Slayer (2 page)

“Yes,” she moaned as she writhed beneath his skillful touch. His hands were everywhere, her hair, her face, her breasts, her thighs. He grasped her hand and held it against her naked heat, grinding her fingers into her slick moisture. Then he did the most bizarre thing. He wrenched her hand away and, one by one, sucked greedily on each of her slim fingers.

“Oh!”

While he licked the very last drop of juice from her fingertips, he cupped her with his other hand and rubbed her hard until her body arched like a bow pulled taut. Whipping her head from side to side, Abelinda knew she needed something. Something wonderful and terrible. Something only Cahill could give.

Finally Cahill climbed on top of her, his weight pressing her firmly into the mattress. But it was a weight Abelinda was glad to bear. Driven by instinct, she wiggled her legs out from beneath him and spread herself, wrapping her legs around his, the heat of her center searching desperately for satisfaction.

“Not yet, my love.” His voice sounded strained. In fact, he sounded nothing like the man she knew. But then, she didn’t recognize her own voice, her own groans of pleasure.

He grasped both sides of her face and kissed her. Finally. His lips so full, so large, bruised hers to the point of pain, but it was a welcome pain. She opened her mouth for his tongue and drank from him as if she was dying of thirst and he was a bottomless well. Suddenly his hand was in her hair and he yanked her head back. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice raw from panting.

“Abelinda. Your wife-to-be.”

“I would never have guessed.”

How a man could be both so rough and so gentle was a mystery. His tongue circled her mouth and her ear. He tasted her neck and collarbone. His hands returned to her breasts and kneaded them, plumping them up for him to suckle. To Abelinda’s surprise, Cahill moved lower still. His tongue trailed down the valley between her breasts to the indent of her bellybutton. But his downward journey did not end there and, though she had no idea where he was heading, her body seemed to guess as her hips strained unconsciously toward his questing mouth.

Cahill immediately latched on to that newest, tiniest appendage between her legs, and the shock of pleasure had Abelinda bucking as she cried out for mercy. “Please,” she moaned. “Oh, please!” But the man who held her hips as his mouth devoured her was too strong and too intent on his task to listen to her cries.

She reveled in the pressure of his fingertips as he clutched her dimpled thighs and delighted in the way his whiskered jaw scratched against the sensitive flesh of her inner leg. But most of all, Abelinda’s body writhed with the mind-boggling pleasure of Cahill’s tongue as he flicked and fondled that naughty nubbin until tears streamed down Abelinda’s face. And then, oh then, he plunged two fingers into her heated core just as he bit that strange part of her.

Abelinda screamed.

Liquid fire shot through her body, constricting every muscle into a spasm of delight. Cahill kissed her soundly between her legs and then, with one deft movement, lifted himself so he was propped above her, his knees pushing hard against hers, his hips grinding down, urging something large and full of life toward the new opening he had created.

“Tell me, Princess,” Cahill murmured with a hoarse voice, “is this what you want?”

Abelinda did not have to consider her answer. Though she had yet to touch the object of his manhood—that monstrous beast over which maiden friends giggled and guessed at, that had always elicited horrible images in Abelinda’s mind—she now had no qualms about the thing. She knew exactly where she wanted such a shocking entity and exactly how hard she wanted Cahill to use it.

“Oh yes, my love, yes, yes, yes, yes!” she cried. And then in the vocabulary she’d just learned from Cahill himself, Abelinda begged, “Fuck me, my prince, fuck me!”

With one sure thrust, he impaled her and Abelinda was sure she had died and gone to heaven.

It was late. That was a good sign. It was normal for the well-rested to rise early and for those with interrupted sleep to rise late. With no more than niggling doubt, Cahill filled his plate from the sideboard and sat at the long table in the breakfast room. Pork, eggs, bread and gravy. It smelled wonderful, but Cahill found his appetite wanting. When the door creaked on its hinges, Cahill’s head shot up, his heart pounding erratically against his ribs.

“Good morning, my son.”

Forcing his lips into a smile, Cahill replied, “Good morning, Stepmother.”

There was barely time for the queen to seat herself before a footman informed them that the princess would be joining them shortly.

Cahill swallowed and pushed his plate away. He felt like a man about to be sentenced—acquitted or the gallows, which was it to be? Acquitted, of course. He was certain of the outcome. Almost entirely certain.

Finally the double doors swung open and Abelinda swept into the room. Her scent was stronger than ever, honeysuckle covered in dew and warmed by the morning sun, and the aroma reached across the room to tickle his nose. His heart soared at the sight of her. Her flushed cheeks, her sparkling eyes; her look of utter and complete…satiation. She glanced coyly at Cahill, watching him beneath her lashes as she moved across the room.

“Ah, my dear,” the queen intoned. “You are looking lovelier than ever this morning. May I inquire how you slept?”

Abelinda pressed her lips together in a sweet yet somehow sensuous smile. How it was possible for her lips to be even fuller and rosier than before, Cahill had no idea. Beneath the volume of her skirts, her rounded rump swayed back and forth as she moved in a way that begged Cahill to watch. He licked his lips in glorious anticipation of Abelinda’s answer, of their forthcoming betrothal and more specifically of the time he would spend with her in their wedding bed.

Abelinda paused after piling enough food on her plate to feed an army. “Oh, Your Majesty,” Abelinda gushed as she carried her plate to the table. Once seated on the edge of her chair, she turned to Cahill, her face alit with the most beatific smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well in my life.”

Breanna knew that smell. It wasn’t just the sulfurous odor of rotten eggs that gave it away. It was the undigested fats turned rancid in the sun mixed with decay and filth.

Dragon shit.

Stinking horseflies hovered above the puddle of refuse, the only insect brave enough, or stupid enough, to attempt to survive the sulfuric fumes. Brea approached the offensive pile and swirled the tip of her broadsword through the debris, looking for evidence of the dragon’s crime. Two dented helmets and a half-digested lower limb with boot still intact was all the evidence Brea needed.

She scanned the horizon, noting other buzzing piles of dung, but none so recent as this. Clearly the lair was nearby. She whistled once high and then low, a signal to her horse to stay put. Dragons had extremely keen senses of smell, and horseflesh was a favorite dish. She refused to lose another horse to a foul fire-breather.

Then, with a sigh of resignation, Brea sucked in a gulp of air and held it while she jumped into the dragon sludge with both feet. Quickly, before she had to take another breath, she scooped the still-warm waste into her hands and spread it over her leggings and tunic. With a shiver of disgust, she leapt out of the puddle and gasped for breath, gagging as she knew she would. She was covered in it, so there was no way of escaping the stench. But Brea knew from vast experience that the only way to successfully hunt a dragon was to smell like one. And this dragon was going down.

As quietly as her muck-sucking boots would allow, Brea crept up and over a hillock, only to find herself perched on the edge of a sheer chalk cliff. On the stony beach below sat a medium-sized, scaly, winged reptile. The creature was tossing stones down its gullet, which was a common enough occurrence. The beasts were indiscriminate in their diet, and the stones aided in digestion. With the dragon distracted by its task, it was the perfect time to attack. Brea reached behind her, pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it. With a deep breath, she drew back on the string to the anchor point on her cheek. She didn’t really need to aim. This arrow was not meant to kill, for dragons had only one weakness and were nearly impossible to kill with an arrow. No, this arrow was meant as a distraction.

She released the arrow and then dropped her bow, cupping her hands around her mouth to imitate the call of the trumpeter swan, another preferred snack of the vile reptile. Strips of cotton unfurled from the arrow and, though the fluttering missile looked nothing like a swan to her, it would appear swanlike to the pea-brained monster below. The enormous head of the beast lifted to the sound of her call. Then the dragon stretched out its wings and bounded in that awkward way it had when preparing for flight. Brea bounced on the balls of her feet, a loop of rope between her teeth, her hands twitching by her side, waiting for the perfect moment. Finally, the massive wings inexplicably lifted the beast into the air, bringing it, for only a split second, within jumping distance.

Brea sprang. She clung to the beast’s neck, pulling herself up so that she could grasp the curved horn between its ears. She looped the rope around the horn and then wrapped it three times around her left hand. With her right hand, she unsheathed the sword she wore across her back. There was no time for mistakes. The dragon tossed its head to and fro in an effort to dislodge her, but Brea hung on, though for a moment she was sure all was lost. Brea swore she was airborne, her head in the clouds, her limbs flailing for some kind of purchase, but then she realized the dragon had simply flown straight up and then turned its nose straight down into a dive, giving her the illusion of weightlessness.

Once gravity kicked in, Brea raised her right hand, aiming the tip of her sword at the center of the reptile’s eye. Squeezing the neck of the beast with her thighs, she let go of the rope so she could use both hands to drive the sword into the eye of the dragon—into the heart of its pea-sized brain.

With one final squawk, the dragon shuddered beneath her, but like all of the beasts she’d killed before, its wings spread wide in death, allowing the incapacitated body to glide gently to the ground where it then crumpled to a heap as Brea leapt nimbly to the beach. The still-warm body twitched and quivered, stinking worse than ever. With the edge of her sword, Brea was quick to dislodge a scale from the dragon’s flank before the carcass spontaneously combusted. She would notch the haft of her sword later, once she was clean and enjoying a hot meal and a mug of ale at the nearest inn.

Unfortunately, Brea would not get her wish. For no sooner had she slipped the pearly scale into the sleeve of her tunic then a burst of fire shot down from the cliff above. A squawk, louder than anything she’d ever heard before, rumbled along the cliff, dislodging boulders and debris onto the beach below.

Slowly, Brea turned to face her new adversary. She had to look up, way up. The beast was so enormous it blocked the sun. Brea’s mouth dropped open. “Shit on a stick,” she cursed, her hand automatically reaching for her broadsword. Above her soared the mother of all dragons. The biggest fucking beast she’d ever seen. And by the flames spewing from her nostrils, this mother was royally pissed off.

Chapter Three

Eleven. Eleven princesses had come and gone. Eleven princesses had failed the test. Cahill was at his wit’s end. Of course he wasn’t sad to see every one of them go. There were few he felt any real attachment for. But Zaina was one of them. Zaina, who was older than her predecessors; she had an air of maturity the others lacked, yet retained an element of innocence he’d found endearing. He’d been sure Zaina would pass the test.

But he was wrong. Again.

Not only did she fail, but he had been completely deceived by her wiles. When he informed her they could not marry, the woman screamed and cursed worse than the fishmonger. She spat in his face and clawed at his cheeks until Captain Peacock was forced to drag her from the room.

From the highest room in the keep, Cahill watched as the carriage transporting Zaina back home bumped across the drawbridge. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the woman screaming out his name. Cursing him. Was it his fault? Was he to blame, as Zaina had accused? Or was it something else?

“It’s not your fault, my son.” The queen had silently entered the tower room behind him.

Cahill turned and scrutinized the woman he’d never felt comfortable calling Mother. “Isn’t it curious that none of the princesses have passed the test? I’ve run the gamut on princesses, from A to Z. There are none left to choose from. How can every one of them be imposters?”

She sighed heavily. “It’s a mystery. A tragedy. Things were so much simpler in my day.”

“Were they?”

Cahill turned to the sound of footsteps outside the door. Peacock, the captain of the guard, stood at attention just beyond the doorframe. Eleanor didn’t go anywhere without the man these days. In fact, rarely did she consult Cahill anymore. It was always Peacock. Cahill needed to focus on acquiring a wife, she’d explained. But now, as he studied the queen more closely, he wasn’t so sure.

“Cahill?” Eleanor asked cocking her head to the side. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh yes, Stepmother, everything is perfect. Things are turning out just the way you want, aren’t they?”

“Whatever can you mean, my son?”

Cahill took a step closer, his face burning with suspicion. “You. You’ve sabotaged every one of them, haven’t you?”

The queen’s smooth features did not waver in the least at his accusation. “Me?” Eleanor raised a hand to her breast. “You accuse me of some form of ill? Such an insult!”

“An insult?” Cahill scoffed. “Not likely. Would Your Majesty care to explain how eleven out of eleven princesses can all manage to fail the test?”

“It’s simple really,” Eleanor said as she adjusted the crown of polished gold on her head. “These modern women have no care for virtue or chastity. And is it any wonder? Considering their parents?” She made a tsking sound and shook her head. “No, it is a corrupt world we live in. It’s such a pity there is no one good enough for you. But, you know the law.”