Away with the Faeries

Chapter Fourteen

 These swords were not dull like we had first started out using. If you want to be a warrior you can't be afraid of the blade, Marcel had said before handing me one of his own swords, sharp enough to cut stone. My initial thought as he handed me the blade was oh sparkly, as I admired the gem-engraved hilt that cast a pretty glow upon the hand of the bearer. Thereafter I immediately proceeded to nick myself in the leg and my next thought became, oh scary.

That was nearly a week ago and I quickly became adjusted to wielding the sword, it grew as an extension of my arm. Focusing on Marcel who stood a good distance before me I steadied my breathing. My brows drew together as I racked my brain; think Rayne. His left shoulder is weak but he will protect that side of himself because he knows it. But it's the only way through, it's his Achilles Heel. I frowned, the rest of him was practically invincible.

Shaking my head I cleared away the thoughts, no one is invincible. Erde was sending me in as a doe-eyed courtesan for King Otis; at least that's what I'd come to learn what being a female peace offering meant. Why wasn't I practicing more in character? If Marcel wanted a lady, I'd show him a lady. Dropping my borrowed blade I cringed slightly as it clattered to the floor. Please don't be chipped, I silently prayed.

Turning my attention back to Marcel I laid on the sweetest smile I could muster. His uninjured brow rose questioningly as he watched me; never budging from where he stood, blade in hand. Slipping a single shoulder out of my gown I watched as Marcel's dark eyes followed the motion. With slow movements, I walked up to where he stood, hips swaying. This was a stupid idea.

"Love, this is going to be a very quick spar if you don't have a weapon," Marcel said watching me with undecipherable eyes that sent a shiver up my spine.

How dumb; I do have a weapon. Trailing up to Marcel I slowly drug my finger across the cold iron of his blade. Gazing up I met his dark eyes as they studied me. Further, I moved my finger up the blade, drawing a slow line up his hand. Muscles in his jaw ticked as I traced my finger across his arm, making soft patterns.

"I thought we could take a break," I lied, biting down on my lip to keep myself from cringing.

The hold on his weapon seemed to loosen, the humidity around us thickening. Was this actually working? Smugly I suppressed a smile, I guess I didn't know my own strength.

"There are no breaks during war," Marcel stated blankly; "and if I remember correctly it was you who wished to train so bad."

No, this was my only chance. Marcel would guard his Achilles Heel with his life now that I've learned of it. If I couldn't get him to drop his guard then there would be no other way to win the spar. I was not about to let Marcel hold that over me, I would win and I would win my way. All rational thoughts out the window I leapt forward, pressing myself against Marcel and tangling my fingers through his long hair. Before either of us knew what was happening our lips came together, rough and desperate.

His hands moved to my hips, the sword clattering forgotten to the ground as he yanked me flush against him, deepening the kiss. As much as I enjoyed this, which was an alarming amount, I had work to do. Faster than I've ever moved I dropped low, scooping up the blade before swinging it back to Marcel. Who stood at the end of the sword thoroughly surprised, slightly disheveled, but most of all impressed.

Hair fell all across his face, lips twisted into an odd sort of smirk. Marcel nodded to himself; "Not bad at all love," he said, "Rude if we're being honest, but not bad."

Flipping the blade I returned the sword to Marcel's hilt first; "Not bad yourself, " I winked.

Moving back over to my pile of clothes I layered up again, sheathing my loaned sword. Together we made our way from the humid garden house and back into the main housing of the Palace.

"Ms. Aubert," a frantic voice yelled from around the corner.

Shooting Marcel a worried glance he was quick to unsheathe his blade.

"Ms. Aubert," the person called again, a familiar voice set in panic. As they rounded the corner it was a friend's face that came to light.

"Lyra," I called.

Lyra hurried up to us, clasping my hands in her own as her bottom lip trembled.

"Lyra," I soothed, "What is it; what has happened?"

She shot a dejected look between the two of us before bowing her head; "I am so sorry Ms. Aubert but the Bloed warriors are here for you."