Shadows of the Keeper (12 page)

“Black?”

“What? Oh, arrows.  Yes.
Black.”

Cease your discussion,
Keer’dra.  Their stupidity was your death before, it will be so again
.

“Yeah?” Emily looked up at the high
ceiling.  “If they’re such untrustworthy idiots with my life, why don’t
you swoop down here and protect me from . . . I don’t know,
you
perhaps?”

Warily eyeing her, the men backed
up.

Urkani remained still as
death.  “Tell Dezenial six of Broc’s men have been found dead.”

“Who?  Dead? 
Who’s
dead? 
Here
?  As in, dead-dead?”

“The voice in your head. 
Thick accent?”

Emily nodded.

Urkani lunged, grappling her chin.

“Hey!”  She tried shoving him
off of her as he forced her head to the side. 

“You’ve been bitten.”

“Gnats.  I’ll see Maeve about
some bug spray.  Get your hands off of me!”  She kneed him, missing her
aim as he leapt back, dropping his hold.

“Fleas don’t have fangs that size.”

“Fangs?  As in,
vampire
?” 
Shit-hell-damn!  It
wasn’t
a dream?

“As in, Lumynari,” Urkani
whispered.

If he had shot her, she wouldn’t
have more shocked.  Bit her? 
Bit
her!  Fiercely, she
rubbed her neck.  A dream of passion. 
You really bit me
? 
Silence.  “Lumynari, they are, uh, tall, long glowing white hair?”

“Lass,” Broc moved closer, but she
jumped up another stair.

“Dezenial.  You said his name
was Dezenial.  Who is he? No! Don’t answer.  I don’t want to know or
hear
anymore
!” Emily turned and ran-leapt up the entire sweeping stairs.

She missed Broc being tackled by
Urkani and Garreck.

“Let her go.  I will confer
with Aunsgar.”

“Six of mi’ men are dead. 
Slaughtered.  If tha’ bastard’s here, talkin’ to her—“

“
He’s
her only hope of
remaining alive.  Time you faced a few facts about what is.” Urkani spun
away from him, Elvish guards doing likewise.  They stormed the vast hall
towards another stairwell, and rapidly ascended to Aunsgar’s royal towers
without a backward glance.

Emily ran her hands lovingly along
the glass encasement, much the way a lover would touch the sinewy body of her
mate.  Oh, how she wished she could hold the claymore. 
A real
claymore.
  Jeweled hilt, emeralds, sapphires and rubies—why kill with
such a beautiful weapon?

“Looks like it should be decorating
a woman’s chamber, not strapped to a man’s back, thirsting to draw blood,
wouldn’t you say?”

Emily’s mouth opened and closed
several times. 

Allen tilted his head.  “You
imitate fish rather well, my lady.”

“Shouldn’t y-you rattle chains when
you arrive?”

“I say, that would be a bit
over-the-top, don’t you think?”

“It would offer a heads-up to
whomever you’re about to appear to.”

“I’ll consider it in the
future.  For your sake, my lady.  Now, what is this crazed rumor I
hear of you walking the turrets during the night?”

“Full moons and constellations have
always been a balm to me when . . .” she shrugged, and returned her attention
to the décor of Broc’s library.  “These statues are so life-like. 
Why do you suppose the artist sculpted all of them with their arms thrown up,
shielding their faces?”  Moving closer, she scrutinized.  “They wear
expressions of fear.”

“Perhaps in his day, it was easiest
to convey.”

Shaking her head against Allen’s
theory, she moved around to another statue.  “These are Celts.  See
the neck torc on this one?”  She gazed up at the realistic height and
breadth of the warrior glaring right back down at her.  Delicately, she
touched his bare chest, half expecting him to pull back at her audacity. 
“Torcs signify royalty and leadership.”  His eyes bore into her own,
calling to her.  This one didn’t raise his arms, warding off whatever
befell them.  He stood proud, fists clenched down at his sides, his
expression defiant.  The sculptor had designed him with thick, wavy hair
falling to his shoulders, winged brows, his face smooth and void of hair. 
A simple cloth draped his waist, caressing his thighs much like paintings of
ancient Romans.  Not one detail had been left unattended.  His arms
boasted veins and muscles of strength.  His thighs and calves as defined
as a runner.  Pure, raw masculine power.  “Allen, if Broc is an
ancient Pict, why would he have statues of Celts instead of his own
kind?”  She glanced the quiet spirit, thinking maybe he had
vanished.  “And how come you aren’t shimmery, like a ghost?  You’re
almost as solid as if Garreck were standing here.”

“I’m forbidden to discuss the
statues, just don’t ever knock one over.”

“Oh, okay, because I’m an idiot and
would do such a thing.  We Yanks appreciate fine art too, you prig.”

“Trust me, these are not
collectibles.”

Emily swung around and looked more
closely at each of the statues.  Apprehensive little flutters slid up her
spine, tickling her nape.  “What, Medusa was here?”

Allen sputtered.

Emily narrowed her gaze at the
spirit.  “What are you hiding?” 
And why do I feel as if the
statues watch me, waiting, beckoning?

“Garreck will be here momentarily,
determined to entertain you.”

Ignoring him, Emily kept studying
both statues and the layout of Broc’s library.  Floor-to-ceiling
bookcases, hundreds and hundreds of shelves.  None of them empty.  “A
camera would be nice.”  A thought seized her.  “Hey, Maeve mentioned
that you bring items from my realm.  Think you can get your hands on a
camera?”

Allen grinned.  “I do believe
the laird has something called a Minolta.”

“What?  You’ve got to be
joking!”

Allen rocked back on his heels,
Charlie Chaplin mustache twitching.  “In this time, electricity fails to
exist, though he has allowed plumbing, but even that is kept secret.  The
camera is here because I brought it to him as a gift, though I certainly do not
understand what possessed—begging your pardon for my pun—me to think—“

“In this time?”  Emily
chilled.  Okay, Elves, immortal Picts, even a conversation with a ghost .
. . “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“You were requesting a camera.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“I am saving my neck.”

“You’re already dead.”

“Rude of you to remind me.”

Emily’s lip curled.  “What is
everyone hiding from me?”

“I have been forbidden.”

“Or what?  They’ll stretch you
on the rack?”

“You do have a penchant for death,
my lady.”

“You are about to re-experience
yours.”

Backpedaling from her advance,
Allen held up his hand, sputtering.  “L-look around you.  Observe.”

Emily paused.  Tapestries
adorned stonewalls.  Persian rugs lay underfoot.  Broc’s desk was a
hulking piece of dark furniture with lion’s claws as legs and feet.  Metal
clashing against metal penetrated, drawing her to the windows.  Unlatching
and pulling the windows inward, she leaned out.  And gawked.  Men,
their bodies painted—or tattooed—with strange blue spirals and symbols,
leggings like Indians from her own history books, brutally fought with
claymores, broadswords, and shields.  Others battled hand-to-hand. 
Emily whipped around.  “Allen, what are they doing?  That’s not how
they were dressed the other day when they wore jeans and—“

“Attire for your benefit.  Now
that you know they’re ancient Forest Lords, ‘Picts’ in this realm and yours,
though Reignsfeugh was part of the wildmen—Celts, to you moderns—“

“Forest Lords.”

Allen nodded.  “Yes.”

Emily resumed watching the men, her
breath catching.  Broc and Garreck looked to be fighting to the death.
 Or, at the very least, were trying to maim.  Reignsfeugh snuck up
behind his laird.  Almost, Emily shouted a warning.  Instantly, Broc
crouched, spun and brought up his sword.  Had Reignsfeugh not jumped back,
he would have been disemboweled.  The crazed man roared with laughter,
charging Broc.  The thud of their bodies reached even her ears in the high
tower room.

“They practice.”

“A little intense for tourists,
don’t ye’ think?”

“Tourists do not come here to
Castle MacLarrin, Lady Emily.”

Inhaling became labored.  “You
wanna elaborate?”  She could not take her eyes from the ensuing battle
below.  No movie had ever captured such raw masculinity.  Barbaric
warriors.  In their time, the sight of them charging down the mountain towards
their enemy must have been daunting.

“I have been forbidden. 
Perhaps, you could ask questions and I would be remiss not to indulge in the
answering of them?”

“What year is it?”

“Not the same as yours.”

“That doesn’t count as an
answer.  You aren’t allowed to do that.  Try again, and don’t cheat.”

“Now see here! I do not
cheat!”  Allen glanced behind him.  “We have not the time,” he
whispered.

“Someone’s coming?”

“Lord Garreck.”

“No, no, he’s down there, trying to
kill Broc.”  Emily glanced back down at the men.  Garreck was
missing.  Worse, Broc glared up at her. “What year is it, Allen? 
Everyone refers to me as being a modern.” 
Should I wave down at
him?  ‘Course, with his expression getting nastier and nastier, what I
should do is give him the finger
.  She liked that plan well enough to
follow it through.  And laughed when it had the desired effect of pissing
him off.  She pushed the windows closed, but not before sticking out her
tongue.  His roaring curses were very satisfying.

“Lightning strikes and is most
ferocious when they enter your realm.  They co-exist, side-by-side.”

“Parallel universe.”

“Well, this is The Year of Our Lord
1210, whereas, you are from a far more advanced century.”

“Impossible.”

“Impossible?”  Allen
sputtered.  “Yet, you break your fast amongst royal and mountain Elves,
sleep under the same roof as three-thousand year old warriors . . .”

Emily’s gaze narrowed.

“I am not locked here.  Nor
are they.  This is where they choose to be, while having awaited the
return of their High Queen.  I take care of errands requiring the crossing
of various boundaries.”

“Which is how Broc came to have
jeans, sweaters, socks and undergarments for me.”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t even want to know how he
figured out my measurements.”

“You aren’t that different from the
other.”

“The other?”

Allen sighed.  “Aurelia.”

“I’m so confused.”

“As was I, when first I found
them.”

“Where are
you
from?”

“Kent.”

“Era?”

“Eighteen thirty nine is when I
took on this peculiar form of being neither dead, nor alive.  I was a
scholar.  Your world.  I came by an interesting little book, in a
language never existing to us, Lady Emily.  My first assumption was
fortune smiled upon me, for in my hand I knew was the ancient language forever
lost of the Picts and Celts.  Through much trial and massive head pain, I
began to decipher what should have remained buried.  The information far
outweighed the worth of the book, as I was soon to discover.”

“Why?”

“That book is why I was killed,
cursed.”

Emily swallowed rather
loudly.  “Killed?  Who killed you, these guys?”  She flung her
hand, indicating the Forest Lords below.

“Far worse than them.” 
Visibly more nervous, Allen glanced over his shoulder.  “Garreck nears.”

“I was thinking, the way you pop in
and out—“

“I do not
pop
!”

“Whatever.  Do what you do and
find Broc.  Give him a good scare while you’re at it, but ask if I can use
his camera.”

Allen deflated.  “Very
well.”  He shimmered and was gone.

“Oh, Allen!”

“You don’t need to holler.”

“Don’t forget to ask him where he
keeps it.”

“As you wish.”

“Allen!”

Again, the spirit appeared. 
“Yes, my lady?” 

“What was in that book?”

“Magic far darker than evil
itself.”

Abruptly, the vast room warmed,
though Emily hadn’t noticed a difference in chill until Allen was truly
gone.  Briskly, she rubbed her arms. 
Damn, should have requested
thermals, since he seems to run errands.  A ghost . . .running
errands.  As absurd as her nemesis actually being a Pict.  No, that
wasn’t right.  Her realm had labeled him Pict, but he was actually some
Forest Lord.  Oh, yeah.  Any minute now, I’ll wake up in a rubber
room, wearing a straightjacket.
  And,
I hear voices. Yup, clearly
on my way down the
—

“Ah, here ye’ are.”  Garreck
strode into the library, halting.  Visually, he scanned cathedral
ceilings.  “Allen?”

“Gone.”

“Yer’ not swooning.”

“I’m getting used to him.”

“He’s harmless.  A little too
filled with information no one body should ‘ave a right ta’ ken, but harmless.”

Emily offered a smile and changed
the subject.  “Are these swords antiques?”

“Some.  There are a few that
are ancient; therefore, priceless.  Others are relics here to honor their
deceased owners.”

“Really?  Which?”

“The long case over there,” Garreck
pointed across the room.  “That one holds silver bow and several arrows.”

Emily dashed over to where he
indicated, oohing and ahhing.  “These are Aunsgar’s culture, aren’t they?”

“Aye, mi’ lady.  They belonged
to his sire.”

“Why not keep them in his towers?”

“I believe it pains him to be
reminded on how long it has been since he’s been home.”

“Garreck?”  She paused,
weighing her words.  Jagged scar held her attention, the faded savagery of
it only adding to his handsome ruggedness.  Wavy dark hair caressed broad
shoulders,
well-conditioned
shoulders currently swathed in a fisherman’s
white cable knit sweater.  Black slacks. 
Dark Irish
came to
mind.  And green eyes that were mesmerizing against sun-kissed skin. 
Chiseled, kissable mouth was outlined by a mustache and shadowy goatee. 
Her heart accelerated.

That will be enough
!

Emily jumped. 
I can’t help
it’s a farkin’ candy store here
!

“Milady?”

He’s beautiful to look
upon.  And he dared defy his laird to protect Aurelia.  His mouth
screams for kissing
.

I will kill him.  Then you
need not suffer temptation.

Touch him, and I will hunt you
for millennia.  At least he has the balls to show himself!

“Lady Emily?”

“Who am
I
?  Who
exactly
was Aurelia?”

Cursing and yelling filled her
head, muting Garreck’s voice. 
Don’t you dare lecture me about
defending a man!  You’re nothing more than imagination gone super awry—oh
my God!  I’m actually arguing with myself.  La, la, la, I’m not
listening anymore, de dum de dum.

Nervously, Garreck stepped out into
the shadowy corridor before returning to stand closer to her.  “I admired
you from afar.  Strength and courage, you were never to be a part of our
world.  Redemption was sought,
you
, the unsuspecting pawn,
 and
we,
the ignorant players.”

More confused than ever, Emily
didn’t know what to say.

“Lady Emily, Princess Aurelia was
promised to Urkani upon birth.”

She was too surprised to do
anything more than nod.  Blindly, she reached out for the chaise she stood
by and plopped down.  “Did Aurelia know?” she whispered, as if it were
still a great secret.

“We’ll never know.”

“How do
you
know of it
then?”

“Once in a while, the austere Elf
joins me in the highest tower overlooking the mists and imbibes in our finest
scotch.”

“A closet lush.  Who
knew?  So, what happened?”

“Aurelia was led to the circle of
standing stones, Elders in disguise hiding from their homeworld assassins.”