Mona Lisa Craving Page 12

  “Aye, Marcus.” Rufus nodded. “And no holding back. I be wanting you and Jayden here to show me whether or not I should be moving these two young ’uns up to the next group.”

  It was a statement guaranteed to wipe the grin off of Marcus’s face, and Jayden’s as well. Jayden stood slightly shorter, just shy of six feet, and was built along less bulky lines than his bullish partner. But he, too, felt older in years.

  Rufus’s words snapped the two of them to full attention. Because what the drill master was really implying was that the two “young ’uns” were better than they were. Good enough, perhaps, to practice with the senior men.

  They paired off in grim silence, Dante with Marcus, Quentin with Jayden. Once their swords engaged, there was no holding back as per Rufus’s instructions. It was fighting that was almost frightening to behold. Whirling movements, dangerous flashing steel. Rufus came at Dante with full slashing force, and Dante smiled as if finally set free, his sword singing in turn, an eager, intent look in those pale eyes.

  Metal clashed against metal, the usual sounds. Then came the sound of something new, something that caught everyone’s attention. A lighter, higher resonance. Almost a clinking chime as Dante caught Marcus’s sword against his metal bracelet, deflecting the blow in a most unexpected manner. Dante’s sword darted forward and Marcus leaped back. The burly warrior gazed down at the neat cut that gaped open his shirt front, exposing the muscled slabs of his belly. The white skin itself was uncut.

  “Neat trick.” Marcus grinned, teeth bared, his dark eyes lighting up with the pleasure of a worthy challenge. “Let’s see you do that again, boy.” He lunged forward, a big bear of a man, his full power and weight behind the thrust. The high chiming clink sounded again as Dante deflected the blade past him with his right wrist guard. A quick turn and twist like the steps of a ballet, a lethal one, and Dante was suddenly behind Marcus, the edge of his own sword stopped a hair’s breadth away from the thick neck.

  Complete silence for one long moment, then big, bullish Marcus dropped his weapon. “And I’m dead.” He turned around slowly, unarmed. “Witch’s tit,” Marcus said, grinning. “That’s some real nice moves you’ve got there, Dante boy. Course, you’d be minus a hand now, if your aim with those fancy cuffs was off by a tad.”

  “True,” said Dante, lowering his sword. “Lucky, I guess.”

  “Lucky, my balls,” muttered Jayden. He and Quentin had stopped their fighting to watch the other two. As had all the rest of the men the moment that first clinking chime had sounded in the air.

  “You fight like the Lacedaemons of old,” said Chami, my chameleon. He was tall and boyishly slender, but his voice held the chill of death, stilling everyone. “You are descended from that line?” He asked the question of Nolan, with whom he had been sparring.

  “Yes,” Nolan replied, eyeing the smaller man warily. “It is not common knowledge among the other Queens I served. But Queen Mona Lisa knows of my lineage.”

  He’d only told me in a bid for his sons, casting it out as enticement for me to take them into my bed. Or maybe Nolan hadn’t tried to hide it from me simply because I’d already seen the unusual, distinctive manner in which they fought.

  “Of all the Queens, she is one you should have kept this knowledge from,” Chami said. His words puzzled me as much as they did Nolan.

  “Why do you say this, Chameleo?” Nolan asked, calling Chami by his full name. A name that stated what Chami was, and what he did. Chameleon. Assassin.

  “You do not know, do you?” Chami asked.

  “Explain yourself, chameleon.”

  Chami turned his gaze back to me. “Mona Lisa. If you will please show him your hands.”

  Feeling something almost like dread well up in me, I lifted my hands and turned my palms out to him. When Nolan caught sight of the pearl-like moles nestled in my palms, his sun-darkened face whitened, became ash pale. He looked from me to his son. To Dante, who watched us with his pale blue eyes glittering and gleaming like shards of ice melting beneath the sun’s brilliant light.

  Chami quoted the following words in an almost singsong manner, reciting them like an old familiar song. “With pale eyes touched by the faint color of the sky, the fierce son of Barrabus slew our heart, our hope, our Warrior Queen.”

  Hearing that name, Barrabus, something tingled to life within me. It was a name I’d never heard before. By the same token, deep in the soul of me, I knew and recognized it somehow.

  The charged tension between Chami and Nolan suddenly grew thicker, more threatening. Reacting to that incipient promise of violence, Tomas and Aquila moved swiftly in front of me, as did Dontaine, though he looked as confused as everyone else. It was like watching a play that had suddenly, unexpectedly, veered away from its usual dialogue and storyline. Only Nolan looked as if he understood it. And Dante. From whom men were protecting me—as if he were some horrible threat.

  “Chami,” I said, trembling from something right there, hovering on the cusp of my awareness, tickling my memory, but still just beyond reach. “Explain this. What’s going on?”

  It was Dante who answered. The words he spoke were almost lyrical, and his voice, fully recovered now, was smooth and rich, a sharp contrast to the harsh stillness of his face, the bitter fierceness of his glittering eyes. “Long ago on another planet, in another world, in a time of great strife among our people, there rose a Queen named Mona Lyra. She bore the marks of the moon’s blessing in her hands. The Moon Goddess’s tears, they were called, given to her by a mother crying over the blood being shed by her children, one against another, crystallized and captured in a woman’s hands, giving her great gifts and powers as healer and fighter both. A Warrior Queen.”

  The first time I’d met Gryphon, he had spoken of such women in the past bearing the same marks as I. Women who had been both blessed and cursed by their gifts, I remembered.

  “What does that have to do with you?” I asked. “With us?”

  “Damian, the son of Barrabus, was a warrior with eyes of silver touched by the sky.” Dante smiled, a humorless gesture, as I looked at his eyes, noted their color. “He slew Mona Lyra, killed the last Warrior Queen, and was cursed for it, he and his descendants. By the sword they would live and die. Damned, in an endless cycle of life and death, never ending. Reborn each time into an ever diminishing line of those who carried his blood. His curse was to see his line die slowly out, killing his heart as surely as he had cut down theirs. Lacedaemon was one of his descendants.” The line from which Dante and his family descended. The line that had been cursed.

  I pushed passed Aquila and Tomas, and if my hands shook and my heart beat rapidly, it did not show in my steady voice. “You speak of legends, Dante. Of people that may or may not have existed. It’s just a story. It has nothing to do with us.”

  “You are wrong,” Dante said, speaking as softly and gently as the breeze that blew across our skin. “I remember killing you.”

  ELEVEN

  WITH DANTE’S WORDS, over a hundred swords were suddenly raised up against him. The promise of violence hummed in the air and was reflected in Dante’s silver-blue eyes. All it would take to ignite it would be for him to lift his blade, the sword that was currently gripped loosely in his hand, the sharp tip resting on the ground.

  Something flickered in his eyes, and I knew he was going to do it.

  There was power in the ground where we stood. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of times before a Queen had called down the moon’s light here, and her people had Basked in the glowing rays. It was a sacred circle of light, of power. Of blood spilled on the ground in practice. Of challenges called and met here.

  I’d stood here once, and called down those lunar rays. Drawn down those butterflies of renewing light. And that once had made this place mine. It recognized me, accepted me, embraced me. This place, this clearing, was mine even more than the house where we slept and ate. This was my place of power.

  I called upon it now, drew upon it deliberately,
and the land answered me, wrapped me up in invisible strands of past and present power. All the authority that was mine, given to me, claimed by me, filled my voice as it rang out sharply in the suddenly still night. “Hold! Stand down, everyone.”

  There were times when I felt like I was stumbling around in the dark. As if I had tripped and fallen, and a crown had accidentally tumbled down on top of my head. Oftentimes, I felt as if I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, that I was not worthy. But all that confusion, indecisiveness, and inadequacy fell away. Here and now, in this moment, with the power and authority of this sacred ground thrumming through me, I was Queen as I had never been before. And I knew what was in my men’s heart. Every single one of them, even Dante’s. Especially his.

  “Dante.” I held his gaze. Let him see the understanding in my eyes. “It’s not going to work. I’m not going to kill you. Drop the sword.”

  A flicker in his eyes—surprise, wariness—as I began to walk toward him. He stood alone. All others had fallen back, encircling us.

  “It would be foolish of me to drop my only weapon,” Dante said, his tone easy, reasonable. I was not fooled by it.

  “And you are not a foolish man,” I said as I shortened the distance between us. “So why would you reveal yourself like that here in my circle of power, surrounded by over a hundred of my men, all armed? Bad odds, even for you.”

  “I was discovered, not revealed.”

  “You revealed yourself deliberately,” I corrected. “Why would you do that unless you wanted me to strike you down through my men.”

  I turned to fasten my gaze upon my guards, each and every one of them. “No one here is to lift a hand against Dante or his family, or you will be foresworn by me and cast out of my court. That is my command as your Queen.”

  As I drew uncomfortably closer to Dante, Dontaine dared speak. “Mona Lisa. My Queen, please—”

  “He will not hurt me.”

  “How can you say that and believe it?” Dante said, his calm façade dropping away. “I killed you before.”

  “If you wanted to hurt me, you could have done so before now. You had ample opportunity.” He hadn’t known me at first, when he had been stricken by the light-craving madness. Only when I had healed him and he had sought me out afterward. When I had lifted my hands up to him in an unconscious gesture to keep him away. He’d seen my moles then.

  I stopped before him, unarmed. Sure of him, sure of myself. “If you wish to hurt me, you can do so now and none of my men will stop you.”

  He did nothing. A most telling inaction.

  “Dante.” My hand reached out slowly to rest upon his hand, the one gripping his sword. “I know what is in your heart. I will not give the order for your death as you intend.”

  His hand spasmed beneath my light touch. “You should if you are merciful. It might end the curse. Satisfy it. My life for yours.”

  “Or begin it anew. Please, Dante.”

  His fingers opened and his sword fell to the ground.

  I raised my voice to the others. “Sheathe your swords, men.”

  They did as I commanded.

  I pulled Dante away from the temptation of his dropped weapon, and he came docilely along, looking confused, baffled. I drew him to his father, who watched us with shattered eyes.

  “Milady,” Nolan said, dropping to his knees, his head bent to the ground. “Thank you for your mercy. I had not realized. My family and I will leave here immediately.”

  “There is no need to go,” I told Nolan. “And every need to stay.”

  “For what possible reason would you want my family and I to stay here with you?” Dante asked. His hand was still clasped in mine, and he gazed down at our joined hands with almost a bewildered blankness.

  “For the reason fate crossed our paths once more,” I said. “For a second chance. This time as friends instead of foes.”

  Dante dragged his eyes back up to mine. In a low, deep voice, he asked, “Do you remember me?”

  “Not clearly, but some part of me does. Enough to be afraid of you,” I said honestly.

  “Not as much as you should,” Dante said. But he left his hand in mine.

  “We were enemies once, long ago,” I said. “And could have been again. First, when your father and brother snatched me. Then just now, when you made our past known.” And what a past it was. One that had taken place over four million years ago, in another world. But I could not doubt it, not when my soul recognized his.

  “We’re different people now,” I told him. “We’ve made different choices. If there is a way to end your curse, I believe that this is the way—to live a different life and not repeat the same mistakes of our past.”

  “You have no memories of before, do you?” Dante asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  “Some. Flashes of it. You may feel differently when you remember.”

  “Then I’d rather not” was my reply. “Remember it, that is. Whatever was then, now is a new time, a new life.” I looked at Nolan. “What I offered you before still stands. You and Hannah are welcome to stay here. Your sons also, until they go to seek service with another Queen. My sponsorship still holds, nothing on that has changed. If in the next week you and Hannah decide to seek another position elsewhere, you may do so at the next Service Fair with my full blessing. All I ask is that you stay here for a little while. Give us a try until then.”

  Nolan glanced at Dante, and some silent communication passed between father and son.

  Nolan nodded. “We’ll stay, milady.”

  I felt both relieved and nervous at his agreement. Just a handful of days, I thought, after which time husband and wife would hopefully stay, and the two sons depart. What could happen in that short span of time?

  TWELVE

  I HAD MY first dream of that long-ago time when I lay down to sleep that day. We were in the midst of battle. So much blood, I thought. And even worse than what coated my hands…so many lives I’d taken. Mostly innocent in the fact that they were merely following orders, their Queen’s. And therein lay the most guilt—with the ones who had decided this war, been eager for it. Blood had been spilled, but not theirs. Not yet. Their blood, now…I would not feel so guilty about theirs. Only then would this madness stop. And only then would the healing begin. But the healer part of me wondered if the lives I saved before and after would ever balance out the blood-drenched scales of now.

  A cry drew my attention, a voice that I knew. I cut down the one I was battling and turned, bloody blade in hand, to see Shel, one of my last few remaining strong warriors, run through by a sword. A heart wound, I saw, as the blade was pulled from him and he toppled to the ground almost gently. Incapacitating, but not fatal. Not yet.

  As the one who had bested my warrior lifted his sword for the killing blow, the beheading one, I lifted my hand and threw a punch of power from where I stood, making him stagger back away from Shel.

  He turned and looked at me, and I recognized him through the feel of his powerful presence and from his red-brown warrior bracelets that gleamed darkly against his wrists. Barrabus. Mona Ella’s warlord general himself. A warrior of great renown who had killed two dear to me in the last battle—Ewart and Trey, my strongest fighters. It was odd seeing his features in this dream, and recognizing the same likeness in his son, Dante, whom I’d come to know intimately in another lifetime.

  “Here, Barrabus. To me!” I called.

  With a fierce smile, he plowed his way toward me, sending those who tried to stop him hurtling away. Our blades met and I fought him as he deserved. With sword, with skill. With brute strength. He was a fearsome fighter, a most gifted swordsman who moved with swift, cutting grace.

  “Draw your dagger,” I commanded as the sword blades caught and held for a moment, interlocked. I tangled my foot behind him and shoved. He rolled backward, surprised at my strength, and sprang to his feet with the dagger I’d asked him to draw clutched in hand. He waited there, poised, ready.

  “You
do not draw yours,” he said.

  I held up my left hand. The Goddess Tear in the center of my palm pulsed and thrummed with power. “I have something much deadlier than a dagger. But that you ask and wait for me to draw my weapon speaks of the warrior you are. An honorable one. You are on the wrong side, Barrabus, serving a Queen who has no honor.”

  Something passed in his eyes. Silent acknowledgment of what I said. “She is my Queen.”

  “Because you gave me a chance, I will give you one in return. I ask you to join me. Serve me instead.”

  “I have sworn my oath to Mona Ella. I cannot switch allegiance here on this field of battle.” Regret filled his dark blue eyes and was reflected in my own, I knew, because in another time, a peaceful one, we would have likely been friends.

  “Then do not hold yourself back because you do not think me as equally armed as yourself. Because I will not hold myself back.”

  “As you say, milady.”

  Our swords clashed together again, and his dagger came at me. With a thought, a pulse of power, I blocked it, stopping his knife with my invisible energy shield emitting from my pearly mole. We held there for a moment, at an impasse. Then with a grunt, using his greater height and weight, he pushed against me. Feeling myself start to slowly give beneath his denser, heavier mass, I spun to the side. His sword struck me a glancing blow as he went sailing past me, slicing open my left arm. I lunged after him, my own blade stabbing forward in turn. In an unexpected maneuver, one I’d heard about but had never seen, he turned and deflected my thrusting sword with his wrist bracelet, using it as I had used the pulsing power in my left hand—as a shield. Then he used it as an offensive weapon, striking a side blow with the hard metal into my right side, knocking the breath from me. Caught unawares, with my shielding hand down, his dagger plunged into my chest and pierced my heart.

  What I did next was without thought, just instinct. The sword dropped from my hand and I lifted my palm against his chest. I had a moment to feel his heart beat once, a thud of life. Then my Goddess Tear flared. Obliterating power shot from my hand and took out his heart in an aching, throbbing burst of heat. A moment to feel pain even sharper than that caused by his plunging knife—a healer’s pain when she turned the use of her gift to take lives instead of saving them—and Barrabus was gone in a flash of light. A puff of ashes.