A Thread in the Tangle (69 page)

 
Marsais growled, low and urgent, gritting his teeth against the urges of his flesh, struggling to keep his touch soft and his movements considerate as he pressed her into the plush mattress.
 
Fingernails bit into his back, panting gasps rose into the room, her desire echoed in his blood, amplified a hundred fold.

Time stilled.
 
Every brush of skin became a careful caress, blossoming with heat in those frantic moments when their hearts beat as one.
 
The nymph writhed beneath him, her flesh heated, and Marsais was lost.
 
Amidst an outcry of release, her body arched helplessly and her skin erupted with hungry flames of passion.

The nymph and her Bonded burned with fire that licked along their twining bodies, and Marsais cared not—he was beyond the point of stopping, beyond the place of thought or caring, and when he gazed upon her glowing face, an awe-inspiring fear clutched his heart.

Isiilde’s eyes blazed with an emerald fire that seared his spirit forever after.

Forty-five

T
HE
HEARTH
WAS
cold and the salty bite of the sea drifted through the cracks around the shuttered window.
 
A dream of softness and warmth draped his limp bones.
 
Marsais stirred, exploring this new, sublime world, gliding over a waterfall of silken fire.

I must have drunk an entire bottle of Primrose wine
, Marsais thought in the haze between sleep and consciousness.
 
A knock at the door tore him from perfection, and he jerked awake, casting groggily about as Isek entered his bedchambers, bearing a breakfast tray.

Marsais blinked, feeling a supple weight over his body, and with shocked realization saw that he had not been dreaming after all.
 
Isiilde was stretched out on top of him, head nestled on his chest, sleeping deeply and peacefully.

All around, the bedclothes were scorched and brittle, the bed curtains hung in tatters, and the hearth blackened from an intense explosion of heat.
 
Noting Isiilde’s exposure, he snatched the robe from the floor, simultaneously covering her body and scowling at his assistant.
 
With a profound look of amusement, Isek placed the tray on the bedside table.

“I hope you remember you have a duel today.” his assistant reminded, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“What time is it?” Marsais asked, hoarsely.

“Midday.”

Marsais winced.
 
“Has the Hound arrived?”

“Not yet, but you already look spent, my friend.
 
You two look like you had—a blast,” Isek remarked, warily eyeing the scorched room.

“Where’s Oenghus?” Marsais asked, ignoring the quip.

“Far as I know, he’s in his rooms.”

“Let me know when the Hound arrives.
 
In the meantime—” Marsais ordered Isek out with a sharp tilt of his brow.

“Of course,” Isek said, stealing one last look at the nymph before leaving with a low whistle.
 
Marsais frowned at the door.
 
He would need to ward his chambers from now on.

Taking care not to wake her, he slid to the side, and propped himself up on an elbow, pulling down the robe to study her slender back.
 
The nymph’s fiery mark was wrapped around the length of her spine, twining in and out of view.
 
Its scales glistened with heat; head and tail hidden behind the ridges of bone.

An identical mark curled around his own arm.
 
The creature’s head rested in the palm of his hand—a fiery brand that whispered of unimaginable power.
 
He knew she was tired, could feel her peaceful slumber and the calm rhythm of her heart, however, a shadow lingered, dark and foreboding, threatening to consume her with despair.

Isiilde’s eyes fluttered open.
 
She moaned over the cold before turning towards him and he gathered her in his arms, caressing the small of her back in slow, soothing circles.

“Good morning, my dear.”

“It can’t be morning,” she murmured against his chest.
 
The night’s passion came to mind and her eyes snapped opened.
 
She pulled away to study him, clearly concerned.

“You’re not burned are you?”

“No, I had an inkling of what might happen.”
 
He picked up his braid, studying the end.
 
“Just a bit singed, and feeling rather used.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she smiled shyly.

“And you?
 
Am I a bit more tolerable?”

“I can feel you, Marsais,” she purred, running her hand along the mark that wound its way up his arm.
 
“You feel like the sun glowing inside of me—although I feel like I’ve been trampled by a horse.”

“Hmm, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
 
Her smile suddenly faded, eyes dimmed, and he felt a chill spreading through her body.

“But—I don’t think I will ever sing again.”

“In time, my dear.
 
It can do wonders,” he said, tightening his arms about her with a fierce embrace.
 
“Now, although it’s rude of me, I’m afraid I must leave you here while I embark on a very brief errand.”

❧

Marsais left Isiilde lounging in a steaming bath while she devoured her breakfast and most of his.
 
He was exhausted, but once he got his legs moving, he limbered up, whistling a merry tune despite his errand.
 
He could feel her
inside
of him, an internal echo of calm warmth, telling him she was content and safe.

For once, legend lived up to fact: a nymph’s Bond was a remarkable thing.
 
The world was sharper, vivid, and he felt as if he had been reborn, more vigorous than he had ever been in his youth.
 
However, if his inkling was correct, this particular nymph was set far apart from the rest, which brought him to this current door, and fueled his unease.

Marsais had never been a particularly courageous man (although bravery often crossed the line into recklessness).
 
He had spent a good deal of his life avoiding needless confrontations, using his head over the baser instincts of his body.
 
But occasionally, flight was unavoidable.

With a deep, steadying breath, Marsais raised his fist to knock on Oenghus’ door.
 
But the moment before fist touched wood, the world spun, time unraveled, and a deluge of memory was unleashed, dropping him brutally to the floor.
 
His mind was overwhelmed.

He gasped, fighting for breath and mental stability, clinging to the remnants of his current life.
 
Marsais clutched his head, pressed his forehead to the cold stone, and tried not to scream as the scar across his chest flared with heat.
 
And pain—sharp and searing as a brand.

The stone floor was his anchor.
 
He focused on that point of contact, letting the deluge of memory wash over and through him, until it settled into a churning pool of thought.

Long minutes passed, filled with the rush of blood in his ears, the frantic gallop of his heart, and his ragged breath shuddering through his chest.
 
When the tide subsided, he dragged himself over to the wall, resting his elbows on his bony knees, holding his head in his hands as he sifted through the bits and pieces that had washed up on the shores of memory—ages upon ages of past lives, which he dared not linger on excessively.

“So much for a holiday,” Marsais grimaced, rubbing the scar beneath his shirt.
 
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to his feet, relying on the wall for support.

When the stone stopped spinning and he was grounded in the present once again, he straightened, standing unaided in the empty hallway.
 
Despite recent revelations, his errand had not changed.
 
He brought fist to door with demanding purpose.

No one answered.
 
Marsais pressed his palm to the wood, unraveling the protective ward with a murmur of Lore before walking in uninvited.

The kilted barbarian was working at his alchemy table, grinding a toad into mash with pestle and mortar and far more force than was necessary.
 
Marsais cleared his throat from the doorway.
 
And Oenghus tightened his grip on the pestle.

“I need to speak with you, Oenghus.”
 
There was no response.
 
“It’s about Isiilde’s mother.”
 
The grinding stopped.
 
Oenghus turned slightly to regard the unwelcome visitor, eyeing him balefully through his unkempt hair before returning to his work.

Marsais took a deep breath, fingers twitching uncomfortably.
 
“Fine!
 
I’ll give you one bloody shot, but anything after that and I swear I’ll fight back.”

Oenghus turned slowly, and asked, “Where’s her mark?”

“On her back, where it should be—do you actually think I’d do anything less for her?”
 
The Seer held up his arm, rolling back his sleeve to expose his own mark.
 
“Happy?”

Oenghus snorted and stepped up to him.
 
“You can keep her at a distance.
 
That way she won’t feel your pain.”

“I remember well enough,” Marsais replied, turning his attention inwards and dropping a curtain between their spirits with a shift of focus.
 
“If you knock out a tooth then I’ll take it personal.
 
I just finished growing back all the ones you knocked out last time.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry ‘bout your teeth,” Oenghus growled an instant before he yanked Marsais forward by the shirt front.
 
The fist never came, however, a knee did—right between his legs.

Marsais couldn’t have screamed if he tried to, instead, he dropped to his knees, doubling over and curling into a wheezing ball of nauseating agony.
 
Oenghus walked away to resume his work, chortling with dark amusement.

Some time passed before Marsais managed to groan, and even longer before he dared move.

Oenghus muttered the Lore, tracing a sharp rune over a basin, freezing the water within, and then took his knife to it, breaking it into chunks of ice.
 
He stuffed the fragments into a thin pouch, then hoisted Marsais onto his feet, pushing him into a chair and dropping the ice in his lap.

“Thank you,” Marsais puffed.

“You’re ugly enough to look at without a broken nose.
 
Figured I’d save what looks you have for my sprite.”

“How thoughtful.”
 
Marsais readjusted the ice.
 
Oenghus snatched a twig from the fire and put it to his pipe before settling into the chair opposite.

“Who was she?” Marsais asked, interrupting the puffing consideration.

“A nymph, who was named Yasine.”

“You know what I mean,” Marsais snapped.
 
Oenghus regarded him through a haze of smoke.

“Not my place to tell.”

“Blast it, Oenghus!
 
Isiilde is not your typical nymph.”

“You’re just figuring that out now, you daft bastard?” Oenghus snorted.