Shadows of the Keeper (33 page)

He clapped his hands twice. 
She flinched.  Midsized males moved towards the table, carrying large
trays, silver domes concealing their contents.  Upon her plate, sizzling
steak and baked potato were revealed, butter and sour cream oozing.

She salivated.  “Remind me how
much I absolutely love you,” she gushed, until eyeing her neighbor’s
plate.  “Things are
squiggling
on his plate, Dez!”

Ignoring Inzyr’s snort over her use
of her pet name for him in such a public setting, Dezenial leaned closer to
Emily.  “Do not take a bite quite yet, love.”

“What, more Lumynari torture? 
I’m to just breathe in these heavenly aromas?  Do you know how long it’s
been since I’ve had steak?  I’m from Texas.  We practically eat the
cow while it’s still grazing.  Perhaps if I start gnawing your arm—“

“You prefer taking the first bite
and seconds later, writhing until death releases your agony of poison?”

“Steak is overrated.”

Inzyr’s voice broke against intensifying
silence, his expression severe towards the line of servers.  Whatever he
said, Emily watched as a waiter—if you could call a garbed monster a
waiter—pulled away from the cowering group, shuffled hesitantly towards Emily
and waited.  Towering over the beast no higher than his waist, Inzyr freed
a treacherous looking dagger from his jerkin.

She hoped never to come up against
Inzyr.

“I would have you slice your dinner
and offer a sample to the Im’pyur, Highness,” Inzyr commanded.  Emily
complied, hating that all eyes pulsated on her.  Inzyr’s out-of-character
deference to her status, that he was also public about it, conveyed this was
deadly serious.  Of course, his orders had been uttered in English. 
Perhaps their guest did not speak her language. 

They understood, Keer’dra. 
Speaking your language sends a loud message that you fall under his protection,
not just mine
.

Pushing a piece of meat to the edge
of her plate, she hated seeing her hand tremble as it did.  If she was
conscience of it, so was everyone else.  And she just
knew
these
fiends breast-fed on fear.  While mental chuckling from Dezenial filled
her head, Emily also cut away a bit of potato and added it to the
taste-tester-portion. 
Call me paranoid, but I’m not having my tongue
swell and my face fall off because Brutus Butler here soaked my potato in
poisons and spells.
  Dezenial’s sudden frown gave her a small measure
of satisfaction. 
Silenced that damn laughter of yours, eh?
His
eyes flicked to her, signaling he’d received her mental snit.

Unsympathetically, he observed the
creature sampling Emily’s fare.  Ordered to be both cook and server
exclusively for Emily, the Im’pyur had been granted a private section of
kitchen, forbidden entrance by any other.  A master cook well versed in
preparation of food for the human palate, his existence rested solely on
creating pleasing fare for Emily, though Dezenial would still enjoy having his
penchant for spicy Indian cuisine satisfied as well.  If this abomination
began writhing from poison, none would leave this table alive.  He almost
hoped for the excuse.  Inzyr had his orders as well.  Recent
treachery—Emily’s incarceration—had at last been narrowed down to one siting
amongst them.  He was in accordance with the assassin: elimination of
present company equated elimination of disloyalty, for every creature currently
at this table had their hand in Emily’s demise.  The trick was to let them
hang themselves as to which of them commanded the others.

“You may eat, and enjoy, Princess
Emily.”  Inzyr announced from behind her, inclining his head in deference
before returning to his self-appointed post directly behind her.  Emily
nearly slid from her chair from shock.  Maybe she should hold out her
goblet, ordering the suddenly dutiful Inzyr to fill it.

“I would not advise it.  He’ll
just as soon decapitate you than serve.”  Dezenial then said something to
Inzyr.  She dared glance back.

“Judging by his expression, you
shared what I was thinking?”

Dezenial shrugged, cutting into
something resembling what she’d find in the garden.  “I asked if he was
interested in a career change.”

“But his has such perks.”

The prince smiled before wolfing a
bit of gray slimy mass.  Emily’s gag reflexes kicked into overdrive. 
She averted her gaze and fixated on her steak.  Her very ordinary
steak.  Already dead. Cooked. Not quivering. Not making creepy screams
like whatever the freak two plates down was stabbing at. 
What the hell
? 
She’d never be able to eat meat again. Muffins.  Muffins would be good
right about now. Banana. With coffee. 
My luck, this steak came from
side of troll, not side of
—

“Grade AA, as your world refers to
their beef.  Cow, Emily. Now, eat.”

“Aren’t you worried about your own
food being poisoned?”

Smugly, he took another bite. 
She decided to follow suit.  If she died, well, at least it would be an
end to all this insanity.  An end to this ache deep in her soul. 
Besides,
who would give two shits?
  Current thoughts awakened memories of
Dezenial leaving her with Broc.  How long before he escorted her back to
MacLarrin Castle?  Would she bother fighting it?  Gah, how much
humiliation could one person experience, begging to remain with someone who
clearly did not want them?  Better to protect the shred of pride
remaining, versus a complete flogging of the soul.  Bad enough Broc and
his regime of Forest Lords were probably dancing upon their trestle tables,
singing a drunken ditty about No More Emily.  Dezenial and Inzyr would do
likewise when finally rid of her.  No, actually,
these
two would
probably sacrifice something, offering the kill to their gods.  Sipping
her wine, she failed to notice Dezenial studying her, his own food forgotten.

Where was Blade?  All this
time she’d been healing, she’d completely forgotten about the sword. 
Proof she made a lousy friend.  The weapon had warned Lumynari were evil,
vile, deadly.  She glanced around the table as steak melted in her mouth
with tenderness shaming the finest restaurants.  Deadly?  Yup. 
But, what of Dezenial? 
Deadly
gorgeous. 
Deadly
built.  And, oh God, those leggings hugging his
deadly
thighs . . .
meat threatened to lodge in her constricting throat.  Another sip of wine
did the trick.  If she could just figure out a way to accidentally run her
hand, just once, up his sinewy leg . . . but that would lead to his
deadly
—

Emily’s face scorched. 
Blinking rapidly did little to clear her debauched thoughts.  He was too
damn virile.  And he was currently watching her with interest. 
Too
much interest.  Ignoring him, she surveyed those in her immediate
vicinity.  Their loathing hopped along the length of the table to spit at
her before trudging back to each owner it had escaped from.  Did they
assume she was Dezenial’s whore?  Why not?  Broc assumed she’d been
doing the do with some conniver posing in one of her photos. 
What is
it about males that I’m considered so low?  Except Inzyr.  I’m
nothing more than a gnat to that one.  And now, Dezenial’s decreed Mr.
Happy as Poop on a Birthday Cake is to train me.  Oh, joy
.

Dezenial coughed into his napkin,
but she hardly paid him any attention.  Reaching for her goblet, she
considered this
power
everyone swore she had.  If fire from her
hands could be created from mere thought, same hands capable of healing . . .
they hadn’t done a damn bit of good for Dezenial.  Regret lanced
her.  She sipped deeper, hoping to drown her failures.  He’d saved
her.  Twice.  She’d been able to do naught for him.  Another
drink.  She looked down at her wine. Zinfandel.  She smiled to
herself.  Another detail Dez knew about her.  Broc had never bothered
to learn anything about her.  He was too caught up in his list of faults
regarding who she’d been, not who she currently was.  Peter hadn’t been
much better. 
Wow, I really need some
Man one-oh-one courses and
how to pick ‘em
. 
Or how to skin ‘em.  Alive
. 
Course,
listening to their screams of pain would be a bummer.
 

Dezenial did his best to hide both
anger over her vulnerability and mirth over her outlandish thoughts. 
Skinning indeed.  She’d run screaming from the actual chore of it. 
And men didn’t just scream when blades flayed their flesh from muscle, they
defecated, pissed, cried, and puked.  Nasty business, skinning
humans. 

Hollywood horror creatures
continued conversing amongst themselves.  What did Lumynari discuss over
dinner?  Torture techniques?  Their latest kill?  Except the
bitch across from her.  Apparently, she had other ideas on her mind. 
Twice, the slut had leaned closer to Dezenial, pomegranate tits displayed as if
a buffet to which Dezenial could dine, if he do desired. 

One taste, and I’ll personally
shave your tongue and snap off your fangs
.

Dezenial threw back his head and
let out a great peal of laughter.  Tits Galore thought he laughed over
something witty she’d just said.  She smiled provocatively. 

Emily seethed.

Stupid male.  So easily
manipulated by a simple viewing of cleavage.  Hell, she’d smother him in
hers if that’s all it took.  Here, smash your face in these, big boy, now
gimme a ticket to Texas!  What she wouldn’t give to be back home, curled
up on her couch, a good movie in the DVD player and a bag of
—

“What thoughts harbor in your
head?”  A rhetorical question on his part.  So, hellcat was
jealous.  And vicious.  He especially enjoyed her possessiveness.

“Oreos.”

“Oreos?”

“Yes,” she snapped.  “You
asked.”
Dick
.  “If you weren’t so mesmerized by Ms. Lift &
Tuck, you’d have heard my answer the first time.”  Emily’s attention
roamed.  Since he wanted to make it clear that he belonged to none by
encouraging another to flirt with him, then two could play this game.  The
forgotten cast of House of Horrors stared back.

Okay, so maybe this was a game best
played when a different cast of players could be chosen from.  She found
herself once again studying her apparent competition. 
Pfff, as if
. 
Dezenial sipped from a bejeweled goblet.  And every word Tits Wonder
muttered to him.  Emily conjured an image of a ta-ta guillotine.  She
couldn’t help it.  Then pictured herself shoving the bitch and her perky
boobs against the machine and the blade—

“Keer’dra!”

Emily flinched.

He swiped his mouth, but not before
she witnessed him stifling laughter.  “I can no longer fight
myself.”  He leaned closer.  “What is this Oreos?”

“Are, what
are
Oreos. 
Cookies.  Cream filled.  It’s a cardinal sin to bite into them—“

“Punishable by death?”  He
looked hopeful.

“No, Killer, not
that
kind
of sin.”  Emily used her hands to mimic each step she spoke of.  “you
twist them apart, lick the center—“

“Do that part again.”  He
tapped her protruding tongue.  She nearly swallowed her appendage, sucking
it back into her mouth too fast.  His raucous laughter caused several
Lumynari to turn and give them a cursory once over.

“Remind me, Lady Emily, to seek
these Oreos, but only in my presence will you be permitted to eat them.”

“Shut up, Dezenial.”

Thunderous laughter escaped him
again, tugging her own mouth into a quirk. 

“Ah, Keer’dra.  I have laughed
more in these past ten minutes then these past ten years combined.  You
are fresh air to my old soul.”

“I merely encourage the perv in you
to surface.”  She couldn’t hold back her own mirth.

They observed together several
human women pouring wine from flagons into tall golden and silver goblets, some
jeweled, others left plain.  “It is strange to me, being here and waited
upon like royalty while they are kept as slaves.”  Emily looked at her
Shadow Master.  “You know it goes against everything I believe in;
everything I’ve been taught.”  She leaned back.  “They seem
content.”  Devilry lit her eyes.  “Ah, you must keep them for
sex.  You should let Inzyr use ‘em.  He could use sex.  Not that
I’d know, but supposedly, sex relieves crankiness.”  She glanced back at
the assassin, trying not to allow Dezenial’s laughter infect her.  “I’m
thinking you better loan him several.  They may be at it for a while.”

Dezenial ignored Inzyr’s
snarl.  Emily dared give the assassin a little wave before turning
around.  She wasn’t completely immune to Inzyr’s rage.  Her nape
tightened; her shoulders tensed.

“Some were brought down as
children, so they know no other life.”  His hand raised to ward off her
protest.  “We are not as bad as land-dwellers would make us out to
be.  Okay, okay,” he added, knowing her gawking was due to several facts
he’d conveniently forgotten.  “You have me there.  But, mind you,
most of us are not in the habit of snatching children.  Where’s the
challenge?  It would be like your hunters walking up to a caged animal and
firing their obnoxious weapons.  No thrill.  And especially no
courage.  Homeless children are led away from misery.”

“Oh, and slavery is much better.”

“They are clothed, fed, and kept
warm at night, and protected by their masters.  Slavery is not always what
your own history has created it to be.  They work during the day, though
they do not receive that paper you fools barter for, they receive payment
enough by way of roofs over their heads, education, a mate and their own
home.  Any good Lumynari does not beat his slave.  And those who do
are severely punished.”  He leaned closer.  “In my kingdom, abusers
are put to death in the arenas, their slaves given a front row seat, if they so
desire.  Some are faint of heart and do not enjoy viewing the slaughter of
their abuser.”