The big Lemurian holding her nodded tersely. “One of the guards must have caught her after our meeting. Her name is Selyn—one of the Forgotten Ones. Can you help her?”
Dawson nodded and raced around the SUV to the driver’s seat. His hands shook as he turned the key in the ignition, though he had no idea if it was from fear of the job ahead or rage at what had been done to an innocent young woman.
Her face was battered beyond recognition, eyes swollen shut, lips badly split. Her gown was drenched in blood. From the bloody froth at her lips, he figured she probably had a punctured lung, which meant broken ribs.
He was still shaking when they reached his house just a couple of miles away. Dawson got out, walked quickly to the house, unlocked the front door, and held it open.
The Lemurian guard held the girl as if she were the most fragile of china. He walked briskly down the long hallway to Dawson’s small home clinic at the back of the house. Carefully he laid his bruised and bleeding burden down on the examining table.
Then, with an exhausted sigh, he turned and focused on Dawson. “You will save her life, healer. You must. She is much too fine a young woman to die like this.”
Before Dawson could reply, Alton grabbed the guard’s arm. “Come, Roland. We’ll leave the healer to his work. You need food and rest.”
Nodding silently, the big man followed Alton out of the room. Dawson raised his head and stared at Ginny.
“I’ll help,” she said. “Just tell me what I need to do.”
He breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
He could do this. He had to.
Clearing his mind of everything but helping this young woman survive, Dawson went to work.
Finishing up after a long day at his clinic in town, Dawson had been prepared for another quiet night at home when his cell phone rang. He’d certainly never expected to hear Alton’s voice. When he’d recently offered to help his new friends in their battle against a demon invasion, Dawson honestly hadn’t thought anyone would actually call.
He was, after all, merely human. What good could a mortal do among creatures who were not only virtually immortal but capable of things he’d only read of in his favorite science fiction novels?
But when Alton told him one of their kind was badly injured and in need of medical attention, Dawson hadn’t hesitated. He’d quickly finished up the nightly feeding of his canine and feline patients, locked the doors to his clinic, and raced to the parking lot at Red Rock Crossing near the energy vortex at Cathedral Rock.
And there he’d waited. He’d had plenty of time to think about the changes in his life since that morning, a little over a week ago, when he’d arrived a bit late at his veterinary clinic and discovered the place was already filled with dozens of animal patients—all exhibiting the same unbelievable behavior.
He knew his staff thought he was slightly nuts when he’d suggested the pets were all possessed by demons. Of course, he was well aware that his capable young assistant as well as the women who worked for him looked at his offbeat diagnosis as part of his charm.
They loved to tease him about his easy acceptance of the mystical stories about the land around Sedona and the energy vortexes. Most folks thought of the stories as nothing more than fodder for the tourist trade.
His Aunt Fiona had been the only one who truly understood him. When he was little and talked to his imaginary friends, she’d called him fey. As he’d grown older and lost himself in books with tales of the unusual and unexplained, she’d merely nodded and said he was learning to understand things that a lot of his real-life friends would never be able to see.
The imaginary friends had eventually faded away, cast out by a teenaged boy’s need to act like everyone else, but Aunt Fiona had understood. She’d told him that when he was ready, they’d come back.
Now, as Dawson stared at his wristwatch and realized he’d spent an entire night treating a woman who couldn’t possibly exist, he sent a silent thank you to his long departed aunt. He could almost swear he heard her chuckling laughter and the soft, Gaelic lilt to her voice whispering, “I told you so, me boyo. I told you so.”
Smiling through the memories of someone so dear, Dawson stretched his arms over his head and heard the pop and snap of tired joints. It was almost five A.M.—the time when he normally crawled out of bed to start his day—but he’d stayed with Selyn throughout the night. By now, he figured Alton and Roland, the big Lemurian guard, were probably sacked out on the couches in the main quarters of his house.
He checked his patient’s pulse. It was steady now, and she was breathing easier. He’d worried about carrying her from the clinic to the spare room, but he knew she’d be more comfortable here in a regular bed, rather than on the hard examining table where he’d worked on her bruised and battered body.
He hoped Ginny had gotten some sleep. She’d assisted him for hours, playing the unaccustomed role of nurse. By the time he’d finished all of his stitching and doctoring, Ginny’d looked exhausted and a little bit numb from all the blood. Daws had sent her off a couple of hours ago while he finished cleaning up and bandaging the worst of the young woman’s injuries.
They’d been extensive and well beyond his training. He’d suctioned blood out of chest cavities for dogs and cats that’d been hit by cars, but he’d never done it for a woman with a punctured lung—at least, not until last night.
Dawson gazed down at the young woman now resting as comfortably as could be expected, and hoped he’d done the right thing. He was a veterinarian, for crying out loud! He dealt with dogs and cats, birds, rabbits, and the occasional hamster or guinea pig—not young, beautiful women barely clinging to life.
What if he’d screwed up? What if she died?
What choice did he have?
None at all, according to Alton. They couldn’t take Selyn to a human doctor, and they couldn’t take her to one of their own healers. It had been Dawson Buck or no one. Her lung had been the most serious injury, along with bruising to her spleen and liver. Her cracked and broken ribs would hurt like hell for a while, but they’d heal. He’d stitched a couple of spots on her side where heavy blows had actually split her skin, but most of her injuries were bloody scrapes, bruises, and contusions.
The darkly defined fingerprints on her right breast sickened him. More than once during the long night he’d thought of killing the one who had done this to her. That was so unlike him. Dawson had never been the violent sort. He abhorred conflict of any kind, which was why he’d chosen animals as his patients. Dogs and cats were more the
what you see is what you get
kinds of patients. They rarely came with baggage, and they didn’t hold grudges.
Even now, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected when Alton had called him, but it certainly hadn’t been a beautiful young woman who’d been beaten nearly to death.
He rested his fingers on her shoulder, one of the few spots without the mottled black and blue and red from bruises. Though he wasn’t a religious man, his prayer was heartfelt.
Dear God. Let her live. Please, let her live.
Taking a deep breath, Dawson tried to ignore the rapid pounding of his heart. For a brief moment, he thought of all the laws he’d broken by treating a female victim of an obvious assault. Any other medical doctor would have followed the law and reported this to the police. Another veterinarian would have made sure she was treated properly, in a hospital for humans.
Then he bit back a nervous laugh. Who was he trying to kid? She wasn’t human. Maybe he hadn’t broken any laws after all, but after he’d looked at all her injuries and realized how terribly she’d been hurt, Dawson had known there was no question at all as to whether or not he’d do whatever he could for her.
Now he could only hope his efforts had helped and not harmed her. He gently touched a dark bruise on her cheek. Thank goodness the facial bone was merely bruised, not broken. Her bruises would fade; the ribs would heal.
But what of her state of mind? A beating this horrific had to leave more than bruises on the body. He’d learned that these Lemurians healed much faster than humans. They were obviously a lot tougher, too. Her injuries would have killed a human woman.
Plus, injuries such as these would definitely leave emotional scars with a human. He had no idea how a Lemurian might react to such terrible treatment.
Alton said she was a slave.
Then he’d really confused the issue when he told Dawson that Lemurians were a free society, that they didn’t believe in slavery. He, Alton of Artigos, the son of Lemuria’s chancellor, had not even known of the slaves’ existence.
Not until Roland, the sergeant of the Lemurian Guard, had taken it upon himself to follow up on rumors and search for the women who called themselves the Forgotten Ones. Roland had met Selyn and learned of their terrible history. He’d offered Alton’s promise to help the women, and in turn, Selyn had agreed they would help Alton with his plot to overthrow his father.
She’d been willing to risk everything for freedom.
Now, this.
Dawson sighed. He wished she were awake and could tell him she would be okay, wished he knew for sure he’d done the right thing by not taking her to a hospital. What a mess.
Obviously, there were things going on in Lemuria that were every bit as convoluted as human politics.
And this young woman was unquestionably a hero.
A breathtakingly beautiful hero.
Dawson carefully pushed her tangled hair away from her face and tucked the soft blanket around her badly beaten body. He couldn’t bear to look at her, to see such perfection so terribly disfigured by someone’s cruelty, and it wasn’t just the fact that her injuries made him so angry.
No, it was even more unsettling. Her beauty and bravery affected him on a most unexpected—and unprofessional—level.
He’d done all he could as a doctor with the detachment his position required. Now that he’d finished, he realized he saw her as any man would see a beautiful woman. Those dark bruises and bloody contusions were a travesty, a horrible insult to such perfection. He’d never seen anyone as perfect as Selyn. Even battered and bruised, she was lovely.
Lovely and very brave—and right now, Dawson Buck was a terribly conflicted doctor.
Never once in his life had he lusted after a patient.
Shaking his head with the convoluted stupidity of his thoughts, Dawson quickly turned away from her bed. He left the room, mumbling under his breath.
“Of course you’ve never lusted after a patient, you idiot. All the others have four legs.”
Chapter Two
Selyn drifted awake in a world of pain. Eyes closed, she took a moment to catalog the various parts of her body. She must have survived Birk’s horrible beating, though she wondered if she’d be whole, even if her injuries healed.
Others had died beneath the wardens’ heavy fists. She knew she was alive. She hurt too much to be dead.
Carefully, Selyn wriggled her toes, then her fingers. They worked. That was good. Slowly, cautiously, she licked her dry, cracked lips with the tip of her tongue. Her chest ached, and it hurt to breathe, but at least she could draw sufficient air, as long as she did it carefully.
Taking another breath, she noticed that the stench she’d long associated with her world was missing. Instead, the air lacked any discernible scent at all. Squinting through swollen lids, she saw cream-colored walls and shelves neatly filled with books and jars and unfamiliar stuff. There were cabinets with closed doors and light streaming in through a window.
Window?
She knew what windows were, but in the mines they looked out onto dark caverns and poorly lit passageways. Blinking, curious enough now to risk drawing attention, Selyn tried to sit up. “Nine hells!”
… and then some.
Gasping, she lay back against the pillow and tried to catch her breath.
The door flew open, and a tall, lean man stepped into the room. “Don’t move. Please. Be still, or you’ll hurt yourself.”
Fear left her speechless, but only for a moment. Then she took a deep, calming breath—or as deep a breath as she could with lungs that hurt and ribs that ached. “I discovered that on my own, thank you.” Aware she wore nothing beneath the blanket, Selyn tugged the soft folds higher, almost to her chin. “Who are you? Where am I?”
He smiled and his dark blue eyes actually seemed to sparkle as the corners of his mouth, almost hidden in facial hair, turned upward. “I’m Dawson Buck,” he said. He moved closer, slowly and carefully as if he knew his presence frightened her. “You’re in my house, in Sedona. It’s in Earth’s dimension. Roland of Kronus brought you here last night. You were badly injured and unconscious.” He shook his head and smiled even wider. “I wasn’t sure you’d awaken this soon. You must be healing faster than I expected.”
There were dimples in both his cheeks, partially hidden by his neatly trimmed facial hair. Selyn frowned as she studied him. She’d never seen hair on a man’s face before. She’d been told that Lemurian men had body hair in places besides the tops of their heads, though she’d never seen a naked man. She knew absolutely nothing about human men, but the dark hair framing this one’s lips and covering his chin was absolutely fascinating.
Besides, it was easier to concentrate on the odd growth of hair and those delightful dimples than to think of what he’d just said.
She was on Earth? But how? Lemurians were forbidden to leave their world, though she knew from snips of gossip that Alton of Artigos had crossed through the portal. It was said his woman—one who carried sentient crystal—actually came from this world, but Roland? How would he know to bring her here? And why?
“It was last night?” She wanted to sit up. She wanted her clothing, and she wanted to get away while she had the chance. Earth! She’d dreamed of one day seeing Earth. Maybe she could disappear into one of the cities she’d heard tales about.
Disappear and never return.
Never have to face Birk or any of the other guards again.
Never hold the crystal sword Taron is replicating for me even now.
Selyn thought of her mother’s spirit, bravely fighting demons once again as the sentience in a sword called DemonSlayer. Who would inhabit the sword Taron might have already finished making for her? What woman warrior would be her partner in battle? If Selyn left Lemuria now, she’d never know.
She’d be forever a fugitive, trying to exist in a world where she didn’t belong. No, she couldn’t leave. As one of the Forgotten Ones, as the daughter of a woman warrior, Selyn knew she was honor bound to stay. She sighed. Always a slave, but a slave to honor as much as to the mines.
She focused once again on the man.
“Yes,” he was saying. “Roland brought you here late last night.” He stepped closer.
She flinched. She hadn’t meant to, but he was big and male and what she knew about men wasn’t very comforting.
He stopped. Held his hands out in front of him, as if he meant to show her he was safe. He had big hands, but not like Birk’s. No, his had long, slim fingers and neatly trimmed nails. His hands fell to his sides. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. His voice was deep but very soft. Gentle. “Please. I just wanted to check your eyes. Make sure they’re tracking correctly. You have a head injury.” He sighed. “Among so many others.”
Swallowing, Selyn nibbled on her swollen lip and nodded. He sat on the edge of the bed and used a small tube to shine a bright light into her eyes. He moved it back and forth, and she followed the light as he asked. He clicked it off and stuck the thing in his pocket. Then he lifted her hair away from the side of her face and gently touched her cheekbone.
“Oh!” She grabbed his wrist.
“I’m sorry.” He jerked his hands away from her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She stared, even as she felt the flush spreading across her face. How could she possibly tell him it hadn’t hurt at all? She wasn’t quite certain what she’d felt when he’d touched her so gently, but it certainly hadn’t been pain.
Before she had time to wonder further, there was a loud noise and the sound of something sliding across the floor. The door to the room flew open, and a curly-haired creature with four legs and huge teeth bounded into the room. It skidded across the floor and stopped beside the bed, wriggling all over.
“Hey, Bumper!” Dawson Buck leaned over and patted the creature’s head.
A voice sounded in Selyn’s mind. A voice filled with laughter.
You must be the one Eddy told me about. Are you Selyn?
Selyn’s gaze flashed toward Dawson and back to the beast. “What creature is this? It speaks to me!”
Dawson grinned at her. “This is BumperWillow, though you’re actually speaking to Willow. Bumper is the dog—the animal you see—and Willow is the spirit of a tiny sprite, like a fairy, whose body was destroyed by demons. Her consciousness found safety inside the dog, so they sort of live in there together.”
Selyn wanted to touch the beast, but her arms ached too badly to reach for the softly curling coat.
“Hey, Dawson. Good morning! BumperWillow, you were supposed to wait.” A beautiful woman stepped into the room. She looked directly at Selyn and smiled. “You must be Selyn. I’m Eddy Marks. Alton thought Willow might be able to help you heal faster. Willow? Can you help?”
I can. Will you lift me up on the bed, Dawson? I don’t want to jump up there and maybe bump Selyn’s bruises.
Dawson picked up the solid little beast and set her on the bed beside Selyn. Selyn looked into intelligent brown eyes surrounded by silly blond curls. She’d never seen a dog before, though Lemurian history mentioned their existence.
That was long before her time. Before Lemuria sank beneath the sea, before the brave women warriors were purged and exiled from an ungrateful Lemurian society.
Before her mother’s untimely death. Then, before she could follow that terrible line of thought any deeper, Selyn felt a soothing warmth spread over her body. It was easier to breathe, easier to move, but so relaxing that she settled back against her pillow and lay still while the silly dog stared at her with the eyes of a healer.
Who would ever believe? She had to go back to the mines, if only to tell her sisters of the wonders of this world. Drifting, she wondered what the next days would bring. Would Taron, a man she’d never even met, have the swords ready, one for each of the women? Would they really be free after a lifetime of slavery?
He was risking so much to help women he didn’t even know, staying deep below the mines in the hidden crystal caves, with only one sword to replicate a full one hundred more.
One for each of the forgotten daughters.
She hoped her mother would somehow know that her daughter was helping the cause for freedom. Elda would be so proud to know Selyn hadn’t forgotten her teachings.
“How do you feel?”
Dawson’s voice snapped Selyn back to reality. Freedom was still a long way off. Holding the blankets tightly against her chest, she tried to sit up. His big hands helped, as he gently supported her back and slipped one hand beneath the covers to lift her legs, to help her scoot back against the headboard.
The feel of his warm palm against her bare thighs was unsettling. Not unpleasant, yet definitely disconcerting. Just as confusing as the equally warm, strong hand supporting her naked back.
Once she was upright, he pulled his hands away and tucked the blankets around her. Selyn had been so aware of his touch, she hadn’t noticed the absence of pain. Where were the bruises, the painful ribs? She ran her tongue over smooth lips that had been badly split and swollen. Dawson handed her a mirror, and she gazed at her reflection. There were no marks at all, no sign of her injuries. “Amazing.” She stared at the dog. “You did this?”
I did. You are too beautiful to be covered with ugly bruises. I’m glad I could help, though Dawson had already repaired the truly serious injuries.
Thank you, Willow.
Selyn ran her fingers through the dog’s saucy curls. “And thank you, Bumper. I feel well. As if I’d not been hurt at all.”
Eddy grinned at her. “That’s terrific. We need you healthy. I think the next few days are going to be crazy. I sure hope Taron is …” Her words drifted to a stop, as if she listened to someone Selyn couldn’t see or hear. Then Eddy’s eyes went wide. She reached over her shoulder and withdrew her sword.
Selyn had never seen a crystal sword up close. The guards in the mines all carried steel, and Roland had kept his crystal blade sheathed. This was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Eddy lay the long blade on the bed beside Selyn and gazed at her for a moment with what could only be compassion.
Selyn frowned. Eddy grabbed her hand and placed Selyn’s fingers atop the shimmering crystal. It was warm to the touch.
“Selyn, this is my crystal blade,” she said. “She is sentient. The first time she spoke to me, she told me her name was DemonSlayer. But I believe you know the spirit that gives life to my sword. Was the warrior Elda your mother?”
Taron of Libernus rose from his thin pallet and set another glow stick in the sconce on the wall near the altar he’d discovered so far beneath the world he’d once thought he knew. As he replaced the fading stick from the night before, a stark, blue-white light burst forth and reflected from crystal walls that seemed to stretch forever, illuminating the huge cavern as if from a million different lamps.
Who would have guessed such beauty lay beneath his world? How many of Lemuria had ever ventured to such depths before?
Someone, obviously, if the crystal altar meant anything. It appeared to have been carved from a single blood-red ruby, the only colored crystal in the entire cavern. A cavern his sword had led him to.
His silent sword.
He chuckled ruefully, recalling how thrilled he’d been when first learning of this mission he’d been charged with—to use his own sword to replicate more crystal swords for the Forgotten Ones.
Forgotten? More like unknown.
It was hard to believe that there had been slaves working the mines of Lemuria for thousands of years—women unknown to the rest of Lemurian society.
Once he’d learned what would be required of him, he’d sworn to do everything in his power to end the abuse of the remaining women. He’d actually
felt
the vow he’d sworn to Alton and the others—like a physical mark branded upon his heart. He, Taron of Libernus, would help to free these women. It was his duty as a free man of Lemuria to see that no one endured a life enslaved.
Slavery was wrong. It went against everything Lemurians stood for, and he embraced this challenge, heart and soul. He’d felt it so strongly, experienced the sense of his oath so powerfully, that he’d been certain it meant his own sword would finally speak to him.
If nothing else, wouldn’t the blasted thing have to tell him how to find the place where the swords would be created?
Obviously not, because he’d found this cavern without any trouble at all. Somehow he’d known where to go. He stared at the sword lying across the altar. “It didn’t work that way, my old friend, did it? Maybe you’ve just been too busy to talk.” He reached out, grasped the jeweled hilt, and lifted his sword from the altar. Lying beneath it, row after row of perfect crystal blades shimmered in the reflected light, each one identical to his beautiful—albeit silent—weapon.
He turned the blade, swinging it in careful strokes before setting it back on the altar. “One day I’ll prove myself worthy. I promise you that.”