Middlemarch Resort
Each day that Joe entered the Sleeping Beauty boudoir, fear slithered with him, performing a war dance at his heels. Some days Sly appeared improved. Other days he deteriorated, becoming so cold, Joe’s fingers tingled with frostbite.
Joe caught his breath as he approached, missing his twin so much he ached. He’d lost his confidant, his sounding-board for ideas, stupid or not. Sly had no trouble telling him to pull his head in if he behaved like a dick.
He tugged back the warm coverings and placed a trembling hand on Sly’s shoulder. His breath hissed out and tension dissipated from his shoulders. Not as serious as yesterday.
“How is he?”
Joe spun to face Saber. He smiled wryly as his pulse resettled. “He’s a little better today.”
Saber touched Sly’s lean face, his arm. “You’re right. His core temperature has improved. Do you still want to do two sessions with the guests? You could drop it to one.”
“No.” Joe suspected Sly would tell him to continue, even with the chapped-lips danger. “We should keep to two sessions while demand is high. If the novelty wears off, we’ll go back to daily.”
“No show of that happening.” Scarlett stalked into the room, her black hair styled in its usual donut bun.
“Eavesdropping again?” Saber asked.
“Nope. You’re getting old and your hearing is going,” Scarlett retorted, green eyes sparkling with mirth.
Joe grinned. His sister was feisty, and he didn’t envy the man who battled her hijinks or thought to restrict her freedom.
“Joe.” Scarlett placed her hand on his forearm and Sly’s. “I added Sleeping Beauty to our promotional package. Some of the links have picked up the news as an entertainment novelty. Eva told me she heard lots of her customers discussing Sleeping Beauty when she visited her restaurants on Dalcon. Bookings are up.” She stroked Sly’s cheek. “Hmmm, chapped lips. Are you sure none of these women are doing the nasty with his mouth?”
Saber spluttered. “The nasty? When did you speak to Eva?”
“You know. Tongue.” Scarlett poked out her tongue and waggled it in illustration. “Eva called me about half an hour ago. I asked her to pick up jewelry-making supplies, and she wanted to check she was getting the right thing.”
“Oh,” Saber said.
“Eva is away for the day,” Scarlett said, her exasperation clear. “Come on, Saber. You can do this. Go cold turkey.”
Saber scowled. “Wait until you have a mate. You’ll understand my position.”
“Nope. Not going there. I’ve seen you and Felix bossing around your mates. Leo does it too. I refuse to get me a bossy man.”
Joe listened to his brother and sister bickering, the constancy lightening his frustration. Sly would get better. Somehow, they’d fix whatever ailed him. “Go,” Joe said when Saber and Scarlett continued to discuss the likelihood of Scarlett finding a mate.
“No sane man will have you,” Saber predicted, glowering at his sister.
“I don’t need a man,” Scarlett said sweetly. “I have my sex—”
“Stop,” Saber barked. “Do not continue.”
Scarlett chortled as Saber practically scuttled from the boudoir. “Conversations about sex fluster him every time. How are you doing, Joe? And Sly?”
“Discuss your sex toys with Sly. I’d be thrilled if you embarrassed him into an escape attempt.”
“Aw, Joe.” Scarlett gave him a one-armed hug. “Sly is strong. We’re doing the best we can. Casey is still checking her sources. Your idea to use the guests to keep Sly warm is pure brilliance. Don’t worry. Somehow, we’ll pull him through.”
“Thanks.” Joe hugged his sister back. At least the weird erections had ceased. Even stranger was the way Sly’s erections had occurred at the same time each day. Not a discussion for sisterly ears. “It’s time to open the boudoir. I’d better get moving.”
Scarlett left and Joe went through his daily routine, making sure Sly was clean and comfortable. He retrieved the lip salve and applied it to Sly’s cracked lips. Maybe Saber was right, and they should cut back to one session while Sly was doing well.
“Sly, I don’t know what is wrong with you, but I hope you can hear. Come back to us, to me. It’s no fun without you around.”
* * * * *
Seelie Castle
Excitement about the wild boar hunt filled the castle. Laughter. Chatter. Sly had never heard such a kerfuffle. Even the princess bubbled with high spirits, despite sporting warts, a big nose and a tail. Both nose and tail had reduced in size, although Sly wondered how she’d manage to ride a cambeest in comfort.
“Mount up,” Liam called. “The stable lads will help those who need aid. Meet at the edge of the King’s Forest.”
Sly urged his cambeest forward and trotted beside Liam. The other riders followed them from the stable courtyard with much noise and hilarity.
“Everyone seems happy,” Sly said.
“A change in routine,” Liam agreed. “It makes me realize how much things need to change in Seelie. My position allows me to do as I please, and I chose to focus on our farming production and increasing our export earnings. Most of our population don’t have the same opportunities. There is nothing for them to do and they get bored. They argue. They play practical jokes. They plan revenge. That’s one of the reasons I’m eager for my cousin, the winter king, to arrive. His kingdom is more successful. Calvin stepped away from tradition and has more contact with the outside world. Unseelie accepts visitors without check. It works for them.”
“If it wasn’t for you letting me tag along, I would’ve gone nuts. I’m used to staying busy.”
“What do you like to do in your spare time?” Liam asked.
“I hang out with Joe. He’s my best friend as well as my brother. We—my other brothers and I—work together at the resort…” Sly trailed off as he heard what he was saying. “I have a family. Where are they? And why can’t I remember them properly?”
“I suspect my sister has something to do with that.” Liam shot him a grim glower. “I will get to the bottom of this. You haven’t mentioned a resort before.”
“No.” Sly scanned for other riders and decided they were out of range of eavesdroppers. “I don’t wish to marry Princess Iseabal. Hell, she refuses to let me call her by her first name. And even the servants can tell she has no respect for me. A married couple should respect each other.”
Liam rubbed his cambeest’s hump and his mount rumbled in contentment. “Somehow, I’ll fix this. Meantime, continue to take care with your food and drink.”
Half an hour later, their party halted on a grass knoll at the edge of the forest.
Liam held up his right hand for silence. Their group neared thirty in number, with both men and women. In addition, Liam had organized stable lads and the head groom to join the hunt.
“We’ll split our group into three and each group will hunt in a defined area, known to the staff. They’ll brief you on where the boundaries are and where you can and cannot hunt. The most important rule—identify your target before you fire your arrows. One funeral is enough. Is that clear?” Liam scanned faces to ascertain everyone understood the importance of this directive. “Princess Iseabal will lead one group. Princess Katrina and Lord Calum will lead another, and I will lead the third. Dougal, you go with Princess Iseabal.”
Intrigued by Liam’s casual manner, yet his undisputed leadership, Sly watched as first one group peeled off, then a second, leaving him with Liam’s group of seven plus two stable lads.
“Have you shot a bow and arrow before?” Liam asked.
“I don’t think so,” Sly said. “I’ll enjoy the ride and search for signs of wild boar.”
Liam unfastened his bow and tucked it against his side. “Move out,” he ordered. “Remember, double check you’re firing at a boar. Check your prey.”
Liam directed his cambeest over the sun-dappled ground and into the shade cast by weathered trees with drab green leaves. The trees clung to the soil, thrusting upward in their search for light. Sly squeezed his thighs around the barrel body of his mount, silently urging Brigitte to follow the king.
Others shadowed him, their cambeests crunching dead leaves and fallen twigs underfoot.
Sly relaxed, enjoying the ride. Bright red mushrooms grew in a tight circle, in a spot where light forced through the tree canopy.
Over to his right, Sly heard the trickle of water. Other noises tickled his ears. The creak of leather as riders shifted on their mounts. The snort of the cambeests picking their way along the forest paths. The tweet of a bird. The flutter of wings. The drone of an insect. He did a visual sweep for the owl but didn’t find the bird.
Another noise snared his attention. A snort. A grunt. A squeal.
“Hold,” he said.
Liam tightened his reins, ceasing his progress through the forest. “Do you hear something?”
“Yeah.” Sly pointed in front of their group, slightly to the right. “Can’t you hear them? It sounds like pigs to me.”
Liam’s brows rose. “Pigs?”
A squeal rent the air. And a second, almost straightaway.
“Mine,” a man from the back called. “I will target this boar.”
“Sounds as if there is a singular of wild boar,” Sly said.
“A singular?” Liam’s brows rose in askance.
Sly shrugged. “That’s what you call a group of wild boars.”
“Interesting. Enjoyable day for a ride. Ah, your owl.” Liam radiated humor as he signaled two men to peel from their party to track the boar. One of the stable lads followed Liam and Sly while the other stayed with the rest of the party.
Another memory frisked him, darting from reach. Something about the owl. Sly cursed under his breath. He retrieved one memory and another slipped through the cracks. His mind resembled a sieve with more holes than substance.
A sharp squeal came from behind them. Undergrowth rustled and crackled as a boar thundered through the bushes.
“Watch out,” Liam warned. “They’re dangerous if they’re cornered. Their tusks are lethal.”
A charcoal-gray boar shot onto the track, shrieking in alarm. An arrow poked from its hairy side and blood spotted the ground as it tore past Sly. Two more boars darted after the first, crowding and jostling for space. Liam’s cambeest reared as the boars rushed him.
For an instant, Sly thought they were fine, but the boars—stupid animals—charged Liam’s cambeest. The cambeest shied, bucked and lashed out with its hooves, bounding again like a rabbit before Liam regained control. A third determined leap unseated the king. He thumped to the ground and the boars charged over the top of him.
Sly scrambled off his mount and thrust the reins at a pale-faced stable lad. “Hold him.” Crap. Liam couldn’t die this way, not as they prepared to bury his father.
Sly raced across the uneven ground and crouched beside him. “Liam. Liam!”
Liam groaned and turned laboriously onto his side. He winced, his nostrils flaring as he attempted a full breath.
“Holy crap. You okay?” Sly ran his hands across Liam’s back, his arms and legs, checking for injuries. No blood. That was encouraging. “Let me help you up.” He turned to the stable boy. “You’d better go and catch the king’s cambeest before it reaches the stables.”
The boy tied Sly’s cambeest, leaped on his own and hustled along the path after Liam’s steed.
“Liam, speak to me,” Sly ordered.
“I feel as if I’ve been run over. Do I have footprints on my back?”
Sly chuckled, relieved Liam had cracked a joke. Hell, that he was speaking at all. “The boars galloped over you.”
Liam let out a pained groan as Sly gripped his arm. “Holy wild boar. That hurt.”
An understatement. He bet Liam would sport a colorful batch of bruises on the morrow unless he used his magic. He eyed Liam’s face, his jaw. It was gritted. Pain etched into the king’s eyes. “You sure you’re not gonna faint like a girl?”
Liam snorted. Winced. “Don’t make jokes. Help me up.”
“Ooh, that sounds like a royal order.”
Liam attempted to stand. “Ow, ow, ow.”
Sly slipped his arm around Liam’s shoulders and aided his struggle to his feet.
A stick crackled behind them. Sly stilled. Cast out his senses. Liam hadn’t reacted, but everything in Sly screamed a warning.
Danger.
He edged in front of Liam, eyes watchful. Scanned the tangle of bushes. The vines. The trees.
Nothing.
But that weird preternatural awareness gripped him, prodded him, cautioned him.
Three seconds passed, and his breath eased outward. Nothing out here except his vivid imagination.
As he turned back to Liam, a stone rattled. A leaf crunched beneath a foot.
The owl shrieked. A flurry of movement came from the bushes.
“Get down!” Sly shoved Liam behind him.
Something whistled through the air and struck his biceps. Fire sizzled through his arm.
What the hell? He gaped at the black feathers on the shaft of the arrow piercing his limb. The blood. After all Liam’s warnings, some idiot had shot him.
The crack of a branch grabbed Sly’s attention. He searched the trees and again saw nothing.
But the bastard was out there hunting them. Did they look like bloody wild boars? Should’ve worn the bright suit Alfric had laid out for him. Unwise decision, overruling his valet and grabbing his favored dull colors.
“Hey! Stop. You’re shooting at the king.”
His cambeest grunted and called a greeting, big ears twitching.
“The stable boy must’ve found your cambeest. Let’s get back to the castle,” Sly said. Crap, his arm stung like a bitch. At least the bleeding wasn’t too copious. Should he try to take out the arrow? Nah, leave it till later. He crouched beside the king. Hell, his mind…dizzy. Hurry.
A whistle warned him.
He threw himself over Liam and grunted as another bloody arrow pierced his shoulder from behind. Just call him pin cushion.
The stable lad raced toward them and slid from his saddle. At least the cambeests blocked the shooter now.
“Stop shooting!” the stable lad called.
“He’s a poor shot,” Sly muttered. “He’s not hitting the king.”
Beneath him, Liam laughed. Cursed. “Get off me, you big lump. You’re heavy.”
Yeah, he should probably try to move. Muscles don’t work. Focus. You can move.
Shades of light and black burst behind his eyes. Sly gasped. He refused to faint. Liam would never let him hear the end of it. He forced his legs to move. His right arm dragged, didn’t work. Move. His fingers twitched.
“Let me help, my lord,” the stable boy said.
Sly struggled with his feet. He felt like an old man with shaky balance. Once he rolled off Liam, the stable lad helped the king to rise.
“You saved me,” Liam said.
“Nah, I was unlucky and got in the way of the arrows,” Sly answered, aiming for humor. It fell flat. Too bad. Best I can do. “Help Liam onto his cambeest.”
“Should I go for help?”
“Wait,” Liam gasped out.
Sly flinched at a flash of movement from above, then relaxed. The owl. It landed on his saddle pommel and stared at him with its round blue eyes.
“Your owl didn’t warn us,” Liam said as he struggled to mount his cambeest.
“It did,” Sly said. Keep your eyes open. Don’t pass out like a girl. Joe will tease. Wait. Joe wasn’t here. Where was he? Why wasn’t his brother coming for him? Hell, damn if he knew.
“Help, Sly,” Liam ordered, sounding more alert now.
Sly pushed to his knees, bit back a groan. “Legs not working.”
“He’s going into shock. We need to get him back to the castle,” Liam said.
“Lean on me, my lord.”
Sly bit back a strangled laugh. Black humor. He towered over the stable lad. He’d flatten him.
But the boy never faltered. He slipped his arm around Sly’s waist, taking care not to knock the arrows protruding from his body.
The lad hid muscles in his scrawny frame.
“I’ll ride ahead and get help,” Liam said.
“Careful.” Sly tried to lift his head and failed. “I’m sure they were shooting at you.”
“I’ll return soon,” Liam promised.
“Can you walk, my lord?”
“Yes.” No stupid arrow was going to beat him. Sly gritted his teeth against the darting jags of agony. Sweat prickled his skin, ran beneath his shirt. Or maybe it was blood. He shivered. Pushed his limbs to action. Move, dammit. Liam isn’t safe alone. He wobbled along the uneven path, and stumbled over a tree root.
His vision faded in and out, blurring the scenery.
Time slowed, measured in beats of pain.
One. Two. Three. Another step.
One. Two. Three. Step.
Wetness soaked his shirt. Sweat beaded his forehead.
A thunder of hooves raced toward them. The stable lad tensed. Sly tripped and almost tumbled them to the ground.
“Hellfire. His shoulder is bleeding,” someone said.
Sly tried to acknowledge the speaker. Couldn’t force open his eyes.
“Sly.” Liam slipped his arm around his waist, aiding the lad. “Maybe I can magic him back to the castle.”
“No,” someone said. “You’ve had a fall too. Lift him onto his cambeest. The stable lad can go up with him and keep him safely balanced. It will be faster. No disrespect, but he’s a big man.”
Sly wavered. He didn’t care how he arrived at the castle. Just craved a flat surface. Rest. His legs buckled. He groaned. Nausea had him swallowing, swallowing, swallowing. His mind drifted to fog, the holey walls fading to black. Darkness spread, covering the fog until only a pinprick of light remained.
The last thing he remembered.