Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(58)

Penelope and Damien found themselves in the middle of the concentric circles. Sasha directed them all, putting married couples into a ring around Damien and Penelope, and unmarried ladies and gentlemen in another ring outside. Men far outnumbered women in this group, thanks to all Damien’s Nvengarians, and the lads vied with each other to grab the ladies’ hands and twirl them about. Rufus and Miles eschewed the circles to link arms, leaping and kicking—a male dance, Nvengarian style.

In the center of the circles, Penelope, her hand still tied to Damien, said nothing. She kept her eyes on his as he moved with her slowly, letting the others wear themselves out in the frenzy of the dance.

They might be alone here, in a bubble of silence amid the tumult. The fiddles sang, filling the room with ebullient sound.

Damien wanted to thank Penelope, to express how relieved and grateful he was to her for doing this. He’d make sure she had the finest things money could buy and scores of servants to fulfill her every wish. Penelope would have the best life he could give her as a reward for her courage.

He couldn’t say a word. Damien, who could bathe any woman in the world in flowery phrases, stared mutely at Penelope and absorbed her beauty.

She held his gaze in return. As they moved around each other, she sent him a small, warm, smile.

The doors of the ballroom blasted open with a sudden bang, and icy wind slammed through the room.

Screams went up, mingled with shouts from the men. Penelope started to turn to see what had happened, but Damien seized her and dove with her to the floor as something small, fierce, and dark hurtled past them and crashed into the far wall.

“What the devil is that?” Egan MacDonald cried. His hand dipped to his boot and came up with a broad-bladed knife.

Penelope tried to rise but Damien firmed his grip. “No. Stay down.”

The Nvengarian guards joined Petri to form a wall around Damien and Penelope, knives at the ready to face whatever it was that had sailed into the room. Egan and Michael Tavistock completed the circle.

“Meagan,” Michael ordered over the din. “Take Lady Trask out.”

Damien heard Lady Trask’s shrieks as Meagan struggled to obey. The Regent was whimpering with fear, calling for his own guards.

“Perhaps it was just a bat,” Penelope whispered hopefully.

“No.” Damien said, scanning the room beyond the shoulders of his men.

What had streaked past him, barely missing Damien’s head, had been a creature out of legend, out of nightmares. Damien had never believed they truly existed.

Logosh were half human, and could take animal form or the shape of a demon at will. They dwelled in the Nvengarian mountains, living high in the cliffs, unseen by all but those unwary enough to stumble into their demesne.

According to folklore, they’d been ordinary Nvengarians centuries ago, until cursed by an evil mage—so Sasha said. Those who’d claimed to have actually seen a logosh were usually drunk or crazy. Looking up at the beast hanging on the wall, Damien understood how witnessing such a thing might drive a man to madness.

The logosh was man-shaped, about the size of a boy, and clung to the wall like a strange reptile. It crouched, facing downward, and hissed, its large blue eyes scanning the crowd.

Penelope put her hand to her throat. “What on earth?”

The logosh turned its head at the sound of her voice, looking straight at Penelope. Then it sprang.

Ladies screamed and ran for the doors, the gentlemen shouting as they tried to get the ladies and themselves to safety. Damien caught up the small ritual knife, the only weapon to hand, and held it ready as the logosh soared overhead, landing on first one wall, then the other. Damien’s left wrist and Penelope’s right were still bound, but he dared not take the time to cut her free.

Sasha, white-faced, stared upward in astonishment. “A logosh. Heaven have mercy, he’s sent a logosh.”

Egan MacDonald stood at Damien’s back. “Well, whatever it is, laddie, it’ll taste the bite of a Highland blade.” He raised his dagger and shouted, “The best Scots whiskey to the man who brings it down.”

A dozen Nvengarian throats took up a battle cry, and they launched themselves at the nightmare. The creature scuttled upward, and the men, sensing its hesitation, surged forward, Egan leading. “That’s it, lads. It’s no match for us.”

No wonder they called him the Mad Highlander, Damien growled silently. He’d fight the spawn of Satan himself.

The logosh hurtled upward with astonishing speed. It clung to the ceiling for an instant and then dropped to land an inch in front of Damien.

Damien shoved Penelope behind him and held the tiny knife ready. Petri had been borne away by those chasing the logosh. Sasha stared, frozen. Michael Tavistock was protecting Lady Trask, who was still arguing that she could not leave him behind. Damien had no one to second him.

He struck out with the knife, but the thing shot upward and dropped straight down again, slashing at Damien with its claws.

Penelope tried to drag Damien from its path. Trying to protect me, for heaven’s sake.

Then Meagan rose up behind the logosh, a large candlestick gripped in her hands, and brought it down swiftly at the creature’s back.

The blow would have landed had the confounded logosh not twisted away. Meagan’s strike glanced across its shoulder, then suddenly it was facing her.

Meagan’s face grew still. “Oh dear.”