The Lost Reavers Read online

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  Dusk had fallen by the time they reached the hunting lodge. As with most things in Stasiek, it was a study in contrasts; a few hundred yards from the road and screened by a strand of ancient trees stood the small but luxurious estate in which the dukes of Stasiek customarily spent the night before making their triumphal entrances into the city, while across the road arose the Daughters of Fortuna, an ancient, grim building which housed over two hundred redeemed prostitutes whose quality of life was the butt of many a Stasiekian joke.

  Hugh smiled grimly to himself as they slowed and turned left toward the lodge, eyeing the Daughters and its many lit windows. It was a lie that dukes and dukes alone were given full run of that edifice at any time they chose, and the women held within. Still, the suggestion was too ripe for the people to give up, and so the legend lived on.

  The road wound its way through the dark trees, the gravel crunching under the wheels of the wagon, and before long the great stone posts of the main gate appeared, a lantern hanging from each illuminating both the ceremonial guards and the gleaming iron latticework of the gate.

  It took the guards but a moment to recognize him, and then they nearly fell over themselves trying to both salute and pull open the gate. Hugh graciously nodded back and led the way in, up the winding driveway to the grand lodge entrance, the front door of which was protected by an expansive stone portico large enough to shield a carriage.

  Servants spilled out the front doors, looking so alarmed that Hugh felt a twinge of regret for not having sent word ahead.

  Old Miran himself emerged, hair gleaming silver in the gloom and lamplight, to welcome him effusively and apologize that he’d had no warning. What ensued was the business of being welcomed into what was ostensibly one of his own homes; after the simplicity of the Rusałka, Hugh found the process wearying, but bore up as best he could, smiling and thanking everyone as they did their best to prepare suites, baths, a fine repast, and all that accompanied the visit of a lord.

  Anastasia took it all in stride, while Morwyn looked somewhere between bemused and bored. In short order they were parted, escorted to their own set of rooms. His own, Hugh realized as he entered, had just been turned out; the windows were thrown open to allow the dust to clear, and the bed looked freshly if desperately made. A fire was already crackling on fresh logs in the private fireplace, candles lit on gold candelabra, and fresh rugs and furs thrown down over the old flagstones, all of them glossy and clearly just pulled from storage.

  Hugh waited patiently as Miran bustled around the room, lamenting at the state of the furniture, mortified at the lack of fresh water in the cleaning bowl upon the bedside table, promising better beeswax candles, assuring him that breakfast would more than compensate for this poor reception, and entreating him a dozen times to give him but an hour to prepare a proper dinner which he’d be glad to serve in the main dining hall.

  “No,” said Hugh. “Rouse the cooks, stoke the fires, and prepare a full dinner at this hour? Absolutely not. Have a simple platter brought to my room, along with, say, five or six bottles of our finest wine. A bath, as well. Where I’m going there won’t be such luxuries, and I would take advantage of them while I can.”

  “But of course, my lord, of course, I ordered water be heated the moment I heard your cart wheels on the drive. And your companions…?”

  “Whatever they desire. They can dine where they will, or not. We leave at dawn. I imagine they’ll be taking their ease and preparing for the long journey ahead.”

  “As you say, my lord. And may I add - if I may be so bold? And only due to the excess familiarity my decades of services have perhaps allowed me? That you are looking uncommonly well, vigorous, even, as hearty as any friend of your family could wish. It does my heart good to see you in such fine fettle, my lord, it truly does.”

  And why shouldn’t I be? he almost asked, but that would have been needlessly cruel; of course, word of his licentious behavior would have reached the lodge. Instead, he inclined his head graciously, and after a few more disclaimers and apologies, Miran let himself out, swearing that the bath would be brought in short order.

  Hugh stepped through the great doors that opened to the private verandah, and there stood, arms crossed, gazing out into the dark woods, listening to the sounds of the night, or trying to over the bustle of the agitated lodge. Each summer his father had brought them here, both to get away from the heat of the capital and to engage in clandestine meetings with Mendevian dignitaries from across the empire. The previous emperor had been on his death bed, lingering for years, and his perpetual state of moribundity had acted as a terrible stimulant on every form of intrigue imaginable.

  Sadness fell upon Hugh like a leaden cloak. His father had thrown in with the wrong faction at the last, backed a bastard son of the emperor, and when that faction had fallen, been arrested and beheaded by the current emperor, then but a youth with barely any hair on his chin. Ruthless despite his tender years, and that day in which dukes and counts had been executed for opposing his ascension had become known thereafter as The Day of Black Blood.

  Hugh sighed. Old memories. All of this had taken place when he’d been but a boy. Their mother had ceased coming to the lodge thereafter, a habit only taken up by Annaro when he’d assumed the dukedom following their mother’s death eight years ago. Typical of Annaro, to spurn all emotional or superstitious traditions; he’d reopened the lodge, brought Old Miran out of retirement, and ordered it to remain perpetually ready for a visit.

  Memories. So many of them, and most of them bad. Hugh gripped the iron railing and stared off into the darkness, seeing nothing. For a long time he allowed his thoughts to wander, childhood reveries, chases and hunts, the booming laughter of his father echoing down the hall, the pet rabbit Annaro had gifted him when Hugh’d been just a lad, then served to him at dinner only a week later, laughing gleefully in one of his unrestrained bouts of joy.

  He’s just a child, he had overhead his father tell his mother as Hugh had wept into her lap. A cruel prank, nothing more.

  Servants carried a large copper tub into the room and set to filling it with endless streams of heated pitchers. Soon the panes of the double doors grew fogged, and Hugh turned at last to re-enter, nodding to the final servant girl who was stirring bath salts and scented oils into the water.

  “Shall I stay and help my lord bathe?” asked the girl, her voice somewhere between hesitant and daring.

  She was a comely thing, buxom and with freckles across her nose and cheeks, and for a second Hugh was tempted, but then he smiled politely and shook his head. “Here.” He drew a gold coin from his thin purse and pressed it into her palm. “Share this with the others.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said the girl, eyes widening, and curtseyed deeply before leaving, closing the door softly behind her.

  Tempted as he was to bathe immediately, he knew he wasn’t ready to relax. Riding for six hours was hardly enough to weary him, so he cast his eye around the room until he settled upon an old writing desk of worn mahogany.

  He grabbed it by a corner and hefted. Good enough.

  Without any drawers to worry about, it was a simple matter to lift it onto his shoulders, holding it in place by the front legs, and there stand for a moment, allowing his body to adjust to the weight. A couple of hundred pounds? Exhaling slowly he sank into a crouch, and then, just as smoothly, stood up once more.

  For ten minutes he repeated this motion, allowing his muscles to warm, his pulse to quicken, sinking and rising over and over again, never breaking his rhythm. After reaching two hundred repetitions he sank down into his last crouch, tipped the desk onto its rear legs, then crawled out from under it.

  Good, but insufficient. He moved back under, lay on his back, grabbed the upper edge, and pulled the desk down and then upside down. Then, hands flat against its underside, he set to lifting and lowering it, moving slowly, allowing his muscles to coil and uncoil.

  He lost track of time. Exercise
like this had proven both excellent to exhaust his endless energy and to calm his aching mind. Over the past few years, he’d discovered that if he pushed himself hard enough he could cease thinking altogether, his thoughts narrowing down to the intensity of the exercise, the sheer physicality of inhabiting his body as he forced it to labor for hours on end.

  Another couple of hundred repetitions. He righted the desk, moved to the doorway, and used the frame to pull himself up over and over again. By the time he was finished - he lost track of how many chin-ups he’d done - he was bathed in sweat, his muscles aching sweetly, and ready for the bath.

  Hugh stripped. A large platter of cold cuts and cheese along with slices of varied fruits were laid out on a side table, a thick roll of dark bread with a crock of butter beside it. For a moment Hugh was torn, but the hot water beckoned. He eased himself in, hissing with pleasure, for Miran had recalled just how hot he liked his water. Hot enough to cook you in, my lord. All we need do is add onions and carrots. Hugh leaned his head back against the turned rim, a smile crossing his face.

  Delicious.

  Time seemed to slow. Nothing existed but this glorious moment. This final bastion of civilization before he rode into the wild north. No copper baths in Erro, he warranted; best to appreciate this decadence while he could.

  The hoot of an owl came from the dark woods outside the open doors. The treetops whispered as wind stirred their canopies. In his mind’s eye he thought of Morwyn and Anastasia. His companions for the next seven months. How would they fare? Would they get along? His thoughts took a wicked turn. Anastasia was a disciplus. Was there a chance for something more? Of course he knew the Ballad of the Broken Vow, wherein a disciplus broke her oath so she could elope with her lord, knew the tragedy as well as any other noble. But that was but a song. Could she be enticed…?

  He pictured her expression as she’d studied his torso. How she’d reached out to touch him. The wonder in her normally reserved expression.

  Hugh smiled lazily, eyes closed. Yes, there was a chance. Something could happen up in Erro over the course of the long winter months…

  Hands slipped down over his shoulders. Hugh stiffened, then relaxed - feminine hands, long fingers, thumbs digging into the muscles of his neck, squeezing his trapezius. An expert touch, firm and strong.

  “Honestly, I said you didn’t have to…” he began, but then cut off as a wave of deliciousness radiated down from his neck. He’d no idea Miran had hired a servant girl with such amazing hands. She seemed to know exactly where to touch him. Thumbs moved in small circles, digging into heavy muscles, then traced down to his shoulders to knead him there, working back and forth, switching to knuckles.

  It was pure heaven. Hugh closed his eyes and relaxed. The heat from the bathwater, the delightful throb of his muscles, the girl’s surprisingly strong fingers - this was exactly what he needed. Had been missing these past three years. Would no doubt dream of over the coming winter months.

  There was a faint scent in the air, something he could just barely detect over the aromatic oils that glazed the surface of the bathwater in iridescent swirls. A subtle fragrance, reminding him of the forest, something akin to caramel, vanilla, perhaps.

  The hands worked without tiring. He was impressed. The few times the whores he’d hired tried to do the same, their fingers would give out in minutes, defeated by the sheer density of his musculature. This girl, however, worked him effortlessly. He felt like he was melting between her probing fingertips. Defeated by the balls of her thumbs.

  She shifted her weight and he felt the gentle brush of something against the back of his head - her breasts? And then her hand slid down his spine, a knuckle on either side, down the curvature of his back, and then slowly back up, the tinkle and splash of water, her fragrance growing stronger as she brought her head closer to his own. Her hand stopped halfway up his back, eased out and around to his chest, nails lightly raking his skin, leaving trails of fire in their path.

  Hugh couldn’t help himself. He felt his cock stir, his thoughts rousing from their sluggish stupor as his body awakened to a completely different possibility. He reached up, moving to cup the back of the servant girl’s head, but felt lips on his ear, warm breath, and stilled as she whispered, “Shhh….”

  Her hand descended his front, tracing the contours of his body, down over his abdomen, nails teasing and lightly scratching, down to where his cock now strained, rigid and yearning.

  A thought occurred to him. This girl didn’t know what she was getting into. If she got him started, he wouldn’t stop for hours. His curse. More than one whore had laughed, not quite believing him, claiming that a man who could come again and again was a girl’s dream come true, but most couldn’t take more than half an hour of his attentions.

  And that servant girl, she hadn’t seemed that experienced, didn’t… maybe couldn’t…

  Her hand closed around his shaft and he groaned. Perhaps she knew more than he thought. Her touch was so damn confident. She tugged lightly at him, teasing, the water making the friction intense, her cheek moving to touch his own, her other hand cupping his chin, raising his head so she could kiss his neck, soft full lips luscious against his skin. Her thumb rubbed gently from side to side across the head of his cock, and suddenly the thought occurred to him - what if it wasn’t the servant girl? What if - who -?

  He sat up, water splashing around him, turned, and then let out a shout of surprise. A stranger crouched behind the tub, almond-shaped eyes narrowed in delighted amusement, irises a luminous honey hue, hair a luxurious cascade of spun gold, her frame voluptuous, her nose snub, twin fox ears emerging from her hair, one of them sporting a gold earring.

  Fox ears?!

  Hugh pushed back, pressing against the far side of the tub, heart hammering, water sloshing everywhere. A thick, bushy tail undulated from side to side from behind her, the fur golden like her hair, the tip darkening to a burnished bronze then black.

  Slowly, the smirk never leaving her heart-shaped face, the girl pulled her arm out of the bathwater and propped her chin upon the glistening palm, elbow resting on the bath’s edge. “Hello Hugh.”

  “What - who -” The veranda. She must have come in from the woods. Thavma? No. Something akin to that, a forest spirit, perhaps, or -

  “Aw,” said the girl, pretending a pout. “You look adorable all confused like that. Come back over here. We were just starting to understand each other.”

  Hugh rose to his feet, water cascading everywhere, stepped out of the tub and over to the table where his scabbarded blade lay. One quick motion and he drew his sword, the sword gleaming in the firelight.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you? What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here?” She remained crouched behind the tub, cheek cupped in her palm, tail still moving slowly back and forth. An eyebrow quirked in amusement. “I thought that was obvious. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

  “Fucking fae,” growled Hugh. Instincts took over. He surged across the room, blade held at the ready. The fox-girl rose, eyes flaring open in alarm, backed away, but he caught her, drove her back against the wall, the length of his sword pressed to her honeyed skin.

  “You’ve come into the wrong fucking bedroom,” he growled, face inches from her own. “I’m the last of the Lost Reavers. You know who they were?”

  “Of course I know,” she said, the humor gone from her voice. “All my kind do.”

  “Then tell me why I shouldn’t cut your head from your shoulders here and now?”

  “Curiosity,” she breathed, voice husky, mastering her fear. “Why would one of my kind approach you? Not defend herself? What would prompt such a suicidal action, given your past? The very curiosity that holds your blade back even now.”

  Hugh grimaced. It’d be a simple matter to draw his blade across her neck, sever tendons, arteries, and muscle. Every instinct urged him to do so. One act of extreme violence and there’d be one less fae in the worl
d.

  But.

  “Explain,” he growled.

  “I will, once you remove your blade.”

  He glared at her. She met his stare with defiance.

  Why hadn’t he killed her already? What was holding him back? Her obvious physical appeal? His curiosity, as she’d said?

  Perhaps an aversion to shedding blood, after all these years?

  He wasn’t sure. But she was right. One false move and he could decapitate her. Grudgingly, he stepped back, blade held at the ready.

  “Thank you. My name is Zarja.” She placed a hand to her neck and took a step forward, and Fortuna wept, it was mesmerizing to watch, that simple act, the feminine interplay of hips and shoulders, the lithe, animal-like grace, the depths of her honey-colored eyes that yet betrayed a mixture of fear and confidence.

  “As for what I want, Hugh of Stasiek, that should also be clear.” She wiped her wet hands down her front, the motion slow, deliberate, the flimsy white cloth darkening and sticking to her full breasts. “It’s what I’ve wanted for some time now. What I’ve finally decided to take.”

  He sneered. “If you think I’ll bed the first fae bitch that wanders into my bedroom, you’re deeply mistaken.”

  “I think you might, yes.” Her voice had grown low, husky. “I’ve been thinking, dreaming of this body of yours for too long now. Listening to the cries that came from your tower, the women who couldn’t take you, not all of you, thinking to myself, oh Zarja, you could take him, take him to the hilt, over and over again, long past when any mortal woman would beg for mercy…”

  It was a spell. He couldn’t move as she stepped up and pushed his blade away, uncaring of its wicked edge, her face upturned, inhuman in its seductive beauty, all curves in a tight package, the scent of her filling the air, vanilla and caramel, her tail and ears making the moment surreal, a dream from which he couldn’t wake.