The Shadows of Night (3 page)

Hart had worried more than once that his life lacked any sort of purpose, any compelling interest.
 
Though he was the monarch’s son, he did little to serve his people, because they needed very little.
 
There were times he longed to do something worthwhile, something important.
 
There were times he longed for something interesting to happen, in order to break up the quiet monotony that was so much a part of Antler existence.

Saving the Claw’s life was the first worthwhile thing he had accomplished in years.
 
And her presence certainly added an exotic spice of interest to his life.
 
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Father hasn’t gifted me with anything,” he replied.
 
“He’s made me the Claw’s keeper.”

“Keep her carefully, brother.
 
You and I both know the Claw
are
not to be trusted.”

Unbidden, a memory flickered through Hart’s mind.
 
The memory of himself, smaller, his antlers not yet fully grown, and his brother, so young his hide was yet spotted, deep in the forest and surrounded by snarling Claw.
 
The fear and horror he’d felt that day was burned into his brain and body, burned so deeply he could never hope to eradicate the scar.

“Yes,” he
answered,
his voice grim.
 
“I know well enough they cannot be trusted.”

Prong moved one of the carved wooden pieces, an insignificant, small move that made no sense, as far as Hart could see.
 
“And yet I hear Claw women are wild in bed,” he said.
 
“Unrestrained.
 
Violent.
 
Like nothing you could imagine.”

“I have absolutely no intention of imagining anything.
 
She is our enemy, Prong.
 
At least, our hereditary enemy.
 
And she despises us.”

“Pity,” Prong said.
 
“It seems as if it would be an interesting experience.
 
Hmm.
 
Well, if you’re not interested…”

Hart paused in the act of moving a wooden panther.
 
He lifted it and pointed it at his brother instead.
 
“Do not even think it, Prong.
 
I am her protector, and I won’t permit her to be mistreated.”

“Think you that I am in the habit of mistreating women, or that they object to my intentions?”

Hart narrowed his eyes.
 
Prong was handsome, disgustingly so, with features that were almost too beautiful to be real, surrounded by a mane of fiery red hair.
 
Hart had never known of a woman to object to Prong’s intentions.
 
But he wouldn’t permit the Claw to be taken advantage of, either.

“She is our guest,” he said, moving his Panther piece to a blue square in order to defend his Monarch.
 
“You will not touch her.
 
Do I make myself clear?”

“Cease pawing the ground, brother.
 
I won’t touch your woman.”

“She is not
my
woman
.”

“Are you quite certain?”
 
Prong moved his Wolf a single space, then lifted his head and regarded his brother with a glint in his dark eyes.

Hart studied the board for a long moment.
 
“You’ve defeated me,” he said with a long-suffering sigh.

Prong’s mouth curved in a smile.
 
“I always do,” he said.

*****

By the next morning, Katara’s headache had ebbed, leaving not so much as a dull throb in its place.
 
The old Healer woman, Otwa, looked down at her.
 
“It appears you are ready to be released from the regen field.”

The regen field?
 
Katara supposed that was the name of the magic that had kept her immobile and healed her wounds.
 
A faint admiration for these people and what they could do tugged at the edge of her consciousness, but she forced it back.
 
She did not want to admire the Antler Kindred.

“Fine,” she snapped.
 
“Let me go.”

“One moment.”
 
The woman lifted her hand, showing a wide golden collar studded with jewels, which she snapped around Katara’s neck.
 
“There,” she said.
 
“Now you will not be able to shift, no matter where you go.”

“That will not prevent me from ripping you limb from limb,” Katara answered pleasantly.

The woman paled.
 
“
Which is why I am going to step outside before releasing you.
”

She walked hastily toward the metal door, which slid out of her way, and disappeared into the hallway beyond.
 
The door slid shut behind her, and a moment later Katara discovered she could move.

Remembering the dreadful extent of her injuries, she sat up cautiously, expecting a wave of dizziness, nausea, and perhaps even pain.
 
But her head remained clear and her body free of pain.
 
She felt healthy, disgustingly so.
 
Sliding her feet off the table, she dropped lightly to the floor and stood up, discovering she was steady on her feet.

Experimentally, she tried to shift, but to no avail.
 

She snarled and reached for the collar.
 
Her questing fingers were unable to determine how it was fastened—it felt like a solid, unjointed piece of metal—and several minutes’ worth of work had absolutely no effect.
 
It evidently required some sort of tool to be removed.
 
Putting that problem aside for now, she stalked toward the door.

Despite the respectful way it had slid aside for the old woman, it didn’t open for her.

She attempted to force it open, but her prying fingers had no effect.
 
Deprived of that avenue of escape, she began stalking restlessly back and forth across her prison, seeking another way out.
 
There were no windows, no other doors, not even a closet.

She was still prowling the room when the door opened and Lord Hart entered.

He was every bit as handsome today as he had been yesterday, and since she was healthy and whole today, her body reacted much more strongly to his appearance.
 
His features were stamped with fierce pride, his head held high, and he moved as if he ruled the world.
 
His combination of authority and arrogance drew a reaction from the depths of her body, and she felt an unwelcome spasm of need between her thighs.

He halted a fair distance away from her.
 
“I see you are feeling better,” he remarked.
 
“I am glad to see you on your feet.”

The fact that she was entirely naked barely registered on her consciousness, so accustomed was she to nudity.
 
She spun around and strode toward him, pausing mere inches away.
 
A corner of her mind noticed that he was much taller than she was, but she refused to be intimidated by such an irrelevant detail as his size.
 
Let her shift, and he would be the one intimidated.

“I am much better,” she answered, glaring into his eyes, her chin held at a belligerent angle.
 
“I demand that you set me free.”

“You overheard my discussion with my monarch yesterday.
 
You know I cannot do that.”

“You cannot expect me to live in this chamber for the rest of my life!”

“No.
 
This is a medical chamber.
 
I will gladly escort you to a more comfortable room.
 
I will even allow you to walk the keep, provided that I am with you at all times.
 
But first you must agree to harm no one here.”

She snorted.
 
“You spread out a feast before me and then tell me I may not eat?
 
That is like penning an Antler in a meadow and telling him he may not graze.”

“You will give me your word you will not hurt any of my people,” he said between his teeth.
 
“Only then will I permit you to leave this chamber.”

She hesitated, thinking about the offer.
 
It was evident that she wasn’t going to get out of this chamber.
 
Maybe if she was able to study the keep, she could find some way of escaping.
  
Perhaps she could even convince him to remove the collar if she behaved.

At any rate, despite his obvious belief that she was a barbaric animal—a belief she admitted she’d done nothing to change with her threats—she wasn’t in the habit of killing innocent people.
 
Animals, yes; the Claw Kindred ate meat almost exclusively.
 
But she’d never eaten a Fang or Antler.
 

People were not animals, even if they took animal form. Her mother had taught her that from a young age, and had struggled to convince the other Claw prides of that belief, with reasonable success. A few prides still attacked the Antler when they ranged too far abroad, but they were decidedly in the minority among the Claw.

“Very well,” she answered.
 
“You have my word.”

The corners of his mouth turned up in a genuine smile.
 
The expression altered the planes of his face somehow, making what had been handsome utterly beautiful.
 
She stared at him, thunderstruck.

“Thank you,” he said.
 
“Then I will show you to your chamber.
 
But first, I brought you some clothing.”

He extended a bundle of cloth, and for the first time she realized she was naked in the presence of the enemy.
 
Naked…and standing inches away from a man.
 
Her people usually went nude to facilitate shifting, except in the coldest depth of winter, so this was not an unusual situation, yet her body’s response was totally unfamiliar.
 
Heat burned between her thighs, and a startling rush of flame filled her veins, flushing her skin.
 
Whether the flush was embarrassment or arousal she was uncertain.

She took the cloth from him with an impatient swipe of her hand,
then
hesitated, studying the unfamiliar clothing.

“These are the breeches,” he said with elaborate nonconcern, pulling out a dark green garment made of fine, silky cloth.
 
She noticed that he was very carefully making eye contact, refusing to look below her chin.
 
“And…the undergarment.”
 
He handed her a small scrap of fabric.
 
“And the tunic.”
 
The tunic was the pale green of spring leaves.
 
He turned his back, allowing her privacy.

 
Inexplicably irritated by his show of indifference to her body, she was seized by an imp of mischief.
 
“Thank you,” she answered,
then
pulled on the undergarment.

“I fear this may be too tight,” she said.

He didn’t turn.
 
“When you are installed in your chamber, I will see that the attendant brings you a selection.”

“But how will I know if it fits properly?
 
This type of clothing is unfamiliar to me.”
 
She smiled as she saw his back stiffen, and added, “I would be grateful for your assistance.”

He turned his head and regarded her over his shoulder.
 
She stood, legs braced wide and shoulders back, clad in nothing more than a scrap of fabric, and awaited his reaction.

His eyes burned with a dark flame, and she saw the muscles of his throat move as he swallowed convulsively.
 
He looked at her for a few seconds longer than necessary, then suddenly jerked his head away and stared at the wall.

“It appears to fit you adequately,” he said.
 
She noticed that his voice was harsh, with a clearly sexual undertone, and the heat in her veins intensified.

“Thank you,” she said, and pulled on the pants.
 
“And what of these breeches?
 
I believe they may be a trifle long.”

“Roll up the legs,” he responded, his voice a low rumble.

“I would very much appreciate your opinion—“

“
Roll up the legs
,” he repeated.

Realizing from his unyielding tone that he wasn’t going to look at her again, she pulled on the tunic.
 
The fabric was soft against her skin, a surprisingly sensual sensation to a woman who was accustomed to wearing skins or nothing at all.
 
“I am ready,” she said.

He turned his head cautiously, as if afraid she might still be unclothed, then turned and regarded her appraisingly.
 
His expression was unmoved, but unmistakable lust still shimmered in his dark gaze.

“The clothes suit you,” he said.
 
“The green emphasizes the color of your eyes.”