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+An Ellora's Cave Romantica Publication
+www.ellorascave.com
+I Love Lacy
+ISBN 9781419915628
+ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
+I Love Lacy Copyright © 2008 Lillian Feisty
+Edited by Nick Conrad.
+Cover art by Syneca.
+Electronic book Publication February 2008
+With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
+Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/)
+This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.
+I Love Lacy
+Lillian Feisty
+Trademarks Acknowledgement
+The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Benadryl: Warner-Lambert Company LLC
+Candid Camera: Candid Camera, Inc.
+Chevy: General Motors Corporation
+Dodge Ram: Chrysler Corporation
+eBay: eBay, Inc.
+Glock: Glock Inc. Corporation
+I Love Lucy: CBS Broadcasting Inc.
+Jell-O: General Foods Corporation
+Nordstrom: Nordstrom, Inc.
+Prius: Toyota Motor Corporation
+Ruffles: Frito-Lay North America, Inc.
+Seinfeld: Castle Rock Entertainment
+Trivial Pursuit: Horn Abbot Ltd. Corporation Canada
+"Mason O'Malley, PI."
+"Help! Someone's stolen my priceless tiara!"
+He should have known better than to pick up the phone. Mason closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered why the hell he'd volunteered to man the office yet another Saturday. Because your partners actually have lives, remember?
+"Hello? Are you there?"
+"Yes." Unfortunately. "I'm sorry Mrs.---"
+"Miss. Miss Kane."
+"Miss Kane. So. Someone has stolen your tiara."
+"My priceless tiara."
+"Your priceless tiara."
+"Yes. And I need an investigator to track this thief down before something terrible happens!"
+Mason sighed. "Something terrible?"
+"Yes. You see this is a very special tiara. I need it to do my job!"
+"Are you a beauty queen?"
+"No, a food critic."
+Yup. A real wacko on the line right now. As one-third of the investigative team of O'Malley, Pinswick and Rose, he was fairly used to dealing with the odd crazy call. Still, he'd never fielded a desperate call about a tiara before.
+Needless to say, he had to ask. "A food critic who needs a tiara?"
+"Yes and I need it if I want to do my job to the best of my God-given capabilities."
+"God-given."
+"Yes."
+Mason closed his eyes and shook his head, again wondering why he'd chosen to leave the Reno Police Department and take up private investigating.
+Long pause. Then, "So? Are you coming here or what?"
+Christ, did he have to? Surely there was something else very important taking place that required his assistance. A wife wanting to know about her husband's late night activities, perhaps. Or a lost kitten. He looked through his open door to where his secretary, a vampirish-looking girl with a pierced chin, was returning from her third coffee break that morning. With a heavy sigh, she saw down at her desk, plopped her pierced chin into her hands and proceeded to stare out the window.
+"Detective Mason!"
+He snapped his attention back to the phone. Miss Kane had a sassy little voice. "Yes?"
+"I've been robbed and I want my tiara back!"
+"Are you aware that we require a retainer?"
+"Fine."
+"Are you sure? It's a rather large fee because it's, um, Saturday."
+"Money is no object." She was silent for a minute and then, "Please. I need your help."
+Defeated, he dropped his chin to his chest. "What's your address?"
+\*
+Lacy Kane threw open her closet doors. What did one wear when one was about to go after a thief who'd stolen a priceless tiara? First she eyed her shoes. Well, black boots were a given. In fact, she thought as she pulled out a pair of knee-high lace-ups, a girl could never go wrong with a nice pair of boots. But what to go with them? Pants may have been appropriate, but since she didn't own a pair of those it wasn't really an option. Finally she settled on a black mini dress and black leggings.
+She hoped this Mr. Mason was good at his job. She didn't have much time. She'd been a disappointment to her mother her entire life, and losing her family's legacy would probably result in being disowned altogether.
+Her heart was in her throat as she laced her boots. Flighty, irresponsible, a let-down. She'd been hearing it since she turned five and her mother realized her daughter was more interested in baking cookies than mixing herbs. Mama had tried everything to dissuade her daughter's interest in food, including making her eat nothing but cabbage soup for a week when she was ten. But nothing had worked, and Lacy's special olfactory skills only heightened her interest in culinary delights.
+The doorbell snapped her out of her depressing reverie. It had taken awhile---and a pretty penny---to get someone who could install the tune to I Love Lucy as her doorbell chime, but, just like on so many occasions in her life, she had been persistent and had ultimately prevailed.
+Her heels clicked on the hardwood as she crossed her house to the front door. Please, Gods. Please let this investigator be able to recover my tiara. If they didn't succeed soon the whole state of Nevada could be subjected to low culinary standards. That would not be good, especially when she'd worked so hard to eliminate the ninety-nine-cent buffet.
+Throwing her shoulders back, she pulled open the front door.
+Her stomach dropped. The man standing before her gave new meaning to the phrase Reno's Finest. Except he wasn't a cop---he was an investigator. Still he was fine. More than fine, actually. Tall and broad, he had wavy brown hair that was a bit too long and big brown eyes that sized her up in under a second.
+Her pulse hammered.
+"I'm Detective Mason O'Malley. Are you Miss Kane?" He had a voice like amused thunder---and a very spicy scent. She inhaled the organic smell and immediately felt lightheaded.
+"Miss, are you okay?" The man jumped across the doorway and took her shoulders in his large hands. "Have you been assaulted? Are you hurt?"
+"No, I haven't been assaulted." Looking up into his big, brown eyes, she slowly shook her head. "I just got woozy all of a sudden." It was him---he was making her dizzy and the closer he got the worse she felt. Or better she felt. She couldn't decide. All she knew was that her senses had gone high alert and her nerves had started to tingle.
+She tilted her head to the side and sniffed. "Are you wearing eucalyptus oil?"
+"Um, no."
+"Must be your soap then. You're going to have to shower before we begin."
+He jerked his hands off her shoulders. "What are you talking about?"
+"You need to wash off." Her skin heated, her nose prickled and she sneezed. "Now."
+"Are you insane?"
+"No, I think I might be allergic to eucalyptus. I feel faint."
+He drew back even more than he already had. "Don't faint."
+"I won't if you wash yourself off."
+"But what about my clothes? Aren't they also, er, contaminated?"
+"I'll wash them quickly while you shower." She felt her face heat. Sometimes being an Aromatherapian was damn embarrassing.
+"Okay, miss. What's going on here?" He looked around the room. "Am I on Candid Camera?"
+She paused. "Is that show still on?"
+He blinked. "I don't know."
+She grinned. "I loved that one where they did the thing with the sodas. That was so funny!"
+He wasn't smiling.
+"Not a Candid Camera fan?"
+"Miss Kane. You called me away from a very busy day at the office. Can we please get down to business?" He pulled out a notebook. "Now. You want to report a theft."
+"Yes." She walked toward her kitchen.
+Thump, thump, thump. His booted footsteps followed her. "What was stolen?"
+"My tiara. My---"
+"Priceless tiara."
+She rummaged through her cabinet and pulled bottle of Benadryl. "Exactly."
+"When did you first notice it was missing?"
+She messed with the bottle cap, but it wouldn't budge. Darn childproof caps. "This morning."
+Rolling his eyes, he yanked the bottle out of her hand, effortlessly opened it and handed it back. Show-off. "Where did you keep the tiara?"
+She spilled a few tiny pink pills into her hand. "In my living room."
+"Was anything else stolen?"
+"Nothing."
+"Just this tiara."
+"Yes." She popped the pills into her mouth.
+"Did you just take three Benadryl?"
+She nodded.
+"Wow."
+"What?"
+"That's a lot of medication for someone your size."
+"Is it?"
+"How many do you usually take?"
+She shrugged. "I've never taken any before." But her nose was stinging and if he wasn't going to shower she needed to dull what she assumed was an allergic reaction to his scent.
+"What!"
+"I tried to tell you I was sensitive to smells. I mean, like, I'm really sensitive. I could have a severe allergic reaction."
+"And Benadryl helps?"
+"I hope so. I've never---"
+"Taken any." He shook his head. "Miss Kane, tell me the truth."
+"I'll do my best."
+"Are you a nutcase?"
+Taking a deep breath, she clenched her fists at her side and tried not to punch him. No! she wanted to yell. She wasn't crazy. She was an Aromatherapian!
+Problem was, it always sounded crazy when she said that.
+She came from a long line of Aromatherapians. Most people didn't believe there was such as thing as having supernatural aroma-detecting abilities, but Lacy knew for a fact it was a genuine skill, a skill she didn't always have the ability to keep leashed. Her mother thought it was because she never learned how to concentrate. Lacy remembered the hours she spent attempting to learn how to meditate. Much to her mother's displeasure, Lacy could never center herself the way the rest of her line was able to do.
+But it was the overreacting to scents that really made her mother unhappy.
+Certain scents could make her do crazy things. Like that time she was walking through Nordstrom. Someone had sprayed her with a perfume called Senseless and sure enough, she'd rushed right upstairs and purchased a pair of palazzo pants.
+An oversized detective who seemed overly in touch with his masculinity probably wouldn't believe her if she explained her genetic makeup. Best not to say anything.
+"Miss Kane." His brow was furrowed into little lines and she wanted to trace them. "Do you have any idea who might have taken this tiara?"
+She cleared her throat and met his eyes. "I thought maybe Ralph."
+"Ralph?"
+"Yes. He's my cousin. He was mad that my grandmother left it to me while he inherited her collection of ceramic pigs." She shrugged. "I keep telling him those pigs could go for a mint on eBay."
+He shook his head and scribbled something in his notebook. "Cousin's last name?"
+"Court. Ralph Court. He lives a few miles from here, but he's not there. I checked."
+Mason looked up. "You went after him yourself?"
+"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
+"He's a possible suspect. Next time call the police."
+"I did."
+He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A really deep breath. Then he exhaled. "Before you go after him."
+"Well, you're here now."
+"Mmm."
+"I have total faith in you."
+"You do?"
+She nodded. "You smell incredibly competent."
+"Um, thanks."
+"No problem."
+He blinked. "Okay, so where was your tiara before it was stolen?"
+"I keep it in a safe."
+"Does anyone know the combination?"
+"No. No one." She put a hand on her kitchen counter. The Benadryl didn't seem to be working. His scent was getting stronger and a tingly feeling was starting to flutter around in her stomach. But at least she didn't feel dizzy. She loathed fainting. She hadn't fainted since that one time in college when a sewer pipe had broken underneath the math building. The smell had been awful, just awful...
+"Hey, are you okay?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is she okay? She's as big as my right arm and she just took three fucking antihistamines."
+She waved at him. "Hello? I'm here. I can hear you." Yes, she could hear him and he had a really nice, deep voice. In fact everything about him was nice.
+How strange. Now the eucalyptus smell was getting stronger and mixing with something else. Him. Spicy and unique.
+She could smell the coffee with cream he'd had earlier and, yes, he'd had a waffle for breakfast. And hash browns with pepper but no ketchup.
+She put a hand to her forehead. "Oh shit!"
+"What?"
+"It's getting worse!"
+"What's getting worse?"
+"My state. Or condition. Or whatever you want to call it."
+"Your condition?"
+"Yes! I think the medicine is making it worse!"
+He pulled a cell phone out of his blazer pocket. "I'll call an EMT."
+"No, that's not necessary. It's just that I'm an Aromatherapian." Okay, it looked like she was telling him after all. Hopefully he had an open mind.
+"What the hell is an Aromatherapian?"
+"It means I react very strongly to scent. Antihistamines must heighten the condition. Huh. Who knew?"
+She took a step closer to him. Blood pounded in her ears as she inhaled deeply through her nose. Peppery eucalyptus coated her nostrils, her throat and her mouth.
+And then desire, pure and strong, settled deep in her belly. She took another step toward him.
+He took a step back. "What are you doing?" He clutched the phone to his chest as if the gadget would protect him.
+His deep voice sent a shiver up her spine. "I asked you to take a shower. I mean, I guess it doesn't matter. It would have happened eventually."
+The wall stopped him. "What would have happened?"
+"I'm reacting to your pheromones. I didn't understand at first because it's never happened before. I mean, there was that one time in college, but that was purely sex. This is deeper. Much deeper."
+"Okay, obviously the drugs are making you even nuttier than what I suspect is your normal state."
+Closing in on him, she shook her head. "I'm not a nut."
+He slid his phone back into his pocket. "I beg to differ."
+"I'm not, I swear. I'm an Aromatherapian."
+He closed his eyes. "Oh good. I feel so much better."
+Mason was wondering if he was the crazy one. He couldn't believe he had a hard-on the size of the fucking Empire State Building. She was crazy. Had to be. But his cock didn't seem to care at all about that.
+If only she wasn't such a tight little package. Petite body with high, perky tits. Red hair that reminded him of old-school movie stars. And huge blue eyes that he could stare into for hours.
+Stare into her eyes for hours? Where had that thought come from? He shook his head.
+"Mr. Mason?"
+"It's just Mason."
+"Detective Mason?
+"No, Detective O'Malley."
+"Okay. Mason?"
+"Yes?"
+"Please kiss me. I want to see what happens."
+Christ, so did he. He wanted to push his way into her mouth, see what she tasted like. He shook his head but leaned down a little.
+She moved closer, so close those damn perky breasts of hers nearly touched his chest. "Just one kiss," she breathed.
+Then she was right there. She went on her tiptoes and he felt her warm breath on his neck. "Please," she whispered in his ear.
+"Fuck," he growled and pulled her mouth to his. Usually he took his time kissing---usually he knew a girl more than ten minutes before locking lips---but now he didn't hold back. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and satisfaction settled in his belly when she melted against him. She wrapped her hands around his head and pressed herself against his chest. Their kiss became deeper, stronger. Erotic in a way he'd never experienced.
+She was tugging at his T-shirt, lifting it up to expose his belly, his torso. When she pulled away to look at him he took in her swollen lips and flushed skin. His cock jerked in response to her obvious arousal.
+"I need to smell you."
+He held his breath as she bent down before him, her warm breath sinking through the cotton of his shirt as she lifted the fabric a bit.
+"Yes." How was this happening? What was wrong with him? He'd just met this woman. But there she was, on the floor. Dropping to her knees. Running her nose lightly over his stomach, his hips. His exposed skin prickled at the sensation. When she licked around his belly button he barely restrained himself from taking his cock out and pressing the hard tip to her pink lips.
+And then pushing past her lips and into her sweet mouth.
+He put a hand on her shoulder and discovered she was trembling.
+"You okay? We can stop anytime..." Please don't stop.
+She turned those big blue eyes his way and Christ if that didn't make his balls tight. She was like something out of a magazine. A fantasy come to life.
+"I don't want to stop." She reached to his waist and fussed with the buckle. It came open with a soft clink. "I want to taste you. I need to smell you." She undid the first button of his jeans. "Everywhere."
+"Okay," he responded. What else could he say? He'd always said he had high ethics but very low morals.
+She tugged his jeans over his hips, leaving him in his boxers. Through the cotton, she wrapped her small palm over his erection and squeezed. He pushed the back of his head against the wall. There was still a small part of his brain that was wondering how the fuck this was happening, but that little voice was getting easier to ignore.
+Then the voice disappeared all together. She pulled his boxers down and his cock sprang free. Her eyes went wide before she lowered her lids and inhaled deeply. He watched as she held the lungful of air and when she exhaled her breath caressed his skin like a balmy summer breeze.
+"Now I know what my mother was talking about."
+"Huh?" She was talking about her mother?
+She nodded. "Yes. My mother knew my father was the one when she smelled him. It's one of the perks of being an Aromatherapian. That and our chicken cacciatore."
+"The one? Chicken?"
+"Mmm."
+It seemed like a topic he should delve further into, but just then she took his cock in her palm and sucked a drop of juice from the swollen tip. He groaned as she slid his dick over her lips and across her moist tongue and sucked him straight to the back of her throat.
+His heart pounded, his blood boiled in his veins. He couldn't stop---he pushed deeper, withdrew and repeated his thrust. He tried to be gentle but she grabbed his hips and urged him further.
+"Fuck," he said. "You are so fucking amazing."
+She hummed her agreement and the sweet vibration nearly sent him over the edge.
+Grabbing her shoulders, he yanked her to her feet. "Not yet."
+Her eyes were big and dilated as she stared at him and nodded. "Okay. What do you want me to do?"
+Christ. If only she hadn't asked the question, because he had an answer. And very low morals.
+"Take off your clothes."
+Her pulse jumped at his words. She was so glad this man knew how to take initiative. She wouldn't have been at all happy with a man who was a pushover in the bedroom. Or the kitchen, as the case may be.
+With quivering hands, she began unlacing her boots. God, why hadn't she gone with a nice pair of slip-ons? The process was taking forever.
+His eyes burned into her, watching her, and as each second passed more anticipation built in her belly.
+Her fingers were trembling by the time she was finished with the boots. She kicked them off to land with a clatter near the stove. His eyes scanned her body as she tugged off her leggings.
+Normally she would have been shy stripping in front of a total stranger---not that she'd done it very often, just that one time in college---but Mason's scent was radiating off his body in spicy, fresh waves. He was turned on by her. She could smell it. One of the perks of being an Aromatherapian was it took a lot of the guesswork out of dating.
+Then she was naked except for her bra and panties. If she had known she was going to be getting busy with a hot PI, she would have done better than her plain purple cotton underwear. Oh well. There would be time for dress-up later.
+"Take off your bra and panties."
+Her pussy clenched at his command. He was bossy and she loved it. She stepped out of her panties, then reached behind her back and unclasped her bra. She wasn't self-conscious about the extra five pounds she'd put on recently---one of the unfortunate side effects of her job as a food critic---because his scent was so strong it was making her giddy and carefree.
+"God, you're fucking amazing."
+She swallowed hard. "Thank you."
+"Now turn around and lean over the table."
+Her legs quivered but not from hesitation. Her body was reacting to the heady adrenaline rushing through her blood, filling her with an unfamiliar self-assurance. In fact she'd never been so confident with a man before. She wanted to show this stranger herself, her most private self, and as she turned to follow his command she inhaled deeply. His spicy scent filled her lungs, her head.
+She bent at the waist and laid the top half of her body on the kitchen table. Her breasts tingled on the cold, wooden surface. She felt him behind her, leaning against her body as he gently took her arms and placed her hands palms-down on either side of her shoulders. Her elbows stuck out and straight up. She loved the way he had restrained her movement with nothing more than a few tricky moves. Detective Mason was very efficient.
+His hands moved over the exposed skin of her ass. "So soft and lovely. Have you ever been spanked?"
+She squeezed her eyes shut. "No," she breathed.
+"Have you ever wanted to be?"
+Oh boy, did she. It was one of her naughtiest fantasies. "Yes."
+"Have you been naughty?" His touch grew firm as he massaged her bottom.
+She inhaled and repressed a smile. "Yes. Yes, I think I have been."
+"Are you laughing?"
+"No," she giggled.
+"You are. That definitely deserves a punishment."
+"Yes, Mr. Mason." She was really getting into it now. Her body shook in anticipation. Her pussy was wet, throbbing.
+Smack. The palm of his hand struck her bottom and she gasped as the sting went straight to her sex in a lightning-hot pulse.
+"Did you like that?"
+"Yes!"
+"Tell me how you like it." He smacked her again and she cried out, writhed against the table.
+"I liked it," she said, feeling a warm glow spreading over her ass. "Please...do it again."
+He obliged, moving his hand lower, nearer to her sex. She was sticking her ass out, encouraging him. Ecstasy shot through her body every time his palm came down, until she was screaming from pleasure and Fuck! She could climax from it all right now.
+"You're a naughty little Aromatherapia."
+"Aromatherapian," she gasped, then moaned when he spanked her for the correction.
+"Do you want to come now?"
+How could she be so close to coming from a few spankings? "Yes, but I want you to fuck me."
+"Ask me nicely." His voice sounded deeper, hoarse.
+"Please, Detective O'Malley. Please fuck me, pretty fucking please!"
+"Since you asked so politely." She heard him ripping apart what must have been a condom wrapper. Her body shook as she waited. She wanted nothing more than to have him inside her, pounding into her. Fucking her.
+She closed her eyes as she felt his large hands grip her hips, pulling her back to his body. Then she felt him, the full, hard length of his cock as he rubbed against her swollen pussy. Moaning, she braced herself on the wooden table as he pressed the tip of his erection against her anus, then moved lower until the head reached her clit.
+"Yes," she sighed. Her clit was a needy little thing. "Touch me there."
+He reached around her stomach to go between her legs. Then his clever fingers touched her, firmly rubbing that sensitive place, back and forth and then in circles. Soon she was pleading with him to let her come.
+"Not yet." He pulled away and she was about to beg him more but then he was filling her, deep and sure, his cock only stopping when it reached the very end of her passage. She ground against his hand, his lovely hand that knew exactly what she needed. He knew exactly how to fuck her, how she liked it slow and then hard and always steady. Detective O'Malley was rock-steady.
+She came. She came right there in a screaming, shaking climax that had her throwing her head back and yelling his name. She'd never experienced anything like it. Her senses went crazy and her nose tingled so much she started sneezing.
+"Oh God!" He thrust into her, as deep as he could go, then stilled.
+She sneezed again and the muscles inside of her vagina contracted.
+"Oh, fuck, Miss Kane! That's so fucking---yes!"
+She sneezed again and then felt the response of his pulsing cock inside her. He held her still against his hips as he released. She wanted to feel his hot ejaculation and resented the polyurethane barrier between them. Oh well. One day they wouldn't need it.
+After his breathing had slowed a bit he pulled out of her. Her legs shook as she stood, and she was about to lean against the table for support but then she was in his arms.
+Unfortunately he'd pulled his pants up and his shirt was still on. She'd have liked to have felt his skin next to hers as he walked through her house. As if he'd been there before, he went straight to her bedroom and pushed open the door.
+She loved her bed. Covered in vintage quilts, it was warm and welcoming and as Mason lowered her onto the soft cotton, she sighed in pleasure. She clung to his hand, wanting him to join her, but he shook his head.
+"If you still want me to take the job, I need you to fill out some paperwork."
+She nodded and tried to concentrate as he explained his short but thorough contract. A few minutes later she had signed on the dotted line and it was official. Mason was hired. For some reason the thought lessened her anxiety a bit.
+As he folded the papers and placed them on her dresser, she stifled a yawn.
+"Get some sleep. You're about to pass out. All that Benadryl."
+She pushed herself onto an elbow. "No, my tiara---"
+He pulled a quilt over her naked body. "Take a nap. I'm gonna take a look around, check out the safe. See what I can come up with."
+Suddenly she was so tired. The antihistamines must be kicking in and it was too easy to sink into the welcoming warmth of her bed. The light clicked off and the door clicked shut and she closed her eyes. Just before she drifted off she heard a soft voice. "Sweet dreams, Miss Kane."
+She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of him in her house---his boot steps on her wood floor, the sound of a faucet running. The low murmur of his voice as he made a call. She smiled to herself. There was something reassuring about those everyday noises, something very comforting. And despite all that happened, as she drifted off too sleep she realized she'd never felt so safe.
+Miss Kane's house did not look like the home of a crazy person. She lived in a 1940s bungalow that had been immaculately kept up. As he inspected doors and windows for signs of breaking and entering, his shoes squeaked over the shiny hardwood floor. Original pine, he noted with appreciation. And the light fixtures were all period antiques that had been restored.
+Her furniture consisted of a few high-quality pieces, including a plump leather recliner that looked downright welcoming. Her house was a far cry from the sparse apartment he called home and, just for a minute, Mason wondered if it was time to suck it up and start dating. A woman's touch could be a good thing.
+Yes, earlier her touch had definitely been a good thing. His mind was still reeling from the impromptu encounter in her kitchen. He didn't know what had come over him---before noon, no less! Just the thought of her sweet ass, blushing from the spanking he'd given her, made him want to do it again. He wanted to spread her open, lick her from top to bottom. He wanted her underneath him, her legs wrapped tightly around his hips as he pounded into her.
+His balls went tight. He wanted her.
+He could have left an hour ago. Okay, about five hours ago. She'd been sleeping for hours, and the afternoon sun was beginning to illuminate her house in a soft glow.
+He'd done a full check of the premises and found nothing amiss. No signs of breaking and entering. The only destruction had been to the safe---Miss Kane hadn't picked a top-of-the-line model. From what he could tell, all it had taken were a few whacks with a hammer to have the thing open.
+The safe was in a small room packed with newspapers, shelves of books and tiny bottles. Dried plants hung from the ceiling, attached to various ribbons and twine. He smelled lavender and vanilla. It smelled like her. He'd been in this room for the better part of an hour, even after he heard her get out of bed. He was afraid to see her again, afraid of how he'd respond. And yet he didn't want to leave.
+He had no idea what was wrong with him.
+"Did you find anything unusual?"
+You. He looked to the doorway. Her red hair was sleep-tousled and her cheeks were pink. She'd put her clothes back on but was barefoot.
+The instant he saw her he went hard. How could that be? Yes, she was beautiful, but he'd had sex with dozens of gorgeous women. Normally he wanted to get away from them as soon as he pulled the condom off his semi-hard cock.
+So why was he still here?
+Because you want---need---to feel her again. As he'd combed her house the feeling had been building but now, just being in the same room with her made his cock throb with a craving unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
+He cleared his throat. "Nothing except the safe. Whoever stole your tiara didn't break into the house."
+She crossed the room and pulled a large book off a shelf. "Ralph."
+"Give me his address. I'll go interview him."
+"I want to go, too. I have some things to ask him." She paged through the book. "Eucalyptus is the exact opposite genotype from mine. That's why I reacted so strongly to you." She glanced up and gave him a once-over. "Mmm. Very interesting."
+He shook his head. "Miss Kane. What are you talking about?"
+"Do you know what an Aromatherapian is?"
+"Doesn't that mean you mix oils and stuff?"
+"No. That's an aromatherapist. Same line, different species." She slapped the book shut and turned to a collection of tiny glass jars stacked on a wooden tiered shelf. "Basically, I'm very sensitive to smells. Like earlier, when I smelled you? That was example of my brain responding to your pheromones."
+He closed his eyes. "Do you have any scotch?" He suddenly needed something to help tame the hurricane of emotions this woman conjured whenever she was near.
+She shook her head.
+"Tequila?"
+"Nope. I do have a lovely Napa Cab that I'd be happy to open. Hearty and rich with a black currant taste and just a hint of blackberry and mint. And the tiniest smidge of vanilla." She closed her eyes, licked her lips. "I like it with a rack of lamb, but it's also lovely with brie and chocolate."
+"Come here."
+Her eyes fluttered open. "What?"
+"Come here." As she had described the wine it had been like watching her disclose a deep fantasy. A flush had spread across her neck, her moistened lips tempted him. He had to taste her.
+Her nose twitched and she took two steps before throwing herself against him. She fit so easily in his arms. He would have sworn her mouth had taken on the flavor of what she had described. As he kissed her he tasted berries, mint and chocolate.
+He lifted her light body until she was wrapping her legs around him. He couldn't believe he was so hard for her again. Two steps and she was pinned to the back of the door and he was pushing his cock against the soft cotton panties she wore under her dress.
+He wanted to rip off her clothes, fuck her against the wall. Instead he concentrated on the way her heels dug into his back, the way she sighed into his mouth.
+But then she was wiggling against him and he had to tear himself away from her lips. He tilted her chin upward to face him. "What are you doing to me?"
+She nodded against his fingers. "It's the pheromones."
+"Oh, right. That explains everything."
+"You don't believe me?"
+"I have no idea what to believe." He slid her down his body until she was standing before him. He had to tear his hands off her---she was just too goddamn sexy. "Aromatherapian?"
+She smiled and he nearly lost himself again.
+"Exactly. So, like I said. I'm sensitive to scents. It's hereditary---everyone in my family has the ability."
+"The ability to what, exactly?"
+"Smell things."
+"That's your power?"
+"I wouldn't call it a power."
+"What would you call it?"
+"Sometimes I call it annoying. For example, once I got a nosebleed in a Dodge Ram."
+He just stared at her.
+"It's true. I'm allergic to that new car smell." She shrugged. "Which is a damn shame because I'd love a Prius."
+He shook his head. When had he totally lost control of this conversation? This situation?
+The sooner he finished this case the better. "So. What's the estimated value of this tiara?"
+"It's priceless."
+He sighed. "Well, for insurance purposes, you're going to need an anticipated value."
+"Detective O'Malley. I'm not sure you understand the definition of the word priceless."
+"Miss Kane---"
+She went to a glass cabinet and opened a door. "You see, I need to wear the tiara each morning for thirty-seven minutes."
+"Thirty-seven?"
+"Yes. It's the blessed number."
+"Uh-huh."
+"I get my scent energy from the sanctified amethyst stone in the center of the tiara. Without it I lose all my abilities." Her eyes searched his, silently begging him to believe her.
+He sighed. Loudly. "But I thought you said it was annoying. Why does it matter if you keep this ability?"
+"I said it was annoying sometimes. Like they way you constantly tap your toe."
+He stilled his foot.
+"It's annoying but a part of who you are---your makeup. You just can't remove a part of your makeup and be happy with yourself. You'd be missing an element of your being."
+"Okay."
+"Plus, I need it for my job."
+"As an Aromatherapian?"
+"As a food critic. I write a column, syndicated in over fifty papers." She picked up a newspaper from a stack, flipped through it and held it before him.
+And there she was, pictured in the New York Times next to an article titled "The New Mushrooms: There's a Fungus Among Us".
+Okay, insane people didn't have syndicated columns, did they?
+He didn't want to encourage her, but something she'd said was niggling at his brain. "So you're telling me that your special skills help you as a food critic."
+"Yes. Taste is eighty percent smell."
+"Do you ever give bad reviews?"
+"All the time."
+"Ever piss off any chefs?"
+She shrugged. "Probably."
+He slid his notebook out of his shirt pocket. "Any one in particular come to mind? Any chef get particularly miffed with you?" And why did the thought of someone harming her make his blood boil with anger?
+She twirled a red curl around her finger. "Hm, not that I can think of."
+"You sure?"
+"Well, there was one guy, but why would he want to steal my tiara? I mean, it's priceless to me, but it's not exactly worth a fortune at a pawn shop."
+"Is there any chance he knows that your skill is dependent upon this stone?"
+She shook her head. "I don't think so. I mean, I don't even know the guy. All I know is that his crème brulée tasted like Jell-O and his crab cakes made me think I was licking a barnacle."
+"Ew."
+"Exactly."
+"Who is this chef? What's his name?"
+"Gill. He works at the Silver Nugget casino."
+"No kidding? His steak gave me food poisoning last Christmas."
+"You had Christmas dinner at the Silver Nugget?"
+He slid his notebook into his pocket. "Um. Yes."
+Her eyes had gone all soft, like she was sorry for him. "Alone?"
+"I was on duty!"
+Shrugging, she turned to the safe and stuck her head inside. He watched as she sniffed around the dark metal interior. Then her body went still. "Oh my God!"
+He stepped closer. "What? What is it?"
+Her voice echoed back from the safe. "Something is definitely fishy! I smell crab!" She whipped her head out and faced him. "You're right!"
+"I am?"
+Her blue eyes sparkled and narrowed. "Yes! That bastard chef stole my priceless tiara!"
+"Well, we don't know that for a fact---"
+She pushed past him. "And I'm going to get it back."
+He reached out to stop her but she was too quick and dodged out of his grasp.
+"Wait, you are not going anywhere."
+"That jerk!" She skidded to a halt in the middle of her living room. "But how did he know about the tiara?"
+Mason stopped just short of careening into her. He took her hand and led her to the front door. "I have an idea. Come on."
+Detective O'Malley had an old truck with no new car smell whatsoever, so she didn't have to worry about nosebleeds during the three-mile drive to Ralph's house. After a quick and silent ride they were on his doorstep.
+"I know he's in there." She pushed the doorbell. "It's 6:30. He's always home by now so he can watch Seinfeld reruns."
+"His life sounds fascinating."
+She gave him a small grin before nailing the buzzer again. "You have no idea."
+Finally the door jerked open to reveal her scowling cousin. His eyes widened when he saw Mason. He tried to shut the door but Mason stuck his boot in the way.
+Ralph narrowed his eyes at her. "Lacy! What is going on here?"
+She moved closer and sniffed. "I knew it! You're scared because you told that chef about my tiara!"
+He went white beneath his freckles. "W-what are you talking about?"
+"Cut the bullshit." Mason put his hand on his hip, subtly revealing the edge of a leather holster. She hadn't noticed the strap earlier and the thought of his concealed weapon sent a jolt of excitement through her body. She wondered if he had handcuffs and shivered.
+"Your cousin's tiara has gone missing. Did you tell Gill LaRouche about Miss Kane's abilities?"
+"No! Of course not."
+Lacy narrowed her eyes. "You did so."
+"Are you calling me a liar?"
+"Yes! You've always been a liar and you cheat at Trivial Pursuit!"
+He looked furious. "I do not!"
+"I know you memorize the cards before you play."
+"You bitch!" He lunged at her but was immediately intercepted by Mason's broad form.
+"Take one more step toward her and I'll kick your fucking ass."
+"Who are you, anyway?"
+"I'm a private investigator who thinks you're behind this theft."
+"What? Don't believe that bitch---"
+His words were cut off abruptly by Mason's hand around his jaw. "Shut up. Now, do you want to tell us why you gave the info to this Gill LaRouche?"
+After a minute Ralph jerked a nod. Mason released him and took a step back. "Speak."
+"Because it's unfair. Why should she have all the ability? I'm an Aromatherapian, too!"
+Lacy snorted. "Not a very good one."
+"That's because you got the fucking tiara! Now I'm stuck with a job as a janitor and you know what? It's torture!"
+Lacy recoiled at her cousin's hostility. "That's not my fault! You could get a job doing something else. Plus, you know that the tiara goes to the firstborn female! That's just how it is. I didn't make the rules."
+"You could've given it to me."
+"Grandmother wanted me to have it."
+"Enough!" Mason turned his gaze to Ralph. "Just tell us. Did you or did you not tell this chef about your cousin's ability and alert him as to how to curtail those abilities?"
+"Don't lie, Ralph. I can smell it."
+"Fine. I did it! So what? It's not like I stole anything!"
+But Mason was already speaking into his mobile. After a minute he flipped his phone shut. "The sheriff will be here shortly to take you in."
+"For what? I didn't do anything!"
+"You're under suspicion."
+"You aren't listening! I didn't do anything. It was the perfect plan..."
+Mason rolled his eyes. Then in a flash of movement he had Ralph handcuffed to the doorknob.
+Ralph sputtered some profane protests as Mason led Lacy away from the house. When they reached the sidewalk he turned and faced her. "You okay?"
+She nodded. "Is the sheriff really going to arrest him?"
+"They'll question him first, then go from there."
+She glanced to where her cousin struggled against his handcuffed wrists. She couldn't imagine her spineless cousin would survive long in a Reno jail. She tried not to think about it as they waited for the police to show up.
+"You wait here. I'll need to explain the situation to the sheriff." A few minutes later a black-and-white cruiser pulled up to the curb.
+She glanced back at Ralph. "What's going to happen to him?"
+"Honestly? Probably nothing. I just want to scare him a bit so he doesn't mess with you again."
+She shouldn't have been relieved. Her cousin had totally tried to fuck her over. Still, he was family and she couldn't ignore the fact that he was blood. No matter how much she might like to.
+Her throat closed a bit as the fact sunk in that her cousin was part of this. How could he do this to her?
+She wouldn't think about it now. She couldn't waste the energy, not when she had to concentrate on retrieving her tiara. "Okay. So then what? Do we go to the restaurant and confront Gill?"
+"We don't do anything. You wait at home while I get the cops to obtain a search warrant."
+"The tiara will be at the casino."
+"Why do you think that?"
+"Is it easy to get a search warrant for a casino?"
+"No."
+"That's why. He won't think anyone will come looking for it there."
+"Miss Kane?"
+"Yes?"
+"Leave the investigation up to me, okay?"
+She shrugged. "Fine. I was just trying to save you some time."
+"Well, thank you but I think I can manage."
+"Anyway, I can go to the casino myself and look."
+"What? You're doing no such thing."
+"Why not?"
+"Because this guy is a thief who broke into your house."
+"How soon will the cops be able to get a warrant?"
+"Within forty-eight hours."
+"I need it by tomorrow or my abilities will start to decrease." She turned. "I'll go myself."
+His hand on her shoulder stopped her short. "Listen." He spun her back to face him then leaned down until his nose was close to hers. "Be a good girl and wait in my truck."
+She just looked at him. She wasn't used to giving up control, not being in charge. Her mother had called her flighty because she did not follow in her family's footsteps, choosing to become a chef instead of a professional Aromatherapian. But by taking her own path in life Lacy had had to become self-sufficient. And that went hand-in-hand with being in control.
+However, there was something freeing about giving that up---just a little. And as she took in Mason's confident stance, she realized that he was more than able to oversee things. And besides, wasn't that why she'd hired him?
+"Trust me."
+Still, she hesitated. This was her life they were talking about. The logical part of her brain reminded that this man was still a stranger.
+She shrugged. It had always been especially easy for Lacy to ignore the logical part of her brain. It was her nose she trusted. And he smelled capable.
+His grip on her shoulder tightened. "Lacy..." His voice was a warning. He had a different spicy fragrance when he was irritated.
+For some reason she thought she'd be inhaling that particular scent a lot in the future.
+Lifting her chin, she met his gaze. "Fine. But remember. The longer he has my tiara the more chance he has of doing it damage." Just the thought sent a shiver of icy fear up her spine. "And without it, my life will never be the same."
+"I promise to do all I can."
+Believing his words to be true, she nodded. Then she went to his truck and waited.
+\*
+"Mmm. That vanilla pumpkin cinnamon latte hit the spot."
+Mason glanced her way. They'd stopped for a quick coffee and were currently driving toward the Silver Nugget. The Casino was located on the outskirts of Reno, a few miles up in the mountains.
+Somehow, during coffee, she's persuaded him to take her to the restaurant where Gill LaRouche worked. He would have preferred to go alone, but he couldn't say no to her. She was a very persuasive woman.
+So he'd agreed to take her to the casino. They were just a man and woman going out to dinner. She had promised to simply smell. If she caught the scent of her tiara, he'd send her away and act on her information. Heck, casino security was so tight, she was probably safer there than at her house.
+Humming the tune to I Love Lucy---this girl really liked that song---she bounced along beside him in his old truck. The 1975 Chevy was a turn-off to most women, but Miss Kane---Lacy---seemed to like it. She was certainly unpredictable and unlike any other female he'd known. He found himself drawn to her in a very unfamiliar way. It wasn't good, that feeling.
+And it was too good.
+When he left the force fifteen years ago to set up his practice he'd gone in knowing he'd be single the rest of his life. He'd seen firsthand what a job in his field did to a family, didn't want to be responsible for causing anyone that kind of pain.
+Out of the corner of his eye he caught her glancing his way. "What?"
+"Huh? Oh, nothing."
+"Nothing?"
+"Well..."
+"What?"
+"Um, I was just wondering if you got your handcuffs back."
+"Yes. Why?"
+"No reason."
+"Miss Kane?"
+She looked at him from beneath her lashes. "It's just that I've always had this fantasy."
+"Oh, the handcuff fantasy?"
+"You've heard of it before?"
+"Yeah." Like a million times.
+"And the headlights?" she asked.
+"Headlights?"
+"Yes. The handcuffed-in-the-headlights fantasy."
+"Um, no. I guess I haven't heard that one before."
+"Well, I've always thought it would be neat---"
+"Neat, huh?" He grinned.
+"Yes. Neat. To be handcuffed at night in front of headlights while an officer of the law, you know..."
+His cock went hard.
+"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I am no longer an officer of the law."
+"But you used to be."
+"Miss---Lacy..." Just the thought of her standing in the front of his truck, her hands cuffed behind her back, made him hornier than a breadbox. Not that breadboxes got horny--- Fuck, he couldn't even think! Obviously she had totally messed him up in the head.
+Just then he saw a one-lane road. Slamming on the brakes, he whipped the truck to the right and pulled onto the bumpy dirt. Lacy grabbed the oh-shit handle for support as he drove deeper into the woods. After a minute he pulled the truck to a stop and killed the engine.
+The headlights stayed on.
+When he looked at her she was watching him. Her profile was dark in the muted light but he saw her lick her lips and take a sharp breath.
+"Mason. Why are we stopped here?" Her voice was all breathy in that way he was getting used too, that way he liked.
+Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the handcuffs. The clanking metal echoed in the dim cab. "Miss Kane. I'm going to need you to step out of the vehicle."
+Except for the tiny twitch at the edge of her lips, her expression was serious. "Are you sure that's necessary? Officer?"
+"Yes."
+She popped open the door and slid onto the ground. Then she turned and looked at him, her gaze questioning.
+It was then he knew she'd do anything he asked. Hell, she wanted him to ask her to do things. The realization sent all kinds of crazy shit through his head. Of course it made him hotter for her than ever, but it also presented a new emotion. Something protective and primal and unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
+Shaking his head, he pushed the unfamiliar feelings away.
+"Miss Kane. Please walk to the front of the truck and put your hands behind your back."
+Her eyes went wide. "Are you going to frisk me?"
+"Definitely."
+"Goody!"
+He gave her a mock scowl.
+She jumped back and walked to the front of the truck. Biting back a grin, he pulled a small package out of the glove box, then opened the door and stepped out. He couldn't remember when sex had been this fun.
+Come to think of it, he couldn't remember sex ever being fun.
+As she stood there in the beam of the truck's headlights, her red hair glowed. Her blue eyes were large and dark and her chest rose and fell with her rapid breaths. How could he have only known her a few hours? He felt like he'd known her for years.
+No time to think about that now. Not when he was turning her around, pulling her arms behind her back and clasping her wrists within the metal rings.
+And then clink. Clink.
+She was his.
+Lacy's legs trembled. She could barely keep upright. It didn't matter. Somehow she knew he would never let her fall.
+As she looked up into Mason's big brown eyes she pushed her restrained wrists against the small of her back. She was surprised at how heavy the handcuffs were. The slight discomfort of the metal against her skin helped ground her.
+Her pussy was already so wet and he'd barely touched her.
+The wind picked up, blowing her hair into her eye. Mason reached up and tucked it back behind her ear. The tender gesture made her heart skip. Then he leaned down and kissed her and everything inside her melted. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and she welcomed him, tasted him. She wanted to reach up and encourage him deeper but all she could do was strain against the metal cuffs holding her hands behind her back.
+Then he was unbuttoning the front of her dress, drawing the fabric over her shoulders until her bra was exposed. He pulled back, took in her disheveled appearance. "Gorgeous. I have no idea who you are but..."
+"But what?"
+"But I want you."
+"I want you to want me."
+He shook his head, unbuttoning the top of her dress. She trembled beneath his touch. He pulled the neckline open, pushed the fabric farther down her shoulders.
+"I want to throw you on the truck, spread you wide and fuck you."
+She gasped. His words were like an erotic caress to her brain. She wanted that too.
+Instead he lowered his mouth to her breasts, taking a nipple between his teeth, torturing her through the lacy fabric of her bra. Closing her eyes, she cried out as he nipped the sensitive flesh. The pain shot through her, straight to her sex. If not for the arm he had wrapped around her lower back she would have collapsed onto the leaf-covered ground.
+He continued licking and nipping until she was moaning and writhing against him, begging. The headlights illuminated every angle of his strong face, making her tingle all over. Then his hand was between her legs, palming her dampness through the fabric of her skirt and panties, and she cried out for him.
+"Please, Mason!" He was torturing her. She wanted him to tear off her clothes so she could actually feel him.
+But he was pulling away. Panting, she opened her eyes and looked up.
+"Turn around." His gravelly command made her shiver. "Slowly."
+Bit by bit, she turned until she was facing the truck. Her heart beat a steady rhythm in her chest as she felt his warm, large hand on the back of her shoulder blades. Gently he pushed her against the hood until her breasts were resting on the warm metal of his car.
+She felt his hands slide under her skirt to either side of her hips. Then he hooked his thumbs around the elastic of her panties and tugged them down her legs, over her shoes. She kicked them to the side.
+He placed one of his boots between her ankles, nudging her legs apart until her stance was wide. "I'm going to have to frisk you, Ms. Kane."
+She smiled. When she'd gotten dressed earlier she hadn't bothered with the leggings, so all she'd had on when she left the house was her black cotton minidress, underwear and slides.
+Now the underwear had been tossed into the dirt and his hand was on the inside of her calf, gliding over the skin of her inner thigh until he ventured up under her skirt. When he stopped just an inch from her pussy she gasped. "Don't sto---"
+"This would be a good time for you to take the Fifth."
+He repeated his investigation, skimming her other leg. The palm of his hand was warm and dry as it glided across her skin. By the time he reached the top of her other inner thigh her pussy was so wet she thought she might drip right onto his hand.
+He flipped up her skirt, exposing her ass. He didn't say anything, but when she heard his sharp intake of breath she pushed her rear out just a fraction further, tempting him. She pressed her hands together and closed her eyes.
+Take me.
+A breeze fluttered over them and she caught his scent. Yes, it was becoming familiar now. Spicy eucalyptus and now she caught a hint of cinnamon from their earlier coffee. The smell made her nerves tingle with pleasure. His scent. She loved getting to know it.
+She listened to him unzip his jeans. She heard some fumbling with a condom wrapper. Anticipation coursed through her veins, heated her blood. Her pussy ached with want. She wanted him, wanted him--- There! She cried out when she felt his tongue on her pussy, licking her. Pressing back into him, sticking her ass out with no shame at all, she moaned as every nerve in her body tingled with bliss. His fingers slid inside her---she had no idea how many fingers he was fucking her with but it didn't matter. Erotic pinpricks tickled her everywhere, from the tip of her nose to her very toes and she pushed her pussy against his face, wanting to feel even more.
+"Mason! That feels so amazing, so--oh God!" Her wrists strained at the cuffs as she pressed herself against the hood of the truck.
+His hands were on her ass, spreading her fully. His mouth worked her, licking up and down and she couldn't move, couldn't open her legs any more, couldn't touch her own clit. At that moment he owned her.
+It was divine.
+She couldn't believe her fantasy was coming to life. She couldn't believe that she was out in the forest, handcuffed and bent over a late-model Chevy while a private investigator kneeled behind her, torturing her with his mouth and hands. Anyone could come along, anyone could see them.
+But the thought only sent a new wave of excitement through her veins. The idea of someone---maybe an actual cop!---hiding in the bushes watching them only made her scream louder, made her squirm more excitedly.
+She stilled as she felt his tongue licking the inside of her bottom, around and around until the wet tip reached her anus. She'd never felt anything like it. She stilled as he tongued her, licking around that virgin entrance until she moaned again, begging him to go inside.
+Then his tongue was gone, only to be replaced by something else. Something hard and unmistakable.
+Yes.
+His breath in her ear sent a shiver down her spine. "Have you ever done this before?"
+Her pussy pulsed at the thought. "No."
+"Do you want to?"
+"Yes. But..."
+"What is it?"
+Heat pricked at her cheeks. "Don't we need, you know..."
+"Lubrication?"
+She nodded and prayed he had some.
+"I just happen to have some in my truck."
+She looked over her shoulder. "You do?"
+"I went to a bachelor party a few weeks ago. They gave away handfuls of the stuff. It's in a bottle shaped like breasts."
+Thank God for naughty party favors.
+She heard a liquid sound, and then his fingers came around and brushed her mouth. She smelled herself, masked by something artificially sweet that made her nose tingle.
+"It's cherry-flavored." He slid his finger across her lips and over her teeth. She closed her eyes and brought him deeper into her mouth, over her tongue. She tasted so much. Her own essence, the lube, his skin. She swallowed him deeper.
+"Fuck." He pushed at her anus, edging his way inside. She threw her head back and screamed from pleasure. It was so good, being filled by him. So good she was shaking from it. From him. She'd never been so full, so stretched. It hurt but it was a good pain, the kind that made scream his name, made her sex ache from want as he drove into her again and again.
+He tugged the chain between her wrists, pulling her arms back a bit as a reminder that she was still "under arrest".
+"Oh! I've never felt anything like this before."
+"Me neither." He groaned and thrust once more, deeper than before as he came.
+As she climaxed she smiled to herself. The poor guy never had a chance. He was the one.
+Mason gripped the steering wheel. Was he dreaming or had he just had intercourse with a client during a case? In the woods? While she was restrained by a pair of police-issued handcuffs?
+He glanced to the smiling redhead sitting next to him, humming along with the classic rock on the radio.
+His balls tightened. He was definitely not dreaming.
+"That was just amazing," she said. "Awesome, even."
+"Yeah." He couldn't get the image of her, spread-eagled and bent over his truck out of his head.
+"I've never done anything like that before."
+He grunted. Good. He shouldn't be feeling so possessive over a woman he'd met just that morning, but there it was. "I'm glad you, er, enjoyed it."
+Because he sure fucking had. He loved making her come, loved the way she trusted. He loved that he knew exactly how to touch her to make her float.
+"Do you have a baton?"
+He glanced her way with a cocked brow. "Yes."
+"Good."
+"Why?"
+"Because I have this other fantasy involving a baton and aviator glasses."
+He shook his head. His Miss Kane was an individual, she really was.
+His Miss Kane? Where the fuck had that thought come from? Not good, not good at all. He needed to move on before he became too attached. To refer to her as his implied possession, a girlfriend. A girlfriend led to other things. Marriage and kids.
+He knew firsthand how dangerous his job was. He refused to put a family through what he'd experienced.
+"Yeah, about earlier. It can't happen again."
+She glanced at her wrists. "Oh, it's not that bad. I can handle a bit of chafing."
+He took a deep breath. "I meant, the whole thing. The sex."
+"The sex?"
+"Yes. The sex."
+Shaking her head, she turned in her seat to face him. "I don't understand."
+He put on his blinker, moved the Chevy into the fast lane. "Listen, I'm sorry it ever happened. It was wrong."
+"I don't understand. How could it be wrong?"
+Because it was too good, he wanted to shout. "Because you're a client."
+"Oh, well, if that's all. This whole thing will be solved shortly."
+"That's not all."
+She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Mason. What's going on? I smell something funny on you, like fear."
+He shook off her hand. "Would you stop that?"
+"Stop what?"
+"Smelling me!"
+She shrank back in her seat. "I can't help it."
+"Well, try."
+"Mason. There's something going on here. Tell me what's wrong."
+"I did. I never should have lost control of the situation."
+Her laugh sounded bitter. "Oh, I don't think you were ever not in control."
+"You know what I mean. I'm sorry I let things get out of hand---I don't even know you---"
+"You don't know me?"
+"That's not what I meant. Everything has happened too fast. I can't think."
+"You don't have to think. Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight?"
+His panic must have shown in his expression because she immediately paled. "I'm not suggesting we're in love, I just..."
+"You just what?"
+He heard her take a deep breath.
+"Mason. What are you scared of?"
+"I'm not scared."
+"Don't lie to me."
+"I'm not lying."
+"You're lying to yourself. You're scared of something. Tell me what it is so we can work it out."
+His blood was hammering in his ears. "We have nothing to work out. There is no we."
+"Then why can I still smell your eucalyptus scent on my skin? If there is no we, whose cock was I sucking this morning when I was on my knees on my kitchen floor?"
+His gut contracted as if he'd just been punched. "Lacy, stop."
+"If there is no we, how come I can smell your fear?"
+"Because you're a freak of nature!"
+He immediately regretted his words. She looked as if he'd slapped her. He lowered his voice. "Listen, Lacy, I'm sorry---"
+She held her palm up. "Don't. I understand perfectly."
+"Let me explain." The Silver Nugget's neon sign appeared ahead and he whipped the car onto the exit ramp.
+"Nothing to explain. I see what the problem is."
+"You do?"
+"Yes. I haven't worn my tiara in almost two days. Obviously my senses are out of whack. I thought you were..."
+He knew it was for the best. He knew he had to cut things off now before she got hurt. He knew he was doing the right thing.
+So why did his chest feel so fucking full?
+He couldn't keep quiet. He had to know. "What, Lacy? What did you think I was?"
+Her voice was barely a whisper. "Him."
+Turning to look out the window, she straightened her shoulders. "I thought my mother was wrong and that I actually did have some power beside just smelling things." To know instinctively when I'd met my mate. She shrugged. "I was wrong. Won't be the first time."
+He pulled into a parking spot and cut the engine. She deserved so much more than he could give. A reliable, predictable husband. A man with a normal job, like an accountant or an engineer.
+He could never maker her happy.
+Clear as a bell he heard the doorbell. He remembered his mother, still in her nightgown, crossing the living room. Heard the soft, low murmurs of the officers as they told her what happened. Heard her anguished cry in the night. His father was dead, shot in the line of duty.
+I thought you were him, Lacy had said.
+I'm not, baby. I'm sorry but I'm not.
+Fucking men.
+Lacy marched alongside Mason's tall form, practically running to keep up as they crossed the parking lot.
+Stupid fucking men.
+Despite what she'd said, she did not blame her senses for her reaction to Mason. Yes, she was an Aromatherapian, but first and foremost she was a woman, and female intuition was a powerful thing. She didn't need any special olfactory abilities to realize Mason O'Malley, PI, was scared shitless of his feelings for her. What she didn't know was why.
+Yet.
+"Would you slow down?"
+He glanced over his shoulder. "You shouldn't even be here."
+"What? We're just going out for dinner. If we happen to run into the chef, then I may happen to smell if he has my tiara nearby."
+"You will let me do the talking. Don't make me regret bringing you here."
+She muttered something.
+He stopped and turned. "Did you just mimic me?"
+She shrugged. "Maybe."
+He growled deep in his throat, spun on his heel and stalked away.
+Then they were entering the rotating door that led to the interior of the Casino where they were accosted by the clanging sound of people throwing away their hard-earned change into quarter slot machines.
+She pinched her nose. "Let's huwwy. I can't bweathe this cigawette smoke vewy long."
+He grabbed her hand and yanked her toward the restaurant. As she jogged behind him she wondered if he felt the electric spark like she did whenever their skin touched.
+He felt something---she knew she was affecting him. She could smell it in his spicy scent. But why wasn't he letting himself go?
+What was he so afraid of?
+The restaurant was a smoke-free environment, luckily, and she unpinched her nose as soon as they walked through the large glass doors. The hostess looked a bit shocked to see the critic who had given them such a horrid review, but seated them anyway at the best table.
+Lacy flipped open her menu. The oversized leather volume was about two feet high, yet there were only five options. "I see he hasn't changed the selection over the past six months."
+Mason grunted something, but she noticed he wasn't really looking at the menu. Instead his eyes darted around the room, taking in everything. She wondered if he ever relaxed.
+The waitress appeared to take their orders. Of course, the bimbo looked to Mason first because he was the man, but Lacy spoke up. "I'll have the rack of lamb."
+"Thank you, ma'am." She looked back to Mason.
+"And he'll have the ribs."
+Mason raised a brow at her, but didn't object to her selecting his meal for him.
+The waitress nodded at her. "And to drink?"
+"The 1999 Trevor Jones Shiraz."
+"I'm afraid that's not on option on the wine list."
+"Tell Gill it's for Miss Kane."
+Silently, the waitress turned and left.
+"That was a first."
+"Having a female order for you?"
+"No. Having a female order the right thing for me."
+She was about to respond but suddenly she smelled bad crab. She looked up to see Gill LaRouche stalking toward them. "What are you doing here?"
+She smiled. "Isn't it obvious? We've come for dinner."
+"Why would you do that after you publicly stated---what was it? Oh right, my coq au vin tasted 'like that last part of vomit that comes at the end of a stomach flu'."
+Mason barked out a laugh. "Seriously? You wrote that?"
+"It's true."
+Gill's beady brown eyes narrowed even further. "So if you hate my restaurant so much, why are you here?"
+She smiled. "I like to give everyone a second chance."
+"You wrote you'd never step foot into my place again even if you were starving and I had the last bag of Ruffles on the planet because they would be tainted just by being in my kitchen."
+"What can I say? I'm giving you another try."
+"Why are you really here?"
+"To eat."
+"No other reason?"
+"Should there be another reason?" she asked.
+"No."
+"Good then."
+He puffed up his chest. "I want you to leave."
+She smiled wider and sniffed. It was hard to detect her amethyst beneath all the other culinary scents radiating off the chef's body. "No."
+His eyes sparked. "I'll call security."
+Mason pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to reveal an official-looking identification card. "That won't be necessary."
+He snapped his wallet shut after just a second but Lacy thought she caught the logo for her local kickboxing gym.
+But Gill wasn't so astute and obviously assumed Mason was a cop. His eyes went wide. He spun on his ugly black shoe and was about to bolt, but Mason was on his feet in an instant and had his hand on the chef's shoulder. Anyone in the restaurant would have thought the men were exchanging a friendly gesture, but Lacy knew Mason had Gill in a firm grip.
+"Let's go have a talk, shall we?" Mason glanced over his shoulder in her direction. "You wait here. I'll be right back."
+She nodded, even though she didn't think it was fair that Mason got to have all the fun. It was her tiara and she wanted to give Gill a piece of her mind. Oh well. She'd promised Mason she'd behave and she intended to keep her word.
+The waitress poured her a glass of wine and she forced herself to sip and wait patiently.
+Five minutes later she was sick of waiting.
+Still, she restrained herself from interfering. Mason would be very unhappy with her if she did so. Plus she had total faith in his detective abilities. The minute he'd grabbed Gill, Mason had taken control of the situation. She had to let him do his job.
+The hostess seated an elderly couple in the booth next to her. The old lady's stretched face looked like it had had one too many plastic surgeries. When she smiled at Lacy her lips puffed out so much Lacy thought the woman might float away.
+A strange scent floated across the booths. Oh no. Lacy's heart rate elevated as she tried not to panic. Her nose began to tingle. The lady was wearing a perfume containing geraniol, a common perfume allergen. But Lacy wasn't common, and a wave of nausea immediately washed over her.
+Her vision began to dim. Pushing herself out of the booth, she knocked over her wineglass. She was aware of the red liquid spilling onto the carpet, but she couldn't do anything about it. She stumbled away from the table, trying not to faint. Her chest went tight, her eyesight narrowed into two tunnels.
+"Miss, are you okay?"
+It was the old lady. Out of concern she'd gotten up and was following Lacy, reaching out to steady her.
+Lacy jerked away. "F-fine. I'm okay. Please just..." The floral scent accosted her and she put her fist in front of her mouth as her stomach recoiled.
+She must have looked like a drunk because she caught sight of several people's shocked expressions. She didn't care. All she knew was that she had to get out of that room before she passed out. She had to get away from that smell.
+"Miss! I think I should call a doctor!" The old lady wobbled after her.
+"No!" She gasped, dizzy. "Please. Stop following me."
+Focusing on a gray door, she forced one foot in front of the other. Finally she pushed through and found herself in a small storage room.
+"Lacy! I thought I told you to stay---"
+He head swam as she stumbled toward Mason. Fuck! She was going to faint. She hated fainting.
+No.
+She leaned against a stack of boxes and took a deep breath. Mind over matter. She would not pass oust.
+Mason was immediately at her side. "What happened? What's wrong?"
+His brown eyes were huge and full of concern. She inhaled. The eucalyptus smell was like a cure. Her head began to clear.
+"A reaction. Allergies." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Gill backing away.
+He lunged toward a stack of copper pots and then tossed them onto the floor, where they landed with a shrill clatter.
+Mason spun around but it was too late. Gill had a gun, and he was pointing the weapon in their direction.
+"Fuck," she heard Mason mutter. Then louder, "Listen, LaRouche. Don't do anything stupid. Put the gun away."
+"What do I have to lose? That bitch already ruined my reputation."
+"I'll print a retraction," Lacy interjected. "Please, just put the gun away." She'd do anything to keep Mason from getting hurt.
+Gill waved the weapon in her direction. Her heart was in her throat. She'd never been so scared in her life. Strange, though. No scent of fear whatsoever radiated off Mason. How odd, especially when earlier in the car he'd been so clearly afraid of her. It seemed facing down a gun was nothing in comparison.
+Now it was protection. It radiated out of his skin. Too strong. He cared too much for her safety. He would lose perspective, get hurt.
+Just then the door flung open. A busboy came in, took one look at the scene in the storeroom and hightailed it back where he came from.
+The rest happened in slow motion. She watched as Gill raised his gun and pointed it at her. A deafening shot filled the small room, and at the same time Mason was in front of her, pulling something from his sleeve. A knife. The shiny blade sailed across the room and landed in Gill's shoulder with a soft thud. The gun dropped to the floor.
+And so did Mason.
+Lucy looked down to see red everywhere. Then the metallic odor of blood filled her nose and throat and stung her eyes.
+Mason's blood.
+He'd taken a bullet.
+For her.
+\*
+Lacy.
+Mason's eyes popped open and he bolted up. He barely registered the fact that he was in a hospital room with his right arm in a sling. None of that mattered. All he cared about was finding her. Where was she? Was she okay? Was she injured---or worse?
+"It's about time you woke up."
+Relief flooded his entire body, rendering him speechless. He'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life as Lacy at that moment. She still wore the black dress from the night before. Her red hair was a tousled mess. Her black eye makeup was smeared.
+He wanted to hold her close, smell her chocolaty scent, taste her sweet sweet skin.
+But he couldn't.
+He closed his eyes. The sight of her made his chest ache for all the things he couldn't have, the happily ever fucking after.
+"Lacy---Miss Kane, why are you here?"
+"Because I couldn't leave you here alone." She wrinkled her nose. "Even if the smell of hospitals makes my skin crawl."
+"You have to go."
+She smiled that little stubborn smile of hers. "No."
+"I don't need you." But his heart was screaming with need.
+His heart was stupid.
+Opening his eyes, he watched as she pulled up a chair, sat down next to the bed and took his hand. Her skin was warm and soft and he wanted to feel her everywhere.
+"What happened to you?"
+"I got shot."
+"I know. I was there."
+"Then what do you mean?" His voice sounded like he'd been gargling with gravel. Felt that way too.
+"What happened to you a long time ago? Why are you so scared to feel?"
+"I'm not."
+She leaned closer. "Then how come the closer I get to you the more fear I smell?"
+"Would you stop that!"
+"No."
+"Listen. I'm just not boyfriend material."
+"That's a bunch of bullshit."
+"It's the truth."
+"You took a bullet for me. I think that's a pretty good sign of loyalty."
+"I'm an ex-cop. It's instinct."
+"I see. So, to you I'm just a case."
+He nodded.
+Her blue eyes had gone cold, she was closing down, shutting him out. Good. That's what he wanted.
+"You want me to go?"
+He nodded. He glanced down the length of his body, covered in a white hospital blanket. Even if he had, just for a minute, thought about taking the chance and letting Lacy into his life, that option had been blown out of the water with a bullet from a Glock.
+Your father---he's been shot.
+Mason glanced at his wounded arm. He'd seen enough injuries to know he'd recover just fine. He'd been lucky.
+This time.
+"I'm turning your case over to one of my partners. Obviously, my judgment has been less than acceptable regarding your stolen property."
+She lifted her chin. "No need. I recovered my property myself."
+He went cold all over. "What?"
+"Yes. After you were taken away in an ambulance, I was feeling dizzy. I accidentally knocked over the dessert cart and when it fell on the floor it shattered. Turns out, Gill had hidden my tiara in a chocolate cherry pie. The cops arrested him for assault with a deadly weapon---and theft."
+He straightened the bed sheet. "Well then. I guess it's all done now."
+She just looked at him.
+He met her gaze. "Goodbye, Lacy."
+She hesitated. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
+"Yes, Lacy. I'm sure. Now please go." Leave before I lose it.
+She shook her head, straightened her back and left.
+And then he was alone, just like he'd always been. Just as he always would be.
+Fucking men.
+Lacy punched the elevator button until the bell chimed and the doors opened. She stomped into the elevator and tapped her foot as she watched the floors countdown on the red LED display.
+As she'd been leaving his room one of his partners had been coming to in visit Mason. She'd yanked him back into the hallway and forced him to talk. The PI had spilled everything and now she had the skinny on Mason's childhood. Her heart bled for the five-year old boy who'd lost his father. And it bled for the man who'd sentenced himself to a life of solitude in an attempt to avoid hurting others.
+Unfortunately his plan had backfired. His misguided attempt at protection had only resulted in the opposite effect. He thought to protect her from a broken heart and yet that's exactly what he'd done. Broken her heart.
+But Aromatherapians were fast healers.
+Detective O'Malley seriously underestimated her if he thought she'd give up that easily. Because she had a plan and a very strong belief that with hard work and persistence one can ultimately prevail.
+The elevator doors opened, depositing her into the ground floor of the hospital. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. She would not give up on Mason.
+As she crossed the lobby she had a bounce in her step and the I Love Lucy theme on her lips.
+"Mason O'Malley, PI."
+"Help!" a woman said through the phone. "I'm having an emergency!"
+A bowling ball landed in his gut. Lacy. He hadn't talked to her since that day in the hospital. He wanted to slam down the phone. He wanted to tell her he'd be there in five minutes.
+He wanted his dick to stop getting hard just from the sound of her voice.
+He'd kept waiting to forget about the quirky redhead, but thoughts of the damn woman filled his brain every waking moment of every fucking day. And then he went to sleep and dreamed about her. The whole thing was exhausting.
+He took a deep breath. It was like déjà vu. "Lacy. What's going on?" There. He sounded halfway normal. "Has something been stolen?"
+"No. Actually, I'm having a fashion emergency."
+"A what?"
+She gave a breathy sigh. "Yes. You see, I need help and I need it real bad."
+"Lacy. What's going on?"
+"Well. I have a date tonight."
+"The fuck you do!" He looked up to see his shout had garnered the attention of his secretary. He lowered his voice. "The fuck you do."
+"What? It isn't as if you care, right? You told me to leave you alone."
+"Grrr."
+"What?"
+He picked up a pencil and began stabbing his notebook with the sharp lead tip. "What exactly do you want from me, Lacy?"
+"Well, I'm trying to decide what to wear and I need your opinion."
+"Can't you call a girlfriend?"
+"No. You see, I plan on getting busy tonight."
+"What!"
+"Yes. The thing is, now that you've educated me on some of the more unique aspects of making love, I find myself wanting to do it some more."
+The pencil in his hand snapped in half, sending little shards of wood into the air.
+"And since you're such an expert, I thought I'd ask your opinion. Do you think a short plaid skirt will tell my date tonight that I'd like a spanking?"
+"Lacy..." His voice sounded like a growl.
+"Or do you think that's too obvious? Is it okay to just come right out and ask for that sort of thing?"
+Silence. He couldn't trust himself to speak.
+"I mean, you knew how to take control---I liked that. In fact, I loved the way you bent me over my kitchen table, the way you took charge."
+He'd thought about that morning so many times. Usually he had his cock in his hand when he did so, stroking himself to the memory of her pale, sweet ass. Trying to remember what her voice sounded like. Trying to recall that special vanilla perfume of hers.
+The thought of another man looking knowing all those things like he did sent a wave of fury pumping through his veins.
+Her voice went low. "Because Mason?"
+He was so hard. "Yes?"
+"I have to tell you I can't stop thinking about the way you pulled my panties down and smacked my bottom."
+His balls tightened.
+"And I can't stop thinking about the way you...never mind."
+"What, Lacy?" His voice was raspy. "What can't you stop thinking about?"
+"The way your cock felt that time in the woods. How full I was. Last night I was lying in bed and I was, well, you know."
+He got up and kicked the door to his office shut. He slid the lock into place. He could not have this conversation with Vampira listening in.
+He pulled out his chair and fell back into the seat. He spoke through gritted teeth because he had to ask. "Did you think of me while you were masturbating?"
+"Every time."
+"Tell me."
+"Oh, I don't know if I can. It's embarrassing."
+"Tell me."
+"I was imagining that I was tied to my bed, spread wide for you. I couldn't move at all and you had one of my homemade paraffin candles. You were dripping the hot wax all over my body. My stomach, my breasts. My nipples. The wax stung my nipples but I liked it. It made my pussy so wet."
+"Lacy..." He unzipped his pants. He had to. He was about to come in his boxers. He wanted to pour hot wax on her, he wanted to watch her squirm for him.
+"And then you straddled me. You had your penis between my breasts and you were---"
+"Goddamn it, Lacy."
+"Do you want to do that sometime? Do you want to tie me up? Pour hot wax on me?"
+"Yes." He took his cock out of his boxers, palmed his erection and pumped up and down. "I fucking want to do that."
+"I can't stop thinking about you, Mason. Today I was sitting on a chair in my living room. My big chair. I spread my legs over the sides and I touched myself while I thought of you."
+"What did your pussy feel like?"
+"Wet. So wet because I imagined you were on the sofa, watching me touch myself."
+His cock jerked in his hand. He'd been releasing himself in the shower every day since he'd last seen her. But that was nothing. Just the sound of her whispery voice---he loved it, it made his skin heat, made his gut clench with want. Her voice combined with the visual she described was too much, he was going to--- "So anyway. What should I wear for my date tonight?"
+His hand stilled on his cock. "What?"
+"Tonight. That's why I called, remember?"
+"Lacy." His voice was a dark warning. "You are not going on a date tonight with anyone but me."
+"You? I thought you never wanted to see me again."
+"I changed my fucking mind."
+"Really?"
+"Yes. Now stay where you are. I'm coming over."
+"Don't bother."
+"Lacy. You better stay put." His eyes shot to his door. Someone was trying to get in. He stuffed his still-hard cock back in his pants. It was painful, both physically and psychologically.
+The handle jerked again.
+"Open the door," she whispered through the phone.
+That was strange. How did Lacy know someone was trying to get into his office?
+"Mason. Open your door." Again the handle turned.
+He tossed the phone into the cradle, jumped to his feet and crossed the room. Yanking open the door, his heart nearly blew out of his chest.
+She was there, wearing a trench coat and a tiara. In the center of the tiara rested a huge amethyst, a striking purple contrast to the dreary office in the background.
+But Lacy glowed much brighter than the stone.
+He pulled her inside and kicked the door shut. Yanking her against him, he nuzzled her hair.
+She hugged him tightly. "You smell good. I've missed your smell."
+He wanted to lift her up but his left arm was still in a sling. Instead he backed her to his big metal desk in the corner of the room. "I've missed you too. So much." Then he kissed her. Soft and deep and slow. He swept the inside of her mouth with his tongue, tasted her chocolaty vanilla flavor. She tasted like home.
+After a minute she pulled away and met his gaze. "I'm not letting you go."
+He shook his head. "I don't want you to." He never wanted her to. Ever. Looking at her know only made him realize how empty, how miserable he'd been the past few weeks.
+She smiled that smile that made his chest ache and touched his cheek. "I've seen firsthand the risks of your job. I know what I'm getting into."
+He just shook his head. "I don't want to hurt you."
+She cupped his jaw in her palm. "Just do your best. That's all I ask."
+He looked hard into her big blue eyes. "That's all I can give."
+"Perfect." She tossed her bag onto his desk and then shrugged the trench coat off and threw it to the floor, revealing a familiar set of plain, purple cotton underwear. And black lace-up boots.
+It was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.
+He leaned down to kiss her once more, but she smiled wickedly and hopped onto the desk. He watched as she reached into her bag and pulled out a few items. Matches, a long, tall candle and--- You were dripping the hot wax all over my body. My stomach, my breasts. My nipples. Her words slammed into his head and his blood started pounding. "Lacy..."
+She held the candle just under her chin and looked up at him, grinning. "What?"
+He looked at the closed door and then back to her. "You don't want to do that here, do you?" Lord knew he did---he wanted to do it right there, right now.
+She took a match, struck it and put the flame to the candle wax. "I've been waiting for you for three weeks, Mason. Imaging all the ways I wanted you to torture me. I don't want to wait any longer."
+"Lacy, you're killing me."
+She blew out the candle, sending a sulfury puff of smoke at him. She then placed the candle on the desk next to her. Glancing at his sling, she said, "I bet you need some help taking off my bra."
+There was no reason they needed to do this here, now. He should bundle her back into her coat and take her home. Make love to her in her bed instead of behind the closed door of his office.
+Yeah, his head knew all the things he should do.
+But three weeks was a heck of a long time and simply couldn't wait one more minute to make love to her.
+"Take off your bra."
+She reached behind her back and unclasped her bra. Her gaze remained on his as she slid one purple cotton strap down one arm, then the other. He loved her breasts, and his heart swelled at the thought they he would be the only man ever again to hold them---the only man who would ever again see this part of her. Ever. He wanted to lean down and take one of her nipples into his mouth, but he held back as she reached her arm out, dangling her bra from her fingertips. Leaning back a little onto the desk, she dropped the fabric onto he floor.
+"God, Lacy. I want to---"
+"Remember that fantasy I was just telling you about? The hot wax one?"
+His balls went tight as he nodded.
+"Do you trust me?"
+He nodded again and she rewarded him with a smile. He did trust her. He trusted this kooky, smart, funny Aromatherapian more than anyone he knew.
+She picked up the candle. "Give me your hand."
+He took a step forward and did as she asked. She took his wrist and turned his hand until the back faced up. She then lifted the glass about two feet above his hand and slowly tilted the candle. Mesmerized, he watched the white liquid flow to the edge of the votive and spill over the edge in a slow stream.
+His instinct was to yank his hand back, but Lacy seemed to expect this reaction because she held him still and steady as a large drop of wax hit his skin, causing him to gasp. It wasn't too hot, but it was intense and sent a jolt of adrenaline through him.
+He waited for her to do it again, but instead she handed him the candle. "I trust you, too."
+It seemed like a ceremony to him, more powerful than anything he would ever do with her in a church. This exchange of trust nearly sent him over the edge, but he couldn't lose control now. He wanted to do this.
+Leaning back onto her elbows, she kept her gaze on his. He looked down at the warm votive in his hand and a powerful desire ran though him. Only moments ago he had been ready to come in his own hand, but now a sense of calm was taking over him. He wanted to wait.
+And he couldn't deny that he wanted to do as she had asked. He wanted to torture her a bit, wanted to make her squirm. Wanted her to beg him.
+His cock jumped.
+He stepped between her legs, pressing his erection right against her pussy. She gasped at the contact and wiggled a little, pressing into him. He wished his arm wasn't in the sling because he needed to take a nipple between his fingers and feel that part of her. Instead he bent forward and pulled a pink tip across his teeth, sucking and nipping at her until she moaned beneath him.
+"Mason, please. I can't wait anymore."
+"You're the one who started this." He kissed her again. "And I intend to give you what you wanted."
+Her eyes were wide and dark as she looked at the candle in his hand. "Yes. Please."
+But when his gaze rested on her fine, porcelain-pale skin, he paused. "I've never done this before. I don't want to hurt you."
+"Trust me. Just start with the candle about three feet above my chest and go slowly."
+It seemed so odd to be feeling so patient when his cock was so hard, but the combination was powerful and it energized him. The candle was burning a subtle scent that embodied her---vanilla and chocolaty red wine. He inhaled deeply, wanting to fill himself with that fragrance.
+He lifted the candle as she had instructed, tilted it and let a few drops fall onto her skin.
+She threw her head back and gasped as the molten wax hit her just across the top of her breasts. She cried out and arched higher. "Yes, Mason. That's right. Do it again."
+Lust hit him in the gut but he kept going, pouring a little more, then a bit more, watching it splatter like drops of lava. Her skin turned a little bit pink under the heat, but it was nothing to worry about. He lowered his arm bit by bit, allowing the wax to become hotter and hotter as he decorated her body with an ivory pattern. He focused on her breasts, covering her erect nipples with a waxy layer.
+Soon she was writhing on the desk, her legs spread wide as she ground herself against his erection. Her red hair was a bit messy, her cheeks were flushed. He took a deep breath. "You are so beautiful."
+"Oh, God, Mason. I want to feel your cock. Inside me. Now."
+Her eyes were dark, dilated with desire and want. "Yes, babe. I want that, too." She scooted out of her panties and dropped them onto the floor.
+She pushed herself up, leaned in and popped open the first button of his jeans. He stood rock still as she continued the process, and when she was done she pushed his pants, along with his boxers, down to his knees.
+She licked her lips. "That's better."
+She opened her legs wide and leaned back onto her elbows again. She was so wet and he was so hard he didn't need a second hand to help slide into her. He went right in, pushing until she slid an inch back onto his desk, sending a stapler to the floor.
+"Kiss my breasts again, Mason."
+He glanced at the wax on her skin. It still looked soft, but was beginning to dry. "I'd love to, but I'm not sure wax is edible."
+She grinned. "This wax is. I made it myself. Go ahead."
+He leaned down to take a nipple into his mouth, instinctively thrusting into her as the familiar vanilla flavor melted on his tongue.
+She curved into him, moaning his name. "Yes, Mason. Yes!"
+Sensation nearly overwhelmed him---she was filling him everywhere. He tasted her, smelled her, felt the very inside of her. Her breathy voice filled his ears---she was crying out his name every time he pumped into her.
+Soon the room began to fade and there was nothing but her. Lacy.
+"I love you, Lacy!" He clutched her hair in his fist, causing her throat to arch and exposing her ear. As he came he nipped the delicate lobe, feeling her sex clench around him in a series of spasms that sent him straight to heaven.
+It took awhile to come back to earth. He finally opened his eyes to find Lacy staring up at him. "I love you, too Mason. Forever."
+He groaned and lowered his mouth to hers again, surrendering.
+He wasn't strong enough. Leaving her simply wasn't an option any longer. Because there was something he'd wanted since the minute he'd stepped into Lacy Kane's house. Her.
+And from that moment on, she was his.
+About the Author
+Lillian Feisty was born in the San Francisco Bay Area. Like a piece of driftwood, she has washed up on nearly every beach between Santa Cruz and the Oregon border.
+Because she never attended any particular elementary school for more than a few months at a time, she amused herself during lonely recesses by writing what would nowadays be labeled fanfic featuring Michael Knight and Han Solo. Sometimes in the same story.
+She owned an art gallery for several years, holds a degree in Creative Arts and was just a few units short of her MA when she decided to drop out of school to write romance novels.
+Her first novella was published in March 2007 and she's been hard at work ever since. She is the president of Passionate Ink, a special interest chapter of Romance Writers of America, and is also a moderator for the award-winning website, Romance Divas. Ms. Feisty currently resides in Northern Nevada. When she's not writing you might find her conducting "research" at brothels, staring out windows, or making Martinis.
+The author welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
+Tell Us What You Think
+We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at Comments@EllorasCave.com.
+Also by Lillian Feisty
+Ellora's Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction I anthology
+Discover for yourself why readers can't get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora's Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.
+www.ellorascave.com
+

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+
+I
+Our first glimpse of the plain was one of Heaven. The snow and treacherous passes had claimed two men and five animals.
+Two days later we all wished we were back in the mountains.
+The ice storm came by night. An inch covered the ground. And still it came down, stinging my face, frosting the heads and shoulders of my companions. The footing was impossible. We had to finish two broken-legged mules before
+Lord Hammer remained unperturbed, unvanquishable. He remained stiffly upright on that red-eyed stallion, implacably drawing us northeastward. Ice clung to his cowl, shoulders, and the tail of his robe where it lay across his beast's rump. Seldom did even Nature break the total blackness of his apparel.
+The wind hurtled against us, biting and clawing like a million mocking imps. It burned sliding into the lungs.
+The inalterable, horizon-to-horizon bleakness of the world gnawed the roots of our souls. Even Fetch and irrepressible Chenyth dogged Lord Hammer in a desperate silence.
+"We're becoming an army of ghosts," I muttered at my brother. "Hammer is rubbing off on us. How're the Harish taking this?" I didn't glance back. My concentration was devoted to taking each next step forward.
+Chenyth muttered something I didn't hear. The kid was starting to understand that adventures were more fun when you were looking back and telling tall tales.
+A mule slipped. She went down kicking and braying. She caught old Toamas a couple of good ones. He skittered across the ice and down an embankment into a shallow pool not yet frozen.
+Lord Hammer stopped. He didn't look back, but he knew exactly what had happened. Fetch fluttered round him nervously. Then she scooted toward Toamas.
+"Better help, Will," Chenyth muttered.
+I was after him already.
+Why Toamas joined Lord Hammer's expedition I don't know. He was over sixty. Men his age are supposed to spend winter telling the grandkids lies about the El Murid, Civil, and Great Eastern Wars. But Toamas was telling us his stories and trying to prove something to himself.
+He was a tough buzzard. He had taken the Dragon's Teeth more easily than most, and those are the roughest mountains the gods ever raised.
+"Toamas. You okay?" I asked. Chenyth hunkered down beside me. Fetch scooted up, laid a hand on each of our shoulders. Brandy and Russ and the other Kaveliners came over too. Our little army clumped itself into national groups.
+"Think it's my ribs, Will. She got me in the ribs." He spoke in little gasps. I checked his mouth.
+"No blood. Good. Lungs should be okay."
+"You clowns going to talk about it all week?" Fetch snapped. "Help the man, Will."
+"You got such a sweet-talking way, Fetch. We should get married. Let's get him up, Chenyth. Maybe he's just winded."
+"It's my ribs, Will. They're broke, sure."
+"Maybe. Come on, you old woods-runner. Let's try."
+"Lord Hammer says carry him if you have to. We've still got to cover eight miles today. More, if the circle isn't alive." Fetch's voice went squeaky and dull, like an old iron hinge that hadn't been oiled for a lifetime. She scurried back to her master.
+"I think I'm in love," Chenyth chirped.
+"Eight miles," Brandy grumbled. "What the hell? Bastard's trying to kill us."
+Chenyth laughed. It was a ghost of his normal tinkle. "You didn't have to sign up, Brandy. He warned us it would be tough."
+Brandy wandered away.
+"Go easy, Chenyth. He's the kind of guy you got to worry when he stops bitching."
+"Wish he'd give it a rest, Will. I haven't heard him say one good word since we met him."
+"You meet all kinds in this business. Okay, Toamas?" I asked. We had the old man on his feet. Chenyth brushed water off him. It froze on his hand.
+"I'll manage. We got to get moving. I'll freeze." He stumbled toward the column. Chenyth stayed close, ready to catch him if he fell.
+The non-Kaveliners watched apathetically. Not that they didn't care. Toamas was a favorite, a confidant, adviser, and teacher to most. They were just too tired to move except when they had to. Men and animals looked vague and slumped through the ice rain.
+Brandy gave Toamas a spear to lean on. We lined up. Fetch took her place at Lord Hammer's left stirrup. Our ragged little army of thirty-eight homeless bits of war-flotsam started moving again.
+II
+Lord Hammer was a little spooky... What am I saying? He scared hell out of us. He was damned near seven feet tall. His stallion was a monster. He never spoke. He had Fetch do all his talking.
+The stallion was jet. Even its hooves were black. Lord Hammer dressed to match. His hands remained gloved all the time. None of us ever saw an inch of skin. He wore no trinkets. His very colorlessness inspired dread.
+Even his face he kept concealed. Or, perhaps, especially his face...
+He always rode point, staring ahead. Opportunities to peek into his cowl were scant. All you would see, anyway, was a blackened iron mask resembling a handsome man with strong features. For all we knew, there was no one inside. The mask had almost imperceptible eye, nose, and mouth slits. You couldn't see a thing through them.
+Sometimes the mask broke the colorless boredom of Lord Hammer. Some mornings, before leaving his tent, he or Fetch decorated it. The few designs I saw were never repeated.
+Lord Hammer was a mystery. We knew nothing of his origins and were ignorant of his goals. He wouldn't talk, and Fetch wouldn't say. But he paid well, and a lot up front. He took care of us. Our real bitch was the time of year chosen for his journey.
+Fetch said winter was the best time. She wouldn't expand.
+She claimed Lord Hammer was a mighty, famous sorcerer.
+So why hadn't any of us heard of him?
+Fetch was a curiosity herself. She was small, cranky, longhaired, homely. She walked more mannish than a man. She was totally devoted to Hammer despite being inclined to curse him constantly. Guessing her age was impossible. For all I could tell, she could have been anywhere between twenty and two hundred.
+She wouldn't mess with the men.
+By then that little gnome was looking good.
+Sigurd Ormson, our half-tame Trolledyngjan, was the only guy who had had nerve enough to really go after her. The rest of us followed his suit with a mixture of shame and hope.
+The night Ormson tried his big move Lord Hammer strolled from his tent and just stood behind Fetch. Sigurd seemed to shrivel to about half normal size.
+You couldn't see Lord Hammer's eyes, but when his gaze turned your way the whole universe ground to a halt. You felt whole new dimensions of cold. They made winter seem balmy.
+Trudge. Trudge. Trudge. The wind giggled and bit. Chenyth and I supported Toamas between us. He kept muttering, "It's my ribs, boys. My ribs." Maybe the mule had scrambled his head, too.
+"Holy Hagard's Golden Turds!" Sigurd bellowed. The northman had ice in his hair and beard. He looked like one of the frost giants of his native legends.
+He thrust an arm eastward.
+The rainfall masked them momentarily. But they were coming closer. Nearly two hundred horsemen. The nearer they got, the nastier they looked. They carried heads on lances. They wore necklaces of human fingerbones. They had rings in their ears and noses. Their faces were painted. They looked grimy and mean.
+They weren't planning a friendly visit.
+Lord Hammer faced them. For the first time that morning I glimpsed his mask paint.
+White. Stylized. Undeniably the skullface of Death.
+He stared. Then, slowly, his stallion paced toward the nomads.
+Bellweather, the Itaskian commanding us, started yelling. We grabbed weapons and shields and formed a ragged-assed line. The nomads probably laughed. We were scruffier than they were.
+"Gonna go through us like salts through a goose," Toamas complained. He couldn't get his shield up. His spear seemed too heavy. But he took his place in the line.
+Fetch and the Harish collected the animals behind us.
+Lord Hammer plodded toward the nomads, head high, as if there were nothing in the universe he feared. He lifted his left hand, palm toward the riders.
+A nimbus formed round him. It was like a shadow cast every way at once.
+The nomads reined in abruptly.
+I had seen high sorcery during the Great Eastern Wars. I had witnessed both the thaumaturgies of the Brotherhood and the Tervola of Shinsan. Most of us had. Lord Hammer's act didn't overwhelm us. But it did dispel doubts about his being what Fetch claimed.
+"Oh!" Chenyth gasped. "Will. Look."
+"I see."
+Chenyth was disappointed by my reaction. But he was only seventeen. He had spent the Great Eastern Wars with our mother, hiding in the forests while the legions of the Dread Empire rolled across our land. This was his first venture at arms.
+The nomads decided not to bother us after all. They milled around briefly, then rode away.
+Soon Chenyth asked, "Will, if he can do that, why'd he bring us?"
+"Been wondering myself. But you can't do everything with the Power."
+We were helping Toamas again. He was getting weaker. He croaked, "Don't get no wrong notions, Chenyth lad. They didn't have to leave. They could've took us slicker than greased owl shit. They just didn't want to pay the price Lord Hammer would've made them pay."
+III
+Lord Hammer stopped.
+We had come to a forest. Scattered, ice-rimed trees stood across our path. They were gnarled, stunted things that looked a little like old apple trees.
+Fetch came down the line, speaking to each little band in its own language. She told us Kaveliners, "Don't ever leave the trail once we pass the first tree. It could be worth your life. This's a fey, fell land." Her dusky little face was as somber as ever I had seen it.
+"Why? Where are we? What's happening?" Chenyth asked.
+She frowned. Then a smile broke through. "Don't you ever stop asking?" She was almost pretty when she smiled.
+"Give him a break," I said. "He's a kid."
+She smiled a little at me, then, before turning back to Chenyth. I think she liked the kid. Everybody did. Even the Harish tolerated him. They hardly acknowledged the existence of anyone else but Fetch, and she only as the mouth of the man who paid them.
+Fetch was a sorceress in her own right. She knew how to use the magic of her smiles. The genuine article just sort of melted you inside.
+"The forest isn't what it seems," she explained. "Those trees haven't died for the winter. They're alive, Chenyth. They're wicked, and they're waiting for you to make a mistake. All you have to do is wander past one and you'll be lost. Unless Lord Hammer can save you. He might let you go. As an object lesson."
+"Come on, Fetch. How'd you get that name, anyway? That's not a real name. Look. The trees are fifty feet apart..."
+"Chenyth." I tapped his shoulder. He subsided. Lord Hammer was always right. When Fetch gave us a glimmer of fact, we listened.
+"Bellweather named me Fetch. Because I run for Lord Hammer. And maybe because he thinks I'm a little spooky. He's clever that way. You couldn't pronounce my real name, anyway."
+"Which you'd never reveal," I remarked.
+She smiled. "That's right. One man with a hold on me is enough."
+"What about Lord Hammer?" Chenyth demanded. When one of his questions was answered, he always found another.
+"Oh, he chose his own name. It's a joke. But you'll never understand it. You're too young." She moved on down the line.
+Chenyth smiled to himself. He had won a little more.
+His value to us all was his ability to charm Fetch into revealing just a little more than she had been instructed. Maybe Chenyth could have gotten into her.
+His charm came of youth and innocence. He was fourteen years younger than Jamal, child of the Harish and youngest veteran. We were all into our thirties and forties. Soldiering had been our way of life for so long we had forgotten there were others. Some of us had been enemies back when. The Harish bore their defeat like the banner of a holy martyr...
+Chenyth had come after the wars. Chenyth was a baby. He had no hatreds, no prejudices. He retained that bubbling, youthful optimism that had been burned from the rest of us in the crucible of war. We both loved and envied him for it, and tried to get a little to rub off. Chenyth was a talisman. One last hope that the world wasn't inalterably cruel.
+Fetch returned to Lord Hammer's stirrup. The man in black proceeded.
+I studied the trees.
+There was something repulsive about them. Something frightening. They were so widely spaced it seemed they couldn't stand one another. There were no saplings. Most were half dead, hollow, or down and rotting. They were arranged in neat, long rows, a stark orchard of death...
+The day was about to die without a whimper when Lord Hammer halted again.
+It hadn't seemed possible that our morale could sink. Not after the mountains and the ice storm. But that weird forest depressed us till we scarcely cared if we lived or died. The band would have disintegrated had it not become so much an extension of Lord Hammer's will.
+We massed behind our fell captain.
+Before him lay a meadow circumscribed by a tumbled wall of field stone. The wall hadn't been mended in ages. And yet...
+It still performed its function.
+"Sorcery!" Brandy hissed.
+Others took it up.
+"What'd you expect?" Chenyth countered. He nodded toward Lord Hammer.
+It took no training to sense the wizardry.
+Ice-free, lush grass crowded the circle of stone. Wildflowers fluttered their petals in the breeze.
+We Kaveliners crowded Fetch. Chenyth tickled her sides. She yelped. "Stop it!" She was extremely ticklish. Anyone else she would have slapped silly. She told him, "It's still alive. Lord Hammer was afraid it might have died."
+Remarkable. She said nothing conversational to anyone else, ever.
+Lord Hammer turned slightly. Fetch devoted her attention to him. He moved an elbow, twitched a finger. I didn't see anything else pass between them.
+Fetch turned to us. "Listen up! These are the rules for guys who want to stay healthy. Follow Lord Hammer like his shadow. Don't climb over the wall. Don't even touch it. You'll get dead if you do."
+The black horseman circled the ragged wall to a gap where a gate might once have stood. He turned in and rode to the heart of the meadow.
+Fetch scampered after him, her big brown eyes locked on him.
+How Lord Hammer communicated with her I don't know. A finger-twitch, a slight movement of hand or head, and she would talk-talk-talk. We didn't speculate much aloud. He was a sorcerer. You avoid things that might irritate his kind.
+She proclaimed, "We need a tent behind each fire pit. Five on the outer circle, five on the inner. The rest here in the middle. Keep your fires burning all night. Sentinels wil be posted."
+"Yeah?" Brandy grumbled. "What the hell do we do for wood? Plant acorns and wait?"
+"Out there are two trees that are down. Take wood off them.
+Pick up any fallen branches this side of the others. It'll be wet, but it's the best we can do. Do not go past a live tree. Lord Hammer isn't sure he can project his protection that far."
+I didn't pay much attention. Nobody did. It was warm there. I shed my pack and flung myself to the ground. I rolled around on the grass, grabbing handfuls and inhaling the newly mown hay scent.
+There had to be some dread sorceries animating that circle. Nobody cared. The place was as cozy as journey's end.
+There is always a price. That's how magic works.
+Old Toamas lay back on his pack and smiled in pure joy. He closed his eyes and slept. Even Brandy said nothing about making him do his share.
+Lord Hammer let the euphoria bubble for ten minutes.
+Fetch started round the troop. "Brandy. You and Russ and Little, put your tent on that point. Will, Chenyth, Toamas, yours goes here. Kelpie..." And so on. When everyone was assigned, she erected her master's black tent. All the while Lord Hammer sat his ruby-eyed stallion and stared northeastward. He showed the intensity of deep concentration. Was he reading the trail?
+Nothing seemed to catch him off guard.
+Where was he leading us? Why? What for? We didn't know. Not a whit. Maybe even Fetch didn't. Chenyth couldn't charm a hint from her.
+We knew two things. Lord Hammer paid well. And, within restrictions known only to himself, he took care of his followers. In a way I can't articulate, he had won our loyalties.
+His being what he was was ample proof we faced something grim, yet he had won us to the point where we felt we had a stake in it too. We wanted him to succeed. We wanted to help him succeed.
+Odd. Very odd.
+I have taken his gold, I thought, briefly remembering a man I had known a long time ago. He had been a member of the White Company of the Mercenaries Guild. They were a monastic order of soldiers with what, then, 1 had thought of as the strangest concept of honor...
+What made me think of Mikhail? I wondered.
+IV
+Lord Hammer suddenly dismounted and strode toward Chenyth and me. I thought, thunderhead! Huge, black, irresistible.
+I'm no coward. I endured the slaughterhouse battles of the Great Eastern Wars without flinching. I stood fast at Second Baxendala while the Tervola sent the savan dalage ravening amongst us night after night. I maintained my courage after Dichiara, which was our worst defeat. And I persevered at Palmisano, though the bodies piled into little mountains and so many men died that the savants later declared there could be no more war for generations. For three years I had faced the majestic, terrible hammer of Shinsan's might without quelling.
+But when Lord Hammer bore down on me, that grim death mask coming like an arrowhead engraved with my name, I slunk aside like a whipped dog.
+He had that air. You knew he was as mighty as any force of Nature, as cruel as Death Herself. Cowering was instinctive.
+He looked me in the eye. I couldn't see anything through his mask. But a coldness hit me. It made the cold of that land seem summery.
+He looked at Chenyth, too. Baby brother didn't flinch.
+I guess he was too innocent. He didn't know when to be scared.
+Lord Hammer dropped to one knee beside Toamas.
+Gloved hands probed the old man's ribs. Toamas cringed. Then his terror gave way to a beatific smile.
+Lord Hammer strode back to where Fetch pursued her regular evening ritual of battling to erect their tent.
+"You're a damned idiot, girl," she muttered. "You could've picked something you could handle. But no, you had to have a canvas palace. You knew the boys would just fall in love and stumble all over themselves to help. Then you hired lunks with the chivalry of tomcats. You're a real genius, you are, girl."
+The euphoria had reached her too. Usually she was louder and crustier.
+Chenyth volunteered. Leaving me to battle with ours.
+That little woman could shame or cajole a man into doing anything.
+I checked Toamas. He was sleeping. His smile said he was feeling no pain. "Thanks," I threw Lord Hammer's way, softly. No one heard, but he probably knew. Nothing escaped him.
+When the tents were up Fetch chose wood-gathers. I was one of the losers.
+"Goddamned, ain't fair, Brandy," I muttered as we hit the ice. "Them sumbitches get to sit on their asses back there..."
+He laughed at me. He was that kind of guy. No empathy. And no sympathy even for himself.
+Some lessons have to be learned the hard way.
+The circle had turned me lazy. Malingering is a fine art among veterans. I decided to get the wood-gathering over with.
+What I did was go after a prime-looking dead branch laying just past the first standing tree. I mean, how hard could it be to find your way back when all you had to do was turn around?
+I whacked and hacked the branch out of the ice. All the while Brandy and the others were cussing and fussing behind me as they wooled a dead tree.
+I turned to go back.
+Nothing.
+I couldn't see a damned thing but ice, those gnarled old trees, and more ice. No circle. No woodcutters.
+The only sound was the ice cracking on branches as the wind teased through the forest.
+I yelled.
+Chips of ice tinkled off the nearest tree. The damned thing was laughing! I could feel it. It was telling me that it had me, but it was going to play with me a while.
+I even felt the envy of neighboring trees, the hatred of a brother, who had scored...
+I didn't panic. I whirled this way and that, moving a few steps each direction, without surrendering to terror. Once a man has faced the legions of the Dread Empire, and has survived nights haunted by the unkillable savan dalage, there isn't much left to fear.
+I could hear the others perfectly when I turned my back. They were yelling at me, each other, and Lord Hammer. They thought I had gone crazy.
+"Will," Brandy called. "How come you're jumping around like that?"
+"Tree," I said, "you're going to lose this round."
+It laughed in my mind.
+I started backing up. Dragging my branch. Feeling for any trace of footsteps I had left coming here.
+Good thinking. But not good enough. The tree hadn't exhausted its arsenal.
+A branch fell. A big one. I dodged. My feet slipped on the ice. I cracked my head good. I wasn't thinking when I got up. I started walking. Probably the wrong way.
+I heard Brandy yelling. "Will, you stupid bastard, stand still!"
+And Russ, "Get a rope, somebody. We'll lasso him."
+I didn't understand. My feet kept shuffling.
+Then came the crackle of flames and stench of oily smoke. It caught my attention. I stopped, turned.
+My captor had become a pillar of fire. It screamed in my mind.
+Nothing should burn that fast, that hot. Not in that weather. But the damned thing went up like an explosion.
+The smell of sorcery fouled the air.
+The flames peaked, began dying. I could see through.
+The circle and my friends glimmered before me. Facing the tree, a few yards beyond, stood Lord Hammer. He held one arm outstretched, fingers in a King's X.
+He stared at me. I peered into his eye slots and felt him calling. I took a step.
+It was a long, long journey. I had to round some kink in the corridor of time before I got my feet onto the straight line path to safety.
+I made it.
+Still dragging that damned branch.
+I stumbled. Lord Hammer's arm fell. He caught me. His touch was as gentle as a lover's caress, yet I felt it to my bones. I had the feeling that there was nothing more absolute.
+I got hold of myself. He released me.
+His shoulders slumped slightly as he wheeled and stalked back to the circle. It was the first sign of weariness he had ever shown.
+I glanced back.
+That damned tree stood there looking like it hadn't been touched. I felt its bitterness, its rage, its loss.. .And its siren call.
+I scooted back inside the circle like a kid running home after getting caught pulling a prank.
+V
+"Chenyth, it was on fire. I saw it with my own eyes."
+"I saw what happened, Will. Lord Hammer just stood there with his arm out. You stopped acting goofy and came back."
+The campfires cast enough light to limn the nearest trees. I glanced at the one that had had me. I shuddered. "Chenyth, I couldn't get back."
+"Will..."
+"You listen to me. When Lord Hammer says do something, do it. Mom would kill me if I didn't bring you home."
+She was going to get nasty anyway. I had taken Chenyth off after she had sworn seven ways from Sunday that he wasn't going to go. It had been a brutal scene. Chenyth pleading, Mom screaming, me ducking epithets and pots.
+My mother had had a husband and eight sons. When the dust of the Great Eastern Wars settled, she had me and little Chenyth, and she hadn't seen me but once since then.
+Then I came back with my story about signing on with Lord Hammer. And Chenyth, who had been feeding on her stories about Dad and the rest of us being heroes in the wars, decided he wanted to go too.
+She told him no, and meant it. It was too late to do anything about me, but her last child wasn't going to be a soldier.
+Sometimes I was ashamed of sneaking him out. She would be dying still, in tiny bits each day. But Chenyth had to grow up sometime...
+"Hey! Listen up!" Fetch yelled. "Hey! I said knock off the tongue music. Got a little proclamation from the boss."
+"Here it comes. All time ass-chewing for doing a stupid," I said.
+She used Itaskian first. Most of us understood it. She changed languages for the Harish and a few others who didn't. We drifted toward the black tent.
+From the heart of the meadow I could see the pattern of the fire pits. Each lay in one of the angles of a five-pointed star.
+A pentagram. This meadow was a live magical symbol.
+"It'll only be a couple days till we get where we're heading. Maybe sooner. The boss says it's time to let you know what's happening. Just so you'll stay on your toes. The name of the place is Kammengarn." She grinned, exposing dirty teeth.
+It took a while. The legend was old, and didn't get much notice outside Itaskia's northern provinces, where Rainheart is a folk hero.
+Bellweather popped first. "You mean like the Kammengarn in the story about Rainheart slaying the Kammengarn Dragon?"
+"You got it, Captain."
+Most of us just put on stupid looks, the southerners more so than those of us who shared cultural roots with Itaskia. I don't think the Harish ever understood.
+"Why? What's there?" Bellweather asked.
+Fetch laughed. The sound was hard to describe. A little bit of cackle, of bray, and of tinkle all rolled into one astonishing noise. "The Kammengarn Dragon, idiot. Silcroscuar. Father of All Dragons. The big guy of the dragon world. The one who makes the ones you saw in the wars look like crippled chickens beside eagles."
+"You're not making sense," Chenyth responded. "What's there? Bones? Rainheart killed the monster three or four hundred years ago."
+Lord Hammer came from his tent. He stood behind Fetch, his arms folded. He remained as still, as lifeless, as a statue in clothes. We became less restive.
+He was one spooky character. I felt my arm where he had caught me. It still tingled.
+"Rainheart's successes were exaggerated," Fetch told us. She used her sarcastic tone. The one that blistered obstinate rocks and mules. "Mostly by Rainheart. The dragon lives. No mortal man can kill it. The gods willed that it be. It shall be, so long as the world endures. It is the Father of All Dragons. If it perishes, dragons perish. The world must have its dragons."
+It was weird, the way she changed while she was talking. All of a sudden she wasn't Fetch anymore. I think we all sneaked peeks at Lord Hammer to see if he were doing some ventriloquist trick.
+Maybe he was. He could be doing anything behind that iron mask.
+I wasn't sure Lord Hammer was human anymore. He might be some unbanished devil left over from the great thaumaturgic confrontations of the wars.
+"Lord Hammer is going to Kammengarn to obtain a cup of the immortal Dragon's blood."
+Hammer ducked into his tent. Fetch was right behind him.
+"What the hell?" Brandy demanded. "What kind of crap is this?"
+"Hammer don't lie," I replied.
+"Not that we know of," Chenyth said.
+"He's a plainspoken man, even if Fetch does his talking. He says the Kammengarn Dragon is alive, I believe him. He says we're going to kype a cup of its blood, there it is. I reckon we're going to try."
+"Will..."
+I went and squatted by our fire. I needed a little more warming. The dead wood of the forest burned pretty ordinarily.
+The men were quiet for a long time.
+What was there to say?
+We had taken Hammer's gold.
+Even professional griper Brandy didn't say much by way of complaint.
+Mikhail had been right. You went on even when the cause was a loser. It became a matter of honor.
+Ormson killed the silence. His action was a minor thing, characteristic of his race, but it divided the journey into different phases, now and then, and inspired the resolution of the rest of us.
+He drew his sword, began whetting it.
+The stone made a shing-shing sound along his blade. For an instant it was the only sound to be heard.
+We were old warriors. That sound spoke eloquently of battles beyond the dawn. I drew my sword...
+I had taken the gold. I was Lord Hammer's man.
+VI
+A metallic symphony played as stones sharpened swords and spearheads. Men tested bowstrings and thumped weathered shields. Old greaves clanked. Leather armor, too long unoiled, squeaked.
+Lord Hammer stepped from his tent. His mask bore no paint now. Only chance flickers of firelight revealed the existence of anything within his cowl.
+When his gaze met mine I felt I was looking at a man who was smiling.
+Chenyth fidgeted with his gear. Then, "I'm going to see what Jamal's doing."
+He sheathed the battered sword I had given him and wandered off. He didn't cut much of a figure as a warrior. He was just a skinny blond kid who looked like a gust of wind would blow him away, or a willing woman turn him to jelly.
+Eyes followed him. Pain filled some. We had all been there once. Now we were here.
+He was our talisman against our mortality.
+I started wondering what the Harish were up to myself. I followed Chenyth. They were almost civil while he was around.
+They were ships without compasses, those four, more lost than the rest of us. They were religious fanatics who had sworn themselves to a dead cause. They were El Murid's Chosen Ones, his most devoted followers, a dedicated cult of assassins. The Great Eastern Wars had thrown their master into eclipse. His once vast empire had collapsed. Now, according to rumor, El Murid was nothing but a fat, decrepit opium addict commanding a few bandits in the south desert hills of Hammad al Nakir. He spent his days pulling on his pipe and dreaming about an impossible restoration. These four brother assassins were refugees from the vengeance of the new order...
+Defeat had left them with nothing but one another and their blades. About what victory had given us.
+Harish took no wives. They devoted themselves totally to the mysteries of their brotherhood, and to fulfilling the commands of their master.
+No one gave them orders anymore. Yet they had sworn to devote their lives to their master's needs.
+They were waiting. And while they waited, they survived by selling what they had given El Murid freely.
+Like the rest of us, they were what history had made them. Bladesmen.
+They formed a cross, facing their fire. Chenyth knelt beside Jamal. They talked in low tones. The others watched with stony faces partially concealed by thin veils and long, heavy black beards. Foud, the oldest, dyed his to keep the color. They were all solid, tough men. Killers unfamiliar with remorse.
+All four held ornate silver daggers.
+I stopped, amazed.
+They were permitting Chenyth to watch the consecration of Harish kill-daggers. It was one of the high mysteries of their cult.
+They sensed my presence, but went on removing the enameled names of their last victims from amidst the engraved symbols on the flats of their blades. Those blades were a quarter inch thick near the hilt. The flat ran half the twelve inch length. Each blade was an inch wide at its base.
+They seemed heavy, clumsy, but the Harish used them with terrifying efficiency.
+One by one, oldest to youngest, they thrust their daggers into the fire to extinguish the last gossamer of past victims' souls still clinging to the deadly engraving. Then they laid their blades across their hearts, beneath the palms of their left hand. Foud spoke a word.
+Chenyth later told me the ritual was coached in the language of ancient Ilkazar. It was an odd tongue they used, like nothing else I've heard.
+Foud chanted. The others answered.
+Fifteen minutes passed. When they finished even a dullard like myself could feel the Power hovering round the Harish fire.
+Lord Hammer came out of his tent. He peered our way briefly, then returned.
+The four plunged their blades into the fire again.
+Then they joined the ritual everyone else had been pursuing. They produced their whetstones.
+I considered Foud's blade. Nearly two inches were missing from its length. It had been honed till it had narrowed a quarter. The engraving was almost invisible. He had served El Murid long and effectively.
+His gaze met mine. For an instant a smile flickered behind his veil.
+That was the first any of them had even admitted my existence.
+A moment later Jamal said something to Chenyth. The younger Harish was the only one who admitted to understanding Itaskian, though we all knew the others did too. Chenyth nodded and rose.
+"They're going to name their daggers. We have to go."
+Times change. Only a few years ago men like these had tried to kill Ravelin's Queen. Now we were allies.
+The glint in Foud's eye told me that things might be different now if he had been the man sent then.
+The Harish believed. In their master, in themselves. Every assassin who consecrated blade was as sure of himself as was Foud.
+"What're they doing here?" I muttered at Chenyth. I knew. The same as me. Doing what they knew. Surviving the only way they knew. Still,.. The Harish revered their Cause, even though it was lost.
+They wanted to bring The Disciple's salvation to the whole world, using every means at their disposal.
+Toamas was awake and chipper when we got back. "I ever tell about the time I was with King Bragi, during the El Murid Wars, when he was just another blank shield? It was a town in Altea..."
+I guess that kept us going, too. Maybe one mercenary in fifty thousand made it big. I guess we all had some core of hope, or belief in ourselves, too.
+VII
+"All right, you goat-lovers! Drag your dead asses out. We got some hiking to do today."
+Fetch had a way with words like no lady I've ever known. I slithered out of my blankets, scuttled to the fire, tumbled some wood on, and slid back into the wool. That circle may have been springish, but there was a nip in the air.
+Chenyth rolled over. He muttered something about eyes in the night.
+"Come on. Roll out. We got a long walk ahead."
+Chenyth sat up. "Phew! One of these days we've got to take time off for baths. Hey. Toamas. Wake up." He shook the old man. "Oh!"
+"What's the matter?"
+"I think he's dead, Will."
+"Toamas? Nah. He just don't want to get up." I shook him.
+Chenyth was right.
+I jumped out of there so fast I knocked the tent down on Chenyth. "Fetch. The old man's dead. Toamas."
+She kicked a foot sticking out of another tent, gave me a puzzled look. Then she scurried into the black tent.
+I tried to get a look inside. But there were inside flaps too.
+Lord Hammer appeared a moment later. His mask was paintless. His gaze swept the horizon, then the camp. Fetch popped out as he started toward our tent.
+Chenyth came up cussing. "Damnit, Will, what the hell you..." His jaw drooped. He scrambled out of Lord Hammer's path.
+Fetch whipped past and started hauling tent away. Lord Hammer knelt, hand over Toamas's heart. He moved it to the grass. Then he walked to the gap we thought of as a gate.
+"What's he doing?" Chenyth asked.
+"Wait," Fetch told him.
+Lord Hammer halted, faced left, began pacing the perimeter. He paused several times. We resumed our morning chores. Brandy cussed the gods both on Toamas's behalf and because he faced another miserable breakfast. You couldn't tell which mattered more to him. Brandy bitched about everything equally.
+His true feelings surfaced when he was the first to volunteer to dig the old man's grave.
+Toamas had saved his life in the mountains.
+"We Kaveliners got to stick together," he muttered to me. "Way it's always been. Way it'll always be."
+"Yeah."
+His family and Toamas's lived in the same area. They had been on opposite sides in the civil war with which Kavelin had amused itself in the interim between the El Murid and Great Eastern Wars.
+It was one of the few serious remarks I had ever heard from Brandy.
+Lord Hammer chose the grave site. It butted against the wall. Toamas went down sitting upright, facing the forest.
+"That's where I saw the thing last night," Chenyth told me.
+"What thing?"
+"When I had guard duty. All I could see was its eyes." He dropped a handful of dirt into the old man's lap. The others did the same. Except Foud. The Harish Elder lowered himself to his belly, placed a small silver dagger under Toamas's folded hands.
+We Kaveliners bowed to Foud. This was a major gesture by the Harish. Their second highest honor, given a man who had been their enemy all his life.
+I wondered why Foud had done it.
+"Why did he die?" Chenyth asked Fetch. "I thought Lord Hammer fixed him."
+"He did. Chenyth, the circle took Toamas."
+"I don't understand."
+"Neither do 1."
+I wondered some more. Ignorance and Lord Hammer seemed poles apart.
+Maybe he had known. But I couldn't hate him. The way Fetch talked, thirty-seven of us were alive because Toamas had died. The circle certainly was more merciful than the forest.
+Lord Hammer gestured. Fetch ran to him. Then he ducked into his tent while she talked.
+"Get with it. We've got a long way to go. We'll have to travel fast. Lord Hammer doesn't want to spend any more lives. He wants to leave the forest before nightfall."
+We moved. Our packs were trailing odds and ends when we started. Our stomachs weren't full. But those were considerations less important than enduring the protection of another circle.
+As we were leaving I noticed a flower blooming in the soft earth where we had put Toamas down. There were dozens of flowers along the wall. The few places where they were missing were the spots where Lord Hammer had paused in his circuit of the wall.
+What would happen when all the grave sites were full?
+Maybe Lord Hammer knew. But Hammer didn't have much to say.
+We passed another circle about
+The day was warmer, the sky clear. The ice began melting. We made good time. Lord Hammer seemed pleased.
+I stared straight ahead, at Russ's back, all morning. If I looked at a tree I could hear it calling. The pull was terrifying.
+Chenyth seized my arm. "Stop!"
+I almost trampled Russ. "What's up?" Lord Hammer had stopped.
+"I don't know."
+Fetch was dancing around like a barefoot burglar on a floor covered with tacks. Lord Hammer and his steed might have been some parkland pigeon roost, so still were they. We shuffled round so we could see without leaving the safety of the trail.
+We had come to a clearing. It was a quarter mile across. What looked like a mud-dauber's nest, the kind with just one hole, lay at the middle of the clearing. It was big. Like two hundred yards long, fifty feet wide, and thirty feet high. A sense of immense menace radiated from it.
+"What is it?" we asked one another. Neither Lord Hammer nor Fetch answered us.
+Lord Hammer slowly raised his left arm till it thrust straight out from his shoulder. He lifted his forearm vertically, turning the edge of a stiffened hand toward the structure. Then he raised his right arm, laying his forearm parallel with his eyeslits. Again he stiffened his hand, facing the structure with its edge.
+"Let's go!" Fetch snapped. "Follow me." She started running.
+We whipped the mules into a trot, ran. We weren't gentle with the balky ones.
+We had to go right along the side of that thing. As we approached, I glanced back. Lord Hammer was coming, his mount pacing slowly. Hammer himself remained frozen in the position he had assumed. He was almost indiscernible inside a black nimbus.
+His mask glowed like the sun. The face of an animal seemed to peep through the golden light.
+I glanced into the dark entry to that mound. Menace, backed by rage and frustration, slammed into me.
+Lord Hammer halted directly in front of the hole. The rest of us raced for the forest behind the barrow.
+Fetch was scared, but not scared enough to pass the first tree. She stopped. We waited.
+And Lord Hammer came.
+Never have I seen a horse run as beautifully, or as fast. It may have been my imagination, or the way the sun hit its breath in the cold, but fire seemed to play round its nostrils. Lord Hammer rode as if he were part of the beast.
+The earth shuddered. A basso profundo rumble came from the mound.
+Lord Hammer swept past, slowing, and we pursued him. No one thought to look back, to see what the earth brought forth. It was too late once we passed that first tree.
+"Will," Chenyth panted. "Did you see that horse run? What kind of horse runs like that, Will?"
+What could I tell him? "Sorcerer's horse, Chenyth. Hell horse. But we knew that already, didn't we?"
+Some of us did. Chenyth never really believed it till then. He figured we were giving him more war stories.
+He never understood that we couldn't exaggerate what had happened during the Great Eastern Wars. That we told toned-down stories because there was so much we wanted to forget.
+Chenyth couldn't take anything at face value. He worked his way up the column so he could pump Fetch. He didn't get anything from her, either. Lord Hammer led. We followed. For Fetch that was the natural order of life.
+VIII
+We passed another dead circle in the afternoon. Lord Hammer glanced at the sun and increased the pace.
+An hour later Fetch passed the word that we would have to stop at the next circle-unless it were dead.
+Dread sandpapered the ends of our nerves. The men who had stood sentry last night had seen too much of the things that roamed the forest by dark. And Hammer's reluctance to face the night... It made the price of a circle almost attractive.
+Even thirty-seven to one aren't good odds when my life is on the line. I've been risking it since I was Chenyth's age, but I like having some choice, some control...
+The next circle was alive.
+Darkness was close when we reached it. We could hear big things moving behind us, beyond the trees. Hungry things. We zipped into the circle and pitched camp in record time.
+I stood sentry that night. I saw what Chenyth had seen. It didn't bother me much. I was a veteran of the Great Eastern Wars.
+I kept reminding myself.
+Lord Hammer didn't sleep at all. He spent the night pacing the perimeter. He paused frequently to make cabalistic passes. Sometimes the air glowed where his fingers passed.
+He took care of us. Not a man perished. Instead, the circle took a mule.
+"Butcher it up," Fetch growled. "Save the good cuts. Couple of you guys dig a hole over there where I left the shovel."
+So we had mule for breakfast. It was tough, but good, our first fresh meat in weeks.
+We were about to march when Fetch announced, "We'll be there tomorrow. That means goof-off time's over. Respond to orders instantly if you know what's good for you."
+Brandy mumbled and cussed. Chenyth wasn't any happier. "I swear, I'm going to smack him, Will."
+"Take it easy. He was in the Breidenbacher Light. I owe him."
+"So? They got you out at Lake Turntine. That was then. What's that got to do with today?"
+"What it's got to do with is, he'll kick your ass up around your ears."
+"Kid wants to duke it out, let him, Will. He's getting on my nerves too."
+"Stow it," Fetch snarled. "Save it for the other guys. It's time to start worrying about getting out alive."
+"What? Then we'd have to walk all the way back." Brandy cackled.
+"Fetch, what's this all about?" Chenyth asked.
+"I already told you, question man."
+"Not why."
+She scowled, shook her head. I asked, "Weren't you ever young, Fetch? Hey! Whoa! I didn't mean it like that."
+She settled for the one shin-kick. Everybody laughed. I winked. She grinned nastily.
+Brandy and Chenyth had forgotten their quarrel.
+Chenyth hadn't forgotten his question. He pressed.
+"All I know is, he wants the blood of the Father of Dragons. We came now because the monster is sluggish during the winter. Now why the hell don't you just jingle the money in your pocket and do what you're told?"
+"Where'd you meet him, Fetch? When?"
+She shook her head again. "You don't hear so good, do you? Long ago and far away. He's been like a father. Now get your ass ready to hike." She tramped off to her position beside Lord Hammer's stallion.
+The woman had the least feminine walk I've ever seen. She took long, rolling steps, and kind of leaned into them.
+"You ask too many questions, Chenyth."
+"Can it, will you?"
+We were getting close. Not knowing, except that we were going to go up against a dragon, frayed tempers. Chenyth's trouble was that he hadn't had enough practice at keeping his mouth shut.
+The weather grew warmer. The ice melted quickly, turning the trail to mud.
+Occasionally, from ridgetops, we saw the land beyond the forest. Mountains lay ahead. Brandy moaned his heart out till Fetch told him our destination lay at their feet. Then he bitched about everything happening too fast.
+Several of those peaks trailed dark smoke. There wasn't much snow on their flanks.
+"Funny," I remarked to Chenyth. "Heading north into warmer country."
+We passed a living circle. It called to us the way the trees called to me.
+An end to the weird, wide forest came. We entered grasslands that, within a few hours, gave way to rapidly steepening hills. The peaks loomed higher. The air grew warmer. The hills became taller and more barren. Shadows gathered in the valleys as the sun settled toward the Dragon's Teeth.
+Lord Hammer ordered us to pitch camp. He doubled the sentries.
+We weren't bothered, but still it was a disturbing night. The earth shuddered. The mountains rumbled. I couldn't help but envision some gargantuan monster resting uneasily beneath the range.
+IX
+The dawn gods were heaving buckets of blood up over the eastern horizon. Fetch formed us up for a pep talk. "Queen of the dwarves," Brandy mumbled. She was comical, so tiny was she when standing before a mounted Lord Hammer.
+"Lord Hammer believes we are about three miles from the Gate of Kammengarn. The valley behind me will lead us there.
+From the Gate those who accompany Lord Hammer will descend into the earth almost a mile. Captain Bell weather and thirty men will stay at the Gate. Six men will accompany Lord Hammer and myself."
+Her style had changed radically. I had never seen her so subdued.
+Fetch was scared.
+"Bellweather, your job will be the hardest. It's almost certain that you will be attacked. The people of these hills believe Kammengarn to be a holy place. They know we're here. They suspect our mission. They'll try to destroy us once we prove we intend to profane their shrine. You'll have to hold them most of the day, without Lord Hammer's help."
+"Now we know," Brandy muttered. "Needed us to fight his battles for him."
+"Why the hell else did he hire us?" Chenyth demanded.
+"Knock it off back there!" Fetch yelled.
+Lord Hammer's steed pranced impatiently. Hammer's gaze swept over us. It quelled all emotion.
+"Lord Hammer has appointed the following men to accompany him. Foud, of the Harish. Aboud, of the Harish. Sigurd Ormson, the Trolledyngjan. Dunklin Hanneker, the Itaskian. Willem Clarig Potter, of Kavelin. Pavlo della Contini-Mar-cusco, of Dunno Scuttari." She made a small motion with her fingers, like someone folding a piece of paper.
+"Fetch!..."
+"Shut up, Chenyth!" I growled.
+Fetch responded, "Lord Hammer has spoken. The men named, please come to the head of the column."
+I hoisted my pack, patted Chenyth's shoulder, said, "Do a good job. And stay healthy. I've got to take you back to Mom."
+"Will..."
+"Hey. You wanted to be a soldier. Be a soldier."
+He stared at the ground, kicked a pebble.
+"Good luck, Will." Brandy extended a hand. I shook. "We'll look out for him."
+"All right. Thanks. Russ. Aral. You guys take care." It was a ritual of parting undertaken before times got tough.
+The red-eyed horse started moving. We followed in single file. Fetch walked with Bellweather for a while. After half an hour she scampered forward to her place beside Lord Hammer. She was nervous. She couldn't keep her head or hands still.
+I glanced back, past Ormson. "Fight coming," I told the Trolledyngjan. Bellweather was getting ready right now.
+"Did you ever doubt it?"
+"No. Not really."
+The mountains crowded in. The valley narrowed till it became a steep-sided canyon. That led to a place where two canyons collided and became one. It had a flat bottom perhaps fifty yards across.
+It was the most barren place I had ever seen. The boulders were dark browns. The little soil came in lighter browns. A few tufts of dessicated grass added sere browns. Even the sky took on an ochre hue...
+The blackness of a crack in the mountainside ahead relieved the monochromism.
+It was a natural cleft, but there were tailings everywhere, several feet deep, as if the cleft had been mined. The tailings had filled the canyon bottom, creating the little flat.
+I searched the hillsides. It seemed I could feel eyes boring holes in my back. I looked everywhere but at that cavern mouth.
+The darkness it contained seemed the deepest I had ever known.
+Lord Hammer rode directly to it.
+"Packs off," Fetch ordered. "Weapons ready." She twitched and scratched nervously. "We're going down. Do exactly as I do."
+Bellweather brought the others onto the flat. He searched the mountainsides too. "They're here," he announced.
+War howls responded immediately. Here, there, a painted face flashed amongst the rocks.
+Arrows and spears wobbled through the air.
+There were a lot of them, I reflected as I got myself between my shield and a boulder. The odds didn't look good at all.
+Bellweather shouted. His men vanished behind their shields...
+All but my baby brother, who just stood there with a stupefied look.
+"Chenyth!" I started toward him.
+"Will!" Fetch snapped. She grabbed my arm. "Stay here."
+Brandy and Russ took care of him. They exploded from behind their shields, tackled the kid, covered him before he got hurt. That got his attention. He started doing the things I had been teaching the past several months.
+An arrow hummed close to me, clattered on rock. Then another. I had been chosen somebody's favorite target. Time to worry about me.
+The savages concentrated on Lord Hammer. Their luck was poor. Missiles found him repulsive. In fact, they seemed to loath making contact with any of us.
+Not so the arrows of Bellweather's Itaskian bows.
+The Itaskian bow and bowman are the best in the world. Bellweather's men wasted no arrows. Virtually every shaft brought a cry of pain.
+Then Lord Hammer reached up and caught an arrow in flight.
+The canyon fell silent in sheer awe.
+Lord Hammer extended an arm. A falling spear became a streak of smoke.
+The hillmen didn't give up. Instead, they started rolling boulders down the slopes.
+"Eyes down!" Fetch screamed. "Stare at the ground."
+Lord Hammer swept first his right hand, then his left, round himself. He clapped them together once.
+A sheet of fire, of lightning, obscured the sky. Thunder tortured my ears. My hearing recovered only to be tormented anew by the screams of men in pain.
+It had been much nastier above. Dozens of savages were staggering around with hands clasped over their eyes or ears. Several fell down the slope.
+Bellweather's archers went to work.
+"Let's go," Fetch said. "Remember. Do exactly what I do." The little woman was scared pale. She didn't want to enter that cavern. But she took her place beside Lord Hammer, who laid a hand atop her disheveled head.
+His touch seemed fond. His fingers toyed with her stringy hair. She shivered, looked at the ground, then stalked into that black crack.
+He only touched the rest of us for a second. The feeling was similar to that when he had caught me after my run-in with the siren tree. But this time the tingle coursed through my whole body.
+He finished with Foud. Once more he swept hands round the mountainsides, clapped. Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled. Bellweather's archers plied their bows.
+The savages were determined not to be intimidated.
+Lord Hammer dismounted, strode into the darkness. The red-eyed stallion turned round, backed in after us, stopping only when its bulk nearly blocked the narrow passage. Hammer wound his way through our press, proceeded into darkness.
+Fetch followed. Single file, we did the same.
+X
+"Holy Hagard's Golden Turds!" Sigurd exploded. "They're on fire."
+Lord Hammer and Fetch glowed. They shed enough light to reveal the crack's walls.
+"So are you," I told him.
+"Eh. You too."
+I couldn't see it in myself. Sigurd said he couldn't, either. I glanced back. The others glowed too. They became quite bright once they got away from the cavern mouth. It was spooky.
+The Harish didn't like it. They were unusually vocal, and what I caught of their gabble made it sound like they were mad because a heresy had been practiced upon them.
+The light seemed to come from way down inside the body. I could see Sigurd's bones. And Fetch's, and the others' when I glanced back. But Lord Hammer remained an enigma. An absence. Once more I wondered if he were truly human, or if anything at all inhabited that black clothing.
+After a hundred yards the walls became shaped stone set with mortar. That explained the tailings above. The blocks had been shaped in situ.
+"Why would they do that?" I asked Sigurd.
+He shrugged. "Don't try to understand a man's religion, Kaveliner. Just drive you crazy."
+A hundred yards farther along the masons had narrowed the passage to little more than a foot. A man had to go through sideways.
+Fetch stopped us. Lord Hammer started doing something with his fingers.
+I told Sigurd, "Looks like the dragon god isn't too popular with the people who worship him."
+"Eh?"
+"The tunnel. It's zig-zagged. And the narrow place looks like it was built to keep the dragon in."
+"They don't worship the dragon," Fetch said. "They worship Kammengarn, the Hidden City. Silcroscuar is blocking their path to their shrines. So they blocked him in in hopes he would starve."
+"Didn't it work, eh?"
+"No. Silcroscuar subsists. On visitors. He has guardians. Descendants of the people who lived in. Kammengarn. They hunt for him."
+"What's happening?"
+Lord Hammer had a ball of fire in his hands. It was nearly a foot in diameter. He shifted it to his right hand, rolled it along the tunnel floor, through the narrow passage.
+"Let's go!" Fetch shrieked. "Will! Sigurd! Get in there!"
+I charged ahead without thinking. The passage was twenty feet long. I was halfway through when the screams started.
+Such pain and terror I hadn't heard since the wars. I froze.
+Sigurd plowed into me. "Go, man."
+An instant later we broke into wider tunnel.
+A dozen savages awaited us. Half were down, burning like torches. The stench of charred flesh fouled the air. The others flitted about trying to extinguish themselves or their comrades.
+We took them before the Harish got through.
+Panting, I asked Sigurd, "How did he know?"
+Sigurd shrugged. "He always knows. Almost. That first barrow...
+"He smelled their torches," Foud said. The Harish elder wore a sarcastic smile.
+"You're killing the mystery."
+"There is no mystery to Lord Hammer."
+"Maybe not to you." I turned to Sigurd. "Hope he's on his toes. We don't need any surprises down here."
+Lord Hammer stepped in. He surveyed the carnage. He seemed satisfied.
+Several of the savages still burned.
+Fetch lost her breakfast.
+I think that startled all of us. Perhaps even Lord Hammer. It seemed so out of character. And yet... What did we know about Fetch? Only what we had seen. And most of that had been show. This might be the first time she had witnessed the grim side of her master's profession.
+I don't think, despite her apparent agelessness, that she was much older than Chenyth. Say twenty. She might have missed the Great Eastern Wars too.
+We went on, warriors in the lead. The tunnel's slope steepened. Twice we descended spiraling stairs hanging in the sides of wide shafts. Twice we encountered narrow places with ambushes like that we had already faced. We broke through each. Sigurd took our only wound, a slight cut on his forearm. We left a lot of dead men on our backtrail.
+The final attack was more cunning. It came from behind, from a side tunnel, and took us by surprise. Even Lord Hammer was taken off guard.
+His mystique just cracked a little more, I thought as I whirled.
+There was sorcery in it this time.
+The hillmen witch-doctors had saved themselves for the final defense. They had used their command of the Power passively, to conceal themselves and their men. Our only warning was a premature warwhoop.
+Lord Hammer whirled. His hands flew in frenetic passes. The rest of us struggled to interpose ourselves between the attackers and Lord Hammer and Fetch.
+Sorceries scarred the tunnel walls. The shamen threw everything they had at the man in black.
+Their success was a wan one. They devoured Lord Hammer's complete attention for no more than a minute.
+We soldiers fought. Sigurd and I locked shields with Contini-Marcusco and the Itaskian. The Harish, who disdained and reviled shields, remained behind us. They rained scimitar strokes over our heads.
+The savages forced us back by sheer weight. But we held the wall even against suicide charges.
+They hadn't the training to handle professional soldiers who couldn't be flanked. We crouched behind our shields and let them come to their deaths.
+But they did get their licks in before Lord Hammer finished their witch-doctors and turned on them.
+It lasted no longer than three minutes. We beat them again. But when the clang and screaming faded, we had little reason to cheer.
+Hanneker was mortally wounded. Contini-Marcusco had a spearhead in his thigh. Sigurd had taken a deep cut on his left shoulder.
+Fetch was down.
+Me and Harish, we were fine. Tired and drained, but unharmed.
+I dropped to my knees beside Fetch's still little form. Tears filled my eyes. She had become one of my favorite people.
+She had been last in line, walking behind Lord Hammer. We hadn't been able to get to her.
+She was alive. She opened her eyes once, when I touched her, and bravely tried one of her smiles.
+Lord Hammer knelt opposite me. He touched her cheeks, her hair, tenderly. The tension in him proclaimed his feeling. His gaze crossed mine. For an instant I could feel his pain.
+Lord, I thought, your mystique is dying. You care.
+Fetch opened her eyes again. She lifted a feeble hand, clasped Lord Hammer's for an instant. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
+"Don't be," he said, and it felt like an order from a god. The fingers of his left hand twitched.
+I gasped, so startling was his voice, so suddenly did the Power gather. He did something to Fetch's wounds, then to Sigurd's, then to Contini-Marcusco's. Hanneker was beyond help.
+He turned, faced downhill, stared. He started walking.
+We who could do so followed.
+"What did he do?" I whispered to Sigurd.
+The big man shrugged. "It don't hurt anymore."
+"Did you hear him? He talked. To Fetch."
+"No."
+Had I imagined it?
+I glanced back. The Harish were two steps behind us. They came with the same self-certainty they always showed. Only a tiny tick at the corner of Aboud's eye betrayed any internal feeling.
+Foud smiled his little smile. Once again I wondered what they were doing here.
+And I wondered about Lord Hammer, whose long process of creating a mythic image seemed to be unraveling.
+A mile down into the earth is one hell of a long way. Ignoring the problem of surviving the dragon, I worried about climbing back out. And about my little brother, up there getting his blooding...
+I should have stayed with Chenyth. Somebody had to look out for him...
+"I have taken the gold," I muttered, and turned to thoughts of poor Fetch.
+Now I would never learn what had brought her here. I was sure we wouldn't find her alive when we returned.
+If we returned.
+Then 1 worried about how we would know what Lord Hammer wanted of us.
+I needn't have.
+XI
+The home hall of the Father of All Dragons was more vast than any stadium. It was one of the great caverns that, before Silcroscuar's coming, had housed the eldritch city Kammengarn.
+The cavern's walls glowed. The ruins of the homes of Kammengarn lay in mounds across the floor. As legends proclaimed, that floor was strewn with gold and jewels. The great dragon snored atop a precious hillock.
+The place was just as Rainheart had described. With one exception.
+The dragon lived.
+We heard the monster's stentorian snores long before we reached his den. Our spines had become jelly before we came to that cavern.
+Lord Hammer paused before we got there. He spoke.
+"There are guardians."
+"I wasn't wrong," I whispered.
+The others seemed petrified.
+The voice came from everywhere at once. It was in keeping with Lord Hammer's style. Deep. Loud. Terrifying. Like the crash of icebergs breaking off glaciers into arctic seas. Huge. Bottomless. Cold.
+Something stepped into the tunnel ahead. It was tall, lean, and awkward in appearance. Its skin had the pallor of death. It glistened with an ichorous fluid. It had the form of a man, but I don't think it was human.
+Fetch had said there would be guardians who were the descendants of the people of Kammengarn. Had the Kammengarners been human? I didn't know.
+The guardian bore a long, wicked sword.
+An identical twin appeared behind it. Then another. And another.
+Lord Hammer raised his hands in one of those mystic signs. The things halted. But they would not retreat.
+For a moment I feared Lord Hammer had no power over them.
+I didn't want to fight. Something told me there would be no contest. I am good. Sigurd was good. The Harish were superb. But I knew they would slaughter us as if we were children.
+"Salt," Lord Hammer said.
+"What the hell?" Sigurd muttered. "Who carries salt around?..."
+He shut up. Because Foud had leaned past him to drop a small leather bag into the palm of Lord Hammer's glove.
+"Ah!" I murmured. "Sigurd, salt is precious in Hammad al Nakir. It's a measure of wealth. El Murid's true devotees always carry some. Because the Disciple's father was a salt caravaneer."
+Foud smiled the smile and nodded at Sigurd. Proving he wasn't ignorant of Itaskian, he added, "El Murid received his revelation after bandits attacked his father's caravan. They left the child Micah al Rhami to die of thirst in the desert. But the love of the Lord descended, a glorious angel, and the child was saved, and made whole, and given to look upon the earth. And, Lo! The womb of the desert brought forth not Death, but the Son of Heaven, El Murid, whom you call the Disciple."
+For a moment Foud seemed almost as embarrassed as Sigurd and I. Like sex, faith was a force not to be mocked.
+Lord Hammer emptied the bag into his hand.
+Foud flinched, but did not protest. Aboud leaned past Sigurd and me, offering his own salt should it be needed.
+Lord Hammer said no more. The guardians flinched, but did not withdraw.
+Hammer flung the salt with quick little jerks of his hand, a few grains this way, a few that.
+Liverish, mottled cankers appeared on the slimy skin of the guardians. Their mouths yawned in silent screams.
+They melted. Like slugs in a garden, salted.
+Like slugs, they had no bones.
+It took minutes. We watched in true fascination, unable to look away, while the four puddled, pooled, became lost in one lake of twitching slime.
+Foud and Aboud shared out the remaining salt.
+Lord Hammer went forward, avoiding the remains of the guardians. We followed.
+I looked down once.
+Eyes stared back from the lake. Knowledgeable, hating eyes. I shuddered.
+They were the final barrier. We went into the Place of the Dragon, the glowing hall that once had been a cavern of the city Kammengarn.
+I began to think that, despite the barriers, it was too easy.
+I don't know why. It couldn't have been accomplished without Lord Hammer. Mortal men would never have reached Kammengarn.
+"Gods preserve us," I muttered.
+The Kammengarn Dragon was the hugest living thing I've ever seen. I had seen Shinsan's dragons during the wars. I had seen whales beached on the coast...
+The dragons I had seen were like chicks compared to roosters. The flesh of a whale might have made up Silcroscuar's tail. His head alone massed as much as an elephant.
+"Reckon he'd miss a cup of blood?" Sigurd whispered.
+The northmen and their gallows humor. A strange race.
+The dragon kept on snoring.
+We had come in winter, according to Fetch, because that was the best time of year. I suppose she meant that dragons were more sluggish then, or even hibernated.
+But at that depth the chill of winter meant nothing. The place was as hot as an August noon in the desert.
+We flanked Lord Hammer, Sigurd and I to his right, the Harish to his left. Hammer started toward the dragon.
+The monster opened an eye. Its snakelike tongue speared toward Lord Hammer.
+I interposed my shield, chopped with my sword. The tongue caroomed away. My blade cut nothing but air.
+A mighty laugh surrounded us. It came from no detectable source.
+"You made it, fugitive. Ah. Yes. I know you, Lord Hammer. I know who you are. I know what you are. I know more
+than you know. All tidings come to me here. There are no secrets from me. Even the future is mine to behold. And yours is a cosmic jest."
+Lord Hammer reacted only by beginning a series of gestures, the first of which was the arm cross he had used at the barrows in the forest.
+The dragon chuckled. "You'll have your way. And be the poorer for it." It yawned.
+My jaw sagged. The teeth in that cavernous mouth! Like the waving scimitars of a horde of desert horsemen...
+Laughter assailed the air. "1 have been intimate with the future, refugee. I know the vanity of the course you have chosen. Your hope is futile. 1 know the joke the Fates have prepared. But come. Take what you want. I'll not thwart you, nor deny the Fates their amusement."
+The dragon closed his eye. He shifted his bulk slightly, as if into a more comfortable position.
+Lord Hammer advanced.
+We stayed with him.
+And again I thought it was too easy. The monster wasn't making even a token attempt to stop us.
+That matter about the Fates and a cosmic joke. It reminded me of all those tales in which men achieved their goals only to discover that the price of success was more dear than that of failure.
+Lord Hammer clambered up the mound of gold and jewels, boldly seizing a gargantuan canine to maintain his balance.
+My stomach flipped.
+The dragon snored on.
+Sigurd started grabbing things small enough to carry away. I selected a few souvenirs myself. Then I saw the contempt in Foud's eyes.
+He seemed to be thinking that there were issues at stake far greater than greed.
+It was an unguarded thought, breaking through onto his face. It put me on guard.
+"Sigurd," I hissed. "Be ready. It's not over."
+"I know," he whispered. "Just grabbing while I can."
+Lord Hammer beckoned. I scrambled across the treacherous pile. "Cut here." He tapped the dragon's lip where scaly armor gave way to the soft flesh of the mouth. "Gently."
+Terror froze me. He wanted me to cut that monster? When it might wake up? What chance would we have?...
+"Cut!"
+Lord Hammer's command made the cavern walls shudder. I could not deny it. 1 drew the tip of my blade across dragon flesh.
+Blood welled up, dribbled down the monster's jaw.
+It was as red as any man's. I saw nothing remarkable about it, save that men had died for it. Slowly, drop by drop, it filled the ebony container Lord Hammer held.
+We waited tensely, anticipating an explosion from the monster. Dragons had foul and cunning reputations, and that of the Kammengarn Dragon outstripped them all.
+I caught a smile toying with Aboud's lips. It was gone in an instant, but it left me more disturbed, more uncertain than ever.
+I searched the cavern, wondering if more guardians might not be creeping our way. I saw nothing.
+Sigurd bent to secure one more prize jewel...
+And Lord Hammer screwed a top onto his container, satisfied.
+Foud and Aboud surged toward him. Silver Harish kill-daggers whined through the air.
+I managed to skewer Aboud and kick Foud in one wild movement. Then my impetus carried me down the mountain of treasure to the cavern floor. Golden baubles gnawed at my flesh.
+Sigurd roared as he hurled himself at Foud, who was after Lord Hammer again. I regained my feet and charged up the pile.
+A gargantuan laughter filled the caverns of Kammengarn.
+Foud struck Lord Hammer's left arm, and killed Sigurd, before he perished, strangling in the grip of Lord Hammer's right hand.
+Aboud, though dying, regained his feet. Again he tried to plant his kill-dagger in Lord Hammer's back.
+I reached him in time. We tumbled back down the pile.
+Lord Hammer flung Foud after us.
+Aboud sat up. He had lost his dagger. I saw it lying about five feet behind him. Tears filled his eyes as he awaited the doom descending upon him.
+"Why?" I asked.
+"For the Master. For the blood of the dragon that would have made him immortal, that would have given him time to carry the truth. And for what was done to him during the wars."
+"I don't understand, Aboud."
+"You wouldn't. You haven't recognized him as your enemy."
+Lord Hammer loomed over us. His left arm hung slackly. The kill-dagger had had that much success.
+Lord Hammer reached with his right, seizing Aboud's throat.
+The Harish fought back. Vainly.
+I recovered his dagger during the struggle. Quietly, carefully, I concealed it inside my shirt. Why I don't know, except that the genuine article was more valuable than anything in the dragon's hoard.
+"Come," Lord Hammer told me. Almost conversationally, he added, "The dragon will be pleased. He's hungry. These three will repay him for his blood." He strode to the gap where the guardians had perished. Their hating eyes watched us pass.
+I had to strain to keep pace with him. By the time we reached Fetch I was exhausted. Hanneker had expired in our absence.
+"We rest here," Lord Hammer told me. "We will carry these two, and there may be ambushes." He sat down with his back against one wall. He massaged his lifeless arm.
+The image had slipped even more. He seemed quite human at that moment.
+"Who are you?" I asked after a while.
+The iron mask turned my way. I couldn't meet his gaze. The power was still there.
+"Better that you don't know, soldier. For both our sakes."
+"I have taken the gold," I replied.
+I expect he understood. Maybe he didn't. He said nothing more till he decided to go.
+"It's time. Carry Fetch. Be wary."
+I hoisted the little woman. She seemed awfully heavy. My strength had suffered. The mountains. The forest The fighting. The tension, always. They had ground me down.
+We met no resistance. Only once did we hear what might have been men. They avoided us.
+We rested often. Lord Hammer seemed to be weakening faster than I, though hjs resources were more vast. Maybe the Harish kill-dagger had bitten more deeply than he let on.
+"Stop," he gasped. We were close to the end of the tunnel. I dropped Fetch.
+Men's voices, muted, echoed along the shaft. "Chenyth." I started on.
+"Stay." The command in Hammer's voice was weak, but compelling.
+He moved slowly, had trouble keeping his feet. But he negated the spells that made us glow. "We must rest here."
+"My brother..."
+"We will rest, Willem Potter."
+We rested.
+XII
+Outside ambushed us.
+The sun had set. No moon had risen. The stars didn't cast much light. Bell weather had lighted no fires. We were suddenly there, beside Lord Hammer's stallion.
+The last dozen yards we had to step over and around the dead and wounded. There were a lot of them. I kept whispering Chenyth's name. The only man I could find was Brandy. The griper had been dead for hours.
+"They've killed or captured most of the animals," Bellweather reported. Lord Hammer grunted noncommittally. "We've killed hundreds of them, but they keep coming. They'll finish us in the morning. This's serious business to them."
+"Chenyth!" I called.
+"Will? Will! Over here."
+I hurried over. He was doing sentry duty. His post was an open-topped bunker built of the corpses of savages.
+"You all right?" I demanded.
+"So far. Brandy and Russ and Aral are dead, Will. I'm sorry I came. I'm tired. So tired, Will."
+"Yeah. I know."
+"What happened down there?"
+"It was bad." I told him the story.
+"The other Harish. Will they?..."
+"I'm sure their daggers are consecrated to the same name."
+"Then they'll try again?"
+"They made it? Then we'd better warn..."
+A shriek ripped the air.
+I hurled myself back toward Lord Hammer. I arrived at the same time as the Harish. Blades flashed. Men screamed. Lord Hammer slew one. I took the other. Bellweather and the others watched in dull-eyed disbelief.
+Before Jamal died he cursed me. "You have given the Hammer his life," he croaked. "May that sin haunt you all the ages of earth. May his return be quickened, and fall upon you heavily. I speak it in the Name of the Disciple."
+"What did he mean, Will?" Chenyth asked.
+"I don't know." I was too tired to think. "They knew him. They knew his mission. They came to abort it. And to capture the dragon's blood for El Murid." I glanced at Lord Hammer. He had begun a sorcery. His voice sounded terribly weak. He seemed the least superhuman of us all. My awe of him had evaporated completely.
+He was but a man.
+"Maybe they were right," Chenyth suggested. "Maybe the world would be better without him. Without his kind."
+"I don't know. His kind are like the dragon. And we have taken the gold, Chenyth. It doesn't matter who or what he is."
+Sleep soon ambushed me. The last thing I saw was a ball of blue light drifting into the rocks where the savages lurked. I think there were screams, but they might have come in my dreams.
+They took me back to the wars. To the screams of entire kingdoms crushed beneath the boots of legions led by men of Lord Hammer's profession. Those had been brutal, bitter days, and the saddest part of it was that we hadn't won, we had merely stopped it for a while.
+My subconscious mind added the clues my conscious mind had overlooked.
+I awakened understanding the Harish.
+"His name is a joke," Fetch had said.
+It wasn't a funny one. It was pure arrogance.
+One of the arch-villians of the Great Eastern Wars had been a sorcerer named Ko Feng. He had commanded the legions of the Dread Empire briefly. But his fellow wizards on the Council of Tervola had ousted him because of his unsubtle, straightforward, expensive, pounding military tactics. For reasons no one understood he had been ordered into exile.
+His nickname, on both sides of the battle line, had been The Hammer.
+Aboud had told me he was my enemy...
+The savages bothered us no more. Lord Hammer's sorcery had sufficed.
+Only a dozen men were fit to travel. Chenyth and I were the only surviving Kaveliners...
+Kavelin had borne the brunt of the Great Eastern Wars. The legions of the Dread Empire knew no mercy. The nation might never recover...
+I was sitting on a rock, fighting my conscience. Chenyth came to me. "Want something to eat?"
+"I don't think so."
+"What's that?"
+"Kill-dagger. Aboud's." I had been staring at it, and had hidden it at his approach. I showed him.
+What's the matter, Will?"
+"I think I know who he is. What he's doing. Why."
+"Who?"
+"Lord Hammer."
+"I meant, who is he?"
+"Lord Ko Feng. The Tervola. The one we called The Hammer during the wars. They banished him from Shinsan after it was over. They took his immortality and drove him into exile. He came for the dragon's blood to win the immortality back. To get the time he needed to make his return."
+"Oh, Gods. Will, we've got to do something."
+"What? What's the right thing? I don't know that he's really Ko Feng. I do know that we've taken his gold. He's treated us honorably. He even saved my life when there was no demand that he do so. I know that Fetch thinks the world of him, and I think well enough of Fetch for that to matter. So. You see what's eating me."
+My life wasn't usually that complicated. A soldier takes his orders, does what he must, and doesn't much worry about tomorrow or vast issues. He takes from life what he can when he can, for there may be no future opportunity. He seldom moralizes, or becomes caught in a crisis of conscience.
+"Will, we can't turn an evil like Ko Feng loose on the world again. Not if it's in our power to stop it."
+"Chenyth. Chenyth. Who said he was evil? His real sin is that he was the enemy. Some of our own were as violent and bloody."
+I glanced toward the split in the mountain. The giant black stallion stood within a yard of where Lord Hammer had posted him yesterday. Hammer slept on the ground beneath the animal.
+Easy pickings, I thought. Walk over, slip the dagger in him, and have done.
+If the horse would let me. He was a factor I couldn't fathom. But somehow I knew he would block me.
+My own well-being wasn't a matter of concern. Like the Harish, it hadn't occurred to me to worry about whether or not I got out alive.
+I saw no way any of us could get home without Lord Hammer's protection.
+Fetch dragged herself to a sitting position.
+"Come with me," I told Chenyth.
+We went to her. She greeted us with a weak smile. "I wasn't good for much down there, was I?"
+"How you feeling?" I asked.
+"Better."
+"Good. I'd hate to think I lugged you all the way up here for nothing."
+"It was you?"
+"Lord Hammer carried the Scuttarian."
+"The others?"
+"Still down there. Love."
+"It was bad?"
+"Worse than anybody expected. Except the dragon."
+"You got the blood?"
+"We did. Was it worth it?"
+She glanced at me sharply. "You knew there would be risks. You were paid to take them."
+"I know. I wonder if that's enough."
+"What?"
+"I know who Lord Hammer is, Fetch. The Harish knew all along. It's why they came. I killed two of them. Lord Hammer slew two. Foud killed Sigurd. That's five of the company gone fighting one another. I want to know what reason there might be for me not to make it six and have the world rid of an old evil."
+Fetch wasn't herself. Healthy she would have screeched and argued like a whole flock of hens at feeding time. Instead she just glanced at Lord Hammer and shrugged. "I'm too tired and sick to care much, Will. But don't. It won't change the past. It won't change the future, either. He's chasing a dead dream. And it won't do you any good now." She leaned back and closed her eyes. "I hated him for a while, too. I lost people in the wars."
+"I'm sorry."
+"Don't be. He lost people, too, you know. Friends and relatives. All the pain and dying weren't on our side. And he lost everything he had, except his knowledge."
+"Oh." I saw what she was trying to say. Lord Hammer was no different than the rest of us leftovers, going on being what he had learned to be.
+"Is there anything to eat?"
+"Chenyth. See if you can get her something. Fetch, I know all the arguments. I've been wrestling them all morning. And I can't make up my mind. I was hoping you'd help me figure where I've got to stand."
+"Don't put it on me, Willem Potter. It's a thing between you and Lord Hammer."
+Chenyth brought soup that was mostly mule. He spooned it into Fetch's mouth. She ate it like it was good.
+I decided, but on the basis of none of the arguments that had gone before.
+I had promised myself that I would take my little brother home to his mother. To do that I needed Lord Hammer's protection.
+I often wonder, now, if many of the most fateful decisions aren't made in response to similarly oblique considerations.
+XIII
+I need not have put myself through the misery. The Fates had their own plans.
+When Lord Hammer woke, I went to him. He was weak. He barely had the strength to sit up. I squatted on my hams, facing him, intimidated by the stallion's baleful stare. Carefully, I drew the Harish kill-dagger from within my shirt. I offered it to him atop my open palms.
+The earth shook. There was a suggestion of gargantuan mirth in it.
+"The Dragon mocks us." Lord Hammer took the dagger. "Thank you, Willem Potter. I'd say there are no debts between us now."
+"There are, Lord. Old ones. I lost a father and several brothers in the wars."
+"And I lost sons and friends. Will we fight old battles here in the cupped hands of doom? Will we cross swords even as the filed teeth of Fate rip at us? I lost my homeland, and more than any non-Tervola could comprehend. I have nothing left but hope, and that too wan to credit. The Dragon laughs with cause, Willem Potter. Summon Bellweather. A journey looms before us."
+"As you say, Lord."
+I think we left too soon, with too many wounded. Some survived the forest. Some survived the plains. Some survived the snows and precipices of the Dragon's Teeth. But we left men's bones beside the way. Only eight of us lived to see the plains of Shara, west of the mountains, and even then we were a long way from home.
+It was in Shara that Lord Hammer's saga ended.
+We were riding ponies he had bought from a Sharan tribe. Our faces were south, bent into a spring rain.
+Lord Hammer's big stallion stumbled.
+The sorcerer fell.
+He had been weakening steadily. Fetch claimed only his will was driving him toward the laboratories where he would make use of the dragon's blood...
+He lay in the mud and grass of a foreign land, dying, and there was nothing any of us could do. The Harish dagger still gnawed at his soul.
+Immortality rested in his saddlebags, in that black jar, and we couldn't do a thing. We didn't know how. Even Fetch was ignorant of the secret.
+He was a strong man, Lord Hammer, but in the end no different than any other. He died, and we buried him in alien soil. The once mightiest man on earth had come to no more than the least of the soldiers who had followed him in his prime.
+I was sad. It's painful to watch something magnificent and mighty brought low, even when you loath what it stands for.
+He went holding Fetch's hand.
+She removed the iron mask before we put him into the earth. "He should wear his own." She obtained a Tervola mask from his gear. It was golden and hideous, and at one time had terrorized half a world. I'm not sure what it represented. An animal head of some sort. Its eyes were rubies that glowed like the eyes of Lord Hammer's stallion. But their inner light was fading.
+A very old man lay behind the iron mask. The last of his mystique perished when I finally saw his wizened face.
+And yet I did him honor as we replaced the soil above him.
+I had taken his gold. He had been my captain.
+"You can come with us, Fetch," Chenyth said. And I agreed. There would be a place for her with the Potters.
+Chenyth kept the iron mask. It hangs in my mother's house even now. Nobody believes him when he tells the story of Lord Hammer and the Kammengarn Dragon. They prefer Rainheart's heroics.
+No matter. The world goes on whether geared by truth or fiction.
+The last shovelful of earth fell on Lord Hammer's resting place. And Chenyth, as always, had a question. "Will, what happened to his horse?"
+The great fire-eyed stallion had vanished.
+Even Fetch didn't know the answer to that one.
+

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+GO TO Project Gutenberg of Australia HOME PAGE
+Title: The Tomb's Secret Author:Robert E. Howard A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook eBook No.: 0601781h.html Edition: 1 Language: English Character set encoding: Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit Date first posted: June 2006 Date most recently updated: June 2006 This eBook was produced by: Richard Scott and Colin Choat Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
+When James Willoughby, millionaire philanthropist, realized that the dark, lightless car was deliberately crowding him into the curb, he acted with desperate decision. Snapping off his own lights, he threw open the door on the opposite side from the onrushing stranger, and leaped out, without stopping his own car. He landed sprawling on all fours, shredding the knees of his trousers and tearing the skin on his hands. An instant later his auto crashed cataclysmically into the curb, and the crunch of crumpled fenders and the tinkle of breaking glass mingled with the deafening reverberation of a sawed-off shotgun as the occupants of the mysterious car, not yet realizing that their intended victim had deserted his automobile, blasted the machine he had just left.
+Before the echoes died away, Willoughby was up and running through the darkness with an energy remarkable for his years. He knew that his ruse was already discovered, but it takes longer to swing a big car around than for a desperately frightened man to burst through a hedge, and a flitting figure in the darkness is a poor target. So James Willoughby lived where others had died, and presently came on foot and in disheveled condition to his home, which adjoined the park beside which the murderous attempt had been made. The police, hastening to his call, found him in a condition of mingled fear and bewilderment. He had seen none of his attackers; he could give no reason for the attack. All that he seemed to know was that death had struck at him from the dark, suddenly, terribly and mysteriously.
+It was only reasonable to suppose that death would strike again at its chosen victim, and that was why Brock Rollins, detective, kept a rendezvous the next evening with one Joey Glick, a nondescript character of the underworld who served his purpose in the tangled scheme of things.
+Rollins bulked big in the dingy back-room appointed for the meeting. His massive shoulders and thick body dwarfed his height. His cold blue eyes contrasted with the thick black hair that crowned his low broad forehead, and his civilized garments could not conceal the almost savage muscularity of his hard frame.
+Opposite him Joey Glick, never an impressive figure, looked even more insignificant than usual. And Joey's skin was a pasty grey, and Joey's fingers shook as he fumbled with a bit of paper on which was drawn a peculiar design.
+"Somebody planted it on me," he chattered. "Right after I phoned you. In the jamb on the uptown train. Me, Joey Glick! They plant it on me and I don't even know it. Only one man in this burg handles dips that slick--even if I didn't know already.
+"Look! It's the death-blossom! The symbol of the Sons of Erlik! They're after me! They've been shadowing me--tapping wires. They know I know too much--"
+"Come to the point, will you?" grunted Rollins "You said you had a tip about the gorillas who tried to put the finger on Jim Willoughby. Quit shaking and spill it. And tell me, cold turkey--who was it?"
+"The man behind it is Yarghouz Barolass."
+Rollins grunted in some surprise.
+"I didn't know murder was his racket."
+"Wait!" Joey babbled, so scared he was scarcely coherent. His brain was addled, his speech disjointed. "He's head of the American branch of the Sons of Erlik--I know he is--"
+"Chinese?"
+"He's a Mongol. His racket is blackmailing nutty old dames who fall for his black magic. You know that. But this is bigger. Listen, you know about Richard Lynch?"
+"Sure; got smashed up in an auto wreck by a hit-and-run speed maniac a week ago. Lay unidentified in a morgue all night before they discovered who he was. Some crazy loon tried to steal the corpse off the slab. What's that got to do with Willoughby?"
+"It wasn't an accident." Joey was fumbling for a cigarette. "They meant to get him--Yarghouz's mob. It was them after the body that night--"
+"Have you been hitting the pipe?" demanded Rollins harshly.
+"No, damn it!" shrilled Joey. "I tell you, Yarghouz was after Richard Lynch's corpse, just like he's sending his mob after Job Hopkins' body tomorrow night--"
+"What?" Rollins came erect, glaring incredulously.
+"Don't rush me," begged Joey, striking a match. "Gimme time. That death-blossom has got me jumping sideways. I'm jittery--"
+"I'll say you are," grunted Rollins. "You've been babbling a lot of stuff that don't mean anything, except it's Yarghouz Barolass who had Lynch bumped off, and now is after Willoughby. Why? That's what I want to know. Straighten it out and give me the low-down."
+"Alright," promised Joey, sucking avidly at his cigarette. "Lemme have a drag. I been so upset I haven't even smoked since I reached into my pocket for a fag and found that damned death-flower. This is straight goods. I know why they want the bodies of Richard Lynch, Job Hopkins and James Willoughby--"
+With appalling suddenness his hands shot to his throat, crushing the smoldering cigarette in his fingers. His eyes distended, his face purpled. Without a word he swayed upright, reeled and crashed to the floor. With a curse Rollins sprang up, bent over him, ran skilled hands over his body.
+"Dead as Judas Iscariot," swore the detective. "What an infernal break! I knew his heart would get him some day, if he kept hitting the pipe--"
+He halted suddenly. On the floor where it had fallen beside the dead man lay the bit of ornamented paper Joey had called the blossom of death, and beside it lay a crumpled package of cigarettes.
+"When did he change his brand?" muttered Rollins. "He never smoked any kind but a special Egyptian make before; never saw him use this brand." He lifted the package, drew out a cigarette and broke it into his hand, smelling the contents gingerly. There was a faint but definite odor which was not part of the smell of the cheap tobacco.
+"The fellow who slipped that death-blossom into his pocket could have shifted fags on him just as easy," muttered the detective. "They must have known he was coming here to talk to me. But the question is, how much do they know now? They can't know how much or how little he told me. They evidently didn't figure on him reaching me at all--thought he'd take a draw before he got here. Ordinarily he would have; but this time he was too scared even to remember to smoke. He needed dope, not tobacco, to steady his nerve."
+Going to the door, he called softly. A stocky bald-headed man answered his call, wiping his hands on a dirty apron. At the sight of the crumpled body he recoiled, paling.
+"Heart attack, Spike," grunted Rollins. "See that he gets what's needed." And the big dick thrust a handful of crumpled bills into Spike's fingers as he strode forth. A hard man, Rollins, but one mindful of his debts to the dead as well as the living.
+A few minutes later be was crouched over a telephone.
+"This you, Hoolihan?"
+A voice booming back over the wires assured him that the chief of police was indeed at the other end.
+"What killed Job Hopkins?" he asked abruptly.
+"Why, heart attack, I understand." There was some surprise in the chief's voice. "Passed out suddenly, day before yesterday, while smoking his after-dinner cigar, according to the papers. Why?"
+"Who's guarding Willoughby?" demanded Rollins without answering.
+"Laveaux, Hanson, McFarlane and Harper. But I don't see--"
+"Not enough," snapped Rollins. "Beat it over there yourself with three or four more men."
+"Say, listen here, Rollins!" came back the irate bellow. "Are you telling me how to run my business?"
+"Right now I am." Rollins' cold hard grin was almost tangible in his voice. "This happens to be in my particular domain. We're not fighting white men; it's a gang of River Street yellow-bellies who've put Willoughby on the spot. I won't say any more right now. There's been too damned much wire-tapping in this burg. But you beat it over to Willoughby's as fast as you can get there. Don't let him out of your sight. Don't let him smoke, eat or drink anything till I get there. I'll be right on over."
+"Okay," came the answer over the wires. "You've been working the River Street quarter long enough to know what you're doing."
+Rollins snapped the receiver back on its hook and strode out into the misty dimness of River Street, with its furtive hurrying forms--stooped alien figures which would have fitted less incongruously into the scheme of Canton, Bombay or Stamboul.
+The big dick walked with a stride even springier than usual, a more aggressive lurch of his massive shoulders. That betokened unusual wariness, a tension of nerves. He knew that he was a marked man, since his talk with Joey Glick. He did not try to fool himself; it was certain that the spies of the man he was fighting knew that Joey had reached him before he died. The fact that they could not know just how much the fellow had told before he died, would make them all the more dangerous. He did not underestimate his own position. He knew that if there was one man in the city capable of dealing with Yarghouz Barolass, it was himself, with his experience gained from years of puzzling through the devious and often grisly mysteries of River Street, with its swarms of brown and yellow inhabitants.
+"Taxi?" A cab drew purring up beside the curb, anticipating his summoning gesture. The driver did not lean out into the light of the street. His cap seemed to be drawn low, not unnaturally so, but, standing on the sidewalk, it was impossible for the detective to tell whether or not he was a white man.
+"Sure," grunted Rollins, swinging open the door and climbing in. "540 Park Place, and step on it."
+The taxi roared through the crawling traffic, down shadowy River Street, wheeled off onto 35th Avenue, crossed over, and sped down a narrow side street.
+"Taking a short cut?" asked the detective.
+"Yes, sir." The driver did not look back. His voice ended in a sudden hissing intake of breath. There was no partition between the front and back seats. Rollins was leaning forward, his gun jammed between the shoulders of the driver.
+"Take the next right-hand turn and drive to the address I gave you," he said softly. "Think I can't tell the back of a yellow neck by the street lamp? You drive, but you drive careful. If you try to wreck us, I'll fill you full of lead before you can twist that wheel. No monkey business now; you wouldn't be the first man I've plugged in the course of duty."
+The driver twisted his head about to stare briefly into the grim face of his captor; his wide thin mouth gaped, his coppery features were ashy. Not for nothing had Rollins established his reputation as a man-hunter among the sinister denizens of the Oriental quarter.
+"Joey was right," muttered Rollins between his teeth. "I don't know your name, but I've seen you hanging around Yarghouz Barolass's joint when he had it over on Levant Street. You won't take me for a ride, not tonight. I know that trick, old copper-face. You'd have a flat, or run out of gas at some convenient spot. Any excuse for you to get out of the car and out of range while a hatchet-man hidden somewhere mows me down with a sawed-off. You better hope none of your friends see us and try anything, because this gat has a hair-trigger, and it's cocked. I couldn't die quick enough not to pull the trigger."
+The rest of that grim ride was made in silence, until the reaches of South Park rose to view--darkened, except for a fringe of lights around the boundaries, because of municipal economy which sought to reduce the light bill.
+"Swing into the park," ordered Rollins, as they drove along the street which passed the park, and, further on, James Willoughby's house. "Cut off your lights, and drive as I tell you. You can feel your way between the trees."
+The darkened car glided into a dense grove and came to a halt. Rollins fumbled in his pockets with his left hand and drew out a small flashlight, and a pair of handcuffs. In climbing out, he was forced to remove his muzzle from close contact with his prisoner's back, but the gun menaced the Mongol in the small ring of light emanating from the flash.
+"Climb out," ordered the detective. "That's right--slow and easy. You're going to have to stay here awhile. I didn't want to take you to the station right now, for several reasons. One of them is I didn't want your pals to know I turned the tables on you. I'm hoping they'll still be patiently waiting for you to bring me into range of their sawed-offs--ha, would you?"
+The Mongol, with a desperate wrench, struck the flashlight from the detective's hand, plunging them into darkness.
+Rollins' clutching fingers locked like a vise on his adversary's coat sleeve, and at the same instant he instinctively threw out his .45 before his belly, to parry the stroke he knew would instantly come. A knife clashed venomously against the blue steel cylinder, and Rollins hooked his foot about an ankle and jerked powerfully. The fighters went down together, and the knife sliced the detective's coat as they fell. Then his blindingly driven gun barrel crunched glancingly against a shaven skull, and the straining form went limp.
+Panting and swearing beneath his breath, Rollins retrieved the flashlight and cuffs, and set to work securing his prisoner. The Mongol was completely out; it was no light matter to stop a full-arm swing from Brock Rollins. Had the blow landed solidly it would have caved in the skull like an egg-shell.
+Handcuffed, gagged with strips torn from his coat, and his feet bound with the same material, the Mongol was placed in the car, and Rollins turned and strode through the shadows of the park, toward the eastern hedge beyond which lay James Willoughby's estate. He hoped that this affair would give him some slight advantage in this blind battle. While the Mongols waited for him to ride into the trap they had undoubtedly laid for him somewhere in the city, perhaps he could do a little scouting unmolested.
+James Willoughby's estate adjoined South Park on the east. Only a high hedge separated the park from his grounds. The big three-storied house--disproportionately huge for a bachelor--towered among carefully trimmed trees and shrubbery, amidst a level, shaven lawn. There were lights in the two lower floors, none in the third. Rollins knew that Willoughby's study was a big room on the second floor, on the west side of the house. From that room no light issued between the heavy shutters. Evidently curtains and shades were drawn inside. The big dick grunted in approval as he stood looking through the hedge.
+He knew that a plainclothes man was watching the house from each side, and he marked the bunch of shrubbery amidst which would be crouching the man detailed to guard the west side. Craning his neck, he saw a car in front of the house, which faced south, and he knew it to be that of Chief Hoolihan.
+With the intention of taking a short cut across the lawn he wormed through the hedge, and, not wishing to be shot by mistake, he called softly: "Hey, Harper!"
+There was no answer. Rollins strode toward the shrubbery.
+"Asleep at the post?" he muttered angrily. "Eh, what's this?"
+He had stumbled over something in the shadows of the shrubs. His hurriedly directed beam shone on the white, upturned face of a man. Blood dabbled the features, and a crumpled hat lay near by, an unfired pistol near the limp hand.
+"Knocked stiff from behind!" muttered Rollins. "What--"
+Parting the shrub he gazed toward the house. On that side an ornamental chimney rose tier by tier, until it towered above the roof. And his eyes became slits as they centered on a window on the third floor within easy reach of that chimney. On all other windows the shutters were closed; but these stood open.
+With frantic haste he tore through the shrubbery and ran across the lawn, stooping like a bulky bear, amazingly fleet for one of his weight. As he rounded the corner of the house and rushed toward the steps, a man rose swiftly from among the hedges lining the walk, and covered him, only to lower his gun with an exclamation of recognition.
+"Where's Hoolihan?" snapped the detective.
+"Upstairs with old man Willoughby. What's up?"
+"Harper's been slugged," snarled Rollins. "Beat it out there; you know where he was posted. Wait there until I call you. If you see anything you don't recognize trying to leave the house, plug it! I'll send out a man to take your place here."
+He entered the front door and saw four men in plain clothes lounging about in the main hall.
+"Jackson," he snapped, "take Hanson's place out in front. I sent him around to the west side. The rest of you stand by for anything."
+Mounting the stair in haste, he entered the study on the second floor, breathing a sigh of relief as he found the occupants apparently undisturbed.
+The curtains were closely drawn over the windows, and only the door letting into the hall was open. Willoughby was there, a tall spare man, with a scimitar sweep of nose and a bony aggressive chin. Chief Hoolihan, big, bear-like, rubicund, boomed a greeting.
+"All your men downstairs?" asked Rollins.
+"Sure; nothin' can get past 'em and I'm stayin' here with Mr. Willoughby--"
+"And in a few minutes more you'd both have been scratching gravel in Hell," snapped Rollins. "Didn't I tell you we were dealing with Orientals? You concentrated all your force below, never thinking that death might slip in on you from above. But I haven't time to turn out that light. Mr. Willoughby, get over there in that alcove. Chief, stand in front of him, and watch that door that leads into the hall. I'm going to leave it open. Locking it would be useless, against what we're fighting. If anything you don't recognize comes through it, shoot to kill."
+"What the devil are you driving at, Rollins?" demanded Hoolihan.
+"I mean one of Yarghouz Barolass's killers is in this house!" snapped Rollins. "There may be more than one; anyway, he's somewhere upstairs. Is this the only stair, Mr. Willoughby? No back-stair?"
+"This is the only one in the house," answered the millionaire. "There are only bedrooms on the third floor."
+"Where's the light button for the hall on that floor?"
+"At the head of the stairs, on the left; but you aren't--"
+"Take your places and do as I say," grunted Rollins, gliding out into the hallway.
+He stood glaring at the stair which wound up above him, its upper part masked in shadow. Somewhere up there lurked a soulless slayer--a Mongol killer, trained in the art of murder, who lived only to perform his master's will. Rollins started to call the men below, then changed his mind. To raise his voice would be to warn the lurking murderer above. Setting his teeth, he glided up the stair. Aware that he was limned in the light below, he realized the desperate recklessness of his action; but he had long ago learned that he could not match subtlety against the Orient. Direct action, however desperate, was always his best bet. He did not fear a bullet as he charged up; the Mongols preferred to slay in silence; but a thrown knife could kill as promptly as tearing lead. His one chance lay in the winding of the stair.
+He took the last steps with a thundering rush, not daring to use his flash, plunged into the gloom of the upper hallway, frantically sweeping the wall for the light button. Even as he felt life and movement in the darkness beside him, his groping fingers found it. The scrape of a foot on the floor beside him galvanized him, and as he instinctively flinched back, something whined past his breast and thudded deep into the wall. Then under his frenzied fingers, light flooded the hall.
+Almost touching him, half crouching, a copper-skinned giant with a shaven head wrenched at a curved knife which was sunk deep in the woodwork. He threw up his head, dazzled by the light, baring yellow fangs in a bestial snarl.
+Rollins had just left a lighted area. His eyes accustomed themselves more swiftly to the sudden radiance. He threw his left like a hammer at the Mongol's jaw. The killer swayed and fell out cold.
+Hoolilhan was bellowing from below.
+"Hold everything," answered Rollins. "Send one of the boys up here with the cuffs. I'm going through these bedrooms."
+Which he did, switching on the lights, gun ready, but finding no other lurking slayer. Evidently Yarghouz Barolass considered one would be enough. And so it might have been, but for the big detective.
+Having latched all the shutters and fastened the windows securely, he returned to the study, whither the prisoner had been taken. The man had recovered his senses and sat, handcuffed, on a divan. Only the eyes, black and snaky, seemed alive in the copperish face.
+"Mongol alright," muttered Rollins. "No Chinaman."
+"What is all this?" complained Hoolihan, still upset by the realization that an invader had slipped through his cordon.
+"Easy enough. This fellow sneaked up on Harper and laid him cold. Some of these fellows could steal the teeth right out of your mouth. With all those shrubs and trees it was a cinch. Say, send out a couple of the boys to bring in Harper, will you? Then he climbed that fancy chimney. That was a cinch, too. I could do it myself. Nobody had thought to fasten the shutters on that floor, because nobody expected an attack from that direction.
+"Mr. Willoughby, do you know anything about Yarghouz Barolass?"
+"I never heard of him," declared the philanthropist, and though Rollins scanned him narrowly, he was impressed by the ring of sincerity in Willoughby's voice.
+"Well, he's a mystic fakir," said Rollins. "Hangs around Levant Street and preys on old ladies with more money than sense--faddists. Gets them interested in Taoism and Lamaism and then plays on their superstitions and blackmails them. I know his racket, but I've never been able to put the finger on him, because his victims won't squeal. But he's behind these attacks on you."
+"Then why don't we go grab him?" demanded Hoolihan.
+"Because we don't know where he is. He knows that I know he's mixed up in this. Joey Glick spilled it to me, just before he croaked. Yes, Joey's dead--poison; more of Yarghouz's work. By this time Yarghouz will have deserted his usual hangouts, and be hiding somewhere--probably in some secret underground dive that we couldn't find in a hundred years, now that Joey is dead."
+"Let's sweat it out of this yellow-belly," suggested Hoolihan.
+Rollins grinned coldly. "You'd sweat to death yourself before he'd talk. There's another tied up in a car out in the park. Send a couple of boys after him, and you can try your hand on both of them. But you'll get damned little out of them. Come here, Hoolihan."
+Drawing him aside, he said: "I'm sure that Job Hopkins was poisoned in the same manner they got Joey Glick. Do you remember anything unusual about the death of Richard Lynch?"
+"Well, not about his death; but that night somebody apparently tried to steal and mutilate his corpse--"
+"What do you mean, mutilate?" demanded Rollins.
+"Well, a watchman heard a noise and went into the room and found Lynch's body on the floor, as if somebody had tried to carry it off, and then maybe got scared off. And a lot of the teeth had been pulled or knocked out!"
+"Well, I can't explain the teeth," grunted Rollins. "Maybe they were knocked out in the wreck that killed Lynch. But this is my hunch: Yarghouz Barolass is stealing the bodies of wealthy men, figuring on screwing a big price out of their families. When they don't die quick enough, he bumps them off."
+Hoolihan cursed in shocked horror.
+"But Willoughby hasn't any family."
+"Well, I reckon they figure the executors of his estate will kick in. Now listen: I'm borrowing your car for a visit to Job Hopkins' vault. I got a tip that they're going to lift his corpse tomorrow night. I believe they'll spring it tonight, on the chance that I might have gotten the tip. I believe they'll try to get ahead of me. They may have already, what with all this delay. I figured on being out there long before now.
+"No, I don't want any help. Your flat-feet are more of a hindrance than a help in a job like this. You stay here with Willoughby. Keep men upstairs as well as down. Don't let Willoughby open any packages that might come, don't even let him answer a phone call. I'm going to Hopkins' vault, and I don't know when I'll be back; may roost out there all night. It just depends on when--or if--they come for the corpse."
+A few minutes later he was speeding down the road on his grim errand. The graveyard which contained the tomb of Job Hopkins was small, exclusive, where only the bones of rich men were laid to rest. The wind moaned through the cypress trees which bent shadow-arms above the gleaming marble.
+Rollins approached from the back side, up a narrow, tree-lined side street. He left the car, climbed the wall, and stole through the gloom, beneath the pallid shafts, under the cypress shadows. Ahead of him Job Hopkins' tomb glimmered whitely. And he stopped short, crouching low in the shadows. He saw a glow--a spark of light--it was extinguished, and through the open door of the tomb trooped half a dozen shadowy forms. His hunch had been right, but they had gotten there ahead of him. Fierce anger sweeping him at the ghoulish crime, he leaped forward, shouting a savage command.
+They scattered like rats, and his crashing volley re-echoed futilely among the sepulchers. Rushing forward recklessly, swearing savagely, he came into the tomb, and turning his light into the interior, winced at what he saw. The coffin had been burst open, but the tomb itself was not empty. In a careless heap on the floor lay the embalmed corpse of Job Hopkins--\_and the lower jawbone had been sawed away.\_
+"What the Hell!" Rollins stopped short, bewildered at the sudden disruption of his theory. "They didn't want the body. What did they want? His teeth? And they got Richard Lynch's teeth--"
+Lifting the body back into its resting place, he hurried forth, shutting the door of the tomb behind him. The wind whined through the cypress, and mingled with it was a low moaning sound. Thinking that one of his shots had gone home, after all, he followed the noise, warily, pistol and flash ready.
+The sound seemed to emanate from a bunch of low cedars near the wall, and among them he found a man lying. The beam revealed the stocky figure, the square, now convulsed face of a Mongol. The slant eyes were glazed, the back of the coat soaked with blood. The man was gasping his last, but Rollins found no trace of a bullet wound on him. In his back, between his shoulders, stood up the hilt of a curious skewer-like knife. The fingers of his right hand had been horribly gashed, as if he had sought to retain his grasp on something which his slayers desired.
+"Running from me he bumped into somebody hiding among these cedars," muttered Rollins. "But who? And why? By God, Willoughby hasn't told me everything."
+He stared uneasily at the crowding shadows. No stealthy shuffling footfall disturbed the sepulchral quiet. Only the wind whimpered through the cypress and the cedars. The detective was alone with the dead--with the corpses of rich men in their ornate tombs, and with the staring yellow man whose flesh was not yet rigid.
+"You're back in a hurry," said Hoolihan, as Rollins entered the Willoughby study. "Do any good?"
+"Did the yellow boys talk?" countered Rollins.
+"They did not," growled the chief. "They sat like pot-bellied idols. I sent 'em to the station, along with Harper. He was still in a daze."
+"Mr. Willoughby," Rollins sank down rather wearily into an arm-chair and fixed his cold gaze on the philanthropist, "am I right in believing that you and Richard Lynch and Job Hopkins were at one time connected with each other in some way?"
+"Why do you ask?" parried Willoughby.
+"Because somehow the three of you are connected in this matter. Lynch's death was not accidental, and I'm pretty sure that Job Hopkins was poisoned. Now the same gang is after you. I thought it was a body-snatching racket, but an apparent attempt to steal Richard Lynch's corpse out of the morgue, now seems to resolve itself into what was in reality a successful attempt to get his teeth. Tonight a gang of Mongols entered the tomb of Job Hopkins, obviously for the same purpose--"
+A choking cry interrupted him. Willoughby sank back, his face livid.
+"My God, after all these years!"
+Rollins stiffened.
+"Then you do know Yarghouz Barolass? You know why he's after you?"
+Willoughby shook his head. "I never heard of Yarghouz Barolass before. But I know why they killed Lynch and Hopkins."
+"Then you'd better spill the works," advised Rollins. "We're working in the dark as it is."
+"I will!" The philanthropist was visibly shaken. He mopped his brow with a shaking hand, and reposed himself with an effort.
+"Twenty years ago," he said, "Lynch, Hopkins and myself, young men just out of college, were in China, in the employ of the war-lord Yuen Chin. We were chemical engineers. Yuen Chin was a far-sighted man--ahead of his time, scientifically speaking. He visioned the day when men would war with gases and deadly chemicals. He supplied us with a splendid laboratory, in which to discover or invent some such element of destruction for his use.
+"He paid us well; the foundations of all of our fortunes were laid there. We were young, poor, unscrupulous.
+"More by chance than skill we stumbled onto a deadly secret--the formula for a poisonous gas, a thousand times more deadly than anything yet dreamed of. That was what he was paying us to invent or discover for him, but the discovery sobered us. We realized that the man who possessed the secret of that gas, could easily conquer the world. We were willing to aid Yuen Chin against his Mongolian enemies; we were not willing to elevate a yellow mandarin to world empire, to see our hellish discovery directed against the lives of our own people.
+"Yet we were not willing to destroy the formula, because we foresaw a time when America, with her back to the wall, might have a desperate need for such a weapon. So we wrote out the formula in code, but left out three symbols, without any of which the formula is meaningless and undecipherable. Each of us then, had a lower jaw tooth pulled out, and on the gold tooth put in its place, was carved one of the three symbols. Thus we took precautions against our own greed, as well as against the avarice of outsiders. One of us might conceivably fall so low as to sell the secret, but it would be useless without the other two symbols.
+"Yuen Chin fell and was beheaded on the great execution ground at Peking. We escaped, Lynch, Hopkins and I, not only with our lives but with most of the money which had been paid us. But the formula, scrawled on parchment, we were obliged to leave, secreted among musty archives in an ancient temple.
+"Only one man knew our secret: an old Chinese tooth-puller, who aided us in the matter of the teeth. He owed his life to Richard Lynch, and when he swore the oath of eternal silence, we knew we could trust him."
+"Yet you think somebody is after the secret symbols?"
+"What else could it be? I cannot understand it. The old tooth-puller must have died long ago. Who could have learned of it? Torture would not have dragged the secret from him. Yet it can be for no other reason that this fellow you call Yarghouz Barolass murdered and mutilated the bodies of my former companions, and now is after me.
+"Why, I love life as well as any man, but my own peril shrinks into insignificance compared to the world-wide menace contained in those little carven symbols--two of which are now, according to what you say, in the hands of some ruthless foe of the western world.
+"Somebody has found the formula we left hidden in the temple, and has learned somehow of its secret. Anything can come out of China. Just now the bandit war-lord Yah Lai is threatening to overthrow the National government--who knows what devilish concoction that Chinese caldron is brewing?
+"The thought of the secret of that gas in the hands of some Oriental conqueror is appalling. My God, gentlemen, I fear you do not realize the full significance of the matter!"
+"I've got a faint idea," grunted Rollins. "Ever see a dagger like this?" He presented the weapon that had killed the Mongol.
+"Many of them, in China," answered Willoughby promptly.
+"Then it isn't a Mongol weapon?"
+"No; it's distinctly Chinese; there is a conventional Manchu inscription on the hilt."
+"Ummmmmm!" Rollins sat scowling, chin on fist, idly tapping the blade against his shoe, lost in meditation. Admittedly, he was all at sea, lost in a bewildering tangle. To his companions he looked like a grim figure of retribution, brooding over the fate of the wicked. In reality he was cursing his luck.
+"What are you going to do now?" demanded Hoolihan.
+"Only one thing to do," responded Rollins. "I'm going to try to run down Yarghouz Barolass. I'm going to start with River Street--God knows, it'll be like looking for a rat in a swamp. I want you to contrive to let one of those Mongols escape, Hoolihan. I'll try to trail him back to Yarghouz's hangout--"
+The phone tingled loudly.
+Rollins reached it with a long stride.
+"Who speaks, please?" Over the wire came a voice with a subtle but definite accent.
+"Brock Rollins," grunted the big dick.
+"A friend speaks, Detective," came the bland voice. "Before we progress further, let me warn you that it will be impossible to trace this call, and would do you no good to do so."
+"Well?" Rollins was bristling like a big truculent dog.
+"Mr. Willoughby," the suave voice continued, "is a doomed man. He is as good as dead already. Guards and guns will not save him, when the Sons of Erlik are ready to strike. But you can save him, without firing a shot!"
+"Yeah?" It was a scarcely articulate snarl humming bloodthirstily from Rollins' bull-throat.
+"If you were to come alone to the House of Dreams on Levant street, Yarghouz Barolass would speak to you, and a compromise might be arranged whereby Mr. Willoughby's life would be spared."
+"Compromise, Hell!" roared the big dick, the skin over his knuckles showing white. "Who do you think you're talking to? Think I'd fall into a trap like that?"
+"You have a hostage," came back the voice. "One of the men you hold is Yarghouz Barolass's brother. Let him suffer if there is treachery. I swear by the bones of my ancestors, no harm shall come to you!"
+The voice ceased with a click at the other end of the wire.
+Rollins wheeled.
+"Yarghouz Barolass must be getting desperate to try such a child's trick as that!" he swore. Then he considered, and muttered, half to himself: "By the bones of his ancestors! Never heard of a Mongolian breaking that oath. All that stuff about Yarghouz's brother may be the bunk. Yet--well, maybe he's trying to outsmart me--draw me away from Willoughby--on the other hand, maybe he thinks that I'd never fall for a trick like that--aw, to Hell with thinking! I'm going to start acting!"
+"What do you mean?" demanded Hoolihan.
+"I mean I'm going to the House of Dreams, alone."
+"You're crazy!" exclaimed Hoolihan. "Take a squad, surround the house, and raid it!"
+"And find an empty rat-den," grunted Rollins, his peculiar obsession for working alone again asserting itself.
+Dawn was not far away when Rollins entered the smoky den near the waterfront which was known to the Chinese as the House of Dreams, and whose dingy exterior masked a subterranean opium joint. Only a pudgy Chinaboy nodded behind the counter; he looked up with no apparent surprise. Without a word he led Rollins to a curtain in the back of the shop, pulled it aside, and revealed a door. The detective gripped his gun under his coat, nerves taut with excitement that must come to any man who has deliberately walked into what might prove to be a death-trap. The boy knocked, lifting a sing-song monotone, and a voice answered from within. Rollins started. He recognized that voice. The boy opened the door, bobbed his head and was gone. Rollins entered, pulling the door to behind him.
+He was in a room heaped and strewn with divans and silk cushions. If there were other doors, they were masked by the black velvet hangings, which, worked with gilt dragons, covered the walls. On a divan near the further wall squatted a stocky, pot-bellied shape, in black silk, a close-fitting velvet cap on his shaven head.
+"So you came, after all!" breathed the detective. "Don't move, Yarghouz Barolass. I've got you covered through my coat. Your gang can't get me quick enough to keep me from getting you first."
+"Why do you threaten me, Detective?" Yarghouz Barolass's face was expressionless, the square, parchment-skinned face of a Mongol from the Gobi, with wide thin lips and glittering black eyes. His English was perfect.
+"See, I trust you. I am here, alone. The boy who let you in said that you are alone. Good. You kept your word, I keep my promise. For the time there is truce between us, and I am ready to bargain, as you suggested."
+"As I suggested?" demanded Rollins.
+"I have no desire to harm Mr. Willoughby, any more than I wished to harm either of the other gentlemen," said Yarghouz Barolass. "But knowing them all as I did--from report and discreet observation--it never occurred to me that I could obtain what I wished while they lived. So I did not enter into negotiations with them."
+"So you want Willoughby's tooth, too?"
+"Not I," disclaimed Yarghouz Barolass. "It is an honorable person in China, the grandson of an old man who babbled in his dotage, as old men often do, drooling secrets torture could not have wrung from him in his soundness of mind. The grandson, Yah Lai, has risen from a mean position to that of war-lord. He listened to the mumblings of his grandfather, a tooth-puller. He found a formula, written in code, and learned of symbols on the teeth of old men. He sent a request to me, with promise of much reward. I have one tooth, procured from the unfortunate person, Richard Lynch. Now if you will hand over the other--that of Job Hopkins--as you promised, perhaps we may reach a compromise by which Mr. Willoughby will be allowed to keep his life, in return for a tooth, as you hinted."
+"As I hinted?" exclaimed Rollins. "What are you driving at? I made no promise; and I certainly haven't Job Hopkins' tooth. You've got it, yourself."
+"All this is unnecessary," objected Yarghouz, an edge to his tone. "You have a reputation for veracity, in spite of your violent nature. I was relying upon your reputation for honesty when I accepted this appointment. Of course, I already knew that you had Hopkins' tooth. When my blundering servants, having been frightened by you as they left the vaults, gathered at the appointed rendezvous, they discovered that he to whom was entrusted the jawbone containing the precious tooth, was not among them. They returned to the graveyard and found his body, but not the tooth. It was obvious that you had killed him and taken it from him."
+Rollins was so thunderstruck by this new twist, that he remained speechless, his mind a tangled whirl of bewilderment.
+Yarghouz Barolass continued tranquilly: "I was about to send my servants out in another attempt to secure you, when your agent phoned me--though how he located me on the telephone is still a mystery into which I must inquire--and announced that you were ready to meet me at the House of Dreams, and give me Job Hopkins' tooth, in return for an opportunity to bargain personally for Mr. Willoughby's life. Knowing you to be a man of honor, I agreed, trusting you--"
+"This is madness!" exclaimed Rollins "I didn't call you, or have anybody call you. You, or rather, one of your men, called me."
+"I did not!" Yarghouz was on his feet, his stocky body under the rippling black silk quivering with rage and suspicion. His eyes narrowed to slits, his wide mouth knotted viciously.
+"You deny that you promised to give me Job Hopkins' tooth?"
+"Sure I do!" snapped Rollins. "I haven't got it, and what's more, I'm not 'compromising' as you call it--"
+"Liar!" Yarghouz spat the epithet like a snake hissing. "You have tricked--betrayed me--used my trust in your blackened honor to dupe me--"
+"Keep cool," advised Rollins. "Remember, I've got a Colt .45 trained on you."
+"Shoot and die!" retorted Yarghouz. "I do not know what your game is, but I know that if you shoot me, we will fall together. Fool, do you think I would keep my promise to a barbarian dog? Behind this hanging is the entrance to a tunnel through which I can escape before any of your stupid police, if you have brought any with you, can enter this room. You have been covered since you came through that door, by a man hiding behind the tapestry. Try to stop me, and you die!"
+"I believe you're telling the truth about not calling me," said Rollins slowly. "I believe somebody tricked us both, for some reason. You were called, in my name, and I was called, in yours."
+Yarghouz halted short in some hissing tirade. His eyes were like black evil jewels in the lamplight.
+"More lies?" he demanded uncertainly.
+"No; I think somebody in your gang is double-crossing you. Now easy, I'm not pulling a gun. I'm just going to show you the knife that I found sticking in the back of the fellow you seem to think I killed."
+He drew it from his coat-pocket with his left hand--his right still gripped his gun beneath the garment--and tossed it on the divan.
+Yarghouz pounced on it. His slit eyes flared wide with a terrible light; his yellow skin went ashen. He cried out something in his own tongue, which Rollins did not understand.
+In a torrent of hissing sibilances, he lapsed briefly into English: "I see it all now! This was too subtle for a barbarian! Death to them all!" Wheeling toward the tapestry behind the divan he shrieked: "Gutchluk!"
+There was no answer, but Rollins thought he saw the black velvety expanse billow slightly. With his skin the color of old ashes, Yarghouz Barolass ran at the hanging, ignoring Rollins' order to halt, seized the tapestries, tore them aside--something flashed between them like a beam of white hot light. Yarghouz's scream broke in a ghastly gurgle. His head pitched forward, then his whole body swayed backward, and he fell heavily among the cushions, clutching at the hilt of a skewer-like dagger that quivered upright in his breast. The Mongol's yellow claw-like hands fell away from the crimsoned hilt, spread wide, clutching at the thick carpet; a convulsive spasm ran through his frame, and those taloned yellow fingers went limp.
+Gun in hand, Rollins took a single stride toward the tapestries--then halted short, staring at the figure which moved imperturbably through them: a tall yellow man in the robes of a mandarin, who smiled and bowed, his hands hidden in his wide sleeves.
+"You killed Yarghous Barolass!" accused the detective.
+"The evil one indeed has been dispatched to join his ancestors by my hand," agreed the mandarin. "Be not afraid. The Mongol who covered you through a peep-hole with an abbreviated shotgun has likewise departed this uncertain life, suddenly and silently. My own people hold supreme in the House of Dreams this night. All that we ask is that you make no attempt to stay our departure."
+"Who are you?" demanded Rollins.
+"But a humble servant of Fang Yin, lord of Peking. When it was learned that these unworthy ones sought a formula in America that might enable the upstart Yah Lai to overthrow the government of China, word was sent in haste to me. It was almost too late. Two men had already died. The third was menaced."
+"I sent my servants instantly to intercept the evil Sons of Erlik at the vaults they desecrated. But for your appearance, frightening the Mongols to scattering in flight, before the trap could be sprang, my servants would have caught them all in ambush. As it was, they did manage to slay he who carried the relic Yarghouz sought, and this they brought to me."
+"I took the liberty of impersonating a servant of the Mongol in my speech with you, and of pretending to be a Chinese agent of yours, while speaking with Yarghouz. All worked out as I wished. Lured by the thought of the tooth, at the loss of which he was maddened, Yarghouz came from his secret, well-guarded lair, and fell into my hands. I brought you here to witness his execution, so that you might realize that Mr. Willoughby is no longer in danger. Fang Yin has no ambitions for world empire; he wishes but to hold what is his. That he is well able to do, now that the threat of the devil-gas is lifted. And now I must be gone. Yarghouz had laid careful plans for his flight out of the country. I will take advantage of his preparations."
+"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Rollins. "I've got to arrest you for the murder of this rat."
+"I am sorry," murmured the mandarin. "I am in much haste. No need to lift your revolver. I swore that you would not be injured and I keep my word."
+As he spoke, the light went suddenly out. Rollins sprang forward, cursing, fumbling at the tapestries which had swished in the darkness as if from the passing of a large body between them. His fingers met only solid walls, and when at last the light came on again, he was alone in the room, and behind the hangings a heavy door had been slid shut. On the divan lay something that glinted in the lamplight, and Rollins looked down on a curiously carven gold tooth.
+

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+www.cerridwenpress.com
+Red Satin
+ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
+Red Satin Copyright © 2009 Barbara Miller
+Edited by Helen Woodall.
+Cover art by Syneca.
+Electronic book Publication March 2009
+With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora's Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.
+Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher's permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
+This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors' imagination and used fictitiously.
+Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.®
+Red Satin
+Barbara Miller
+Derbyshire, England, Spring of 1816
+Andrew Devon, only son of the Earl of Carlisle, nearly dropped his reins as his curricle drew near the estate of Sir Thomas Foley. Two riders with a scattered pack of hounds were coursing a hare directly toward the hedge that bordered the road. And one of them was a woman. She led her companion, in fact, her black riding habit fluttering to reveal a trim ankle. The curled feather of her forage cap flew back to mingle with her coppery curls unfurling like a red satin banner behind her.
+He checked his team as the riders disappeared for a moment behind the hedge. All this time, the baying of the hounds and the pounding of hooves grew louder. The panicked hare shot out of the hedgerow and under his horses' hooves, causing them to stamp restlessly and his servant to swear. Before any of the hounds appeared, a rustle of branches against leather heralded the launching of the woman and her horse over the hedge. She was on a blood bay that glowed like her own hair in the setting sun. Devon hauled on the team's reins even as he captured the scene in his mind. He was an artist of sorts, not a thing he puffed off to people, and he was always in despair that he might forget such an image before he could sketch it.
+She barely spared him a glance she was so intent on not riding down any of the hounds that poured through the gaps in the hedgerow. The male rider crashed through rather than leaping over the hedge, looked surprised, and gave Devon a half salute before continuing across the road after the girl. The dust settled and Devon noticed the curled feather from her hat lay on the road.
+He handed his reins to Roth and got down to retrieve it with a shake of his head. He was a sentimental fool to pick up something that would remind him of such a woman. He would never see her again. If he could have followed his heart he would have ridden after her, but he was being shoehorned into marriage with the daughter of his father's old friend, the girl his brother would have married if he'd lived. And Miss Foley could be nothing like the wild vision who had just burst on the scene. He slid the feather into an inner pocket and got back into the curricle.
+"Lunatics, both of them," his groom cum valet said, handing the reins back.
+"Happy lunatics at any rate."
+His man looked at him with a frown. There was little he bothered to hide from Roth who had accompanied him to the Peninsula and to Belgium. The man had doctored his wounds and saved his life a score of time. He had a right to know Dev was not happy with the duty he was about to perform. But after losing his brother, his parents were counting on him to continue the line.
+Within ten minutes he had arrived at Foley's and halted the carriage in front of the rambling two-story stone house. Not only did a corps of servants launch themselves from the entrance to take charge of his baggage, but his host came out to greet him.
+"You find me alone this afternoon," Foley said as he shook his gray head. "My lady is in town selecting dinner and my son and daughter are out riding somewhere."
+"Indeed? Did they have hounds with them?"
+"God save us. What have they done now?"
+The change in his host's aspect from jovial to terrified was so laughable, Dev blurted out, "Not a thing but form a perfect picture. And that hunter she was riding was the most striking animal I have ever seen."
+"Chalice. Yes, he is unusual. Would you rather rest or have a look 'round the stables now?"
+"Oh, the stables by all means."
+\*
+Selina had never wanted the ride to end, knowing they were to be visited by yet another applicant for her hand. At least that was the pretense they all used. Really they came for the horses and she could see through them, doing the pretty when they truly had no interest in her. They only courted her to get a better price on a hunter from her father.
+"Race you home?" Gary teased.
+"The horses are tired and so are the hounds. They gave us a good chase. Let's just trot in."
+"If it were up to you, the rabbit would be carried home in a basket and put to bed with carrot tops."
+"Well, he did his bit as well. The best of men are those who care about their creatures."
+Having said that, Selena still arrived in the stableyard before her brother and dispensed with the mounting block to expertly gather up the riding skirt and slide off Chalice. She started to run the irons up to the saddle when she noticed her father standing with someone in the entrance to the foaling barn. Oh, bother. He had the man with him already. He wasn't old or ugly. In fact he had a handsome countenance and merry brown eyes when he smiled. Still that might be a ruse. She started walking the horse around the yard.
+"Ah, you're back. I was just showing Devon the stock we have, and I particularly wanted him to look at Chalice. This is my son Gary and daughter Selina."
+Gary dismounted and stepped up to shake Devon's hand. Selina halted Chalice long enough to curtsy, lifting the tail of her riding habit with one gloved hand even as the other gripped the reins of the sweating stallion. "Please to meet you."
+"How old is he?" Devon asked with a nod at Chalice.
+"Only just three," Selina said. "Green broke and needs another year or two to mature."
+"He looks fine." Devon stroked Chalice's nose with one hand while running the other up his neck to scratch behind an ear. The horse responded by sighing and ducking his sweaty head to rub it against Devon's clean shirt front.
+Selina moved to retrain the horse. "Oh, he'll get you dirty."
+"That's my valet's worry."
+Gary walked his bay up beside them. "I take it by the absence of grooms that Taffy is foaling?"
+"Oh, Gary, walk Chalice for me?" Selina asked. "I should go help."
+"Not to worry," her father said. "She's only just started. It will be hours yet."
+Just then a gig rounded the corner, presumably after having discharged its passenger and goods at the front door. The elderly groom driving it, seeing no one attending to the horses, looked panicked and hurried to park the rig and help unhitch Devon's carriage horses.
+"Amanda must be back. Gary, go get someone to help Jenkins."
+"My servant can help as well."
+Selina was about to protest when a maid running from the house delivered a whispered message.
+"Tell mother I shall be in as soon as I have cooled my horse."
+"I can walk them both at once," Gary said.
+"Oh, thank you so much." She had not meant the comment to sound cutting, but it did, and Devon raised an eyebrow. Her father turned to Selina with a sad smile. "I know you want to stay with Taffy, and for certain they will be hard pressed to carry on without you. But humor your mother just this once, Selina, child."
+"Very well."
+Devon tried to focus on Chalice rather than Selina's reluctant steps toward the house and wished she could have stayed. It was exciting seeing all the horses, weighing in his mind if he should buy one. He did not want Sir Foley to give up stock he had raised for himself just because Dev was an applicant for Selina's hand. She was entrancing and not at all what he was used too. No flirtation or other subtle arts, just a head held high, a prim little mouth poised to smile and those blue eyes that seemed to look right through you. He had been dreading this visit, had only been cajoled into coming because his father had made the arrangements. Now he was feeling elated, as though life was finally going to take a good turn for him. Here was a woman who would not drive him crazy with missish airs, a woman who could run an estate as easily as he could. If only he had known, he would have sold his commission a year earlier.
+\*
+An hour later Selina scowled at herself in the mirror. Her skin was much too sun browned to wear white. Mother never listened to her. But she softened the contrast with an amber shawl and tied the thing in a knot at her breast so that she did not have to worry about it sliding off. A string of pearls and she was ready for her mother's inspection. But if she went down now, perhaps she could miss all that last minute fussing. She had washed her hands and face and run a brush through her hair. Other than that there was little she could do, but it didn't matter. Devon didn't want her anyway.
+She ran down the steps to the drawing room and sat down at the pianoforte to practice her piece when she realized Devon was already there. He left the fireplace and came to stand by the instrument.
+"Are we to be entertained tonight?"
+She gulped and stared into his laughing eyes. He had indeed taken the time to change clothes and he looked so crisp and pressed she felt inferior when reflecting on her slapdash preparations. "You are an optimist. You will no doubt be subjected to my playing. If you have any sense you will claim fatigue after the port and retire."
+"I'm sure you do yourself an injustice."
+"Coming from London, I suppose your expectations might be higher than those of our usual guests."
+He shook his head, his fine brown hair falling across his brow. "I am also from the country and that is where my heart lives."
+"Mine too. I wish never to live in town."
+"Not even to visit?"
+"No. Where is your estate?" She began fingering the keys in case there should be an awkward pause in conversation.
+"Northampton. Country much like this."
+"Then it won't seem strange to the horses." She played a chord and let in hang in the air. "And eventually they will forget this place."
+He backed up a pace. "What horses?"
+"The ones you will buy from Father."
+His head twitched a little. "Does everyone who comes to visit rob you of your horses?"
+She could feel her mouth draw down, for that was always how she thought of the purchases. How odd that he understood. "Yes, everyone."
+"You sound so sad. You don't have to sell them, do you?"
+"It's not easy letting them go, but we can't keep all of them. Have you decided?" She looked up at his puzzled expression.
+"Decided on what?"
+"I'm sorry. You may not want any of the horses you've seen so far. We have others out in the pastures."
+"Oh, that. I admire the chestnut you were riding. Why is he named Chalice?"
+"Because he is so precious. He's my favorite. Riding him is like flying."
+"I could tell."
+She began to pick out the melody so as not to look him in the face. "You didn't tell Father we almost upset your carriage."
+"No. How did you know I didn't tattle?"
+"Oh, I could tell. Father's in a good mood. And a man in a good mood can sometimes be persuaded to do unwise things."
+He reached into his pocket and pulled out the feather. She recognized it and took it from him, their fingers brushing in the exchange which seemed so intimate. "Thank you. I had thought it lost for good."
+"My pleasure."
+Lady Foley came in and smiled as she came to take Devon's hand. Selina snapped to attention and made the introduction. "You honor us with your visit, sir. Selina, are you trimming hats in here?"
+"Uh, no." She rose and tucked the feather into the bookcase. "Is Sir Timothy joining us tonight?"
+"No, your father forgot to invite him."
+Selina breathed a sigh of relief, and for some reason that produced a look of concern on Devon's face. "Sir Timothy is our old neighbor."
+"Selina, what a way to describe him."
+"Well he is older than Papa."
+"Perhaps I'll get to meet him on some future visit."
+Lady Foley's eyes widened. "Sir, surely you don't mean to run away from us tomorrow. Foley will want to show you the estate and no doubt every horse on the place. It could take weeks."
+Devon laughed. "I plan to stay as long as you will put up with me. It is obvious how much Foley loves his horses."
+"Lord Tocqueville was here last month and Papa wouldn't sell him anything."
+"Selina, you should not gossip."
+Devon nodded. "I have heard about Tocqueville's visit."
+"Really? But who told you?" Selina demanded.
+"The man himself. I suppose he tried to ride roughshod over your father."
+"Yes and he cut Chalice's mouth with the bit. I don't think Papa will ever forgive him for that."
+"Which is why I plan to be on my best behavior with the horses. It will be a coup if I can get your father to let me ride one of them."
+Selina found herself smiling at Devon. He was a flatterer and perhaps had catered to her father, but his manner with the horses was genuine. She might not be able to detect a fraud, but they certainly could.
+Her father and Gary came in then, and she found herself led in to dinner by Devon. She also saw a speculative look in her mother's eyes. That was foolish since Devon was only being polite.
+With the presentation of the first course, Selina realized her mother had outdone herself. Instead of paying attention to conversation she lost herself in enjoyment of the salmon, the green peas and mushrooms, the turtle soup and a confusing display of side dishes usually reserved for holidays.
+When she did look up, Devon was smiling at her and she felt herself blushing. A hard look from her mother reminded her of her social obligations.
+"Sir, I have been meaning to ask. Are you seeking only hunters?"
+"Ah, no."
+"I rather thought that you meant to set up a stud." She noticed her mother wince at that forthright word.
+"The notion has occurred to me, though I would never presume to rival Sir Foley's business. My own father did not neglect his lands, but has never had much use for horses except for pulling carriages or plowing fields. I have acquired half a dozen mares of good breeding during my travels and want to see how I shall do."
+"But that is excellent news." He would want a stallion, but only one, and he would not want Chalice because of the odd color.
+"Must we always talk of horses?" Lady Foley demanded.
+Selina swallowed, desperately canvassing her mind for some other safe topic of conversation. "So you don't mean to reside in London?"
+"My parents and sister use the house there. I prefer the country myself. I suppose I will have to put in an appearance when the season starts since my sister Clara is coming out. Have you been presented yet?"
+"No, but I don't want to be."
+Her mother leaned forward. "Next year Selina will be eighteen and my sister promises to sponsor her. She has her own daughter to bring out this season."
+"You will like London," Devon said confidently.
+"Really, I had convinced myself I would not."
+"Do you like to dance, go to the theater, shop?"
+Selina thought for a moment. "No, not really."
+"Then you are an exception among young women."
+Another glare from her mother brought Selina up short, and she traded looks with Devon. A smile tugged at his mouth that she could not help but acknowledge. London might not be so bad if he was there. He made everything seem so comfortable. It was as though they had a secret together but there was none. He seemed like a man you could trust a horse to, but tomorrow would tell the tale. Should she let him ride Chalice just to see how he did? Or would it be better to mount him on Tudor, since that is the stud she wanted him to take.
+She spent the better part of dinner matching Devon up with just the perfect horses in her mind. Finally her mother stood up in disgust.
+"The ladies will withdraw now."
+Dev watched Sir Foley open the port, then glance at Gary and say, "Would you mind checking on Taffy. If anything happens to that mare, Selina will never forgive me."
+The lad had his father's hazel eyes and calm manner, while Selina favored her mother.
+"Just thinking about that myself." Gary tossed his napkin on the table and strode out.
+After his son had exited, Foley passed the decanter to Devon.
+"Selina thinks you are just here for the horses."
+Devon smiled. "Has she scared off many suitors that way?"
+Sir Foley tipped his glass and shot the swallow of port down his throat as though he really needed the restorative. "Every single one. Lord knows she is invaluable here, but I want her to have a future."
+"I like her already. I'd like to get to know her better."
+"We'll ride tomorrow. Gary and I will fall behind."
+"I imagine that will take no effort."
+"She's like a restive mare, always full of fire and energy. I could not bear to see that broken." The sincere concern in his aged face was touching.
+"I don't break horses either." Devon withdrew a letter from his inside coat pocket. My father has drafted a settlement, but I'm sure you could it amend it however you wish."
+Sir Foley took the papers but did not even look at them. He leaned toward Devon. "Before Gary gets back, I have just one question."
+"What is it?"
+"Are you doing this to please your father?"
+"I became a soldier to please him and almost lost my life a dozen times over. When my brother died of the ague, I took charge of the estate to please Father. When he asked me to come here, I admit it was to please him. But now that I have met Selina, the only thing that would keep me from asking her to marry me is if I thought that would make her unhappy."
+"You do want her then?"
+"More than anything. But it isn't just about what I want."
+"And there's the rub. She says she'll never marry."
+"Then I have some fences to get over before I should ask that question."
+Gary came back in and looked from Devon to his father. "Did I stay away long enough?"
+Devon chuckled. "Glad to see you are as bright as your sister."
+"Well, she hasn't trodden on your foot or tried to put you up on a bruiser yet, so you have a chance."
+"Are you sure Selina will ride with us tomorrow?" Devon asked. "Lady Foley seemed to repress her, not that it's any of my business."
+Gary nodded. "My sister will make a recover overnight. Without a doubt she will ride tomorrow. It would kill her not to."
+"She seems to have a special attachment for the one called Chalice."
+Sir Foley sat up straight and shoved the port decanter toward his son. "She mothered him when the dam died. I gave him up for lost."
+"I remember that," Gary said. "She went and stole a bit of milk from a mare that had just foaled and got it into him. Then tied and hobbled the mare so she had to feed two.
+"Damn dangerous business, Gary. I'm glad you helped her."
+Gary smiled. "After a few days Chalice got into stealing milk from every mare in the pasture and they came to tolerate him. But Selina is his mother."
+"Then I would be doing them both a disservice to separate them."
+"Hence her reluctance to admit Chalice's readiness for work," Gary said.
+Devon nodded and turned to Sir Foley. "If she agrees to marry me, will you sell him?"
+"Chalice must stay with Selina. That much is certain."
+"Must she make her come out before marrying?"
+"My wife has this ridiculous notion of taking her to London. What kind of impression will she make when her only thoughts are for her horses more than a hundred miles away?"
+"What if I were to offer for her now?" Devon asked. "She would be going to London, if she ever agrees to go, as a married woman."
+"Won't your family think it odd?" Gary asked.
+"They did send me here. My family already think me odd anyway for spending so much time drawing landscapes and painting with watercolors. Besides I like her better than any young lady of my acquaintance and I think I could make her happy."
+"If you wish to ask her, you have my blessing, but I cannot answer for Selina."
+"Then I shall have to use all my remaining charm and put forward the advantage of her being able to help me build a new stud farm."
+\*
+"What the devil did you mean?" her mother admonished.
+"Mother, do you realize what you just said?"
+"Not like London? Give a thought to what you are saying, girl. You sit down to dinner with one of the most eligible young men in the country and you don't even make a move to engage his interest." Her mother had ruthlessly untied the shawl and cast it on the bed and was now pinning up her hair.
+"But you glare at me every time I open my mouth." Selina stared at her still beautiful mother with scarcely a silver thread in her magnificent hair and wondered if she would ever have that much poise.
+"That is because nothing comes out of your mouth but some advice on poulticing a hock or preparing a drench for colic."
+"But he's interested in horses."
+"It would be far better if you could engage his interest in you."
+"He's being polite, Mother. Please do not read anything into his intentions other than to impress Papa with his trustworthiness."
+"Stop talking nonsense. Anything is possible. If you were to attach the affection of the future Earl of Carlisle, what a coup."
+"But Mother, he only wants to buy horses."
+"Go along and see if they are done with the port. I have asked for the tea tray early. As soon as you are done playing."
+Selina went downstairs to the study door, trying to decide from the voices of the men inside if they were finished with their wine.
+"Sir," her father said, "a toast is in order. To Devon. If you marry Selina, Chalice will be her dowry. You aren't likely to get one without the other."
+Selina leaped back from the door as though it had burned her fingers. She was being bartered and by her own father. The shock of it wiped out any tender feelings that might have been budding for Devon. And her brother's hearty laugh ripped an oath from her lips, consigning him to the devil as well. The anger had taken full possession of her by the time her mother caught her stalking toward the stairs.
+"Where are you going? Are they coming?"
+"No, they are deep in their cups and I have a headache."
+"More like a stomachache after what you ate. Now go into the drawing room and get ready. He will at least see that you can play genteelly."
+Selina did as she was bid. Better to face down the men than sulk in her room. Rather than the sedate pieces her mother had selected she started with a march and ended by pounding out an allegro with a crescendo.
+To her complete annoyance Devon applauded.
+"Wonderful."
+She stared at him in disbelief. Perhaps he was tone deaf. She curtseyed under the admonishing glare of her mother and said, "I bid you good night."
+But she did not go to bed. Rather she went to her room and changed into her work clothes, then made her way to the stable where the head lad was watching the new foal just standing.
+"We'd 'a' come for you miss, but yer mother said not to disturb ye."
+"All went well?"
+"Taffy always throws bonny colts."
+The chortling of the mare and the rustling of the hay as the foal stumbled to the right spot and reached under for a drink were comforting sounds. She heard but did not regard the door opening and closing until a chuckle announced Devon's presence.
+"I thought you might be here," Devon's smooth voice said in her ear.
+She stared at his handsome profile and realized none of this was his fault. "I am not needed after all, I suppose. One of the lads will check on them through the night."
+He leaned on the stall door beside her so close she could almost feel the heat of him through their clothes.
+"You missed the birth because of me."
+She shrugged. "There will be many more. Everything is fine. We had better get to bed if we are to ride tomorrow."
+"I'll walk you back to the house."
+The stars were out and she knew she could never bear to leave this place. This was her home and the horses were her family as surely as her parents and brother. Why were her people trying to get rid of her?
+"My father's estate isn't so far away, five or six hours with a good team. I see these same stars at night."
+He stood beside her looking up and she found she could not hate him here in the night with the new foal just starting its life with such promise.
+"But it's not the same place. I know every creature on this farm. Most men don't care at all about the welfare of the animals, only for their speed and show."
+He looked away from the stars and into her eyes. "That's why you hate them. Every unneeded hurt or death pains you more than the creature to which it happens."
+"Do you think horses have souls?" she whispered as she clutched her cloak tighter.
+"I have known enough men without them. I'm sure horses have them. They form attachments, care about other horses and people."
+"And yet we buy and sell them as though they were so much meat."
+He was quiet for a moment. "But we do not slaughter them, except during war. There was a time I thought I'd never have the courage to own another horse."
+"Why?"
+"I lost so many when I was in the cavalry. Before I returned, I bought up what mares I could to assure they would get to some place safe. It's very hard to start over."
+"I forgot you were a soldier."
+"I wish I could forget it as well. Now may I ask you something?"
+Fair was fair. She nodded.
+"Why do you dislike and fear Sir Timothy?"
+"Oh, that. He wants to marry me, not like the others for pretend, but for real. And he's so very old that I have trouble being rude to him."
+"Does your father know this?"
+"I'm not sure or why I told you."
+"It's the dark. You feel a secret is safe out here. Don't worry. I won't tell."
+"I like the dark. No one can see me and criticize. It's safe."
+Devon nodded and reached for her hand. "This isn't the only place that could be safe for you."
+\*
+Though Selina had seemed to soften toward him the night before, she was so frosty at breakfast that her mother sent the girl an admonishing look. Was Lady Foley trying to compel her to lead him on? When they went to the stable, Selina decided he would ride a brute called Tudor, a large gray with a bit of workhorse in him, or medieval charger. For herself, she chose a mare named Silk which must have been coming into season, for the stud was distracted and spent a deal of time curling his lip. The mare showed her teeth and would have ripped his mount's shoulder had Selina not curbed her aggression. Having an intimate talk with the woman was out of the question. Besides, who proposed on horseback?
+With great patience and persistence he got Tudor to hold to a trot even though Selina was loping the mare. She looked back, then halted the mare and waited for him at the stream.
+"He wants so much to do what I want, doesn't he?" Devon noted a look of surprise in her blue eyes and tipped head. She smiled, he thought, in spite of herself.
+"Yes, if only he can figure out what that is. Our instruction is imprecise, not his intelligence. I'm surprised you realize that."
+"I have trained horses before." Then he recalled that she thought he meant to take Chalice away from her. Best to relieve her mind as soon as possible. But how to get a word alone with her.
+"Do you want to buy Tudor?"
+"He's a fine stud, but I don't think I have the expertise to handle more than one."
+"But he could be the one, your foundation sire," she insisted.
+"He's not your favorite, is he?"
+She looked away. "I have no favorites."
+The last thing he wanted to do was argue with her. "Have you thought about the future?"
+"Tudor is only six. He will breed for another decade or more."
+Devon chuckled. "I mean your future."
+She stole a look at him. "No, never."
+"Do you mean to stay here even after your brother is in charge?"
+"Why not? Gary is reasonable."
+"But his wife may not be.
+"I never interfere with the house." She held her head up. "Just the stables."
+"You don't wish a home of your own?"
+"I don't want to leave Foley Hall."
+"Not even to marry?" Devon felt at a disadvantage on horseback even though the animals were now drinking from the stream.
+"I don't mean to marry."
+"Your care of the horses is so expert, so loving. Have you no desire for children of your own to take care of?" He nudged Tudor closer to the mare, a dangerous move for the stallion flared his nostrils and the mare squealed.
+"Matching up people is not so easy as paring mares and studs," she advised. "There has to be more than breeding. There must at least be a regard."
+"You mean love?" he suggested.
+Her smile was quick and nervous. "And that so seldom happens in real life."
+"But it is possible."
+"You've been in love?" She stared directly at him, her curiosity overcoming her distain.
+"I am now," he admitted.
+Selina pouted. "Who is she?"
+Devon chuckled. "A beautiful, competent young woman with a penchant for horses and a head of hair like red satin."
+When she stared up at him, he bent and kissed her lips, but the spell was broken by the kiss. Instead of melting in his arms she tightened the reins and turned her horse.
+"You're just saying that because you want Chalice."
+"No, I want you," he pleaded even as he struggled to hold Tudor.
+"You want Chalice and you think marrying me is the only way to get him."
+"I am asking you to become my wife," he shouted above the squealing of both animals. "I don't care about the horse."
+"Marriage!" she said with disdain.
+"Yes, that state of bliss, that, that---" He was cut off by Tudor rearing.
+"Do be serious. I cannot marry you," she shouted.
+"Why not?" Devon was angry with himself for blurting out his proposal under circumstances so counter to any chance of success.
+"Papa needs me here."
+"If you married me you would have you own stable with as many horses as you want." He kept struggling to hold Tudor in check while Silk angled around to kick the big horse in the chest.
+"I have that now."
+"But no one would be able to take them away from you," he insisted.
+"I have them at their best, young and alive with joy." Her voice was tearful. "How could I wish for more?"
+"Somewhere a husband might come into the equation," he growled.
+"I'm not cut out for marriage. I decided a long time ago that I wouldn't care for it." She turned the mare to leave him.
+"What if you fell in love?"
+Selina went off into a peal of hysterical laughter. "I don't really believe in love. That's for fairy tales, not for me."
+This was absurd. He was trying to propose and Tudor was fighting him for the bit. If he wasn't careful, they would have a consummation between the two horses in a few moments, lucky animals. "Would you at least consider my offer before giving me a definite no?"
+"While you are here, I must consider it, sir. And now I must leave you."
+Silk's parting shot was a backward kick that caught him in the ankle and the stud in the belly. Tudor reared again and Devon slid off into the stream. But he did not let go of the reins.
+\*
+"You what?" her mother ranted in the hall after Selina returned alone. "You turned him down? And then left him out there? What if he gets lost? What if that brute of a horse kills him?"
+"Mother, I said I would consider his suit."
+Her father and brother came out of the study looking worried.
+"Selina you should not have abandoned our guest. Gary, go look for him."
+Before her brother got to the front door, Devon limped in, dripping, and brushed the mud off his coat.
+"Have you been injured?" Lady Foley asked.
+"No, I am fine, and just so Selina does not worry, Tudor is perfectly all right as well." He then went up the stairs with a halting gait.
+Lady Foley turned on her daughter. "You will go to him now and tell him you accept."
+"Now he is like to be changing his wet clothes."
+"He has just returned. Go to his door and knock or I will do it for you."
+She did as she was bid and Roth opened the door, throwing her an accusing look.
+"Yes?" Devon said, half out of his wet coat. "Selina, what is it?"
+She began stripping off her gloves, changing her crop from hand to hand. "My mother bids me come to tell you I accept your offer of marriage."
+Roth rolled his eyes and left the room, careful that the door should remain ajar.
+"She bids you? Ordinarily you are such a courageous girl. Why do you do this only at her bidding?"
+"There would be no peace otherwise. But if you withdraw the offer, then no blame would attach to me."
+"No, I do not withdraw." He strode toward her, stripping the other sleeve off his arm and shedding the coat. "I wish to make you my wife."
+"You cannot possibly love me."
+"Why not? You are very lovable."
+"I am not!" She threw her gloves and riding crop onto the table and knocked a portfolio to the floor. When she stooped to gather it up, pictures spilled out---some of ruined castles, some of soldiers, and some of a woman. "That's me."
+"That's right. You are the only thing I draw now. I am well nigh obsessed with love for you. If you turn me down, I shall never marry either."
+She spread the drawings out on the table and looked up at him. "No horses."
+He sighed. "Well they are harder to draw."
+"Be serious, Devon. Do you indeed love me?"
+He came and hugged her in a damp embrace. "Yes, I love you to the exclusion of everything else in my entire life."
+"But I abandoned you. You could have been killed. I feel so guilty."
+"It wouldn't say much for my training if I could not cope with one horse, love-mad though he was." He let go of her long enough to clasp her hand, tug a gold ring off his little finger and place on hers.
+"What does this mean? That you expect to possess me?"
+"No, that I promise you everything, body and soul, come hell fire or high water. I want us never to be parted. Now, will you marry me?"
+She smiled finally. "I think I'm still in shock."
+"Selina, please." He clasped his arms around her to prevent any escape.
+"Yes, Devon, I will marry you, but under one condition."
+"Your father has promised you Chalice, Silk, Taffy and her foal, plus any other horse you wish for your stable. I am almost afraid to ask your condition, but name it."
+"You stop being so indirect."
+He groaned, then stopped her laughter with a kiss that drew a squeak from the maid passing in the hall. When Selina looked up, Roth was shaking his head, but with a smile.
+About the Author
+Barbara Miller teaches in the Writing Popular Fiction program at Seton Hill University. She has published mysteries, young adult novels, and historical romances, including one nominated for a Rita. She lives on a farm with her husband and a pack of unruly dogs.
+Barbara welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.cerridwenpress.com.
+Tell Us What You Think
+We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at Comments@EllorasCave.com.
+Also by Barbara Miller
+A Cotillion Country Christmas anthology
+Eye Walker
+Governess for a Week
+Music Master
+Two Hearts
+Cerridwen, the Celtic goddess of wisdom, was the muse who brought inspiration to storytellers and those in the creative arts. Cerridwen Press encompasses the best and most innovative stories in all genres of today's fiction. Visit our site and discover the newest titles by talented authors who still get inspired---much like the ancient storytellers did, once upon a time.
+www.cerridwenpress.com
+

9165b3e0f382d3299688cf6cb606aa88.lit.tei.txt

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+
+A Lazy Saturday Afternoon
+Rock lay in the hammock, the sun warm on his face. Mutt and Trouble had gone quiet about five minutes ago, which meant they were up to no fucking good. He dropped one leg off the hammock and gave himself a push, before settling in again.
+What he really wanted to know was what his other two pups were up to.
+He'd been out here... hell it had to be a half hour, and he didn't have an armful of either of them. That just wasn't right. Not on a lazy Saturday afternoon.
+In fact that was something he just might have to get up and investigate.
+He gave the hammock another swing and then got up out of it, heading in. The kitchen was empty, but he was pretty sure that was voices he heard coming from the front room. Growling, he made his way there. "Rig? Dick? Where is everyone?"
+Rig was stretched out on the sofa, head in Dick's lap, typing away on the laptop. Dick was laughing, teasing their redneck about working too hard and not knowing when to quit.
+He leaned against the doorway, growling a little louder, waiting until they looked up at him.
+"I was out on the hammock," he told them. "By myself."
+Dick's lips twitched.
+"It's a pretty day out there." Rig smiled over, eyes warm, traveling over him.
+He found himself straightening, chest puffing out a little. "It is," he agreed grudgingly. "So why was I the only one out there?" He wasn't pouting. Not him. He was curious.
+"Dick's wearing the soft pants."
+He arched an eyebrow, looked. Sure enough, Dick was in a pair of weird-assed workout pants that Rig'd bought. The material was hell to work out in, too loose, too soft, but Rig loved it. Dick knew it too, the little shit.
+"I have soft pants." He did. Rig'd bought them both a pair. He wouldn't be caught dead in his.
+He began to stalk toward the couch. "Of course I have something even better."
+The laptop clicked closed, Rig licking those lips. "Yeah? You think?"
+"Oh, I don't think," Rock stated. Dick laughed and Rock shot him a look, making the kid bite his lip. "I know."
+"Gonna show us?" Dick asked softly.
+Rock nodded, his cock going nice and hard in his sweats. How could it not with two pairs of eyes eating him up?
+"Mmm... Come here, Blue. You're awful far away." Rig's hand reached out for him, just asking him to come closer.
+"Now see, that distance -- that's just what I was complaining about." He peeled off his t-shirt, fingers going to his waistband. "You both ready for what I've got to show you?"
+"We're pretty familiar with it, Rocketman. We can handle it."
+"I'm counting on you handling it. And mouthing it. And assing it."
+Dick groaned and tossed a cushion at him. He caught it midair and tossed it back, beaning the kid off the head; Dick laughed and he chuckled, hooking his fingers back in his sweats and tugging them off.
+Rig had sat up, turned to put the laptop on the sofa-table behind the couch, so he got a nice look at that tight ass, that long, lean back. Dick's hand slid down along Rig's back, fondled the ass in question. Rock growled a little; Dick just squeezed Rig's ass.
+Rig spread, hips tilting back, just making offers.
+"I saw him first," Rock noted.
+"My hand is on his ass," Dick countered.
+Rig chuckled, leaning on the back of the sofa, ass wiggling.
+Dick groaned and Rock stepped forward, trapping the kid's hand between Rig's ass and his cock. Rig hummed and pushed right back, rubbing them all together. Yeah. That was his slut.
+He rumbled happily. Now this was more like it. "Clothes."
+Dick laughed at the single word, but the kid started stripping Rig down, now didn't he?
+Rig chuckled, looked back over one skinny shoulder. "He's pretty good at this."
+Rock grinned. Winked. "Should be. He's had enough practice."
+Dick slapped his ass and Rock growled. "I can still kick your ass, kid."
+"I'd rather you just fuck it, Rock."
+"No fighting, marines. Let's play."
+"Fighting? I thought this was foreplay." Rock teased, rubbing his cock along Rig's crack as Dick stripped his own clothes off.
+"We have foreplay? Are you sure?" Rig rubbed right back, hips rolling.
+"This ain't it?" He pushed the head of his cock against Rig's hole, but didn't breach it.
+"Foreplay involves your fingers," Dick suggested, hand under the cushions. Looking for lube, Rock assumed. Hoped.
+"Mmm... Foreplay has kissing. Licking." Rig arched a little more, moaning low.
+"We do that!" Sometimes. He groaned as Dick's fingers slid on his prick before starting to work on Rig's ass. Probably not this time. At least not 'til after.
+Rig hummed, rocking, riding Dick's fingers. "Uh-huh. 's good."
+"You'd agree to just about anything right now."
+"Uh-huh."
+He laughed, hips fucking the air, his prick sliding along the inside of one of Rig's thighs.
+"You laughing at me, Blue?" Rig didn't sound worried, not at all.
+"I might be." He grinned, hips pushing again, groaning at the feeling of that fine inner thigh on his cock.
+Dick was up to three fingers, working Rig's ass.
+"Evil man." Rig chuckled, moaned, hips moving nice and steady, riding Dick's fingers.
+"Evil man who's about to fuck you through the couch."
+Dick's laugh was swallowed by a moan. "I want him first," Dick whispered. "You can do me while I'm doing him and then finish up in him." Dick turned those puppy dog eyes on him and how could a man say no to a proposition like that?
+Rig must've heard Dick, because Rig shifted, giving them all room.
+Groaning, he nodded and took the lube from Dick, slicking up his own fingers. "Go on, start riding."
+Dick leaned up and kissed him hard before settling in right behind Rig, long cock teasing over Rig's hole. Rig groaned, pushed back, just demanding.
+"Slut," murmured Rock as he watched Dick push right into that sweet little hole.
+"Y'all's." Rig's lips parted. "Oh, sweet fuck. Yes."
+Dick groaned and just kept pushing in until he was buried balls-deep inside Rig.
+Fucking sexy, that's what his men were.
+Rock pushed one of his fingers into Dick's ass, letting the kid fuck himself on them. They all moved, easy as pie, fucking just like breathing.
+Groaning, Rock pushed a second finger into Dick, and then a third, his own cock throbbing, eager to join the chain. "Gonna be a quick prep, kid."
+Dick just nodded. "Yeah, fuck. Hurry." Rig must have squeezed, because Dick jerked, hips moving faster.
+"Okay, now, hold up and wait for me," growled Rock, fingers leaving the tight heat of Dick's body. He wanted in there. Now.
+Dick slowed for him, the kid's thighs trembling as he lined himself up and pushed in, spreading Dick's ass wide.
+"My men." Rig groaned, nodding as they pushed forward.
+"Uh-huh," grunted Dick.
+"Mine," countered Rock, thrusting hard, sending Dick deep into Rig.
+"Mine." Rig pushed back.
+He growled and pushed forward again. "Mine."
+"Mine." Rig's growl was more a moan, really.
+It almost made him laugh. Almost. Instead he just growled the word again and thrust forward.
+"Oh, fuck," murmured Dick. "You guys are gonna kill me."
+"What fun would that be, Pretty? I want you alive." Rig laughed, pushed again. "And mine."
+"He means and mine." Rock slammed back into Dick.
+"No. Mine. Fuck."
+"That's what we're doing, Rabbit."
+He pushed hard, fuck the kid felt good around his cock, felt even better knowing he was fucking them both at the same time like this.
+"Mine."
+"No. Mine," groaned Dick. "Fuck it, you're both mine."
+"Kid's... oh. Oh, fuck. Kid's getting ballsy."
+"Look where his cock is buried. Can you blame him?" Chuckling, he shifted a bit and pegged Dick's gland on his next thrust, making the kid moan, whole body shuddering.
+"Mmm. He liked that. Do it again."
+"He wasn't the only one." Rock did it again, groaning as Dick's ass squeezed him tight, as Rig moaned.
+"Again." Demanding redneck.
+Still, he did it again, didn't he? And then again, finding a good, solid rhythm, driving Dick into Rig each time he filled the kid with his fat prick. The couch creaked, rocked, the teasing dying down as their passion flared.
+He fucked hard and solid, making sure he didn't take too much for himself; he was supposed to finish up in Rig. Rig squeezed again, he knew because Dick groaned, body going tight as a board.
+"Fuck, yeah. Come on, kid. Want to feel you on my cock. Come on."
+Dick groaned, body shuddering and jerking as he filled Rig with spunk.
+"Mmm... There. Just like that, Pretty." Rig just hummed, holding on for him.
+Dick collapsed onto Rig and Rock thrust a few more times, making the kid's pleasure last.
+Rig took one of Dick's hands, kissed the back, the action enough to make Dick shiver.
+Rock chuckled. "He's sweet on you, kid."
+"Feeling's mutual," murmured Dick, the kid still working to catch his breath.
+Rig nodded, tongue sliding over Dick's hand.
+Rock's groan echoed Dick's, and his prick throbbed. He pulled out, stroking the kid's ass. "Come on, kid. My turn."
+"Mmmm..." Rig's hole was wet, swollen. Ready for him.
+Dick collapsed onto the couch beside them and Rock put a little fresh lube on his cock. Then he just lined up and pushed in.
+"Oh, fuck yes." Rig moved, rode him straight away.
+He let Rig set the pace, followed each cue so he was fucking his Rabbit exactly how Rig needed it. Rig let him know when it was right, where he needed more, pleasure just pouring from his cowboy. His hands wrapped around Rig's hips, just holding on as his hips thrust.
+The kid finally recovered enough to shift and rearrange himself, head disappearing between Rig and the couch and he knew the second that mouth wrapped around Rig's cock.
+"Oh. Oh, fuck. Close. Blue..."
+"I know, Rabbit." He kept moving, shifting on each thrust until Rig lit up like the fucking Fourth of July. Oh yeah. Right fucking there.
+A man could live forever on that sound. Fucking forever.
+He pushed hard, just fucking giving everything he had to Rig. He'd do this all fucking day, just live inside Rig.
+"Blue! Yours! Fuck!"
+"Fucking right! Mine." He pounded away, giving it everything he had.
+Rig went tight and still, body milking his prick. Groaning, Rock jerked into Rig a few times and let go, giving it up for his Rabbit.
+Rig melted down, just moaning low. He went down with Rig, letting Rig hold him up for a moment. Dick grinned, hands lazy and warm on them both.
+"Mmm. Sofa's softer than the hammock."
+"Oh, ho, you set me up." He would have been put out except that Rig was right.
+"Mmhmm. That's it." He noted Rig didn't sound like he was regretting.
+Rock chuckled, and then groaned as he pulled out. He settled himself on the sofa, his men arranging themselves on either side of him. Rig snuggled right in, octopussing against him. Dick's hum was happy, the kid cuddling in close.
+He rumbled happily, stroking whatever skin he could find.
+Oh yeah, the hammock had nothing on this. Not one damned thing.
+Rock let his eyes close.
+This was the way to spend a lazy Saturday afternoon.
+End.
+

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+
+It began, she fell in love, with the image of a man.
+As a child she had seen his face for the first time in black and white, hardly bigger than a postage stamp: young poet said a line below the grainy dots of newsprint. So this was a poet, she thought, gazing at the shadowy representation of dreamy eyes and shaggy hair, tinglingly aware that something had entered and lodged in her heart, like the Snow Queen's love for little Kay.
+Seven years later, in the poetry section of the college bookstore, she picked up a book with the title The Memory of Trees. The author's name, Graham Storey, seemed familiar; she glanced at the back cover for a clue, and saw his face again.
+Something turned over inside her as she stared at the picture of a poet no longer so young.
+Gone was the Beatles hairstyle; his hair was cropped now. The eyes that stared out at something far beyond her had a dreaminess contradicted by the fierceness of the rest of his face, the thin, tight-lipped mouth, the jut of nose and chin.
+There was a ferocity in him, but she sensed it would be directed more at himself than anyone else. She sensed enduring sadness, a pain held tightly within.
+She bought the book, of course, although her budget did not allow it; she could do without a few meals if she had to. She read it straight through for the first time that night, alone in bed, with an intensity of concentration she seldom brought to her studies. She read each poem many times, until it was part of her.
+Previously a lazy, erratic student, although bright, now, driven by her heart, she became a scholar. The university library had a copy of his first collection of poetry, but she also discovered poems, letters, even essays and reviews he had written by combing through every poetry-related publication of the past decade that she could find in the stacks. She followed cross-references and hunches until she had compiled an impressive dossier on him, not only his work and influences, but his life, the man himself. She learned from a chance reference in one book that he had been in correspondence with W.H. Auden -- and that his letters, Graham Storey's actual letters, were in a collection in the Humanities Research Center on the University of Texas campus -- and she, as a student, had access to them.
+She sat by herself in a small, cool, well-lighted room with a box-file open on the table and picked up the typewritten pages in her hands, raised them to her face, inhaling with eyes closed. What might be left, besides the words, indentations and ink on paper, after so many years? Cell fragments from the skin of his hands, a hair, a trace of cigarette smoke. . . .? She stared and stared at the signature in blue ink, the small, cramped hand. At first, the formality of his full name, but the last two letters were signed simply G.
+How that initial reverberated, how personal it became, how it haunted her! The fact that it was one of her own initials did not detract but seemed to suggest a connection between them, proof they had something in common.
+Her handwriting altered under the impress of his. At first it was evident only in the way she wrote the letter G, but soon she began to change the way she signed her name, aspiring to make her signature more like his, and then, unconsciously (for she had too small a sample of his to be able, consciously, to copy it) the rest of her handwriting shifted in accord with her signature, becoming smaller, neater, more precise.
+She could not have said, later, when the plan began, but it was only natural, loving him as she did, to want to meet him, and to try to think of ways. She entertained fantasies of meeting him by chance: she would be walking along the Drag one day, and there he'd be, walking toward her. The English Department did sponsor a series of readings by established poets, it was not impossible that they might invite Graham Storey. Or maybe he would read one of her poems, several of which had been published in various little magazines, and be so impressed that he'd write her a letter.
+But she knew these were childish fantasies. Sometimes when she had spent too long alone the vast, sad truth would nearly overwhelm her. No matter how much she knew about him or how much more she learned, it would bring her no closer to him while he continued unaware of her existence.
+Time passed, and she went on loving him while she got her degree and got a job.
+She went on living in Austin, in the same rather run-down apartment building near the University, and continued to socialize with the same sort of people, even sleeping with one or two of them, while still dreaming of the faraway English poet and the very different life they might have together.
+More than once she started a letter to him, but she always drew back from mailing them, always in the end deciding to wait until she could meet him face to face. Then, she felt sure, although she was certainly old enough to know better, she would find a way to make him love her. So she dreamed, and wrote, and worked hard, lived frugally, and saved every penny she could toward the journey of a lifetime.
+Standing in Victoria Station, alone amid the alien crowd, unreal-feeling from jet-lag and lack of sleep, she stood and turned the tissue-thin pages of a telephone book. The sight of his name thrilled her, as always, like a familiar touch. Storey, G. All at once she felt more at home, able to deal with the problem of finding herself somewhere to stay in this huge, foreign city.
+The next day she set off for Harrow-on-the-Hill, which sounded to her as if it should be inhabited by hobbits, but was apparently no more than one of the farflung tendrils of London's contemporary sprawl, easily accessible by the Metropolitan Line. His street she had located in her newly purchased London A to Z and she felt confident of finding her way there from the station.
+She had no plans for what she would say or do after she had made her way to his door. She was praying that magic would strike, that he would look at her and feel what she had felt when she'd first set eyes on his face.
+It was a sunny day, but breezy and not very warm, even though it was June. She felt glad for her cotton jacket as she walked up the hill into the wind. Even before she saw the number and was sure, she had recognized his little white cottage with the honeysuckle twining around the green door. She knocked, and both her breath and her heart seemed to stop while she waited for the reply.
+A woman opened the door. She was about thirty, attractive in a strong-featured, rather exotic way, with kohl-rimmed eyes and long dark hair. "Yes?"
+"Does Graham Storey live here?"
+"Why?"
+"I wanted to see him." From the way the woman looked at her, she had the sudden, despairing conviction that she would not be allowed in. To this woman, whatever her connection to the poet, she was just some person from Porlock. "I'd like to meet him. Please, won't you tell him, won't you ask him -- not if he's working of course. Don't interrupt him. But if I could come back later, I wouldn't take up too much of his time. . ."
+"You're American, aren't you?"
+"Yes."
+"Here on a visit?"
+She nodded. "It's my first time."
+"How do you know Graham?"
+"I don't. Not personally. Just his work. I've admired it for so long..."
+The woman smiled suddenly. "Oh, you're one of his readers! Well, he's not here right now, but-- would you like to come in? I can show you round."
+This was not at all as she had hoped it would be. "Maybe I'd better come back when he's in."
+"Oh, he won't mind me showing you round. I'm sure he'd want me to. After you've come so far, I couldn't just send you away again with nothing. Come in, come in."
+"Really, I'd like to meet him."
+"Then you can come back again in a few days, when he's here. Better ring first to make sure he's in. But as long as you're beret come in for a cup of tea.
+Wouldn't you like to see where his wonderful poems get written?"
+It would have been too awkward to refuse. Following her inside, she wondered about the woman who played at being keeper of the shrine. In her hippy, gypsyish clothes -- cheesecloth blouse and long madras skirt, silver bangles on her arms and a ring on every finger -- she was unlikely as either a housekeeper or a secretary. She knew he wasn't married, but asked with false naivete," Are you Mrs. Storey?"
+The woman smiled. "I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm his girlfriend, Amy Carrick."
+There was something in the woman's proud smile and the little toss of her head that made her suspect she wouldn't have made such a claim in the poet's presence.
+"Where is he now? Will he be back soon?"
+"He's gone away for a few days, walking in Scotland. He does that sometimes, when he needs to be alone for inspiration. That's how poets are. Wouldn't you like to see his study, where the magic happens? Just through here. This is his desk, this is his chair. He always writes long-hand, on this sort of pad. There are his pencils, and a rubber, and a couple of biros, but he's taken his favorite pen away with him."
+It was like being shown around a museum by a too-officious curator, facts forced upon her and never allowed a moment for thought Or a meaningful private discovery. Although she knew she was being silly, she found herself disbelieving everything the woman said. No, this was not the room where he created his poems.
+Perhaps he wrote letters here, on that old manual typewriter shoved to the back of the desk, or typed out the final versions, but the poems had not been written at that desk, with Graham Storey in that chair.
+"Go on, I can see you're dying to try it. Go ahead, I won't tell him, sit down, see what it feels like to sit in the poet's chair!"
+She backed away. "Could I use your bathroom, please?"
+Amy led her to the other end of the small house, where the bathroom was beside the kitchen. "I'll make us a pot of tea while you're freshening up."
+She ran the water to mask any sound, and had a look around the bathroom. There were no signs of a woman's occupancy, no makeup, moisturizer, or tampons, not even a toothbrush in the mug beside the sink. Only one person lived here, and he was away.
+"Why don't you take a seat in the lounge, make yourself at home. I'll be in with the tea in a couple of minutes," called Amy as she passed.
+There was one armchair and a sofa in the room called the lounge, and by the evidence, a crumpled tissue and a paperback lying open on the seat, it was obvious that the other woman had been sitting in the armchair earlier.
+Perversely { "make yourself at home!"), she chose to sit on the chair, lifting the book (A Bouquet of Barbed Wire by Andrea Newman) and tissue and setting them on the nearest surface, then settling herself, wriggling her bottom deeper into the already flattened cushion. As she did so she felt something small and hard under her. Probably a button or a coin, she thought as she raised a buttock and slipped one hand beneath the cushion.
+She had found a small gold key attached to a thin gold ring. The key seemed too small and delicate to be of any practical use, so perhaps it was the sort of charm that more usually would be worn as part of a bracelet or necklace. Without thinking, she slipped it onto her ring finger and it was a perfect fit. She turned it so that the key lay in the palm of her hand, and she closed her hand around it just as Amy came in with a tea-tray.
+"Here we are! Milk or lemon?"
+"Lemon, please."
+"I thought so. I've noticed Americans don't often take milk in their tea. Graham never takes tea at all. He's a coffee drinker, but it has to be strong."
+She craved all such details of his life out of habit, but resented this woman for being the source. Anyway, she might be lying. She certainly didn't live here with Graham as she had implied. "Have you been to America?"
+"Me? Oh, no. I used to work in a care where we had a lot of American tourists coming in, that's where I noticed. Graham says noticing little details like that is really important in a poet."
+"Are you a poet?"
+"I try," she said, casting her eyes down, more coy than modest. Then a thought alarmed her, and her eyes came up quick and fierce. "Are you?"
+"Oh, goodness no. I'm just a reader, I can't write." The lie soothed whatever dark suspicion had briefly disturbed Amy's complacency. She knew she'd been right in her reflexive, almost instinctive, lie. She didn't want this woman knowing too much about her.
+When she left -- as soon as she had finished her tea -- she was still wearing the key-ring. Distrusting the other woman as she did she couldn't bring herself to hand it over to her. She justified this with the thought that all the other rings on Amy's hands were silver, so this was unlikely to be hers. This might belong to Graham's real girlfriend, in which case it would be much better to give it to him when she came back another day. After all, it was his house she had found it in.
+But as soon as she was outside on the street she was gripped by panic, realizing that however she justified it, she had just stolen a piece of jewelry. She should have shoved it back under the cushion again before she left -- what had possessed her to put it on in the first place? The panic died away as she accepted the fact that it was too late now, and she'd just have to try to explain herself when she met the poet. Her hand made a fist around the fragile key as she walked away.
+She fell asleep early and woke, disoriented but wide awake, just before dawn. It was too early to have breakfast or go anywhere, nothing would be open, and although she would have enjoyed just walking through the streets of London she was afraid it wouldn't be safe. With a sigh she reached for the book she had been reading the night before, but soon cast it aside. Her dreams had been more interesting, unusually vivid and strange. There had been one scene in particular . . .
+Thinking about it, she remembered something She'd seen walking back from the poet's house in Harrow, and made a connection. Words hung in her mind, glittering slightly, suggesting new connections, conjunctions, interesting clashes. She scrabbled in her bag for her notebook and a pen.
+By the time the maid knocked on her door several hours later she had completed a poem, and she had the thrilling feeling that it was the best she'd ever written.
+During the next few days she saw the sights of London and she wrote. She wrote in the early mornings in her room, she wrote in cafes, tea-shops, and restaurants in the afternoons, and in pubs or her narrow little hotel room in the evenings. She had never known anything like this overpowering burst of creativity, and she'd seldom been so happy. Writing poetry had always been a struggle for her, and the results of that struggle usually mediocre. Now everything was changed, as if a rusty old lock had been oiled, the key turned smoothly and the door was finally, fully open. The poems were not easy to write, they didn't spring into her head full-blown, she had to work at them, shaping and re-shaping the initial idea, but it was like working in clear daylight after bumbling around in the dark for so long. She had something to say now, and the words to say it. The skill had come, perhaps, from all the years of practice, of looking and listening reading and trying to write, but why here, why now?
+She developed a superstition about the key-ring, which had not been off her finger since she found it, but it was not something she was able to put into words -- it would have sounded too silly. Yet she had not gone back to Harrow-on-the-Hill, or even thought about it, during her week of writing, and now, as she began to think about Graham Storey again, feeling that old familiar tug of longing, the thought of having to give the ring up, to give it back to him, was almost painful enough to make her abandon her original plan to meet him.
+Finally she shut herself into a telephone box and dialed the number she knew by heart although she'd never used it. A man's voice answered, repeating the last four digits she had dialed. Unable to think of any response, she hung up.
+She put all her recent poems into a big brown envelope and set off for Harrow.
+She didn't know what she would say, but she would let him see that she wore the ring, let him read her poems--and then he would decide her fate. Standing before his green door, her hand poised to knock, something else seemed to take over and decide for her. Instead of knocking she bent down and leaned a little forward and pushed the envelope containing her poems through the letter-slot. Feeling as free, happy and satisfied as when she read through a poem she had just written and found it good, she walked away from his door.
+Haft-way down the hill on her way to the station she remembered her name was nowhere on any of the poems or the envelope. He would have no idea who had written them, and of course none at all of how to get in touch with her. But that didn't matter. She understood now that she had written them for him, and now he had them. She would get in touch with him after he'd had time to digest what she had written, and then they would meet, two poets together at last.
+She had grown tired of city life and the turmoil of London, so the next morning she took the train down to Cornwall, dreaming of high white cliffs above the slate-blue sea, of quaint fishing villages, of ancient stone circles and wild moorland ponies.
+The weather was kind. She sat and wrote in the sun in the ruined castle of Tintagel, and in quayside cafes in half a dozen Cornish fishing villages. She lived each day -- walking, looking, eating and writing --without thinking beyond the moment, and she was happy. When the weather turned and rain swept in from the sea, she got back on the train. She visited Exeter, Bristol, Bath and Brighton. And then one night, sitting in a pub in Brighton with a halfpint of bitter and her notebook and pen, she saw two lovers, a few feet away from her, holding hands and kissing. She felt a pang of loneliness as she remembered how she had loved Graham Storey, yet never met him. She was scheduled to fly back to Texas in just over a week.
+The next day saw her back in Harrow. She pushed her latest poems through his letter-slot, but then, instead of retreating to a hotel in London, she hauled her duffle bag further up the hill where a pub called The King's Head had rooms for rent. She spent the rest of the day wandering around the hill, browsing in antique shops, gazing at the picturesque old buildings of Harrow School, and reading inscriptions on tombstones in the churchyard. She had dinner in the hotel restaurant, and afterwards settled herself in a quiet comer of the lounge bar, having decided to spend the rest of the evening writing.
+She hadn't been there long enough to set pen to paper when Graham Storey walked in. He wore jeans, an opennecked white shirt, and a scruffy old tweed jacket going at the elbows. He looked around with a gaze as wide-open and innocently curious as a baby's and intercepted her stare. She was unable to look away.
+After a moment his eyes left hers and he turned to the bar. She shoved notebook and pen away in her bag. She was trembling. A few minutes later, as she had known he would, he carried his drink away from the bar, across the room, and joined her at her table.
+It was an ordinary sort of pick-up, with nothing poetic about it. Probably, if she hadn't known who he was, she would have brushed him off -- she had no liking for the sort of casual encounters that began in bars -- but if she hadn't known who he was, she would never have stared at him in that way which encouraged, practically demanded, his attention.
+When they got around to exchanging names, she did not reveal that she knew who he was. He touched her left hand very lightly. "Married?"
+Her heart pounding very hard, she turned the ring on her hand so that the key was visible. "No. You?"
+If he recognized the ring he gave no sign. "Never. Women never stay with me for very long. I can't blame them. I'm a selfish bastard, and my work comes before a relationship. No woman likes to feel she's second-best, not even those who seem the most sympathetic, even those originally drawn to me by the work." He hesitated, as if expecting her question, and then explained, "I'm a poet, you see, and one with a rather old-fashioned attitude toward the Muse. Oh, don't feel embarrassed because you haven't heard of me! I'm quite successful as a poet, but I know how little that means in this country today!"
+When closing time was called, he gave her a look shifty and shy and invited her home with him.
+This was the invitation she had longed for, the answer to her dreams, yet she hesitated at the intrusion of an unwelcome memory. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
+He gazed at her with unbelievably guileless eyes. "Not yet. But I'd like to." He put out his hand and caught her fingers. "What do you say?"
+She said yes. They were up most of the night talking and making love. In the morning they went back to the King's Head to get her things, and she moved in with him.
+It was only supposed to be for a week. But when the time came to fly home, she forfeited her ticket and let the plane go without her. Graham was overjoyed, but as soon as they had celebrated, he told her she would have to find a place of her own.
+"I love you, but I can't live with you-- how can I work when I'm always aware of you in the next room, and wanting to make love to you? I can't live with anyone.
+Poets shouldn't."
+She had never told him that she was a poet, too, although she continued to write, often early in the morning while he still slept, and was producing a complete poem nearly every day. Each one she left as a love-offering on his desk. Neither of them ever spoke of this.
+She believed that she would be the exception, the one woman he could live with, but obviously it would take him some time to come around to this realization. In the meantime, she was not going to be a drag on him in any way. It turned out to be surprisingly easy to tap into the blackmarket world of low-paying jobs, despite the soaring unemployment figures currently making headlines, and soon she was working as a cook-waitress at a care in South Harrow. She found a room to rent nearby, but spent little time in it. Now that she had a place of her own, Graham wanted her in his place as much as possible, and they spent every night together.
+Two months passed, then three. She was still happy, although no longer writing.
+It might have been lack of time and energy -- it was difficult, between her job and Graham, to ever get two consecutive hours to herself--but she felt the real reason lay deeper, that the well of creativity she had magically tapped into had run dry. Or maybe it was just the need to write which had gone. She didn't really regret it. Once she had wanted to be a great poet, but now she just wanted Graham to marry her. She'd be legal then, she could give up the smell of stale fat frying that always clung to her hair and clothes and get a decent job, she could give up that poky furnished room in South Harrow and live honestly with her husband, maybe they would have a baby . . .
+One day after work as she let herself in to Graham's house she was aware of a changed,charged, atmosphere. The skin on her arms and back prickled. She thought she smelled something in the entrance hall, like a woman's perfume, but when she sniffed it was gone. She went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and found the kettle still warm from recent use. Yet Graham never drank tea. The last of a pot of coffee, well-stewed by now, still simmered away on the hot-plate of his coffee-maker.
+It was at that moment, sensing the recent presence of some possibly threatening stranger, that she realized the key-ring was gone.
+She clutched her left hand in her right, tightly, as if she'd cut it and had to staunch the flow of blood. She couldn't remember the last time she'd noticed it, but surely it had been there this morning?
+More than three months, almost more than four, now, since she'd first walked into this house, a stranger, and found the ring and put it on. She had never taken it off since, she was sure she hadn't taken it off, and it had always been a perfect fit, so how could she have lost it?
+She began to search, frantically, crawling around on the kitchen floor, then rummaging through the cushions of the sofa and the easy chair in the lounge, aware even as she did so that she was more likely to have lost the ring at work.
+Maybe she had taken it off to wash her hands and left it beside the wash-room sink.
+She didn't find it, not that day and not ever, no matter where she searched.
+Graham was no help. He said he hadn't noticed that she wore a ring. When, indignantly, she described it, he said yes, he remembered something like that, but he hadn't seen her wearing it for ages. He also denied that he'd had a visitor that day, gazing at her with his unbelievably guileless blue eyes, and she was afraid to insist. She had the sudden cold unwelcome thought, as he kissed her gently and told her not to worry, commented that she looked tired and perhaps should have an early night tonight, that he had fallen out of love with her.
+She got up early the next morning and tried to write. It was the old, nearly forgotten struggle in the dark once again, and she knew, in the certainty of despair, that it would always be like this from now on, since she had lost the ring.
+That evening he took her out to dinner at the Indian restaurant at the bottom of the hill. Over the nanns and the curry he told her he needed to go away for awhile, by himself. He thought he'd probably go to the Lake District, or to the Highlands of Scotland. He needed to do some walking and some thinking. The Muse hadn't been answering his call lately; he was in a rut. And while on that subject, he rather thought the two of them were in a rut as well; some of the magic had gone. A little time apart would be good for them. When he got back, they'd see how they felt. He'd give her a ring when he got back.
+She clung to the fragile hope he offered, struggling to believe that when he got back all would be well, that all was not yet lost. He made love to her that night as one who performs a familiar task, his thoughts far away, yet she still tried to tell herself that it was as good between them as it had ever been.
+The next morning she woke before he did, and wondered as she lay there beside him if there was any point in getting up and trying to write. She had just about decided there was not when she heard something fall through the letter-box. An image came into her mind as she heard the sound, of a large, brown envelope containing a sheaf of unsigned poems. It was hours still before the postman would come--this had to be a personal delivery, and the person who delivered it, she knew with absolute certainty, would be wearing a gold key-ring. Her name didn't matter, only her function as Graham Storey's muse.
+

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+
+by H. P. Lovecraft and Anna Helen Crofts
+Written 1920
+Published September 1920 in The United Amateur, Vol. 20, No. 1, p. 1-4.
+A damp gloomy evening in April it was, just after the close of the Great War, when Marcia found herself alone with strange thoughts and wishes, unheard-of yearnings which floated out of the spacious twentieth-century drawing room, up the deeps of the air, and eastward to olive groves in distant Arcady which she had seen only in her dreams. She had entered the room in abstraction, turned off the glaring chandeliers, and now reclined on a soft divan by a solitary lamp which shed over the reading table a green glow as soothing as moonlight when it issued through the foliage about an antique shrine.
+Attired simply, in a low-cut black evening dress, she appeared outwardly a typical product of modern civilization; but tonight she felt the immeasurable gulf that separated her soul from all her prosaic surroundings. Was it because of the strange home in which she lived, that abode of coldness where relations were always strained and the inmates scarcely more than strangers? Was it that, or was it some greater and less explicable misplacement in time and space, whereby she had been born too late, too early, or too far away from the haunts of her spirit ever to harmonize with the unbeautiful things of contemporary reality? To dispel the mood which was engulfing her more and more deeply each
+moment, she took a magazine from the table and searched for some healing bit of poetry. Poetry had always relieved her troubled mind better than anything else, though many things in the poetry she had seen detracted from the influence. Over parts of even the sublimest verses hung a chill vapor of sterile ugliness and restraint, like dust on a window-pane through which one views a magnificent sunset.
+Listlessly turning the magazine's pages, as if searching for an elusive treasure, she suddenly came upon something which dispelled her languor. An observer could have read her thoughts and told that she had discovered some image or dream which brought her nearer to her unattained goal than any image or dream she had seen before. It was only a bit of vers libre, that pitiful compromise of the poet who overleaps prose yet falls short of the divine melody of numbers; but it had in it all the unstudied music of a bard who lives and feels, who gropes ecstatically for unveiled beauty. Devoid of regularity, it yet had the harmony of winged, spontaneous words, a harmony missing from the formal, convention-bound verse she had known. As she read on, her surroundings gradually faded, and soon there lay about her only the mists of dream, the purple, star-strewn mists beyond time, where only Gods and dreamers walk.
+Moon over Japan, White butterfly moon!
+Where the heavy-lidded Buddhas dream To the sound of the cuckoo's call...
+The white wings of moon butterflies Flicker down the streets of the city, Blushing into silence the useless wicks of sound-lanterns in the hands of girls
+Moon over the tropics, A white-curved bud Opening its petals slowly in the warmth of heaven...
+The air is full of odours
+And languorous warm sounds...
+A flute drones its insect music to the night Below the curving moon-petal of the heavens.
+Moon over China, Weary moon on the river of the sky, The stir of light in the willows is like the flashing of a thousand silver minnows
+Through dark shoals; The tiles on graves and rotting temples flash like ripples, The sky is flecked with clouds like the scales of a dragon.
+Amid the mists of dream the reader cried to the rhythmical stars, of her delight at the coming of a new age of song, a rebirth of Pan. Half closing her eyes, she repeated words whose melody lay hidden like crystals at the bottom of a stream before dawn, hidden but to gleam effulgently at the birth of day.
+Moon over Japan, White butterfly moon!
+Moon over the tropics, A white curved bud Opening its petals slowly in the warmth of heaven.
+The air is full of odours
+And languorous warm sounds...
+Moon over China, Weary moon on the river of the sky...
+Out of the mists gleamed godlike the torm ot a youth, in winged helmet and sandals, caduceus-bearing, and of a beauty like to nothing on earth. Before the face of the sleeper he thrice waved the rod which Apollo had given him in trade for the nine-corded shell of melody, and upon her brow he placed a wreath of myrtle and roses. Then, adoring, Hermes spoke: "0 Nymph more fair than the golden-haired sisters of Cyene or the sky-inhabiting Atlantides, beloved of Aphrodite and blessed of Pallas, thou hast indeed discovered the secret of the Gods, which lieth in beauty and song. 0 Prophetess
+more lovely than the Sybil of Cumae when Apollo first knew her, thou has truly spoken of the new age, for even now on Maenalus, Pan sighs and stretches in his sleep, wishful to wake and behold about him the little rose-crowned fauns and the antique Satyrs. In thy yearning hast thou divined what no mortal, saving
+only a few whom the world rejects, remembereth: that the Gods were never dead, but only sleeping the sleep and dreaming the dreams of Gods in lotos-filled Hesperian gardens beyond the golden sunset. And now draweth nigh the time of their awakening, when coldness and ugliness shall perish, and Zeus sit once more on Olympus. Already the sea about Paphos trembleth into a foam which only ancient skies have looked on before, and at night on Helicon the shepherds hear strange murmurings and half-remembered notes. Woods and fields are tremulous at twilight with the shimmering of white saltant forms, and immemorial Ocean yields up curious sights beneath thin moons. The Gods are patient, and have slept long, but neither man nor giant shall defy the Gods forever. In Tartarus the Titans writhe and beneath the fiery Aetna groan the children of Uranus and Gaea. The day now dawns when man must answer for centuries of denial, but in sleeping the Gods have grown kind and will not hurl him to the gulf made for deniers of Gods.
+Instead will their vengeance smite the darkness, fallacy and ugliness which have
+turned the mind of man; and under the sway of bearded Saturnus shall mortals, once more sacrificing unto him, dwell in beauty and delight. This night shalt
+thou know the favour of the Gods, and behold on Parnassus those dreams which the Gods have through ages sent to earth to show that they are not dead. For poets are the dreams of Gods, and in each and every age someone hath sung unknowingly the message and the promise from the lotosgardens beyond the sunset."
+Then in his arms Hermes bore the dreaming maiden through the skies. Gentle breezes from the tower of Aiolas wafted them high above warm, scented seas, till suddenly they came upon Zeus, holding court upon double-headed Parnassus, his golden throne flanked by Apollo and the Muses on the right hand, and by ivy-wreathed Dionysus and pleasure-flushed Bacchae on the left hand. So much of splendour Marcia had never seen before, either awake or in dreams, but its radiance did her no injury, as would have the radiance of lofty Olympus; for in this lesser court the Father of Gods had tempered his glories for the sight of mortals. Before the laurel-draped mouth of the Corycian cave sat in a row six noble forms with the aspect of mortals, but the countenances of Gods. These the dreamer recognized from images of them which she had beheld, and she knew that they were none else than the divine Maeonides, the avernian Dante, the more than mortal Shakespeare, the chaos-exploring Milton, the cosmic Goethe and the musalan Keats. These were those messengers whom the Gods had sent to tell men that Pan had passed not away, but only slept; for it is in poetry that Gods speak to men. Then spake the Thunderer: "0 Daughter---for, being one of my endless line, thou art indeed my daughter---behold upon ivory thrones of honour the august messengers Gods have sent down that in the words and writing of men there may be still some traces of divine beauty. Other bards have men justly crowned with enduring laurels, but these hath Apollo crowned, and these have I set in places apart, as mortals who have spoken the language of the Gods. Long have we dreamed in lotosgardens
+beyond the West, and spoken only through our dreams; but the time approaches when our voices shall not be silent. It is a time of awakening and change. Once more hath Phaeton ridden low, searing the fields and drying the streams. In Gaul lone nymphs with disordered hair weep beside fountains that are no more, and pine over rivers turned red with the blood of mortals. Ares and his train have gone forth with the madness of Gods and have returned Deimos and Phobos glutted with unnatural delight. Tellus moons with grief, and the faces of men are as the faces of Erinyes, even as when Astraea fled to the skies, and the waves of our bidding encompassed all the land saving this high peak alone. Amidst this chaos, prepared to herald his coming yet to conceal his arrival, even now toileth our latest born messenger, in whose dreams are all the images which other messengers have dreamed before him. He it is that we have chosen to blend into one glorious whole all the beauty that the world hath known before, and to write words wherein shall echo all the wisdom and the loveliness of the past. He it is who shall proclaim our return and sing of the days to come when Fauns and Dryads shall haunt their accustomed groves in beauty. Guided was our choice by those who now sit before the Corycian grotto on thrones of ivory, and in whose songs thou shalt hear notes of sublimity by which years hence thou shalt know the greater messenger when he cometh. Attend their voices as one by one they sing to thee here. Each note shall thou hear again in the poetry which is to come, the poetry which shall bring peace and pleasure to thy soul, though search for it through bleak years thou must. Attend with diligence, for each chord that vibrates away into hiding shall appear again to thee after thou hast returned to earth, as Alpheus, sinking his waters into the soul of Hellas, appears as the crystal arethusa in remote Sicilia."
+Then arose Homeros, the ancient among bards, who took his lyre and chanted his hymn to Aphrodite. No word of Greek did Marcia know, yet did the message not fall vainly upon her ears, for in the cryptic rhythm was that which spake to all mortals and Gods, and needed no interpreter.
+So too the songs of Dante and Goethe, whose unknown words dave the ether with melodies easy to ready and adore. But at last remembered accents resounded before the listener. It was the Swan of Avon, once a God among men, and still a God among Gods: Write, write, that from the bloody course of war, My dearest master, your dear son, may hie; Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far, His name with zealous fervour sanctify.
+Accents still more familiar arose as Milton, blind no more, declaimed immortal harmony: Or let thy lamp at
+The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshy nook.
+\*
+Sometime let gorgeous tragedy In sceptered pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelop's line, Or the tale of Troy divine.
+Last of all came the young voice of Keats, closest of all the messengers to the beauteous faun-folk: Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter, therefore, yet sweep pipes, play on...
+\*
+When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st
+"Beauty is truth -- truth beauty" -- that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
+As the singer ceased, there came a sound in the wind blowing from far Egypt, where at night Aurora mourns by the Nile for her slain Memnon. To the feet of the Thunderer flew the rosy-fingered Goddess and, kneeling, cried, "Master, it is time I unlocked the Gates of the East." And Phoebus, handing his lyre to Calliope, his bride among the Muses, prepared to depart for the jewelled and column-raised Palace of the Sun, where fretted the steeds already harnessed to the golden car of Day. So Zeus descended from his caryen throne and placed his hand upon the head of Marcia, saying: "Daughter, the dawn is nigh, and it is well that thou shouldst return before the awakening of mortals to thy home. Weep not at the bleakness of thy life, for the shadow of false faiths will soon be gone and the Gods shall once more walk among men. Search thou unceasingly for our messenger, for in him wilt thou find peace and comfort. By his word shall thy steps be guided to happiness, and in his
+dreams of beauty shall thy spirit find that which it craveth." As Zeus ceased, the young Hermes gently seized the maiden and bore her up toward the fading stars, up and westward over unseen seas.
+\*
+Many years have passed since Marcia dreamt of the Gods and of their Parnassus conclave. Tonight she sits in the same spacious drawing-room, but she is not alone. Gone is the old spirit of unrest, for beside her is one whose name is luminous with celebrity: the young poet of poets at whose feet sits all the world. He is reading from a manuscript words which none has ever heard before, but which when heard will bring to men the dreams and the fancies they lost so many centuries ago, when Pan lay down to doze in Arcady, and the great Gods withdrew to sleep in lotos-gardens beyond the lands of the Hesperides. In the subtle cadences and hidden melodies of the bard the spirit of the maiden had found rest at last, for there echo the divinest notes of Thracian Orpheus, notes that moved the very rocks and trees by Hebrus' banks. The singer ceases, and with eagerness asks a verdict, yet what can Marcia say but that the strain is "fit for the Gods"?
+And as she speaks there comes again a vision of Parnassus and the far-off sound of a mighty voice saying, "By his word shall thy steps be guided to happiness, and in his dreams of beauty shall thy spirit find all that it craveth."
+© 1998-1999 William Johns Last modified: 
+