by Anne Marsh
MIU
“That must be your meeting place, just up ahead.” Jafar jerks his head toward a narrow slit of darkness splitting the stony cliff face to our left. Clearly, he understands the possibilities of the site and figures I or my men do as well.
“Recognize it?”
I nod, trudging up to the narrow opening in the cliff side to peer inside, and realize instantly my day is not about to get any better.
Not only are there no horses waiting at the rendezvous point; there are no guides. From the gory bits splattered about the cave, it seems safe to conclude that someone has eaten my hired help.
At my side, Jafar swears. I can sense the protective urges rolling off him as he fights the need to shove me behind him. Unfortunately for him, neither of us knows where the danger really lies. Move, and we could step straight into it.
“You’re not leaving me behind,” I say, just so there can be no misunderstanding. Taking my hand, Jafar steps into the cave, pausing to scent the air. Still, he doesn’t turn toward me and I’m grateful. I’m not sure I’ve gotten my face under control yet. My foot nudges something warm and soft and I stifle a shriek. A booted foot. Without its owner.
“Reconsidering?” he asks without turning around.
“No. Give it up, kitty.”
He grunts and tugs, pulling me up against his side. Although I won’t admit it, I’m grateful for the warmth. The cave feels unbearably cold, as if the rocks bear silent witness to whatever terrible fight took place here.
“Frightened?”
“No,” I tell him. He looks down at me, cocking an eyebrow.
“Right,” he says. “And your skin is clammy because you’re enjoying yourself here?”
These are—were—my men. If things had gone according to plan, I would have been here with them and I honestly can’t tell if I’m horrified or, worse, grateful that I wasn’t here. I’m still alive. They, on the other hand, are dead.
Extremely, thoroughly dead.
“Predator?” Thankfully my voice doesn’t shake. I’ve seen violence before, but nothing like this. Little unidentifiable bits of flesh stick to the rough stone cave walls.
“No.” He sounds more contemplative than regretful as he examines the evidence. Rolling over a body, he crouches down and examines the wounds. At least, I think it’s a body. From where I’m standing, it looks like a gnawed-on hunk of raw meat. What was once a man with two arms, two legs, and a head is now just a dismembered, bleeding torso.
“Not the work of other thieves,” I say quietly. We thieves are too practical for this kind of senseless violence.
“No,” he agrees.
“You’re sure it’s not a predator?” I push, desperate for answers. “Some really large, ravenous animal?” If an animal isn’t responsible for this— well, I don’t want to know what kind of living, breathing being would do this to a man.
“Not a predator,” he repeats. “I’ve seen this kind of damage before,” he admits reluctantly. “Only never outside the Valley.”
“How would you know?” I argue. “How often have you been out of that damn Valley anyhow?”
“Often enough.” He stands up, brushing dirt from his hands. “I’ve traveled. Not recently, mind you, but quite enough to know what I’ve seen. And not seen. Those aren’t the marks of any teeth you’ll find in a four-legged creature.”
“Not even one of your Cat friends?”
“No. Although,” he adds as an afterthought, “you’re quite welcome to check, particularly if you’re worried that the Guardians got here before us and took care of a little business, seeing as how your companions were clearly not the most upstanding of citizens.” He bares his teeth in a parody of a grimace, his canines shimmering and elongating for a second.
“No games.” Heqet knows, I’m too shocked now to play with him. He actually looks concerned when I fail to take his bait.
“We kill cleanly, femi. Go for the throat. One good bite and a man’s as dead as he needs to be. This”—his hands indicates the gore on the walls—“this was done for show. To leave you a message. What I’m wondering is whether you understand what’s being said.”
I can guess. My hand goes to my throat, wrapping around the chill surface of the moonstone. No matter how long the damn stone sits against my skin, it never warms up. That should have been my first clue that the necklace is trouble. That and Lierr’s painful insistence on obtaining it, but I simply thought he wasn’t ready to dispense with my company yet when he picked a task that was nearly impossible for me to complete.
“You’ve seen marks like this before?” I’m not sure whether I want him to agree or deny it. Just the thought of him facing some being that can wreak this sort of havoc makes my throat choke up. And that makes me mad. I’m not going all soft on my Guardian, am I?
Because that’s stupid. Even I know we’ll soon have a parting of the ways, despite all this mating business, once I’ve led Jafar to Lierr. I’m not about to trade the chains of obligation to one male for the mating bond of another.
“It’s not too late to go back,” I tell him. It has to be said, because some previously unknown part of me keeps imagining Jafar lying there torn to pieces. “I’ll keep going, you head back to your temple, and we’ll call it an amicable parting of ways.”
He glowers at me, but his tone remains firm. “You wish. You’re my mate, femi. You promise obedience and docility and I provide protection.”
“Docility isn’t part of the bargain,” I mutter. The male wants his pound of flesh.
He eyes me ruthlessly. “Obedience is,” he presses. “You agreed to mate with me in exchange for some very important concessions. Starting with permission to continue your chaotic, rule-breaking, anarchic little existence.”
“Mighty benevolent of you,” I snap. “Next time, check the terms of the agreement before you sign on. I don’t recall promising docility. Or,” I pretend to think about it, “even obedience.”
He looms over me, six-plus feet of domineering male. “You promised to be my mate,” he says in a tight voice. “In every way.”
“And that gives you the right to order me around? Think again, kitty. I don’t blindly obey anyone.”
“Except Lierr,” he bites out.
“Not even him,” I disagree. “Not blindly, anyhow. I only follow his orders because he’s got my sister.”
“You’re my mate,” he says firmly. “That means I protect you. If there are Ifrits running around loose—and I think that’s what we’re looking at here—I damn well have a lot to say about where you go and what you do. An Ifrit will as soon tear you limb from limb as look at you.”
Limb from limb certainly covers the carnage inside the cave. I can’t help remembering what Jafar told me about the Doorways he guards. “I thought the opening from Qaf was down in the temple.”
He shoots me a look and grunts. “Ifrits shouldn’t be this far from a Doorway. Prefer their world to ours, they do, and generally stick to it other than popping over here for a bit of shopping.”
“Shopping?” Somehow, I don’t think the Ifrits are in the market for a cloak.
“Shopping,” he repeats. “And items one and two on their list are attractive females and mazhykal artifacts.”
And isn’t that a bad bit of news? I suppose I should be flattered by the roundabout compliment, but it’s hard to overlook the price tag on the Ifrits’ so-called shopping.
“Problem is,” he says thoughtfully, rubbing his hand over his chin, “neither of those two items were here, now were they? Just a couple of hirelings and their horses. I suppose they might have had some mazhyk, but whatever they had couldn’t have been terribly powerful or there wouldn’t be such a mess in here. You tell me what kind of fighters you hired, but I’m betting you put your money on men who fight with conventional weapons. Swords. Knives. A little hand-to-hand.” He continues when I nod, “Right. And I’m betting they weren’t fresh from the farm either. So whoever took them out was either extremely fast or j
ust came in here wielding so much power that your mercks never stood a chance. Ifrits could do that, but the real question is why?”
“Why?” I feel like a stupid echo, but I’m starting to see—and there’s nothing like firsthand knowledge—that these Ifrits have to be stopped. I can’t imagine letting this horror run unchecked.
“Yeah. There shouldn’t have been anything to attract them here. And, if an Ifrit actually made it out of the Valley—which is where the nearest Doorway is—I should have known about it. Might still have got away from me”—he sounds doubtful on that point, though—“but I’d have known they were out here. I’d have been tracking them.”
“Are there other—Doorways?”
He smiles approvingly. “Right you are. Of course there are, but the Valley’s is the closest. And none of the known Doorways are unguarded. It’s possible that a new Doorway has opened up somewhere, but there’s usually a good bit of disturbance when that happens, not to mention a sudden surge in the number of murders and rapes. News like that tends to get around, and we hear of it fast enough.”
“Perhaps they learned a bit of discretion?” I don’t know how bright these Ifrits of Jafar’s are, but it’s clear that they are both brutal and quick. Having wits thrown into the mix just seems cruelly unfair.
“It’s possible.” He eyes the carnage around us and sighs. “But unlikely. They’re the stab-and-grab sort. Not colonizers by any stretch of the imagination.”
“Right.”
“So now what?” He folds his arms across his chest and looks at me.
“Excuse me?”
“I got you out of the temple. Down the hill.” He checks the items off on his fingers. “And to your meeting place, which, I might mention, is not particularly hidden if that was what you were going for.”
No. Clearly not, given what’s happened to my mercks.
He looks around the clearing, but is distracted by a faint whistling sound. As if someone is trying to moan, but has so little throat left that the cry is the merest whisper of sound.
“Over here,” Jafar snaps. Striding to the farthest side of the cave, he crouches down beside a pile of mutilated flesh. One hand reaches for his blade, slicing strips of cloth from his robe. “Got a live one here.” More dubiously, he adds, “Sort of.”
Dear gods. Has one of my males managed to survive the carnage?
I’m not sure how I make it from one side of the cave to the other, only that when I crouch down next to Jafar, I understand the reason for his hesitation when he described the state of the male lying on the ground. Sure, the merck still clings to life, but the coppery scent of blood is almost overpowering. Something—or someone—pulled Ebo apart at the seams. I swallow hard, fighting back nausea as I stare at his armless, legless torso.
His eyes blink.
Dear Heqet above, the man is indeed still alive. His mouth opens and sound wheezes out.
Squatting, I kneel by his side. I’m no healer, but even I can tell that the Moirae are about to cut this man’s lifeline. I half expect to see the three sisters circling above the body. Gray streams leak from his aura, the spirit bleeding away as he forces himself to remain chained to this world. Waiting for me?
Ebo is more than seven feet tall, a prime merck not only because of his height, but also because of his strength. Some masters would admire his appearance as well; there are lords who believe in hiring the best-looking help available, no matter what the job description entails and even if it never involves bedwork. My merck’s ebony-colored skin gave him his name and I’ve never dared ask him if he resents being named for his parts rather than his whole; given the cold rage that burns in the male, I figure I already know the answer to that question.
“Necklace,” Ebo wheezes.
I smooth a hand over his forehead. “Who?”
“Don’t know. Tall. Came out of nowhere. Like—” His eyes flicker closed and he forces them open. I can’t imagine the strength of will it takes to survive this long. “Like living flames,” he says finally. “Column of smoke and fire. Upper torso looked human, bottom half”—his mangled body shudders— “nothing but smoke and wind. Moved fast.”
His eyes drift shut again.
“Not Cats?” I ask quietly. Beside me, Jafar tenses, but I have to know. Trusting him is naive, and I have every intention of making it back to Shympolsk alive and in one piece, unlike my poor Ebo.
“No,” he breathes. “Wanted the necklace. Knew we’d come for it and were looking for you.”
Are Ebo’s attackers still here?
“Gone,” he groans. “Told them nothing.” Has he been lying here like this for hours? His remaining hand shoots up and wraps around my throat. “Don’t,” he says, “take the necklace off. Whatever you do. Means something. Find out before you hand it over to Lierr. Don’t trust that bastard.”
“No,” I agree.
“Tried to fight back,” he whispers. “Tried.”
“Lierr’s got a lot to answer for.” And I plan on making him sing like a caged bird.
“Hush,” I say, stroking a hand over Ebo’s forehead. He grunts and closes his eyes, clearly feeling that he’s completed his job and is entitled to a little shut-eye. I can’t argue; I’m more surprised that the tattered bits of his spirit still hover over his body. Watching them slip away from his body is almost easier than realizing what the Ifrits have done to him. He’s at peace now. Moving on to the next adventure, the next stage of his journey.
Unfortunately, that means I’m now guardless in a world where there are daemons and monsters that can rip a seven-foot-tall man to shreds and escape without a scratch. Heqet help me. I’ve stolen plenty of mazhykal artifacts—but they belong to this world and my competition was other thieves. Humans.
The return trip to Shympolsk has just grown infinitely more complex.
JAFAR
Watching Miu pace back and forth in the mouth of the cave, I wish I could have spared her this sight. Hell, I wish I’d never taken her out of my chambers back at the temple.
Double hell. I have it bad.
My emotional toughness slips away, like shadows fleeing before the moon. It is more than just erotic attraction that I feel for Miu: I’ve started to have emotions about her—and not just protective ones. How can I do what must be done if I have feelings for her? I should excise those feelings as ruthlessly as the Ifrits slaughtered Miu’s men, make this just about sex and power—instead of about the woman I hold in my arms.
Keeping her safe is my number one priority and I hate this vulnerability. Is this what Hebon felt for his mate? The incessant need to protect, to touch? I want to cherish her, as if she is some priceless treasure. When I know damn well she is a living, breathing, stubborn female who insists on giving as good as she gets—and who managed to steal not only a necklace but a piece of my heart as well.
The musky notes of my femi tease my senses, sweeter and spicier than the large white blooms of the night jasz that crawls up the thick trunk of a tree just outside the cave. I should leave her to mourn her fallen companions while I comb the clearing for more clues. The Ifrits’ scent trail disappears into the shadows surrounding us; it might be possible to track them, follow them to the next scene of butchery.
And there will be a next scene. It is why the Guardians are sworn to root out the Ifrits mercilessly. Since I am the only Guardian on the scene, it falls to me to stop them. Never mind that I am now rogue, with a death sentence undoubtedly imposed on my head; I am still sworn to protect this world. If I were sure how the Ifrits made it into this realm, my job would be easier. Unfortunately, I have only my suspicions and, to confirm them, I need my femi’s help.
“Hey, kitty.” She snaps her fingers in front of my face, trying to regain that tough facade she always hides behind. “What now?” Her teary eyes glow silver as the moon sneaks up into the sky from behind the stand of trees where it lurked. Hours have passed while we buried her men, while she grieved for them.
She’ll never admit to the tea
rs, but they are still there, breaking my heart.
“Don’t.” I capture her fingers in my hand. Rubbing the slender digits, I tug at the pads, smiling at her involuntary intake of breath. For a thief with a seemingly insatiable lust for jewels, her fingers are surprisingly bare.
Her fingers curl into my palm. “What was that for?” As always, she eyes me suspiciously. I stroke another long, luxurious caress over her skin, enjoying the way her muscles flow and relax beneath my touch. Her body is learning to trust me even if her mind resists.
“Mates touch.”
She eyes me and then says, “It’s a strategic alliance, kitty. Purely business and you know it.”
What will it take to get her to admit to the truth of our relationship? I take a step closer. She glowers up at me, uncowed. “I had your promise otherwise.”
“Promises made under duress?” She shrugs. “Don’t count, in my book.”
“I gave you a choice when we were making our escape. You agreed to trust me. We’re partners now.”
Deliberately, I crowd her, dominating her. I am not going to let her ignore me.
“Did I?” She peeks up through her lashes at me. “And you believed me? I don’t want to be anyone’s mate. If I had needed a male, I would have brought one with me.”
“From the pleasure gardens of Shympolsk?” I ignore the small throb of jealousy. It isn’t me specifically that she distrusts. It is all males, and given her history, it is no wonder. Surely, keeping that fact in mind will make her rejection less painful.
“Sure. Wherever.” She eyes me.
“And would you sleep with your thief master, too?”
“News flash, kitty.” She smiles benevolently at me. “We’re not precisely sleeping together, are we?”
No, we are only having the hottest sex of my life in either realm. From the self-satisfied little smirk on her face, she knows it, too. My eyes narrow. Admitting as much is like handing her the reins of our relationship. And, knowing my mate, she’ll drive away from me just as fast as her hot little body can take her. There has to be a way to make her stay.