Remedy Maker (40 page)

Dendron’s eyes darkened, raising the hair on the back of Rhy’s neck. He was probably weighing the options of revealing some sacred Wood Nymph secret.

Rhy decided to push a little. “As Remedy Maker for the herds, you’re aware I have experience in healing. What do you need me to do?”

Dendron’s shoulders relaxed. “You would have to assist in performing a taproot soul transfer. I think her tree is dying, and as it succumbs, it’s taking Patience with it. She needs a strong, healthy sapling. At this point it may be her only chance for survival.” He waved his arm, indicating the forest around them. “Acid rain, logging, the onslaught of nonnative diseases have taken a toll—best not to get me started.”

They shook hands with the promise of meeting again soon to discuss the procedure. Rhycious considered Dendron’s words as they returned to Khristos, who leaned against a tree trunk with his eyes half-closed.

Once they neared, Dendron cleared his throat. “Thank you, gentlemen, from the bottom of my heart. You have my deepest gratitude for saving my daughter, Waverly’s, life.”

Khristos’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “Daughter?”

“The one and the same.” Dendron smiled slyly.

Rhy would have burst out laughing if it had been Aleksander on the hot seat instead of the prickly dark priest. Colors of the mountain streams flashed like sunshine reflecting on water, and Dendron shimmered away.

“Let me look at your wound,” Rhycious said, eyeing Khristos’s nasty gash.

“I’ll be fine. Look after yourself first.” Templar Khristos moved away to wait for Aleksander’s return. Rhy hoped their newly formed rapport would grow into trust one day. Perhaps, just maybe, timid Waverly had cracked the shell of the crusty old priest.

Sudden thoughts of Patience rolled over him in heat waves.
Oh yeah, I’m going home.
Surprise hit him for realizing he needed to touch her, to inhale her scent, and he couldn’t wait to feast his eyes on her. He considered Dendron’s suggested treatment and forced himself not to think of the possible negative outcome.

Without Patience, home was just a word. 

 “Rhycious.” Khristos looked all around. “Where’s Dryas?” He hobbled in a circle, searching out areas between the trees and beyond. Gripped in his palm, the sword’s jeweled hilt pointed away from his equine body.

Alarm spiked through Rhycious, certain in the awareness that somehow, some way, he had managed to fuck up again. The flattened grass etched an outline where Dryas had been. Cackles from the prisoners rang in his ears, cheering for the escaped rebel.

His gaze flew through the shadows of the forest. Anger followed in a crashing tidal wave and he cut his sword through the grass.

Patience!
No doubt Dryas overheard his conversation with Khristos and Dendron. His blood pressure plummeted, filling him with ice-cold dread.

“Stay here and wait for Alek.” Rhycious pulled his sword free, sending chunks of dirt to scatter and fly.

“You’re injured. You can’t go after him on your own.”

As if he needed the reminder. He stared at Khristos and took a gamble. “If Dryas were going after Waverly, what would you do?”

The black priest held his tongue and nodded in solemn agreement. “If he touches your Patience, rip his fucking heart out.”

Thirty

Rhycious followed a set of Centaur hoof prints toward the
Three Legged Mare
, and when the familiar pines on either side of the trail appeared, he took his first deep breath since he’d left the bizarre battle. Turning left down the needle-strewn path, he paused near a patch of bright yellow petals and kneeled for a closer look.

Although the heart of the underground bar lay fifty feet away, it might as well have been five hundred. Everything was quiet as he examined the flowers and used his knife to trim some leaves, a fragrant aroma tingling back through his nose.

The filtered lighting of the cocktail hour softened the trees that grew around the fields and hills, and bathed boulders in a sandy illumination. Before the war, his cabin and the woods had been a retreat for him, a way to get out of the palace when he wasn’t treating patients. He’d spent a lot of time here, gathering his remedies and making house calls.

 After the war, he had needed a fresh start, so he left the palace and moved into the cabin permanently.

Rhycious peeled his bandage back and stuffed the crushed yarrow leaves into the wound, ignoring the agony that shot through his shoulder. Also known as
Old Man Pepper
, the hot burn flared as the released oils staunched his weeping wound and dulled the pain.

When he’d been a young colt, he thought plants like this held the essence of Nymphs. Instead of gathering the herbs, all you needed were courtesies, and the occupant would hand them over. If only his childhood imagination were true, then he would have lived happily ever after a long time ago.

Fresh foot and hoof prints in all shapes and sizes abounded the area. Cigarette butts littered the ground. If Dryas had escaped into
The Mare
, Rhy would be a dead man to go in after him. Better to let Aleksander handle this one.

Rhy set off at a brisk pace toward the creek, the one that flowed next to Patience’s tree. When he took the crossing stones one at a time, he made sure to peer into the water to gain insight to any toxic secrets. Cool, clear water gurgled over moss-covered stones. Trout fry darted from one wavy shadow to the next. No Water Nymphs—at least none that he noticed.

Rhy’s private life with Patience was slowly becoming common knowledge. Gossip whipped around Boronda faster than Hippy drew her knife. Any number of people might have followed him to Samuel’s this morning, but if he were to lay odds, that person would be the Sergeant.

How else had Dryas found him so fast?

As a human, Samuel wouldn’t stand a chance against a Centaur in true form. And if hostile reinforcements were picked up along the way. . . gods. Rhy’s stomach dropped out.

It would be a fucking slaughter.

Rhycious chanced a shrug and manipulated his rotator cuff. The yarrow was doing its job; the streaks of sharp pain were lessening already. By the time he arrived at Sam’s, he had to be strong enough to defend them all.

If Dryas—or human hunters—came for a visit, Samuel would tuck Patience away the best he could. Rhy would have to trust in that, though it screamed at him to do so. The emotion squeezed his heart as he thought of her.

Rhycious was reasonably sure the incarcerated younger generation would waste no time in ratting out others to save their worthless hides. One look at Kempor Hippolyte decked out in full interrogation regalia, weapons dangling off her, creating the full monty of visual scare tactics, and they'd soil themselves.

He almost felt sorry for them.

Vegetation snapped and something louder than a derailed locomotive made its way through the forest. Rhy leaped for cover before whipping his gaze around. Richly diverse brush hid his crouched position. Random mosaics of small openings in the canopy created a landscape of patterns on the forest floor.

Humans
—it was their loud footfalls and vagrant disregard for nature that gave them away. Only the American Indians left the mythologicals alone.

“Where in the hell are you taking us, Dwight?” Four humans wearing jeans and t-shirts stumbled through the thick prickle bushes.

“Shit. He doesn’t know where we are.”

“Turn around and go back, then.” Dwight waved his hand, indicating the route they’d recently plowed. “While I have a good time, you’ll be whacking off in front of the TV tonight.”

“Fuck off.”

The humans trudged on, laughing as they went. They weren’t hunters, as far as Rhy could tell. None carried weapons or wore the usual camouflage. And he highly doubted they were headed to the
Three Legged Mare
. Namely because they’d never find it—the bar sat in the opposite direction.

Rhy waited until his heartbeat slowed and their careless steps were barely discernible before unfolding himself from the cramped position and continuing to Samuel’s farm. He fought the urge to break into a run and dash straight for Patience.

Shadows lengthened in patches of sunlight that managed to break through the woven branches above. He trailed behind the humans as they moved the same direction, keeping his ears open, and continuously scanning his surroundings.

A sloped rock ledge threw shade down, and he hugged the craggy wall. Lichen grew in damp spotted clumps. Chamomile clung to the soil poor crevices, the thin stalks reaching upward to catch evasive rays of light. Keeping low in the shadows, he hoped to overtake and pass the strolling humans.

A little farther ahead, against a natural shelf of flagstone, male voices murmured. Rhycious crouched and inched his way forward. A hollow echo bounced their words and reflected the tones, multiplying the number of speakers.

It wasn’t unusual for mythological groups to meet in caverns, their prime intention to stay hidden from an outsider’s curious eyes. Though anxious to be with Patience, Rhycious had a sworn duty to uphold. With insurgents stirred madder than wet ants, he wanted to know the occupants of the cave.

“Who’ll give me a starting bid?” A throaty, female called out. “Let’s open with one thousand dollars. Who’ll give me a thousand?” 

“Let’s see more of the merchandise.”

Catcalls and whistles erupted, feet stomped amidst swearing, and voices demanded more. Whoever they were, maintaining a hidden agenda wasn’t important.

“No! Stop it. Don’t do this to me.” Unbridled fear laced the high-pitched voice screaming her injustice.

Patience?

His brain told him she was safe at Samuel Beiler’s home, but his ears and heart focused on the familiar voice.

“Me thinketh doth protest too much.” a voice said. The raucous laughter of the audience followed.

Perhaps it was the terror-stricken feminine voice that called and made Rhycious stand to his full human height. Maybe it was the cruel manner in which the female auctioneer laughed and raised the hackles on the back of his neck. Whatever the reason, he double-checked his weaponry and slinked into the cave.

His back slid against the cool stone wall. Briny smells of rotting vegetation and stale air hit like an acrid barrier. From the sunlight at the entrance, the frenzied attendants were given ample opportunity to view the auction subject at hand.

Arms bound behind her bare back, a leather dog collar circled the slim column of a young woman’s throat. Pennelope gave the attached chain a vicious yank to get the half-naked girl moving.

Rhycious narrowed his eyes at the Troll. Was Aleksander was aware of her duplicity? He ducked his head and remained unobserved. Storms of anger rolled through him. It caught at his sensibilities and forced him to grip the jutting rocks at his back.

The pale skin of the slave’s upper body gleamed, dusky nipples pebbled in the cool cave air. Hunched forward, she hung her head and attempted to use her long hair to shield herself from so many male eyes and groping hands.

“She’s healthy and prime for the taking. Who wants to buy themselves a Wood Nymph today?” Pennelope led the girl through the standing-room only audience, her many silver bracelets sliding up and down her wrist. “Buy today, fuck tonight.”

“I’ll give you a thousand.” A stack of hundred-dollar bills waved in the air above a greasy head. “She better last all night, ‘cause I plan to ride her hard.”

“We have a thousand. Do I hear fifteen hundred?” Pennelope yanked on the chain, the force pulling hard on the Nymph’s collar.

Sprinkled dirt over stone covered the sound of Rhy’s careful steps. At the rear of the gathering, he made his way toward the nearest human who stood with his arms crossed and booted feet spread wide. He wore a knife at his waist and a gun in his shoulder harness.

“Twelve hundred,” called a bidder from the audience.

In a quick move, Rhy came up from behind and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck. At the same time, he relieved the human of his handgun. Surprised, the man brought his hands up and pulled against Rhy’s forearm, but the pistol’s cold barrel pressed against his head. The male stopped his struggles.

Rhycious hissed in his ear. “If you want to live, toss your knife and leave. Do you understand?”

Pennelope worked the room. Swishing her skirts, she used the exposed Nymph to taunt the sex-hungry men. “Twelve hundred. Do I hear thirteen?”

Under his arm, Rhy felt the man swallow and nod. Not until the blade skittered across the dirt did he loosen his hold and release him.

The human turned to leave, his eyes widening at the sight of Rhycious. Six-foot-eight and in full battle gear, flak jacket crisscrossed with weapons and throwing stars at the ready, Rhy was an impressive sight. Mouth gaping, the male backed away and hit the sunlight running. The room was so packed and the audience so preoccupied, no one noticed the man leaving.

“Fifteen hundred!”

Before Pennelope could jockey the bids higher, Rhycious grabbed another bidder by the neck, nearly cutting off his air supply, and raised the appropriated semi-automatic over the shoulder of his human shield.

“Five thousand dollars.” Rhy’s voice boomed in the cavern, dislodging a few bats and turning every eye toward him. He kept the gun brandished at the crowd. Wrapped in a chokehold, the human wheezed while tripping on his tiptoes, and Rhy slowly moved their position to the back of the cave where Pennelope and the girl stood frozen.

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s the biggest guy I’ve ever seen.”

“That ain’t no human. Fuck it, I’m out of here. No piece of ass is worth this.”

Rhycious kept a tight hold on the male, dangling him almost to the point of snapping his neck. To keep from choking out, the human performed a crazy-legged chicken dance. It would have been amusing had the timing been right.

He swung his gun toward the lingering attendees—and Pennelope.

“What in the hell are you doing, Troll?” Rhy demanded. The sight of a mythic auctioned off to the highest bidder sickened him. Even worse, the vile humans now had proof of their existence.