Remedy Maker: The Centaurs, #1

By Sheri Fredricks

Remedy Maker, Book One, The Centaurs
Approx. 123,000 words

Paranormal Romance Guild Reviewers' Choice Award for 2012
PARANORMAL FANTASY ROMANCE

Man by day, Centaur by night, Rhycious is a remedy maker who needs his own healing.

He's the royal physician, famous for his cures. War and posttraumatic stress disorder have broken his spirit, preventing him from finding true happiness. Then a direct order from the queen to investigate an uprising forces him out of his secluded cabin at the edge of the Boronda forest.

Patience is an optimistic, good-natured Wood Nymph who works as a mediator to ensure harmony within the Nymph sector.

Environmental pollution in the aquifer stream that feeds the taproot tree of her heart is slowly killing her. Resigned to the fact she will not live long, she sets out to discover the mysterious disappearance of her sister. Experience has taught her to deny herself the love of a male, but the gruff Centaur is different. He doesn't push his expectations on her, only his healing nature.

When Rhycious loses his grip on reality, he believes his inability to control his disorder will drive Patience away. Nevertheless, desire flares, and Patience draws him close. Kidnapping and betrayal turn their mythic joint venture into a deadly bout.

Will their love endure when survival hinges on trusting each other?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Temple Publishing LLC
• Release date: Aug 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781386044956

Sheri Fredricks

Sheri Fredricks grew up on the central coast of California and resides within minutes of the pristine sunny beaches. She's a Border Collie fan, loves to eat sushi, and is addicted to Facebook. A writer of romance, she's the award-winning author of the shapeshifting Centaurs Series, Jungle Island Series, Monica Beggs, and many more. Sheri is currently writing more steamy, sexy stories for her voracious fans.

Book preview

One

Screams of the terrified echoed through the corridors of Rhycious’s mind. Shouts from warriors and cries of agony ebbed away. The pounding of his heart decreased.

He gripped the roughly hewn table with both hands, forcing himself to concentrate on the picturesque view of the Boronda Forest beyond his kitchen window, as it faded in favor of the horrific scene.

Bloody soldiers lay scattered in his reminiscence like the deadfall they were. My team of medics and I can’t keep up with the gruesome injuries. Arrows are whizzing close to our heads and roots are bursting from the ground to choke us. Body parts flung high in trees, left to hang, and picked clean by scavengers.

Rhy shook his head and blew a hard breath. Night had fallen hours ago and no Wood Nymphs attacked his fellow herdsmen. No such war existed between races any longer.

He was safe. The horrific scenes were in his mind, exhumed by his traumatized memory.

Sweat dampened his forehead. Rhycious fought the flashback’s wave with even, regulated breaths. Gritted teeth unclenched one facial muscle at a time, and his back straightened with determination, vertebrae by vertebrae.

He didn’t start the battle that had lasted two centuries, but the clashing mythics had damn well become his emotional baggage.

Rhycious relaxed the anchoring grasp of one hand and raised his wrist to see the time. The tremble in his arm caused the digital numbers to dance before his eyes. Pan, help me. The god who reigned over terror and panic must be having a good laugh on his account.

Rock music played from the boom box rigged to a solar battery on the granite counter. Sliding notes of an electric guitar drove home the time in which he lived.

Nowadays, turmoil imploded within the Centaur community, no outside sources required. Senior herd leaders remained prejudiced against Satyrs, Minotaurs, and other woodland races—Nymphs topped the list.

Upon declaring the end of the bloody, two hundred year Centaur-Wood Nymph war, Queen Savella of the Centaurs dictated that all within the immense forest live in harmony. Against bitter opposition from various leaders, she and the reigning Wood Nymph king signed the Cessation of Enmity into effect one hundred thirty years ago.

No longer were there severed appendages requiring him to staunch the flow of blood. Lately, broken bones, babies, and illnesses made up the repertoire of his remedy making.

Rhy tore the elastic band from his hair and gathered the mass into a fist. Securing it back again, he thought of the growing pockets of fascist Centaurs. Youths brought up on biased stories retold by veterans, demanding the traditional ways brought back.

Over his lifeless body, and those who supported the Queen, would the old days return. War and hatred killed Centaur and other species alike. Death never discriminated.

After another cleansing breath, he used his sleeve to wipe his forehead and forced himself to settle down.

A second glance revealed the hour—almost 10:00 p.m., past time to begin mixing herbs for the pregnant Centaur who relied on his remedies. In her equine form, she was unable to vomit, tying her guts up in knots. Colic was a life-threatening condition for his race.

Depending upon the time of day a Centaur was born, and the gravitation pull of the moon, his or her transitional phase differed. Never at one time would all be in human or equine forms, which came in handy for defense purposes and blending in with the modern world.

Festival of the Trees was several weeks away. It was a time of great fertility for all Bacchus’s woodland creatures. Eleven months after the celebration, Rhycious’s obstetrician skills would be put to the test.

The thought dropped his stomach to the floor while his anger took an elevator up. There would be more female Centaurs requesting a simple diagnosis for ailments easily attended to by other healers. This year, he would refer those cases away, leaving him with the emergency patients.

The less everyone bothered him, the better. His tail gave a vicious swish and slapped the pot-bellied stove behind him.

Got to get my ass in gear here, he mumbled.

Turning to the worktable, he shook off the last of the residual effects of his most recent episode of posttraumatic stress disorder. This incident had been mild compared to others he’d experienced. 

Rhycious selected dried herbs from various containers lining the apothecary cabinet. Peppermint leaves were dropped into a plastic zip bag and he pinched it closed. A fresh aroma wafted up and he couldn’t resist a deep inhale. Aromatherapy—the plant smelled particularly nice and gave the recipient feelings of happiness. 

Something he needed at the moment.

He grabbed another baggie and a dry flag of raspberry. Muted sounds of twigs cracking outside brought his head around.

What the hell now? He strode a few hoofsteps to peer out the front window.

Between the mini blind’s metal slats, the familiar sight of Samuel Beiler’s horse and black Amish buggy came into view. The draped window at chest level concealed his lower body from view, and Rhycious released the blinds with a vicious snap. Outside in the dark was the only human to know him as a Centaur. For the safety of his people, it would stay that way.

He rested his hands on his hips and gazed down, fighting a wave of anger with a pawing hoof. Irritation swept through him for the unannounced interruption, especially at this time of night. If he had electricity, he would have turned the front porch light off—if he had a porch light, that is.

Samuel’s your friend, asshole. What the hell’s the matter with you? Experience reminded that mental flogging would get him nowhere.

Better to face his points of stress head-on.

He opened the front door and stuck his head out. Evening, Samuel. What brings you out at this time?

"Guten abend, Rhycious. I’m sorry to disturb you so late. I found an unconscious English in the woods on my way home." Tucking the reins off to the side, Samuel jumped down from the front seat.

He found a human? What was he thinking bringing it here?

Sam hurried to the rear of the buggy. You’re the closest thing to a doctor I can take her to. He removed a covering from the object in the bed. Not like either of us can phone 911, now is it?

True enough. Residents in the little town of Willow Bay thought him to be a recluse who lived somewhere out in the forest. Day trips to pickup supplies from the hardware and grocery stores, or sell his herbal remedies at the health food market, had laid the foundation for his human identity.

He could imagine the grocery clerk’s reaction upon discovering a Centaur living amongst humans.

Rhy opened the door wider, scanned the dark forest around them, and then stepped out onto the veranda. Moonlight filtered between branches and shined on Samuel struggling with a large object.

Oh, shit! You weren’t kidding. He leapt off the porch and all four hooves pounded the ground. Then he trotted to Samuel and clasped his shoulder. Let me help. At the disgusted look sent his way, he hastened to add, Four legs are better than two.

His arms slid under the young lady and he lifted her with care. Do you know what happened?

No, Samuel said. Ol’ Bert saw her before I did. I’d have run over the poor thing.

Rhy carried her inside and headed for the bedroom. His other sleeping quarters, a stallroom, was setup for Centaurs.

Irritation prickled at the still form in his arms, and he forced the feeling back. He’d known for some time his PTSD symptoms were worsening. All the classic signs were there, a need for absolute privacy being one of them.

Samuel carried the kitchen lantern and followed while Rhy made sure the woman seemed comfortable on the bed. She was very pretty, with long dark hair, a pale olive complexion, and thin build. A mole dotted the end of her brow, opposite the nasty bruise forming on her forehead. That one promised to hurt in the morning.

She’d need a thyme and tea tree oil compress.

You ever see her before?

No, I haven’t. Rhy ran his hands down both bare legs and a slender exposed arm. He checked for broken bones, noting her supple skin and a clean woodsy scent.

Her blouse had an unusual design, made of homespun fibers. It had a diagonal cut neckline with tiny puff sleeves, pink and soft. Created from the same material, a short skirt flared, and was embroidered with spring-green leaves.

A tickle teased his neck again, but not from annoyance this time. He repeated the examination of her other arm. Tension curled tighter in his gut, suspicion spread like spilled wine.

Tilting her head with care, he pushed her dark brown hair from her smooth décolletage, sucked in a short breath, and froze.

What is it? Snake bite? Samuel raised the brass lantern higher and leaned over for a better view.

Rhy tapped his thumb against her neck. Designs a few shades darker than her natural color marred the creamy complexion. The millennia old skin formation carved its way into his painful memories. It started behind her ear, an inch wide at the hairline, and extended to the other side.

The words choked out of him. There was no use trying to hide his revulsion. Wood Nymph. He nodded toward the spot. See the tree bark pattern?

A Wood Nymph? For a certainty? Samuel’s gaze fell across the telling mark, and he turned open-mouthed to Rhy. And I thought meeting a Centaur was unbelievable.

Rhycious swung his tail and cocked a hind leg; he felt like kicking the antique dresser next to him. A pixie, not only in my house, but in my bed.

She can’t stay here, Sam.

Samuel lowered the lantern. His wide brimmed hat hid his features, but Rhy could tell his human friend remained confused. The low crown volleyed between patient and remedy maker.

Why? You can’t help her?

She’s Nymph, I’m Centaur. ‘Nuff said. He folded his arms over his chest and backed away two steps.

Samuel straightened, standing tall. His two legs mimicked Rhy’s stiff stance of four. I’ve never known you to turn someone away. He gestured toward the female with his free arm. She’s injured and needs your help. I can’t do it!

Rhy’s emotions were raw. Not thirty minutes earlier, he’d fought off his latest bout of being fucked-up in the head. Now his friend wanted to fuck him in the—Can’t you keep her? I’ll look in on her at your place, he gritted out between clenched teeth.

Pan help me, I don’t want to be immature about this. But how in the hell could he play doctor with a pixie? Star-quality beautiful, he’d grant her that. However, thoughts of nursing her back to health turned his stomach sour.

Look at me, Rhy. Samuel extended both arms out. "Ee hopp neh. I have no beard yet, you know what that means. I’m a single man in an Amish community. I cannot have this young woman under my roof!" The last word punctuated in a pitch lifted higher than his brows.

Rhy stared hard at his friend. In their stubborn standoff, neither spoke nor made a move toward the Nymph.

Samuel threw both his hands up in exasperation. "Scheissdreck! You’re a healer, the very best of your kind. Help this young lady. With all that you are, how could you turn her away?"

Rhy took a glance at the Nymph. She was so pale and small; her coloring should have been a healthier complexion. Dark lashes fanned out in stark feathers resting on colorless cheeks. Grabbing his grandmother’s throw blanket from the foot of the bed, he covered her and followed the bobbing light out of the room.

Wasn’t her fault Sam brought her here, he told himself. Boot heels sounded on the wooden floor, echoed by his hoof beats seconds later.

The lantern on the apothecary table reminded him he had business to finish. He spoke in a low voice to Sam, who stood gazing out the front window with his arms crossed.

I don’t choose to carry these feelings of prejudice, but they’re part of who I am. Two hundred years I fought the Wood Nymphs. That’s a long time, Samuel. He inhaled a deep breath. I wish this scar on my face was the only evidence I carried from war. But it isn’t. I lost my family, along with more friends and relatives than I can name. And you ask me to help her?

Wide shoulders turned toward him, and a few steps brought the man into his personal space. Samuel ignored the white elephant in the room for the benefit of both. Each knew his surface scar was nothing compared to the subcutaneous damage Rhy carried.

Sam removed his hat and looked him in the eye, almost nose to nose. Through turmoil and strife, persecution and condemnation, love conquers all. Never breaking eye contact, he stepped back and put on his hat. His voice deepened. Do you suppose it’s easy being Amish in a modern world, Rhycious? Everyone looks at me as if I’m a sideshow freak. We don’t always get what we want in life, but we do have to live the one God gives us. Even you, my friend. Especially you.

The scar began to tick, much to Rhy’s annoyance. Our families have been allies for many years. You’ve been my close friend all your life. But know this, Sam. I’m going to kick your ass if that little Wood Nymph drives me to drinking.

The notorious habit told throughout the ages remained true. Centaurs loved to consume alcohol. He chose to abstain since liquor exacerbated his anxiety attacks.

Samuel’s lips pressed together, fighting his grin with a losing battle. You’ll be all right. A fine strapping man like yourself can’t be undone by a twig of a girl. If she doesn’t wake until morning, she’ll see you as a human and never know she slept in the enemy’s den. His smile went full-blown. The enemy’s bed for that matter. Chuckling, he turned toward the door. The sound of harness leather jangled outside.

It’s a good thing I live in an area where hoof prints and hoof beats are a common occurrence, Rhy said begrudgingly. Anger subsiding, he mellowed and followed Sam to the door. Leaning against the jam, his tail flicked back and forth, dispersing extra energy. ‘Tis necessary when one travels as a man by day and beast by night, he said, turning on the old-world Centaur inflection.

Samuel stepped down from the porch and walked to his horse, Bert. Your grandfather started the tradition of our families helping each other during that cursed war of yours. He checked the bit and headstall. I need your help now with the young Nymph. Your secret will always be safe with me. You know that.

Once he was satisfied the bridle was secure, Samuel climbed up to the buggy seat and picked up the reins. "Guten abend, Rhycious." He clucked to his horse.

As they passed, Rhy nickered to Bert, who blew softly through his nose and tossed his head. When Samuel gave a jaunty salute with his hat, Rhy grinned and slung back, Screw you.

Closing the front door, the jangles of Bert’s harness and the damned Amish man’s laughter floated to him. He slid the bolt home and took a deep breath. Why did he have the feeling his work had only just begun?

After checking his undesirable patient—yeah, who am I kidding? It’s like having a Victoria’s Secret supermodel in my bed—he returned to filling remedies for delivery in the morning. When he finished, he’d make the poultice for her injury. The lump would be purple by then.

Maybe he should just cut off her head to make the bruise go away. No brain, no pain.

Stop! He chastised himself for going there.

Samuel had a point. He had to live the life his gods gave him. Why Pan and Bacchus had dumped the sexy little Nymph on him, he didn’t know. Of all places in the Boronda Forest for her to be found, fate led her to his cabin’s door. The gods must know something.

And when did he started seeing her as sexy? He shrugged and rested a hind leg.

Whatever. Bring it on.

Two

Luminous patterns danced behind her closed eyes in a kaleidoscope of movement. Shapes shifted with grace, never chilling in one place for long. Patience snuggled deeper in her warm cocoon and enjoyed the show.

If the constant thumping in the distance would stop swimming in her fantasauce, then she could dream her next skirt design.

As she imagined color schemes for fabric, the pounding increased in volume, bumming her dream voyage. Her eyelids were difficult to open, as if stuck together with sap. In her case, this was certainly possible.

Forcing her eyes apart, she blinked several times. Blurred images swirled before they sharpened into focus. Confusion followed when she didn’t know where she was.

Above her, a beautiful knotty pine ceiling glowed in warm shades of orange and black. The stained wood reminded her of a wild summer sunset.

She rested in a bed, the mattress semi-firm, and slid her fingers in groggy fascination across paisley sheets dotted white and navy. Pima cotton, 700-thread-count. Maybe I’m in Elysium—Nymph heaven.

Her gaze shifted toward her feet. An iron foot rail graced the bottom of the bed, and rounded pine logs covered the room’s wall. Though her head moved as if it weighed six stones, she managed to turn it to the side. An old-fashioned dresser sat near a door slightly ajar. She pivoted her gaze across to the other side, where a handcrafted chair sat empty.

Nothing in the room seemed familiar. Where the hell am I? Her mind churned, jumbling the chaos in her already cloudy head.

Beyond the chair, a closet door stood open. She blinked her sleepy eyes and concentrated on the threads hanging inside the darkened space.

The strange pounding noise came to an abrupt stop—beside her.

Patience turned her aching head. If she hadn’t been so weak and exhausted, she would have screamed. Surprise flushed through her with the zing of an electric shock, shoving her heart into her throat.

Wearing a tight black t-shirt and low-slung jeans, a giant of a man loomed over her. He set a tray with assorted food on the bedside table, his muscles rippling with every move. What’s with the pinched, sour look?

How are you feeling? His rough voice lacked any polite manners.

She opened her mouth to croak a reply. It sounded like a choking cat.

Eyes closed, she swallowed, and tried again. A whisper broke through her lips, and turned into a breathy moan when a cool cloth soothed her forehead. She sucked air between her teeth, noting the contrast between pain and immediate cold relief.

Patience sighed with gratitude. Her first impression of the gigantor was already changing. The log-lifter wasn’t friendly, but his nice touch made up for it.

Questions buzzed inside her head like newly hatched spring flies. How did I get here? Where is here, and who are you?

As though the man heard, he answered. You were brought to my cabin unconscious last night. Do you remember anything?

She shook her head a microscopic inch.

The bed dipped beside her, and the compress gently removed. She cracked her eyes open when an arm slid under her shoulder to lift her. He pressed a ceramic mug to her lips and she sipped a sweet tasting tea.

She raised her gaze from the mug to the man of contradictions. His intense tawny eyes roved her face, examining her features. Slashed brows belied his tender actions. His hair, the color of aged oak, was pulled straight back and tied tight.

By his expression, Patience figured she came up lacking. Between sips, she studied a raised scar crossing his cheek, which added to the overall don’t-mess-with-me appearance. Broad and tanned, his forehead balanced nicely with a square cut jaw.

Ruggedly handsome, his scowl distracted her from further perusal. Something fo-shoviously bothered the man.

Her scrutiny drifted down his thick neck as he lowered her to the bed. Light through the window reflected off a wide silver armband when he adjusted her pillow. Decorated with two engraved half circles, one inverted to hook the other, the cuff appeared to either choke his biceps or restrain his deltoid—depending on how you viewed it.

What’s your name? His voice rumbled deep and comforting.

She pushed her heavy eyelids up and sought his face. Her lips formed the word, but the sound wouldn’t come.

Try again.

The armband drifted closer when he planted strong arms on either side of her shoulders to lean in close, tilting an ear toward her mouth.

She breathed deeply and caught his scent, and a whole lot more. Masculinity, spicy and rich, filled her head with promises of wicked pleasure. She and her friend Daisy often giggled over these naughty things.

She pushed her name out on the exhale. Patience.

Huh?

If his scowl appeared terrible before, it grew positively black now. Was the guy in a perpetual bad mood, or what?

You want me to have patience? His gaze flicked over her length. He took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out between pursed lips. Look, I don’t know who you are, but you must have family in the area. So, if there’s someone . . . .

Deep resonations vibrated his tone. Despite his fierce façade, Patience found her caregiver’s voice downright soothing. She shouldn’t have gone down so easily in her latest encounter with the hunters. Fear only played a minute part of her current illnasty. In truth, she hadn’t felt good for months.

Restorative sleep floated her away, allowing her to forget about running for her life, the pain of her missing sister, Serenity, and the angry man with brooding eyes.

DAMN.

Her long, brown lashes drifted down and rested on peach colored cheeks. Her breathing slowed to a steady rhythm. She didn’t eat anything, but she had drunk all the white tea he’d given her. With luck, she’d sleep a few more hours and allow him time to deliver remedies he’d mixed the night before.

He placed the washcloth with curative healing agents back on her forehead. For the hundredth time, Rhy wished for an apprentice he could stand to be around, someone to help gather precious herbs, perform check-ups on patients, and free up his time to work on other projects.

Like how to get rid of a stick-figured pixie who told him to have patience, of all things.

Argh!

He deposited the tray in the kitchen before heading out to run errands and collect a few wild herbs in the nearby meadows.

Outside, his footsteps crunched over a faint walking trail weaving through the Centaur kingdom. Low-lying mist blanketed the moss-draped forest. Deadfall branches protruded upward in eerie intervals, as if Wood Nymph warriors from centuries ago were rising from the dead.

Thoughts of lifeless Nymphs ushered in a remembrance of territory rivalries, greedy opposing rulers, racial prejudice, and war. He tightened his fists in an attempt to squeeze the pictures from his head. Early morning quiet and the peculiar scenery brought this on, he reminded himself. While his head understood this, his gut compressed regardless.

Rhy doubted the Nymph in his cabin had even germinated during that gruesome historic time.

After delivering prescriptions for backaches, fever, and thrush to his patients, he arrived an hour later at the meadow where many of his herbs bloomed. He set about harvesting with ecological standards, never taking more than two-thirds from a single plant, thus allowing time for re-growth.

Studying the application of herbal remedies never ceased to amaze him. Hundreds of medicinal uses might come from a single plant, and there were a thousand other plants of therapeutic value just like it.

Since before the Great War, he had devoted his life to discovery in the world of healing, and explored restorative organisms. Research broke remedies down to their organic basics, keeping him centered on what was important in life.

The sun climbed higher and Rhy finished packing the last of his harvested Echinacea. Warmed from the sun’s bright rays, he wished for his long tail to chase off the pesky gnats.

If only it were that easy to swish away bothersome Nymphs. Privacy at home would be nil while she remained.

I need alone time. Solitude and peace.

Stretching his arms overhead, he worked the kinks out of his back. As a human, he didn’t ask for much in life. As the Royal Remedy Maker, he had his duties. Then there’s my whole Centaur thing. How’s the pixie going to react to that?

And why did he even care?

Being alone had its perks. One could argue a point without the counter feedback. He didn’t want her distraction in his solitary bachelor house, but the healer in him wouldn’t kick her out until he saw her strength returned.

Heavy footfalls from the path leading deeper into the woods caused an explosion of multicolored wings to escape into the temperate air. Rhy knelt on one knee and waited, rather than stand exposed in the field with no defensive cover.

Mere seconds passed before Dryas, a Centaur Regency Guard, broke into the clearing, his four legs moving fast in the direction of the cabin. He was heavily armed with cross braces of weaponry, a traditional quiver of arrows and bow slung over his shoulder, along with an arsenal of swords, daggers, and various throwing stars.

This didn’t look like a social visit, for which Rhy was grateful.

A dozen yards away, Rhycious rose from his crouched position and faced the passing guard. Are you looking for me?

Dryas whipped his head in Rhy’s direction, back hooves skidding to a halt. His gloved hand gripped a gray-hued sword and his breath came heavy. Square shaped designs engraved on the flat blade shone in the daylight, sparkling off the hilt inlaid with blue colored gems.

Kempor Aleksander has bid you come at once. Queen Savella has taken ill.

Savella . . . ill? The queen had the constitution of a warhorse. If they were sending for the Remedy Maker, her illness must be severe.

Hoping for nothing worse than a classic case of indigestion, Rhy nodded. He picked up his backpack from off the ground, and shrugged it on. A great leader, the Centaur queen was rarely—if ever—sick.

Thankful that he’d finished gathering the herbs, his mind sped to what awaited him. I’ll need my remedy bag from home first. What are Her Majesty’s symptoms? Soft grass crushed under his boots as he approached Dryas. The tender blades absorbed his weight, springing upright to cover his tracks.

She has been nauseas and vomiting, with intermittent abdominal pain. We give thanks to Pan this happened while in her human form. Dryas’ agitation drew twin furrows between his russet brows. Hair of the same rust color hung long over the leather padding covering his shoulders and vulnerable neck. One hand akimbo, the other palmed his sword hilt.

Who’s with her now?

Hippy and Templar Khristos.

Kempor Hippolyte, the inner sanctum guard, would sacrifice her own life for the queen without a second thought. Savella remained well guarded in her defenseless condition. The High Priest would be in the way, of course, pissing-off Hippy. 

I’ll be right back, and meet you here. Not waiting for an answer, Rhycious spun on his heel and took off.

He used the two-mile jog to the cabin to mentally write an herbal list of ingredients to bring with him. It was a pity that modern pharmaceuticals weren’t effective on his people. His abilities as Remedy Maker would be so much easier.

Pan, the god of healing, plants, and medicines, made certain only holistic and natural practices were applied to mythologicals. To honor the mythic god in all in his glory, the upcoming Festival of the Trees, better known as the Spring Equinox, was held as a yearly celebration.

Templar Khristos would be praying to Bacchus for regeneration right about now. As a god, Bacchus was easier to deal with. He ruled over pleasure, ecstasy, and total abandon.

The cabin came into sight and Rhy remembered an important item.

Ah, crap! The toe of his boot hooked the bottom step and he crashed to his hands and knees, sprawling on the porch. What would he do with his little Nymph guest? Not his—the. "Shit!"

Picking himself up, he glanced at the tiny brown slivers burning his palms. Rhy’s neck and shoulders tensed. Anger and frustration radiated outward. The palace required him. His patients needed him. Then this whole business with her . . . in his bed.

He pushed the mental image of the provocative beauty out of his head. Was it too much to ask to be left the hell alone? Resentment clawed in his belly, roaring to be let loose. He fought it down with practiced self-control.

Gamóto. Damn it. He hurled his backpack against the front door.

Knapsack upset you again?

Fists curled and teeth grinding, Rhycious turned around.

Sorry to barge in on you. I came by to check on your girlfriend. Samuel grinned.

Sam must have parked his buggy around back somewhere, or walked. The man’s wide smile grated Rhy’s irritated nerves. Good thing he hadn’t tried to climb the stairs, Rhy would have hated to knock his friend back down them.

Along with the guy’s teeth.

Utilizing his de-stressing technique, Rhycious unclenched his hands and released negative energy with deep breaths. "She’s not my girlfriend. So shut-up before I convince you to take her home with you."

That wiped the smile off his smug Amish face.

Is she better? Did she say what happened to her?

Rhy shook his head and motioned Samuel inside. She was still asleep when I left this morning, but I managed to get some tea into her.

He set his pack on the stool next to the apothecary table. With a few quick strides, he stopped at the bedroom door and checked on his in-house patient. Still asleep. This caused him concern, but not enough to hang around.

Grabbing up an old-fashioned black doctor’s duffle, he moved to the worktable and placed bagged herbs inside.

I have to head out. And for the love of the gods, I don’t know what to do. I’ve been summoned to the queen’s side—what the hell am I supposed to do with her? He jerked a thumb toward the room.

Samuel removed his hat and rubbed the back of his neck. For sure and for certain, you’re in a pickle. He replaced the hat and took a step toward the open front door. I’ll just leave you be and let you figure it all out.

Wait a minute. Rhy stabbed a finger in Samuel’s direction. You’re not going anywhere. He resumed pouring a detoxifying brew into an aluminum bottle, glancing at Sam every so often. You brought her here, you take care of her.

What? Sam’s jaw worked up and down, like a puppet with manipulated strings in motion.

Probably apoplectic. Rhy cranked his nonexistent tail, wanting the conversation finished.

Sam’s eyes bugged out and he waved an arm in the diminutive weed’s direction. "Naett. I’m not taking care of her. I have chores that need tending at my house. Chicken eggs to gather. Laundry to fold. He backed a few steps away. I have to wash my hair."

Rhy rolled his eyes. A friend in need is a friend indeed. You’re staying put until I get back.

And when will that be, may I ask? Samuel’s words came a bit muffled, pushed through clenched teeth.

Rhy ran both hands through his hair, uncaring if it stood on end. I don’t know. If you have to leave by morning, I understand. He glanced at his wristwatch—not quite noon. If things went smoothly, he would make it back before midnight.

He unloaded a good portion of the gathered plants from the backpack, stuffed his favorite Raiders sweatshirt on top of the remaining herbs, and hefted it onto his shoulder. The black medical bag closed with a magnetic click.

When she wakes up, she might be hungry. There’s food in the cold box, help yourself. He paused in the entryway and glanced at Samuel, whose face etched with worry. You’ll be fine. If she wants to leave, let her. Then you can go home, too.

Rhycious turned and cleared the porch stairs in one jump. Grinning, he couldn’t help one last parting shot as he walked backward toward the forest. Be a good boy, and don’t do anything improper, Samuel Beiler.

"Scheissdrek."

And shit to you too, my friend. He continued to laugh down the path, and heard the front door slam.

His good humor didn’t last long; the drip of reality entered his mind. The palace would be bustling with dignitaries, emissaries, and perhaps a few ambassadors. This meant more people, maybe crowds, all gathered for the upcoming festivities. He pictured the pushing hands, bumping legs, knocked shoulders.

Strange people brushing against him. Touching him.

A sudden squeeze around his chest gripped tight. The pressure caused him to gasp, his breath became shallow, and his heart rate sped up. Recognizing another oncoming attack, he stopped on the trail to take deliberate, cleansing breaths.

He’d spent many quiet evenings in the glider rocker Samuel handcrafted for him, studying the cause and effects of posttraumatic stress disorder, and how to treat the condition in a holistic manner. While there may not be a cure for what his mind reverted to, there were remedies and techniques to combat the effect.

The pinch against his sternum eased and Rhy took a full, unaffected breath. Perspiration made his spine itch where the backpack lay heavy, rubbing against his shirt. He concentrated on the minor discomfort while he picked up the pace to meet Dryas.

Hell, he’d even think about what Samuel would do when the hot little siren woke up.

Anything to keep his mind off the path ahead.

Three

They made their way to the palace grounds with few words spoken between them. The fact Rhycious had a view of Dryas’s ass the entire journey might account for the headache and irritation he experienced.

Being in excellent physical condition, he didn’t mind the jog. Treatment for his PTSD included regular aerobic exercise, which made jogging a favorite activity. After the twenty-mile run through hills and valleys, Dryas slowed to a walk.

The thick forest edge grew steadily thinner until they stepped out into a clearing. A blue-sky background with puffy white clouds set off the tops of huge hemlock trees to perfection.

Perhaps to a wandering human with no knowledge of their surroundings, the scenery wouldn’t appear out of the ordinary. Rhy picked the faux settings out, one after the other. Hell, he’d helped build some of them himself. Tree lines were cleared back hundreds of feet from the sheer rock wall towering in front of them. Small clusters of aspen remained in select areas, strategically placed like something you would find in a scenic park, landscaped to look natural.

One only needed to look up with an eagle eye into the granite wall. Hidden in the shadowed alcoves between bits of scrub brush, sentry guards stood their posts. From a tower elevation, each guard surveyed the forest with a one hundred and eighty degree view. No doubt, he and Dryas were spotted advancing the last twenty minutes or so, winking in and out through the trees.

Hundreds of years ago, this clearing had been the battleground for one of the bloodiest fights between Centaurs and Wood Nymphs. He’d been there, on the front lines, defending the palace gate in hand-to-hand combat. How many Nymph soldiers were sent to their graves that day? Sweat prickled his forehead and he fought to stave off the savage images.

Queen Savella had been clad in full Centaur armor that day, ensconced behind the rock wall. She’d drawn her sword, demanding the barricaded door be opened so she could fight alongside her people. Thankfully, Templar Khristos convinced the enraged monarch her brain would be put to better use than her brawn.

Rhy breathed in through his nose and out from his mouth. Those days are over. His battle-scarred armor, packed in the trunk, hadn’t seen the light of day for years.

But he’d kept that armor. Just in case.

At the base of the craggy