Midnight Soul (Fantasyland #5) Page 2

  I waited, taking the filled glass and bringing it to my lips for a sip, my body held tense, expectant, hoping to hear his beautiful voice in my head again.

  It did not come.

  The servants left me with all I’d asked and a roaring fire that was quickly warming the space. However, when the male made to close the door behind him, thus closing me in and keeping the draught from the hall from cooling the room, I lifted my hand lazily his way.

  “No, leave it open,” I bid.

  He bobbed his head, did a slight bow and disappeared out the door.

  I ordered the door left open for I had no company and it’d be quite dire to sit in a closed room all by myself, brooding.

  With the door open and the comings and goings of a busy palace, at least there would be something that could take my attention.

  I sipped. I allowed the soft cheese to soften further in the warming room. I sipped more. And more. I replenished my glass. I spread the cheese on the bread and nibbled.

  And through this, I found myself alone in a room, staring at the fire, brooding.

  “Hay.” I heard and started at the strange word that pertained to barns and horses being uttered in a deep voice that was not suave, even on that short word, but rough, as if hewn through granite.

  I turned my head to see Noctorno of the other world (and his appealing faded-blue trousers), moving into the room with immense masculine grace, his gaze on me.

  But as he walked toward me, I took in his expression, which, like Circe’s, was sated.

  There was, however, no relief or gratitude.

  Instead, even if some time had passed, he seemed invigorated most assuredly by his recent activities inside Circe’s bedchamber, and at the sight of it I felt my breath catch in my throat.

  I remembered that look.

  I relished that look.

  Not only on my Antoine but any lover I’d had (but, obviously, getting it from Antoine was far more rewarding).

  It was a look I worked toward, putting great energy and imagination into it, losing myself in these endeavors, feeling free of my name, my history, my secrets, my responsibilities, and reveling in my success as if I’d scaled mountains.

  It was my greatest talent: bringing a man to climax and making utterly certain it was one he wouldn’t forget.

  This was my greatest talent outside, of course (as any good Drakkar would excel), honing in on any vulnerability and manipulating it for the greatest possible gain—coin, jewels, furs, favors, silence, information, or simply for amusement.

  Seeing the look on Noctorno in that moment, I knew Circe too had performed well (admirably well, I might add, considering her dismal past).

  I also recognized—focusing on it keenly—what Circe might have missed, or perhaps what Noctorno hid from her understanding, or simply just sensing, how she came to him.

  He was not done.

  Oh no.

  If she had not given indication she wished him out of her bedchamber, he’d still be in it.

  Indeed, he might be in it all night, and not to sleep.

  He might have been in it, perhaps, for days.

  As these thoughts flitted in my mind, I became aware he’d fully entered the room, was stopped not far from my chair, and was standing, chin tipped down, eyes regarding me with a scrutiny that I found so uncomfortable I actually shifted in my seat.

  I ceased this reaction the instant I became aware of it, appalled at myself.

  Giving something away so easily? Especially something like discomfiture?

  You’ve ruined me, I snapped silently at Antoine.

  My dead lover had no rejoinder.

  “You okay?” Noctorno asked.

  “Am I what?” I asked in return.

  His head gave a slight twitch before he went on, “You okay? All right?” His voice lowered. “It’s been a tough day, babe, for all of us. Including you.”

  I looked beyond him to the fire, lifting my wine to my lips but not sipping it until after I murmured, “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Yeah, right,” he stated, and the disbelief veritably dripping from his tone made my gaze flick immediately back to him.

  This meant I watched as he sauntered right in front of me to the chair accompanying mine, threw his lengthy frame in it and reached for the wine at the table that separated our seats.

  He also reached for the extra glass.

  These were seats, I shall add, that were turned at corners to each other with a small, round table in between, so my knee was nearly touching his.

  He poured.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to share that I had not invited him to attend me.

  Alas, I became distracted by his long fingers, and the words died in my mouth.

  “That shit was whacked,” Noctorno declared, easing back in his chair, lifting the red wine to finely-molded male lips while I watched. “Glad it’s done,” he finished before he drew in a sip.

  With some effort I refused to acknowledge, I turned my eyes back to the fire.

  “Franka, right?” he asked my name.

  “Correct,” I answered, thinking that one of the other universe women claimed by men in this one should have shared with this man, princely or not, that as a member of the guard he was well beyond his station tossing his (long, powerful) body in a chair, helping himself to my wine and introducing himself to me with a, “Franka, right?”

  Inexcusable.

  Perhaps this was how they did it in his world.

  It was not how we did it in mine.

  I was of the House of Drakkar. I was aristocracy. My cousin, Frey Drakkar was The Frey, The Drakkar. He commanded elves and dragons. He was married to the Ice Princess of my snowy country (even though she actually wasn’t the real princess, she was from a parallel universe, I had no earthly idea what had become of the real Princess Sjofn, but everyone seemed to be disregarding that so I had no choice but to do so as well, and frankly I’d never liked the woman much anyway, her replacement, however, was quite spirited).

  Not to mention, my cousin, Frey, had already sired the future king on her, for Adele’s sake!

  I was, however, not going to offer myself up for etiquette lessons to this man.

  I would sip my wine and hope he’d get the indication I wished no company through my manner. If he didn’t, I would leave (though, I couldn’t figure out how to do that and take the other bottle of wine with me without this appearing undignified).

  As I turned this quandary in my brain, he said in that gentle voice, “Hay,” again, but he added at the end, for some unknown reason and for the second time in the short period he’d been addressing me, “babe.”

  I turned to him and informed him condescendingly, “You speak strangely.”

  That got another twitch of his head before he asked, “Pardon?”

  “Hay. Babe,” I said. “What do these words mean?”

  “You…uh, don’t have the words ‘hay’ and ‘babe’ in this world?”

  I lifted my chin a smidge.

  “Of course we do. Hay is fed to horses. And babes are wee. Newborns. I simply don’t understand why you utter them to me.”

  He grinned.

  My heart squeezed, the pain so immense it was a wonder I didn’t double over, fall to the floor, dead before I hit.

  So handsome. That light in his striking eyes.

  My Antoine had been handsome.

  But when he’d smiled…

  “Not saying ‘hay,’” Noctorno told me. “I’m saying ‘hey,’ with an e. It’s how people say hello, greet each other in my world.”

  I battled the pain, hid the severity of the fight and nodded my head once.

  “And ‘babe?’” I prompted, though I shouldn’t have. Engaging in discourse would not get him to leave.

  “It’s what guys call chicks in my world.”

  I drew up a brow.

  He watched it go and his striking eyes lit brighter.

  “Chicks?” I asked, ignoring the amused light in his
eyes.

  “Girls. Women.”

  “Girls and women?” I asked.

  “Well, you wouldn’t call a girl-girl, like a little kid, a babe or a chick. You’d call women that.”

  “So it’s an endearment,” I deduced, thinking that I might, indeed, expend the effort to have a word with one of the women in this world who were of his world to share with him a few important things.

  Precisely that he shouldn’t be referring to anyone he barely knew, and certainly not his superior, with an endearment.

  “That, though chick is more slang,” he shared.

  “In other words, in your world, you refer to the female gender with words indicating to said female every time you use them that you think they’re as vulnerable and weak as a newborn child or the like, but that of a species of fowl.”

  Without hesitation his mirth surged forth, filling the room, warming it, drawing me out of my mood, away from the events of that day, of the last months, of the loss of the only man I’d ever loved, and silently I watched and listened.

  I gave no indication I enjoyed it.

  But I enjoyed it.

  He controlled his joviality but didn’t stop smiling or watching me as he asked, “What do you call dudes here?”

  “Dudes?” I responded to his query with a query.

  “Men,” he explained, still smiling. “Guys.”

  “We call them men or gentlemen.”

  “No, I mean endearments or slang.”

  “I, personally, do not engage in uttering slang.”

  He studied me like I was a highly entertaining jester who’d come to court before he inquired, “Okay, what do you call a man you’re in with?”

  “In with?”

  “Who means something to you. Your guy. Your man,” he stated.

  I looked to the fire again, feeling my face freeze.

  The instant I did, he bit off, “Fuck.” There was a slight pause before, “Babe…Franka, Tor told me about the shit that went down…fuck.” I felt strong fingers curl around my wrist, a wrist I was resting on the arm of the chair, before he finished, “That was stupid. I’m so sorry.”

  With a delicate twist, I freed myself from his touch, lifted my wineglass to my lips, and before I took a sip I murmured, “It’s nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  This odd word made my gaze move back to him.

  “I beg your pardon?” I snapped.

  “Bullshit,” he repeated.

  “I don’t understand this word.”

  Though I had a feeling I did.

  There was no smile on his face. No humor in his eyes. He was regarding me closely again, but this time I was prepared and didn’t shift in my seat.

  “You’re full of it,” he explained. “You’re not giving me the entire truth. You’re saying something to get past something you don’t want to be talking about.”

  “And if I did this, considering what we both know I’m moving us past, it’s customary to allow the awkward moment to pass.”

  He leaned slightly toward me. “You’re in here all alone, drinkin’ wine by yourself, lookin’ like the world just ended. And I get why you’d feel that way. I don’t understand, when all the others are so tight, why you aren’t tight with them. But that’s not my business. All I know is, you put your ass on the line today to save four women’s lives and the life of every being in this universe. It took courage to do that, babe. You suffered a big loss losing your man and I’m sorry for that. But at least for tonight you should be proud of what you did for your country, for four good women and the men who love them, for the memory of the man you lost. It’s time to celebrate. The good side won and you,” he pointed a finger at me (insufferably rude!), “were a part of that.”

  Again, on the tip of my tongue, words hovered to share precisely, in a calculated way, how I knew he had celebrated with Circe.

  Those words did not drop off my tongue.

  They vanished completely as I simply turned my attention back to the fire.

  “And that kinda situation does not say wine,” he carried on. “It says whiskey, vodka, or better yet, tequila.”

  I could not argue with that (regardless of the fact I had no idea what tequila was).

  “To that, I heartily agree,” I declared, deigning again to glance at him and wishing I hadn’t, for his smile had returned, making me further wish I could snatch my words back.

  “I’ll go find something,” he announced, putting his hands to the arms of the chair in order to heft his big frame out of it, and I felt my brows draw together as, once he was up, it seemed he was moving toward the door.

  “You simply have to pull the cord and demand it of a servant,” I explained.

  He was now standing, staring down at me, appearing bemused.

  By the powers of Adele, if she reigned in his realm, she gave him more than his fair share of everything.

  He even looked delectable bemused!

  I really had to leave as quickly as I could without giving anything away.

  “Uh…what?” he asked.

  I gestured indolently with a hand to the cord in the corner of the room. “Pull the cord. A bell sounds…” I didn’t have the information of where it sounded as I didn’t concern myself with such matters, and continued with, “somewhere. A servant comes. We tell him we want whiskey. He brings it.”

  His lips quirked.

  I drew in an annoyed breath for that was delectable too.

  “Right,” he muttered and began to stride toward the cord.

  I twisted in my chair and called to his back, “When they arrive, share with them more fuel needs to be added to the fire.”

  He stopped and turned back to me while I was speaking.

  When I was done, he looked to the fire and then back to me.

  “Babe, there’s a pile of logs right there,” he stated.

  “Indeed, there are,” I agreed, though I hadn’t concerned myself with that matter either and had no idea if he spoke truth.

  “So I can put more fuel on the fire.”

  By Adele, he again looked amused.

  I needed to find a way to exit this situation with all due haste.

  “If you wish to dirty your hands…” I left it at that but added a slight shrug.

  He shook his head, his mouth again quirking, and he turned back to the cord.

  Fine.

  He would order whisky.

  I would imbibe a bit (or perhaps more than a bit). Then I’d find a way to purloin the extra bottle of wine and the glass and remove myself to my rooms.

  This was my plan.

  As Franka Drakkar of the House of Drakkar, I was very good with plans, making them and executing them to their fullest.

  However, that night, not for the first time, I would not succeed.

  * * * * *

  “You jest,” I declared.

  I was leaning across the arm of my chair (rather inelegantly) toward Noctorno, who was lounged (rather negligently) in his chair, whiskey in hand, dancing, startling light-blue eyes on me.

  “Nope,” he stated.

  “Nope” I had learned through the fullness of our discourse these past hours in his world meant “no.”

  Incidentally, we’d had a good deal of whiskey.

  We’d also finished all the wine.

  And I was sure I was likely to lament how deep in my cups I was at that present juncture.

  I just didn’t have it in me to care.

  “You can speak to any being you want in the entirety of your universe, as long as you have this…number you describe? By just entering it into a gadget and putting it to your ear?” I asked.

  “Yep,” he replied. “And as long as they also have a phone.”

  “Yep” I’d learned meant “yes.”

  So did “Yup,” but we had that in my world too.

  I examined his face.

  He looked relaxed and amused.

  He did not look as if he was dissembling.

  Even so, he had to b
e dissembling.

  Therefore, I moved back an inch on my accusation. “You lie.”

  He shook his head, leaning forward and reaching behind him, stating, “Nope.”

  He then pulled out a thin, rectangular piece of what looked like metal and glass. It had rounded edges. It was simple but somehow exceptionally handsome.

  He leaned toward me, holding this thing my way, and as I watched the little window illuminated, showing a variety of tiny pictures on it, all lined up precisely in rows, up and down.

  “By the gods,” I whispered, reaching toward it but stopping, struck immobile by the fantastical.

  “Yep,” he said, moving his thumb on the window. A white screen came up with a listing of text. “That’s email. You can send mail to anyone too, if you have their address. And it gets to them in a couple of minutes. Of course I can’t do that now, seeing as I’m way outside service. But if I wasn’t, I could call ’em, mail ’em, text ’em.”

  I turned my gaze from his gadget to his face.

  “Text them?”

  “Type in a message,” he said, my eyes dropped back to his contraption as his thumb moved over it. “Hit send, it goes to someone else’s phone, bings, they get the message within minutes. Seconds even.”

  “That’s extraordinary,” I breathed, reaching out yet again but stopping before I touched the little box of magic.

  “You can take it, Franka. It won’t bite you.”

  Laughter laced his words and I again looked at his handsome face.

  I didn’t take his gadget.

  I asked, “Is it magic?”

  “We don’t have magic in our world like you do.”

  I sat back in shock. “How bizarre.”

  “We do,” he went on to clarify. “It just isn’t out. As in, practiced openly.”

  He could not be serious.

  “That’s very dangerous,” I stated primly (perhaps in order to hide I also did it uncomfortably).

  “It probably fuckin’ is,” he muttered.

  “You should do something about that,” I informed him with authority. “It’s my understanding you’re in the city guard. You should speak to your constable. Perhaps he can speak to your…whatever title your ruler bears. They can surely do something about that. And as you can imagine with your activities here, it’s advisable.”

  He shook his head. “If the president went on record making folks come forward to register that they’re witches and sorcerers…or whatever…he’d be removed from office in about twenty-four hours.”