Remedy Maker (37 page)

Sam pressed his thumbs to the bottom of Tiny’s platter-sized hoof, and then carefully let it down. He straightened and turned to Patience, brows lowered. “Did they break in?”

“No.” Rhy answered. “But I have a feeling they’ll be back. Once that damn hunters’ society thinks they’re on the trail of something, they rarely back off.”

Patience sighed and put her hands on her hips, facing him. “What can we do about it?”

“
We
aren’t doing anything.” He barked. “I’ll handle it.” Directing his attention to Samuel, he asked, “Can Patience stay with you while I make a sweep of the area?”

Color leeched from his friend’s ruddy cheeks, and his throat bobbed before answering. “Yes, of course.” Sam turned to Patience. “You’ll have to excuse me if I suddenly require you to hide.”

Rhycious rubbed his hand over the star on Tiny’s forehead, then bent to breathe nose to nose with him. He closed his eyes and opened his mind, gathering the information from the picture that formed.

Rocks under hooves. The weight behind the harness. Samuel’s concerned face.

When he communed with horses using his equine half, the tickle of a reversed chill ensued. Tiny bobbed his head as Rhy adjusted his stance and stepped back.

He reached to shake hands. “Thank you, Samuel. Knowing how dangerous this is for you, I appreciate your help.”

Rhy wrapped his arm around Patience’s slim waist, and all three walked toward the barn doors. Dust motes in streams of sunlight danced in kicked-up currents of air. An orange barn cat walked toward them with its tail straight up, meowing.

He would have preferred to keep Patience glued to his side, but that was impossible. Samuel’s farm was the next best place to stash her while he swept the area clean of hunters. Concern for her climbed higher, tormenting him as he thought of every possibility he may have overlooked.

A few feet from the doorway, Rhy kissed her on the lips, relishing her taste on his tongue. When Patience threw her arms around his neck, Samuel smirked and looked away, scratching the back of his neck.

“I’ll be back soon,” Rhy said. “This won’t take long.”

The sun warmed his face as he strode out of the cool barn, away from the unlikely pair who watched him leave. He pulled an elastic band from his pocket and fastened his hair into a tail.

Across the alfalfa field, the tree line showed no movement at ground level. The wind however, blew the upper branches into dancing waves. He rolled his neck, loosening tense muscles in preparation for the sweep.

He swiveled to pass a message, his heel digging into the soft earth. “By the way, Samuel. Tiny has a rock bruise on his hoof, that’s all. It’ll heal in a day or so. Just give him an extra can of oats tonight to help speed his recovery.”

On cue, Tiny’s whinny resonated out of the barn. Rhy cupped his hands around his mouth and whinnied back.

Samuel narrowed his eyes at both of them.

Rhy turned and faced his destination, jogging down the grassy incline. He heard Sam ask Patience if she were hungry.

“My sister dropped off freshly baked bread this morning. Let’s go in for lunch.”

“Now that’s what I call cool by association.”

Their voices faded away and he directed his concentration to the woodlands and the familiar road home.

It was his second time down the same road in one day. At the meadow, he stopped and studied the area where he had picked Echinacea hours earlier. Bees floated from one wild flower to the next, pollinating with heavy yellow legs.

Rhycious dogtrotted toward his cabin, one hand holding his throbbing temple. A sense of panic he’d held inside suddenly sprang up and he realized there was no escape. He could remedy until the next dawning of Aquarius and the suffocation would still be there, waiting for the perfect moment to torture him. Even if he drank himself unconscious, the PTSD would still come for him through the fog of oblivion.

If Patience hadn’t talked him back from—

“Rhycious!” Sides heaving, the sorrel body of the warrior, Dryas, came into view. He stepped out of the woodland shade to the sunlit path, leather body armor creaking with every drawn breath. The soldier spoke quietly, relaying his message with urgency. “I’ve been dispatched to carry a message. Templar Khristos wishes to have an emergency meeting with you, sir. You’re to come right away.”

 “Gamóto.
” Rhy cursed under his breath. Then he said it again louder, crying out his fury and frustration. “
Gamóto
.” Damn. A seedling pine grew near the path’s edge and he grabbed it, intending to pull the sprout from the ground, roots and all.

A soft breeze rustled through the trees, and with it came an image of Patience modeling his nylon shorts. Her ingenious strapless blouse fluttered across his mind like the boundaries of the fabric she’d worn. He released the pine stalk one finger at a time. For all he knew, the immature tree could be a Wood Nymph child.

Gods, I’m losing it.

Chunk by shredded chunk, he pulled together the remnants of his dignity, squared his hunched shoulders, and took a deep breath. Dryas waited patiently, his hand resting on his sword hilt and tail flicking away the springtime flies.

“Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll need my remedy bag.” Rhy pointed toward his cabin.

“There’s no need.” When Rhy cocked a brow in question, the sergeant explained. “This isn’t a medical emergency.”

The younger Centaur turned an eye to Rhy’s cabin, then into the shaded forest beyond.
Always alert and sharp. If I’d been more vigilant, I would have seen Dryas coming.

Shit. This day was going down faster than a thirsty Centaur with a cold beer—and didn’t that just piss a non-drinking guy off.

Time to change the direction of his luck.

“Lead the way, Sergeant.”

Dryas led them north for an hour, but it wasn’t until they turned east, away from the palace, that Rhycious questioned the location of his meeting with Khristos.

“The Templar requested privacy; he feels the walls have ears. One can never be sure of who’s an insurgent spy these days.”

Rhycious nodded, feeling much the same way. After the poisoning attempt, it was difficult not to be paranoid as he and Patience left the palace. So caught up in his private world of espionage, he never realized Alek had brought Sergeant Dryas into the fray.

On that updated note of bafflement, the last time he and Khristos parted company wasn’t exactly all backslaps either. The man had an axe to grind, and animosity thrown to a Nymph-lover like him could be the ideal burying spot for said cleaver.

Rhycious realized his rebellion extermination team had just grown smaller by one member. If he couldn’t count on someone to have his back, he didn’t want them in his squad.

They crossed a small sparkling creek and entered a copse of new growth sycamore trees. Scaly bark plates, like the camo fatigues he wore, checkered their thick healthy trunks and mimicked the dapple of filtered sunlight.

His internal suspicion meter shot the needle past the red mark.

Waiting within the shadows, attired in his customary flowing black robe, stood all eighteen hands of Khristos. His jeweled medallion of office winked in the sunlight as rays caught the pendant through undulating branches above. Arms crossed, his brows lowered over narrowed eyes, the fire of anger burned deep within them.

The priest stepped from the shade, his heavy hooves pounding the ground. “What is this emergency that could not be dealt with at the palace?”

Rhy swiveled his head toward Dryas, who backed away staring at them. Then he glanced back to the priest. “I understood it was you who requested this meeting.”

“Nay, I did not.” His black eyes scanned Rhy’s full combat armor. “Why do you appear before me dressed for battle?”

Niggles of suspicion took a hammer to the back of his neck. In his periphery, Dryas moved to position himself behind Rhy’s right shoulder. When Khristos reached beneath his robe for the jewel encrusted short sword, the buzzing hummed low in Rhycious’s ears.

Stationed in a triangular format, the three Centaurs faced off, attempting to sense whom would make the first move. Tension hung thick. Rhycious swiveled his body to keep both men in his sights and stepped back, out of the reach of their weapons.

In a smooth, practiced move, Rhy pulled his sword clear and held it at a vertical angle. Against their true equine forms, he was in an immediate disadvantage.

Rhycious dipped his sword’s tip toward Templar Khristos. “What is this about? Why are you attacking me?”

Khristos snorted, his tail slicing the air behind him. “It wasn’t I who drew forth the first weapon. Nor was it I who brought a Wood Nymph into the palace.” His fore-hoof tore into the soft ground before him. “Didn’t two hundred and forty years of war teach you anything?”

Pale green luminescence, the color of sunlight pressed through teardrop aspen leaves, gleamed against the tree’s patchwork patterned bark. Pressurized air discharged with a light explosion and Dryas’s gaze reactively pulled to the bright flash. He slowly drew forth his sword.

Waverly’s large, liquid eyes peered through strands of hickory hair blowing across her pixie face. Her dress, the fresh color of the shimmer, fell to a prudish knee length. Dryas raised his sword arm, and her cheeks drained of color.

Shocked the irritating aspen had appeared at the wrong time, wrong place, Rhycious growled at her. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of here.”

Frightened, her eyes whipped over to his and her voice shook as she pointed a trembling finger at Dryas. “He set the two of you up, and more are coming.”

Before Rhycious could question the sergeant, Dryas drove his sword at him, tip first.

Rhy raised his weapon, parallel to the ground. With a loud clash of steel, he knocked the blade away, and returned with a battering strike of his own.

Dryas staggered backward from the force of the blow.

Rhy had but a moment to see Khristos reach across his black clad body for the weapon resting in its scabbard. Steel ringing with dramatic flair, the priest pulled forth his short sword, the jeweled gladius. Faucets of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds caught at the ribbons of sunlight, creating an effect of spectacular divinity.

Balanced on the balls of his feet, Rhy crouched, the stance open with both legs planted wide. He eyed the players in the latest tournament of war. Odds were not in his favor, and he nearly laughed.
Were they ever?

Khristos moved to place the Wood Nymph protectively at his back. His black hindquarters swayed loose on their hocks, ready for action—
guarding
Waverly? The priest faced away from Rhy, looking toward the edge of the not-so-distant ring of trees.

Confused, Rhy shot a glance to measure Dryas, and found the double-crosser sneering with disgust.

The palace mole.
The betrayer.

Dark bay with three white socks, a Centaur trotted out from the shadows. A full leather helm covered the man’s face and armor covered his body. The sword he pointed at Khristos appeared longer than the priest’s arm. Duped and deceived, he and the priest were fighting on the same side after all.

“Waverly—” Rhy fielded another thrust from Dryas and shoved him back with a bullish yell. “Shimmer out of here. Now.”

Waverly’s slim body shook, her dress vibrating from the tremors. Distracted, and in the direct line of decapitating sharp objects, the Nymph’s saucer-sized eyes appeared frantic. She pressed further back against the tree in which she’d taken temporary shelter.

“Young lady,” Khristos said over his shoulder, his deep voice rumbling. “If you are able to do so, I suggest you leave us immediately.” He unhooked the frog-latch at his throat one handed and threw his black cape to the ground.

“I’m . . . trying.” Waverly’s voice trembled as if someone had taken hold of her throat and shook her violently. “Too scared. Can’t concentrate.”

The Templar priest positioned his large equine body in front of the Nymph species he so bitterly despised. Disguised by the helm, his newest adversary advanced. Still, Khristos protected Waverly, willing to pit his skill and short sword against the longer Greek makhaira of his brother Centaur.

“You would protect the very maggots that caused the war?” Dryas spat the words at Khristos and Rhy, slashing and cutting the air in front of him. “You’re a fucking disgrace to our kind.”

Rhy parried double-handed, confident of his blocks and strikes. “The war was over before you were born, dumb shit. And—” He lunged forward, driving with his leading leg. “It was King Nickolaus who started that bloody rotten war!” The last three words punctuated with hammering blows from his weapon.

The crash of swords rang out. Waverly’s thin scream filled his ears. Dryas stepped back in preparation for his next onslaught, and Rhycious chanced a glimpse at her.

She clung to the tree at her back, her face masked in terror. Khristos fought the Centaur who reared up on thick hind legs. Sharp fore-hooves with fitted fetlock blades struck out, aiming for the Templar’s skull.

Later, when the skirmish ended and if he remained upright, Rhy would have to reevaluate his impression of Khristos. The priest’s actions, fighting for Waverly, surprised the hell out of him.

Rhy’s gaze swung back to his opponent and blocked a jugular strike. He followed with a downward swing to cut Dryas’s legs out from under him.

The younger Centaur reacted quickly, using Rhy’s lowered sword and rusty skills to his advantage. A horizontal cut, aimed at Rhy’s left shoulder, hit its intended mark.

Pain exploded in a shower of fireworks, taking his breath away. The deep slice burned hot into his deltoid muscle, causing his fingers to tingle. Crimson liquid tinted the steel of Dryas’s sword, a sick reminder of centuries past.

“I’m going to kill you, asshole.” Dryas swore at him as he slashed and parried. Bloodlust and anger his new impetus. “When Khristos and Savella are dead, the Centaurian people will have a new ruler!”

“Praise Pan it isn’t my sword arm you nicked.” Warm blood ran down Rhy’s arm as he held it close to his body. Driven on the defense rather than offense, he fought his way backward toward a cowering Waverley and battling Khristos. “I’ll not die today, and certainly not by you.”