Later.
He could walk to Hadrian’s lair, but he couldn’t keep himself from yearning for the days when mortals had kept horses and carriages. He did like to arrive in style.
There was little chance of that in this backwater. Why couldn’t the Pyr live in cities, preferably cities with limousines—and dark alleys where countless multitudes could vanish, unnoticed? This obsession with wilderness was tedious, although he could understand their desire for privacy.
He entered the pub, surveyed the few inhabitants, noticed the beautiful redhead behind the bar without interest, then headed for the table in the darkest corner.
“There are better tables,” she called to him, but Sebastian shook his head.
“I like it dark.” He sat in the booth without removing his coat, hat or gloves.
She followed him and he was surprised when she laughed. “So, it’s like that, is it? Can’t say as I blame you. I’ve been in a bit of a funk myself lately. Something to eat? The special tonight was steak and kidney pie, and there’s still a bit left.”
The prospect of cooked meat disgusted him. “No, thank you.” He could get by with steak tartare in a pinch, but this didn’t look like the kind of place to order raw meat with confidence.
“A drink, then?” she asked with a smile.
“You don’t have what I want.”
“You can’t know that unless you ask.” Her tone was mild and that irked him.
Anything would have irked Sebastian in this moment. He wanted to be with Sylvia, which could only lead to trouble, so he’d put an ocean between them, not told her he was leaving, and felt like an asshole as a result. He’d always been self-centered but it never bothered him.
Until now.
Until Sylvia.
The redhead was still waiting. He flicked a hostile glance her way. “What I would like is a glass of Château Latour Bordeaux Red Pauillac from 1929.” She winced. “Failing that, I’d like to find a cab that will drive me to this address.” He conjured the paper with Hadrian’s address from his pocket and put it on the table.
She looked down, frowned and paled. “You know Hadrian MacEwan?”
“I’ve come to see him.” Sebastian paused, assessing and took the chance. “Or actually, his mate.”
The redhead inhaled sharply and became taller. “He has a girlfriend already, does he? Wants some time alone. Doesn’t see that we have a future. No, there’s no one else.” She rolled her eyes, took off her apron and flung it in the direction of the bar. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride. I wouldn’t mind giving Hadrian a piece of my mind myself.”
“Aren’t you working?”
“I own the place.” She pivoted and raised her voice. “Eddie, go home to Tilda already!” she shouted at the last patron, an older man sitting at the bar. “I’ll not pour you another. That one’s on the house if you leave now.” Eddie thanked her profusely as he slid from his stool and tugged on his coat, obviously thinking that she might change her mind if he didn’t accept her offer quickly. She turned back to Sebastian and offered her hand. “I’m Lynsay Barnes. My car’s not fancy, but it’ll get us there.”
It wasn’t the most reassuring claim she could have made, but Sebastian was sufficiently curious to accept her offer.
Riding in her car had to be better than walking.
Once upon a time, there was a king who dearly loved his wife. Their marriage had been arranged to further the fortunes of both families, but they had fallen in love immediately and, each day, their love grew only deeper. The king’s realm was in the distant north, an empire of ice and wind and stone, but his beloved wife filled his palace with light, joy and warmth. The queen loved swans and the king admired her gentleness with them. She fed the birds as they migrated and he would often awaken and look out the palace window to see his wife, the wind in her hair, feeding wild swans by hand in the courtyard. During their courtship, he had changed his standard to that of a white swan in flight. Once she’d become his wife, he delighted in adding swans to every corner of the palace. The canopy over their bed was crested with a carved swan in flight. There were swans carved in stone and in wood, woven in tapestries and created in tiles on the floor. The queen was surrounded by swans and this gave her tremendous joy.
In time, the happy couple conceived a child but the queen died in the delivery of the daughter. The king was devastated. He cherished the child, at first because she was the fruit of his union with his beloved, and later because of her own nature. The princess was beautiful, inside and out, as gracious and generous a lady as her mother had been, clever, lovely and gentle as well. As she grew older, the king dreaded the day he would be compelled to surrender his daughter’s hand in marriage, for he would miss her company so much. He and his daughter agreed that she would wed for love and that she would choose her own spouse. The daughter, who loved her father as dearly as he loved her and lacked for nothing in life, didn’t rush to make that choice. They were happy, each in their own way, and disinclined to make a change.
In that area, there was a family of swan shifters who were considered royal. A terrible plague had come upon the swan shifters and the eldest son of the swan-king was the last of his kind. He visited the king’s palace to see the wonders he’d heard described, hoping to diminish his loneliness. While he admired the many depictions of swans, it was the king’s daughter who stole his heart away. With one glimpse, he was smitten—but when he presented his proposal to the king, the king forbade the swan-prince to even speak to the princess. The king feared the mingling of their kinds and wished his daughter to wed a man, not a changeling. The swan-prince was disappointed, but true to his promise to the king, he neither spoke to the princess nor remained at the palace. He left and wandered, hoping to find another woman he could love somewhere in the world, but the memory of the princess burned bright in his heart.
There was a brigand on the king’s borders, though, one who grew increasingly bold with every passing year. This warrior was a thief and a killer, treacherous to his marrow, and disinterested in anything beyond his own desires. The first time he saw the king’s palace, he wanted it for his own. The first time he rode close to the king’s palace and glimpsed that man’s lovely daughter, he swore that she would belong to him. He sent word to the king of his demand, but the king declined even to speak with him.
This brigand was not a man to be put aside. He began to raid the villages on the borders of the kingdom, leaving only destruction and death in his wake. Each time he attacked, he sent his request to the king and, each time, the king refused to hear of such a marriage for his beloved daughter. The brigand used his stolen riches to hire mercenaries and his army swelled in numbers and power. He was a pestilence upon the king’s realm, slaughtering and stealing so that eventually there was only the palace left. The brigand made his demand again and was rebuffed for the last time. He besieged the castle, killing all who opposed him and forcibly seizing the princess. The king tried to defend her, but the brigand cut down the king before her very eyes. He then claimed the castle and kingdom, and married the princess by force. He consummated their match before all in attendance, then locked her into the king’s chambers, where only he could visit her. He went to her every night without fail, claiming her until she begged for mercy.