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One by one, the remaining five Guardsmen gave an all clear for the rest of the realm, at least for now. Yet he felt uneasy. He lifted his chin and issued the orders, All except Jason, join Derek now. Jason, come to the castle grounds and patrol here but keep a low profile. And Jason, have the head of the patrols get the rest of the Guard out tonight, emergency levels.
Done.
His sense of uneasiness grew. At least his men had speed. They could lock onto their traveling frequencies better than all realm-folk. Though Jason was over a hundred miles away, he would arrive in less than twenty minutes. Not half-damn bad.
His gaze never stopped moving over the crowd, or into the forest, or even high into the night sky which was clear, star-studded, and just a circle of dark surrounded by the tips of ponderosa pine trees.
He loved the forest and the dark. Each realm had some manner of forest and dense woodland attached. Vampires needed a place to shelter if caught outside during the day. Tree canopies were necessary to those who had difficulty tolerating sunlight.
Even faeries and elves didn’t tolerate sunlight well. The realm world was, for the most part, a world of the night and of the dark.
He shifted his gaze to eye-level and bored his vision deep between the trees, hunting for the peculiar red-wind Invictus sign.
Sweet Goddess, but his land was in trouble, as all the Nine Realms of North America were, if the Invictus engaged in yet another uprising.
At least for now, the wedding party was safe and he could share in the joy of Gillet and his woman.
Abigail chuckled once more, which brought Gerrod’s attention sharply back to the woman who had been tormenting him for an entire year. Her laughter glided over his nerves like a fine oil, which simply sent his temper into the top of his head all over again. Why did the human have to be here and why, by all that was worthy in his world, did he have to be drawn to her?
He cast about for the source of her laughter. She looked off to the right so he followed her gaze. One of the trolls had imbibed far too much wedding punch and was listing about. He had already bumped into a few of the guests. Next he jostled a large vampire, who in turn picked him up by the lapels of his lavender silk coat, and glared at the troll face to face. The wedding guests drew a combined gasp.
Vampires were not known for their sweet tempers. Fucking understatement that.
But the troll smiled sloppily and kissed the vampire on the nose. The vampire grimaced, called out a loud growling ‘ack’, spat off to his left side, but released the troll. The guests breathed again and many chuckled, especially Abigail, as the troll turned and shambled away.
By all the elf-lords, the damned woman laughed too much.
More than anything, he wished he had never heard of Abigail of Flagstaff, a mere human, a bakery owner, the latter being the why of her presence in his realm.
He had opposed the Merhaine Council approving her partnership with a elf to open a bakery in the nearby county of Hollow, one of Merhaine’s seven counties. He had believed from the first it was a mistake. However, and this for reasons he could not explain, Abigail was a favorite among realm-folk. She had been providing the sweet-loving trolls, faeries, and elves of his realm with cupcakes—for all the Nine Realms, cupcakes!—for well over a year. His castle even had a standing weekly order with her Flagstaff enterprise, a place called Just Too Sweet! Yes, with an exclamation point.
And now he felt like spitting.
Some of the council were looking to expand into the human world as well, which he believed to be a mistake of enormous proportions. Some of the drugs of the human world had already infected the less prosperous portions of his realm. Didn’t his realm have enough trouble managing the constant threat of the Invictus?
And yet, as he sniffed the breeze that flowed over the woman’s long red tresses, he could scent rosemary again, and he knew exactly what her skin would taste like beneath his tongue. His body reacted, sharpening, hardening, shuddering, until he was once more grateful for the long leather coat of his Guardsman uniform, and the snug buckled leather pants that held all his absurd firmness well in place.
The woman be damned.
His gaze shifted back to the drunken troll, who now listed sideways and fell into the three-tiered sage-and-honey wedding cake. The fae bride cried out and the groom’s cheeks showed an angry wash of red.
The guests, however, began to laugh and Abigail joined them.
He was angry all over again. How dare she laugh?
It was time he took her down a slat or two.
*** *** ***
“You find our customs amusing?”
Abigail turned slightly at the almost growling sound. The words were spoken in a deep low voice, emanating from the vampire Guardsman next to Abigail, the leader of the Merhaine Realm, Mastyr Vampire Gerrod. Of course, he didn’t exactly stand next to her. He would never deign to do that. God, forbid, or ‘Goddess’, as he would say. Instead, he stood slightly behind her, a position of power and control no doubt. She could feel him fuming behind her. Some burr had gotten stuck inside those boots of his.
Abigail turned a little more and glanced up at him. As always, she felt an almost overwhelming attraction to Mastyr Gerrod. He was six-five and though she considered herself tall for a human at five-eleven, still she had to look up, though perhaps not as far this evening since she wore four-inch heels. A very slight advantage against his formidable scowl and heavily muscled body.
The vampire was stunning and ferocious. Because of the books she’d read, she had thought his kind would be pale-skinned from lack of blood, an un-beating heart, and the inability to get a decent tan because of an intolerance for sunlight. But the world of the Realm produced vampires of every possible hue, from the deepest browns and blacks to almost pure white. The solar disability and the persistent blood-needs had nothing to do with skin-tone.
His Guard uniform did not help at all. The man looked like a fierce pirate with a soft maroon woven shirt, topped by a thick black calf-length leather coat. The coat wasn’t exactly a coat because it didn’t have sleeves, just a thick pad of very soft leather at the shoulders that descended in two panels that hung open in the front.
A black leather shoulder strap crossed over his chest, and angled to his waist, undoubtedly a throw-back to times when swords were used. No swords now, just the power that a Guardsman could gather through his battling frequency and send outward through his arms, hands, and chest, tight beams of killing energy. Black leather pants and silver-buckled top boots finished off the uniform that had most women doing double and triple takes.
Gerrod was magnificent, well-built with broad shoulders, as all the fighting Guardsmen were, his skin an exquisite golden color. He held himself in a proud manner, as befitted his leadership status. Even now his arms were crossed over his chest as he glowered at her.
