Fantasyland: Broken Dove Part 2

The loss of the green didn't concern me. This guy concerned me. This guy who wore weird clothes, knew how to wield a sword and didn't hesitate using it and looked at me like I was his reason for breathing concerned me.

So I kept talking.

"You're not a hallucination."

Some of the tenderness leaked from his eyes but only so amus.e.m.e.nt could replace it and this was far from unattractive.

"I'm not that either, my dove."

My dove?

What the h.e.l.l?

"Do I have a brain injury?" I asked, figuring this was the only explanation, and his eyes dropped to my cheek.

The tenderness and humor vanished before his gaze came back to mine.

"We shall see."

That wasn't a good answer.

I mean, I was uncertain about a reality where some dude had beat the s.h.i.+t out of Pol, cut off his hand and maybe his head, but only because there'd be a lot of explaining to do with the police. And I didn't care what that said about me. Perhaps dismemberment was a wee bit harsh a punishment for all of Pol's transgressions. But only a wee bit.

I wasn't uncertain about not wanting to have a brain injury. Pol had inflicted a lot of damage over the years (broken wrist, broken ribs, concussions, contusions, sprained ankles, etc.) but he'd never put me into a coma.

Before I could come to terms with any of this, new Pol was gently lying me down on a bed and it was a fluffy bed that felt great (thus I knew it wasn't my lumpy bed in my apartment that didn't feel great).

He muttered to the room at large, "Light," which I took as an order to the unknown woman I sensed still with us because, within seconds, weak light lit the room.

I didn't get the chance to process this new impossibility of me being on a comfy bed because he sat by my side and lifted his hand to rest it on my cheek. The flat of his thumb was just below the still stinging, tightening (thus swelling) flesh where Pol hit me with the b.u.t.t of the gun.

Oh, and he'd bent deep, his face was close to mine and that sweet look was on it again.

"What did you endure prior to our arrival, Ilsa?" he asked, his voice low, deep, warm and chock full of concern.

And near as sweet as his look.

Right. Time to rea.s.sess. I was all geared up to defend myself when Pol found me, so geared up I was ready to go down fighting (if I had to, though obviously this was not my preference). I'd even shot Manny, who was a dufus and a pathologically mean one and those two things didn't go well together, but I still didn't want to shoot him (or anyone).

I was not prepared for whatever the h.e.l.l was currently happening.

Therefore I answered, "Uh..."

"Do I need to call a physician?" he asked.

I knew the answer to that. It might have been years and that pistol whip hurt like a mother but this was tame in comparison to what Pol could do to me.

"No, thanks," I answered then stupidly got chatty. "I'm good. I've had way worse. Thanks to uh...you, he didn't get the chance to get started so I'll be all right."

This was the wrong thing to say and I knew it instantly.

His adoring look fled. His jade green eyes got hot, his strong jaw went hard and a muscle ticked straight up that jaw into his cheek.

Oh boy.

There it was. That was the Pol I knew and I shrank back into the pillow as my body prepared to flee.

He saw it and I was guessing, like Pol, he didn't miss much. Or, with the s.h.i.+ne of intelligence that Pol did not have emanating from his eyes, not exactly like Pol, perhaps he didn't miss anything.

"I would not harm you, Ilsa," he gritted from between clenched teeth.

"Uh-huh," I mumbled unconvincingly as anyone would, seeing as I was staring at the wrath in his eyes and listening to him talk between his teeth.

The pads of his fingers pressed surprisingly gently into my cheek and he dipped his face closer.

"Never," he whispered, his tone fierce and still angry but something struck me.

This was not just a word. It also wasn't a promise.

It was a vow.

What the h.e.l.l was happening?

I knew what wasn't happening. I wasn't in my bed. There were no police sirens sounding. And the green was gone. Giving that a millisecond of reflection, that green was not right.

Nothing was right.

So, considering nothing was right, I knew I had to get this new Pol out of my face so I could take stock and make a new plan.

Therefore I breathed, "Okeydokey."

His head tipped slightly to the side and his dark brows twitched.

"Okeydokey?" he asked.

Oh boy.

Why did his deep voice saying that ridiculous word low and bemused make my mouth get dry at the same time it made me want to smile in a moment that was so far from smile-worthy, it was not funny.

s.h.i.+t!

I didn't know who this guy was or what was happening. What I did know was that I'd been here before. I'd looked at that handsome face with those fabulous lips and that head of rich, dark, thick hair. I'd looked into those amazing eyes that were pure jade. No joke. They were a milky, translucent green that was so beautiful, once you caught sight of it you never wanted to look away. All of this on a tall, commanding body that made my knees weak and my nipples get hard.

Years ago, I'd looked at all that was him and I'd made the biggest mistake in my life.

And that was not going to happen again, even if I was currently comatose from a pistol-whipping brain injury and not experiencing any of this at all.

His hand at my cheek slid down to my neck. I focused on him when it did and he spoke.

"I don't know his word, my dove."

Who didn't know the word "okeydokey?"

I didn't ask that.

I explained. Quickly.

"It means okay. Fine. Good. All right. In this case, I believe you."

"If you do, why do you press yourself against the pillows still?" he asked.

"Habit?" I said the word as a question as well as an answer and it was another mistake.

His face started to darken again with anger so I lifted up a hand, palm toward him and kept babbling.

"Okay, don't go all freaky on me again. It's cool. I'm good. I'll relax." I forced myself to relax (slightly) and pointed it out by indicating myself with a sweep of the hand. "See. Relaxed. I'm chilling. It's all good. I'm fine."

"You lie," he said softly. "You lie with very strange words, but you still lie."

G.o.d!

I needed to get myself together. Although he said that softly, my guess would be he didn't like liars (because no one liked liars) and I needed to keep him calm, not rile him up.

"I-" I started to try and cover my lie but he cut me off.

"You don't know where you are or who I am. You've been kicked and sustained a blow to your face. And you've witnessed-"

I closed my eyes tight and requested, "Please, let's not do a blow by blow."

His fingers gave my neck a squeeze and I opened my eyes. "I needed to disarm him, Ilsa," he explained, his voice still soft.

"By cutting off his hand?" I asked and his brows drew together.

It was a scary look.

Uh-oh.

"You concern yourself with his welfare?" he asked back.

"I actually don't care what happens to Pol. I just don't want to see it happen. And that was some sick s.h.i.+t, but cutting off his head-"

He interrupted me, his brows still drawn, his look no less scary. "I did not take his head."

He didn't?

Well, I guessed that was why I didn't hear a head hit the floor.

I thought on this a nanosecond and decided to take it as good news.

"And if he gets attention for his wound and it's cauterized, he'll not lose his life due to losing his hand," the new Pol went on.

I decided to take that as good news too simply because I was a human being and it was required of me.

The new Pol then finished, "I hit him on the side of his head with the flat of my saber. He lost consciousness, but not his life."

Well, there you go.

"Okeydokey," I replied, his eyes lit and his mouth quirked.

Oh boy.

That look wasn't scary. It was something else altogether.

"Could I interrupt at this juncture, cheri, and suggest you get a cool compress, ice if it's available, raw meat if it's not?" the polished female voice came at us and I was glad of it because new Pol lifted a few inches away and turned his head to peer into the shadows.

I looked beyond him and saw, through not very good lighting, a willowy redhead in a fabulous green dress and way more fabulous green slingback platform pumps, top to toe as slick and urbane as her voice would lead you to believe.

"Her cheek is swelling. It may not be too late for the ice to contain some of it," she continued and the new Pol was up in a flash.

"I'll see to this immediately," he stated, moving swiftly, his cape swinging out dramatically behind him (which unusually, but awesomely, was set at a slant along his back-over one shoulder, under the other) and then it swung again when he stopped and turned back to me. "Rest. I will return shortly," he ordered then he looked at the redhead and kept at it. "See to her until I return."

After issuing his commands, he disappeared into the shadows and I heard a door open and close.

My eyes s.h.i.+fted to the woman.

When they did, I saw her move into the shadows but she came back into the circle of weak light pulling an elegant armchair with her, positioning it close to the bed.

Without a word, she again disappeared into the shadows. I stared in the direction she disappeared, my focus on her and what might come next in this bizarreness, only vaguely noting that I was on a somewhat large bed with an arched footboard that had light-colored padding on it which was just as elegant as the armchair. I also noted the coverlet I was lying on was quilted, it was satin (satin!) and it looked in the dim light like it might be some shade of blue.

She reappeared carrying two winegla.s.ses filled with red wine. And they were not just any winegla.s.ses. Like the chair, footboard and coverlet, they were elegant-finely etched and gracefully blown.

I knew nice things. I had champagne tastes and studied the finer things in life with great energy and rapt attention. Pol was just like me and lived a life where he was certain to get them for himself, and, by extension, for me.

So I knew everything around me was most definitely not my shabby, cheap, furnished apartment in a c.r.a.ppy neighborhood.

I just didn't know where I was.

Or how I got there.

She set one gla.s.s of wine on a nightstand by the bed and seated herself probably like a ballerina would take a load off (not that I'd ever seen that, but still). She slowly crossed her legs and her knees dropped to the side but her back and shoulders stayed straight so she looked like she was posing for a picture, not relaxing for a chat.

"Fleuridian wine," she murmured, tipping her head slightly to the gla.s.s on the nightstand all the while lifting hers close to her lips. "Have some. It's superb."

I'd never heard of Fleuridian wine.

I didn't ask. I also didn't reach for the winegla.s.s.

I held her eyes.