Page 11 of Randall
Chapter 8
Darvon
Foolish wasn’t something Darvon usually called himself. Certainly, there had been times he’d gotten himself into jams. He’d disappear for days, losing track of time, until his mother discovered his absence and sent out search parties. Too many times, he’d hole away in his art room, painting to his heart’s content, or he’d sneak into the barns and take the horses for joyrides. A few times, he let all the beasts out so he could watch the mayhem of trying to corral them. Those had been in jest. What he was currently doing was the farthest from funny he could think of.
Following the evening meal, he sent Sylvan into the city to find him a particular stone that would help focus his magick since he’d left his behind at home. Yes, he’d lied, but he knew his seneschal-slash-bodyguard would stop him if he knew what he had planned. With Sylvan out of the house, Darvon quickly dressed in his darkest clothes, threw his cloak over hisshoulders, weaved a weak spell of distraction over Soric, and slipped out the door.
The walk from the upper echelon of nobility, where the Fae ambassadorial home sat, down toward the dockyards took nearly half a turn of the hourglass. In the distance, he could make out the glint of moonlight off the water well before he arrived. The pungent odor of fish, feces, urine, and rotting garbage filled the air, but a tiny spell cleared the putrid scents from his nose, letting him focus his other senses.
The first bar bored him, as it was only filled with tired old men drinking and eating in silence. He moved on. The next establishment was slightly louder, with drunkards trying cheekily to get the serving girls to sit on their laps, while in the corners, fervent whispers echoed. He stayed long enough to hear nothing more than speculation. He tossed a few coins on the bar for his ale and left to try a new location.
Deciding an inn closer to the ships might give him the best information, he strode past several places, ignoring the calls from the scantily clad women standing on second-floor balconies. Had he preferred soft breasts to hard chests, he might have given them another glance, but intent on his mission, he walked on. Rising voices beckoned, and Darvon looked up at the swinging sign for the Red Dragon Inn. Instinct told him he’d find what he needed inside.
He pushed through into a smoke-filled haze of impropriety. Wenches played cheekily with the tables of fishermen, merchants, and dockhands as young boys wended their way through the throngs carrying tankards of ale and platters of food. Underneath the gaiety, however, was an undercurrent of tension riding these men hard. Furtive glances were cast his way; murmurs rose as they realized he was an outsider.
Darvon kept his hood up, hiding his silver hair and pointed ears. The last thing he wanted was for these city-folk to thinkhis kind had been responsible for the lost ships and rotting fish washing up on their shores. He squeezed up to the bar, making space for himself between the wall and a blacksmith—the breadth of the man’s shoulders, the bulging muscles of his arms, the smell of iron and smoke, and the burn scars on his hands were dead giveaways. Darvon dropped coins on the counter, and a mug of ale was placed in front of him.
“You be wanting food?” the barman asked, swiping the coins into his palm.
“No, this is enough for now,” Darvon answered, picked up the mug, took a sip, and bit back a grimace at the bitter taste. He continued to hold the cup as he turned and leaned against the wall, his gaze scanning the room as he heightened his hearing to listen in on the various conversations.
It ain’t natural, I’m telling you.A throat cleared. Men spat into the rushes covering the floor.
It ain’t.Mugs banged on the table.
What do you think caused it?
The prince.
Prince Valter? How you figure that?
It’s that damn fairy blood of his. Mating with a wolf and a bloodsucker. The gods are punishing us. Lying with men; lying with monsters.
Monsters… By the gods… I never realized how many of them live here. Lots of those nightmares walking our streets. They could be here right now.
The men at the table looked around. Darvon ducked his head, avoiding eye contact because the starbursts in his eyes would give him away. He heard more than saw the chairs scrape across the floor, the heavy footfalls, the panting, wet breaths of men salivating with bloodlust. They wanted to hurt someone, and anyone different would do. He could feel the heat of their bodies as they closed in. The large man next to him scurried away.
Darvon half-turned and smiled, hoping he appeared friendly. It was a small turn of his lips, but when his hood fell back, they saw what they needed—silver hair, fair skin, pointed ears—and they growled. He took a mouthful of the ale, but he didn’t swallow.
“It’s one of those damn fairies. Get him!” Two sets of hands grabbed his arms. They spun him around and held him tight.
“Slumming it, are ya?” the ugliest of the bunch sneered. He leaned closer, staring into Darvon’s eyes. When he growled again, his fetid breath blew hot across Darvon’s face, and spittle dripped down his chin. The awful scent of dead fish drifted from the man’s clothes.
Darvon shrugged, his nose twitching. He wanted the blathering idiot to throw the first punch, so he had immunity with the city guard.
“Cat got your tongue? Let me help you out.” He wound up and jabbed Darvon in the gut, causing him to spew the disgusting ale into the man’s face.
The man backpedaled, screeching as he swiped at his eyes. “I’m blind! Kill him.” He pointed at Darvon, who sighed and whispered one of the few defensive spells he knew. His magick shoved the men around him back several lengths. The drunkards stumbled and fell onto the floor or onto tables, toppling them and angering those who’d been sitting peacefully.
Fists flew, curses were shouted, knives were drawn, blood spilled… and those original three men came at Darvon again. They surrounded him, herding him from the safety of the wall and the bar. With his back exposed, fear exploded inside him. He needed help before these buffoons got the drop on him.
A woman’s scream stole everyone’s attention, but the reprieve was momentary. They turned back to Darvon with fury in their glassy glares. All around him, an iron-tinged breeze blew. Twinmenacing animalistic snarls rose above the din. Shrieks and cries rang out.
There was a whirlwind of magick, a shout, and then everyone froze. Well, everyone human froze. Turning slowly, Darvon watched two wolves thread their way toward the new arrivals, his brother among them. Threads of potent magick wove around him, stealing his attention. He followed the strands as they retracted toward the cloaked figure standing just inside the door, a hand fisted around something dangling from a chain around their neck.
The figure raised their head and looked right at Darvon. They took a step closer, then another, pushing their hood off and revealing a man of similar height to Darvon, but opposite in complexion. Dark hair, dark, intense eyes, and skin bronzed by the sun. His power swirled around Darvon like a lover’s caress, ceasing when the man carefully pulled him from what had been a precarious placement. Darvon stood in front of the human mage as the man slid the backs of his fingers along Darvon’s cheek in a ghostly echo of his power.
I am Randall DeCarin, Royal Magician of Their Majesties, and you are mine.He gently held Darvon’s jaw as he leaned forward, softly brushing their mouths together.
