliar with a setting such as the one it had just witnessed. It had found it difficult to gauge whether the mortal was going to succeed or fail, but toward the end, it was certain it felt failure. In fact, as the man the mortal had conjured had disappeared in the throng of other mortals before he had been called back, it had seen blackness coil at the corners of the plain, indicating the end of the scenario. But somehow . . . somehow, the mortal had faced her fear and lived.

It put out mental feelers for the other mists. Five of the seven mortals who had been tested were dead. There were only two left, including this one. It invited the mists who had lost their mortals to the Metus Lacus to join it and watch this mortal face her next challenge. It was sure that after it described what had happened, most of them would accept the offer. What followed was certain to be interesting.

* * * * *

Sara panted on the floor, her eyes closed, trying to regain her bearings. She did several inhalations and exhalations from her yoga training, centered herself, and opened her eyes again. She studied the chamber, taking in the three dead bodies, the softly glowing cistern, the indistinct movements above her head that she knew to be enormous arachnids. She must still be alive.

Now that the harsh reality of her situation was upon her again, she realized how close to death she had actually come. Had she not objected to marrying John, she knew it would have meant her death. The dream might not have been real, but her greatest fear was herself and whether she had the fortitude to do what she wanted with her life instead of having it dictated and controlled by others. Had she succumbed to her dream-self, she had no doubt her real self would have died, disappeared mysteriously on the trip to Tajikistan, meeting an unknown fate that even the American consulate would not have been able to solve. She shuddered.

So, she had to face her greatest desire now. Sara wondered what she would possibly see in the pool. She understood all too well now how difficult it was to separate dream feelings from actual feelings. It was very, very real in the pool. She didn’t want to die.

She would just have to resist whatever was in there – wealth, success, perhaps fame even.

She would be ready.

Sara got to her feet and walked forward until she reached the low wall of the pool. She leaned over and looked into the glowing water without hesitating. She saw the bright light and felt the familiar feeling of being pulled through a thick gelatin. Then, the light faded, the mist receded and she found herself in an enormous, hideskin tent.

CHAPTER 4 The Pool of Desire

Sara looked around. The tent was huge, almost the size of a small house. There were hides on the ground and torches set in low holders around the walls of the room. A rough-looking wooden table and three chairs occupied part of the tent. In the center of the room, a fire had been built in a stone hearth. On the far side, there was a large, low bed piled with dark furs. On the other side, there was a low stone bench.

The hides covering the entrance to the cave flapped a bit. She could hear the wind howling outside, muted by the thick skins draped over the structure. The air coming from the slight gap in the entrance flap seemed bitterly cold, but it was warm in the tent, the fire being adequate to heat the enclosure.

She looked down. She no longer wore her white sundress, but instead a dress made of some sort of animal skins. It was light brown and fell to mid thigh. It seemed to have been tailored-made for her, form-fitting, hugging her curves precisely. At first glance, the hem looked uneven, almost ragged, but looking closer, Sara saw that the workmanship of the dress was exquisite, the dress carefully cut and sewn to an irregularly patterned design. It had thin straps for sleeves, a high leather collar that ran around her neck, and a large open area plunging to her breasts. Entwined metal rings ran down her neck, connecting the collar to the bosom. A leather bra encased her breasts and two matching rows of chains ran from the bra to the outward most points of her hips, attaching to her skirt, leaving her back and belly bare. Her feet and legs were also bare, her fair skin contrasting with the shades of browns surrounding her.

She also wore a cloak, a light cloak, attached with a gold clasp at her throat. There was something else. The opal ring was still on the chain around her neck.

So, what was this? Was she on a dig? An expedition? Her greatest desire was to go camping – in some sort of slave girl-princess outfit? She walked barefoot to the fire over the soft skins and looked into the flames, absorbing the warmth. Suddenly, she heard low, angry voices. A group of men stopped outside the entrance flap arguing with each other. Then, the hides lifted and one of the men walked inside, dropping the skin behind him. She looked across the fire at him, her mouth falling open.

A bulky figure covered in a thick pile of furs strode to the far corner of the tent, his face obscured by what looked like a giant lion, complete with rows of sharp white teeth, drawn over the top of his head. There was a light dusting of snow covering his garments.

The man stopped by a low stone table and grunted, removing the head of the lion and shaking the remainder of the lionskin cloak from his shoulders. Underneath, he wore more skins and a chain mail coat that glittered, catching the torchlight.

He turned around, his hands unfastening his clothing, his black eyes fixed on Sara. His skin was dark brown and he had thick black hair and a hard set to his smooth, but rugged face. His eyes were like pools of lust, boring into her, desire evident in their obsidian depths. Why was he looking at her like that? She realized she was staring at him and dropped her eyes, blushing heavily.

When she looked back up, trying to be a bit more surreptitious, she realized he had not stopped looking at her. He had finished removing his armor and furs. He sat on the stone bench calmly unlacing his black boots and stepped out of his heavy, fur-lined leggings.

Then he rose.

Sara’s breath caught in her throat. In all her life she had never seen such a perfect specimen of a man. He was heavily muscled, but not to the point of being bulky. He had not an ounce of fat on him. He moved with the grace of a lion, supple and agile. If he moved that way undressing, how would he move in other situations? Sara bit her lip, thinking of him taking her, his hard, muscled body riding hers, plunging ceaselessly into her body as she arched in the firelight, lost to pleasure. How would his black eyes look as he took her, burning down into her, possessed with a primal, animal lust? God, a man as strong as that would be a powerful lover, strong, sure, thorough, but probably not gentle. No, probably not gentle at all.

With a start, she came back to reality. He had not completely undressed. Heavy, dark-gold armbands encircled his corded upper arms. He wore a loincloth of sorts, made of split leather and mail. It looked to be open underneath and she imagined there was no more under the garment than it appeared. He also wore a short sword buckled about his waist. His body glistened in the torchlight, as if it had been oiled.

And he was still looking at her, his black eyes penetrating, as if he could see right through her very soul. He fixed her with a smoldering gaze and walked toward her slowly, purposefully, his musculature rippling in the firelight. Dear god, she breathed.

* * * * *

The mist looked appreciatively on the scenario before it. Now this was something to which it could relate. The other male candidate had died and the female mortal was the only one left. All of the mists had gathered to watch this woman compete with her desire. Although it was interesting to watch the mortals die, it was becoming a bit tiresome to have so few successes. It had been a long time since they had a worthy mortal to train. All hoped that at least one of the mortals would survive this time.

* * * * *

Sara held her breath as the man moved closer, reaching the hearth and circling around it, as if she were prey, until he stood behind her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, hotter than the flames before her, as if she would be burned if he touched her. She closed her eyes, the world beginning to recede, her breath quickening, focusing only on the presence of the godly man behind her who she felt was about to consume her within a phoenix of lust.

 

“Sara.” The man’s voice jolted her. He had spoken her name, she was sure of it, although he had said it rather gutturally and it had come out sounding more like “Sareta.”

His voice was low and sensuous.

“It has been so long. Do you not have any greeting for Arystan?” He lifted her hair and gently bit the side of her neck. Sara felt as if she might melt.

Suddenly, he whirled her roughly to face him. She stared up at him, her blue eyes wide.

She was surprised, but not frightened.

“You look as if you’ve never seen me before, woman,” Arystan said, growling. “Has it been that long? I will have to make you remember me then.”

He pulled Sara to him strongly, causing her body to jerk. She let out a cry as her flesh met his. It was hard, god so hard, and firm, alive, fiery. And his touch, strong and lustful, as if he could, and would, devour her. She could feel his enormous erection beneath the cloth at his loins and without thinking, she pressed into it further, grinding it into her abdomen.

“I see your body recalls me now, consort,” the man said lustfully, giving her another jerk.

His eyes flicked briefly to the small chain she wore around her neck, the opal ring tucked between her breasts, but he said nothing.

Sara looked up at him helplessly, her blue eyes glazed with desire, a powerful ache between her thighs. Something very dim in the back of her mind registered a warning, something cautionary. She could not quite identify what the voice was trying to tell her.