Remedy Maker (43 page)

 Every rational reason crossed his mind why he felt this way, but he could think of no way to fix it.

He went into his cabin and shut the door, slamming the iron bolt home. Familiar herbal scents greeted him. Glad to be back home, he inhaled deeply.

Patience stroked her soft hand down his arm to draw his attention. “Is it cool if Serenity
double clutched
some bath water?”

“Huh?”

She laughed lightly. “Serenity stinks, you feel me? She needs serious kick back time in the tub.”

“Of course, tell her to make herself at home.” He ground out the last of his sentence.

The girls spoke nonstop as they walked down the hall, finishing each other’s sentences. Once the bathroom door closed, their voices were muffled.

His four tired hooves dragged him into the stallroom. Stretching out on the bed would have been his first choice of action, had he been alone. But the voices through the wall kept his legs pointed in the downward position.

Rhycious was a volcano on the verge of erupting. Chattering females in his normally quiet home made his nerves tick. It rubbed his tension until it bled, and their giggles threw salt on the wound. He choked, sensing the invasion of his private sanctuary and forced himself to take a deep cleansing breath, wiping sweat off his forehead. 

Rhycious jerked the gun out from the scabbard’s belt and placed it with a clatter on top the dresser, making sure the safety locked in place. Black metal with roughened handgrip, it looked menacing just laying there.

Where in the hell did his peaceful life as a healer go?

Across the room, the closet door hung open from his anxious search for Patience—yet another distasteful reminder of the recent violence. The damned armor he wore creaked in protest, increasing the tightness in his chest. The strangled feeling matched strength with the clench of his tightly closed fist.

The bathroom door opened, and steam escaped in a whisper of fog. Through the open stallroom door, he watched Patience guide Serenity into the living room.
Guess I won’t be relaxing my hooves in there, either.

In a matter of days, he’d gone from one occupant to three. His cabin was a certifiable bachelor pad, not a
fucking spa
. He clopped past the steamy bathroom, lilac soap sweetening the air. Out of spite, he held his breath.

“Rhy? Serenity got hit by a sleep bomb. You mind if she
chillaxes
in the bedroom tonight?”

The topic of their conversation sat wilting on his couch. Her damp curls made wet spots on the shirt she was wearing.
Is that my fucking Penn State shirt?
His fingers dug canals through his hair, blasting through the tangled ends. He looked away, glancing around the interior without seeing.

I gotta get out of here.
His heart was going to explode; it raced faster and faster, as if he’d jogged home from the palace. He needed to breathe, the air felt stifling and close in the living room. Experience dictated dizziness would shortly follow.

“Sure, that’s fine. I, uh . . . .” He licked his dry lips and patted the tops of his thighs. His fingers were going numb. “I’m going to do a sweep outside and make sure all’s clear. Give Serenity something to eat if she’s hungry.”

He dicked around in the kitchen, handing Patience an apple and a couple of Sam’s cookies, then strode with a move-out order for the front door. But not before he swiped the glass bottle with a cork stopper from a shadowed corner of the counter.

Medicinal purposes
, he told himself.

“Lock up behind me,” he stated, before slipping out the door and pulling it closed.

The slide of the bolt shot a shiver down his spine. It was a ridiculous reaction. Still, he looked over his shoulder at the solid wood entry, wondering if the world had turned its back on him.

Only a few more days and the Festival would begin. It’d be one hell of a good time this year. Each evening, the moon grew fatter and would be at its fullest on celebration night. A nice gravitational pull should bring the horniest stallions out of the woodworks and have them braying to the stars.

Chuckling, he blended with the dark forest colors, weaving in and out of the trees with ease. Pulling the cork stopper, he blew out a hard breath. By obligation and honor, he was responsible for Patience’s safety and health. Now that their relationship—temporary though it may be—had been broadcast, the rebels might look to use her as leverage to gain their outlandish demands.

The bottle’s end tilted up, rushing cool liquid into his mouth. When the burn on his tongue flared to life, he swallowed in one gulp. Flames roared, tracing the drink’s path to the cloud of responsibility hovering over him. He choked and coughed, eyes watering on the homemade brew.

Old-timers called it
whistle.
Rhycious used it as a disinfectant and sleeping draught. At one hundred ninety proof, it was highly flammable and you could fuel a bus on the stuff.

He took another sip.

Patience mentioned Serenity lived near her. Not that he would give her the bum’s rush, but he really wanted his own version of serenity back. His snort slipped out. When the younger lady decided it was time to go home, which he hoped would be tomorrow, he’d be more than happy to provide her with an escort.

Rhycious’s gaze roamed the peaceful forest floor. Indistinct dark spots coalesced with ebony background where no moonlight broke through. Working like a drafting compass, he kept the cabin’s position to his left and continued to circle around, searching with his eyes and ears for trespassers.

Stepping over rocks and roots, some of the
whistle
sloshed out of the bottle and onto his hand. He raised his wrist to inspect the spill, and then took another sip since the jug was near.

This time, the alcohol didn’t burn. It slid warmly down his gullet.

No trespassers, no scary beasts, no human hunters—and nobody bothering him. It was just Rhycious and his medicinal bottle. After the nasty day, quiescent tranquility was exactly what the Remedy Maker ordered.

He almost laughed aloud at his own joke, but muffled the sound with the bottle before it escaped.

 Through the back window, a single lantern glowed on the apothecary table. He imagined Patience was sitting with her sister, since there wasn’t movement within the cabin.

He loved her. Patience, that is. Rhycious accepted it now, along with another pull at the bottle. The dull ache in his chest where his healing heart beat beneath the body armor told him so. To make the pain go away, he thumped the spot with his free fist.

Then he took another sip.

After all,
whistle
was a medicinal . . . uh . . . has a medicinal purpose.

Suddenly weary, his eyes burned. He leaned against a tree and wiped his liquor-slogged hand on the t-shirt under his Flac jacket.

Today’s battle waged differently from all the others in his memory. He chuckled. Well maybe it’s because the fucking tree people rescued their sorry asses. If their fingered branches and rooted toes hadn’t burst in, Rhy would probably be—

Dead.

As dead as that bearded Centaur Aleksander had killed. The one whose eyes bugged out when the tip of the Kempor’s sword pierced his chest and continued out the back.
Oh, gods, and I did nothing to help.
Fuck.

His head tilted back and drank, swallowing his guilt away.

The tree’s rough bark ground into his palm when he pushed off to finish his patrol. Low twigs twisted together, tripping his front hooves.

“
Gamóto
.” Stomping at the leaves, remorse immediately ensued. “Sorry,
Misher
Tree.
Didden’
mean to
hursh
ya,” he hazarded, patting the trunk with a heavy hand.

Rhycious took a few steps. The ground pitched and rolled beneath him. He was a boat on a dirt sea. He’d been in a watercraft once or twice and vowed to never repeat the experience. If he couldn’t get there traveling over land, he didn’t want to go.

Common sense spiked through the comforting haze and brought the reality of his surroundings to the forefront. It was dangerous to walk around Boronda stone cold sober in his true form. Intoxicated, he’d more likely be dead meat.

Not yet ready to depart his cozy abyss, he raised the bottle to his lips again. This time, a thin switch, no larger than his finger, got in the way of his arm. He slapped the piece of wood, batting it down and to the side. It bounced back, slapped him in the face, and placed itself between the bottle and his mouth.

Slow realization dawned on his liquor-soaked brain. He had friends all around, watching out for him—new friends that had once been enemies. Knowledge that the Wood Nymphs were witnessing his fallen disgrace both shamed and strengthened him at once.

His hand lowered, the bottle tilted down—
medicinal purpose
poured out.

 “
Dank
you,” he said aloud to the trees, the bushes, and the bunnies.

From where he stood, the corner of the front porch came into view. He blinked several times to bring it into focus, not recalling how he’d made the sweeping circumference, or if he’d seen anything threatening.

The only thing dangerous is this bottle in my hand.
He drew back his arm to throw the bottle away, wanting to bash it against a hard object and shatter the disappointment in himself.

Ten pink toes with pink nail polish drifted into his mind—her forever-bare feet. Rhycious kept hold of the empty bottle. It’d be like Patience to forget her shoes and go traipsing around. His heart sunk at the thought of her getting so much as a cut on her perfect skin.

The night was still, yet pushed aside as if a stiff wind bent its limbs, the small branch lifted to let him pass. Time to go home.

He crossed the yard and hauled his tailed ass up the stairs. Fitting that
itty-bitty
key into the
tick-tock
lock challenged the hell out of his coordination. And he was beginning to lose his patience.

“Rhy? Is that you?” Patience’s muffled voice filtered through the closed door.

Voila! Thinketh thy sweet name and she of beauty is summoned forth
. He idly wondered if it’d work every time.

“Yeah,
issme
. Could you please
lemme
in? The lock keeps dancing and won’t
hol’
still.”

“Say what?” The door cracked open and a turquoise eye peered out. Her one eyeball tracked from side to side, following a swinging pendulum. Probably because he swayed on his hooves as if he were dancing by himself. “Are you copasetic?” She opened the door wider and stood back.

“I’m better ‘n that.” He thumped his chest with a closed fist. “I’m the fucken Remedy Maker.” And didn’t that just crack him up? He clopped into the house laughing, hugging her slender body to him. His hand drifted down and squeezed her fine ass. Lifting a hind leg, he kicked the door shut. “Bolt that for me, will you, babe?”

Because the room slanted a slow revolution to the left, he closed one eye and scissor-stepped to the kitchen. With a hefty clunk, he set the empty
whistle
bottle on the counter. A whirlwind raced past him faster than his blurred vision could follow, and caught the bottle before it crashed to the floor.

Guess he hadn’t quite made it to the countertop. Amused laughter gurgled deep within and spilled out.

Patience set the bottle on the counter and pushed it toward the wall. “Holy elbow-bender, are you hammered?” She leaned backed on the granite surface, eyebrow raised.

“Maybe justa smidge. But don’t you worry your pretty little buds, I poured the rest out.” That had been stupid, come to think of it. He needed the antiseptic for his practice.

“Can you make it to bed, or do you need help?”

Oh, I need help, m’dear. Lots and lots of help.
“If you help me, I think I can get there. I think I can, I think I can.” The thought of his choo-choo chugging down the hall brought on another fit of laughter.

He tapped her under the chin, and that’s when he noticed the dark circles under her tired eyes. Worry furrowed lines between her brows. Lantern flame caused haunting shadows to play over her face. Her breathing seemed labored, but he was still too drunk to be sure.

He began to sober up when he realized that something was wrong.

At Samuel’s, she had seemed fine and well rested. “When did you start feeling bad?” He cupped her soft cheek in his palm. Patience felt warmer than usual, her lidded eyes drooped making her appear small and vulnerable.

“About fifty years ago.” She lifted his arm with a grunt and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Don’t worry about things that can’t be changed. Come on, stud muffin. Let’s get you horizontal. At least I know
you’ll
feel better in the morning. Or,” she laughed, “maybe not.”

Originally, he quit drinking because alcohol contributed to his PTSD episodes. Not saying another side trip into hell wasn’t in order from this latest bout with the rocket sauce. He wouldn’t excuse tonight’s cabin fever for hitting the bottle as a Centaur weakness for booze.

Here and now, this was the final straw. He’d never touch the shit again, not when it dulled him to Patience’s delicate health. He was responsible for her until he and Dendron worked together on her cure.

Her arms were warm under his hands. Rhycious turned her to face him, sliding his arm across her back. “I should never have put the duties of the crown before you. Instead of tracking down rebels, which is Aleksander’s job, I dragged you all over Bacchus’s creation. Your health, not to mention your life, was in jeopardy at every turn.” He lifted her chin with his finger, gazed into her eyes and caressed her face. “I vow to you, Patience. I’ll fight to save your life.”

Her small hand caught his and held it to her cheek. “It isn’t your fault I’m sick, and you’re a
noob
when it comes to Wood Nymph healing. Don’t get down on your bad self.” She smiled into his eyes. “Get back up again.”

She started them down the hall and Rhycious held her closer. When Patience gained her strength and vitality, she’d return to her people as a fortunate Wood Nymph, one of the survivors. And he’d return to his life, satisfied knowing he’d helped another woodland creature. In turn, this would promote harmony and goodwill between the races.