Kinked

EIGHT

Morning brought sunshine and warmer temperatures. Quentin had his tent broken down, tarps folded and the last embers of the campfire stamped out by the time Aryal climbed out of hers. She stood staring down at the empty fire ring, her face blurred from sleep. He contemplated the sight sourly. While he had been staring at the ceiling of his tent, she had been sleeping like a baby.

She said, “I was going to make coffee.”

“Too bad,” he snapped. “We need to get moving.”

“So that’s how today is going to be, is it?” She made an exasperated I-give-up gesture, glared at him and took down her tent.

While he waited for her to finish, he opened up two cans of sausage and beans and ate the food cold. Soon after, Aryal did the same, grimacing as she swallowed her breakfast. They each packed what they could carry, the lightweight camping gear tied below their backpacks.

“Let’s go,” he said as soon as Aryal shouldered her pack and tightened the straps.

She gave him a dirty look. “I’m not going to hike all day with you when you’re in this kind of mood.”

She was talking about a mood. He rolled his eyes and put his hands on his hips. “You’re going to try to fly with that on your back?”

When Wyr shapeshifted, some magic inherent to the shift itself transformed whatever they wore along with them. The speculation was that it had something to do with how Wyr defined their own personal space, but the shapeshift didn’t work for special loads like the backpack.

She shrugged. “I can carry it. We’re headed southwest, right?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone short. He knew he was being an ass, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “See the ridge at the top of those foothills? Follow that as it curves along the range. The passageway to Numenlaur will be close to where that ridge ends.”

“Right.” She didn’t bother with more conversation. She shapeshifted, her wings flaring into existence on either side of the pack straps.

“Aryal,” he said.

She paused to look at him, one sleek, black eyebrow arched.

“Don’t go so far as to land at the passageway without me. The Elves that Ferion sent to the guard the passageway are stressed and isolated. They’ve lost friends and family, and they haven’t had any news for weeks about how things are going in Lirithriel. Wait for me to get there before you do anything.” He paused, gritted his teeth and added, “Please.”

“Understood.” She turned away from him and launched.

Quentin watched her gain altitude. She was in her element in the air, everything about her flight graceful and full of power. He couldn’t believe she had actually chosen to leave rather than argue with him. It seemed unlike her.

He rubbed his face, struggling with contradictory emotions. As abraded as he felt this morning, her presence could only be like salt in a wound. But he was still annoyed with her for being able to leave so effortlessly. He wanted to pick a fight with her. She had said some pretty goddamn presumptuous things last night, and he took exception.

The silence was pretty peaceful though.

If he had been human, the hike to the passageway would take a couple of days, and much longer if a snowstorm blew in. He couldn’t get there as fast as Aryal could by flying, but he could still make the journey quicker than humans could.

He took off jogging at an easy, ground-eating pace. Within a half an hour, he was so hot, he had to stop and strip off his jacket and sweater. He folded them up and used them as padding for the backpack, which he slipped back on. Once he was certain the shoulder straps wouldn’t chafe his skin, he resumed jogging.

The clouds that day were little more than filmy swathes of white, like transparent silk across the ice blue sky. The late winter sun was bright, pale gold on the muted greens and browns of the forest. The deciduous trees were leafless, allowing for him to see further in dense areas, but the evergreens were thick and vibrant.

He could pick up speed with more surety of his footing in the rolling meadows, but the uneven paths through the forest were slick with melted snow and damp moss. There he could only manage the steady, careful jog. Then he reached a point where the paths didn’t go, and he had to strike out on his own.

Throughout the morning, he brooded. Contrary to what Aryal had said the night before, he wasn’t anything like her. She had assumed that he wasn’t facing some kind of internal truth about himself, and that wasn’t the case.

He didn’t think that the darkness that lived at his core was wrong, or evil. He didn’t try to deny or hide from what was inside of him.

He tried to protect everybody else from it.

He knew what kind of strength he had, and he knew that he had dangerous attributes. So had his father, who had seen him trained from an early age, both in magical and martial arts. His father’s goal had been to avoid him becoming a loose cannon, with too much ability and not enough skill. Quentin had kept up with the training when he reached adulthood because the push and strain appealed to his aggressive nature.

The result was that he could kill with a single blow. Breaking a couple of bones was even easier, especially if his sex partner were a human.

But if Aryal wasn’t on target with what she had said, why did he still feel so restless and dissatisfied?

At midday he reached the ridge. He followed along the edge until he came to a lake, where he decided to stop. He had burned off his breakfast and then some a long while ago. He drank his fill from the bone-numbing cold water. The lake was such a deep blue, it looked like a huge sapphire rested in the depths underneath the surface.

Then, instead of taking the time to set up a fire ring and cook, he opted to do what he had done that morning, which was open up a couple of cans of food and eat the contents cold. It wasn’t appetizing, but it was fuel. He was looking forward to a hot meal that night, though.

He sat on the large trunk of a fallen tree as he ate. His body gradually cooled, but the light breeze still felt good on his sweaty skin. The temp was probably in the midforties, but he didn’t plan on stopping long enough to cool down to the point where he would want to shrug on his sweater again.

A shadow fell over him. He looked up. Aryal coasted on a thermal overhead. She wheeled and came in for a landing, then shapeshifted and walked over to him. Her color was high, and she looked more vital than anything else on the landscape, an intense concentration of energy and physicality.

She had found somewhere to stash her pack, because she was no longer carrying it. Her gaze fell to his bare chest and lingered. He turned away and snapped at the last of his food, swallowing it down without really chewing.

Aryal sat beside him, drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around her knees. “You’re making good time,” she said. “There’s a hunter’s cabin that I think you can reach by nightfall, if you push.”

A hunter’s cabin would be shelter in the form of at least four walls and a ceiling, and probably a fireplace too. Hunters’ cabins were rarely large, luxurious places. They would be lucky if there was more than one room. It meant sharing a confined space with her again. He heaved a sigh that was halfway to a growl. “We’ll see.”

She tilted the toes of her boots up and looked at them. “I found a passageway.”

Irritable at his meal that had been filling yet not satisfying, and in the mood for something sweet, he had begun to dig in his pack for an energy bar. He frowned at her. “You found a passageway?”

She grimaced and lifted a shoulder. “It seems to be in the right location, but I didn’t land like you asked, and I don’t know that it’s the Numenlaur passageway.” She looked at him sidelong. “Thing of it is, I didn’t see any Elves nearby, so I’m not sure.”

He considered that as he tore the wrapper off his bar and took a bite. “Did you catch sight of a camp?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It couldn’t be the second passageway, could it? The one that leads to the Lirithriel Other land?”

He chewed thoughtfully. He wouldn’t have thought she would have flown that far off course, but just in case, he asked, “Can you sketch where you found it?”

She slipped off the tree trunk, found a stick and started drawing in the mud at the edge of the lake. “I followed your directions. Here’s the ridge. It curves around the edge of this outlying mountain that sort of sticks out from the rest of the range like a stubby thumb.”

He lifted his eyebrows. She certainly had a unique perspective from the air. He said, “Okay.”

“The ridge ends here, in a deep big ravine.” She slashed at the mud. “It’s actually bigger than a ravine, more like a canyon. That’s where the passageway is.”

“That sounds right,” he said. “Remember, I’ve never seen the passageway myself, but that’s pretty much what Ferion described. The other passageway is a good fifteen to twenty miles farther on south from there.”

She looked up at him. “So where are the Elven guards?”

“Elves are very good at blending into their environment,” he said as he finished the bar. He rinsed out the empty cans, crushed them underneath the heel of one boot and tucked the metal back into his pack.

Aryal stood tapping her foot. “I know that.” She scowled. “Okay, so maybe I didn’t actually set both feet on soil, but I flew down really low, right over the tops of the trees and sometimes in between them. I don’t think the guards are there, Quentin.”

He gave her a long look. He didn’t waste time calling her on her legalistic thinking, just focused on her story instead. He also didn’t bother asking her if she had seen any signs of an old campsite. When the Elves broke camp, they removed all traces of their visit on the land. If they had been there and departed, they wouldn’t have left any signs for someone to find.

“So either I found the wrong passageway …” she said.

He glanced again at the map drawn in the mud. “You didn’t.”

“Or for some reason the Elves felt the need to cross over into Numenlaur,” she finished.

“I guess they might have,” he said. “I wonder what could have caused them to cross over, and if they did, why didn’t they leave someone on guard at this end, like they had been ordered?” His shoulders were not happy about his picking up his pack again. He paused before he slipped it back on. “There’s a third possibility. Maybe they never arrived.”

“Whatever the possibilities, they lead to just two questions,” she said. “Where are the Elves now, and why aren’t they where they are supposed to be?” She focused on him. “Stop that. Take your pack off.”

He asked suspiciously, “Why?”

“I’ll take it.” She held out her hand. “You’ll make better time without it. If you can change, you’ll definitely reach the cabin by tonight. The passageway is just a couple of hours’ hike beyond that point. We can be there by mid-morning.”

He paused as he thought about that, studying her face. If he handed over his pack, Aryal would have all of the supplies along with the car keys.

Even if she decided to do something pissy, like take off with everything, the theft wouldn’t hurt him, only inconvenience him. He knew his survival skills were more than good enough to handle the terrain, and he would keep his weapons on him.

He had hesitated a moment too long. Her eyes narrowed in either disgust or impatience. She said, “Don’t be stupid. I thought we were at least past that point.”

“Fine,” he said. “Hold on a moment.”

Along with handguns and knives, they had both brought short swords, the kind that could be stowed along the length of the inside of their packs. Legally, they could have brought long swords, but those tended to be more trouble than they were worth on long airplane flights.

He was already wearing the knife. He opened up his pack and drew out the sword and the gun, then handed the pack over to her.

She slid it on with a near-soundless grunt, and adjusted the weight.

“Where’s the cabin?” he asked.

She gave him directions, shapeshifted and visibly braced herself. She had gone much farther than he had already, and yes, she had a pair of wings that allowed her to cover more distance quickly, but she had also scouted the surrounding terrain with what sounded like a great deal of care. He didn’t think it was easy for a large avian Wyr to coast so low to the ground that she could fly between trees. She had to be tired.

The word he wanted to say stuck in his throat a little. “Thanks.”

She made a face. “I just want to get to the passageway as fast as we can, so forget it.”

“Already done.” He stood back and watched her launch.

Man, she might get under his skin like the most irritating splinter ever experienced, but he had to admit one thing. She was truly something to see when she took flight.

He shapeshifted too, and the panther raced after the harpy, following the direction of her trajectory.

Aryal landed at the hunter’s cabin with a sense of relief, and as soon as she could, she shrugged out of Quentin’s backpack. As a harpy she could fly for days if needed, but that was if she stayed in her natural state and she didn’t try to carry any extra load. With weapons, some canned and dehydrated food, clothing and the camping supplies, both hers and Quentin’s packs had been significant weights to haul around in the air.

The cabin was nestled in a hollow of land and surrounded by trees that would provide some protection from the most severe weather. It was a rough building, not much more than a single room, with a fieldstone fireplace and wood-framed bunk beds, but there was already plenty of firewood stored in a lean-to. There was also a clear running stream for fresh water, and a cleaning station for fresh game or fish.

She tossed Quentin’s pack into a corner, built a fire in the hearth, and as the warmth began to fill the space, she shook her sleeping bag out on the bottom bunk and threw herself on it with a sigh. She guessed it was early evening, around five thirty. Back in New York, it would be approaching midnight. Here, darkness was beginning to spill into the corners of the land, covering the secretive pockets where shy creatures hid. Tonight was going to be cold. It might even snow.

She closed her eyes and drifted. All her drifting thoughts swirled back to Quentin.

Coming upon him shirtless as he ate lunch had been a shock. Maybe it wouldn’t have been if it were high summer. She hadn’t expected the sight of his broad, bare shoulders in the winter landscape, and she had coasted for a few minutes just so that she could stare.

Last night, his face had turned to stone when she spoke the truth as she saw it, and this morning his temper had been so foul, she couldn’t fly away fast enough. She wasn’t sure what she had said that had struck him so hard, but she figured if they really weren’t going to kill each other, the best thing that could happen for the both of them was to get a little space from each other and regroup.

Taking the day to be by herself and surrounded by nature, not by concrete and asphalt, had worked wonders on her own temperament, and when she had talked to him at midday it had seemed to help him as well. He’d been calmer, if not exactly cheerful.

And half-naked.

Win-win.

She stretched, her shoulder muscles aching pleasantly, and toed off her boots. Then she sat up, stripped off her clothes and shapeshifted into the harpy again. Once she had changed, she went outside to splash off in the stream. The harpy loved it, but the biting cold water carried melted snow off the mountains and it was much too frigid for her to enjoy in her human form. The cabin didn’t have running water, nor was there any way to heat up large quantities of water, so this was the closest she was going to get to a bath tonight.

After she finished, she went back in the warm cabin and shapeshifted into her human form. She pulled on fresh underwear, then dressed in the same clothes she had on earlier, enjoying the peace and quiet of having the cabin to herself while she tried to make up her mind about whether or not she would try to seduce Quentin.

Hate sex still sounded awfully good. Biting him while they rolled around on the floor and screwed each other like crazed monkeys … She could take that gorgeous penis of his into her body, lock her legs around him, pump his rocket engine and not let go until they both shot to the moon. Mmmm. Yeah.

But they had already almost gone beyond that point into some other strange place. It was still an angry place that mingled sex and violence together, as they dared each other to do things they would never consider doing.

Except.

It would be truly magnificent to get him, Quentin Caeravorn, on his knees, to harness that sexy man and own him for a little while. He was no submissive, and that would make it even sweeter. The thought of it was almost enough to get her to agree to the dare. A time where he submitted, and gave up control to her, and in return she would give the same to him.

The problem was, neither one of them were submissive types. They were both dominant personalities.

Hell, Aryal didn’t even fit very well into a normal BDSM definition. She had explored clubs for a short time, intrigued, but the bottom line was, the lifestyle was much too intricate and stylized for her. She had neither the interest nor the patience to learn all the codes of conduct. She wondered if Quentin had.

Giving up total control to someone else either called for a radical kind of trust and immense self-control, or it called for a certain kind of suicidal craziness.

She didn’t trust Quentin, and she was certain he didn’t trust her.

That only left the other option. She threw herself on the bottom bunk again, stretched her arms over her head and laughed.

The cabin door opened. Quentin walked in, bringing the scents of the forest in along with him. Fresh cold air gusted through the room.

He looked around the cabin and took everything in with one quick, assessing glance. Only then did he look at her, eyes narrowed. He shut the door behind him.

Inane words ghosted through her head.

There you are, so you made it. About time you showed up.

Feel like taking off your shirt again?

She asked, “What are you going to fix us for supper?”

He glowered at her, so apparently his mood had returned to normal. “I fixed supper last night, and you didn’t stay around to eat any of it.”

“That was then.” She yawned. “This is now.”

“You could have fixed something for supper yourself by now,” he pointed out.

“No, I couldn’t. I did a lot today, and I only just got clean.” She put her arms behind her head, watching him under lowered eyelids as he hefted his pack from the corner where she had tossed it and set it on the cabin’s only table. “The bathroom’s all yours.”

His head lifted, and he looked around the cabin again, then at her with his eyebrows raised. She smiled and pointed to the door, and he laughed.

The sound was even more shocking than the sight of his bare chest had been earlier.

Listen to us, she thought. I crack a joke, he laughs. We are actually being halfway civil to each other.

The concept was so strange, she felt as though they were screwing around with some kind of law of physics.

After he dug through the pack, he set containers of food on the table. They both had a few cans of beef stew left, along with some energy bars, and a few dehydrated meals that Aryal would rather be near death’s door before she would touch. After contemplating the selection, he shook his head. “Screw it. This is good enough for now. I’ll hunt tomorrow.”

She grunted and pushed off the bunk. “I’ll heat up a few cans of stew.”

She took two cans from him, and two from her pack. While he disappeared outside, she opened up the cans and set them close to the fire. He came back shortly afterward, with his hair damp and his tanned skin ruddy from washing. He watched her stir the stew and, using the sleeve of her sweater, rotate the cans so that they heated from all sides.

The silence grew weighted. More words occurred to her, things she imagined another female might say.

About last night, I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. If I did, I’m sorry. Are you okay?

But the thing was, she wasn’t sorry for what she had said. She had spoken the truth as she saw it. And she didn’t think she had any power to hurt Quentin’s feelings. For that to happen, he would have to hold her in some regard so that her opinion mattered to him. At the most, she had irritated and infuriated him.

As far as asking if he was okay … She glanced sideways at his unrevealing expression. The strong bones of his face were accentuated in the firelight. The tiny mark she had made on his lower lip had long since healed. He looked as he so often did, self-contained and remote, a citadel with a door of hammered gold guarded by an intricate, magical lock.

What would it take to unlock that door? Some kind of incantation written in a language she didn’t know.

She felt the same impulse to needle him that she always did when she saw that expression. For once she held it back. Instead she carried the hot cans over to the table, two at a time.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She ate her own stew thoughtfully without replying. A second thanks in one day. He might be okay, but he was still acting a little off. If she took herself out of the equation, what was left?

She asked, “Do you know any of the Elves that Ferion sent to guard the passageway?”

“Yes, I do.” He scraped the last of the stew out of one can. “There are four of them, including a young Elf named Linwe, who is Ferion’s niece on his mother’s side.”

The Elven community was a tight-knit one, made even more so by the recent tragedy. She knew how she would feel if any of her friends were missing. She rubbed her face and said, “You know, we don’t have to spend the night here. If you want we can push on until we get to the passageway.”

He lifted his head from his food to look at her. “Push on.”

“Yes.” She widened her eyes at his look of surprise. “You’re worried about them, aren’t you?”

“I’m concerned about them, yes,” he said. He pushed away the empty cans. “But whatever has happened, we need to remember they don’t know that we’re coming. They can’t have any idea that we would wonder about their absence on this end of the passageway. And none of them would casually disobey orders, especially on an assignment such as this. Either you made a mistake and they really are camped at the passageway entrance—”

“I didn’t make a mistake.”

He didn’t attempt to argue with her. “Or they must have a compelling reason for not being there. No doubt we’re going to find them on the other side.”

“Okay,” she said. “It makes sense. But we can push on if we need to.”

A crooked smile hooked up one corner of his mouth. “Did you just offer to do something nice?”

Nice. She shrugged away the word and sniffed. “Not only do I have friends, I know what it’s like to worry about them, and want to do something to help them if I can.”

He sat back in his chair, stretching his legs toward the fire. “You’re friends with Niniane Lorelle, aren’t you? Didn’t you go to Adriyel to help her when she was on her way to her coronation?”

“Yes, I did, along with Rune.”

He regarded her curiously. “What was it like?”

“The trip? Got to camp, investigate a murder, catch some people involved in treason, and go to a lot of parties. It was fun.” She yawned. “All except for the bit where Niniane was kidnapped and Tiago almost died.”

Amusement crept into his voice. “As fascinating as your account of the trip is, I didn’t mean that. What was Adriyel like as a land?”

“Beautiful.” She studied him underneath her lashes. “You weren’t yet born when Urien closed the border, were you?”

“That’s right. It was before my time. My father is half–Dark Fae and half-Elven, but he was raised by his Elven mother and didn’t maintain close ties with the Dark Fae branch of our family tree. Now he lives in Palm Beach.”

So his mother was the Wyr. Aryal was fascinated with the concept of having parents. She thought if she’d had parents, they would have driven her crazy. Or she, them. “And your mom?”

He shook his head. “She died a long time ago.”

“Have you tried to get in touch with your Dark Fae family since Niniane opened the borders?”

A grim smile pulled at his mouth. “They’re dead too. That side of the family bet on the wrong horse and got hanged for it.”

“Get out.” She sat up straight. “Were they involved in the conspiracy that killed Niniane’s family?”

He shrugged. “Apparently so. Remember, I’d never met any of them. They were just names to me. My father was pissed when he found out—not at the Queen, but at our family for having gotten involved in murdering the royal family.”

“Interesting,” she murmured. He hadn’t shaved that day, and pale gold dusted his jaw. His beard was a lighter shade than the smooth, sleek cap of hair on his head. Occasionally as he tilted his head, the firelight caught him just right and tiny sparks of light flared on his skin. It was … distracting. She wanted to lick his jaw, to find out if his beard was soft or rough, and bite at those tiny glints of light. She told him, “All right, yes.”

It was almost too subtle to see, but she had been watching him closely and could tell that his body had tensed. He turned and looked at her, his gaze full of barriers and secrets. “All right, yes—what?”

“I’ll take your dare,” she said, and her smile was just this side of a slow slide into suicide. “If you take mine.”