DeliveredIntoHisHands (15 page)

“Kissed him where?” Garrick said in a near
whisper. “The mouth? The cheek? Where?”

“Ch-cheek, milord!” the man whimpered. “His
ch-cheek.”

“They’ve been friends since childhood,”
Marc reminded Garrick. “Naturally she would greet him with affection.”

Garrick paid no attention to Marc. “Did she
leave with him?”

“N-no, milord. He l-left f-first. The
b-baron and the L-lady Antonia ate then d-departed.”

“You know there is an edict out that orders
anyone who sees Alyxdair Clay to report his whereabouts immediately, do you
not?” Garrick asked, shaking the man again.

“Aye, m-milord!”

“Yet you didn’t.”

When the man choked on his answer, Garrick
did exactly what Marc feared he would. He threw the man across the room but not
as hard as he could have. The tavern owner landed in a heap with a shrill yelp
but was not unduly hurt.

“Get the woman and the servants out of here
then burn this fucking inn to the ground. Take the owner into custody,” Garrick
ordered, turning away.

“Rick…” Marc began.

“Burn it to the ground!” Garrick bellowed.

Marc drew in a long breath. He motioned one
of his men to arrest the tavern’s owner.

“Milord, please!” the man’s wife said,
coming over to fall at his feet. “Please don’t let Gen. Warwyck hang my
husband!”

“He’s not going to hang, wench,” Marc said.
He motioned her up. “Fetch anything you want to save then get out. I’ll give
you ten minutes before I obey the general’s orders.”

Marc found Garrick in the tavern courtyard.
He was standing with his hands on his hips, his head down.

“Is it really necessary to burn their
home?” he asked.

“He is a rebel sympathizer. He’s lucky I
don’t hang him.” He looked up at Marc. “Don’t you fucking ever question my
decisions again, Zoltán.”

“I’m trying to be the voice of your
conscience, Rick,” Marc told him. “I know you’re angry but—”

“They need to be taught they don’t fuck
with me!” Garrick screamed at him loud enough that the windows in the tavern
shook. Fury shot from his eyes in red sparks to pin Marc where he stood.

“All right,” Marc said in a calm voice,
holding out his hands with a placating gesture.

Fifteen minutes later Garrick’s face was
lit hellishly by the roaring fire that consumed the tavern. His eyes had turned
crimson red and the flames were mirrored in their depths. His lips were clamped
together tightly as he watched the roof collapse, oblivious to the sobbing of
the tavern’s occupants.

“Let’s go,” he finally told Marc. He strode
over to his mount and vaulted into the saddle. He dug his heels into the
stallion’s flanks and galloped away.

“Where is he going?” Oran asked.

“Hell if I know,” Marc said. He ordered the
tavern owner taken to Blackthorn then mounted his horse.

* * * * *

Shivering Antonia looked longingly at the
wide hearth that contained only long-dead ashes. It was bitterly cold and
though she was wrapped securely in a thick coat over which had been flung a
thicker blanket, her teeth were chattering. Her toes were numb in her boots and
she could no longer feel her nose. Adding to her discomfort was a rumbling
belly that reminded her it had been nearly twelve hours since she’d eaten.

“I’d light the fire if I could,” Alyx told
her. “But I don’t want to lead him here with the scent of smoke. I want him to
work at finding you.”

“Provided he is looking,” she mumbled. She
was fairly sure her husband was very angry at her for having left the safety of
the keep.

“He’ll come for you,” Alyx said. “And when
he does, I’ll kill him.”

“Don’t count on it,” Antonia told him. She
was conflicted in not wanting her husband murdered or her friend hanged. If
there was any way to save the both of them, she would do it.

“He’s not immortal, Tonia,” Alyx said. “He
can be killed.”

“So can you,” she said quietly.

“Not going to happen,” he replied with
confidence. “And when he’s dead, I will claim you for my own as I should have
long ago.”

She shook her head, knowing it would do no
good to argue with him. His tunnel vision where she was concerned was
disturbing. Telling him that Garrick was the only man she’d ever love, the only
husband she would ever have wouldn’t mean anything to him. He wouldn’t believe
her because it wouldn’t be what he wanted to hear.

“Why did he lock you in your room?” he
asked. “What possible transgression could you have committed to warrant such a
punishment?”

Antonia sighed. She saw no harm in telling
him.

“When he discovered there were passageways
behind the walls, he went in to collect the spies he knew were there. I came to
warn you to leave the shelter. He smelled my perfume near the shelter entrance
and accused me of betraying him.” She lowered her head. “I didn’t see it as
betrayal.”

“Did he beat you?”

She looked up. “Of course not. He would
never do such a thing.”

“You think not?” he sneered.

“I know not, Alyx,” she stated, looking him
in the eye.

“He will,” he said. “He’s a beast. It’s
only a matter of time before he turns on you.”

Digging her fingernails into her palms,
Antonia refrained from defending Garrick. She’d be wasting her time for she
knew Alyx would never change his mind regarding the Modarthan. Instead, she
gazed out the window of the cabin to which she’d been taken—blindfolded—and
watched the Moon rising. Just as Alyx had said, Garrick would come for her. She
could only pray the blood that was sure to be shed would not cost her as dearly
as she suspected it would.

“There are five guards surrounding the
cabin,” Marc told Garrick. “Two on the ridge there. One at each end of the
cabin, back in the trees and one at the entrance. They are all armed with laser
rifles.”

“And inside the cabin?”

“Two guards, Clay and your lady-wife,” Marc
replied.

“All right. Take out the outside guards as
quietly as possible and replace them with our men,” Garrick ordered. “I’ll deal
with the two inside.”

“He’ll be expecting you, Rick,” Marc said
softly.

“Aye but not in the way he thinks,” Garrick
said with a grin.

“Be careful,” Marc advised. He watched his
friend blend into the shadows then heard a sound that made him chuckle. “Okay,
men, let’s do this!”

Antonia had nothing to do but daydream as
she sat hunched against the wall. There was no furniture in the cabin that
looked as though it had been deserted for years. A thick coat of dust covered
the floor and windowsills. Cobwebs clung to the corners. The musty smell of
mildew and rotting wood was overpowering. Staring blindly at the blackened
hearth she thought she saw something fall down the chimney to land in the
compacted pile of ashes. She shifted her position and leaned toward the
opening.

She frowned. There appeared to be debris
falling into the ashes. She lifted her eyebrows as she heard scratching coming
from the chimney. Slowly she turned her head to look at Alyx and was relieved
he and one of the two men who were guarding her were playing cards, their backs
to her.

Once more she heard the scratching,
scrambling sound and a thick piece of caked soot tumbling into the ashes. She
stared at it for a moment then got to her feet, drawing Alyx’s immediate
attention.

“What?” he asked, suspicion entering his
voice.

“I need to stretch,” she said. “My rump was
getting numb.”

She moved so she was blocking his view of
the hearth. The scratching sound had stopped as soon as she spoke. She took a
few steps away from the fireplace then stamped her feet.

“Who’s winning?” she asked, continuing to
pound her feet on the floor.

“Stop doing that,” Alyx snapped.

“I’m cold,” she said and behind her she
heard the scratching start up again. “You want me to get frostbite?”

“I want you to stop that ruckus,” Alyx told
her.

She felt the rush of motion before she
heard the sound. Something shot past her from out of the chimney and her mouth
dropped open as she was buffeted by the snap of wings against her cheek. As she
watched, a bat streaked straight toward the man standing guard at the door. She
shrieked for she was terrified of the night creatures and slammed her back
against the wall, prepared to draw the blanket over her head to keep the evil
thing away from her. Its appearance had not been what she’d expected.

The bat struck the man’s head and dug its
talons into his cheek, angling its pointed head to sink its fangs into the
guard’s neck. Shrieking wildly, trying to pull the creature from his face, the
guard stumbled against the only door.

“Kill it!” Alyx shouted at the other guard
who was staring wide-eyed at the spectacle.

The piercing shrieks of the hapless guard
suddenly changed to mindless screaming as the bat metamorphosed into a tall,
well-built man whose fangs were locked savagely into a jugular vein.

Stunned by what they were seeing, the other
guard and Alyx scrambled back, each drawing the blade at his thigh. The loud
sound of slurping as the dying man was drained of his life’s blood held them
immobile.

“Warwyck,” Antonia heard Alyx whisper as
the night visitor released its victim and turned.

Garrick’s eyes were crimson and the blood
dripping from his fangs and down his chin gave him the look of a monster. His
hands no longer bore any resemblance to those of a human. The black, wickedly
curved claws were tipped with glistening scarlet stains and pieces of flesh.

Alyx shoved the remaining guard forward to
put a barrier between him and the fierce beast. The guard yelped in surprise
and struck out with his dagger but the sharp blade was knocked carelessly
aside. Sharp black claws slashed across the man’s throat to send fountains of
arterial blood spraying as his head fell to the floor and bounced.

Antonia felt bile rush up her throat as her
horrified gaze followed the rolling head with its staring eyes and opened
mouth. When it landed against the far wall, she saw the eyes blink and felt her
legs give way beneath her. She sank to the floor in a heap, the blanket falling
from her shoulders as she watched her husband stalking Alyx.

Alyx’s eyes were wide with fear but he held
his dagger in front of him with a steady hand. “I am going to gut you,” he
threatened.

Garrick’s slow, merciless smile as he came
toward his enemy made the hair stand up on Antonia’s arms.

“You are welcome to try,” she heard him say
in a voice she’d never heard from him before. It was a gravelly, menacing tone
and it frightened her.

One of them—if not both—were going to die,
she thought and she could not allow that to happen. She loved her husband more
than she could ever admit but she also loved Alyx. She didn’t want either of
them to be hurt. As they circled one another, looking for an opening in the
other’s defenses, she got slowly to her feet.

“Please don’t do this,” she asked. She took
a step toward them, her hand out.

“Keep back!” Alyx warned. He lunged at
Garrick but her husband jumped back, away from the sweep of Clay’s blade.

“I’m begging you,” Antonia pleaded with
them. “I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.”

“Then leave,” Garrick said. “This bastard
is a dead man.” He swiped his claws viciously, catching Alyx from left shoulder
to right hip.

“Son of a bitch!” Alyx shouted, jumping
back from the assault. The cuts hadn’t hit flesh because of the thickness of
his uniform coat but did leave four deep diagonal tears in the fabric.

The Crimson Lord’s dagger was drawn from
the sheath strapped to his thigh. He flexed his fingers—now devoid of
claws—around the hilt with the double-sided blade pointed down in the
traditional knife fighters’ grip. He crooked the index and middle fingers of
his other hand to motion Alyx to come at him.

With a fury that stunned Antonia, Alyx
threw himself at his opponent in an attempt to drive his blade into Garrick’s
chest but the vampire sidestepped the attack, slashing down with his own blade
to rent Alyx’s coat from shoulder to hem. This time the tip of the dagger
struck flesh and Alyx twisted, hissing with pain as he spun around. His lips
were peeled back from his teeth, his chest heaving.

She knew one of them was about to die.
Death was in the air so thickly she could almost smell it. Garrick had drawn
first blood but Alyx didn’t seem to notice as he opened his mouth and roared.

It happened so fast none of them could have
prevented it. The warriors tensed then started toward one another with hatred
and lethal intent seething in their eyes. She was looking at Alyx and didn’t
see her husband’s dagger descending as she flung herself between them, both
arms straight out to catch them in the center of their chests to keep them
apart. As Garrick’s dagger came down he suddenly became aware of her getting in
the way and tried to deflect his aim.

“No!” Alyx yelled, trying to grab Antonia
around the waist to jerk her to the side and away from the plummeting blade.

The momentum of the downward strike carried
through despite Garrick’s effort to prevent it and the blade sliced deeply into
his wife’s arm—striking bone on its descent—and blood poured from the wound.

Antonia cried out, staggering back with her
free hand wrapped around her arm as blood gushed over her fingers. She looked
up at Garrick who had frozen with the dagger pulled up to his shoulder as
though he could take back the hit.

“Antonia!” Alyx cried out as he dropped his
dagger and started to reach for her.

With Garrick immobile—his face pale and mouth
twisted with shock—Antonia pushed at Alyx’s chest. “Go,” she said. “Alyx go.”

There was a commotion at the door and it
was flung open to reveal Marc with two men standing behind him.

“Go!” she ordered. “Now!”

Alyx saw the men coming toward him and pivoted.
He threw himself at the window and crashed through the glass, doing a
somersault as he landed. The last she saw of him he was sprinting into the
darkness.

Marc started after him but Garrick yelled
at him to stop. “Let him go,” he said and when Marc didn’t seem to hear, he
bellowed. “Let him go! Help me with her!”

Garrick grabbed his wife’s arm and clamped
his fingers tightly at the wrist.

Antonia was rapidly losing blood from the
long, deep cut that had sliced her arm from just above the wrist down the side
and almost to the elbow. She was shaking uncontrollably as she stood there
trying to pinch closed her gaping flesh along the forearm.

“Mother of the goddess!” Marc whispered as
he hurried over.

“She needs stitches,” Garrick said in a
vast understatement.

Marc whipped his head around to shout
orders to the men who had entered behind him. “Clauson, there’s a med kit in my
saddlebags. Get it! Volkes, I need that bottle of scotch you always have with
you!”

The two men hurried out of the cabin as
Garrick helped Antonia to sit down on the floor.

He was furious, she thought as she looked
into his cold eyes. Not at Alyx but at her. His lips were thin slits, his
breath escaping in long, loud bursts.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he
demanded.

“I didn’t want either of you to die,” she
said.

“So you’d sacrifice yourself to keep me
from killing him?” he threw at her through clenched teeth. “You love him that
much?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Marc
give his friend a strange look but she was rapidly losing consciousness. The
loss of so much blood was draining her strength. Her arm was throbbing,
stinging, burning all at the same time and it was agony that she was finding
hard to endure.

“I ought to beat the shit out of you,
wench,” he snarled at her. “And I may yet!”

“Rick,” Marc said softly.

“She put herself in the way!” Garrick
stated. “To protect that prick! I could have killed her, Zoltán!”

“Aye, but you didn’t,” Marc said in a
reasonable voice.

“She would have died for him!” Garrick
shouted.

The last Antonia heard before she pitched
headlong into darkness was Garrick’s vow to kill Alyxdair Clay if it was the
last thing he ever did.

* * * * *

For a week Antonia lay in a fever-induced
delirium. The nasty cut on her arm had become infected and as Garrick waited
anxiously for his father to send a TAOS unit to Volakis, his wife lay on the
cutting edge of death.

“This is why I begged His Grace to provide
me with one of the units,” Healer Frye complained for the tenth time. The
Tissue Artery Organ and Skeletal diagnostic machine—better known as a TAOS
unit—could heal ninty-nine percent of the ailments and maladies that struck
mankind. It could knit broken bones, stitch lacerations, cauterize wounds, and
excise tumors as well as re-segment torn and severed arteries and veins. The
Amhantarian technology was used throughout several galaxies as the primary
diagnostic and healing instrument at the disposal of the healers. It could heal
Antonia’s infection in a matter of minutes.

“It will be here by the end of the day,”
Marc stated.

“Pray to Sibylline we have that much time,”
the healer mumbled.

“She looks so pale,” Lady Maripose said as
she blotted at her eyes with a lace-edged silk handkerchief.

“I am sick with worry for my girl,” the
baron said as he caressed his daughter’s still hand.

Garrick ground his teeth, wishing he hadn’t
allowed Antonia’s parents out of the dungeon to be at her side.

“Had I put her through the Changing, you
would have had no need to worry,” Garrick told the baron.

“This is your fault to begin with!” the
baron snapped. “Had you not been trying to kill Alyx…”

“Enough!” Garrick hissed. He was tired of
hearing the same condemnation from the Blackthorn family. Even the younger
daughter Ashlyn had accused him of trying to kill her sister because he was
jealous of Antonia’s love for Clay. “Out! All of you! Get the hell out of my
wife’s room!”

It wasn’t the first time he’d run them out
and he suspected it wouldn’t be the last. He had grown to detest her family as
much as he loved her. Their nasty, hateful looks were lost on him—as were their
words of blame and denunciation—but he was getting sick of the sight of them.
Their snide voices never failed to give him a blazing headache.

After one final withering look from Ashlyn,
the Blackthorns exited the room and closed the door behind them.

“They’re worried, Rick,” Marc said softly.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Garrick snapped. He
plowed a hand through his hair. “I’m sick of them accusing me of deliberately
hurting her.”

He’d had very little sleep in the last
week. He hadn’t been eating either, and the Sustenance was all that was keeping
him going. He swilled it down like water but the sight of it never failed to
hurt him for his mind would go back to the cabin and his wife’s spilled blood.

“It was an accident,” Marc said.

“Aye, but that doesn’t matter to them,” he
said. “Or me.” Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants, he went to the
window and stared at the rain sliding down the pane. In the intermittent Moonlight
as the gray clouds passed over, the raindrops looked like seed pearls tumbling
along the glass. “What news of Clay?”

“He’s gone to ground again,” Marc replied.
“But we’ll discover his hidey-hole. It’s just a matter of time.”