Remedy Maker (35 page)

Rhy’s gaze swung over the apothecary table. Everything remained as he had left it. His breath blew out in a rush and his hand rubbed his neck in time to his racing thoughts.

On the floor near the recliner, his gaze did an anchor drop to the mug resting on its side. A plunge of his heart followed suit and he dragged his weighted feet closer.

Kneeling down, he reached out and touched the cup.
Cold
. Beneath the mug, a dark stain spread on the blue Amish rug.
Wet.

Peripheral vision acutely aware, Rhycious lifted his head. His gaze moved in slow motion toward the bedroom door—where it stood ominously closed.

Twenty-Seven

The stiff carpeting of hallway bluegrass concealed hoofmarks left behind. On a whim, Aleksander hung a right in the palace corridor and high-tailed it out of the busy Communal Chamber.

He trotted to the end of the hall, turned right, and trotted some more. The passageway spilled out to the balcony walk overlooking the atrium three floors down. A fast glance to reconnoiter the third floor’s circular veranda running the diameter of the rock cavern, confirmed the absence of Yerdank and Dryas.

Shit.

It left him with the coin toss of doubling back, or going below.

He grasped the wood rail topping the balcony and leaned over to view the lower levels. Second tier visual validated the usual foot traffic. He scanned the ground level court, looking for a little man with a big-as-Mount Olympus attitude.

A guitarist caught his attention first. Riotous and bushy, the musician’s beard all but waved its length to garner the public’s eye. Alek recognized the disrespectful soldier who’d been patrolling the woods with Dryas. Still out of his fatigues—go figure. His tapping front hoof and thumping tail kept time to the instrument’s beat.

The second item of interest came in the form of a sorrel-coated regency guard who approached the musician.

Alek took two hoofsteps back and pivoted for the staircase. At the second floor landing, he paused and adjusted his side arms. The smooth handles of his sword and knives swept under his fingers, their familiar shape a comfort to him.

Wild-
thang
plucked strings and thumbed chords, never faltering in his music. The man played exceedingly well, and if the situation were different, Alek would have enjoyed kicking back with a barley pop and listening to the instrumental R & B.

He risked a glance across the vast courtyard where the two suspects converged near the fountain. The bearded man spoke, his lips moving beneath his whiskers. Dryas nodded in return, out of sync to the rhythm of the music.

Notes of clarity, worthy of virtuoso distinction, filled the air. Sergeant Dryas walked away, tail swaying, toward the great main entrance.

Original architects of the palace had carved the entry extra tall and extra wide—back in the day when catapult weaponry was still all the rage. More recently, banners, flags, or some other advertisement of herd interest littered the chiseled walls. The decorations muffled any backsplash of ricocheted echo and created a riot of colors.

And Trolls certainly did
not
build the inner chambers, contrary to what Troll Ambassador what’s-his-name had claimed.

Dryas entered the tunnel and quickly disappeared from view. Alek hurried to the side stairwell, near the mouth of the passage.

His front hooves were planted on the gleaming granite stairs, ready to descend to the atrium floor, when who of all Satyrs should come trotting out from beneath the balcony floor.

“Sergeant Dryas.” Albion’s bleating echoed down the alleyway.

The sergeant swept his tail to the side and glanced over his shoulder. Recognizing the owner of the teeth-grinding voice, Dryas crossed his arms and waited, cocking a rear hoof as if he’d like to kick the little goat.

Guitar music floated out in a stronger rhythm, stealing their conversation. What could the liaison of Boronda’s mythological creatures possibly say to a lesser ranked Centaur soldier?

While Dryas spoke, his arm flourished, the swing nearly smacking Albion in the face. Aleksander chuckled to himself when the little black hooves scrabbled on the sharp rock, backing away from the careless gesture.

Gamóto. I wish it had been the restroom instead of a clandestine meeting.
Nothing to do but gather intel and wait.

Albion fired back, his hand slashing the air in front of him. He shook his horned head in disagreement. Whatever the Satyr said to Dryas, it awarded him the middle-finger hand sign. Aleksander snorted at their mime work.

Spanish cavatinas emanated from the strings of the unlikely musician, drifting the smoky melody into the passageway leading outside. Alek studied Albion’s set mouth and lowered brows before the Protectorate trotted off down the tunnel. Guitar notes and the drone of many voices overpowered the tap-tap of his prettified cloven hooves.

For a moment, Dryas observed Albion disappear into the subterranean route. Then, as if he felt someone watching, he turned to look behind him, eyes piercing toward the atrium.

Aleksander ducked from sight and cleared the remaining stair levels until he pawed the lawn at ground zero. Checking his watch, he counted the hours before his transition. With the look of casual ease, Alek moved into the artery of tunnel activity and shadowed Dryas.

Another passage branched off ahead, leading to shops and eateries. Aleksander moved out of the pleasure walk and kicked it into all business. He wasn’t about to lose the dubious guard in the palace maze.

*    *    *

A second after opening the bedroom door, Rhycious knew Patience wasn’t in the house. There was no sense in shouting her name. His breathing increased with every cautious step to check the closet anyway.

Empty.

He turned to face the room, studying the modest square from a different angle. Pulse beats pounded in his ears, raising a racket in his head
. Maybe she went to her people
—Bacchus, let it be so. 

Sunlight cast through the blood-smeared window where his flannel shirt lay in a heap. The sight made Rhycious’s heart skip clear into his throat and lodge there. Chilled fingers spider-walked up his spine. He closed his eyes a moment to shove back the fear.

Under the shirt was his navy handled pocketknife glinting in the indirect brightness. Blade extended, sharp edge tinged crimson.

Gods help me. Blood.

In his mind, Rhycious fought to keep it together. To not shatter, break down, and tweak the fuck out. But his PTSD was a dirty barroom brawler and the disorder grappled and won as easily as if it were a thumb wrestle.

The cry that breached the air came from a wounded animal crazed with the pain of a twisted gut. More than anything, he did
not
want to touch the prints of red on the wall and window.

Again, trauma won out. He stretched his shaky fingers forward.

Sticky. Wet.

Hers.

His fingers curled in, capturing her spilled blood in his fist. The gods allowed this to happen. Anger conquered the void when his fright did the skidoo.

Humanity shed away, dropping like his winter coat. He raised his voice to the roof and shouted a soldier’s roar. A warrior stallion rose to take his rightful place.

My woman.

Rhycious flashed over to the oak trunk where his armor and weapons sat waiting. He flung the lid open and ruthlessly pulled them out. One at a time, buckles and straps snapped in place. Every sword he could manage was attached to him. Five-pointed throwing stars crammed the pockets of his vest, glimmering with deadly intent.

In and out, his chest billowed, moving in a series of jagged contractions.

Gone. Patience was gone. Another thunderous roar was released, filled with her name. Fury poured from his heart. A deep black freeze rivaling the darkest Eastern Seaboard winters.

Dressed in full combat gear, Rhycious stalked to the front door. The walls pressed in around him. Helplessness caged the wild beast within, locking him away from her.

Outside, the sunlight washed over the forest and he forced himself to breathe deeply. He only achieved one draw before he went back to panting.

Rhy vaulted down the stairs and sprinted to the rear of his cabin. Slapped on from the outside, the gory palm print stamped the window. While the knowledge helped to decrease his blood pressure, the damage was done. His violence ran so deep, so vicious, that it puffed out in steam clouds from his breath.

The sun streamed warm—his anger burned hotter.

Waves of incoherency took him further and further from himself as he embraced his disorder. Great amounts of catastrophic rage lay within his grasp.

His armored back pressed to the wall of the once idyllic cabin, he faced an unseen enemy in the woods. Bent grass and outlined footprints directed a path to follow. He’d rather plant a fucking GPS chip on her Nymph body than ever go through this again. Body angled, bowie knife drawn, he set off into the dense forested growth.

The hunted Centaur now stalked his hunter prey. He grinned ruefully.

Past and present coalesced into one. Odors of acrid battlefield smoke found only in his memory filled his nostrils, tearing his eyes, blurring his vision. A rumble, low and angry, filled the empty air between the tree trunks.

Thunder?

War drums?

It was getting louder, whatever the phantom sound was. He pulled a second weapon—his broadsword, steeling himself for a full frontal attack.

Staring across the forest floor, he couldn’t differentiate reality from fantasy. An odd sight spilled forth, like an army of invading ants. At the foot of the tree, where leafy piles had built, pine needles and twigs vibrated off the ground, dancing around one another. Root structures, tough as steel cords, heaved and rolled.

Rhycious took a deep breath and the temperature fell a good twenty notches.

Get ready, Rhy. Here they come.

The sound reached a bellowing howl. The ground shook so violently, particles fell from the canopy in a snow of debris.

In the deep recess of what remained of his splintering mind, Rhycious struggled to escape the sticky web of his mental deceit. Stampeding Centaur warriors appeared in ghostly form, jumping Wood Nymphs lying dead as logs. Swept along, he took up the familiar battle cry and swung steel, slashing beside them.

From then on, otherworldly beings reigned.

Phantom infantrymen filled the battlegrounds, contorting his reality with their vengeance, with foreboding, with the assurance of death. The empty eye sockets of his brothers were upon on him. A booming roar trumpeted forth, so loud it hurt his ears.

Across the soil burning in his mind, Wood Nymph soldiers advanced. Spires of smoke drifted up, blanketing the ground in a gray haze of confusion.

In spite of the weapons he carried, hand-to-hand combat it would be. Rhycious quickly secured his sword in its scabbard, swiping mini missiles from his vest pocket along the way. Chinese fighting stars left his hands, hurdled through space, impaling his spectral enemy in the head and torso. Blood spurted between boney fingers clutching at the wounds. A growing red wave seeped downward to splatter at his feet as a stain upon the dirt.

Tall, stately, and non-animated, a wide tree offered safe cover from flying arrows and crossfire traffic. He dared not lean against the gnarled bark to rest. Grunts of apparitional warriors sparred with the clang of steel swords louder than an explosion of crashing cymbals. All around him, mythic beings were locked in a mystic fight for life and death. He weaved the air in front of him with the bowie knife. Indecision and confusion welded together in one upsurge of devouring madness.

An overwhelming desire to sink to his knees and cover his ears broke over him. What a pansy.
A filly warrior
. No wonder the wraithlike military herd galloped past, ignoring him to give chase to their enemy. Rhycious locked his knees and raised a trembling hand to his forehead.

Bright shades of pink sparkled and danced in bubbles next to his head. In a movement so fast his eyes didn’t track it, a chestnut haired Nymph, covered in blood, came at him. The enemy’s wounds faded and glowed, marking his upper body in a macabre of ruby grids.

“Drop your weapons. Hands behind your head.” Yelling at the adversary, he grabbed the fighter and shook him, then hammered him against the tree.

“What? No!” Smaller than Rhycious, the thin man appeared stunned. The tango lifted a fist as if to nail him with an uppercut to the jaw.

Braced for impact, Rhy flinched in surprise when caressing knuckles bashed his chin—feather soft. Inside his head, raucous whirring increased in velocity, almost drowning out the soprano tones.

“Let go. You’re hurting me.”

What the hell?
He gave his head a shake. It’s a battlefield, for fuck’s sake.

Rhycious grabbed a fistful of the enemy’s soft shirt, astounded he would fight without protection of body armor. He hauled the lighter man forward, dragging his feet in the dirt, then knocked him back and sanded the tree with the pixie’s hide.

A small hand pushed weakly against his chest. The Nymph cried out, a high-pitched wail suspended in time, ending in a faded moan.

Phantasmic Centaur warriors galloped past, swords raised high, chasing fleeing rebels.
No! Not rebels—Nymphs.
Their ghostly bodies wavered, shimmering in the filters of dappled sunlight. There was no dust raised in their wakes.

Rhycious drew his Bowie even with the enemy’s neck. Fear caused blue-green eyes to spring wide. Long strands of dark hair blew across an angelic face that shook from side to side.

Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

Her?

Soft, shaking fingers caressed his cheek, stroking his sweat away. The creature repeated a word sounding very much like his name. Her enunciation wobbled, and she licked her dry lips.

Full and shiny. Kissable.