A Cast of Shadows: An Araneae Nation Story (6 page)

“You’re welcome.” I let him drag me closer, until my palms braced on his chest and his full lips tempted me to distraction. “We should go if we want to return from the river before dawn.”

“We should.” He made no move to leave.

“Brynmor?” I smoothed the fabric of his shirt. “You and your wife…?”

His expression softened. “We parted ways long ago.”

“Good.” I had wanted to be sure. “Then I think… I’m going to take advantage of you.”

His sadness melted into something darker, hungrier, and I was lost. If I left this place in two days’ time without tasting him, I would wonder until the end of my days if salt and sorrows flavored Brynmor’s lips or if his kiss was as sweet as his hidden kindness. His gentle heart was bared to me, and when I should have commiserated and gone, I found myself leaning in, rolling onto tiptoes, wanting more.

“I think…” His head lowered. “I’m going to let you.”

Hovering out of reach, he made claiming his mouth difficult. I linked fingers behind his head and drew him down to me. My tongue swiped over his bottom lip, and I tasted salt dried on his skin. He stiffened when I nipped his chin, but let me explore, let me taste him how I wanted. Only when he began pressing for my lips against his, did I surrender to convention and I kissed him with fierce apology for all the love he gave his wife, the love she could not return, for the son he adored and the bastard child who grew up without his mother or his father to love him.

To my embarrassment, tears sprang in my eyes and flavored our kiss with the tang of grief.

Brynmor broke away and rested his forehead against my shoulder. I placed my hand over his heart and frowned. His pulse was so relaxed I couldn’t feel a beat. I spread my fingers wider.

He caught my wrist. “It’s dangerous for us to be distracted when there are hunters about.”

“Hunters, right.” Twisting free of him, I rubbed my wrist. “We should be on our guard.”

“Daraja…” Heat suffused my name when he spoke it.

“Follow me.” I slipped deeper into the forest, leaving him to hurl swear words at my back.

I had gotten what I wanted, a taste of Brynmor, and now I knew he was still healing from the wounds he and his wife had given each other. Better to forget him before my fool’s heart became a casualty of my fascination with an unavailable male. I was so set on finding a mate and settling down that I hadn’t stopped to ask myself if that sort of permanence was what I actually wanted.

Finding a male I desired was no guarantee of love, or even of compatibility.

I had blithely set out on this journey with the belief I would find the male I wanted, and then what? Bind him with my net and drag him home? Risk the same sort of heartache that had ruined Brynmor? That was not what I wanted. I wanted adventure while I was young enough to enjoy it.

I wanted love, passion, fire. Brynmor’s smoldering gaze promised those things, if I was bold enough to claim them. But I wanted permanence too. Young I may be, but I was past the age for common dalliances, and I wasn’t convinced he was capable of more than a physical relationship.

Assuming he wanted one. Assuming
I
wanted one.

Pity was not a foundation to base a relationship on. Neither was grief or commiseration.

“Is that the way to the sandbar?” Brynmor called over my shoulder.

I realized I had passed the well-worn path leading down an embankment to the water’s edge. “It’s less steep near those rocks.” I pointed. “That’s where I was hiding when the hunters came.”

He gave me a doubtful look that I ignored as I led on, paying closer attention now.

When the ground began sloping gently toward the sandbar, I said brightly, “Here we are.”

He uttered a harsh grunt that said clearly
you got lucky
.

I made a production of leaping onto the sand and leaving him behind.

“The body was trapped near those rapids.” I squinted. “I can’t tell if it’s still there.”

“I can only see so far at night.” Brynmor stopped with his shoulder pressed against mine. “It looks like we’re wading in from here. The banks are too steep to make following them practical.”

“I agree.” I bent to remove my boots for the second time tonight with a groan. Blisters made the backs of my heels weep, and at this rate, I’d have open sores tomorrow. A dip in the river may soothe them now, but the skin would rub that much rawer until the next time I donned my boots.

“You can wait here if you’d like,” Brynmor offered. He must have noticed my expression.

Once my feet were bare, I set my boots on a nearby stone ledge, then propped my spears in a shady nook between rocks to conceal them. “You might need my help.”

“True enough.” He tossed his boots to the ground. “You’re a stronger swimmer than I am.”

His compliment surprised me. If he had been one of my brothers—or my father—he would have ordered me to wait for him here, then called for my help after realizing that he needed me.

I stood and dusted my hands. “All right then.”

We entered the river together. Silt squished between my toes in a comforting way that spoke of the familiar. I was more at home in the river than on the land, and in times like this I realized how blessed I had been to have a father who made his living selling treasures our river provided.

It made me wonder for the span of a heartbeat if a male like Brynmor, used to living on land, could embrace life on the water.

“I see something.” His hand closed over my upper arm.

Ahead of us, caught in the whirl of the rapids, was a mass of dark fur. It was misshapen for a canis, and I soon learned why. A hunter myself, I wasn’t squeamish about what they had done to the body. I might have admired their precision in another time and place, but this killing was made personal by my involvement with Brynmor. The way he stroked the mass of matted fur reverently told me we had found the missing canis. My heart broke for the tiny pup who would soon realize that her parents were never coming back. At least she wasn’t facing a grim future alone. She had a pack.

If Errol failed her, then Brynmor would ensure she was well-tended, that much I knew.

My certainty made me wonder again—what was his connection to the pack? There had been no right time to ask him yet, but his loyalty to the Mimetidae made me think perhaps shame had driven Brynmor from Cathis. Perhaps the paladin had offered Brynmor a position as warden over the canis. It would enable him to earn a living and do his clan a service while giving him privacy to mend his heart. Perhaps he considered himself clanless because, without his wife or his son, he felt detached from his clansmen. Without family, he no longer felt he was a part of their clan.

Or perhaps I was romanticizing a person content to live among canis, unfettered by society.

It seemed I suffered insatiable curiosity where Brynmor was concerned. He had charmed me the first night we met and every moment we spent together reinforced that fascination. It was as if he had cast a net over me. What worried me most was how content I was to let him haul me in.

Chapter Five

A slow ache worked through Brynmor’s shoulders as he lowered Karenna’s body to the ground with help from Daraja. Her touch whispered over his skin when she wiped hairs from his eyes. It took effort for him to resist leaning into her and encouraging her caress. Living among the pack must have rubbed off on him if he was eager to belly-up to Daraja to beg for scraps of affection.

Brynmor rubbed his neck. He could hear Errol now.
You have her scent in your nose.

Warning Daraja off had failed. The easy trust she inspired pried the scabs from old wounds, and they bled freely, but talking to her made him more at peace than he had been in a long time.

Her quick laughter eased the burden of his conscience.

“I think my feet would hurt less if I carried my boots to camp.” Daraja flexed her toes.

He found himself staring at them, then up her bare calves. Soaked fabric clung to her curves. Tendrils of midnight hair had come undone and now curled at her nape. His fingers itched to twist those strands around them. He longed to claim her mouth, taste her skin, draw her scent into his lungs and trap it there to savor in the endless days ahead of him, after she had gone on her way and he was alone again. Daraja was vibrant, alive, and he craved that taste of mortality.

“Are we going to leave her here?” she asked.

Cupping her chin, Brynmor angled Daraja’s face toward him then smoothed his thumbs over the dark skin beneath her eyes. “You’re exhausted. How long has it been since you slept?”

“I’m fine.” She stepped out of his reach. “What about Karenna?”

“I’ll bring Errol and the others. We can take care of Karenna.” He advanced on her until she hit a large rock covered by vines creeping from the forest. Grasping her hips, he lifted her, set her on the highest point and turned his back on her. “Climb on. I’ll take you to the den so you can rest.”

Expecting her to hesitate, he grunted when Daraja nimbly leapt on his back and wrapped her legs around his hips. He clasped her ankles at his navel, then used the rock for balance while she squirmed into position. While reminding himself to breathe for show, he thought if he needed air to survive, her chokehold would have crushed the life from him. He coughed and she patted him.

“It’s been ages since someone carried me.” Her arms slid down to lock around his shoulders.

He twisted to face her. “I’m surprised you accepted my offer.”

“I’m not a fool. My feet hurt.” She squeezed his arm. “And you have plenty of muscle to get me where we’re going. Do you think you could hand me my boots? I’d rather not leave them.”

Gingerly, he scooped them up and passed them to her. “Will there be anything else?”

Her breathy laugh made him smile. “I’ll let you know if I think of something.”

“You do that.” He wished he could do more for Karenna, but he couldn’t without proper tools. She had been rescued from the river. She could wait a while longer to be laid to rest.

Scent trails crisscrossed this section of forest, and Brynmor had no trouble finding a familiar path. He readjusted Daraja, and her nails pierced his skin, drawing a sharp hiss from him.

“Are your heels hurting?” She leaned forward, peeking over his shoulder. “Should we—?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He had no intention of setting her down until he was forced to.

“Did you hear that?” Daraja tugged on his collar.

His ears weren’t as keen as hers. He exhaled until his lungs emptied, then drew in a gulp of night air. Neglecting his senses had cost him before. If he wasn’t breathing, he was a scent-blind target. He shook his head. Daraja’s company was more than pleasant. She heightened his senses, made him remember what it was to live. “I smell charred herbs.” He sneezed. “Burnt grass too.”

Daraja kept her voice low. “Do you think it’s the hunters?”

“It could be,” he was loath to admit. “There are other animals in these woods people hunt to supplement what can be purchased at the market. They’ll cover their tracks to prevent game from smelling them.” He inhaled again. “I don’t like this. Hunters are careful, but not to this degree.”

“You can’t scent them?” He heard her sniffing the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

“It’s very subtle.” He scanned the area for hints of where they had gone. “Some herbologists specialize in masking odors. Our clan used a salve when going on missions to prevent clans with keen senses of smell from detecting us before…” He grimaced. “I mean only that it’s possible.”

“Were you an assassin?” Her fingers drummed against his shoulder.

“Yes.” He was not ashamed of how he had earned a living and provided for his clan.

“The Mimetidae are renowned for their skill with swords.” She sounded thoughtful. “Why is an assassin living among canis? Why don’t you carry your sword? You have no protection here.”

“You have a lot of questions.” An endless supply of them it seemed.

“You interest me,” she said simply. “I’ve never spent time with a male not from the docks.”

With a sigh, he corrected her. “I have more protection than I’ll ever need among the pack.”

“I suppose.” She grasped his ear and tugged the lobe. “Tell me why you chose this life.”

He could hardly tell her the truth. “Is that what I am to you? A story waiting to be told?”

“Who doesn’t love a good story?” She began to hum. “It’s where all the songs originated. It takes a good tale to earn a tune, and melodies last forever, passed down through the generations.”

“Have I earned a song?” For some reason, the idea of being her muse appealed to him.

“Not yet.” She snorted. “Only the bravest and wisest are worth remembering.”

If not for her tone, his pride might have stung. “Then what will you give me in return?”

“An ear, that’s what.” Her back straightened. “Has it not occurred to you that you confide in me so readily because you’ve been starved for companionship? I’m sure Errol is fine company if you prefer one-sided conversations, but I don’t think you do. I think you like talking to me. So if I like to listen, then what’s the harm?” Her fingers brushed his nape, and he shivered. “You and I can be friends. You can talk and entertain me with stories of your life, and I’ll consider writing a song for you—one day—
if
you commit a worthy act before you die. How does that strike you?”