The Dark Queen (The Dark Queens Book 5) Page 11

  Because it was evident to him, even from this distance, that sadness and misery were her constant, and probably only, allies. She’d lived so long with the emotions that it clung to her like second skin, a living, breathing entity of gloom and bitterness.

  Owiot watched only her. No longer caring why he’d been dragged down here because all he knew was that he had to know her. He had to meet her. He had to talk with her. And deep in his soul, he knew she had to be none other than Hades’ little flower.

  Meanwhile, Fable herself seemed completely caught up and mesmerized by the blue fairy who flitted a few spaces over from her. The fairy, no doubt aware of Fable’s special attention, was chewing on her bottom lip with a nervous, anxious type of unsettled look on her face.

  If looks could kill, Fable would have ended the little fae, which made Owiot wonder what their history might be.

  A little while later the goddesses cried out that it was time for the women to “fetch their man meat,” goose bumps rose up on Owiot’s arms because the time had finally come.

  She stood by like a shy, timid little mouse. But he sensed she was not normally so. Her intelligent gaze looked intently at each and every one of them, reminding Owiot immediately of the same sort of look in her grandfather’s eyes—smart, cunning, and able to see beyond the mere superficial.

  Other women ran forward quickly, snatching up their men with a touch of their hand, causing both to vanish immediately to parts unknown.

  When he looked back at her, it was to note her looking squarely at him. Her gorgeous, golden eyes roved the shadows of his face as if trying by will alone to pierce through the veil Hades had poured over him to discern his true form.

  His heart thundered like wild stallions in his chest, his mouth grew dry, and his ears rang as he waited with bated breath for her to come to him. One step. Two. Three. Four...and then.

  She stood before him, and he was blasted by her overwhelming presence and beauty. She wasn’t simply pretty. She was heart-achingly lovely. Her features chiseled as though by a master sculptor. Vision breathed to life by the gods. She had high, slashing cheekbones, full lips that on anyone else would look far too big, but fit her face exactly right. A slender column of a throat, and skin so dark it blended near perfectly to the shadow covering him. The combination of such dark skin and equally light, golden eyes made it hard to not become enthralled. She reminded him of something...

  And then he knew. The black god of the Navajo people. He was the god of the nothingness of night. An endless form of pure, ebony black. If the black god had had a female antithesis, Owiot could only imagine she would be it.

  “By the gods,” he whispered, and she twitched, blinking prettily back at him.

  She said nothing, only cocked her head, causing a pitch black curl to slip out from behind her hood and dangle provocatively over her shoulder. Teasing him, tempting him to touch. He swallowed hard, knowing he’d never seen such perfection in his life.

  The air was laced with her scent, darkly lush and intoxicating. Like honeysuckle dipped in shadow and swirled in starlight. It was all he could do to keep his hands to himself.

  “Forgive me, male,” she said.

  And her husky voice wracked his flesh with a deep-seated yearning and need to be touched. She took so long he began to worry that she might never touch him at all. To go from being an unwilling participant, to now, actively desiring she reach out and take hold of his hand was astonishing. Owiot had always heard of the power of a true love match in Kingdom. How it could literally shake mountains and uproot foundations, but he’d always thought the tales nothing more than silly fluff meant to titillate the weak-minded. Now though, standing before her, and feeling the slickness of his palms, the rapid beating of his pulse, and the powerful shivers wracking his flesh he knew the stories were all true.

  Standing before him was a stranger, and a woman he was desperate to know. Only two other women besides Fable remained. The witch, Baba Yaga, and a centauress with a flowing crown of honey-wheat colored hair. All three women passed each other a hard glance, as though they spoke silently to each other of their misgivings and Owiot shook his head.

  He was about to tell her there was nothing to forgive and urge her to please hurry, but the moment her hand landed on his arm he was tossed violently through the sands of time and into utter and void darkness.

  ~*~

  Fable

  She’d not known what kind of land to expect. Grandmother hadn’t shared much in terms of what the games even looked like.

  Only that they’d each land in their own little section of it, apart from the other contestants. Fable could only reason it was so that the couples would get an opportunity to learn each other in a more private setting. Possibly.

  She wasn’t sure.

  So when she stepped through the veil of time and into her new and temporary realm, she was stunned to silence.

  This land was nothing at all like what she’d expected.

  The sky was a lovely shade of soft lavender—like the sky right before a cloudless sunset. Birds of every shape, color, and size flew breezily through the air. Air which smelled richly of flowers and ripe, sweet fruit.

  In the distance, she could hear the gentle roar of a waterfall. And the trees that surrounded them on all sides were the most gorgeous kinds of conifers she’d ever seen. The needles were a green so brilliant they almost sparkled like gems. The red trunks were neatly corrugated and thick.

  Woodland creatures—deer, squirrel, rabbits, and more scampered to and fro.

  The sky was full of the type of fluffy clouds that made one want to lie down and imagine that they were, in fact, moving pictures—a dragon, a castle, a handsome knight on his handsome steed—

  A very masculine clearing throat cut through her musings, causing her to gasp and twirl. She’d completely forgotten about her “chosen male.”

  It was on the tip of Fable’s tongue to tell him not to try and get close to her. Not to even speak to her. That she cared not a whit about finding a mate, or a future King. That she’d come to escape the horrors of her life and nothing more.

  Until she saw him, that was.

  His face looked to be chiseled from granite. There was nothing soft about him. He had a strong jaw, high cheekbones, a wide—but not too wide—nose. Ridiculously full lips for a male, and eyes the color of melted, dark chocolate.

  He also had a head of hair that could almost rival her own in length. It was long, coming to rest nearly at his waistline and straight as a board. It was dark, but not black—sort of a mixture of amber and mocha, so that when the weak sunlight hit it just right it gleamed with strands of deepest red.

  His chest, which was incidentally also massive, was bare. Showcasing his corded abdomen and small, circular brown nipples that poked out just a tad. He wore animal skin leggings that clung to his strong thighs like second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination, and moccasins on his feet.

  This male, this...man—for he was definitely that—was the complete opposite of her once king in just about every way.

  “Hahh,” she mumbled, pretty sure she’d not said an actual word, but unable to form anything more coherent than that.

  He grinned, and her heart trembled. Her stomach quivered, and she knew that if she tried to walk now, she’d probably fall flat on her bum.

  Breathing hitching as she struggled to string words together that made any kind of sense, she caught herself backing up a step when he began walking toward her. He might be gorgeous, but she didn’t know him. Fable had learned a hard lesson years ago.

  Sometimes beauty hid a wealth of evil.

  “Don’t...don’t come closer,” she said weakly. Sick at her stomach now because of the way his eyes had flashed with hurt.

  “Okay,” he said.

  And again her flesh prickled tight with goosebumps when he spoke. His voice wasn’t as deep as her grandfather’s or father’s, but it was soothing and melodious and entranced her all the same.

 
She cocked her head and her brows lowered. “That’s it?” she asked confused. “Just okay?”

  He spread his arms and hands wide in a semi-circle sort of gesture. “Just. Okay,” he said again, and she was confused.

  She’d not detected the hint of fear or hatred she was accustomed to back in her world when he spoke to her. His tone had been even, and gentle.

  But also sad.

  Very, very sad.

  And what she’d assumed at first had been caused by her, she now wondered whether it was more inherent to him after all.

  “What is your name, male?”

  Closing his fingers into a fist, he gently touched it to his chest and good goddess, she couldn’t explain what that simple little gesture had suddenly made her feel.

  Hot. Cold. Excited. Giddy. Curious. All of it, and more.

  “I am Owiot.”

  The way he pronounced his name, like “Ow-e-ot,” gave her shivers. It was lyrical and beautiful to hear, like ear candy, it tasted delicious. And she realized with a bit of a shock, that she was actually smiling at him.

  Once she noticed that she immediately stopped. Smoothing her features back into the tightly controlled mask she’d grown accustomed to over the years.

  “You are a god, aren’t you? Native American, if I’m not mistaken.”

  One corner of his delectable mouth curled up at the edge and again, it felt a lot like getting punched in the solar plexus. It was growing considerably harder to breathe right all of a sudden.

  She nervously placed the tips of her cold fingertips to the corner of her jaw, needing some sort of tactile sensation to drag her back from the heated curls of anticipation and excitement she felt just gazing upon him.

  He nodded. “I am.”

  She shivered. “Hm.”

  Fable really hoped it wasn’t going to become a habit of hers whenever she was around him now to mutter nothing but incoherent nonsense.

  “Hm,” she mumbled again and then wanted to smack herself. She was a queen. A feared and respected queen—well, not respected at all, but feared was true enough. She needed to remember who she was.

  Squaring her shoulders, she took a fortifying breath and then forced herself to say, “Interesting. And of what exactly?”

  It was fascinating watching the play of shadow and lavender sunlight dance upon his firm flesh. Good gods, when she’d seen his image in shadow earlier, she could never have imagined that the male would be so...so...appealing.

  Yummy.

  Gorgeous.

  He’d been tall. And slightly wide—which made her think he had to have some sort of musculature to him. He’d also been chosen by her grandmother and aunt, which meant he was going to be her physical ideal.

  Only thing was, Fable had never realized that her physical ideal wasn’t blond, and with clear colored eyes. She was, frankly, stunned that she liked looking at him so much.

  Her playthings had always fit a certain mold before. Young. Dumb. And vigorous in bed. But one thing they’d all had in common—no long hair. She detested the look of long hair on men.

  But especially if they didn’t at least tie it back or up. She’d shuddered every time she’d seen a man walk past with his hair hanging long.

  But with Owiot, she couldn’t help but wonder what his hair might feel like.

  He grinned again, as though he knew what she’d been thinking, and she cleared her throat, eyeing him angrily.

  “What?” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and notching her chin high in her imperious manner, mostly because she was mortified to think that he possibly had heard her thoughts.

  Some gods could.

  Though she’d not heard of Owiot before, she could only assume him to be a lesser god; it didn’t mean he didn’t have the capabilities of the greater gods too.

  When he spoke, he showed off a dazzling array of straight, white teeth. He really was exceedingly handsome.

  “Only that,” he said affably, “I answered your question, but I am not sure you heard it since you continued to stare at me in dazed wonder.”

  “Dazed wonder. Pft.” She rolled her eyes. “Give me a break.”

  That ever-present grin grew wider. “Am I wrong?”

  “Pft.” Was all she had to say to that. Because there was no way in Tartarus that she was going to own up to the fact that he was right. “I was thinking of something important.”

  Namely, how delicious it would be to peel those leggings off him and get a look at every square inch of him. But again, none of his business.

  “Now, repeat your answer back to me.”

  Yes, she knew she sounded like the evil queen again. But it was her fail-safe way. When life got out of control, it’s who she became. The hard-nosed, power hungry, bitch everyone knew and hated. Fable had lost what it meant to be vulnerable.

  She’d been so once and had very nearly died because of it.

  Vulnerability was a weakness and a disease she could not afford to entertain.

  His brows rose. Very thick, very beautifully formed dark brows that framed those gorgeous, sort of slanted eyes of his.

  Good gods, she was in so much trouble.

  “Are you so high-handed and imperious with everyone, Fable, or am I simply the honorary recipient of it?” He didn’t sound angry, merely curious.

  She gasped, mouth-hanging open. Because no one, no one other than her own family had ever called her on her bluster.

  Feeling suddenly foolish and even slightly mortified, she didn’t know what to do.

  “What?” she muttered.

  But he flicked his wrist. “It’s okay. I merely wished to know. My answer was, I am the Native American Children’s god. Though some have also called me the broody son of the Sky god. And still others simply call me sadness.” He shrugged as though it made no difference to him what she thought of the terms.

  Her cheeks heated with shame; thankfully her skin was so dark that he’d never know he’d actually gotten her to blush. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d blushed in her life.

  “Oh,” she said softly.

  But he no longer seemed engaged with her; he was looking over her shoulders. Squinting up into the distance.

  “I see a castle. I can only assume that is to be our home while we are here. Perhaps we should journey there before the sun sets?”

  He was brushing her off.

  And she didn’t like that.

  He wasn’t even being mean or malicious about it either, which would have made it so much easier on her because then she could have cursed him to be a newt and be done with it. But it was impossible to hate someone who seemed ridiculously, impossibly kind.

  Of course, this was simply her first impression of him. He might be an ogre, a monster, and the worst kind of villain. But deep down she sensed that what you saw with Owiot was what you got with Owiot. He’d not pulled any punches with her yet.

  She wiggled her toes, feeling strangely anxious and unsure.

  He looked like he was about to head off in the direction of the castle, and she suffered a very strange case of not wanting him to leave her just yet.

  Thrusting out her arm, she grabbed hold of his elbow in a firm grip. His skin was warm, addictively so. And he smelled amazing. Like the cosmos...full of stardust and night. He glanced down at her hand, then up at her with an obvious question mark shaping his brows.

  “We do not need to walk, male. I can take us there.”

  “You can?”

  “Mm.” She nodded, and then feeling the strange need to show off for him, she snapped her fingers and vanished them both in a plume of thick shadow. It wasn’t black magick she used, only that inherent to her own nature. It was magic, plain and simple.

  A second later they stood upon the stone landing of the massive castle, staring out at the lovely expanse of forest before them.

  In her dreams as a young woman this had been what she’d imagined the above would look like. A fairy tale fashioned of dreams and white magic
. Somehow, it was almost as if grandmother had plucked the idea from her head and had fashioned it to life just for her.

  Reluctantly she dropped Owiot’s arm, but not before brushing her thumb along the tight skin of his forearm. Her finger tingled when she pulled it back.

  He looked down at his arm, still wearing a frown, before looking back at her. “Thank you, female.”

  She shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

  This was the man she was supposed to find true love with? A part of her could almost believe it. But another giant part of her wasn’t sure she deserved any sort of happiness.

  Her life was so dark, so tainted, and ugly, and Owiot...he seemed anything but.

  Chapter 10

  Fable

  They were about to head into the castle proper, to explore it when she spied something dark in the distance. Dark, huge, and moving with great speed toward them.

  “What is that?” she asked quietly, not afraid, but more than just a little curious.

  No bird she’d ever known flew quite so fast. And though it appeared as little more than a black spec now, it was so far away, that she knew whatever it was, was actually massive.

  Owiot stood very still, looking to where she pointed.

  As it flew faster, the spec began to take on shape. It grew longer, more sinuous, and with an exceedingly broad wingspan.

  It also began to change in color. From dark, to a dazzling white—like that of freshly fallen snow glinting in the sunlight.

  A minute later, she knew exactly what they looked at.

  “I am not certain—” Owiot began to say, but she shook her head.

  “I do. It’s a dragon.”

  Dragon’s were dangerous. Territorial. And downright pissy at the best of times.

  Gathering her considerable power to herself, she vibrated like a tuning fork as her body swirled with shadow and the thickening swell of her dark magick.

  She was just about to blast the interloper with a bolt of it when the coloration changed once more—to one far more familiar to her.

  Golden.