Maybe he'd surprise her?
Ugh. Wishful thinking would only lead to disappointment.
Would Puck even want her?
Of course! The bond made her crave Puck, despite everything that had happened between them, therefore the bond made him crave her. It was science.
Were they nothing but puppets on a string?
Did it really matter? Want was want.
Wait. Am I trying to talk myself into a sexcapade with him, or out of it? I'm confused.
He wasn't exactly boyfriend material. Romantic dinners, gift exchanges, dancing, laughing and long, lingering glances or tender smiles--not exactly in his wheelhouse.
Temptation said: Why not use him, just for a little while? Satisfaction awaits...
The idea wasn't repellent. She could experience the beauty of sex without fear. As many times as she'd fantasized about Puck, old memories had never surfaced. And it wasn't like she could get off all by her lonesome. Whimper. Any time she'd attempted it, her body had shut down, thanks to the bond. Or maybe Indifference. Or both! Deep down she suspected she needed Puck to finish the job, his presence somehow making her desire too strong to be denied.
And dang it, she was tired of writhing atop her sheets, desperate and aching, unable to satiate the need her husband had roused with a simple kiss. A need that hadn't abated in their time apart but grown. A need for Puck and Puck alone.
Part of her mind cried Why not William? She'd known him years longer and had hero-worshipped the crap out of him.
Yeah, body. Why? Though she thought of him every now and then, wondering if he could possibly be as gorgeous as she remembered--and though she always had fun taunting Puck about the other man in her letters--she'd never fantasized about him.
A crack of thunder returned her thoughts to the matter at hand. "If I get caught..." Gillian began.
"I know, I know. Slaughter everyone, risk my life more, and save you."
"No. Are you kidding? Retreat, steal more weapons, acquire more magic and return."
Another crack of thunder, followed by a blaze of lightning that spotlighted soldiers as they ran for cover; they knew no one in their right mind would attack during an ice storm.
They weren't wrong. Gillian hadn't had a right mind for centuries.
Shields were raised over the tents, offering protection for the people inside.
"After this," Winter said, as unconcerned with the coming rain of death as Gillian, "the newly crowned Walsh king will probably stop courting you."
"That's just a bonus," she said.
Gillian had killed the last two sovereigns. The first had delighted in the pain he'd inflicted upon women, reminding her of her stephorrors. The next one had killed a beloved member of the Shawazons, not during battle but a shopping extravaganza. He'd stabbed her from behind.
After a third crack of thunder, the first ice dagger fell from the sky and speared the ground a few inches from Gillian's face. Indifference howled with surprise before vanishing from her mind.
Well, well. Near-death experiences weren't his thing. Good to know.
"Now," she said. Raising a shield of her own, she popped to her feet and raced down the sand dune.
18
More and more ice daggers descended, deluging the land. Gillian had to jump, dodge and dive to avoid slamming into each new obstacle, even as other ice daggers slammed into her shield and shattered into a million little pieces.
Thankfully, the same thud, thud and clink, clink echoed from the shields that covered the roofs of the tents.
Winter remained a few steps behind her, guarding her back.
No wonder the Lords of the Underworld enjoyed their skirmishes. Protecting the people you loved was the greatest high. The second greatest? Knowing the warrior at your side or on your six would die for you, if necessary.
Family. Acceptance. Support. Everything Gillian had ever wanted, delivered in a package she'd never expected.
Adrenaline surged through her veins, supercharging her. Magic stirred, her runes glowing bright, soon becoming beacons in the night. That wouldn't do. Unleashing a whip of power, she caused grains of sand to rise and form a tornado around her and Winter.
When she'd first learned about magic, she'd thought different types produced specific results. Like superspeed, or the ability to flash. Superhuman strength. Unnatural endurance. Breathing under water. Night vision. Telepathy. Atmokinesis. Omnilinguilism. Echolocation. Mind control. Intangibility. Self-camouflage. Poison generation. Telekinesis. Pyrokinesis. Psychokinesis. The ability to fly. But it hadn't taken long to realize magic was simply power, and the more you had, the more you could do.
A certain amount of magic was needed to perform certain abilities. The more magic you used on those abilities, the less you could do, your power draining faster and faster. It was a vicious cycle.
Sin Connacht seemed to be the sole exception. According to word on the dunes, he'd possessed three abilities since birth: superspeed, shapeshifting and night vision. Puck had superspeed, too, and he'd shapeshifted the day he'd brought her into Amaranthia. Could he also see in the dark, like his brother? What else could he do?
She would have liked to--
Focus, girl!
She released a second whip of magic, increasing the speed of the tornado to create a type of force field. In the eye of the storm, she and Winter remained unaffected.
Unfortunately, her magic meter already teetered on empty. Finding the right targets had become increasingly difficult as men learned of her hatred for anyone willing to commit crimes against women and children. They were no longer so vocal about their crimes, no longer bragging or publicly punishing the people under their "care."
One day, Gillian hoped to find a way to self-power, so that her magic built and never drained, allowing her to tap into every supernatural ability.
It was good to have dreams.
As she raced onward, voices drifted from the tents.
"--telling you, I saw him with my own eyes." Panic infused his tone.
"What does he want?"
Who was him/he?
Rescue first. Gather info second.
Information could be as valuable as magic.
Because the tornado limited her vision, she had to use more magic to see past the wall of wind and sand and even tent flaps to peer inside the dwellings. Warriors cleaning weapons. Women cooking. Couples having sex. Arguing. Laughing.
When her gaze skidded over Johanna, Gillian stopped and backtracked. Heart thudding against her ribs, she used hand signals to send Winter racing to the other side of the most luxurious tent in the entire camp, where she would wait for exactly two minutes.
A countdown began in Gillian's head. Two minutes, or one hundred and twenty seconds. She took stock. A rusty cage occupied the center, and Johanna crouched inside. Mud caked her corkscrew curls and dirt streaked her dark skin. Her clothing--a leather top with thin metal links over her vital organs, and a pleated skirt--were tattered. She gripped the cage bars, her brown eyes narrowed, her lips compressed into a tight line.
One minute left.
Fury seethed in Gillian's chest. She remembered the day she'd met Johanna, hundreds of years ago. She'd heard rumors about a male who beat and abused his daughters, so she'd snuck into his home, intending to kill him and steal his magic.
He'd had sweet little Johanna by the throat, choking the life from her.
Gillian had erupted and choked the life out of him--like for like. At first, Johanna had feared her. Over time, as Gillian trained her to fight the same way she'd once been trained by Winter, they'd become friends. Family.
No one hurts my family.
Thirty seconds.
Johanna's captor--the commander of the outpost--lounged on a mound of pillows, sharpening a blade. "Looks like we're going to have another night together." He laughed. "Perhaps the Dune Raider will show up tomorrow. Or not. Perhaps she's afraid of me and washed her hands of you."
Fifteen.
T
he taunts of a cruel man, nothing more. Deserves what's coming.
Ten.
As quietly and quickly as possible, Gillian cut a slit in the side of the tent.
Five.
Before he noticed the sudden icy breeze, she slipped inside. Now! Mind locking on a single thought--will do what I must, always--she tossed her shield, nailing him in the temple, and palmed a second dagger.
With a bellow, he clamored to his feet, ready to punish her with his sword.
What he didn't know? Winter had entered the tent from the other side, a bow raised, arrow cocked. Whoosh. The arrow sliced through his wrist. His hand spasmed, and he dropped the weapon.
One step, two, then she was running. Winter tossed a shield in her direction. The second it hit the sand, directly in front of her, she dropped upon it, knees to metal. Her momentum sent her sliding across the sand--through the commander's legs.
She slicked her blades across his inner thighs. Not enough damage. The second she was behind him, she hopped off the shield, twisted and stabbed the backs of his knees.
He toppled, and released another bellow.
Winter had already freed Johanna and now needed to make the final kill. Or at least an attempt; she wouldn't want to, would want her friend to take the magic she needed to heal, but she would be punished by Selfishness if she didn't try.