The perfect moment stretched on and on …
Interrupted by a knock on the door.
What in the Nine Hells is that? Duvan thought. He’d clearly said no interruptions. He felt the ecstasy drain away, leaving a void for anger to fill. This was the not the freedom he craved, the rest he so desperately needed.
“Ignore it,” Moirah breathed. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Whoever it is will go away.”
Duvan turned back to her, so calm and beautiful beneath him. In the silence that followed, he drifted slowly back into her embrace. He relaxed into her arms and felt the anger start to give way to contentment.
Abruptly, the bedroom door opened. “I apologize for the intrusion,” came a woman’s stiff voice. “But I need to speak to Duvan about a matter of some urgency.”
His hope for peaceful rest vanished as he glanced over at the offender. Tall and lithe, wearing light combat leather, the woman’s proud nose and thin lips reminded him of his old lover from Wildhome-Rhiazzshar. Same arrogance. Same condescending voice.
Rhiazzshar had broken his heart and had manipulated him. She had used him, and he hated her. He could not allow Rhiazzshar to capture him. He would fight her.
Rage flooded back into him and took control. He’d get rid of this intruder, this enemy. Duvan sprang from the bed and rushed at the offender. Unconcerned about his nakedness, he shouted at her as he ran across the room, “Get out!”
If she was surprised or startled, she showed no sign. Her face was unreadable, and her expression did not change. She stepped very deliberately to the side to avoid his rush. There was a weapon in her hand, he suddenly registered-a wooden staff or stick of some sort. But she didn’t use it.
“I come to enlist your service, Duvan,” she said. “Not to fight you.”
“Just get out!”
The infuriating intruder was now farther from the door, her movements light and calculated. “We need to leave today,” she said. “I’m prepared-”
Duvan had closed in on her, pinning her between himself and the wall. This intruder would pay for her interruption. Then he could rest, finally.
Duvan punched the woman, aiming first for the face, then the gut. With a rapid movement of her head, she dodged his fist. His punch to her gut went wide as her staff came down hard on his forearm, deflecting his blow.
He missed! Duvan could hardly believe it. He rarely missed.
Rage pushed him into a flurry of blows, each one dodged or blocked or deflected. Every strike landed on the wall or her staff. He had her cornered, but he couldn’t hit her.
Some logic filtered past his rage. She was fast, he granted her that. He prided himself on being fast, but she might be faster. Yet perhaps she was just better trained.
Other details registered. This wasn’t the Rhiazzshar he remembered from Wildhome. This intruder was human and not elf. Her tunic sported a different clerical symbol-a skeletal hand holding scales. Not Sylvanus. Instead of long mahoghany hair, her head was shaved save for a shoulder-length blonde sidelock, carefully wrapped with strip of white leather.
His rage lessened.
Watching her dodge his attacks, Duvan realized that her senses were attuned, focused on his body and his eyes. She knew what to look for and how to react. Her response was logical and predictable … which meant that she could be defeated.
“I thought I knew you,” he said. “I thought you were someone who’s done me great harm.”
“We’ve never met.”
“I realize that now,” he said. “Still, I’m not going with you.” He started a punch to her gut, but changed it at the last second to strike her neck.
She started to block the attack, and he saw surprise in her face when she realized that it wasn’t going to work. At the last instant, she managed to shift her position and take the brunt of the blow on her shoulder instead.
She used the momentum of her movement to dive left and gain some distance from him. The close call with the last blow must’ve fazed her. Still, she did not return his attacks.
Duvan pressed forward. If she wouldn’t leave, he might have to take her down. Then he could pin her, tie her up, and drag her out of the room.
“I’m tired of this, but I’m not leaving,” the woman said. “My matter is urgent, and you are the only one who can help.”
Duvan found himself falling as she swept his legs out from under him. Then her weapon was arcing toward him.
“But I am tired of this fight,” she said.
His head exploded in pain from at least two blows in rapid succession, and then inky blackness seeped in from the edges of his vision and the fight was over.
Slanya bounced to her feet, still at the ready in case the other person-the woman-came after her. The woman, however, appeared to be no threat. Huddled in a ball up against the headboard, the petite young human had covered herself in pillows.
Slanya saw that the woman was shivering. Afraid.
Slanya gave the woman the warmest smile she could muster, considering the incredible awkwardness of the situation. At Slanya’s feet, Duvan’s naked body lay slumped, unmoving for once. Their initial exchange had not gone as she’d hoped.
Slanya loosened the ties to a pocket sewn into her pants and pulled out a gold piece. “Apologies for the interruption.” She tossed the coin to the woman. “Here is for your trouble. It should be enough to cover whatever he owed you for your services.”
Black curls shook as the woman emerged from the pile of pillows to catch the gold. Her shivering seemed to have vanished. She gave Slanya a flirty smile. “Yes, this’ll do.”
“You’ll be so kind as to leave me alone with him for a while,” Slanya said.
“He’ll be angry when he wakes,” said the woman, slipping into a silk robe and gliding across to the door.
“No doubt, but I can handle him.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll leave you two alone then.”
“Thank you.”
The woman closed the door behind her.
Duvan stirred slightly as Slanya lifted him to the bed. The room smelled a stifling and pungent mix of odors that Slanya found distracting. She used the bed linens to secure Duvan’s wrists and ankles to the bed posts.
He was thin and wiry with compact muscles. She could admire his fitness while at the same time marvel at how poorly he seemed to treat himself. The numerous scars that traced light strokes on his chest, arms, and legs told of a hard life. Slanya made a quick count as she appraised his dark skin: twelve that she could see, and she guessed there were more on his back.
Duvan’s dark, unbraided hair grew straight and long, and his face bore only the faintest hint of the scars on the remainder of his body. He had no tattoos that she could see, nor any piercings. And no visible spellscar either. Slanya was surprised to find that as long as he was lying unconscious and quiet, he was handsome, in a rugged, unshaven way.
Slanya sighed. She’d prefer an ugly but polite guide any day.
Duvan came fully awake a few minutes later, his forehead wrinkling from the pain in his head. Slanya watched as he took careful stock of his situation. His demeanor was wary, and she was glad that she’d restrained him. This was a much more dangerous man than the anger-driven brute earlier.
“I will release you after we have spoken,” she said. “After you have listened to my proposal.”
She could see him weighing the options. He could undoubtedly escape from the bonds she’d tied. He’d likely done that sort of thing numerous times. But he was trying to figure out if he could do it before she knocked him out again.
“It’s not worth it,” she said. “You are quite vulnerable, as you can see.” She gestured at his exposed privates with her staff.
Duvan grimaced, then nodded.
“One of the leaders of the monastery of Ormpetarr has developed an elixir that prevents people who are exposed to the spellplague from dying.”