“Do not bother yourself with matters that don’t concern you.” Radre spun on the heel of his boot and swished out the door in a cloud of frothy silk. A cape? Really? Well,certainly a new fashion statement.
Chynne popped back into sight, followed by a slightly-worse-for-the-wear Piers.
“Is your brother always such a dick?” Chynne asked. “I remember him from his youth. While arrogant and lacking good judgment, he’d never been such a bloody prick.”
“A bloody prick?” Chynne must’ve been watching British television while in the human realm.
“Something I learned on the wonderful box thing in the hotel room while you were out. Most enlightening.” Chynne glanced over at the shell-shocked Piers. “You know, we really should do something about him.”
Piers gripped the wall, quietly muttering, “I’m insane. I’m insane. I’ve lost my fucking mind.”
“You’ve shielded our magic from detection?” Wycke asked Chynne.
Chynne nodded. “Always.”
Wycke raised a hand.
“Don’t! You aren’t to be trusted casting on a blade of grass, let alone someone we hope to keep alive. You might snap him in half. Might I suggest a strong drink instead of a calming spell? Remember, until recently, he didn’t know magic existed. You awakened his abilities. We don’t know how his natural defenses might work against you.” Chynne scrutinized Piers, then turned back to Wycke. “Better make it a double.”
Oh, right. On his third try, Wycke produced a tumbler of brandy without turning the glass to liquid, igniting the alcohol, or summoning someone named Brandy. “Here,” he said, holding the glass to Piers’ lips when Piers showed no sign of lifting his hands from the wall. He obediently swallowed, made a face, then opened his mouth like a baby bird for more.
Every instinct screamed at Wycke to offer comfort. Piers’ flinching away from Wycke’s touch hurt. Right. Not the time or the place. And why feel such an unfamiliar need, anyway? Lovers never caused protective instincts before.
After the third shot, Piers finally relaxed enough to step away from the wall. “What’s going on? Start from the beginning.” He dropped down onto his back on Wycke’s bed without invitation—promptly sinking nose-deep into the feather mattress.
“I suggest you enunciate clearly. Use small words,” Chynne offered, hopping beside Piers on the bed and succeeding in unburying at least his face from the mass of floof.
Piers raised a hand over Chynne’s back, stopped, and dropped his hand back to the covers.
Chynne, in a very catlike move, butted Piers’ hand with his head. “If such actions will calm you, you may pet me. Just this once.”
Piers ran his hand over the cat’s back. Chynne purred, shooting a nasty glower Wycke’s way. Okay, no mentioning the powerful familiar playing spoiled pet. Then again, if Chynne hoped to convince Piers to release him one day, best to try a little sucking up.
Wycke settled into a velvet chair upholstered in shades of blue, the swirled pattern repeated on the bedcovering. “You live in the human realm. I live on a magical plane of existence. Those powerful enough can cross from one to the other. Are you with me so far?”
Piers nodded. “I think so.” He rose to a sitting position, gesturing for a refill. Wycke, getting a handle on his newly amplified skills, gave Piers a watered-down version of the brandy without bothering to leave the chair.
How best to deliver bad news? Given the amount of brandy consumed in a short period of time, anything less than the unembellished facts might not penetrate Piers’ alcohol-soaked brain. “You aren’t human as you know them. In fact, you were born here in the magical realm, high in the Fyrgryn mountains. You’re the only child of a powerful sorceress, who served my father, King Gustaf Bertillian of Myrgren.”
Piers stared into the glass, glanced at Wyck, and resumed studying the glass. “This is some pretty potent booze. It sounded like you said my mother was a sorceress and your father was a king.”
Words forever changed a man’s life. “I did. What do you know about your mother?” Piers hadn’t disclosed many details when Wycke asked about her before.
“Next to nothing. I’ve already told you. My uncle didn’t tell me much about my folks, except my mother was evil. He did tell me bedtime stories about an evil sorceress, though.”
“What did your uncle look like?” Saris had mentioned Sir Lyvianne, but he’d died so many seasons ago. Chynne might have known him, but Wycke couldn’t recall the man, except the visions he’d had in the human realm.
“Light hair, kind of like yours, only shorter. His eyes were a light brownish color, almost bronze. Oh, he had lots of scars. I mean, terrible ones.”
Wycke and Chynne shared a glance. “What was his name?” Wycke asked.
“Lee Adams. Uncle Lee.”
So far, so good. Piers managed to sound somewhat rational. Wycke pressed on. “His name was Lyvianne, a distant cousin and a royal household guard. My sister asked him to take you somewhere safe. Did he tell you anything of magic?”
“Just the stories.”
“What happened to him?” Piers called the man “Uncle.” Had he watched his guardian die? Bad enough Wycke witnessed the man’s death in a vision when he’d barely known of Lyvianne. To call him uncle?
