Evander has gone by many names in the last thousand years. He’s lived almost as many lives, using his immortality and his unique shapeshifting abilities to become anyone and anything. His goal was simple: to eradicate the malevolent magic threatening all humankind.
After finally succeeding, Evander feels he’s earned a justifiable and peaceful retirement. But the past never stays buried, and he discovers that it’s been watching him . . .
Marcos, the Guardian of War, has waited, he’s observed, he’s admired, and he’s yearned. But now it’s time for him to step into the light and let Evander see him for who he truly is.
But fate is fickle, destinies aren’t set in stone, and as much as Marcos hopes Evander might be his, it will be the fight of his life to not only win Evander’s heart, but to defeat the evil that once again raises its sinister head.
Rhys was in an exceedingly bad temper.
First, Marcos had been incredibly high-handed, demanding that they postpone their journey for at least a few days, in order to be “properly” outfitted with supplies.
Rhys had brought a handful of coins with him, enough for some periodic lodging and food along the journey, but based on the standards Marcos was insisting on, it wouldn’t be nearly enough.
And now, they had come to this dirty, ugly tavern, with its watered-down mead and slop for food. As for the lodgings, they were hardly an improvement. The bed was small and narrow, the mattress filled with lumpy straw that Rhys did not want to question the origin of. And to make things worse, there was only one of these uncomfortable beds.
Marcos insisted that he take it. “I will be keeping watch,” Marcos said, sliding a rough piece of wood across the door. “You can take the bed.”
And now, the very worst part of this entire situation was that Rhys was required to be grateful that Marcos had been so generous.
Rhys did not want to be grateful.
He wanted to be angry—but it was difficult to be angry with someone who offered you the only bed in the room, no matter how poor it was.
Rhys shifted to the other side of the mattress, trying to find an area without lumps, but was unsuccessful. He sighed, not even bothering to temper his frustration.
“Trouble sleeping?” Marcos asked kindly.
Even in the dark gloom, Rhys could see where he had settled—opposite the doorway, back against the rugged plank walls of the room, booted feet drawn up to his chest. Rhys could even see the wry expression on his face.
He’d always enjoyed his ability to see in the dark, always considered it one of his favorite gifts, but now he wished he could do it a little less well.
“The bed is lumpy,” he said, aware of how ungrateful he sounded. He could very easily be on the floor. Marcos was still, as far as Rhys knew, a full-fledged Guardian. He could have overpowered Rhys in an instant, with merely a crook of his fingers, never mind all those very impressive muscles.
But he hadn’t.
Rhys still had not figured out what ulterior motive Marcos had for accompanying him, and that annoyed him most of all.
“You could always transform. The hay might suit you better if you were of an equine descent,” Marcos teased.
Up until now, Rhys was unaware that Marcos teased. This was new. But then, even though they had served on the Conclave together for hundreds and hundreds of years, he had never really known Marcos. He’d kept to himself, more at home on a battlefield or in the armory than he was the Castle at the Top of the World.
“I certainly will not,” Rhys said firmly. “I will . . . adjust.”
He’d slept in far worse. Admittedly, not in some time. He’d gotten spoiled and lax. But at the very beginning, when he’d first been banished to the surface, there had been some lean, cruel years.
“Then I suggest you do,” Marcos said. “We have a long journey ahead, and there will be little time for resting after we leave here.”
Rhys turned over, plumping the straw underneath him, and attempted to banish the questions that kept swirling through him. Particularly all the questions he had about Marcos.
He’d just managed to lull himself into a relaxed state that at least approximated sleep when he heard a rustling outside the front door.
Not a rustling. A scratching.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
