Iron and Magic Read online

  Something was wrong. She’d watched Hugh fight before. This wasn’t him. He was precise and deliberate. This was a frenzy, almost as if… as if he were letting Raphael vent his anger on him.

  If he used magic, this fight would be over.

  Hugh was punishing himself.

  Raphael smashed his fist into Hugh’s side. Hugh took the hit, clamped Raphael’s arm, and stabbed Raphael in the kidneys. The shapeshifter tore free. The blue glow jumped from Hugh to Raphael’s wound and lingered.

  She watched it for a long moment, in disbelief. Her hands clenched. That was enough. Elara started forward.

  “What are you doing?” Andrea asked.

  “I’m going to stop it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Andrea said. “They don’t look like they need any help.”

  Elara let her magic spill out of her. It rolled off her, cold like the bottom of an iceberg in the deep dark ocean. The shapeshifter woman drew a sharp breath.

  “Hugh is healing him.”

  Andrea squinted at the fighters. “No…”

  The blue glow clung to Raphael’s other side.

  Shock slapped Andrea’s face. “Yes. He is. Why?”

  “Because he is punishing himself. The man your husband came here to kill doesn’t exist anymore. The man here now is going to let himself be hurt because he thinks he needs to be punished. This has gone far enough. Nobody is dying today. I won’t allow it.”

  “Raphael,” Andrea called out. “Stop. Enough!”

  Raphael drove his knife into Hugh’s side in a vicious upward stab. Hugh punched him in the face. Raphael staggered back, his lips drawn back in a grimace. Hugh had gone pale. Fear pinched her. She’d let it go on for too long.

  Raphael spun a kick. His back was to her. She grazed his shoulder with her fingertips, stealing just a tiny drop of his life.

  The shapeshifter halted. His black dagger drooped. He took a halting step back and dropped to his knees.

  She thrust herself in front of Hugh and slid her arms around his neck, her magic bathing them both. “It’s over.”

  He took a step forward, carrying her dead weight on his neck.

  “It’s done,” she murmured, wrapping her voice around them. “No more. I need you. We all need you. Please, Hugh. Let it be.”

  He stopped and looked at her. Awareness came back in his eyes. Elara exhaled.

  Behind them Andrea knelt by Raphael and put her arms around him.

  “So tired,” Raphael whispered and slumped to the ground.

  “You fought well,” she told him. “You killed him at least four times. Aunt B would be proud.”

  Hugh was looking at her. He dipped his head. She didn’t realize what he was doing until his lips found hers. It was a hungry desperate kiss. She tasted his pain on her tongue and stepped away. The entire front of her dress was soaked in blood. Hugh stumbled and toppled forward like a log. She barely caught him and her knees shook under the impact of his dead weight.

  “Can we have lunch now?” Ascanio asked.

  Hugh opened his eyes. The ceiling above him was shrouded in gloom. He was in his bedroom.

  Everything hurt.

  He blinked at the ceiling, trying to find some equilibrium between the pain in different parts of him, a magic spot where it hurt a little less. He failed.

  What time was it? It had to be late. The last thing he remembered was fighting Medrano. He didn’t really have a plan for that fight. He wasn’t sure how it would have ended. He hadn’t wanted to kill Medrano in front of the man’s wife. He had some vague idea of letting the shapeshifter tire himself out, but then it became something else. He was pretty sure one of them wouldn’t survive that fight.

  He remembered Elara and the cooling touch of her magic. Like walking into a cloud of mist on a hot summer day.

  Then he remembered nothing.

  Did he kill Medrano?

  No, she must’ve stopped him.

  A smell floated down to him. He smelled orange, butter, and something else, some sort of dough. Suddenly he was ravenous.

  Sitting up proved to be an effort. Someone had stripped him down to his underwear. He didn’t smell blood, so he’d been washed.

  He staggered to the door. Across the hallway, Elara’s door stood open. Soft light glowed inside. The aroma was coming from there.

  He stumbled around, looking for something to wear, and settled on a pair of black pants and a white T-shirt. He managed to put both on without making noises and headed down the hallway.

  The scent got stronger. The castle lay quiet around them. Outside the windows in the hallway, night spread across the sky, glittering with stars.

  Hugh made it to the doorway. The front room of Elara’s suite lay empty. He walked through, following the smell, turned and saw her. She stood in a small nook off her bedroom. A big stone oven occupied a large part of the far wall. In front of him was an island with a cooktop and a prep sink. Between the stove and the island stood Elara, with her back to him. Her blue dress clung to her, draping over her butt. Her hair was braided and pinned up, and he could see her slender neck.

  Mmmm.

  He leaned in the doorway.

  Elara grabbed something out of the stove and turned toward him. She was holding a metal platter, her hands in kitchen mittens.

  She was wearing an apron. A frilly little apron, white, with pink cherry blossoms on it and wide black ties, wrapped around her and knotted into a bow on the side.

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  This couldn’t possibly be real. It was another dream. “I wonder which part of my demented brain wanted to see the Ice Harpy in an apron. Baking cookies.”

  “These are not cookies.”

  He glanced into the pan. It was full of crepes, folded into quarters and drenched in melted butter. The heat had browned the crepe edges. She must’ve sprinkled them with sugar, because a thin layer of caramel dotted the edges. The last time he had a crepe Suzette was in France, ages ago. He couldn’t recall why he was there or what he was doing, but he remembered the dessert and bright red flames licking the crepes as it was flambéed at the table.

  Elara pulled off her oven mittens. “Is that what I am, an Ice Harpy?”

  “Yes.” And he was on fire. He couldn’t even think straight.

  “You’re not going to get any of my crepes with that attitude.”

  He moved toward her, stalking. She crossed her arms on her chest but didn’t move. He walked behind her, slowly, aware of every inch of space between them. She smelled of jasmine and green apples. Too subtle for a perfume. A hint of shampoo or a lotion, maybe. He wondered if he would taste it as he licked her skin.

  “Be careful, Preceptor.”

  He reached down, caught the end of her apron tie, and tugged on it.

  “Quit it,” she told him.

  Oh, he would enjoy this. “It’s my dream,” he told her.

  “I don’t care.”

  Of course she didn’t. He laughed, his voice low, and tugged on the tie again.

  “Will you stop it?”

  “I told you to stay out of my dreams.” He leaned in close, inhaling the scent of her skin and whispered into her ear. “You’re trespassing.”

  Her eyes widened. He looked into them and caught the exact moment where a hint of white flame burst in their depths. On the battlefield of Elara’s mind, banners of war unfurled, and soldiers broke into a charge. He’d learned to watch for this look when they argued. That’s when it got really good.

  “Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re letting me waltz in and out of your dreams, Preceptor. What is it you want?”

  He was so hard, it hurt.

  “Perhaps I’m hungry.” He reached over her shoulder and stole a crepe from the platter. She tried to slap his hand, but he was too fast.

  “They’re not done yet.”

  “They look done to me.” He held the crepe, out of her reach. “Do you want this back?”

  “Yes.
”

  He leaned closer. “What will you let me do to you to get it back?”

  “Give me back the crepe, Hugh.”

  He held it in front of her. She snatched it out of his hand and turned her back to him to drop it back into the pan. He locked his hands on the island, caging her between his arms.

  She stood completely still. He felt the tension vibrating in the angle of her spine and the set of her shoulders and it made him harder.

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the right side, just below her ear. She gasped. Her skin felt warm and soft under his lips, like warm silk. He touched the sensitive spot with his tongue, painting heat over the nerve, and she leaned back slightly, looking for him in spite of herself. He wanted to crush her to him, to rip off her clothes, and lose himself in her soft body. It was a wild, uncontrollable need, simple and violent in its intensity. He wanted to pin her to the bed and run his tongue over the nipples of her breasts and then slide lower, over her stomach, down below. He wanted to hear her moan, to see her breathless, to watch her open her legs for him, and make her come like she never came before. He wanted to thrust into her and hear her scream his name, because she couldn’t get enough. He wanted her to love it, because he was doing it to her.

  “Stop, Hugh,” she whispered.

  He caught a tendril of her white hair into his fingers and kissed it. “Why?”

  “What if this isn’t a dream? What if you’re awake?”

  “And you’re cooking crepes Suzette in the middle of the night in a pretty apron?”

  “What if I am? If we wake up in the morning in the same bed, what then?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me.” He kissed her neck again, on the other side. She took a sharp breath and swallowed.

  “We finally learned to work together. If you don’t stop…”

  He bit her neck, pinching the skin between his teeth. Her voice broke. She shivered, and it almost pushed him over the edge.

  “…if you don’t stop, we’ll go to war in the morning, because this isn’t you. Your body was straining so hard to repair all the damage, you glowed for hours. You’re exhausted and not in your right mind. You’ll regret this moment of weakness. You’ll make me pay for it.”

  His lips traveled down to the bend of her neck. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. She wanted him. His whole body had gone hard, every muscle, every nerve screaming for her.

  “I can’t afford the price. Stop, Hugh. Stop.”

  The words finally penetrated. He could force her. It was a dream and he could do whatever he wanted to, but it wouldn’t be enough. He wanted more, something his subconscious refused to let him have even in his dreams. This was another nightmare. He just hadn’t realized it until now.

  He rested his forehead against the back of her head. “Elara…”

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t say anything you’ll regret in the morning.”

  His voice was a low snarl. “Sometimes when I lay awake in the middle of the night, I think of you.”

  “Don’t…”

  “Sometimes there is nothing left and all that’s anchoring me here is knowing you’ll pick a fight with me in the morning.”

  “Hugh...”

  “What do you want more than anything? Tell me what it is, and I’ll rip the world apart to bring it to you.”

  She turned in his arms slowly and raised her hands. Her fingers touched his hair, brushing it back from his face. He savored it.

  She stood on her toes and brushed his lips with hers. “Ask me again in the morning.”

  “Now.”

  “You have to go now, Hugh.”

  The tightrope broke under him and he fell. “No.”

  “Yes. We’ll talk about this again, in the morning. Please go to your bedroom.”

  She pushed him. He could’ve stayed where he was. She didn’t have the strength to move him. But instead he moved for her. He walked to the doorway and stepped outside. She shut the door and he heard her sag against it on the other side.

  There was nothing left but to go back to his room. That was the only way out of this twisted dream.

  The void opened behind him. He stared into its burning depth, swore, and went to his bed.

  Hugh opened his eyes. The morning light flooded his room. The windows stood open and a light breeze floated through his bedroom, bringing with it a hint of the first autumn chill.

  His stomach growled. He sat up and saw Lamar in a Lazyboy chair, his glasses perched on his nose.

  “Well, hello there, Sunshine,” Lamar told him.

  Hugh looked at him.

  “We missed you,” Lamar said.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Three days.”

  That explained the hunger and the fucked-up dreams. “The shapeshifters?”

  “Still here. Medrano wants to talk to you. Your wife has been holding the fort. I think she’s about to serve them breakfast.”

  Hugh stood up. His limbs ached, and his insides felt raw and tender. Too much healing too quickly. There was a book lying on the table by the chair. Hugh picked it up. “Harry Potter?”

  “Bale read it out loud to you. It’s his favorite.”

  They had sat with him for three days, making sure he didn’t die. He would’ve done the same for them, but he never expected they would do it for him.

  Hugh pulled on a pair of pants. “How’s the moat?”

  “We’re done.”

  There was two weeks’ worth of work left when he had gone under. “How?”

  “Elara mobilized her people. They came out in droves to lay the concrete.”

  The harpy had helped him. Huh.

  “Do you want the best news? They have a family of stonemasons that speed-cured it. They do their thing and instead of 28 days, we get cured concrete as soon as they walk on it.” Lamar grinned. “There is one section left they didn’t get to, because the magic’s been down, but once it’s done, we’ll be ready to flood.”

  “Lamar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Punch me.”

  Lamar unfolded his hard frame from the chair and sank a punch into his gut. The pain pulsed through Hugh, a welcome shock to the system.

  “What was that about?” Lamar asked.

  “Making sure I’m awake.”

  “You are,” Lamar said. “But don’t do that again. You let Medrano gut you like a fish. I watched you do it. You promised Stoyan, Bale, and Felix. You promised me. You can lie to those motherfuckers, but I’m going to hold you to your word. We need you. We’re not safe yet.”

  “Get the hell out of my room,” Hugh growled.

  Lamar grinned and headed for the door.

  A stray thought hit him. “How long did you say the magic’s been down?” Hugh called.

  “I didn’t. It crashed the evening after you stabilized, about ten hours after your fight with Medrano.”

  Lamar kept moving.

  If the magic had been down for most of the three days, Elara couldn’t have walked through his dreams.

  Did he imagine the whole thing? It felt sharp and real, the same way it felt when she had first let herself into his head.

  He had never seen her in the kitchen. He’d been in her bedroom when she patched him up, but he couldn’t see that side of the room from where he’d sat.

  Ten minutes later, dressed and showered, he crossed the hallway and knocked on Elara’s door. No answer. He tried the door handle. It turned in his hand. Hugh walked in. The bedroom stood empty. He picked his way along the familiar route to the far wall and turned left. A kitchen nook greeted him. The same island, the same stove, the same fridge. He pulled the refrigerator door open, knowing what he would find inside.

  A plate rested on the middle shelf, holding a stack of crepes.

  Hugh stared at it.

  It was real. He’d gotten up in the middle of the night, walked here, and told her all that stupid shit. She’d warned him, but he spilled it all out, like an idiot, giving her all the amm
unition she would ever need. He stood there, like some starving dog, whining to be let inside. She’d practically had to shove him out of her room.

  Pathetic.

  It happened.

  Everything would change now. They had a back and forth and he fucked it up. If he walked down there and saw pity on her face, it would kill him.

  For a long moment he stood there, numb, until finally some cold emotion took hold of him. He puzzled over it and recognized it. He felt cold, crystalline anger. He let it wash over him, freezing every inconvenient emotion he had.

  He was the Preceptor of the Iron Dogs. His wife was serving breakfast to a man who tried to kill him. A man who was still a threat.

  It was his job to neutralize threats.

  He would attend.

  He knew.

  Elara gripped her fork tighter. One moment the doorway to the sunroom was empty, the next Hugh loomed in it, and instantly she realized he knew the conversation in her kitchen happened. His blue eyes were iced over. Cedric sat by his feet, wagging his tail.

  He walked over to her.

  She had no idea what he would do. At the table, Andrea and Raphael went still.

  Hugh leaned over her. His lips brushed her cheek. It was about as dry and emotionless as rubbing chalk over her skin.

  She conjured up a smile. “You’re finally up.”

  “You know me, I need my beauty rest.”

  His voice was warm, the hint of a smile tugging on his lips was just right, but his eyes were hard.

  She took his hand and held it in hers. “I was worried.”

  He freed his hand. He did it smoothly, and an observer wouldn’t have been able to tell, but she felt it. He didn’t want her touching him.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t worry you again.” He’d sunken some awful finality into those words.

  Hugh picked a chair next to her and sat. The big dog sprawled at his feet.

  Raphael and Andrea were looking at Hugh like both he and Cedric had gone rabid. She’d reached a comfortable balance with the shapeshifters over the last three days. Given time, she would win them over, but none of it mattered. It all hinged on what would come out of Hugh’s mouth next.