Лорел Гамильтон - A Kiss Of Shadows

He let me go and slid the gun behind his own back, though the leather pants were tight enough that it couldn't have been comfortable. I hoped it dug into his back until he bled.

He took one of my hands, helping me stand. Then he turned with a flourish of his cape to present me to the other guards, one hand holding mine as if we were about to make a grand entrance down a long marble staircase. It was an odd gesture for the grey hallway and what had just happened. I realized that Doyle was uneasy about the gun or his choice of taking it, or maybe wondering if I had other weapons. He was ill at ease and he was covering.

"A small disagreement, nothing more," he said.

"A disagreement about what?" The voice belonged to Frost, Doyle's second in command. Other than the fact that they were both tall, physically they were almost opposites. The hair that fell in a glimmering curtain to Frost's ankles was silver, a shimmering metallic silver like Christmas tree tinsel. The skin was as white as my own. The eyes were a soft grey like a winter sky before a storm. His face was angular and arrogantly handsome. His shoulders were a touch broader than Doyle's, but other than that they were both very alike and very unalike.

He wore a silver jerkin that hit him just above the knees to meet the silver cloth of his pants, tucked into silver boots. The jeweled belt at his waist was silver studded with pearls and diamonds. It matched the heavy necklace that graced his chest. He gleamed as if he'd been carved all of one great silver piece, more statue than man. But the sword at his side with its silver-and-bone hilt was real enough, and if you could see one weapon, there'd be more because he was Frost. The queen called him her Killing Frost. If he'd ever had another name I did not know it. He wasn't wearing any magical or bespelled weapons—for Frost it was almost the same thing as being unarmed.

He stared at me with those grey eyes, clearly suspicious.

I found my voice, anything to fill the silence. Distraction was what was needed. I let go of Doyle's hand and took a step forward. Frost was vain about his appearance and his clothes. "Frost, what a bold fashion statement." My voice came out strong, somewhere between teasing and mockery.

His fingers went to the edge of the tunic before he could stop himself. He frowned at me. "Princess Meredith, a pleasure as always." A slight change in tone made mockery of his polite words.

I didn't care. He wasn't wondering about what Doyle was hiding. That was all I had wanted to accomplish.

"What about me?" Rhys said.

I turned to find my third-favorite guard. I didn't trust him as I did Barinthus or Galen. There was something weak about Rhys, a sense that he wouldn't exactly die for your honor, but right up to that point you could depend on him.

He put his cape and the waist-length spill of white wavy hair over one arm so I'd have an unobstructed view of his body. Rhys was a full half foot under six feet, short for a guard. To my knowledge he was full-blooded court. He just happened to be short. His body was encased in a white bodysuit so tight that you knew at a glance that there was nothing under it but him. There was white-on-white embroidery on the cloth edging the round collar and the slight flare of the long sleeves, and encircling the cutout over his stomach, which revealed his cobblestone abs like a woman showing off her cleavage.

He let the cape and his hair fall back into place. He smiled his full cupid-bow lips at me. They matched the round boyishly handsome face and the one pale blue eye. His eye was a tricircle of blue; cornflower blue around the pupil, sky blue, then a circle of winter sky. The other eye was lost forever under a furrow of scars. Claw marks cut across the upper right quarter of his face. One single claw mark parted an inch from the rest, cutting across otherwise perfect skin to cross from his upper right forehead to cut down the bridge of his nose and the lower left cheek. He'd told me a dozen different stories about how he lost his eye. Great battles, giants, I think I remember a dragon or two. I think it was the scars that made him work so very hard on his body. He was small, but every inch of him was muscled.

I shook my head. "I don't know whether you look like the top of a pornographic wedding cake or a superhero. You could be Ab Boy, or Abdominal Man." I grinned happily.

"A thousand sit-ups a day does wonders for your abs," he said, running a hand over them.

"Everyone needs a hobby, I guess."

"Where is your sword?" Doyle asked.

Rhys looked at him. "The same place yours is. The queen says we do not need them tonight."

Doyle glanced at Frost. "What of you, Frost?"

Rhys answered with a quick smile that made his lovely blue eye gleam. "The queen's weaning him a weapon at a time. She's decreed he has to be unarmed by the time she dresses to go to the throne room."

"I do not think it wise to have her entire guard unarmed," Frost said.

"Nor I," Doyle said, "but she is the queen and we will follow her orders."

Frost's handsome face closed down into tight lines. If he'd been human, he'd have had frown wrinkles by now, but his face was unlined and always would be.

"Frost's clothes are fine for a welcome home banquet, but why are you and Rhys dressed so… " I spread my hands helplessly trying to find a phrase that wasn't an insult.

"The queen designed my outfit personally," Rhys said.

"It's lovely," I said.

He grinned. "Just keep saying that as you meet the rest of the guard tonight."

My eyes widened. "Oh, please. She isn't taking hormones again, is she?"

Rhys nodded. "Baby hormones and her sex drive goes into overtime." He looked down at his clothes. "A shame to be dressed up with no place to go."

"Very punny," I said.

He looked up at me with a genuinely unhappy face. He hadn't meant the play on words to be funny. His sad face made the smile fade from mine.

"The queen is our sovereign. She knows best," Frost said.

I laughed before I could stop myself.

The look on Frost's face when he turned made me regret the laugh. I saw those grey eyes unguarded for a split second, and what I saw in them was pain. I watched him rebuild his walls, watched his eyes close down, so that nothing showed again. But I'd seen what lay beyond his careful facade, his expensive clothes, his fastidious attention to detail—his rigorous morality and his arrogance. Some of it was real, but some of it was a mask to keep things locked away.

I'd never liked Frost, but having that one glimpse meant I couldn't dislike him anymore. Damn.

"We will speak no more of this," he said. He turned and moved down the hallway, back the way they'd come. "The queen awaits your presence." He walked away without looking back to see if we were following.

Rhys came up beside me. He slid an arm across my shoulders and hugged me. "I'm glad you're back."

I leaned into him briefly. "Thanks, Rhys."

He gave me a small shake. "I missed you, Green-eyes."

Rhys even more than Galen spoke modern English. He loved slang. His favorite author was Dashiell Hammett; his favorite movie, The Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart. Rhys had a house outside the mound city. He had electricity and a television set. I'd spent quite a few weekends at his house. He'd introduced me to old films, and when I was sixteen we'd gone to a film noir festival at the Tivoli in St. Louis. He'd dressed in a fedora and a trench coat. He'd even found me period clothes so I could hang on his arm like a femme fatale.

Rhys had made it clear on that trip that he thought of me as more than a little sister. Nothing we could get killed over, but enough that it was a real date. After that, my aunt made sure we didn't spend much time together. Galen and I teased each other unmercifully in a very sexual way, but the queen seemed to trust Galen, as did I. Neither of us quite trusted Rhys.