They rode through thick fog. The buffer between the realms. Wycke had gotten violently ill the first time he’d made the trip, shortly after his fourteenth winter. The fog grew softer, the atmosphere lighter.
A moment later, the motorcycle came to rest in his palace rooms. Piers finally stopped screaming. Most powerful sorcerer in both realms, Wycke’s ass.
Piers lurched off the bike, nearly doing a faceplant. Being chased by hellhounds and yanked through realms would disorient anyone. Wycke steadied him with a hand to his arm. Any further comfort would have to wait for a moment alone.
Piers wobbled on unsteady feet, whipping his head back and forth. “Where the fuck are we?”
Wycke released his hold, sweeping out a hand. “My rooms.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Piers shrieked. “I’ve been to your hotel. This is not your hotel room!”
Wycke took a step back. Not the expected reaction. Normally, men and women fought for an invitation to this room. “These are my actual rooms in my home.”
Piers raced to the windows, placing a hand on either side of the sill. Outside, waves crashed against the beach. “The ocean?”
Wycke took a hesitant step away. Cross-realm travel could leave the uninitiated a bit deranged. “Yes. It’s most definitely an ocean.” Or rather, a sea. He’d found Piers in a city. Maybe he’d never actually seen waves before.
“Atlantic or Pacific? Tell me.” A touch of madness shone from Piers’ wide eyes.
“Well, not an ocean as your kind say, but the Taika Sea.”
Piers yanked his helmet off. It bounced on the marble floor. “Taika Sea? There is no Taika Sea.”
“There is here.” Wycke removed his helmet more carefully, running his fingers through his tangled hair.
The bike twisted, shrinking down into a cat again. “Have either of you considered eating less?” Chynne stretched. “I mean, really. My back aches.”
Piers backed against the wall, mouth moving, but nothing emerging.
“He tends to do that,” Chynne explained in an offhand manner. “Must be a human realm thing. Oh, wait. He’s not from the human realm, is he?”
“Wha… Wha…”
“Articulate, aren’t you?” Even from his position on the floor, Chynne managed to convey looking down his nose.
“Tha… That cat talks!” Piers panted, all color leaving his face.I’m-gonna-be-sickwasn’t a good look for him. “And he turned into a motorcycle!”
“Ah, the problem with bringing home strays.” Chynne glared down his nose at Wycke now. “So much to teach him. I’ll bet he’s not even housebroken.” He focused his disdain back on Piers. “If you must know, I can only take on organic forms. That was my creative use of a winged horse, what your kind call a Pegasus. With sound effects.”
Wycke ignored Chynne for the moment and focused on his accidental bondmate. Had Broen gotten tired of Wycke’s shit and begged the gods for a mate to saddle Wycke to? “Yes, the little asshole talks. Not much of a listener, though.” He tossed his helmet onto the bed, where it vanished from sight into what Wycke thought of as a magical closet.
Piers flinched. Right. A bit unhinged. Loud noises or sudden movements might have him running through the palace, screaming like a banshee.
And everyone knew banshees never came to Dhugach.
Chynne cut a scathing glare Wycke’s way, which, had Chynne been in dragon form, might’ve sent Wycke scurrying.
“The cat makes a pretty good inanimate object, don’t you think?” Wycke addressed his question to Piers.
“You must sleep sometime,” Chynne mused, head cocked to the side, grin more than a little feral. “Besides, living thousands of seasons taught me patience.”
If Piers pressed any harder against the wall, he might go through the marble—especially if his untapped powers came into play.
The door slammed open. Radre stood in the doorway. “Ah, brother. I thought I might find you here.”
Brother.Mistake number one. Even without Saris telling of Radre’s unusual behavior, the use ofbrothersent Wycke’s hackles rising. The king of Myrgrenneveracknowledged Wycke as a brother.
“To what do I owe the… pleasure?” Wycke nearly gagged on his own overly-pleasant words. He glanced over his shoulder. No Piers. No cat. No discarded helmet on the floor. Gone.
