Beauty (A Faery Story 3)

Lach’s power was a cold chill that ran up Shim’s spine. His brother was so strong, but he feared his gifts. “Yes, so many dead who can lead the way to Bronwyn. Don’t stop.”

“I have her.” Lach opened his mind and, sure enough, Shim felt her. The connection was right there, stronger than ever.

Shim grabbed it, letting go of his own hunt, the fires dying down for now. “Hold the connection, Lach. Can you do it?”

Lach’s voice was firm and in control. “I have it. She’s in a jail. There’s a cemetery a short distance from it, but the place is coated in death. It’s easy, Shim. I can see her. Gods, I can feel how scared she is. She’s going to try something foolish.”

“Stop, a stoirin.” Shim put a wealth of power behind the word. He shoved every dominant trait he possessed into that one word, sending it over the line that ran from him to Lach to Bronwyn.

Nothing.

“She can’t hear,” Lach said. “But I think she can feel. I clenched my fists and she clenched hers almost like she was answering me. Shim, she’s trying to work the lock open. I think there’s a guard right outside her door. They’ll kill her, or we could lose her. She could run and we wouldn’t be able to find her. The war is about to start.”

Shim knew all the ways this could quickly go very, very badly. “We have to calm her down.”

She wasn’t listening, or talking didn’t work the way they thought it did. This connection was new to them. To be able to communicate when they were all conscious was brand-new territory. But if she could feel, then Shim knew what to do.

“Hold the connection, brother,” he said to his other half. “I know just how to turn our little mate’s mind to something that won’t get her killed.”

* * * *

Bronwyn stopped. She shuddered, the cold threatening to overtake her. They hadn’t even left a blanket in the cold, dank cell they’d tossed her into. There was nothing but a cot and a bucket. She didn’t like to think about what the bucket was for.

Her head ached. She wondered if Ove was even alive.

She had to get out of here. She had to. If she stayed the night, they would execute her in the morning.

Goddess, what had she done? She’d felt the heat in her hands, rolling up from her soul. She’d called it. It had been hers to command. Little Ove had been lying on the ground, her fragile body seconds from being kicked apart by brutal feet. She hadn’t thought. She’d acted and the world around her had gone up in flames. It had been natural. She hadn’t feared the fire.

But she was afraid of the cold she felt now.

She had to ignore it. She was scared. Sure she was. She was locked in a prison. She had every right to be scared. Her head throbbed. What had happened? She remembered everything up to the fire coursing through her veins. She was a pyromancer. It was the only explanation. She needed to come to terms with it. It could help her enormously.

She was done. Watching sweet little Ove lie there in the dirt had crystalized her resolve. She needed to stop hiding. One way or another, she was going to be Bronwyn again. In life. In death. If Torin was looking for her, maybe it was time to make herself available to the rebels. Gillian was wrong. Her only job wasn’t to stay alive. Her job was to fight.

She looked around her small cell. They hadn’t placed her in the jail, but in the private cell of the sheriff’s office. A thick oak door with a small rectangular hole stood in the way of her and freedom. She had to get out. Staring at the door, she tried to call the fire forth.

Nothing.

Her palms were cold, not hot. And she could feel them flexing almost as though they weren’t her own. Her hands clenched of their own volition. And yet there was something about it that felt almost soothing, like a hand reached out to embrace her own.

She ignored it. She was alone. No one had hugged her or touched her in years. Gillian would pat her hand or her back. Ove hugged her, but it was for the little brownie’s comfort. It had been thirteen years since she’d really felt compassionate hands on her body.

Except in her dreams. But she wasn’t dreaming now.

She got to her knees in front of the door, trying to peer out the keyhole. She could fashion a lockpick. She’d been taught by the best thieves. She simply needed two pieces of flexible but strong material. Her hands felt around the material of her dress. There was a pin that held her neat apron to the tunic. It would do. She pulled it out. Flexible and easy to work with. She could scrape the pins of the lock with it. Now she needed something more solid to hold the lock in place.

Sweet heat invaded her veins.

Bronwyn.

Her name rumbled along her skin. A dark, sensual masculine tone echoed in her brain. It said her name over and over. It wasn’t an unpleasant thing meant to draw her attention, more like a monk whispering a prayer over and over.

Except the low feeling in her womb didn?

?t remind her of any religion.

She struggled to breathe. Her pussy was warm. Except it wasn’t a pussy.