VirtualHeaven (11 page)

“Would you lie down for me? Tell me your price?’’ he
whispered.

The crack of her hand on his cheek tore the dawn quiet. He
neither flinched nor moved. Her hand stung from the force of her assault and
she turned away, hurrying into the tall, shrubby undergrowth, clutching her
hand to her belly.

His words slashed like a knife opening a wound, drove home
most graphically how little he thought of her, a paltry female. A pleasure
slave—slit lips and opened cheeks her punishment for leaving her master.
Probably well-deserved punishment in his mind.

She watched the dawning light pinken the indigo sky.
Somewhere a bird twittered good morning. For a brief moment the pink-purple
streaks and birdsong held an unsurpassed beauty. Then Tolemac’s crimson sun
rose and the pink diffused to copper streaks and only served to remind her
again of blood. She heard the crackle of twigs under his boots when he came to
stand behind her. If he touched her, she would weep. If he didn’t, she would
weep.

The tears edged down her face, gathering and falling as she
nursed her sore hand. She wouldn’t betray her feelings by raising her hand to
her face. A tear dropped on a long patch of gray salve he’d so carefully, so
gently, stroked on her forearm. She watched the bead of moisture travel along
the herbal, then trickle onto the undamaged skin of the back of her hand.

Kered thought she was a slut. Little did he know. Tony would
laugh if he heard that. Uptight virgin, he’d called her, then frigid bitch. Her
determination to wait for marriage seemed ludicrous now. If Kered had not asked
for a price, had merely fallen to the ground with her, she’d have made love to
him with wild abandon, consequences be damned. Maybe she had sought excuses
with Tony—had not really wanted him the way she now knew she wanted Kered.

But he thought she was a slave—one who gave sex for coin. A
slut. No, a slut gave it away for free. A prostitute. Who cared about
semantics? Both meant no respect. Just contempt.

The tears flowed and dripped off her cheeks, staining
Kered’s shirt and muddying the gray paste. He moved away as quietly as he’d
come—to Windsong. She heard him murmuring to the stallion and knew he was
saddling the horse.

Maggie wiped her eyes with her hands, then dried them on the
grass by her feet. She took a long calming breath and returned to camp, doing the
chore she imagined Kered considered slave duty, smothering their fire with
dirt. When Windsong trotted to her side, her eyes were dry. Kered extended his
hand, but she ignored it. He fisted his hand on his thigh and sat in silence.

Maggie did as she’d done since her earliest days of riding
behind her father when they visited her grandmother on the reservation. She
grasped his shirt and placed a foot on his boot. Her leg was extended to the
cracking point, but she managed to drag herself up behind him. She sat on
Windsong’s broad rump and grasped Kered’s belt. It was just like riding on the
back of Tony’s motorcycle. Kered shrugged and kicked the horse’s flanks.

They flew into a gallop. No more sheltering in his arms. No
more small kisses on the top of her head, or laying his cheek on hers to point
out some change in the terrain. No,
she
would choose the moments of
contact,
she
would choose the time to speak. When the horse slowed to a
canter, she slipped her hand into his pack, retrieved her gun, and thrust it
into the tie about her waist. Never again would she relinquish her safety to
this man. How could she trust him to save her from some disgusting fate? How
could she even sleep soundly knowing he had so little regard for her?

Kered was inordinately pleased. A stupid grin stretched his
mouth, he knew, but she could not see it or comment. She had refused him. She
had passed his simple test. Whatever she was in her land, giving pleasure for
coin was not her way. If he had continued, lain with her, not spoken, he would
never have known the truth of it. Now he knew she did not easily dispense her
favors. Perhaps loyalty to her master kept her from yielding, but he was sure
she had wanted him as much as he had wanted her. He touched his face. A strong
little slave, for his jaw ached. Aye. He was inordinately pleased.

Windsong cropped the long grass. Kered watched Maggie crouch
down and slosh the length of cloth in the clear water. For a moment she turned
her face to the pure white clouds scudding across the lavender sky. Wringing
out the cloth, she wandered through the thick ground cover of tiny, white
star-shaped flowers. Each step she took crushed some of the petals and their
strong scent came to him, sweet and, at the same time, citrus-tart.

She rubbed at the gray patches on her arms and then scrubbed
at her cheeks. He knew the moment had arrived—the time to see if her sores were
showing the suppuration that signaled rot, scarring, pain, and disfigurement.
Kered met her in the middle of the flower-strewn meadow. He took the cloth from
her hands. With gentle motions he wiped away the last of the herbal. “Am I
okay?”

He met her eyes. “Okay? You say this often. I do not know
the meaning of this word.” Kered smiled down at her, then touched the tip of
her nose. “You are still beautiful. Some red marks, but they will soon
disappear. We acted in time.”

“Why didn’t the venom hurt you?”

He raised and dropped his shoulders, trying to be nonchalant
as he touched each red mark, turning her chin to the left and right. “I am not
sensitive. I am made of sterner stuff.”

Maggie swayed and staggered closer to him. He grasped her
and hoisted her into his arms. “Come, we have lingered too long in the
hypnoflora. It seems you are sensitive to its seductive scent, just as you were
sensitive to the venom.”

“Hm?” she murmured against his neck. Her head lolled heavily
against his neck and her arm fell off his shoulder to dangle at her side. She
tried to lift her head, but it fell limp against him. “Ker?”

“Aye, little slave.” He placed her gently near his pack on
the soft carpet of grass. They should be eating, not resting.

“Ker?”

“Aye?” He stretched at her side and gathered her against
him. They lay belly to belly, her face nestled in the warmth of his throat.
“What is it you want to know?”

“Are you a dream? Are you real?” Her breath caressed his
skin at the open neck of his shirt.

“I am real. ‘Tis you who are a dream. A man’s pleasure
dream.”

Maggie lifted her head, and he drew her up until their lips
met. The kiss grew slowly from a languid foray to a deeply arousing caress.
Like a pot lingering on a boil, like the tiny bubbles seeking to break the
water’s surface, his desires churned.

He halted the kiss. She was deeply under the influence of
the floral aura. If it wore off, she might despise him for taking advantage.
One last touch. He lifted his hand and for a brief instant let his fingers
graze over her breast.

Her cry of pain startled him. “What hurts, little one?” He
rose on his elbow and plucked open the tightly laced neck of her shirt,
spreading the edges and looking down on her. His breath caught in his throat.
Her breasts were small and perfect, but her nipples stood out angry and red,
chafed by the coarse cloth of his shirt. “Nilrem’s beard.” He placed his cool
palm to her. She groaned.

Kered edged the shirt up her hips. She lifted and assisted
in a languid manner that seemed uncaring or half asleep.
Or inviting
. He
shook off the notion and worked the shirt from her arms. She lay nearly naked
before him, one hand clutched tightly about her pendant.

Her breathing slowed to a barely perceptible sigh as she
succumbed to the deep hypnofloral sleep. Whatever control he had, had fled. He
grew turgid with desire. Her smooth belly above the scanty scrap of cloth that
was her undergarment drew him. He skimmed his fingers along her ribs and over
her belly. Like a butterfly kissing a petal, he traced the borders of the
unusual undergarment, traced the low band that edged her raven-black feminine
hair.

He grew bolder, spreading his palm on her thigh and
caressing down its smooth length. It occurred to him that she knew bathhouses.
The hair on her legs had been removed, was growing back soft as a babe’s. ‘Twas
a common occurrence at a bathhouse to have one’s body hair removed.

Was she a bathhouse attendant? The thought knotted his
stomach, made his skin break out in a sweat. Her reactions did not seem those
of a practiced fornitrix. No, she attended one man. Her master. He pictured
this man. If necessary, he would battle the man for possession of her.

Slowly, he surrendered a tiny corner of his control, leaned
forward and kissed her breast, feeling her heart beat against his cheek. She
arched and moaned beneath him, moving her hand from her pendant to stroke
languorously through his hair. He grew bolder, taking the sore bud of her
breast between his lips and soothing it with his tongue.

Windsong lifted his head and snorted.

Kered leapt to his feet. “My mind is muddled by the
hypnoflora, else I would never allow my attention to wander from my goal.”

He opened his pack and searched about for the last of the
herbs, then mixed a thin paste, for there was little left. In a few moments he
had spread the meager amount across Maggie’s nipples. He unfolded a long
bandage and bound it about her breasts, then worked the shirt onto her arms.
When Windsong tossed his head in a jangle of bridle and reins, Kered looked up
and grinned.

“Thank you, my friend, for reminding me of my
responsibilities!” He shook Maggie awake, then forced water and small pieces of
bread down her throat until she pushed his hand away.

With stoic deliberation and a self-righteous sense of
accomplishment that his desires were under seventh-level lock and key, he
planted his back against a tree as she regained her senses. He watched her listlessly
tear bread and chew it and swallow it. Even that simple act seemed fraught with
some hidden sensual meaning.

He must see his awareness master when the quest was through
to retrain himself to resist these thoughts. ‘Twould be for the best. Maggie would
wish to return to Nilrem’s mountain. Could he take her there and never see her
again? Could he let her go? He shook away his thoughts. The deprivation of
sleep and nourishing food were taking their toll—that was it, nothing more.

When they reached the Isle of N’Olava, he must be ready or
Maggie’s dream would come true. For on N’Olava, he would fight mortal men. Sly
and evil men.

Blood would flow.

“Did I die? Are you an angel?” Maggie yawned and stretched,
rubbing her back against a soft, grassy bed.

The hovering angel smiled. “Many consider me so. ‘Tis true
few men will fight me for fear they slay some messenger of the gods.” The angel
touched her cheek.

“Ker,” Maggie screamed, scrambling to her feet. The man was
not a dream. He was real, huge, and beautiful, so achingly beautiful that her
mangy Kered looked like a gargoyle in comparison.

“Vad!” Kered embraced the angel, engulfing him in a
back-breaking hug. “How did you find us?”

“Nilrem. How else? Are you truly going on the quest… No, do
not answer.” Vad broke from Kered’s arms and strode to Windsong’s saddle lying
by the fire. He knelt and ran a hand over the hilt of the sacred sword.
Reverence lit his face.

Should Kered’s friend be kneeling in a chapel, Maggie
thought, he might be some visitor from heaven. His white cloak, heavily
embroidered down the back with gold and black, hung from broad shoulders. His
hair was a shade of blond that looked almost silver in the dawning light. His
profile was breathtaking. She looked from Kered to Vad. Kered stood several
inches taller, but Vad’s body was leaner, slimmer.

A Warrior God and now an angel. What next?

A jingle of harness drew her eyes. An angel’s horse. Maggie
instantly thought of fairy tales. A white steed. A handsome prince. She
searched the horizon for the evil witch. Surely a counterpoint was needed for
so much dazzling perfection. She shivered as if some harbinger of evil had
crossed her path.

“I did not believe,” the young man said in a hoarse whisper.
“May I?”

Kered flicked a negligent hand at the sword, and his friend
rose and pulled it from the scabbard. With practiced ease, just as Kered had
done, he swiped the air, took the sword’s measure, felt its weight. “‘Tis fine.
They do not make swords like this anymore. Look at the detail on the hilt.
Nilrem says you will bear this as your own arms before the council and seek
peace. I want to attend you at your ring ceremony.” Vad presented the sword to
Kered, hilt first, laying it with reverence in his friend’s palm.

Kered took it and hefted it once before he sheathed it in
Windsong’s saddle.

“It would be an honor to have you attend me, but the blade
will earn me only prestige. Acquiring the cup will gain me a council seat.”

“‘Tis why I followed, my friend. One man against the guards
at N’Olava? ‘Tis folly. Take me with you.”

Maggie studied the frown on Kered’s face as he busied
himself securing his saddle to Windsong’s back. He hiked the girth tight and
Windsong bucked his hind legs in protest.

Kered slapped him on the flanks. “No. You may not accompany
me. I do not wish to be responsible for your death.” Kered shook his head.

“My death? I am as able as you!” Vad strode angrily to
Kered, his white cloak swinging out behind him in an inanimate protest. “Since
when have we counted our safety in aiding a friend?”

“Since the friend was you.” Kered turned to Vad and clasped
his arm. “I thank you for the offer, but we go alone.”

Vad faced Maggie. “You would take this female to assist you
and refuse one of your lieutenants?’’ The look he shot her could boil blood.

“Did Nilrem not tell you
why
she accompanies me?’’
Kered swung up into his saddle.

“Aye. Some rot about omens and necklaces.” Vad fisted his
hands on his hips.

“Show him the necklace, Maggie.” Kered’s face lit like a
child anticipating the presentation of something wonderful.

She drew the pendant from its hiding place against her skin.
The waves of anger coming from the angel made her step back a pace as he drew
nearer. Unlike Kered’s, Vad’s clothing was immaculate. His long white tunic
with gold braiding and his trousers, black and clingy-leather like Kered’s,
were as perfect as his face. His high black boots could serve as a mirror. If
she looked, Maggie knew she’d see her grimy face. Thank God she’d braided her
hair. Vad’s blond hair, swept back from his brow, fell in long waves below his
shoulders, cut so perfectly he might have stepped from a Manhattan salon. She
continued to retreat until Kered spoke.

“Stand fast, Maggie. Vad will not hurt you. Show him the
necklace.” With reluctance, she stood still and held the pendant out for him.

Vad did not look at the necklace. Instead he stared,
gape-mouthed. “Your skin. ‘Tis red.”

Kered frowned. “Attend the necklace and not my slave’s
skin.”

Vad whirled, his scabbard knocking painfully against
Maggie’s knees. “Not you, too,” he said.

Kered glared at his friend.

“Nilrem says she is from beyond the ice fields. A runaway.
You claim her?”

“Aye. I claim her.” The two men stood in silence, facing one
another. “Attend the necklace,” Kered repeated.

Maggie could only see Kered’s face. Deep lines of fatigue
and anger pulled at his mouth.

“I see.” Vad turned away, his shoulders slumping.

“You see nothing,” Kered said to his back.

Vad approached Maggie, his eyes locked on hers. Dejected
eyes. Cerulean. Heavenly. Hypnotic.

“Nilrem thinks your master abused you.” Vad spoke softly, so
only she could hear.

“I have no master,” Maggie said with bitterness.
This was
getting tedious
.

“May I?” He asked permission, but didn’t wait for it to be
granted. His long-fingered hand brushed hers as he lifted the pendant.

“By the sword. ‘Tis the sacred eight.” Amazement banished
his downcast aspect.

He turned the pendant from side to side, the red light
glinting from a gold ring on his middle finger. Maggie studied it closely. The
strands of gold interlocked in an ancient Celtic pattern she recognized well.
Her chain echoed its twists.

“The craftsman who fashioned this is talented. No, a genius.
I see no joins. And the chain—” His fingers slid up the silver links to her
neck.

Kered growled.

Vad dropped the necklace as if it burned, turning abruptly
away. “‘Tis fated,” Vad said, moving to Kered’s side.

“Fated, fated, damn it,” Maggie muttered, going around the
beautiful warrior and clambering up behind Kered. She settled herself, tugging
his shirt as neatly as possible about her thighs.

“Lovely,” Vad murmured.

Maggie blushed, for he was inspecting her legs.

“I thank you for your offer of help, but I wish to make the
journey alone,” Kered said. Windsong danced at his snarling tone.

Vad scowled back. “We were found together on Nilrem’s
mountain as orphans. We were raised together, though Leoh claimed but you as
his own. We have campaigned together for a decade. I know you well enough to
understand why you wish me gone. I had thought you were different from the
rest, but I see I was wrong.”

Vad’s upturned face revealed a hurt so clearly etched it was
painful to see. Maggie gripped Kered’s belt to keep from falling as Windsong
sidled and pranced. Kered’s back was as stiff and as unyielding as a block of
concrete.

“I cannot deny it,” Kered said. “‘Tis the first time I
have—have understood.” He reached out and touched his friend’s shoulder.

Vad shook off Kered’s hand. “So, I do not have even you to
count as friend.” He turned and stormed to his waiting stallion, who, unlike
Windsong, stood stock-still, well-trained and obedient. He mounted in a
movement far less fluid than Kered’s, then yanked the reins and rode to their
side. The red sun behind him lit his silvery hair like a fiery halo.

“I meant no offense,” Kered said, reaching out again.

Vad spurned his extended hand. “Yet, I am offended. I offer
only arms to make your quest. Nothing else will happen.”

Kered lowered his hand and fisted it on his thigh. “Nilrem’s
beard! You cannot control the thoughts of others.”

“And what of trust? In me? And others?” Vad asked.

“Trust?” Kered’s back eased, his fist relaxed, and he spread
his fingers on his thigh, rubbing as if his flesh itched.

“Aye. Trust. Have we not even that between us?” Vad waited,
his own hands white-knuckled on his reins.

A shudder ran up Kered’s spine. Maggie’s arms encircled his
waist. He was making some decision, and she squeezed him to reassure him. About
what, she hadn’t figured out. He placed a hand over hers and returned the
pressure.

“I would be honored to have you accompany us on the quest.”
Kered’s voice was rough on the words.

“You will not regret it,” Vad said, then swung his horse in
a dancing circle, whooping and shouting like a crazed cowboy at a rodeo.

“By the sword, I hope not,” Kered whispered, then spurred
Windsong to a gallop. Maggie bent her head against the rushing wind, pressing
her cheek to his back. Behind her, the thunder of hooves told her Vad followed.

“Ker’s exhausted,” Maggie said, kneeling by Kered’s angelic
friend.

“Speak more slowly. You are most difficult to understand,”
Vad said.

And you sound like an old, English B movie
. She
signed. He edged away from her. Did she smell bad? Probably. She probably had
bad breath, too. “I will try…I am glad you are here. Kered has pushed himself
beyond his limits. He never sleeps and except for a few little blue things he
caught and roasted, he has eaten only bread and water.”

“He is most canny at snaring the blue-Goh.” The angel looked
fondly on his friend. “Not so good with the green.” Kered’s snores nearly
drowned out their conversation, but they kept their voices low.

“Thank you for coming. He only lets me take a watch for a
few hours, then he forces himself to take over. You can probably count on one
hand the number of decent hours of sleep he’s had in weeks. The man is driven.”

“He lets you watch?” Vad’s arched brows lifted in surprise.
“What a thought!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Maggie shot him a venomous
glare. “I’m perfectly able to—”

“Slowly, softly,” Vad waved a hand at her. “You will wake
him. I meant no insult.”

Maggie whispered. “You and I need to get a few things
straight.” She spoke slowly and enunciated every word in case he didn’t
understand. “I am not a slave. Neither you nor Kered can say anything to change
that. Beyond the ice fields things are different. You will have to accept
that.”

“Kered accepts that?”

“I believe so.” Maggie chewed her lip. “He promised me that
when this quest is over, he will return me to Nilrem’s mountain.” She studied
the man before her. His bright blue eyes raised an ache in her chest. They
vividly reminded her of the summer sky over Ocean City. “I don’t—do
not—remember how I came to be on Nilrem’s mountain, but in here,” she tapped
her chest, “I know that if I am ever to find my way home, I have to start
there. Nilrem and Kered believe in these omens—my appearance at the conjunction
and this pendant.” She lifted the heavy weight of the necklace and slid it down
into the neckline of the shirt to hide it again. “I am not arguing the point—”

“One does not argue with Kered,” Vad interrupted.

“You can say that again!” Maggie grinned.

“One does not argue with Kered,” he repeated, his face
lighting with a radiant smile showing straight white teeth.

They laughed together and Maggie sensed they had just shared
something important. They were bonded in an instant from the understanding of a
mutual friend, perhaps of a man who was more than a friend.

“As I was saying, I am not arguing the point that my role in
Ker’s quest is important, but I have to go home.” She looked about at the empty
landscape shrouded in purple shadows and then up at the four moons scattered
now in the night sky. “I don’t know this place.”

Vad touched her knee, briefly, lightly. “Both Kered and I
know this need for home. Nilrem found us, you know, wandering Hart Fell. He
took us to Leoh. Had not Kered borne the sign…well, life might have been
different. But Leoh took Kered as his own, and fostered me.” He looked at his
sleeping friend. “Kered is as a brother to me.”

“He said as much.”

“Aye. I am surprised he shared it with you. Most often,
Kered shelters himself from the scrutiny of others.”

“He only said Leoh had adopted him. I sensed it was a
subject closed to discussion.”

Vad nodded and looked at Kered. “Our parents were never
found. We were but children and could not account for ourselves. There are
those who would make an evil of that lack of knowledge and prevent Kered from
taking his rightful place, no matter the sign he wears. He has always needed to
fight twice as hard, be doubly strong, more valiant, more worthy, as a result
of his origins.”

“I see.” Maggie pulled the cloak closer about her neck. The
light breeze was rising to a wicked bite. If she had a watch she could time
this wind change, for it happened each night with predictability. She looked
longingly at Kered’s warm body.

“You look upon him as a lover does,” Vad said.

“We’re—we are not lovers.” She felt the rush of blood to her
face. Was she so transparent?

“By the sword, your skin is changing again!” Vad reached out
to touch her, then hesitated and withdrew. He physically edged away from her.

“Do I offend you in some way? I know I need a bath—”

“No, no. It is just—” Vad looked at Kered. “He would not
like me to touch you.”

“You should be worried about whether I like it!” Anger
spiked through her, then died just as quickly at the stricken look on Vad’s
face.

“I beg forgiveness.” He leaned forward. By doing so, the
fire painted shadows on his face, defined his high cheekbones and chiseled
mouth. “I cannot bear to have him doubt me. ‘Tis why I draw away.” Then he
smiled. “You do need a bath, though, as does he.”

“Why would he doubt you?”

“This face. This damnable face,” Vad snarled. “‘Tis a wicked
curse. I had hoped at one time that battle might scar me, ease the burden, but
even on the field, men run. No one fights me, lest they wound one of the god’s
angels. I am a pariah.”