King's Wolf

Chapter 1

 

The field was scattered with the felled bodies of their foes—Authority Guards who had tried to take Lycan and Nic unaware when they were returning from a scouting trip to the Second Kingdom. Nic had been tired from the journey and Lycan had insisted he stand behind him, using his power to shield himself only and let his Protector do the fighting. For once, Nic did not put up an argument, telling himself that he could always step in if Lycan got into trouble.

The Wolf Leader had not. For all that there were fifteen armed men facing him with murder in their hearts, Lycan laughed, eager to defend his King. He morphed into his Wolf form and his speed was blinding as he leapt from man to man, incapacitating them; he gave them no time to do more than scream in fear. Within moments, they were vanquished; those who tried to run were chased down and shown no more mercy than they would have shown Nic and Lycan.

Before he and Nic left, Lycan stood over the leader of the Guards and howled his victory to the Moon, a call that was both thanksgiving and offering, he explained to Nic later, once they were safely away from the spot, leaving the bodies as carrion. Dishonorable men did not deserve an honorable disposal of their bodies.

As they rested on a soft bed of pine, Nic gently ran his hands over the cuts and bruises—remarkably few—that appeared on his mate’s human form. He didn’t bother healing them—he knew that his mate would find it insulting if he were to suggest such minor injuries were worth the effort.

“Have you ever lost a battle?” he asked, curious.

Lycan laughed softly. “Of course.”

“What did you do?” Nic leaned up with his elbow on Lycan’s broad chest so he could look into the amber eyes. There was amusement but also remembered pain.

‘Tell me, Wolf,’ he suggested telepathically, wondering what circumstances could have caused his powerful Wolf to lose a battle—Lycan seemed to know so much about when to fight and when to make a strategic retreat.

Lycan’s arms tightened around Nic, almost to the point of causing pain.

“I was not always this size, Cub—and I was not always wise about picking my battles. Bran had quite a task keeping me in one piece when I was your age, no, actually a good bit younger. One time…well, I learned my lesson very well. It usually takes only one time. You either learn the lesson or you die.”

Lycan paused and Nic thought he might have to prompt him again but then he surprised him.

“If I imagine it in my head, will you be able to see it—if I let you in freely? It is a lesson I would wish you to learn well and I do not have your way with words.”

Nic was touched by Lycan’s offer… and excited. “Yes, if you are comfortable with that. I will be careful and if you feel I am being too intrusive just push at me or….”

Nic could feel Lycan’s humor flow through him and the sense of his Wolf’s mind opening to him almost before he reached out—he felt as he did when Lycan gave his strength to him -- it was as though they were becoming one in a way that was an extension of their bonding, an intimacy that was another part of their mating. Instead of reaching into Lycan’s thoughts, he tried to just open his mind and simply…float…into Lycan’s mind…merge together…joining seamlessly as he did when drawing from his mate’s vast stores of strength.

And it worked. He felt as though he were in a dream, seeing through Lycan’s eyes. He was the Wolf, but smaller than he had been in a previous dream when he’d experienced life through Lycan’s eyes. Now, running through a field, he could feel his young limbs glorying in their power, his energy was like a river in spring, bubbling, roiling—he wanted to roll and jump like a puppy. Nic/Lycan could barely suppress a laugh…and then he didn’t bother, he just laughed for the sheer joy of being young in spring. He was conscious of feeling guilty—he should be with the Pack. Bran would be looking for him. He was supposed to…there was a rabbit! And he was hungry!

And he was off!

He didn’t pay attention to where he was running, which he didn’t think about being stupid until he saw them. The mountain cats. Not Metamorphs but real mountain cats. A dozen of them. They were hunting together. As Nic/Lycan should be, with his Pack, getting food as the Leader ordered. Bran was probably covering for him but that wasn’t the issue right now.

Getting away from these cats in one piece was. He suspected they would not be too picky about passing on the rabbit and having a bit of Metamorph to break their fast. Tastes just like rabbit to them, Bran had assured him and the other younger Metamorphs enough times.

He fought. He was brave and strong. Cats like to play with their food. They kept at him, from one to the other until he was exhausted and ripped to pieces. Two more cats joined the first dozen when Nic/Lycan was at the end of his strength, face down in the dirt. Nic heard Lycan’s thought in his mind as though it were his own. ‘Wonder if they will start fighting each other over my carcass, or do cats enjoy the play more than the actual eating?’

He heard a voice a moment later, almost as if in answer to his thought. “Trust a wolf to be too stupid to know enough to play dead. If the fool would just lie there, they would probably lose interest.”

“Or at least he would have been able to gain a surprise advantage when he still had the strength by changing on them. Now he probably hasn’t got the strength to change his mind much less his form.”

Ah, the last two were Metamorphs. Was that good or bad, Nic/Lycan wondered.

Both, as it turned out. He did not get eaten, but the Cat Metamorphs were not particularly benevolent.

The first Cat Metamorph said something to the cats in their native language, causing them to cease their pawing and hissing. They left, though not without a few final swipes.

“Change back to your human form, Wolf, let’s see what kind of damage our little cousins have done to you in their exuberance.”

It did take a great deal of his remaining energy to morph when he was so hurt, but he managed—these Changing People had helped him by sending away his attackers and while his people did not mix with the Cat Metamorphs as they did with the Bear, the Changing People aided each other in times of need.

Most did, that is. Nic/Lycan changed, revealing himself to be a long-limbed, golden skinned, tawny haired beautiful youth.

And that is when the real humiliation began. The two Metamorphs did not penetrate him—like the cats, they had more fun with the chase than the end of a hunt. They repeatedly came close to rape, doing everything but that, leaving him in constant anticipation that something worse was yet to come.

Before leaving him, curled up in ball of pain and loathing, of them but also of self, the first Cat Metamorph leaned down and whispered to him, “This has been quite fun, pretty Wolf boy. I feel like I owe you something, so let me leave you with a lesson, two even. If you cannot win the battle, run. And if you are knocked down by a cat, play dead—we like it when our prey squirms and fights a losing battle.”

Bran found him a couple hours later. He picked him up and carried him to the nearest river, cleaning him and then holding him while he railed at fate, the goddess, and oh yes, the cats, both animal and Metamorph, wanting Bran to convince their Leader to take the Pack against the whole Cat People. He told Bran what the smug Cat Metamorph had said to him, to suggest that he, Lycan, of the Wolf Metamorphs, should have run away like a coward! How dare he!

When Lycan finally wore himself out, Bran struck him. Nic/Lycan had looked up at him from the ground too shocked to react at first. Then the emotions washed over him and Nic felt them with Lycan—shame, anger, hurt…until he looked into Bran’s homely face and saw the remnants of fear in it. Fear for him.

“You could have died—and not in a glorious way, the kind of death you are destined for, you fool Cub, but a death like that, dinner for cats, or worse, because you were not paying attention! Because you should have run away or been smarter. Yes, a smarter Wolf would have run away—a Pack wouldn’t have been able to catch you, you’re the fastest young runner I’ve ever seen. And cats do like to play, haven’t you ever watched them with a mouse? They lose interest if they think it is dead or too hurt to give them sport. You should have feigned death or serious injury—not kept fighting until you were this badly hurt. Look at you! You will be unable to hunt all spring. And to trust a stranger like you did, to change into your weaker form, when you were already badly hurt—whatever were you thinking? Lycan, the goddess must have designed a lesson in humility for you in this, and I hope you learned it because I don’t think you can survive another one, Cub.”

Whispering under his breath, Bran added, “I know I can’t.” Shaking his head, Bran picked him up and began the long trot home. Nic/Lycan passed out before they got very far. When he woke up, it was dark and he was tucked into furs back at camp. Bran told the Leader that he’d gotten into a dispute with a couple of older Cat Metamorphs—no mention of the other cats, and while there was grumbling among the Pack, there was no surprise to his not beating two grown Mountain Cats—they were known to be fierce fighters and two against one was an unfair fight, even for Lycan, it was agreed.

If their Leader was a bit skeptical of the story, he did not say anything to Bran. All he said to the much less cocky Lycan who finally returned to his duties after a long recovery, was a quiet suggestion that he look sharp when out on patrol.

“You don’t want to be taken by surprise.”

The Leader always seemed to know more than he was told, Lycan grumbled to Bran. Bran told him that was a trick of any good Leader—to make the Pack think he knew everything, even when he didn’t.

“And it is good advice, follow it.”

Nic shivered as he separated his mind from Lycan’s—he missed the closeness even as he was glad to be away from such a horrible memory. He rolled until his body covered his Mate’s.

“You were once as young and foolish as I am,” he said lightly, rubbing his cheek against Lycan’s to show that he was deeply moved by the sharing of that memory—painful as it was.

“Nay, not quite that foolish,” Lycan protested, squeezing Nic’s buttocks. Seriousness was at an end for the night. The lesson had been satisfactorily shared, Lycan felt, and now was the time for other sharing.
 

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Nic awoke in a dark room. He was on some type of pallet. Feeling around with his hands, he determined that his “bed” was raised a few inches off the ground. Just enough to keep him out of the rat droppings, he thought, telling himself to be thankful for small blessings. He tried to reach out for his family, Lycan, Rafe, Michael… but even attempting to concentrate sent stabbing pains through his head. He sensed something was dampening his power, draining it somehow. Just trying to send a telepathic message seemed to lower his mana precipitously. He leaned on his elbows, fighting against the nausea that threatened to upheave his stomach. He felt curiously empty in that part of his body, so either he had been here longer than he thought, or he had already vomited. From the pains he felt in his body, he must have been beaten. His unconsciousness was not just from being teleported a long way against his will. He recalled being struck in the head and kicked before he had a chance to recover from the teleporting. It would have been no wonder if he had vomited, and if so, he hoped he’d done so on the green-eyed Telepath who’d made himself look like Michael.

The door to his cell opened, and bright light shone in from a torch carried by the hooded and robed figure that entered, shutting the door behind him. Nic had to close his eyes quickly against the light as he concentrated on calming his stomach—a trick Colin had taught him years ago when first teaching them to teleport.

“I do hope you manage to control yourself this time. I do not care to have to change yet another robe.” The dry intonation of the voice even sounded like Michael; it made him shiver, though that also could be chills, he told himself. The cell was not warm and there was no blanket on the thin cot. His clothing remained, that was another small blessing and he forced himself to give thanks. He did not want the goddess to find him one of the fair weather faithful that Colin used to chide them about in their childhood.

Oh, how he wished he were with Rafe and Melli now, teasing Colin over his strong faith.

“Are you not curious about me?” The voice mocked him. He heard the steps coming closer, then there was a scraping sound. A chair being moved, Nic decided. A rustle of cloth told him that his tormentor was sitting next to him. He had his time with the Pack to thank for his increased ability to use his other senses.

There were no doubt other things from his Pack experience he would learn to be thankful for, he suspected, not least of which might be the evidence of plentiful mice inhabitants in his cell, which meant he would not starve until he got out of here even if his jailors proved stingy with food.

If he made it out of here. But—he knew with a sudden certainty that Rafael and Mellisande had conceived the next generation of Emorys. This man, this Telepath, whoever he was, was already defeated even if Nic were never to win his way to freedom.

Dominic smiled, his heart filled with joy at the thought of the children who would be born to his brother and the girl who had grown up with them. His own dire situation did not seem so bleak.

“You are feeling better? Good. It is time that we met. Do you know who I am, boy?”

Dominic opened his eyes. Looking closely, he saw the green eyes of the Emory family, the black hair, in this case, straight and not as rich looking as Michael’s. It was a dull black, with lines of gray in it. The man had darker skin also. Michael’s was tanned, this man looked to have blood from one of the southern peoples, more like some of the Second Kingdom Royals, but darker still. Really, he looked almost like he had….

“You’re part Metamorph,” Dominic whispered. He tried to keep the shock from his face but he did not know if he succeeded.

The dark-skinned man smiled crookedly but there was no amusement in his expression. “I am surprised that you did not guess before now. The old druid did. That’s partially why he was killed. That and the need for a sacrifice. Stupid man. He believed he was saving the ‘Royals’ from the taint of the beasts when he helped us attack your family, kidnap your brother and the girl. Ironic, really. But, you still do not know who I am, do you?”

Dominic looked closely at the man and knew that he knew that face. Not just because it had haunted their minds for months now, the hidden face behind so much evil—to think that it would be such a familiar face after all! But it was more than just the similarity to the Emory family features, this man, he was….

“You are my Uncle Ben,” Nic said, quietly but confidently. The other man laughed.

“How charming, nephew, that you claim the kinship. Especially now, when I finally have you in my power, beaten, starved, weakened by the iron in the walls.” He laughed again at the dawning recognition in Nic’s face. “Ah, now you realize what it is. Yes, simple iron ore. It drains your mana—though less so if you are part Metamorph. That is why you had trouble in that cavern where you first met your mate. I led them to choose that place because I wanted to manipulate the part Telepaths I knew to be in that Pack. I had been waiting for you to meet up with that Wolf—your Advisor is not the only one to read the future. In our case, however, we like to help events along.”

“You had the guards chase us toward the tavern where he would be,” Nic realized. No wonder he collapsed after healing Bran! If he had not been able to tap into Lycan’s Metamorph strength, he would have been as weak as he was now—but he had been strangely unable to reach Michael and Rafe even then. So his purely Telepath to Telepath skills had been affected by the iron.

“I would have been just as pleased to have caught you,” his Uncle conceded, “but we wanted that Wolf Leader as well. His destiny was too strong—his capacity to lead the Metamorphs too evident for us to ignore him.”

“But you lost. You cannot convince me that you wanted to lose the First and Second Kingdoms just to put you in some strategic position now,” Nic scoffed. His Uncle reached out and struck him—it seemed as though it would be a casual blow, a slap, but Nic found him to be as strong as Lycan. The force of the blow slammed him against the wall and his head swam alarmingly.

“You would do well not to anger me, dear nephew. You look so much like my brother, it is not endearing to me—in case you think it might be. I have no fondness for Michael. He was a spoiled child who was given everything he ever wanted. The King, my father, adored him while he ignored….”

The man stopped speaking. Nic watched him closely through barely opened eyes. He used his father’s trick of sending calming emotions toward the man, sensations of empathy despite the pain the use of mana caused him. The man was not speaking the whole truth. His feelings toward Michael were mixed. He hated him, but he also loved him, Nic sensed. What of the time Ben saved Michael’s life as a child? That had taken real courage, and had been a risky thing for a young boy to do. And someone aided Rafe in that Tower when all seemed lost—it must have been this man. Not to mention helping all of them when they battled the Hell Hound—Nic was certain that it was this man who now reveled in Nic’s pain. This Ben was…difficult to understand. To put it mildly.

“Your father,” Nic prompted softly. “My grandfather. He favored the baby of the family. It happens, I’m told.” Of course, in his case, Nic thought, the baby of the family was only twelve minutes younger. He wondered if he should say as much to this strange uncle of his. Surely he had not pursued the death and destruction of all three royal families out of some childish jealousy? It couldn’t have been. The troubles started when this man, in his forties now, would have been but a child.

That strange smile was still on Ben Emory’s face as he looked at Nic. “I know what you are thinking, boy. You, the boy who would be king. But not if my grandfather would have had any say in it. My true father knew that he was not to be permitted to inherit the throne. You have just a taint of it in you, the Metamorph stain, as Aaron called it, but it would have been enough had he lived to see it. My true father was sent away. ‘Killed.’ I was allowed to stay. Raised as my Uncle’s middle son. Adam’s younger brother. Do you have any idea what it was like? To live my life, always pretending?”

“Did my father know?”

“No. His tender ears were never sullied with the dirty shame of our House. Our great, great-grandfather had mated with a beautiful green-eyed woman of incomparable beauty and grace. Your father’s dancing talent no doubt is enhanced by his blood from a mountain cat Metamorph. She was able to keep it a secret until her third ‘litter.’ By then, she had taught her first sons to hide their nature. The third group was not so fortunate. They, and their mother, were put to death. Since then, each Royal who revealed any traits of that first Metamorph ‘bride’ was removed from the line to the throne. I suppose I should be glad that less permanent measures were taken when I was born.”

“But…this,” Nic paused. He knew this was not the truth. Michelina had been known to be part Metamorph and her Emory husband had married her anyway. He kept her, hoping that their children would somehow not bear signs of being part Metamorph, true, but it was not the woman who was at fault. Still, this version was no doubt the one that had survived in the Emory family. And was it any better than the one he had seen in his dream? Duplicity and sadness in both versions. He waved his hand at his Uncle and pursued a different thought.

“This vendetta you pursue. You have punished all of the Royals, all of the Families, as well as the Metamorphs, for a prejudice that they had no part of.” Pelien, he thought. Pelien knew of this. Michelina had been his half-sister. Was that why he said he was not taking part? Because he could understand the vengeance, wanted to share in it? And did he speak true when he said he took no part, or had he been aiding this part of the Emory family all along? And whatever happened to the child he took to raise? Did Selien come from that line? Or are there still more Emorys out seeking vengeance?

“And we will continue to do so.” Ben stood up. “Do not think I will fall for your charm, that Emory charisma. I learned to hate it as a boy, when all I ever heard was, why is your middle boy so sullen when your other sons are so charming, Jerad? He is always sneaking around, hiding in shadows. Why can you not smile like Michael, laugh like Adam?”

I would have run away to the Cat people, Nic thought, his head aching. That was probably why he did not shield his thoughts as he normally did. His negligence cost him another blow, which almost sent him into unconsciousness.

“Always so smug, so sure of yourself. Just like your father. I thought like that once also. I thought I would find my place among the Metamorphs. But they are worse than the Telepaths. They laughed at my poor attempts to hunt and track. They used me.” The thin mouth twisted. “You might like your animal mating. I did not. But, I learned to fight back… eventually. I…”

The door opened again. A slim, dark haired man came in. He was tall and darkly handsome.

“Father, I believe it is time for you to leave our guest. He is weary. And he will need to be ready for meeting Grandfather.”

“Grandfather?” Nic said weakly. He felt the pain in his head shoot up, and knew that this new man was trying to probe his mind. He blocked him but it cost him. The Metamorphs had no trouble with the iron, he deduced. If he was part Metamorph, he would have to strengthen that part of himself and build immunity to this iron, he decided.

The tall man smiled. Nic decided he preferred the sullen half smile of Ben to this man’s charming mask.

“Oh, excuse me, your Highness. I did not intend to be rude.” He slammed at Nic with a mental blow that he was only partially able to block.

“I am your cousin, your Highness. Jared Emory, son of Ben Emory, and grandson of Jamyn Emory, eldest brother to the so-called King Jerad. The rightful heir to the thrones you tried to claim.”

The newcomer said to Dominic’s Uncle. “I believe you have had a long enough time with him, father. Let us leave him to get used to his new quarters.” It seemed that Ben wanted to oppose that suggestion but he looked at the younger man and then turned to the door. Opening it, he gestured. “After you, Jared.”

Nic was left alone in the dark. He thought about what he had learned until he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

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The cell did not reveal the changing of the day to night or back again. Nic learned to judge the time of day by the activities of the mice. They were nocturnal and they avoided the visits from his family. Nic wished he could do the same. He did take advantage of the visits from the mice to augment his diet. He had Lycan to thank for showing him that he could eat raw mice. He did not like it, but he did not care for starving either. His captors were feeding him only sporadically, their attempts to weaken him being thorough and varied. Nic had a small stash of mouse skulls to mark the passage of time. It was gruesome enough to make Bran and Jax laugh; Lycan, well, Lycan would not be amused by this story when he got around to telling it around the fire. Nic hoped that he did get the chance to tell the tale around the fire someday. It was the main thing that gave him the nerve to bite off the heads of the mice he ate each day.

Nic still had not seen any sign of the mysterious grandfather. He hoped to get a chance to meet him, assuming it was not the last thing he ever saw, of course. He was finding that Jared was malevolent and powerful; his telepath power was strong, but there must be some Metamorph in him as well, Nic reasoned, or Jamyn would surely have tried to have placed him within the Royal line. He was older than Nic, not much younger than Michael, Nic judged, perhaps twenty-eight or thirty. There was something about him that reminded him faintly of Colin, his build, perhaps, as his form had that same tall elegance to it.

Who was Jared’s mother? Had there been some cooperation between the Royal families in terms of hiding their unwanted children? Michael had been sent to the Second Kingdom because the trouble had already started, not just to please the whims of the young Princess Suzanne. Did Ben go back home after he ran away? He must have, to have been in place as Assassin when Jerad died. Why had Jerad been skipped over and his presumed son made Assassin in the first place? Was it because Ben was the son of an elder brother? Or because of his skills as a hunter? A Metamorph would make an excellent protector, assuming his loyalties were strong, which was a Metamorph’s natural way. Lycan would sooner cut off a limb than betray a trust. Ben must have been trusted at one time. Did he aid in the killing of Aaron? A deeply disturbing thought, yet, so was the thought that Aaron had agreed to pretend that his nephew was his son and allowed his oldest brother to be banished.

Nic tried to find the answers to his questions whenever it was Ben’s turn to question him. They were trying to get information out of him, of course, but as much as possible, he turned the sessions around and got information instead. He had been trained for this eventuality by the best, his Assassin and his Advisor, Michael and Colin. They used to grill him for hours at a time, and yes, they even left him sleep deprived and hungry. Thirsty. His father would change his appearance to look like a total stranger as he barraged him with questions. Who did he live with? How did he get there? Who was he?

The pain in his head increased the more he tried to use his telepathy, but he was learning how to control the pain, how to get on top of it. He made himself appear weaker than he was. He had not found a way to get a message out to Michael or Rafael, but he had not given up hope. He knew that they would not give up hope on him. Regardless of his dreams—or nightmares—neither his father nor his mate nor his twin would ever give up on him or believe him dead unless his body was before their eyes. And maybe not even then.

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“I have sent my men far and wide—there is no hint of him anywhere in the Second Kingdom,” Ran reported. He was beyond weary. Colin pushed a dish of food toward the Raven Leader. Colin suspected he had covered many hundreds of miles himself in search of the missing King.

“Thank you, Ran. Your loyalty, and that of your men, is much appreciated,” Michael spoke quietly. He had aged ten years in the past month. Or, more accurately, Colin reflected, he once again had the gaunt look that had been his during the final year at Adam’s Court. It was not so much older as more strained, as the days without sufficient sleep or nourishment took their toll. His heart ached for his love, even as he too worried over Dominic’s fate in the hands of their enemy, the enemy they had thought was almost defeated.

Lycan and Bran entered the strategy session just then. It did not take a Telepath to know that their thoughts were heavy with their failures. Lycan slumped down in his usual chair. Bran poured him a large tankard of the mead they preferred.

“Nothing,” Lycan growled before taking a drink. “I am deeply sorry, Michael. Colin. We have searched and traveled through the mountains, even into….”

Michael held up his hand. “I know you have done everything possible, Lycan, Bran. Thank you for…”

Lycan looked up, his expression fierce. “Do not thank me for searching for my mate,” he growled. Michael glared back at him, his expression as fierce as the Metamorph’s. Then, he relaxed and actually smiled.

“I know, Lycan. But I still thank you. It helps to know that no stone is being left unturned. I think the time has come to accept that Nic is not in the First or Second Kingdom.”

“Nic is alive!” Rafe stood at the door, Mellisande by his side.

“You have made contact?” Lycan asked, picking his head up. Michael did not ask, he knew from the suppressed anger on his son’s face that it was a refusal to believe the unbelievable that fueled his denial, nothing concrete. How he wished it was different. It was his belief that Rafe had the best chance of connecting with Nic telepathically that made him assign him to the tower room, with Mellisande to supplement his efforts, to try to reach his twin. But his father’s heart ached for this son too as he saw what each day’s failure was doing to him.

“I...I..” Rafe looked Lycan in the eye but could not say the words. Colin feared what the Wolf leader would say, but he did not interrupt, sensing that Michael wanted the two men to work this out between themselves. For that reason, he sent Melli a gentle request to leave this between Rafael and Lycan.

And as it often was, Michael’s trust in Dominic’s mate was rewarded. Lycan stood up, as did his man Bran, but it was to offer their seats to Rafe and Melli. As he handed a glass of the wine Rafe preferred to Rafe, Bran serving Mellisande a glass of fruit juice, Lycan said quietly to his bond-brother, “I know what you mean. I too believe that I would know if the goddess had called him to her. It reassures me that you too feel this. He is out there, and we will find him.”

His big hand clapped Rafe on the back. Rafe smiled at him briefly, then sank gratefully onto the seat he had vacated.

“We were not able to reach Nic at all. There seemed to be an increase in telepathic activity far to the West. Melli tried to scry for visions of the Third Kingdom and found it unable to view. Other than that, today was no different than any other.” Rafe hesitated, then looked at his wife. They seemed to reach some agreement between them, but neither was in a hurry to speak.

“Is there anything else?” Michael asked; his tone was slightly sharp. He was so very tired. He felt like there was something he was missing, some key that was hovering just out of reach. And while his dull mind failed to recall it, his son suffered and these brave men continued to put their lives on hold, searching for their King who could not be found.

“We just…we have other news,” Mellisande told him. Rafael looked out the window, as though once more sending his thoughts in search of his missing brother. Melli tightened her lips, but then spoke more forcefully. “We have waited to speak because we did not want to take the focus from the search for Dominic. But, we realized that the reason he was so determined that we not be…disturbed…the day he was taken was not just out of sentiment, but because he wanted to secure our families for another generation. He knew, somehow, that I would…” She blushed as the five men sitting with her and her husband stared at her.

Surprisingly, it was Lycan who caught on. He grinned and exclaimed, “So the moon did smile on you that night! It was what Nic wanted more than anything, so yes, this is very good news indeed. Whatever he is going through now, he will say it is worth it since it will make him an Uncle and the next King is assured. May the goddess bless you!”

Lycan bent and kissed Melli, then picked Rafael up and spun him around. His good cheer roused the others to congratulate the young couple, and for one day at least, their deep sorrow was forgotten.

It was late that night when Michael finally joined Colin in their chamber. He stripped silently, then crawled into bed next to his lover, sighing as he felt his strong arms wrap around him.

“Aren’t you happy about the baby, Michael?” Colin asked quietly.

“Very.” Michael smiled as he saw the disbelief on the druid’s face. Very well, read my thoughts then. You know I cannot lie to you this way.

“Well, you can, just not as easily,” Colin replied, his dry tone making Michael laugh softly. Colin was glad, even if he was laughing at him, since the humor erased the care lines from his face a little.

I was talking with Lycan about what Nic had said to him the day of the wedding. I had not realized before how much, what would you call it… prescience… Nic seemed to have had that day. He knew the attack was more than it appeared and that it posed a danger to him, and to Melli and Rafe especially. He sent Lycan away from him to guard Rafe and Melli. We believed it to have been because of the nature of those attackers, the way they had been influenced to attack, but there seems to have been more. Nic was intent on Rafe and Melli conceiving their heirs—you know he even had me dance a fertility dance before their wedding?

That was true? I always assumed you were teasing Rafe.

No, Nic convinced me to do it. Said he’d had a vision and it was important. He went with me to Kelway for it. Without Lycan. He didn’t participate in the ritual of course, but he watched, fascinated. And he was relieved. I remember that now. I remember asking him and he said that he was just happy to know that his being with Lycan would not mean that the line would end. I had intended to question him further but he distracted me by teasing me that he was finally giving up on having a stepmother and little siblings ever, so it was up to Rafael to provide the next generation of Emorys.

He did not talk to me about any of his portents, Colin lamented. I wish he had. We might have been able to think of another solution. Something other than his sacrificing himself.

I refuse to believe he did that, Michael said fiercely, turning to look at his lover. Nic is a fighter. He had Beren and Bran with him, two fierce warriors, and an intimidating fighting force behind him. They had won the battle. He was faced by something totally unexpected at the back of the field. The man in the hood. Our unknown enemy. It had to have been him. No one else would have caused Nic to move forward on his own like that, into an area where Bran and Beren could not follow. And something about who or what he was shocked Nic so much he lost all control of the situation. We all felt that, even Lycan. He allowed himself to be teleported away—Nic, the most powerful of all of us.

Well, one of the two most powerful, Colin amended the thought, causing Michael to laugh yet again.

That is true, love, I was not considering you.

Colin did not trouble answering that. Michael knew he meant him—though Michael was probably sincere in saying that Colin’s power might be the strongest. Colin’s ability to wield control over the wind and weather was so different from the Emorys’ telepathic powers that it was difficult to compare. But Michael’s dance magic was in a class by itself, so powerful yet so…indescribable. Colin knew that Michael railed against it at times like this, when it was useless to him in finding his son, but he would never trade it away. It was a part of him. The fact that he was unable to use it now to find Dominic was causing him immeasurable grief, which wasn’t lessened by the lack of understanding the others evidenced over his inability to work some miracle of dance magic. But his act in saving Donal had a cost, along with the great feats he’d accomplished at the battle of Candone in defeating the large Hell Hound and dispelling the smaller hounds’ carcasses. He was still in a period of penitence with the goddess and dared not risk losing her favor, even for Nic. Though every day, the temptation grew greater, Colin knew, and he prayed for his mate to have the strength to withstand it.

Colin brought his thoughts back to the day’s big news. A bolt of pure happiness went through him, though in his characteristic way, he downplayed his excitement.

Well, it is good news about the baby—and if Dominic was right, babies—so we must thank the goddess for Mellisande being with child.

I am far too young to be a grandfather. Michael feigned grumpiness. Colin knew that Michael had been joyful to be a father as a young teen and he was overjoyed at this news, though he was only thirty-three.

You will be the comeliest grandfather in all of Terrafyn. Colin rolled onto his stomach. The most virile too, I believe, but perhaps you had best demonstrate to be sure.

That is good advice, Advisor.

Michael covered Colin with his body, and began a slow exploration down the long back with his mouth and hands, his legs straddling Colin’s buttocks, his hardening cock brushing against them as he moved. The magic of those hands, that warm mouth, was enough to bring him to the edge of ecstasy. By silent agreement, they put aside their worry when they joined, and concentrated only on each other’s pleasure. Colin no longer felt self-conscious about his lack of experience compared to Michael—he now knew that Michael reveled as much in the simplest touch of his hand as he did with the most skilled caresses of the sex mage. Feeling Michael enter him, Colin moved up onto his knees and rocked back to meet each thrust, loving the sensation of having his love fill him, become a part of him. As their pleasure built to a crescendo, Michael reached for Colin’s member and stroked it firmly as he sped up the pace, his other hand gripping his love’s chin and turning it to the side so he could kiss him deeply.

“Spend your seed in my hand, I want the sweet taste of you,” Michael murmured into Colin’s mouth; the words all he needed to make his pleasure peak. His love climaxed with him, his body shuddering as he released his seed deep inside Colin. Even after so many nights, and yes, days, together like this, it still thrilled him to see Michael lick his seed from his hand as though tasting the sweetest juice from a fruit.

Forever.

It was the promise Michael always sent to his thoughts before sleep claimed them. Colin had just enough time to send his customary reply.

And a day thereafter.
 

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