Read Beneath a Midnight Moon Online
Authors: Amanda Ashley
Beneath a Midnight Moon (19 page)
Chapter 31
Hardane braced himself against the bulkhead as the ship cleaved through the waves toward the open sea. His satisfaction that his plan had worked warred with his regret at leaving Kylene in such haste. But it couldn’t be helped. He could not put her life in jeopardy, not now.
He frowned as he looked at his body . . . her body, now. Always before, he had taken on the shape of a man, and with it, a man’s physique and a man’s strength.
He shook his head ruefully, remembering how he’d tried to struggle when they’d dragged him below decks. Kylene’s slender, softly rounded arms lacked the strength he’d always taken for granted and he’d felt utterly weak and helpless as two of the Interrogator’s men had wrestled him down the narrow ladder, their hands groping his flesh.
A wry grin twisted Hardane’s lips as he glanced down. He had breasts now, a narrow waist, long, shapely legs. He had soft skin and a wealth of russet-colored hair, none of which could be used to defend himself.
He had known a soul-deep anger as one of the Interrogator’s men had shoved him up against the bulkhead and caressed him. With his hands lashed behind his back, Hardane had been helpless to fight the man off. Until he’d resorted to an age-old feminine maneuver and kneed the man in the groin. He’d been unable to help wincing, himself, as he did so. Still, Hardane had felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction as the man instantly released him and doubled over, clutching his battered manhood.
That had been hours ago. How many hours, Hardane wondered as he gazed around his prison. It was an empty storeroom, four solid walls, no portholes, only one door.
With the ease of a man at home on the sea, he began to pace the floor, cursing the long skirts that hampered his every step even as he wondered how long he’d be able to maintain Kylene’s shape.
He felt odd, as though he’d been stuffed into clothes that were too tight. And that was odder still, because he’d never felt that way when he had assumed male shapes, or the shape of the wolf.
For a moment, he toyed with the idea of becoming the wolf, of ripping out the throat of whoever first opened the door of his prison. But he dismissed the thought immediately. He couldn’t kill the whole crew, and as long as he was imprisoned, he dared not change into another shape for fear of alerting the Interrogator to the fact that he hadn’t captured Kylene at all.
Time. He needed to buy time. Time for his father to return to Argone.
A sound at the door brought Hardane to an abrupt halt and he backed against the bulkhead, waiting, wishing his hands weren’t bound behind his back, wishing he had a weapon with which to defend himself.
And then the door swung open and the Interrogator entered the room, a smug expression in his ice blue eyes. Two men, well armed, stood watch in the companionway.
“What is the meaning of this?” Hardane demanded. The sound of Kylene’s voice coming from his throat startled him for a moment.
“I am only reclaiming what was mine,” the Interrogator replied coldly. “No one has ever escaped from the Fortress and lived to tell the tale. I could not have a woman be the exception.”
The Interrogator closed the door and leaned against it. Drawing a dagger from his belt, he tapped the narrow blade against the palm of his hand.
“It was in my mind to dispose of you,” he remarked, “but then I realized that you’re the perfect bait to lure Hardane to Mouldour.”
“Why do you want m . . . Hardane?”
“I want to learn the secret of shape shifting.”
“It isn’t a trick to be learned; it’s a part of him, of who he is.”
The Interrogator made a wordless sound of disagreement. “I don’t believe that.”
“It’s true nonetheless.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps a little torture, cleverly inflicted by one skilled in the art, will loosen his tongue. If not . . .”
The Interrogator smiled a cold cruel smile as he dragged a finger down Kylene’s cheek.
“If his own pain will not pry the secret from him, perhaps the sight of his life-mate writhing in agony will do the trick. Either way, I shall enjoy the game.”
With a cry of rage, Hardane lunged forward. In his haste, he tripped over the hem of his skirt. He fell forward, felt the edge of the dagger pierce his right shoulder as he stumbled into the Interrogator’s blade.
Silently cursing his weakness and his clumsiness, Hardane reeled back, groaning softly as the Interrogator jerked the blade from his flesh.
“Stupid girl,” the Interrogator snarled. “You’ll be no good to me dead.”
“Or alive,” Hardane retorted.
He flinched as the Interrogator struck him hard across the mouth.
“Enough of your insolence, my lady. It matters not to me whether you spend this voyage in comfort or in chains. The choice is yours.”
So saying, the Interrogator opened the door and left the room.
With a sigh, Hardane sank down on the floor. His shoulder throbbed monotonously. Blood continued to trickle down his arm, forming a small dark pool beside him.
He closed his eyes, fighting the pain as he concentrated on maintaining Kylene’s shape. Only a few more days, he thought wearily; only a few more days and then it wouldn’t matter.
Kylene sat in a soft leather chair before the hearth in her bedchamber, a heavy quilt drawn around her shoulders as she stared into the flames.
Sharilyn had sent a messenger to Chadray to advise Lord Kray of what had transpired. Other runners had been sent to the nearby farms, asking them to send men to help defend Castle Argone should it be necessary. The animals had been driven inside the castle walls and the gates shut and locked. Every precaution that could be taken had been put into effect, and now all they could do was wait—wait to see if the Interrogator returned, wait for Lord Kray and his sons to come home.
Kylene gazed out the window, wishing she could cry, but the emptiness she felt inside was too deep for tears. Hardane had assumed her shape so that she could get away, gambling with his life so that the Interrogator would be satisfied to leave once he’d captured the prize he came for. And it had worked, but at what cost. The Interrogator would no doubt execute Hardane once he realized he’d been duped. If that happened, it would no longer matter that she was safe, Kylene thought disconsolately. She’d have nothing left to live for . . .
She cut the thought off in midsentence, feeling as though she were betraying not only Hardane but a part of herself as well.
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on Hardane, and gradually, as if a fog were lifting from her mind, his image appeared before her. Only it wasn’t his image at all. It was startling, like looking in a mirror. He was locked in a small room of some kind, his hands—her hands?—bound behind his back. Dried blood darkened his clothing.
Even as she watched, he stood up and took on his own shape, and then he began to pace the floor. So vivid was his image, she could feel the sharp pain in his shoulder, the chafing of the coarse rope that bound his arms behind his back. He seemed oblivious to the discomfort as he continued to pace the floor. She felt his anger, his quiet desperation. His satisfaction that he’d been able to deceive the Interrogator.
“Hardane . . .”
She spoke his name aloud, saw him pause, his head cocked to one side. Had he heard her, then? She called his name again, felt the bond between them vibrate.
“Come back to me, my lord wolf,” she said, willing her love across the miles that separated them. “Please come back to me.”
She heard footsteps approaching the room where he was held captive. In the blink of an eye, Hardane sank to the floor and assumed her shape as a knock came at the door.
The knocking came again and then again, and the images faded like shadows before the rain.
Disoriented, Kylene opened her eyes and looked around. Only then did she realize it had all been a dream, and that someone was knocking at her chamber door.
And then the tears came.
Chapter 32
For Hardane, the hours seemed to crawl by, with each day the same as the last. He was given food and water and the opportunity to relieve himself twice each day.
It was an odd feeling, lifting layers of heavy cloth, then squatting over a wooden bucket to urinate when he was accustomed to standing. He tolerated the snickers of his guards, the occasional caress, wondering how women who sold their favors to strangers endured such intimacies.
He felt a deep sense of revulsion at being touched against his will. It galled him, being forced to endure the lewd stares of the Interrogator’s men, having to listen to their coarse suggestions, knowing he was at the mercy of his guards, of the Interrogator, because, in his present form, he was smaller, weaker.
Late at night, when he was certain of being undisturbed, he transformed into his own shape. Resuming his own form was like slipping on a pair of old boots—comfortable and familiar.
In his own shape, Hardane prowled the confines of the small storeroom restlessly, hour after hour, his mind filling with images of Kylene. She had become the most important thing in his life. She was his woman, his wife. He longed to hold her in his arms once more, to feel the warmth of her body against his own.
Kylene. She was never out of his thoughts, his dreams. Once, he had imagined that he heard her voice pleading with him to return.
He kept track of the days as best he could. If his calculations were correct, they’d been at sea twelve days.
If his calculations were correct, they would reach Mouldour on the morrow.
And now it was night and the Interrogator had come to see him again, as he had each day, his expression smug, his ice blue eyes cold and unwavering.
Hardane stood with his back to the wall, his hands bound behind him, waiting, wondering what lay in store for him once they left the ship. Nothing good, he mused, judging by the look on the Interrogator’s face. Somehow, he would have to escape his captors before they reached the Fortress.
“I had thought to execute you upon our arrival at Mouldour,” the Interrogator remarked. He crossed the floor until he was less than an arm’s length away from the woman he’d been sent to destroy. “But now . . .”
His eyes narrowed as he caressed her cheek. The skin was smooth and soft beneath his callused fingertips and he felt a sudden stirring in his loins. Surely, now that he had her away from Hardane of Argone, there was no need to dispose of her immediately.
Hardane jerked his head back to avoid the Interrogator’s touch. “But now?”
“You would be wise not to annoy me, my lady,” the Interrogator warned.
Reaching out, he caught Kylene’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a cruel squeeze.
“Your life is in my hands, madam. I can let you live, or I can execute you now in any manner that amuses me.”
Knowing it would be foolish to provoke the man, Hardane kept silent.
An oath escaped the Interrogator’s lips. Insolent wench, he thought, and then, because she refused to cower, refused to beg, he slapped her hard across the face, taking perverse pleasure in the bright red stain that blossomed on her cheek.
“You might spend the night thinking of the last time you were a guest in the Fortress,” the Interrogator suggested.
Hardane’s eyes narrowed as he remembered the brutal whipping Kylene had endured at the hands of the Executioner.
“I see you’ve not forgotten the feel of the lash, or my promise to see you dead. Perhaps in the morning you will be more agreeable,” the Interrogator mused. He placed his hand on Kylene’s shoulder, let it slide suggestively down her arm, the back of his hand caressing her breast. “You might even think of some way to convince me to allow you to live.”
“Don’t count on it.” Even as he spoke the words, Hardane knew it was a mistake, but some inner devil forced the retort past his lips, perversely determined to have the last word no matter what the cost.
Fury blazed in the Interrogator’s ice blue eyes. Hardane reeled back as the Interrogator struck him across the face with the short crop he habitually carried.
The blow laid Hardane’s cheek open almost to the bone, splattering blood in the Interrogator’s face and over the walls.
Incensed that the man would strike a woman in such a fashion, his cheek burning with pain, Hardane spit in the Interrogator’s face.
“You’ll regret that,” the Interrogator promised as he wiped Hardane’s blood and spittle from his face. “I’ll flay the skin from your body an inch at a time, madam, and then, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you die.”
With a smug smile, the Interrogator opened the door and left the room.
Hardane waited until the Interrogator’s footsteps had receded, and then he sank down on the floor, resting his head on his bent knees, his lacerated cheek throbbing from the Interrogator’s blow.
The next morning, at the cry of “Land ho!” he transformed into the wolf.
He heard the sound of whistling as the crewman who brought him breakfast each morning approached the storeroom.
Hardane’s hackles rose as the key turned in the lock. Had he been in human form, he might have laughed at the startled look on the man’s face when he saw a wolf inside the room. But he wasn’t a man now, and he was in no mood for laughter.
With a growl, he hurled himself at the hapless crewman, his mouth filling with the warm, sweet taste of blood as his teeth ripped into the man’s shoulder. And then he was out the door, clawing his way up the narrow ladder, racing across the deck toward the gangplank.
He heard a shout behind him, felt a deep burning pain as an arrow pierced his right leg. And then, from the rigging, someone dropped a net over him and he knew he was well and truly caught.
Panting hard, he lifted his head to find the Interrogator staring down at him, a look of amazement in his cold blue eyes.
“Hardane,” the Interrogator murmured. “Can it be you?” He turned to the seaman who had brought the wolf down with a single well-placed arrow. “Quetzel, go below and check on our prisoner.”
Hardane remained where he was, bloody saliva dripping from his jaws, his gaze fixed on the Interrogator’s face.
Drawn by the commotion, the other crewmen gathered around, their faces reflecting astonishment at finding a wolf on board.
Moments later, Quetzel returned. “The lady’s gone, my lord.”
“And Ren?”
“Bad hurt.”
The Interrogator nodded, his expression one of grim satisfaction. He had lost the lady, he mused. Indeed, it now appeared he’d never had the lady at all, but perhaps he had something far better.
“How’d a wolf get on board?” Quetzel asked, still eyeing the beast.
“It’s not a wolf.”
“Not a wolf!” Quetzel’s hand tightened on the crossbow clutched in his hand. “My lord, you can see with your own eyes that—”
The Interrogator cut him off with a wave of his hand. “This, my friend, is none other than Hardane, Lord of Argone.”
Quetzel stared at the wolf, at the thick black fur, at the bloody saliva, at the arrow jutting from the bloody wound, and then a slow smile spread across his broad face. Everyone knew the Interrogator had been seeking the Wolf of Argone for months. Surely there would be a large reward for the man who had brought him down.
The Interrogator nudged the wolf in the side.
“Will you go to the Fortress as wolf or man, Hardane?” he asked harshly. “The choice is yours.”
Hardane stared at the Lord High Interrogator through unblinking gray eyes. Other than Kylene and his immediate family, no one had ever seen him transform from one shape to another.
With a shrug, the Interrogator turned away. “Niles, secure the net so the beast can’t escape. Quetzel, there’s a large sea chest in the hold. Bring it up and lock the wolf inside, net and all. Perhaps, by the time we reach the Fortress, he’ll be more agreeable.”
It was a three-hour journey from the coast of Mouldour to the Fortress.
For Hardane, trapped in the net and locked inside a chest only large enough to hold him, it seemed much longer. No one had bothered to remove the arrow from his leg, and he howled with pain as the wagon jolted over the rough road. The air inside the box grew warm, stifling.
Helpless, steeped in fury, he imagined sinking his fangs into the Interrogator’s throat, drinking his blood to quench the awful thirst that plagued him.
He was only barely conscious when he realized that the motion of the cart had stopped. A short time later, the chest was unlocked, the lid was opened, and he was lifted out, net and all, and dumped into an iron-barred cell.
At the Interrogator’s command, a half-dozen armed men surrounded him. Then, with a vicious smile lighting his face, the Interrogator took hold of the arrow and jerked it from the wolf’s flesh.
Hardane roared with pain, his jaws snapping wildly as he struggled against the net in an effort to sink his teeth into his tormentor’s throat.
But the Interrogator only laughed and then, still chuckling with malicious glee, he motioned for his men to leave the cell.
Following them out, he closed and locked the heavy iron-barred door and pocketed the key.
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the men, ordering two of them to remain out of sight but within calling distance.
When he was alone in the dungeon, the Interrogator pulled a stool up to the cell and sat down, his gaze fixed on Hardane. All his life, he had yearned to know the secret of shape shifting, had yearned to see it done. And now the time was at hand. Sooner or later, Hardane’s control would slip and he would assume his own shape. And he would be there to see it.
Almost against his will, the Interrogator felt his gaze drawn to the wolf’s eyes, and as he stared into the creature’s unblinking gray gaze, he was gripped by a sudden terror as a primal fear of the ancient Wolffan race rose up within him.
Old tales, heard long ago in his childhood, flooded his mind. Tales of Wolffan males devouring human young, tales of female Wolffan luring innocent men to their deaths. Tales of Wolffan men and women mating with human men and women. Those tales he knew to be true. Hardane of Argone had been conceived from such a union. It was said the blood of the Wolffan could cure warts, that they could sicken a flock of sheep with a glance, that they drank human blood, and danced in the light of the midnight moon.
With a disdainful snort, the Interrogator shook such fanciful fables from his mind. The Wolffan had the power to assume other shapes, that was all. They weren’t witches; they possessed no hurtful magic.
Feeling calmer, he sat back, his arms crossed over his chest, and waited.
Plagued by thirst and the constant throbbing pain of his wound, Hardane lay panting on the cold stone floor, the weight of the net growing heavier with each passing moment. He longed for a drink, one cool drink of water, to ease his thirst.
Closing his eyes, he whined low in his throat, feeling more miserable, more alone, than he’d ever felt in his life.
As though reading his mind, the Interrogator reached for the water jug on the floor beside him. He shook it several times, the water making a pleasant swishing against the sides of the jar, and then he took a long slow drink, letting a little of the water dribble down his chin.
A low growl of rage and frustration rumbled in Hardane’s throat as the scent of the water reached his nostrils. Curse the man!
With a sneer, the Interrogator put the jug aside and rose to his feet. Taking up a three-pronged lance, he slid it through the bars and jabbed at the wolf’s injured leg.
Hardane howled with pain as the sharp prongs pierced his already torn flesh. Rage exploded within him, and with it the primal urge to kill.
Knowing it was futile, he began to thrash about, but the movement only entangled him more deeply in the net’s web.
The Interrogator leaned forward. “Change for me, Hardane,” he urged. “You’ll have no food, no water, until you do.”
A low-pitched snarl of frustration and rage filled the cell, and then, as the Interrogator jabbed him with the lance again, a long, anguished cry echoed off the cold stone walls.
“Change, Hardane,” the Interrogator urged. “Change now, or I’ll cleave your head from your body and send that fine black pelt to Kylene.”
It was not an idle threat. One look into the Interrogator’s cold blue eyes assured him of that.
For a moment, Hardane thought of giving up, of calling the Interrogator’s bluff and putting an end to everything once and for all. But then he thought of Kylene, of the anguish his death would cause her, and he knew he could not do anything to cause her grief, not now.
He felt the transformation sweep over him, saw the Interrogator’s eyes widen in stunned disbelief as wolf became man.
It took only moments, yet the Interrogator saw it all clearly, as if time had somehow slowed its pace. He saw the wolf’s head change shape, saw the thick black fur disappear while the paws transformed into human hands and feet. And suddenly it was Hardane, clad in a pair of buff-colored breeches, trapped within the net. Blood stained his right thigh and dripped onto the stone floor. A long gash, black with dried blood, angled down his left cheek.
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