Slayers Fan Fiction ❯ Flam Gush ❯ Chapter 16 ( Chapter 16 )

When Lina awoke, she was surrounded by familiar—strong arms encircled her; the scent of metal and leather and slightly acrid maleness. Gentle fingers tugged through her hair—she could hear its rasp against skin, almost feel the individual tendrils being twined around fingers, forming a binding ring—a single link in a chain. She was almost afraid to open her eyes. Afraid to find herself still weak and helpless, stuck in a nightmare partially imposed by another, but partially of her own design as well.

She was so tired! Surely it was okay to stay like this, safe in this dream? She snuggled closer, needing to feel more than Gourry's arms around her. She wanted to feel his body pressed against her—she wanted him to mark her with his scent, to claim her so that all other males would know her to be taken and off limits. She reached out, snaking her own fingers into the wealth of his hair to pull him closer, to feel his breath against her skin.

She felt his wince more than anything else—the almost imperceptible tightening of jaw muscles and the slight hitch interrupting his breathing. It was enough to force her unwilling eyes open.

Gourry was not looking at her—not exactly. His gaze was focused on the white hair wrapped around his index finger. Lina stared at the white bandages that swathed the lower half of his hand, thick blood-stained bandages that could not hide missing fingers—two from his left hand unless she was mistaken. His right hand was hidden from view.

Anger coursed through her, burning away the desire to sleep, as the memory of Gourry's battle with Erik flashed behind her eyes. Gourry's lumbering slow movements, stripped of his usual finesse and skill. The sword that should have been a natural extension of his arm, instead gripped awkwardly and obviously causing him pain. She sat up quickly and grabbed both of his hands at the wrists to examine them, barely glancing at the white bandages tightly wrapping his ribs. The right hand was a mirror of the left.

“Gourry,” she whispered, unable to make a louder sound. “What happened?”

“They had to come off, Lina,” his voice cracked. “It was lose the fingers now, or the hands later.”

“What happened?” Lina repeated, a bit more forcefully. Same words, different question.

His eyes closed, and he swallowed convulsively. When he opened them again, he avoided her gaze. “We're still at Deremar's keep. Neither of us was in any condition to go anywhere . . . and Monara owes me . . .” Now he did look at her. “You've been sleeping for days.”

“How many?” It was hardly surprising. In spite of the delicious flow of power she had felt after breaking the circlet, her body barely had the strength to channel it.

A barely perceptible shrug. “Dunno. I lost track. A lot. Enough to scare Siebert.”

“He's here?” She supposed she should have expected it. “Is he the one who . . .” her eyes flicked to his hands.

“Yeah. He came for Shella, but . . .” Gourry trailed off again. “Ryan took Shella home.”

Lina swallowed hard, remembering how bruised the girl had looked, both physically and emotionally. She heard Erik's threat to Ryan echo in her mind, and it took little effort to recognize the leverage Erik held over his younger brother. It explained why she had found it difficult to trust Ryan . . . “Was she . . .” It was her turn to trail off.

“Probably.” Gourry's tone was bleak.

Once again, she relived the pain and terror of two-fold violation: Erik forcefully taking the body as magical power seduced her soul . . .

“Lina!” Gourry's voice cracked like a whip, not quite hiding his own pain and terror.

With a gasp, Lina pulled back, just as the flames that coursed over her body leaped out to burn everything around her. Control. The mantra her sister had pounded into her head, until the memory had been buried, and the mental barrier that prevented her from being a menace to all around her had become instinctive—as natural as breathing.

“Lina?” His voice was tentative now, soft and gentle, terror transmuted to fear, with an undercurrent of pain.

Control. She forced herself to survey the damage. Blood-stained bandages swathing his hands now streaked with gray, as were the bandages around his ribs and the bed linens. She could see the pain in his eyes, along with . . . recognition?

“You've seen this before,” she said in a brittle voice as she gestured to herself and the scorch marks that touched everything in her immediate vicinity.

He nodded. “Yes. Once.” He stretched his arms out to her, and she cautiously moved into his embrace, careful to avoid bumping his hands or jostling his ribs. His arms tightened around her, as his fingers once again twined through her hair. “I knew . . .” his voice hitched, and he tried again. “I knew you weren't virgin, our first time . . . At first I thought it had been Ryan, the way he looked at you . . . but it didn't quite fit.” His fingers stilled. “It wasn't Ryan. It was Erik, wasn't it?”

Lina felt her throat tighten, and she tried to choke back a sob. Her shoulders shook silently as she struggled to control herself. Lina Inverse was many things, but a cry-baby was not one of them. Gourry said nothing, he just continued to hold her, his remaining fingers stroking gently over and through her hair. After taking a deep breath, she started to tell him about the girl she used to be. At first she spoke slowly, interrupted by long pauses, but then suddenly, it was as if a dam had broken within her, and the words gushed forth in a torrent accompanied by tears that refused to be held back any longer.

******************

She started with a dry and emotionless account of her childhood, but it quickly turned ugly. Dark and hurtful words poured out of her as she railed at Erik, at the world, her parents and sister, Ryan, and even him. She cried and at one point she started screaming as she tried to claw her way out of his embrace. Gourry did the only thing he could think of. He held her. And he listened. And he finally understood the terrified girl-child he had seen so briefly in her eyes, as well as what it had cost her to lock that part of herself away.

He held her until her words slowed, and her breathing eased. Until she fell into an exhausted sleep, snoring inelegantly against his chest. Even then, he continued to hold her, taking comfort in having her so near.

With a quiet snick, the door opened, and Siebert entered, carrying a tray laden with food. Real food, Gourry amended to himself, having endured a lifetime of tea and toast. After kissing the top of Lina's head, he carefully disentangled himself from her before moving to join Siebert at the small table.

“How is she?” Siebert asked as Gourry reached for the generously sized steak that still sizzled.

“I thought she'd be hungry,” Gourry replied, wincing as he tried to cut into the steak without banging the knife against tender stumps. “I guess she's still too tired. I thought some of the color was starting to come back into her hair, but . . .” He focused on his steak, avoiding Siebert's gaze.

“Give her time, Gourry. Her body knows what it needs right now.” Siebert glanced over at Lina, before looking pointedly at Gourry. “How are you?”

Gourry slowly chewed a piece of steak, as he considered the question. “I hurt,” he finally said honestly. “I can still feel that burning sensation occasionally.” He gave a short bark of laughter that lacked all humor. “Sometimes, I can still feel the fingers . . .”

With a sigh, Siebert pushed back from the table. “All normal, considering what you've been through,” he said quietly, as he moved to Lina's side. “Finish your dinner, and then we'll take a look.”

Starting slowly, Gourry worked his way through the platter of food, while he watched Siebert examine Lina. The food was well-prepared, and it was pure bliss to experience bold flavors, particularly after his extended diet of toast and tea. It helped to banish the strong association he had developed, linking eating and feeling nauseous, and he allowed himself to relish his meal, eating with more enthusiasm, albeit not at his normal pace. As great as it was to have real food again . . . well, eating just was not as much fun without Lina competing for the choicest morsels.

He stared into space, remembering the first time Lina had drained her hair to white. He had piggy-backed her for days while she slept, trying to get them to a town where she could get decent rest in a good bed. He doubted that being piggy-backed was the most comfortable way to sleep. Still, he had enjoyed having her so close to him, even if she had decked him pretty seriously when she woke up enough to smell food. Two or three days of sleeping and eating had been enough to restore her once they got to a town. Gourry was certain it had been at least half again as long as that . . .

“Drink this,” Siebert handed him a cup, and then moved to wash his hands in a basin.

Gourry grimaced at the bitter taste, but quickly drained the cup. At least it lacked the taste of anise, and Siebert had told him exactly what was in it. Pain killers, something to help his bones knit, something to thicken his blood, and something to help purge the poison that had cost him the better part of four fingers: pinkies completely gone; the ring finger of his left hand down to the first knuckle; and just the tip of the ring finger on his right.

Once he had drained the cup, he held out his bandaged hands, and grit his teeth against the inevitable pain of unwrapping. Except that pain never exactly came. It still hurt a lot, but it lacked the bone-jarring intensity of the previous days. “Did you up the dose of the pain-killers?” he asked as Siebert began removing the final layer of bandages to expose the healing poultices.

Siebert gave him a sharp glance. “No,” he said slowly, as he peeled one of the poultices away.

Both Gourry and Siebert stared at the exposed stump. Yesterday, fragile scabs had torn away along with the poultice, and the remains of his finger looked like raw meat weeping blood. Today, a thick brown scab reminded him too much of the dead flesh that Siebert had removed. Siebert quickly exposed the remaining stumps, only to find the same situation.

“How—” Gourry started, and then he bit it off and glared in Lina's direction.

“She cast Recovery?” Siebert asked quietly, following Gourry's gaze.

“I didn't notice her doing it,” Gourry said slowly, trying to recall if he had felt the sensation of flesh knitting itself back together, but all he could remember was the pain of holding Lina while she purged poisoned memories.

Siebert grunted noncommittally, and lightly re-bandaged the stumps before he moved on to examine the ribs. “Well,” he said after a moment. “Looks like the bones are well-knit at this point. And the fingers are doing well, too. As long as you take it easy over the next couple days, I'd imagine that as soon as the mourning period is over, you'll be good enough to step out on the practice field again . . .”

The mourning period. He was, of course, referring to the period following the death and burial of the lady of the Keep. Gisella. Stranger like and not like the mother he remembered. He found that he could not mourn her death. Monara had asked him if he had any requests as to the disposition of the body. He had none, save to ask for the dagger she had held when he saw her laid out, the dagger with the device both like and unlike his family's crest. Not because he wanted a memento, but because he thought Lina might be able to identify it, and perhaps it would provide answers. Which reminded him . . .

“Siebert,” Gourry said abruptly, interrupting the old healer's rambling monologue. “You said you'd heard about what happened to Gabriev Keep.” When Siebert nodded, Gourry pressed on. “What did you hear?”

Siebert glanced over at Lina, before looking Gourry square in the eye. “I've heard the servants whispering. I've heard the Lady's version of the destruction.” He paused, and gripped the back of a chair. “But that's not the same as the story I heard a few years ago. I'm not saying that I believe it . . . I'd hoped it was just a garbled rumor, until you kind of confirmed it . . . but I'd heard that one of the Five Great Sages had ripped apart a small keep looking for the Sword of Light. Something about it falling into the hands of evil . . .”

Gourry let out the breath he had not realized he was holding. Siebert clapped him on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Gourry. I'll bring up more food in a couple hours.”

Once Siebert left the room, Gourry picked up the main gauche leaning next to his sword, experimenting with his grip, and hissing as the hilt jarred his healing stubs. A few days of rest, and he would be able to step back on the practice field. He had a lot of work to do. New grips to learn, a body woefully out of shape to recondition. As much as it pained him to remain here, to receive deferential treatment from those who consistently called him “Lord Gabriev,” even though he had asked them repeatedly to just call him Gourry, to hear their fond stories of Gisella . . . and their whispered venomous comments about Lina . . . he could keep Lina safe from the servants. They would tolerate her for his sake, if nothing else. But once he was fit again . . . then he was going to get them the hell away from this crazy place.

As Gourry slipped back into the bed with Lina, he once again examined her too-pale hair, twining strands around his fingers. He slept fitfully that night, dreaming of a tall imposing man dressed in red, with ruby-red eyes, who laughed as explosion after explosion rocked the landscape, leaving Gabriev Keep a burned-out husk behind him.

******************

It was the smell of food that woke her. Fresh roasted chicken . . . seasoned vegetables . . . piping hot bread straight from the oven . . . Lina's stomach felt like a gaping cavern, aching to be filled. With a groan, she pushed herself upright, following her nose because it was almost too much effort to open her eyes. If not for her stomach, she would still be blissfully sleeping.

“I thought the food would bring you around,” an amused male voice stated.

Lina forced eyes open. “Siebert?” she asked groggily around a yawn.

He smiled at her like an indulgent father. “Hungry?”

“Starved!” Lina staggered the few steps from the bed to the table, reaching for a slice of the bread to cram into her mouth. Her eyes slid shut as she blissfully chewed for all of two seconds before wolfing the slice and reaching for more. She was halfway through her fourth piece and about to start in on the chicken when she noticed something. “Where's Gourry?” she asked around a mouthful of food.

“Practice field,” Siebert replied with a shrug.

Lina took a breath to ask another question as she continued to shovel food in her mouth.

“Look,” Siebert cut her off, looking slightly ill. “Talk or eat.”

With a shrug of her own, Lina applied herself to polishing off the rest of the meal, and after sighing lustily and wiping her mouth, she leaned back in her chair, feeling closer to normal than she had in . . . “How long?” she asked first.

“Two weeks,” he replied. “Gourry said you woke up once about four days ago. Do you remember?”

“Two weeks?” Lina echoed incredulously. That long? Okay, sure, she had sucked her reserves dry, been going on little sleep and less food . . . plus she had been attacked and sliced to ribbons . . . But still . . .

Siebert leaned forward, grabbing her arm to make sure he had her attention. “Lina. Do you remember anything from the past two weeks?” There was an intensity about the question that she did not associate with Siebert, and that earned him her full attention far more quickly than his grip on her arm.

She shook her head slowly, not in denial, but just trying to sort through her most recent memories. Gourry fighting Erik . . . Ryan holding his hand out to Shella . . . Monara promising them anything they wanted . . . Waking up to the feel of Gourry running his hands through her hair . . . Gourry's hands . . . Everything came back in a flood, including—especially—those memories she had locked away so long ago. Again, that raw feeling of being sundered . . . violation and vulnerability . . . She doubted she would ever forget again, wondered how she could live with the memory. Wondered if it would rise up when Gourry touched her . . . Lina swallowed hard and shook her head sharply this time, seizing upon another memory, more recent, and the anger it kindled within her. “You amputated his fingers,” she purred malevolently at Seibert. “Why?”

“Have you ever heard of St. Anthony's Fire?” Siebert asked as he released his grip on her arm. “According to Gourry, the only thing Gisella allowed him to eat was rye bread. The rye was infected, and it led to dry rot in his fingers.”

“Right,” Lina said slowly. “Lose the fingers now, or lose the hands latter,” she added bitterly.

“He's nearly healed,” Siebert pointed out. “Enough to start relearning the sword . . .”

“With only three fingers on each hand?” Lina shot back, slamming her hands down on the table and half-standing. “Gourry's good, but that's like asking the impossible. We need to get him to a priest or shrine maiden, so he can—”

“He's not strong enough yet for that kind of high-level Recovery,” Siebert returned with heat. “You subject him to travel in his current state, and then ask his body to give the kind of energy required for that level of healing? It would kill him. He needs to rebuild his stamina,” Siebert continued more calmly. “Then you can go off to see if you can find a skilled enough priest . . . and if you can meet the price . . .” Siebert gripped Lina's arm once again, an attempt to provide reassurance. “And if you'd seen Gourry on the practice field with a sword in his hand, you'd understand. As long as he can grip a sword, I don't think anything is impossible for him.”

Lina slumped back down into her chair, feeling suddenly exhausted, as her mind tried to deal with this new information, to slot the puzzle pieces into their proper positions. “Gisella? You mean Gourry's mother—” she broke off abruptly. A trap. Yes, it had all been an elaborate trap. For her. For him. The hair in the main gauche suddenly and mysteriously in Ryan's possession . . . bait for the trap. The offered exchange: her in return for Gourry's mother. She had been aware of how well the trap had been tailored to keep her chained, but she had failed to consider the other aspect that had been designed to cage Gourry. So that was what Erik had meant when he told her Gourry was in the care of his mother.

“Lina,” Siebert interrupted her thoughts, his grip on her arm tightening. “Lady Gabriev . . . Gourry's mother . . .” He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Her name was Lisielle,” he said softly with an air of reverence and regret.

Lisielle. Gisella. They were close . . . but not exactly the same . . . She gently removed her arm from Siebert's grasp and steepled her fingers under her chin, closing her eyes to see if she could discern the larger pattern. Gisella was part of the trap . . . but required controlling . . . Lucilla's task . . . Lina sighed in disgust. Too many pieces were still missing. And she was still so tired . . .

She opened her eyes, planning to make her excuses to Siebert before toppling back into bed for more sleep. He was staring at her intently, considering. When he saw the questioning quirk in her eyebrow, he paused, took a deep breath as if to say something, then fell silent again.

“What?” Lina asked suspiciously. “What else is there?”

“Gourry doesn't know this. I felt it wasn't my place to say.” He studied his hands, folded and resting on the table, before meeting her eyes. “But I think you should know.”

“Just spit it out already,” Lina said impatiently. “Enough with the melodrama.”

“You were pregnant, Lina,” he said simply.

“Were . . . How . . . What . . . How—” She had great difficulty getting her brain to work properly after that little pronouncement, let alone coordinating speech.

“The usual way, I'd suppose,” Siebert deadpanned.

“That's not what I meant!” Lina snapped, her annoyance freeing her tongue, while her thoughts raced at a whirlwind pace. “How do you know? And what do you mean, `were'?” Without consciously realizing that she was doing so, she placed her hand protectively over her belly.

“I know because I've been trained to recognize the difference between a heavy menstrual flow and a miscarriage,” he replied, answering both questions. “When the bleeding actually transitioned to hemorrhaging, I was sure.”

Lina remembered the cramps she had felt that last day hanging in Erik's dungeon and how they had felt different from her normal cycle. “You didn't tell Gourry. Why tell me?”

“I almost didn't,” he admitted. “Had it been a normal miscarriage, I probably wouldn't have said anything. Most pregnancies end in early miscarriage, and women don't even realize, maybe thinking that their cycle was a bit later and heavier than usual . . .” he trailed off with a shrug. “But you being you, of course you can't have a normal miscarriage, can you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Lina demanded indignantly.

“Sorry,” Siebert apologized as he rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “I just can't believe the amount of trouble you two get into.”

Lina snorted. “Trouble? This was nothing, really.”

“I've heard the stories,” he shot back. “Dead is dead, Lina. Whether it's a poisoned knife, a rock to the head, heavy blood loss, or Ruby-Eyed Shabranigdu destroying your physical body!” He took a deep breath and continued more calmly. “Gourry doesn't know how close you came to dying this time,” he said softly. “I was keeping him under heavy sedation because of his fingers.” He paused again. “You two are keeping me on my toes, that's for sure,” he said with a weak attempt at a smile.

“Why did you tell me?” Lina repeated her earlier question.

Siebert was silent for a long time. “Gourry told me about the other time he saw your hair white,” he said finally. “I don't treat a lot of sorceresses, but I do know that something is not right with your body right now. It's more than exhaustion. More than the sum of various things you've suffered of late.” He paused again. “I told you so that you would understand.”

Lina considered what he said, and also what he left unsaid. “Do you think I'll recover?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“Honestly? I don't know, Lina,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I really don't know.”

******************

He was supposed to be sparring on the practice field. The plan was to sharpen his skills by testing himself against the others. Unfortunately, it ended up turning out quite differently than he expected. The few remaining mercs who had been under Erik's command were no match for him, even in his current state. Even lacking the fingers to make a proper grip. The only one who came close to providing a challenge was Jeral, Monara's page. A young boy with a great deal of raw talent, who was untrained, and at best, about one quarter Gourry's size.

So, instead of sparring, he was teaching.

They had started with the basics. First they had learned the proper beginner stances, and the exercises necessary to strengthen the muscles required to hold a swordsman in the proper stance. Now, they were moving on to grips. Gourry moved back and forth among his students, repositioning hands and fingers around the “hilts” of the wooden practice rods they used: four of Erik's former mercs; eight men and two women from Fenwic, the village that stood in the shadow of Deremar's keep; and Jeral. Once he was satisfied with their grips, he slid into his own stance, wrapping his hands around his own practice rod, and challenged them to disarm him. He was particularly proud of this exercise. Not only was it providing opportune defensive training for his students, but it was also making him learn the strengths—and limits—of his own new grip. So far, none of them had been able to disarm him . . . and after he sent the fifth “sword” flying from the hands of one of his students, he realized that today would probably be no different.

With a sigh, Gourry raked his fingers through his hair, more out of habit than out of necessity. He had asked one of the servants to even it up and remove the singed portions, so his hair was much shorter now than he was accustomed. It was a sad statement about the quality of merc bands that the villagers had come closer to disarming him than the supposedly “professional” soldiers. Altering the drill slightly, he had them break up into pairs, instructing one of the partners to use the proper grip, and the other to use only a four-fingered grip, hoping that they would better be able to recognize the inherent weaknesses if they practiced against someone of more similar skill. He circled around them, instructing, correcting, suggesting, testing. Finally, when the sun was at its zenith, he called for a halt, and watched as his students gratefully made their way to the water barrels at the edge of the field.

They were making progress, albeit slowly. What was frustrating was the feeling that his own progress was just as slow. While his students drank their water and chatted companionably, Gourry picked up his sword, and tested his skills against one of the wooden practice dummies he had constructed. Slash. Change direction. Thrust. Change pattern. Slice. Each blow against the wooden dummy jolted the hilt in his hand, and he felt the strain in his remaining fingers, felt the pain radiating up through his hand when hilt jarred still-tender stump. Still he pushed himself, forcing himself to alter his swing, alter his patterns, until he could be certain he understood all the changes in his grip, until he understood how to compensate for missing fingers. He changed pattern again to strike a blow that should cleave the dummy in two, only to find half-way through the swing that his fingers lacked the strength to translate power from the arm into the sword. He snarled in frustration, staring first at the sword that had only sliced halfway through the dummy, and then at his maimed hands, irrationally thinking of them as traitors to his skill. It hardly mattered if he could prevent someone else from disarming him if his own blows could cause him to lose his grip.

After staring at the sword lodged deeply within the practice dummy for a long moment, Gourry sighed, braced himself to jerk it out, and joined his students for much needed water. Jeral wordlessly handed him a full dipper, his eyes gleaming with admiration.

Gourry quickly swallowed what was in the dipper, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Honestly, Jeral,” he chided as he shook his head. “That wasn't all that impressive.” No. Not impressive at all.

Jeral shrugged. “I don't think Erik could have reduced a practice dummy to so much kindling,” he said as he pulled a larger woodchip off Gourry's tunic. “Not even Lady Gabriev could do as much.” His eyes took on a far-away quality, as he stared at nothing.

Gourry hid a grimace behind the water dipper. Jeral delighted in comparing his style to that of Gisella. He was young enough to be impressed by superior skill. Talented enough to recognize it. Gourry thought that with proper training, Jeral could be impressive some day. Not as good as Gourry had been before losing fingers, but good enough for most situations. He set the dipper down and pulled out a soft cloth and whetstone to take care of his blade.

“You don't like her,” Jeral said quietly. “Do you?”

“Did you like Erik?” Gourry asked, just loud enough to be heard over the rasp of whetstone on his blade. He already knew the answer; he just hoped it was enough to change the subject.

“No. And I never understood why she put up with him.” Jeral hunkered down, watching Gourry intently.

The silence stretched out between them, until Gourry pulled out a flask of oil and very carefully started coating his blade.

“Why do you oil a steel blade?” Jeral asked curiously. I understand using oil to prevent rust, but . . .”

Gourry glanced up from his sword and smiled. And then he patiently began explaining his maintenance ritual. As he watched Jeral absorbing his words, he remembered himself as a young boy, watching the Master of the Guards caring for his weapon, and asking a similar question. His smile faded as he remembered the Keep in all its glory, and felt a very rare pang of homesickness. For several years now, “home” had been wherever Lina was. He would happily follow her to the ends of the earth—he had already done so, in fact. But it would be nice to have a place of their own, a place where they could do things on their own schedule. His brow furrowed as he glanced between the inn where Gisella had kept a room and Deremar's Keep. As much as he was enjoying instructing others in the art of the sword, and as much as nearly everyone was going out of their way to make him feel welcome, he knew that same sentiment would not be extended to Lina. There was no way he could let them stay in a place where everyone believed Gisella's lies.

******************

Breakfast had been the first clue. The tray had carried single portions, nowhere near enough to feed her under normal circumstances, let alone when she was still trying to replenish her reserves. And then there was the food itself. Everything was just . . . off. Over-salted eggs, just at the verge of being inedible—almost, but not quite. Milk that was just ever-so-slightly sour, and butter that was just at the edge of turning rancid. Toast that was almost too burnt to eat. If not for the meals she had eaten with Gourry or Siebert, she would have seriously questioned the ability of the cooks.

Laundry had been the second clue. She had put all of her clothes in a basket with Gourry's. Gourry's clothes had returned, freshly laundered and neatly folded. Hers . . . had not returned at all. When she asked one of the servants where she could find her laundry, the response bordered on rude, and Lina had this itching desire to slap the girl silly—an urge she controlled only with great difficulty.

At least the half-caught snatches of whispers confirmed that she was not imagining things, but it took a visit from Monara to explain the hostility of the servants of Deremar's Keep.

“So that's the reason,” Lina whispered after listening to the stories Gisella had told about the destruction of Gabriev Keep. Much of it was consistent with the fragments she had gleaned from Gourry the day she had unknowingly pushed him about his heritage—the story of Gourry's father and elder brother cooked and served; the gutting of the Keep, and the death of all who refused to flee. The part that was inconsistent with Gourry's version was the fact that Gisella placed responsibility squarely on Lina's shoulders. She swallowed convulsively. “They think that I forced Gisella to eat—” She broke off, her stomach recoiling at the thought.

Lina knew that over the course of the past few years, she had blown up many places. Some of them had been intentional. Some of them had been accidental. Some of them had merely been collateral damage in a larger pursuit. But the crimes Gisella had lain at her feet . . . if she had been someone else, she would have hated her, too.

“Does Gourry know?” she asked, her voice sounding unnaturally loud to her ears.

Monara absently twisted the signet ring on her index finger. “Probably,” she said shortly.

Lina suddenly felt as if she could not get enough air. She staggered over to the window and pulled the sash open, breathing in the crisp scent of autumn air. Very faintly, she could hear the distinctive “thwack” of wooden practice swords clashing. She had seen very little of Gourry recently. He spent most of his waking hours on the practice field, and she had spent her scant few waking hours eating. However, when they had been awake together, she could tell that he was hiding something from her.

“Why did you tell me this?” Lina asked as she captured one of the curtains, preventing the breeze from blowing it in her face. She turned to face Monara. “Do you believe Gisella's tale?”

“I owe Gourry a debt,” Monara replied calmly enough, “for eliminating Erik.” She looked Lina straight in the eye. “Funny, isn't it? Both she and Erik were obsessed with you, albeit in different ways. It drove Lucilla crazy . . .” she trailed off.

Lina braced herself for the question she had been expecting ever since Monara walked into her room.

“No one's seen Lucilla for several days. Ever since Erik died.” Monara started to twist the signet on her finger again. “Lucilla was in love with Erik you know,” Monara said quietly, looking up to see Lina's reaction. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“The last time I saw Lucilla, she was running out of the cell where I had been kept,” Lina replied evenly, meeting Monara's gaze. It was true . . . it just omitted the fact that she knew exactly what had become of Lucilla the instant her spell had impacted.

“I see,” Monara said quietly, her gaze returning to the signet. “Everyone knows how devoted Lucilla was to Erik,” she mumbled. “Perhaps she decided . . .” she trailed off again, her gaze becoming unfocused. Finally she sighed and then shrugged.

“You think she might be dead as well?” Lina asked tentatively. Compared to the reaction of the woman who had clutched Lucilla's seemingly dead form before the mob that had tried to lynch her and Gourry, Monara's current demeanor was completely unexpected.

Monara studied Lina intently. “Or faking,” she finally said, waving her hand in a deprecating manner. “It wouldn't be the first time, as I'm sure you're aware.”

Lina nodded slowly.

“Although it would only be the second that I'm aware of,” Monara continued. “It was quite skillfully done, if I do say so myself. She took a drug that dramatically slowed her metabolism, coupled with artfully applied make-up, and Elfred's assistance . . . yes, I believed that she was dead. And publically, it seemed better to play the grief-stricken step-mother. The lynching of two complete strangers seemed a minor price to pay to have my troublesome slut of a daughter out of the picture.” Monara shrugged in apology. “If it's any consolation, I was glad you two escaped, and quite impressed with the way you were able to keep casualties to a minimum. Not exactly what I would have expected, even had I known you were the Dra-Mata.” She shrugged again when Lina winced at that hated epithet. “At any rate,” Monara continued with a chuckle, “both Erik and Gisella ripped into Lucilla for that little ploy.”

“Oh?” Lina asked politely, wondering why she felt a growing distaste for the woman. Maybe it was just that nothing in this place was turning out to be as it seemed. She had assumed that Monara was a normal caring mother, but even if she was not, the fact that she would play-act grief and stand by to watch the lynching of two innocent strangers . . . If she were not dependent upon the other woman's hospitality at the moment (and if she knew she could depend on her magic), she so would have happily arranged to send Monara off to meet her missing step-daughter.

“Oh, yes. Erik was upset because you were in danger, and Gisella was upset because of the threat to Gourry.” A wicked little smile danced briefly over her lips. “At any rate,” she stated, abruptly changing topics, “I've extended the hospitality of the Keep to you two, as payment of my debt, and informed the servants that they are to treat you as honored guests. I thought you should understand why they are twisting those directions.” She stood up and paced for a moment before stopping and studying Lina in a raking gaze that swept from head to toe. “I'm afraid that your clothes have been damaged beyond repair.”

“Really?” Lina asked, her tone sweetly venomous. Monara was good, Lina would give her that much, but she was hiding something. Something about her words just did not ring quite true.

“Fortunately,” Monara continued as if Lina had not spoken, “you seem to be of similar size and build as Lucilla. I'll have Jeral bring you a suitable selection from her wardrobe later today.” She cocked her head as she considered something. “Yes,” she said finally with a nod. “That will be quite suitable.” With a twirl of heavy skirts, Monara moved quickly to the door.

“I certainly hope you plan to discipline your servants,” Lina said loudly on a sudden impulse, just as Monara placed her hand on the door handle. “After all, it doesn't do for them to be going against the will of the Lady of the Keep,” she added as an afterthought.

Monara paused at the door. “Oh believe me,” she purred, “I will deal with them.” She shot Lina a malevolent look over her shoulder before she masked it with an insincere smile and slipped out of the room.

Lina suppressed a groan as the door shut with a definitive click, and she replayed the entire conversation in her mind, disentangling truths from misdirection. So Monara thought she could go toe to toe with Lina Inverse? Well, Lina would play along for now. It suited her purpose, and she was acquiring the kind of wardrobe she had only dreamed about in the process. Lina firmly squelched the thought that she was acquiring Lucilla's wardrobe. Just thinking about the other girl gave her the sudden urge to fireball several large bandit camps into oblivion.

One thing was absolutely clear: Monara wanted them gone, the sooner the better, which suited her fine. Lina guessed that she had been telling the truth about why the servants were so hostile, but she also doubted that they were “twisting” Monara's commands. Her reaction to Lina's parting barb combined with some of her other comments suggested that Monara was too interested in power and status to allow servants to circumvent her instructions. Lina's lip curled in disgust. She figured that Monara was purely an opportunist. She would go the way the wind blew, rather than make it blow the way she wanted, and right now, it was blowing straight in Gourry's direction.

With a sigh, Lina flopped across the bed. At least the fact that she shared it with Gourry meant she was unlikely to find questionable items dumped in the bed . . . . If only she and Gourry had a place of their own . . . it was a thought that had been more and more on her mind, especially since Siebert had dropped his little bomb the other day. It had been easier when he had been here—she got decent food in decent quantities, at least—but she understood his desire to return home to Shella now that she and Gourry were both on the mend. She rolled onto her back, placing a hand over her belly. Strange to think that she had been pregnant. She supposed she should have considered the possibility . . . .

She had a hard time figuring out how she felt about it. It was hard to mourn the loss of a child she had never realized she had carried, but at the same time . . . she was sad. A child that was part her and part Gourry would never have the chance to live. She sighed again. Who was she kidding? There was no way she was ready for a child at this point in her life. There was still so much she wanted to do, so much she wanted to see. Still. It would be so nice to have a place of their own . . . a place where they could go or not on their own schedule . . . where they could sleep in a bed that belonged to them alone . . .

Lina laughed self-deprecatingly. It had to be the merchant within her, this sudden desire to share property with her mate!

******************

“Um, Lina?” Gourry asked slowly as he walked into their room.

“Yeah, Gourry?” She replied in a distracted tone.

“What are you doing?”

Lina stopped craning to look over her shoulder and gave him a quick glance. “Putting on a dress?” she asked in response, turning to present her back to him. He could see the row of tiny little buttons that she had been attempting to fasten.

He moved over to her, answering her unspoken request for help. “And why are you trying to put on a dress like this by yourself?” he asked, as he fastened the buttons that she had been unable to reach. The dress had a low-cut square back that rested just below her shoulder blades, exposing a great deal more flesh than was Lina's custom.

She twirled around to face him just as he starting running a finger lightly up her spine. Her head was cocked slightly to one side and her hands rested on her hips as she considered. “You think I should have asked the servants to help me?” she finally asked, her eyes snapping.

Swearing silently, Gourry seized upon the first thing he could think of to distract her. “Where'd you get the dress—dresses,” he amended quickly after seeing the rumpled pile on the bed. He doubted that such a weak attempt to change the subject would work, but he hoped at least it would buy him some time, while he tried to figure out his own reaction. There was no doubt that her words were a challenge, and it was equally clear she had learned about the servants' prejudices.

“Monara gave them to me,” she said shortly, and for half an instant, Gourry thought he had bought the time he needed. Until she continued in a sickeningly sweet tone, “because the servants decided to destroy my clothes.”

“Because of Gisella,” he said bitterly, fighting against the rising flood of helplessness, remembering how weak and trapped he had been, listening to her repeated stories of Lina torturing those unfortunate enough to survive the initial assault on Gabriev Keep, her insistence that Lina had somehow twisted him, brainwashed him, perverted him to believe she was innocent of the crimes Gisella laid at her feet.

“Because of Gisella,” Lina echoed, in a monotone, all emotion drained from her voice. She took one step toward one of the over-stuffed chairs, and nearly tripped over her hem. He watched her as she swore under her breath before carefully lifting her skirts and moving with cautious deliberation.

The dress suited her, flattering her figure and making her look far more like a woman rather than some scrawny kid. The bodice was somehow both tastefully and suggestively low-cut—just barely exposing the swell of her breasts. She was beautiful. Desirable. And clueless about how to move in heavy court attire. Under normal circumstances, he probably would have been torn between the desire either to help her properly arrange her skirts to sit comfortably, or to help her out of the dress. Instead, he struggled against a growing anger as the silence stretched out and she deliberately avoided looking at him, withdrawing into herself.

Two steps closed the distance between them. Before she could so much as gasp, he had grabbed her by the forearms and yanked her up out of her chair. “Don't shut me out,” he growled. “You don't know what it was like, being locked with her in that room.” His eyes flicked in the general direction of the inn. “Day after day, until time had no meaning. Listening to her spin a story of horror that painted the woman I love as a cruel inhuman monster who feasted on pain and suffering. Slowly losing my grip on what was real and what was not—” He broke off and took a deep breath, letting go of her arms and sinking to his knees. “Don't shut me out, Lina,” he repeated raggedly.

Her hands snaked around his neck, drawing his face toward hers so that their foreheads touched. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly, soothingly. “I wasn't trying to shut you out.” She closed her eyes momentarily, before taking her own deep breath and continuing. “I hadn't realized, until just a moment ago, how painful it must have been to be with Gisella.” She placed a finger over his lips to forestall him when he took a breath to respond. “I don't know if you remember the day I asked you about your title . . . you were so upset . . . out of control . . .” She shuddered. “I just . . . I didn't want to push you . . . to remember . . . because it was too painful.” She suddenly slumped against him. “I understand now,” she whispered weakly, “why you wouldn't want to remember . . .”

Gourry tightened his arms around her, as relief shifted quickly to concern. Her complexion had turned ashen, and she was trembling with the effort to stay upright. Concern quickly flashed back to anger. “When's the last time you ate,” he demanded, as he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, carelessly sweeping all the dresses onto the floor.

“Breakfast,” she said weakly. “But it wasn't enough . . .”

White. So white. Hair. Skin. Even her lips had drained of color. “Wait here,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm as he tucked the heavy quilt around her. “I'll be right back with some food.”

“Don't worry,” she said with a ghostly semblance of her normal fiery attitude. “I'm not going anywhere right now.”

Taking steps two at a time, Gourry stormed down into the kitchen. Scanning through the hustle and bustle, he quickly located the head cook deep in conversation with one of Monara's aides. He closed the distance between them, grabbing the cook's elbow to get her attention.

“Lord Gabriev!” she exclaimed in pleased surprise. “What can I be doin' for . . .” she trailed off when she saw the thunderous expression on his face.

“My Lady is hungry,” he replied, allowing his anger to tinge his tone. “I thought I asked you specifically to send up a meal for three every three hours.”

“'Twas just her in that room most the day,” the cook grumbled, avoiding his gaze. “No need to waste effort preparin' food that won't go eaten,” she added sullenly, “you not bein' there to get your share, an' the healer bein' returnin' to his home.”

Gourry ground his teeth together, and forced himself to release her elbow. She rubbed at it surreptitiously, and he noticed the blossoming bruise marks where he had gripped her. Part of him was ashamed for bullying servants, even if he had not intended to harm her. Another part ruthlessly approved. If this is what it took for them to learn that he would not tolerate them mistreating Lina, so be it. But there was no need to grind their faces in it. At least not right now. Right now, he needed get food to Lina.

Ignoring the cook, who fluttered around him asking how she could help, Gourry grabbed a large serving tray and began piling it with food he thought would be good for Lina. A lot of red meat, bread and cheese. He added two pies cooling on a rack almost as an afterthought, along with a jug of wine, before lugging everything back up the stairs.

She was just where he had left her. She was still pale, but there was the barest hint of color in her lips and at least she no longer seemed on the verge of passing out. Her nose was quivering ever so slightly, and she stared at the food with a predatory gleam in her eye. Rather than moving her, he dropped his heavily laden tray on the table and moved it to the side of the bed. Starting with the bread, he fed her small bites and watched the color slowly return to her face. By the end of the meal, he was relieved to note that there was even a hint of color in her hair.

“I so needed that,” she said with a lusty sigh, leaning back in the bed. “Now there's only one problem.”

“Only one problem?” he asked, quirking one eyebrow.

A look of disgust passed over her face. “Well, at least I understand now why ladies eat so daintily. They'd bust their dresses, otherwise.”

Gourry started to laugh.

Lina's eyes narrowed. “I'm serious, Gourry! Help me out of this thing!”

“Gladly, Mi'lady,” he purred as he traced the neckline of her gown with his finger.

******************

For the thousandth time in the past three days, Lina wished that there was a way for her to move through the keep undetected. She was tired of the snide looks and the open hostility. Tired of the elbows and broomsticks, and other hard pointy objects that were “accidentally” jabbed at her. Tired of having only one decent meal a day—the dinner she ate with Gourry in the evening. She supposed if she woke up earlier, she could share the generous—and properly flavored—breakfast that was always delivered to him . . . and as much as she was not a morning person, she would have done it for the chance to eat properly, except for the fact that she still needed about sixteen hours of sleep a day. The lack of enough food was dramatically slowing down her recovery, but even so, she should be near full strength by this point instead of still struggling towards full strength.

She ruthlessly clamped down on the thought that she might not recover, refusing to consider the possibility seriously. Although she still needed a prodigious amount of sleep, she was able to stay awake a little longer each day. It was the lack of food and the acid environment that combined to slow improvement. The petty things the servants did to make her life a living hell were pushing her already volatile temper close to the breaking point. There were two things—well three if she counted her current physical state—that held her back from simply Dragon Slaving the whole place to oblivion: Gourry, and oddly enough, Deremar.

Aside from Monara, he was the only other person in the Keep who treated her with any level of decency . . . or rather, he seemed not to care about Gisella's accusations. She supposed she could hardly call his frequent double entendres “decent.” He certainly fell into an interesting category: mostly harmless pervert, who knew more about ancient lore and legends than any person she had ever encountered in all her travels.

It had been the day after Monara had sent Lucilla's clothes up. After eating a barely adequate breakfast that was just as “off” as the previous day's meal, she had spent her time trying to find a gown she could get into without assistance. As she calculated the yards and yards of fabric that went into just one of the dresses, Lina was quite happy that the clothes had been free gifts. She would never spend that much money on clothes. In spite of the fantasy of dressing like a princess that she had often entertained, now that she was actually wearing them she realized that nobles' clothing was just so impractical! It limited mobility in several ways: it was incredibly heavy—she understood at least part of Gourry's complaint at carrying Lucilla—and since the long skirts were designed to sweep the floor, if Lina tried to take a “normal” step, she ended up tripping on the fabric. She had found that it was most efficient to kind of “glide,” just barely lifting her foot of the ground and pushing it forward, which moved assorted layers of skirts out of her way as well. Unfortunately, it made her legs cramp up something vicious.

Perhaps it had been a foolish decision to practice her new glide-step walking outside of the confines of her room. Honestly, she was feeling rather stir-crazy. After being stuck in a cell for gods knew how long, then stuck in this room for more time than she liked to think, Lina felt a craving for new scenery that over-powered any driving urge to rest and recover strength. Although Monara had told her how the servants felt about her, she had been unprepared for their open hostility and venomous whispered comments. She had never been the target of so much unmitigated hatred. People had certainly been angry with her, but there was something clean about anger, whereas here the malevolence sucked at her, leaving her feeling somewhat tainted.

Finally, she had reached the point where she thought that if she had one more encounter with the servants of Deremar's Keep, she would probably not be able to restrain herself from wreaking violence on an unprecedented level—something she knew would be a very bad idea for several reasons. So when she heard the footsteps approaching her, she had ducked behind the first door she saw, hoping she would find herself in some abandoned room.

Instead, she found herself in the most impressive personal library she had ever seen. The sheer number of volumes came close to rivaling the size of collections held by Sorcerers' Guilds in most average size towns. Like a moth to a flame, Lina forgot that she was trying to hide from servants and drifted over to the closest shelf to peruse the contents.

Even now, Lina was not quite sure what she had expected. But never in her wildest dreams would she have thought she would find so many rare texts devoted to magic and ancient lore. She had trailed her fingers over the spines of leather-bound tomes, her lips moving as she read the titles, some familiar to her, and others not. It had been such a shock when she had found a copy of the Grimoire of Lei Magnus, one of the few forbidden texts possessed by the Sorcerers' Guild of Zefielia. The fact that it was forbidden had not stopped her from sneaking in just to take a peek . . . the little she had been able to glean in her limited time with the book had resulted in the Gigaslave . . . she had been barely cognizant of her surroundings as she pulled the volume off the shelf and started reading, drifting over to a comfortable chair.

She had completely lost track of time, but it had been long enough for her to read through about a third of the book when she heard the quiet snick of a door closing. She had flushed guiltily, feeling for all the world like an errant child, before she remembered where she was, and then she had prepared herself for another confrontation with one of the servants. Instead, she had looked up to see the elusive lord of the Keep. His glance had flicked from the empty slot on the shelf to the heavy book in her lap, and with a mild comment about the instructive nature of the text she was reading, he had selected his own book and sat down to read in a chair on the other side of the room. After staring at him incredulously for a moment, she had shrugged and gone back to reading. She had spent the majority of her waking hours here since.

Today, as she opened the door to the library, her nose was greeted with quite the surprise. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the feast laid out on one of the worktables. “What's the occasion,” she asked as she glided over. Her mouth was watering, and she eyed the food with undisguised avarice.

“Just something to whet the appetite,” Deremar responded, with slight emphasis on the last word. His eyes raked over her. “You need more flesh on those bones,” he added critically.

Lina waved a hand dismissively at his comment, pointedly ignoring both words and glance as she seated herself and blissfully sank her teeth into a crisp red apple. She had learned not to bristle at his frequent double entendres and openly lewd remarks. Oh, there was no doubt about his interest in sex. He had waxed poetic discussing Lucilla's skill in bed, and had even offered to give her a few pointers. Lina felt herself blushing at the memory, partially in anger, partially from embarrassment. But despite his fixation, she never felt threatened by him. And she had to admit, his conversation was most instructive, on multiple levels. She had learned quite a bit in the past few days, almost enough for her to understand the design of the snare to capture her and Gourry, and also why it had ultimately failed.

Deremar was the Lord, but not by birth. He had been a very successful merchant whose sole interest was buying books for his own personal collection. At his sister Monara's urgings, he had bought his way into the nobility, acquiring a minor title and this keep. His only motivation had been a safe and secure place to house his precious books. Monara's motivation, on the other hand, had been to increase her social standing. She had parlayed her brother's status to maneuver herself into marriage with an older lord who was having difficulty finding a woman to serve as step-mother to his beloved daughter. Lina snorted to herself. She could easily imagine that Lucilla had wrapped her father around her little finger. When the old lord had died, Monara had attempted to rule, but apparently there had been a coup by some distant relative, and she and Lucilla had fled to Deremar for sanctuary. Once firmly established in her brother's keep, Monara had set herself up as the Lady of the Keep. As far as Deremar was concerned, if it kept her happy and out of his hair, she could run the Keep. Between his books and the company of Lucilla, he had all his needs covered . . .

When the woman calling herself Lady Gisella Gabriev showed up in Fenwic, accompanied by her bodyguard, Erik Umkehrt, Monara had extended hospitality, and somehow convinced Deremar and Gisella to marry. Gisella agreed under one condition: the marriage would be one in name only. She spent her days at the Keep, but she kept her own room—specifically decorated to her design—at the inn, where she spent her nights. Monara had hoped the marriage would increase Deremar's—and thus her own—status. She had practically drooled over the prospect of marrying Lucilla to Gisella's missing son.

Things had started to go wrong for her at that point. First Gisella had taken over as Lady of the Keep. For the most part, Monara had commanded the servants of the Keep. They obeyed, and she was content with that. Until she saw how they treated Lady Gabriev, and how she treated them. Although a few servants remained loyal to Monara, her page Jeral being one, all were enraptured by Lady Gabriev. They grudgingly obeyed Monara. They loved and respected Gisella.

Then, Lucilla had fallen in love with Erik. She was so devoted to him, she had done anything he requested. Soon, Erik was the unspoken power in the Keep. He could get nearly anything he wanted, simply by offering Lucilla's company. Gisella had the loyalty of the servants, and Erik had control of the majority of the operating expenses of the Keep. Deremar had watched things unfold, although he had no desire to intervene. As long as he could still purchase books for his collection and share his bed with nubile young girls, he could care less who dealt with the day-to-day minutiae.

It explained a lot. Not everything, but a lot. Both Erik and Gisella had wanted to separate her and Gourry. Both Gisella and Lucilla had wanted her dead. Erik had wanted Gourry dead. Lina wondered if it had been Erik who had arranged for the tainted rye Gourry had eaten. She also wondered if Gisella had realized what she was doing to her “son.” Maybe, maybe not. Gisella. Erik. Lucilla. Three people sharing mutual goals that allowed them to act in concert in some respects. But they also worked at cross-purposes where their objectives did not overlap.

“I've never seen anyone enjoy their food as much as you do, Lina,” Deremar commented when she was about half-way through the meal. “It's almost obscene.” He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Which would you say you enjoy more? Food or sex?”

Lina paused in mid-bite, considering the question.

“Never mind,” Deremar muttered in disgust, leaning back in his chair. “I'm going to have to talk to that young man of yours,” he groused under his breath.

Lina gave him an acid look, as she resumed eating. “Leave Gourry alone,” she said firmly between bites. Sad as it was, having more than one decent meal a day was a luxury she was not going to allow him to spoil.

“How about food and sex?” he suggested slyly. “Or rather, food with sex?”

It took all her willpower to swallow the food in her mouth instead of choking on it. She had the sudden very vivid image of drizzling warm honey on certain parts of Gourry's anatomy and then . . . Her face flushed and she had to hold her breath against the sudden wave of desire that rushed through her, settling low in her belly.

“I'd offer a demonstration,” he continued in that same sly tone, “but it seems you're not having any trouble visualizing.”

Lina glared at him while she struggled to pull herself together. If not for the fact that she knew she would never make it down to the practice field without collapsing, she would have already been on her way to find Gourry. Her lack of energy was a definite problem. There had been that evening a few days ago when he had first helped her out of her dress . . . Just his hands running over her shoulders and down her back had her awash in sensual pleasure and yearning for more. Unfortunately, even before she was half-way undressed, she was fighting a losing battle against an overpowering desire to go back to sleep. The struggle between competing physical demands had brought her to the verge of tears, and of course when Gourry noticed, his demeanor had completely changed from aroused predatory male to nurturing protective male.

“Now Lucilla was a different story,” Deremar mused, his eyes taking on a faraway look, “In spite of her naturally adventurous nature, I never could convince her to—” He broke off abruptly when a bread basket suddenly hit him right between the eyes.

“I. Don't. Want. To. Hear. About. Her.” Lina bit out slowly, gripping the table so tightly her knuckles were turning white. She was afraid that if she let go, she would throw something else, and the only other things close to hand were heavy pieces of cutlery, porcelain plates, or large serving dishes, all of which were certain to cause injury. And even if she was seething with anger, she did like Deremar. Seriously hurting him was not on her list of things to do, today.

The silence stretched out as Deremar slowly put the empty bread basket back on the table. All traces of lecherous joviality had faded, and he looked at her with open concern. “You really do like your food, don't you?” he commented when she channeled her anger into cutting up her steak into tiny pieces.

Lina quirked an eyebrow in question.

“I mean, of all the non-lethal objects you could have thrown at me, you pick the bread basket. An apple could have done quite nicely as well to get your point across, you know.” He picked up an apple off the fruit tray, tossed it up a few times, and then bit into it. “So what's got you all hot and bothered about Lucilla today?” he asked as he crunched a mouthful of apple.

“I'm not `all hot and bothered,'” Lina retorted, attacking her steak even more vigorously. “I'm just—” she broke off abruptly as the plate cracked in two under the pressure of her knife.

It was Deremar's turn to quirk an eyebrow as he glanced knowingly at her plate, but he wisely kept his silence and worked on his apple while Lina focused her full attention on the steak, taking great satisfaction in rending and tearing it with her teeth.

When she finally pushed back from the table, she felt simultaneously energized and drained. Her body wanted to sit and digest, maybe even take a nap. Her mind thought that she should be up and moving, doing something—anything—to distract her from Lucilla's last taunt.

Okay, maybe she was hot and bothered. Whether Lucilla had been lying or not, the thought of that girl in bed with Gourry . . . Oh, Lina was pretty sure Gourry would never knowingly sleep with Lucilla, and it had been easy to brush off the girl's comment at the time as catty jealousy.

That was before Gourry had told her about losing his grip on reality. Before she had heard Deremar wax poetic about her skills in bed. Now, it was all too believable that Lucilla had crept into Gourry's bed and . . .

“What was that about killing her slowly?” Deremar interrupted her train of thought.

“What?” Lina asked, trying to pick up the threads of the conversation.

“You said something about killing her if . . .” he trailed off, and then suddenly smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. “Ah! So you're the possessive type, aren't you, Lina?” he announced triumphantly.

Lina's eyes narrowed. “What, exactly, are we talking about?”

“Well,” he drawled, “my guess is that we're talking about Lucilla and Gabriev.”

Lina flinched.

“Looks like I guessed right!” he crowed.

Once again, Lina found herself clamping down, hard, on the urge to give into her violent impulses and throw things. “So,” she said in a deceptively mild voice, “what do you know about Lucilla and Gourry?”

“Let's see,” he replied in that same infuriating slow tone. “Gisella had Lucilla convinced that Gourry would marry her.”

Lina nodded, waving her hand impatiently. That pretty much fit with what she had already guessed.

“That doesn't surprise you?” Deremar asked, looking more than a bit surprised himself.

“No,” Lina answered. “Gourry heard two guys talking in a public bath. One guy said he thought you'd sacrificed Lucilla in some demonic ritual. The other guy thought she was marrying some Elmekian noble.”

Deremar grunted in response. “I don't know where they got the `demonic ritual' part of it—”

“They probably saw your antechamber,” Lina interrupted with a snort.

“That was Monara's choice of décor,” Deremar shot back, “not mine.”

“Really?” Lina asked, violent impulses and impatience forgotten. In the three days that she had been visiting Deremar, they had talked about many things. So far, nothing had fazed him. She was surprised to find that he also had his sore points, and she filed that piece of information for future reference.

“Do you have any idea how much she paid for that tasteless crap?” he demanded indignantly. “I'd been saving those funds to buy a rare copy of Inner Workings of the Monstrous Mind!”

“It's not a very accurate book, you know,” Lina pointed out reasonably. Apparently Deremar cared at least a little bit about the day-to-day minutiae, contrary to the impression he had given her the other day.

He gave her a long-suffering look. “That's beside the point, Lina. It was reputed to be the original text, in the author's own hand. Instead, I got a realistically carved jellyfish! Which would you rather have?” he demanded, pointing a finger at her. “An autograph copy of Inner Workings or a jellyfish?”

“Jellyfish,” Lina responded automatically.

Deremar stared at her. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Took a deep breath. “The jellyfish,” he repeated flatly.

“Yup,” Lina answered with a grin. “Jellyfish is mine.”

“Care to explain?”

“Nope,” Lina replied and tried valiantly to stifle a huge yawn. She knew Deremar was confused, but her automatic response had at least made something clear in her own mind. What really bothered her about the possibility that Lucilla had slept with Gourry was that the other girl had taken something of hers. Something incredibly precious. That thought rankled. It also bothered her that her claim on Gourry was only tacit. She had been unsure the first time the thought had occurred to her, but now she wanted the wedding. Not because she thought it would change anything between them, but so the world would know that Gourry Gabriev belonged to her, to Lina Inverse.

Now if only the jerk would definitively propose, instead of asking her to boil him eggs or offering her his father's ring.

Now if only she could get through a day without needing nearly twenty hours of sleep.

“Sleepy?” Deremar asked, sounding surprised.

“Yeah,” Lina admitted. “A bit.” A lot, actually.

“Even after that lunch?” he pressed, gesturing to the nearly empty table.

“Yeah. Why?” she asked through yet another huge yawn.

He moved to her side, gripping her elbow and urging her to stand. “Care to eat the jellyfish?” he asked casually.

“Hmm,” she murmured sleepily as she allowed him to lead her to one of the alcoves furnished with a couch. As tired as she was, she easily recognized his attempt to fish for more information. “As long as it's with honey,” she said with a smile.

“Honey? With jellyfish?” He tucked a blanket around her as she curled up on the couch. “You've got strange taste, Lina.”

“Hmm,” she murmured again, barely hearing him move off. She lay in a delicious semi-doze, her mind filled with images of Gourry in various states of undress and the sweet taste of honey on her tongue.

It felt like only a few moments had passed before she felt Deremar shaking her shoulder and urging her to wake up. She forced groggy eyes open, feeling very thirsty. According to the angle of the light, it was near evening, which meant that her nap had lasted a lot longer than she had originally thought. “What is it?” she asked in a voice think with sleep.

Deremar thunked the book he was holding with the back of his hand. “I think I've found the solution to your problem,” he said triumphantly.

******************

Okay. This was not—definitely not—what he had expected to see when opening the door to the room he shared with Lina.

Gourry stood in the doorway, half in and half out of the room, wondering if he should back up, close the door and re-open it. Maybe then he would see something approximating normal. Instead, he shut his eyes firmly, took a deep breath, and took another look.

The same scene still greeted him.

He had thought nothing about Lina could surprise him more than walking in to find her putting on a fancy court dress.

Oh, he had been so wrong.

The bed had been shoved into a corner, and most of the furniture the room boasted was perched precariously on the bed. The large open space created by this arrangement was mostly covered with a circle about four feet in diameter, made up of blue and white triangles, surrounded by a larger circle, also made up of blue and white triangles. Many of the triangles had some type of rune inscribed upon them. Lina lay in the center of the smaller circle, curled up on her right side, almost in a fetal position. Her hair and left foot were all that broke the boundary of the inner circle, which burned with a bluish translucent fire. The line of the outer circle burned with a similar flame.

Far more than wondering why, of all things, Lina was lying in the middle of a burning circle, Gourry wanted to know why she was lying in the middle of a burning circle without a stitch of clothing.

Instinct urged him to rush in and snatch her to safety—she was in the middle of burning fire, after all. Long experience warned him that interrupting Lina in the middle of magic was one of the stupidest things he could do—far more idiotic than comments about small breasts. With a sigh, Gourry pulled the door shut behind him, and leaned against the solid wood for a moment. Edging carefully against the wall, making every effort to avoid accidentally touching the perimeter of the circle or the dull blue flame, he moved over to the closest corner where he could sit on the floor and have a bit of space to stretch his legs. And then he waited for Lina to finish. He hoped she would be done soon, because he was hungry and the servants would be bringing up their food any moment. Somehow, he doubted it would be a good idea for them to walk in on this scene. On the other hand, he was not quite sure it was a good idea for him to have walked in on this scene, but now that he was here, there was no way he could leave. Just knowing that she was doing magic in her current state had him more than a bit agitated. She still had not regained full strength, and she still needed way more sleep than was decent.

This place had left indelible marks on them both. He stared at his maimed hands, wondering if he would ever regain even half of his former skill. Although muscle and stamina were slowly coming back, he still lacked the strength of grip even to cleave through a wooden dummy. It was a far cry from his former ability to slice through stone. Before their ordeal, Lina had been trim and firmly muscled. She was not quite the emaciated skeleton she had been the day he had confronted Erik, but she was still woefully out of condition. And as for magic . . . as far as he knew, this circle was her first real attempt since the day he had seen her erupt into flames for the second time.

He clenched his hands into fists, ignoring the familiar pain, and relived again the fury he had felt when he had realized what Erik had done to Lina. It was not in his nature to be vindictive. But if he had been at full strength when he faced Erik, he would have made the other man suffer. Pain and brief humiliation would not have been enough to satisfy the debt owed to Lina. Instead, Erik had died quickly, and not even by Gourry's hand, even if it had been a Gabriev weapon that delivered the blow.

Gourry stared at the main-gauche that leaned in the opposite corner of the room, alongside his armor and Gisella's dagger. Lina's equipment had disappeared. She knew about her clothes, but he did not yet have the heart to tell her that her beloved cloak was missing. His gaze flicked between the main-gauche and Lina's still form in the center of the circle. She looked like she was sleeping peacefully.

Enough. Gourry stood up abruptly and edged around the room to the opposite corner where the main-gauche waited for him. He had put this off long enough. Oh, he certainly had valid excuses. His concern for Lina had over-ridden all else, followed by the necessary removal of his fingers and subsequent recovery . . . it had been easy to push thoughts of the main-gauche out of his mind, put it off because now he had to watch over Lina, or work on the practice field . . . valid excuses . . . easy excuses . . . and that was exactly what they were: excuses.

With practiced ease, Gourry removed the blade from the main-gauche and set it aside before upending the hilt. His eyes widened in surprise at the first object that fell out—so that was where his father's signet had gone. He pocketed the ring absently, most of his attention on the braid of hair that had followed the signet. He let out the breath he had not realized he was holding, but whether it was in shock or relief, he could not tell. Three dead strands—two corn-silk blond and one strawberry blond—one living strand.

An overwhelming sense of loss crashed through him, as he cradled the intricate braid in his hand. In his mind, he saw again the ruined hulk of his childhood home, saw raven-picked corpses wearing familiar uniforms marking them as servants of the Keep, and felt the insane anguish of having lost everything.

Lina had asked him about the braid, wondering what the point was. He knew that she had been frustrated with his lack of response, but how was he supposed to answer the question when he lacked the words to articulate meaning understood on a gut-level. It was tradition passed on for generations beyond memory, representing the pledge of a family to stand together and protect that which was valuable: the Sword of Light, certainly, but also each other. It was a symbol of how much stronger they became when braided and twined together, rather than standing separately. A ghost of a smile passed his lips when he remembered how much stronger the Sword of Light had become when it served as a vehicle for the spells of Lina, Zel, and Amelia.

It was also a symbol of weakness. One death, and strength became fragility. With the tip of his finger, he gently traced the three fragile strands as they twined around his own hair. He still remembered the day he had come of age, and his strand had been woven in. Strands that were added as children matured. Strands removed as the old passed on. The job of weaving and reweaving belonged to the oldest female relative, who would develop her own distinct pattern—

The thought ended abruptly as Gourry once again traced the strands, following the pattern and actually recognizing what his eyes were seeing. Two dead corn-silk strands twisted around each other in a simple rope that then intertwined with the other two strands. When he had watched his mother weave the hair together, each strand had been about the same thickness. Now, the hair of his father and brother together were just barely thicker than his own strand. And the pattern was too simple and awkward. Instead of flowing together and around each other, only to separate again, there were gaps where none should have been.

This was not the strand his mother had braided together when he had come of age.

He had been so distracted by the unexpected impossibility of seeing his mother's living hair that he had failed to see what was so plainly before his eyes. Clearly, someone had redone the plait. He could see broken strands of dead hair mingled in with the living, the broken strands that produced awkward gaps. Was it even his hair? Had he simply seen what he had expected to see?

Had he walked them into a custom-made trap because he had been too blind to see?

Suddenly the dull blue flame edging the two magical circles began to burn higher. He pressed himself back against the wall. Even he, with his total lack of magic ability, could recognize the gathering power within the room. The intensity of the flames increased, and they became increasingly opaque, forming a writhing dome-like structure that obscured all within. Just as it was starting to get hard to breathe, the flames gushed upwards, and Gourry hesitated briefly, torn between the desire to protect his head if the ceiling decided to come down, and the desire to place himself between Lina and harm. In that instant of hesitation, the flames disappeared.

Lina stood in the precise center of the circle, her eyes closed and her face down-cast. Her hands were clasped between her breasts, and her vibrant red hair swirled and whipped around her. Breathing ceased to be an option at that point, as the pressure in the room continued to mount. His ears ached, and he vainly placed his hands over them in an effort to protect them. And then, just as suddenly as the flames had disappeared, the pressure and sense of gathering magic power was gone.

While he stood gasping and feeling like very tiny prey that had just barely escaped a large and dangerous predator, Lina looked up and opened her eyes. “Fireball,” she said softly.

The resulting explosion knocked him flat on his rear. It also destroyed a fair-sized chunk of the outer wall to their room. When he could finally hear over the ringing in his ears and see beyond the bright lights that danced merrily before his eyes, he noticed Lina whooping with glee and jumping about with abandon. She seemed oblivious to the fact that she—along with most of the room—was covered in stone dust and debris, that a mob of servants was pushing into the room to see what was going on, and most importantly from his perspective, that she was still completely naked.

“Lina!” he shouted in a vain attempt to be heard over the ringing in his ears and her celebrating.

He noticed one of the servants carrying a basket of linen, so he grabbed a sheet and wrapped it around her, just as she launched herself at him, flung both arms around his neck, and shouted, “Gourry, did you see that?”

Her exuberance was infectious, and he found himself grinning down at her. “Yes, Lina, I saw,” he replied, hugging her close. “But . . .” he trailed off, gesturing at the large hole in their wall.

Lina huffed, closed her eyes briefly, and he watched as the wall suddenly seemed to lack all shape and definition. After a moment, she waved her hand dismissively, and the wall was once again complete. “There,” she said smugly. “Problem solved!”

“That's a neat trick,” he said with an absolutely straight face.

She gave him that familiar sharp look that always preceded a lecture. Then she took a deep breath, and he watched her hands curl up into fists. It amazed him that he could almost see what she was thinking. He clearly remembered her using the same technique to fix the wall he had busted down in the bath house, and obviously, she thought he should remember as well. Before she could launch into her tirade, he let his lips quirk in a slight smile.

He could actually see her thought process come to a screeching halt before moving quickly in a new direction. “Haven't I told you,” she bit out from between clenched teeth, “that that is the most annoying habit I have ever seen IN MY ENTIRE LIFE?!” She emphasized her last words by pounding on his chest.

“Maybe,” he replied with a barely suppressed grin, “but I wasn't paying attention.”

“You are hopeless, Gourry Gabriev. Did you know that?” She was grimacing, but her tone was affectionate. “At any rate,” she said loudly as her eyes flicked toward the servants who still milled about just outside the room, “yes, it is a neat trick, if I do say so myself. I may be known for tearing things down, but I can put them back together again.” She paused briefly and then looked straight at the mob of servants. “If I choose.”

Almost collectively, they flinched back from Lina's thinly veiled threat.

She smiled at them sweetly. “Thanks for bringing up our dinner,” she said as she moved to relieve one of the servants of a heavily laden tray. He let it go so quickly she had to catch it before it unbalanced and tipped everything onto the floor. Her resultant glare, accompanied by a snarl, was enough to make him throw up his hands in a warding gesture and begin to back up slowly. Unfortunately, he ended up nearly tripping over the rest of the servants bunched up behind him. With a disgusted-sounding sigh, Lina closed the door in his face. “Get the table, Gourry,” she directed while she balanced the heavy tray and nudged her toe at the sooty looking smear that was all that remained of the magic circle.

Gourry heaved a sigh of his own. Of course the table was near the bottom of a lot of precariously balanced furniture. “Why don't you put that down and help me?” he demanded as he struggled to move an overstuffed armchair without toppling the entire pile.

“Because it's more fun this way?”

He snarled in response.

“Okay, okay,” she said placatingly as she placed the tray on the floor. “I was just kidding, you know.”

“How did you get all this stuff up here in the first place?” he asked, finally freeing the armchair and starting to work on a dresser.

“It wasn't easy, that's for sure,” Lina said dryly as she moved to help with the other side of the dresser.

Working together, they quickly put the room into some semblance of order. Even so, the food was mostly cold by the time they finally sat down to eat. Neither of them complained. Gourry knew he was incredibly hungry, and judging from the ferocity with which Lina tore into her food, she was too. Her snarls when he impinged upon her territory were far more vicious than normal. Not that it stopped him from reaching over periodically to snitch her food. Fair was fair after all.

“So,” he said slowly as she picked up the stray crumbs that were the sole remains of their meal by pressing her finger against them. “Do I want to ask?”

Her eyebrow quirked a bit, and she grimaced. “If I explain it to you, are you going to understand? Are you even going to listen?” she asked as she licked the crumbs off her finger and started scavenging for more.

He thought about it for a moment. “Probably not,” he answered honestly. He held up a finger to forestall her snarl. “I do like to hear you talk, though,” he continued. “Even if I don't really pay attention.”

The look she gave him was inscrutable. And then she launched into a long discussion filled with obscure terms relating to female cycles, magical lay lines, and a host of other things that generally went straight over his head. Her words washed over and around him, like the swirl of ocean waves. Meaningless sound, but somehow comforting at the same time, with ever-changing rhythm and pitch. He just sat there watching her as she talked, watched the play of expression over her face as her eyes lost all focus, fixed on something only she could see.

There was a vibrancy about her that had been lacking recently. She seemed fully alert and tightly focused, and at the same time fully relaxed, rather than dulled and lethargic.

“So what you're saying,” he interrupted with a grin when she paused briefly for a breath, “is that you're fully recovered.”

“What I'm saying, yogurt-for-brains, is that I'm better than recovered.” She considered, and then pushed back from the table. “Watch,” she commanded as she stood.

He watched her move to the center of the room. She stood calmly, eyes closed for a moment. A non-existent breeze fluttered around her, twining through tendrils of hair and stirring the folds of her robe. She was beautiful. And dangerous.

“Sword of darkness
Release yourself from the Heaven's bonds
Become one with my body
One with my power
And let us walk the path of destruction together
Power to smash even the souls of gods!
Ragna Blade!”

The instant he recognized the words, he had stood up so fast, he had knocked his chair over. He had seen her use this spell several times, but only under situations of great duress. Even after spending time with the Claire Bible, she still could barely control the spell . . . But this time . . . he watched as energy blacker than the deepest pitch gathered in her hands, crackled incandescently as it twisted and writhed in a vaguely sword-like shape . . . and then suddenly resolved itself into a distinct black blade. Lina swung it a few times, her face twisted in concentration, and he heard the whistle of steel slicing the very fabric of the air. And then her hands were suddenly empty.

Lina collapsed to her knees, breathing heavily, but she flashed him a grin and held up her fingers in the “Victory” sign. “Did you see?” she asked between gasps. “I still can't maintain it long, but I can hold the shape now, and that even without my talismans!” Her eyes snapped with excitement. “Just imagine what I can do with the talismans!”

“Are you insane?!” he shrieked the instant he was sure his voice would not crack. He had seen her cough up blood after casting that spell. His heart was still thumping crazily in his chest, although he could not tell if it was out of shock from her pulling a crazy stunt like that, anger because she risked losing her strength and vitality so soon after regaining it, or terror from being so close to that dark energy and its association with life-or-death struggles. “What in hell's name do you think you're doing casting that spell in here?!”

“Don't be mad, Gourry,” she said with a fake pout. “At least I didn't try a Blast Bomb. I was pretty sure I could control the blade,” she added with a careless shrug.

“Pretty sure?” his voice cracked on the last word.

She made a moue in response. “I wanted to test it, okay?” She glanced around the room. “And I didn't want to wait, either. I needed to feel how a high-powered spell would work for me.” Now her gaze settled on him. “Would you have preferred I tried the Dragon Slave instead?” she asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“You could've at least warned me, you know,” he groused, reluctantly letting go of shock, anger and terror. After all, Lina just would not be Lina without crazy antics and ridiculously overpowered magic. There was certainly no lack of excitement in her company . . .

“I could have,” she agreed solemnly, “But I didn't think you'd be paying attention anyways. This way, I was pretty sure I could get your full attention!”

He watched as her breathing slowed, returned to normal. Saw the fire snapping in her eyes, the confident strength, and the desire to protect her from harm receded a bit, while a rather different desire—one that he had suppressed for too long of late—kindled low in his belly. “So,” he purred, “you're fully recovered.”

She glanced at him sharply as she stood and made her way to one of the overstuffed chairs. “I thought we just established that, didn't we?”

He intercepted her before she reached her destination, sweeping her off her feet and into his lap. “You have my attention, Lina,” he purred. He pinned both her hands against his chest and tugged at the neckline of her robe, easing it over one of her shoulders. “My full attention,” he murmured against her skin while he nuzzled at her neck.

“Gourry! Stop that!” She struggled ineffectually against him, trying to free her hands, while she shrugged a shoulder up to her ear, denying him easy access. “I can't talk to you while you're doing that!” Her gasp modulated into a mewling sound when he shifted his attention to the other side of her neck while slipping his free hand under her robe to cup her breast. “Gourry!” A breathless plea.

He pulled back and looked directly into her eyes. They were already taking on the glassy look of arousal he knew was mirrored in his own, but underlying the arousal was a hint of fear. “What, Lina?” he asked as he gently released her wrists, his fingers rubbing over scars left by manacles and wire. She shuddered, fear and desire swirling in her eyes and fighting for dominance. Not fear of him. It was fear of her memories coming between them. He held her gaze with his own while he shifted her body on his lap. Instead of cradling her in his arms, he turned her so that she knelt, her thighs straddling his legs, his hands resting on her shoulders beneath her robe while his fingers lightly stroked the sides of her neck. “What, Lina?” he repeated. With his eyes, he surrendered to her will. With his hands, he claimed her as his own.

Fear receded slowly from her eyes. He forced himself to wait patiently. Her eyes flicked in and out of focus, as she alternated between staring at the space just beside his head and searching his face for something.

Finally she sighed, and he was not sure if she had found what she was looking for, nor if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She had clearly made some type of decision though.

“Did I ever tell you that I love you?” she asked. And then, with a wicked grin she laced her fingers together, raised her arms over her head and arched her back in a lazy stretch that completely defied the ability of the robe to keep her modest.

Gourry had no idea he had stopped breathing until she brought her still-laced hands down to rest between them directly on his groin and blood starting roaring in his ears as it was hastily redirected elsewhere. He sucked in air, only to release it with a groan when Lina leaned forward, balancing most of her weight on her hands. Her new posture accentuated her breasts in a completely different way. The wicked grin on her face faded as he slowly traced a finger from her shoulder down across the swell of her breast and around her nipple, and then it was her turn to hold her breath. Fair was fair, after all.

His finger continued to circle her breast, making larger circles, before it traced a line down to her navel to untie the sash of her robe. She knelt on his lap, flexing her thighs around his, shifting her hands to his shoulders and gripping them for balance. Her robe fell open and slipped down to expose both her shoulders, but rested in the crook of her elbows. The fear he had seen earlier in her eyes was completely gone. Now the desire mingled with mindless lust. Her hair shimmered as a curtain between them as she slid up his thighs to press against his erection, and the sound of her moans as she ground against him was nearly enough to destroy any remaining rational thought.

It was incredibly erotic to watch her pleasure herself against him, feeling himself tethered between her thighs, surrendering to her control. So easy to just lose himself in the moment . . .

Surrender.

And Claim.

Having Lina's body was not enough. Having Lina's love was not enough. He needed more.

More? More than body and love?

Yes. More.

In the moment she arched backward, her head thrown back, her face contorted in a silent scream of ecstasy, he understood. And he thought maybe, just maybe, he now knew the words to make her understand as well.

Just before she collapsed like a limp ragdoll against his chest, he pulled his father's signet ring out of his pocket and slipped the thong from which it still hung around her neck. And waited. For her to come back to herself. For her to ask the question.

It was both an eternity and an all-too brief moment later when she raised her head. He watched as she looked down at the signet that hung low between her breasts. He waited as she picked it up and inspected it. “Your father's signet,” she said quietly, her voice neutral. It was not a question.

“Yes,” he responded.

She looked up into his eyes, and the welter of emotions he saw took him by surprise. Her own surprise. Happiness. A hint of fear and anger. Hope. And annoyance. “Why?” Just one word. So much meaning in that one word. This was the question.

“I want you,” he said simply.

Her eyes glinted dangerously. “Don't you already have me?” she asked gesturing at her exposed body, still glistening with sweat and the afterglow of her orgasm.

“I have your body. I have your love.” He made his words a verbal caress. “I want more.”

“More.” She avoided his gaze, instead studying the ring, tracing the design of raised niello.

“You know that I've promised to follow you for the rest of my life.” Gourry paused, and she nodded in acknowledgement. “I want you. I want to be bound to you. I want you to be bound to me.” He paused again. “I want you to be mine. Forever.”

She looked up at him then, that same conflicting welter of emotions in her eyes. “Are you proposing to me?” she asked quietly.

Gourry wanted to howl in frustration. Somehow she had missed the point of what he was asking. Instinct, however, told him that his next words would be key. “If that's what you want, Lina,” he finally answered. “But I want more.”

She cocked her head to one side, considering. Understanding slowly dawned in her eyes, wiping away the doubt, fear, and wariness. “More,” she whispered, her voice a caress.

He waited. Watched as her eyes unfocused. She sat motionless on his lap, gazing at nothing behind him. And he waited.

Finally, she stirred. She stood up and gazed about the room, until her eyes came to rest on the main-gauche. A tiny smile played around her lips as she stood and picked up the separated hilt and blade, fitting them back together. Gourry watched her use the blade to cut a small section of hair from her head and run it through her hands a few times. She looked quite pleased with herself when she turned back to face him. “Hold out your hand,” she commanded.

Slowly, he stood so that he was facing her, and offered her his hand. She wrapped her hand around his wrist, and his fingers naturally closed around hers, linking their two arms together. With her free hand, she wrapped her hair over and around their hands and arms, binding them together. When she finished, she closed her eyes for a moment, and he felt a non-existent breeze swirling about them both.

“Everything that I am,” she said solemnly as she stared into his eyes, “I give to you.” A brief pause. “All that you are, I claim for myself.” Another brief pause.

The breeze intensified, and he felt a warm heat surrounding their linked hands.

“Forever.” As she spoke that word, the breeze died away, along with the warmth that had seeped into his arms. “You'll never be free of me now, Gourry,” she chirped gleefully as she let go of his hand.

He looked down in confusion. If she had tied their hands together, how could she have let go so easily?

The hair that had bound them together was gone. In its place, a deep red line the same color as Lina's hair snaked around his arm. A quick glance confirmed that she was similarly marked. He traced the line on his arm with the tip of his finger. To the touch, the skin felt no different. But his arm still felt the clasp of Lina's fingers around his wrist. It reminded him a bit of the ghost pains in his fingers, except much more pleasant. It marked him as hers. It was more than pleasant. It was wonderful.

Surrender. And claim. Hers.

Without speaking, Gourry picked up the main-gauche and cut a section of hair from his own head, quickly plaiting it. Wordlessly, she held out her un-marked arm to him, and watched as he bound them together. Again he felt that ineffable breeze as he gazed into her eyes and spoke his own pledge. “I bind myself to you, Lina Inverse,” he said fervently. “And I bind you to me. You'll never be free of me. Ever.”

“Is that `more' enough for you, Gourry?” Lina asked after the warmth had faded.

He looked down and traced the golden cornsilk pattern that twined around her arm. For a moment, all he could do was look at her. The robe still hung off her shoulders and was open in the front. His father's signet fell low between her breasts. And both her arms were marked with a pledge. Her promise to him. And his to her. “Yes, Lina,” he answered happily as he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. “It's exactly what I wanted.”

“Good,” she said through a yawn muffled on his shoulder. “But I still want the wedding. And the ring.”

“You already have the ring,” he replied as he shucked out of his own clothing.

“Not this ring,” she smiled at him coyly as she traced a finger down along the thong.

“But—”

“Don't worry,” she said quickly. “I'm keeping this one. I want the other ring.”

He looked at her blankly, most of his ability to string two coherent thoughts together impeded by her finger stroking along the thong.

“The diamond ring, Gourry,” she purred as she crawled across the bed toward him, shedding the robe behind her. “You'll get me one, won't you?”

She was beautiful. Sexy. Manipulative. Dangerous. And his.

He mumbled something incoherent in response, knowing that she would hold him to it later, regardless of what he said. It hardly mattered. For the moment all he cared about was pressing his own claim to her body.