Myla By Moonlight (24 page)

Taric’s arms wrapped around her waist, holding her rhythmically undulating body. A lightning blast began in his gut and burst out with a pulsing white heat. Part of his soul tore away, fractured with intensity. He shuddered within her, spilling with a force he’d never dreamt of.

Until he tasted the salt of her skin, he hadn’t realized his teeth had sunk into the curve of her neck. She’d made him an animal and the sensation was deliciously erotic.

Both gasping, sucking air in greedy gulps, they remained upright and joined, unwilling to move, to lose the connection. Finally, exhaustion settled and Myla began to tremble. Taric laid her onto the sheet, sliding his own quaking body beside hers.

What had happened? How had she turned him into such a raging beast? Smoothing the dark curls away from her temples, he stared into her flushed face in awe.

Myla lay serene and tranquil, her dewy skin soft beside his, and Taric marveled at her. So many emotions had rippled through him today—fear and confusion, horror and embarrassment, rage and fury, joy and ecstasy. Each and every one she’d experienced with him. Was their bond so potent, so close that he’d reacted to her felinity? Did she have that much control over him?

Acceptance filled him. He knew she did. He was completely in her power. There was no place he’d rather be.

With dawning sadness, Taric bit his inner lip. If Myla were truly real, he’d have given her his child tonight. He knew it deep in his soul, had felt that small part of himself flow to her with a joyous hope. He traced the quivering swell of her belly and mourned what could not be. Not yet. A vow stiffened his lip. He would make her real, make her a mother to his son. How he knew his child would be a son he couldn’t answer, but he knew it, felt it in his marrow. A son he would name Batu Rakasic—
Gift of the Moonlight
.

His gentle stroke opened her eyes and she stared up at him with a love so severe it stole the little breath he had. A single tear leaked out, coursing toward her hair.

“I love you, Taric. I always shall. No matter…where or what I am, know that you have my heart.”

He dipped his head to kiss her when she stiffened. An intuitive glaze painted her face and she bolted upright in the bed.

a
b

Lunian found her husband on the rooftop. Most people didn’t know Balic often escaped to the top of Thistlemount to think but she knew him well. Unlike their home, Nemury castle boasted many tin-covered peaks and vaulted rooflines. Only this small portion was flattened, used for boiling pots of oil or water in case of invasion. Its central location in Eldwyn had rendered that need virtually unnecessary. The fire pits had been long swept clean.

Two wall torches fought off the darkness and turned the back of Balic’s honeyed head to burnished gold. Well into his fifties, Balic defied aging. What little gray hair he had blended with the wheat to all but disappear. His broad shoulders hunched, he leaned in one of the crenelated valleys surveying the sky. Like when Lunian first saw him two summers ago, he made her heart race.

She slipped her arms around his waist and squeezed. “You snuck away from the guards. I sent them to bed but I’m sure you’ll hear grumbling in the morning.”

His palm stroked her arm. “I needed the air. The view here’s not much different than home.”

“Stars are stars, they don’t change. What has you troubled? Taric’s trial is over and his wedding not far off. Marchen has been deposed and will have trouble maintaining his armies from outside Eldwyn. I’d think you’d be celebrating.”

“Marchen is a boil. Just when you think he’s gone, he’ll fester back, angrier than ever. No, if anything, the next months will be the bloodiest. I’ve wounded his pride.”

“Wounded pride, hah. That man should be flayed alive for what he did to that poor child’s mind. Did you see her? She has no wits left, that monster. And Emeric is a soft-bellied fish. He makes my skin crawl with his twitchy expressions. How could any man damage two innocent children like that?”

“His hate devoured what mind his magic hadn’t.” With a sigh, Balic turned in her embrace and circled her waist. “I don’t want to talk about Marchen anymore.”

His smile let her know exactly what he was thinking and he lowered his lips to her neck. She shook her head. “Balic, hasn’t anyone told you that you’re no longer eighteen summers? You’re supposed to be past the age of raging lust.”

“I think I missed that decree,” he teased, nuzzling below her ear.

“Hmm, I see that. You and your son both have no restraint in this area.”

He pulled back slightly and twisted his lip. “I suppose I should say something to him about that.”

“Now that would be the royal pot calling the kettle black. You certainly didn’t wait until our wedding.”

“You were a widow, not a maiden. Taric’s been a grown man for a long time but still, he let his nobility slide. He shouldn’t have taken her innocence.”

“He didn’t.” She rubbed her nose with his, her hands sliding into his hair. “She gave herself. The way I understand it, since she gave her innocence freely, there isn’t the burden of a tearing each time. It seems that freely given means permanent.”

His hands gripped her firmly and held her away from him, a frown marring his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Her virginity.” Lunian stepped back to his chest but Balic’s mind was on things other than her kisses now. “Myla explained that all her wounds heal when she returns to Taric. When I asked about her virginity, she said it didn’t return and her only reason for that occurring was because Taric didn’t take it, she gave it with love.”

Balic turned from her and began to pace slowly, rubbing his lip with a finger. “It hasn’t returned?”

“No, she said not. Why?”

His chestnut eyes sparkled like candle flames when he smiled at her, their fire warming her. “Lu, you’re amazing. You may have just saved Taric the heartache of searching.”

“How?” Puzzled, she returned his boisterous kiss and caught his arm before he darted for the door. “Balic, what are you talking about?”

“If she freely gave her virginity and stayed…opened, then what if she freely gives away her magic?”

“You mean she might have the power to become human herself and not know it?”

“Worth a try, don’t you think?” Excitement erased the lines from his face.

She leapt into his arms. Hope blossomed through her. After so many seasons of bloodshed and hurt, Taric deserved peace and love. So did her husband. And if she had given the smallest aid in finding that peace, then she was content.

Balic chuckled, spinning her around. The deep sound blended with her loud laugh and filled the rooftop. She delighted in his laughter, his hope, his joy. Love swelled her heart and leaked out on her laughter. Hidden in her lively kiss was the soft creak of a door.

His hands cupping her cheeks, Balic arched his brows. “Let’s go ask her. I’ve a dying need to hear the word ‘Grandpapa’.”

A breath raced across her chin from her affronted snort. “Well, I am quite content to wait to hear ‘Grandmama’. Besides, you can’t go barging in on them now. I’m sure they’re…celebrating. Wait until morning.”

Balic shook his head stubbornly and gripped her hand. “No. This is too important. Come on, the sooner we ask, the sooner we know—and the sooner we can go to bed.”

“Balic, I’m not sleepy.”

He pulled her toward the door, a sultry smirk tilting his mustache. “Neither am I, Lu, now come on.”

Lunian’s giggle tickled her throat before it began to burn with choking pain. The last sound she heard was the scream of her name.

a
b

“What?” His breath rasping loudly, Taric cupped Myla’s cheek. “What is it?”

“Danger. Death.”

“Where? What kind of danger?” Sliding from the sheets, he grabbed his breeches.

Myla tugged her shift over her head. She didn’t bother with a gown, shoes or hair combs but tore from the room, her words lingering longer than her body. “Marchen…your father…on the roof.”

“Myla!” Yanking his pants up, he grabbed his sword and raced after her but her feet were swifter. He paused to bang on Bryton’s door before throwing it open. Bryton shot straight up in the bed, a mass of blonde beneath him. “The roof, now! Marchen’s there.”

Bryton’s curse followed him as Taric ran toward the stairs. The cold stone steps felt damp beneath his bare feet but they didn’t slip. He skipped two and three at a time up the circular pathway. Night air whistled through the opened door, from where the sound of clanging steel never ceased, growing louder when he crested the top.

Myla stood just outside the doorway, her luminescent eyes trained on the two men battling viciously before her. Taric gulped air but it stuck in his chest.

His stepmother lay prone on the stone floor. Eyes opened wide, her arm stretched to cradle her head, a deep slice across her throat. Blood no longer pumped from the wound. Her heart was no longer beating.

Before he could spare a prayer for her, a flash of green snapped his head to the left but Myla was already there. Emeric Marchen charged with a poorly held sword above his head. Marchen’s son might have been a comical sight if the moon hadn’t winked so wickedly off the blade.

Myla used one long leg to sidekick him hard in the gut, her strength sending him backward toward the crenelated notches along the wall. Untrained in any art other than whining, he stumbled under the force and weight of his heavy weapon. He tipped over the stone and the night swallowed him. His scream dimmed until a distant thud silenced it sharply. Having fallen from the northern side, his body would not be discovered until after dawn. Taric didn’t much care.

“The queen, oh shit!” Bryton’s exclamation overlapped a feminine gasp. “Damn it, I told you to stay downstairs, Kat.”

Taric heard the voices behind him but refused to drag his gaze from Marchen and his father. Sweat and blood dripped from both, attesting to the length of time the fight had been going on. Myla stood on the outskirts of the clash, each line in her body tense and prepared to pounce. She was his guardian, not his father’s. She might not interfere but Taric would. He wouldn’t allow his sovereign to die. He wasn’t ready to become king.

Balic forced Marchen backward with a series of short powerful jabs. Marchen twirled and lashed out, striking the king’s injured right shoulder. A pained cry split the night and Balic’s sword arm fell useless. Sneering in anticipated victory, Marchen rushed forward.

Balic wasn’t a legend in battle based on myth. He used his left arm to slice a vicious line upward, splitting his opponent’s chin, exposing bone. Red spray arced into the moonlight but the men rounded on each other once more.

“Your bastard joins us to watch your death, Balic. How appropriate.”

“I assure you, his birth was legitimate. After all,
I
was married to his mother. She rejected you like the failure you are.”

“You had to put me in irons to keep me from her. One moment was all I needed. I could have made Tarsha love me the way I loved her.”

Balic’s face twisted in disgust. “Like you made your daughter remember things that never happened? You sick bastard. Tarsha never loved you. She feared you. She pitied you.”

A crazed look sparked in Marchen’s eyes and he flew at Balic with a wordless cry. Right arm dangling, Balic defended the attack one-handed but was losing ground.

Bryton sprinted around the fray, prepared to step in, his unbelted tunic snapping in the wind, hair streaming like a flame. Taric started forward three different times but it wasn’t until the sword clattered from his father’s hand that he leapt. He beat Bryton by a hairsbreadth. Taric landed in front of Marchen and Bryton jerked the king away.

“Taric, no!” Balic shouted but blood loss and pain stripped the command from his voice. Even drained by hurt and exertion, Balic fought. Bryton had to physically restrain him from charging back into the fight.

“Stand down, Emerto.” Taric pointed his clean sword directly into the bleeding, obsession-ridden face. “This ends now. No more.”

Marchen took a step back, his leer tugging the gaping edges of his wound. “It ends tonight, spawn, but when I say, not before.”

Laughing sadistically, he held his left arm high. A chant in strange words rang out and lightning shot into his arm. The rooftop shook with enchantment and everyone but Marchen fought for balance. He’d used his magic to pull power from the air.

A storm converged and the night rumbled with thunder drawn by forces outside nature. Howling gusts whipped with raking teeth, and rain began to spit. The torches gasped and flickered before dying a wet death, plunging the rooftop into dangerous shadows. The half-moon battled the clouds in a celestial rebellion, forcing its filtered light through the imposed gloom.

Without warning, the man twenty summers Taric’s senior and already winded attacked with the might of a giant. Blood no longer dripped from his wound but the bone of his mandible shone eerily. Steel met steel with bone-shattering power.

Taric clenched his jaw, reached for every bit of strength, yet his muscles still quivered from the blow. A trickle of dread chilled his spine and he wondered if he had the strength to defeat the enchanted villain. Heated resolve rushed through him. He would or he’d take the butcher out with him.
This war ends tonight, here on this rooftop
.