Richelle Mead - Storm Born

“Damn it!” he swore, cradling his hand. “It’s…I don’t know what it is. But it doesn’t feel…right.”

I smiled sweetly. Thank God for polymers. Almost as effective as iron.

The commanding woman’s eyes flashed. “Someone take it from her.”

No one moved.

“All right, then, one of you spirits. You take it.”

My minions didn’t move.

“They don’t take orders from you,” I said, parodying her earlier words.

“They do from you. Order one of them to do it now, or I will have the life squeezed out of your friend, regardless of King Dorian’s anger.”

I studied her, trying to decide if she bluffed. Wil suddenly made a piteous sound as the golden aura around him tightened. God, I hoped Volusian was right about this Dorian ridiculousness.

“Nandi,” I said simply.

She strode forward and removed the gun from me. One of the riders offered up a cape so she could bundle it up. When it looked like a smothered baby, he reluctantly took it.

As for me, I was hoisted onto Rurik’s horse for the trip back to Dorian’s. The spirits needed no such transportation.

He wrapped his arms around me, ostensibly to reach the reins, but I was pretty sure he didn’t need to touch my breasts to do it. His hold tightened.

“I wouldn’t want you to fall off,” he explained.

“I’m going to cut your balls off the first chance I get,” I informed him.

“Ah,” he laughed, urging the horse into motion. “I can’t wait for you to meet the king. He’s going to love you.”

The keep was like a cross between Sleeping Beauty’s castle and a gothic church. Towers jauntily sprang up to impossible heights, creating black patches across the evening sky. We’d lost our light now, but I could still see that a lot of the windows looked as though they contained stained glass. I imagined they’d be beautiful in full sunlight. And framing everything, of course, were those brilliant, yellow-orange trees. Volusian had told me that the kingdoms’ seasons were dependent on their rulers’ whims and could last for extremely long times. This was beautiful, but I couldn’t imagine living in a place that was perpetually autumn. I knew some claimed Arizona was perpetually summer, but, then, the people who said that didn’t actually live there. The seasons were subtle, but they were there.

I had to keep reminding myself I wasn’t in some kind of wacky movie as Rurik and his gang led us through twisted hallways lit with torches. People passed, giving us curious looks as they went about whatever one did in a medieval castle. Churning butter. Flogging peasants. I really didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to get out of there.

“Wait here,” Rurik told us when we reached a large set of double oak doors. “I will speak to the king before you’re shown into the throne room.”

Wow. An honest-to-goodness throne room. He disappeared behind the doors, and a couple guards watched us but kept their distance.

“Volusian,” I said softly, “did you purposely lead us here?”

“My only purpose, mistress, is to keep you alive. Being here will increase your chances.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“You will also increase your chances,” he continued, “if you are nice to King Dorian.”

“Nice? They just assaulted me and threatened to rape me.”

He gave me an exasperated look.

“The king will see you now,” said Rurik dramatically, returning from inside the room. He held the door open for us. Trumpets wouldn’t have surprised me.

The throne room was not what I expected. Sure, there was a dais with a chair on it, just like in the movies, but the rest of the room was in a state of disarray. A large space ran through the middle, for dancing or processions, perhaps, but the rest had an almost lounge sort of look. Small couches, chaises, and chairs were arranged around low tables set with goblets and platters of fruit. Men and women, again dressed in sort of a goth-Renaissance style, draped themselves on the furniture and on each other, picking idly at the fruit as they watched me. I was put in mind of the way Romans used to dine.

More than gentry lounged around, however. Spirits and sprites and trowes and wraiths were also in attendance, along with an assortment of Otherworld creatures. The monsters of human imagining, side by side with magical refugees who had immigrated to this world.

I wondered then if any other shaman had been this far into gentry society. I remembered Roland’s warning, that I could be taken right into the heart of their world. If only our kind had some sort of scholarly journal. The Journal of Shamanic Assassination and Otherworldly Encounters. I could have used this “research” to write a compelling article to share with my fellow professionals.

Conversation dropped to a low hum as the gentry leaned over and whispered to each other, eyes on me. Smirks and scowls alike lit their faces, and I put on the blank expression I would wear going to meet a new client. Meanwhile, my pulse raced into overdrive and breathing became a bit difficult.

Volusian trailed near me on one side while Rurik walked on the other. Wil and the others moved behind us.

“Why all these people?” I murmured to Volusian. “Is he having a party?”

“Dorian is a social king. He likes keeping people around, most likely so he can mock them. He keeps a full court and regularly invites his nobles to dine here.”

We came to a stop. On the throne sat a man, Dorian, I presumed. He looked bored. He leaned into the arm of his chair, one elbow propped on it so he could rest his chin in his hand. It sort of made him view us at an angle. Long auburn hair, reminiscent of the trees outside, hung around him, highlighted with every shade of red and gold conceivable. He could have been autumn incarnate. He had the most perfect skin I’d ever seen in such a vivid redhead: smooth and ivory, with no freckles or rosy color. A cloak of forest-green velvet covered unremarkable dark pants and a loose, white button-up shirt. He had well-shaped cheekbones and delicate features.

“Kneel before the king,” ordered Rurik, “and get used to being on your knees.”

I gave him a withering glance. He smiled.

“I’ll be happy to make you,” he warned.

“Bah, enough. Leave her in peace,” intoned Dorian laconically. He didn’t change posture. Only his eyes portrayed any sort of interest in these goings-on. “If she’s been with you for the last hour, she deserves a break. Go sit down.”

Rurik’s smugness flashed to embarrassment, but he bowed before the throne and backed off. That left Dorian and me staring at each other. He grinned.

“Well, come here. If you won’t kneel, I at least want to get a good look at the ‘terrible monster’ they’ve brought to me. They all seem quite afraid of you. I confess, I didn’t really believe it was you when they told me. I thought Rurik had been into the mushrooms again.”

“Do you know how many of our people she has killed and forcibly banished, sire?” exclaimed Shaya from somewhere behind me. “She took out three in under a minute just now.”

“Yes, yes. She’s quite terrifying. I can see that.” Dorian looked at me expectantly.

I shook my head. “I’m not moving until you offer us hospitality.”

This made him sit up. He kept smiling. “She’s clever too, though, admittedly, asking for hospitality before you crossed our humble threshold would have been more clever still since any of my subjects could have attacked you just now.” He shrugged. “But we’ve made it this far. So, tell me, Eugenie, why-er, wait. Do you prefer Eugenie or Miss Markham?”

I considered. “I prefer Odile.”

That smile twitched. “Ah. We’re still clinging to that, are we? Very well, then, Odile, tell me what brings the shining ones’ most feared enemy to my door, asking for hospitality. As you might imagine, this is without precedence.”