Fallen by Christina Skye Read Free Book Online Page A

around the woman’s shoulder. He would guard her with his life—nay, with his eternal soul as well. It was the vow of his kind. And that vow had only been broken once.
    When the memory stirred anger, he shook it aside, focused on the danger nearby. Inside the burning air a dark face took form and then the outline of broad shoulders. Armor and a sword that seemed to cry shrilly with the blood of its victims.
    Even then Lyon did not move.
    “Always you. Always one leap before us.” The voice was a hiss, fierce with malevolence. “The wretched Lyon is found. If you are here, can a Rose be far behind?” Through the portal, the face turned, and Lyon felt the force of those inhuman eyes. “Search the darkness behind him. Look well for the Rose.”
    Lyon did not move. He knew she could not be seen behind him, not with his energy raised to conceal her.
    “What, no curses thrown in my face? It was not so at Culloden, when the Scots fell around us like maggots. One of yours fell too. I remember how he pleaded for you to end his torment before we could feast on him. Do you remember his cries, Guardian of Greyhaven?”
    The Crusader gave no answer. That day and its pain were best forgotten.
    “No answer? Nor was it so at Acre in the Holy Lands. Your kind begged to be killed while the Sultan’s advance guard did our work with slow brutality. And of course, we had taught them well. Their weapons were improved as only we could. And how quickly they learned.” Hard laughter spilled through the shining air. “The sands ran red with blood, Crusader. Do you remember? The game continues, does it not?”
    Even then Lyon did not answer. His voice would give a source of attack, and Lyon would give this foul enemy no hold for his evil to pass. Without that hold, the portal could not be crossed. Time held firm, true to the old Laws.
    “But another will call to you. Mayhap, her voice will be sweeter to your ears than mine.”
    Lyon stiffened. He knew the voice to come. The sweetness of its foul betrayal had haunted him down the ages. Lovely, that voice, with grace to equal the beauty of her body.
    And black as ash her heart.
    “My dearest love. My sweetest heart.” The voice was a lush whisper, ripe with passion. Any mortal man who heard that voice would fall, stagger to his knees, ready to give the heart from his chest and even his soul. Others called her Siren. Morgaine le Faye. The temptress.
    Lyon knew her only as Betrayer.
    And he stood firm. He closed his mind and did not answer.
    “You do not remember the sea, pounding on the cliffs outside our home in Gwynedd? You do not remember the child that sprang from your loins?”
    Lyon’s jaw hardened. He could not listen. The pain of the memories would break him otherwise.
    “The boy was your perfect likeness, my love. And he held all of your goodness.”
    Dead, Lyon thought. Gone for long centuries. There was no reason that the words should strike him as if it had been yesterday and the loss of his son should drip like fresh blood.
    “The blame weighs on your shoulders, husband. All you had to do was come to me. Was it such a great thing to ask? And did it equal the loss of your only son?”
    Lyon held back an angry answer. She had no mother’s heart. No heart at all. She only used the worst weapon she had.
    The death of innocence was her goal—the same goal of those on the other side of the gate.
    His hands twisted on his heavy sword. There would be no accusation and no explaining. He could not give them passage through the gate.
    He shuddered, drawn against his will by the force of that voice, once so loved. Once there had been happiness instead of duty and eternal searching.
    Dimly, Lyon felt the slender shape behind him move and press against his back. Small fingers slid through his left hand, twined hard with his. The force of her will shocked him. For one so small, her power bloomed huge. As always, life surprised him with its magic. Now she guarded him.
    Lyon focused on the