Page 9 of Randall (The Tenth Step #3)

Darvon

Foolish wasn’t something Darvon usually called himself.

Certainly, there had been times he’d gotten himself into jams. He’d disappear for days, losing track of time, until his mother discovered his absence and sent out search parties.

Too many times, he’d hole away in his art room, painting to his heart’s content, or he’d sneak into the barns and take the horses for joyrides.

A few times, he let all the beasts out so he could watch the mayhem of trying to corral them.

Those had been in jest. What he was currently doing was the farthest from funny he could think of.

Following the evening meal, he sent Sylvan into the city to find him a particular stone that would help focus his magick since he’d left his behind at home.

Yes, he’d lied, but he knew his seneschal-slash-bodyguard would stop him if he knew what he had planned.

With Sylvan out of the house, Darvon quickly dressed in his darkest clothes, threw his cloak over his shoulders, weaved a weak spell of distraction over Soric, and slipped out the door.

The walk from the upper echelon of nobility, where the Fae ambassadorial home sat, down toward the dockyards took nearly half a turn of the hourglass.

In the distance, he could make out the glint of moonlight off the water well before he arrived.

The pungent odor of fish, feces, urine, and rotting garbage filled the air, but a tiny spell cleared the putrid scents from his nose, letting him focus his other senses.

The first bar bored him, as it was only filled with tired old men drinking and eating in silence.

He moved on. The next establishment was slightly louder, with drunkards trying cheekily to get the serving girls to sit on their laps, while in the corners, fervent whispers echoed.

He stayed long enough to hear nothing more than speculation.

He tossed a few coins on the bar for his ale and left to try a new location.

Deciding an inn closer to the ships might give him the best information, he strode past several places, ignoring the calls from the scantily clad women standing on second-floor balconies.

Had he preferred soft breasts to hard chests, he might have given them another glance, but intent on his mission, he walked on.

Rising voices beckoned, and Darvon looked up at the swinging sign for the Red Dragon Inn.

Instinct told him he’d find what he needed inside.

He pushed through into a smoke-filled haze of impropriety.

Wenches played cheekily with the tables of fishermen, merchants, and dockhands as young boys wended their way through the throngs carrying tankards of ale and platters of food.

Underneath the gaiety, however, was an undercurrent of tension riding these men hard.

Furtive glances were cast his way; murmurs rose as they realized he was an outsider.

Darvon kept his hood up, hiding his silver hair and pointed ears.

The last thing he wanted was for these city-folk to think his kind had been responsible for the lost ships and rotting fish washing up on their shores.

He squeezed up to the bar, making space for himself between the wall and a blacksmith—the breadth of the man’s shoulders, the bulging muscles of his arms, the smell of iron and smoke, and the burn scars on his hands were dead giveaways.

Darvon dropped coins on the counter, and a mug of ale was placed in front of him.

“You be wanting food?” the barman asked, swiping the coins into his palm.

“No, this is enough for now,” Darvon answered, picked up the mug, took a sip, and bit back a grimace at the bitter taste. He continued to hold the cup as he turned and leaned against the wall, his gaze scanning the room as he heightened his hearing to listen in on the various conversations.

It ain’t natural, I’m telling you. A throat cleared. Men spat into the rushes covering the floor.

It ain’t. Mugs banged on the table.

What do you think caused it?

The prince.

Prince Valter? How you figure that?

It’s that damn fairy blood of his. Mating with a wolf and a bloodsucker. The gods are punishing us. Lying with men; lying with monsters.

Monsters… By the gods… I never realized how many of them live here. Lots of those nightmares walking our streets. They could be here right now.

The men at the table looked around. Darvon ducked his head, avoiding eye contact because the starbursts in his eyes would give him away.

He heard more than saw the chairs scrape across the floor, the heavy footfalls, the panting, wet breaths of men salivating with bloodlust. They wanted to hurt someone, and anyone different would do.

He could feel the heat of their bodies as they closed in.

The large man next to him scurried away.

Darvon half-turned and smiled, hoping he appeared friendly. It was a small turn of his lips, but when his hood fell back, they saw what they needed—silver hair, fair skin, pointed ears—and they growled. He took a mouthful of the ale, but he didn’t swallow.

“It’s one of those damn fairies. Get him!” Two sets of hands grabbed his arms. They spun him around and held him tight.

“Slumming it, are ya?” the ugliest of the bunch sneered. He leaned closer, staring into Darvon’s eyes. When he growled again, his fetid breath blew hot across Darvon’s face, and spittle dripped down his chin. The awful scent of dead fish drifted from the man’s clothes.

Darvon shrugged, his nose twitching. He wanted the blathering idiot to throw the first punch, so he had immunity with the city guard.

“Cat got your tongue? Let me help you out.” He wound up and jabbed Darvon in the gut, causing him to spew the disgusting ale into the man’s face.

The man backpedaled, screeching as he swiped at his eyes.

“I’m blind! Kill him.” He pointed at Darvon, who sighed and whispered one of the few defensive spells he knew.

His magick shoved the men around him back several lengths.

The drunkards stumbled and fell onto the floor or onto tables, toppling them and angering those who’d been sitting peacefully.

Fists flew, curses were shouted, knives were drawn, blood spilled… and those original three men came at Darvon again. They surrounded him, herding him from the safety of the wall and the bar. With his back exposed, fear exploded inside him. He needed help before these buffoons got the drop on him.

A woman’s scream stole everyone’s attention, but the reprieve was momentary. They turned back to Darvon with fury in their glassy glares. All around him, an iron-tinged breeze blew. Twin menacing animalistic snarls rose above the din. Shrieks and cries rang out.

There was a whirlwind of magick, a shout, and then everyone froze.

Well, everyone human froze. Turning slowly, Darvon watched two wolves thread their way toward the new arrivals, his brother among them.

Threads of potent magick wove around him, stealing his attention.

He followed the strands as they retracted toward the cloaked figure standing just inside the door, a hand fisted around something dangling from a chain around their neck.

The figure raised their head and looked right at Darvon.

They took a step closer, then another, pushing their hood off and revealing a man of similar height to Darvon, but opposite in complexion.

Dark hair, dark, intense eyes, and skin bronzed by the sun.

His power swirled around Darvon like a lover’s caress, ceasing when the man carefully pulled him from what had been a precarious placement.

Darvon stood in front of the human mage as the man slid the backs of his fingers along Darvon’s cheek in a ghostly echo of his power.

I am Randall DeCarin, Royal Magician of Their Majesties, and you are mine. He gently held Darvon’s jaw as he leaned forward, softly brushing their mouths together.

Darvon stared into those dark eyes, at the flames of power dancing within, as he parted his lips and opened his mind to Randall, to his mate.

Images flashed between them. Visions of Darvon’s home, Randall’s room, the raven’s recall of the burning village to the north, the gull’s vision of the destruction at sea, and as their mouths melded again, the furred paws clinging to a log, floating down the river.

Randall tipped his head, drawing away only enough to put their foreheads together. We must hurry to Riverside.

“Save Obrusa?” someone shouted, jolting Darvon from his mate. He caught Jarrah looking around, making eye contact with each person and the two shifted wolves.

“I think it’s time you explained,” a vampire whispered, and with the way Jarrah held his gaze, Darvon made the leap of realization. The vampire was Jarrah’s mate, as well as the wolf sitting at their feet.

“Baron,” Jarrah called over his shoulder.

“Yes?” a second vampire replied. Master Baron Cendres of the Onyx Ashes clan? Ah-ha! Mother would be so proud of him for remembering.

Jarrah drew his mate to his chest. “We must meet with Master Artor. Do you think he’d see us now?”

Master Artor Angenoir, the vampire Master of the Midnight Claimed clan, who called the capital home? What does he have to do with all this?

Baron looked at one of the younger vampires. “Cormac?”

“I’ll go now, Father.” Cormac sped off into the night.

Father? Darvon squinted.

“Master Baron sired three brothers,” Randall helpfully explained. “Cormac, Connor, and Camron.” He pointed to the two remaining brothers.

Jarrah kissed his mate and stroked the wolf’s head.

“I do not see Samantha and Garth in any further visions, nor your three packmates, Duke.” Jarrah addressed the wolf sitting at Baron’s and—Darvon’s eyes widened in recognition—the prince’s feet.

“You may send them back to the castle and then home to Ivywoods. When Randall releases Samantha, remind her to keep her eyes and ears open to the murmurings of court.”

He held up a hand before Randall had even lifted a finger to remove the binding spell. “After we meet with Artor, we must return to the castle and pack quickly. It’s important that we arrive in Riverside by tomorrow evening.”

“That’s a full day’s travel during the day,” Camron blurted.

“We have our carriage,” Baron reminded him. “Be sure to drink your fill when we get to Artor’s, then pack and prepare for our departure.”

“I’m sure my father can provide additional carriages. I certainly can’t sit astride a horse all day.” Prince Valter rubbed his backside for emphasis.

A low rumble rolled from Baron, directed at his mate more than the room at large. “I think personal carriages for all the mated triads and couples would be ideal.”

Darvon touched Randall’s cheek, turning his head. “I have my own. Sylvan has joined me.”

“Sylvan is here?” Jarrah asked, looking around again.

“Yes.” Darvon grinned, proud that he’d gotten one up on his brother for once. “He snuck away in the night and joined me. Mother and Sylvar are probably furious, not that either of us cares. I wanted to see the world like you. Sylvan felt the same. Besides…” He glanced at Randall.

Jarrah glared. “You didn’t need to sneak him out. I had received permission for you both to join me, so she is probably not as upset as you think. Whether she told Sylvar, however, is unknown. He’s certain to be out of sorts. Hopefully, this won’t disrupt the peace of her court.”

Darvon shrugged. Everything he’d said had been a lie anyway.

Both his mother and uncle knew they’d left and had even given them their blessing.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll probably scry on us at some point.

At least now I won’t have to be subjected to her demands to marry whom she wants. Fated mates trump arranged marriages.”

Jarrah gaped and then laughed. “So true, brother.”

“I knew it!” Prince Valter shouted. “Brothers. Now introduce me.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Jarrah said, still chuckling. “But first… Randall, can you free our friends from your spell while leaving the others?”

Randall nodded. “Easy enough.” He stepped beside a human man and woman, who had a very attentive wolf standing guard beside her. He touched them, spoke a word of power, and the two became mobile again. The man glared at Randall while the wolf ensured the woman was alright.

Darvon pulled Randall back. “Who’s that?” he whispered fervently. The man’s hands fisted tightly as he continued to stare daggers at Randall. Before his mate could answer, Jarrah called everyone over.

“Friends, please join us here so that I may introduce you all to my brother. This is Darvon, and he is Randall’s true mate.” He smiled at Darvon and congratulated them.

“Another?” the human male asked, frowning as he looked around the circle.

“Feeling left out, Tolly?” Prince Valter teased.

Tolly snapped his teeth at Valter, which prompted a growl from Duke. The human quickly threw his hands up. “Wait. I meant no offence. His Highness knows that.”

Baron scoffed. “Tolliver, please…” he said, rubbing his forehead. “We’re all on edge here.”

“Hey!” Jarrah’s vampire mate windmilled and then dropped to his knees and grabbed the scruffy neck of the wolf at his feet. “Sorry, Quinn, I didn’t mean to ignore you. Hopefully, Artor can provide us with a change of clothes for you. You need lips I can kiss.”

Quinn woofed and licked the vampire’s chin, then spun himself in a circle. He ran to the door and back, taking Jarrah’s hand between his teeth and pulling him toward the door.

“I think that’s our cue,” Jarrah said, leading them from the Red Dragon Inn.

“Who are all these people?” Darvon asked Randall as they anchored the line.

Randall turned in the doorway and paused.

“I’ll tell you on the way. We must collect your things and mine and make ready to leave as soon as possible.

” He looked off into the distance for a moment.

When he returned his focus to Darvon, his gaze softened.

“Our mate needs us. Nothing else matters until we have him in our arms.”

So it was true. There was someone else for him, for them. Excitement bubbled beneath his skin, and he quickly nodded. With Darvon’s agreement, Randall snapped, and the brawlers fell to the floor, their cursing and shouting fading as they hurried away.