by Anne Marsh
A feral roar shook the tunnel. And, Oh shit, she thought. Perhaps there was more to the Cat legend than she had thought. The next moment, a shimmer of gold light spiked through the sudden darkness and hard male hands seized her about the waist.
She was pulled ruthlessly back through the hole, onto her feet, and up against a hard chest. A hard, naked chest. Stomping down with her foot, she sought for her attacker’s vulnerable arch. There was a satisfying grunt of pain. Take that. Snapping her head backward, she tried to aim for his nose. This time, the results were less satisfying. The man pinioning her shifted smoothly, making her head ring as it struck the muscled shoulder he twisted into her attack. Stars exploded behind her eyelids. A hand twisted hers up behind her back until moving meant a painful gasp for breath. His other hand wound around her long ponytail, rendering her immobile.
“Pax,” a rough voice growled in her ear.
She wasn’t that crazy. Or that trusting.
Instead, she kicked harder, trying to buck her attacker off. Her breath sounded harsh even to her own ears, but she hadn’t heard a sound from him after his initial protest at having his foot crushed. So not good. If only she could get her head around to see her attacker, she’d have a better idea of what she was up against.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
The warrior restraining her was hard bodied and harder eyed. Tilting her head back against his chest, she looked up into a face that was almost alien in its handsomeness. Gold eyes glowing at her in the darkness. Dark hair woven into hundreds of braids, each fastened with a small topaz. Tawny-colored skin that was eminently lickable. A firm mouth. No. There was nothing soft about this male at all.
He pinned her effortlessly against all that hard, hot flesh.
“Be still,” he grated. A note of impatience crept into his voice. Good. She was going to make killing her as difficult and annoying as possible.
“I don’t think so,” she gasped. “I haven’t done anything. Haven’t taken anything.” When he eased up on his grasp of her arms, she gulped air frantically. The smell of him was wild, intoxicating. What was he?
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he protested against her ear. With his mouth pressed almost against her skin, the words seemed like a lover’s caress in the darkness. To her surprise, her body considered the erotic possibilities of her position. That this man’s hands had full access to her body. Could explore where and how they pleased. Wetness slicked her sex and she kicked her legs against his shins. Hard. How dare he be so damn attractive?
“Not nice,” he grunted. His leg hooked around hers, immobilizing her. Pinning her against his body. Helpless. “I’m here to help. Consider me a rescuer.”
“That would be more believable,” she grunted, “if you let me go.” Gods, could one of the Guardians have caught up with her so fast? “You’re a Guardian, aren’t you?”
She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer her, but merely tightened his grip.
“I’m not interested in being a mate.” She tried again to throw his body off, but it was like trying to shift a damn mountain. She had all the effect of a gnat pushing against a boulder.
To her surprise, however, he said, “Very well.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No mating,” she repeated.
“No mating,” he agreed. “Look, all I want is to talk.” She doubted that. If he weren’t one of the Guardians, he might be another thief after the same prize as she. It would be just like Lierr to send two of his minions after the same treasure.
“Let me go,” she said again. This time, he did, although he kept her trapped between his body and the wall. No diving down into the hole or sprinting up passageways for her. Even if she had tried, she suspected that he would have caught her with humiliating ease.
He bent down and retrieved her flarestick. For a brief moment, as he struck the thin tube against the flinty wall, he was vulnerable. One quick chop at his neck and she’d be free. Why was she hesitating? It was him or her.
“You resisted temptation,” he said, straightening up, and she knew he wasn’t referring to the wrestling match in which they’d just engaged. Now she was just glad that she hadn’t given in to the urge to land a blow on his exposed nape. He had been expecting it.
He had been ready to stop her.
In the orange light of the flarestick, she examined her opponent more closely. He was tall. Broad shouldered. Overwhelmingly masculine in the small confines of the tunnel. The strong line of his jaw and cheekbones gave him a face as harshly beautiful as Amun Ra’s, but the sable-colored eyes and the dark hair that spilled loosely over his bare shoulders made him seem less civilized. More feral. She didn’t doubt that the Amun Ra could kill if he wanted to, but this man would do so without hesitating.
She pursed her lips, considering.
And the man couldn’t be much more naked. A pleated, loose linen cloth was wrapped around his lean hips, and he wore a leather weapons belt stuffed with an impressive array of knives and throwing stars. So, in addition to being practically buck-ass naked, the man was a walking arsenal. He looked tough. More like a mercenary than some sort of honor guard for temple valuables, she thought, eyeing the long pale scar cutting from one cheekbone down to his jaw. The only other items that he wore were simple gold cuffs fastened around his wrists.
No, he didn’t look like the Guardians she’d seen, despite the similarity in size and high-handed arrogance. And the only tattoos he had were dark marks inked onto the golden skin of both forearms. Unlike the Amun Ra, however, his face was bare. None of the telltale markings that Guardians reputedly sported. Nope, no bars cut across the golden splendor of his face.
Maybe he wasn’t a Guardian. Maybe he was another thief.
But he was still standing between her and the necklace. Taking advantage of his relaxed stance, she dove for the hole.
CHAPTER THREE
Her attacker reacted more quickly than she’d thought possible.
Reaching out a hand, he yanked her back from the edge of the deep hole, his body crowding hers back against the wall, trapping her in a prison of his hot flesh and arms. His anger was almost a tangible thing. His large body shuddered with tension as he inhaled, first one breath, then a second. Deliberately calming himself. He was primal, dangerous, and deadly.
Resting his forehead against hers, he groaned. “Look before you leap, femi.” One callused thumb stroked the nape of her neck.
“So say you.” Wasn’t he going to snap her neck now?
“Do you have any idea what’s down there?” Was he upset? Why would he care if she broke her neck? One less competitor for the necklace that way.
“Sure. Another level. More stone walls,” she bluffed.
“You know this for a fact?” His eyes were glowing. “You’ve been down there before?”
He must know she hadn’t. “Research. Did some asking around before I popped over here. You should try it,” she said sweetly.
Were those his teeth she heard grinding? Good. He seemed very different from the Master’s usual brand of thief. Not only was he larger and more brutal, but he seemed too direct. As if he were more at home letting his blades speak for him than his tongue, Heqet save her.
“Look,” she explained, “we’re likely after the same thing here. And there’s only one prize. Winner takes all. No splitting.” The Master’s thieves rarely worked together. Vacancies tended to occur when multiple thieves were assigned to the same task. Cheating was a prerequisite for success and all of them fought dirty. Her eyes narrowed. Was he trying to disarm her? Get her off balance so he could push her through the opening and break her neck? All possibilities.
“So you are going down there after something.” He paused, but she didn’t fill in the blanks for him. “And it’s not a mate. You made that perfectly clear. I’m here to make sure you find what you’re after. In one piece.” He shrugged, putting a little space between her body and his. “Why not team up? You go on down there alone and I guarantee you’re not coming back up. Not whole. This temple
is a dangerous place and I can protect you.” Hard eyes stared at her. “Keep you safe.”
“For a price,” she countered, testing the waters without agreeing to anything. He wasn’t going to do this for charitable purposes. “Who sent you?”
He gave her a small half smile. “I’m independent.”
She gave in to the temptation to examine those broad shoulders with her eyes again. Yeah, she’d just bet he was an independent. The man screamed alpha and imagining him taking orders from Lierr was damned difficult to do. She revised her original guess at his identity.
“Merck?” It made sense.
Mercenaries were notorious, for both their brutality and their greed. They happily switched sides—even in midoperation. Coin was their only recognized code of honor; once payment changed hands, mercks finished the job. No matter what. That was why most folks paid their mercks up front—to reduce chances of a double-cross.
If he really were a merck, her best bet would be to get him on her side. Immediately. Unfortunately, she was light on cash at the moment, not having expected much in the way of shopping opportunities inside the temple.
She eyed the muscles in his arms. She’d already spotted the blades; the question really was, how much mazhyk did he pack?
“Are you strictly weapons-grade? Or do you do mazhyk as well?”
***
The little femi had courage, Jafar had to admit that. Up against a wall, literally, and she was still asking questions.
“Both,” he bit out. She’d sense the mazhyk in him; better she thought it was part of his stock in trade, one more weapon he sold for cash.
“Right. Well.” When her gaze moved down his body, cataloging what she saw, he suddenly knew precisely what a side of beef felt like.
The obvious approval in her eyes roused the Cat in him again. She was aware of the heat between them, too. He could tell, but he couldn’t give in to it. He’d done that—once—and Guardians had died for it. Trusting a female who appeared inside the temple out of nowhere was criminally stupid and he wouldn’t do it again. Nevertheless, for just a moment, he allowed himself to imagine taking her mouth with his, sliding his tongue against hers as he learned her taste. His cock stirred.
Her eyes held unease. Good. She was supposed to be scared of him. She was supposed to follow the rules. Maybe she was just lost. Maybe she’d taken a wrong turn and she meant to behave herself and participate in the Hunt. But her own half admission condemned her, and every instinct he had screamed she was trouble. Hot, luscious trouble.
“You need me,” he urged. “Need my protection. Aren’t you afraid of the Guardians?” he demanded against her ear as heat tore through him, thickening his cock still further. Would she be able to take every inch of him when he crammed himself into her sex? Or would she whimper with the agonizingly sweet pleasure of just the thick tip of him, thrusting in and out of her greedy, wet sex until she howled for more—and he gave it to her?
Her breath huffed out in a small sigh. “Absolutely not,” she declared, shaking her head.
“Do not be stubborn, femi,” he crooned into the smooth shell of her ear. She shivered. Good. She was deliciously sensitive. Delicately, he licked the curve of her ear, tasting her flesh and giving her just the smallest hint of pleasure. Stubborn female.
“No,” she protested, squirming in his grasp.
He couldn’t help admiring her tenacity.
He liked that she didn’t give up. That she used every weapon at her disposal.
Granted, her petite frame was no match for his larger, harder body. Even if he had been human, she’d have been outweighed. Easily pinned. But she was a warrior at heart and she fought. The Ifrits would eat her up for breakfast, and that was only if his brothers didn’t find her first. Fortunately for her, she had him. He’d look out for her. After all, if she were dead—or spread beneath one of his fellow Guardians—he couldn’t discover what she’d really come down here for.
Unfortunately, though, he suspected it wasn’t for a good fuck.
“Hold still,” he warned.
She ignored him, twisting deliciously in his grasp.
“Obey me.” He sensed something very hostile moving toward them. And that was to say nothing of the Cats who were just entering the main corridor over their heads. She had no idea of the kind of trouble she was in.
“I don’t take orders—”
Whatever she had been about to say was lost in the earsplitting shriek that shattered the silence as trouble launched itself into the air, aiming for his eyes.
***
The death spirit flew out of the dark shadows of the passage. “Mine, mine, mine,” it shrieked in shrill tones as it dove for the mercenary’s eyes with the business end of its beak. Not Miu’s favorite kind of opponent. In addition to having a face that was half human, half bird, a death spirit could pass through just about anything—and wreak havoc while doing so.
She’d seen one take a nosedive right through a man’s midsection once. Although the beak had torn a gaping wound in the man’s skin, it was the ghostly passing through that had tied his innards into one large knot. He’d died screaming and sorely regretting disturbing the spirits’ nest. For her part, Miu had learned to avoid working in cemeteries. It was almost impossible to spot the death spirits coming until they were on top of you.
“Not supposed to be here,” the mercenary roared. Miu could have told him death spirits were free agents, roaming where they wanted as long as there was a dead body somewhere in the vicinity. Since the temple was built atop a deep set of catacombs, the death spirits would have free rein here. Keeping them out must be like trying to keep field mice out of a haystack.
Impossible.
He pushed her behind him and, for once, she was glad to shut up and go. If he wanted to stand between her and the business end of that beak, she’d let him.
Only partly sentient, death spirits retained a few residual memories from their mortal existence and not much else. Sometimes, if the spirits had led particularly happy lives before their deaths, they turned out to make fairly decent companions. Those were glad to show you about a tomb or two, share a few stories, and then wave you on your merry way. Others were so weepy that you couldn’t get a word out of them, just sobs and howls that made your flesh crawl with secondhand grief. Miu never asked what had happened to those. The third sort, though—well, those seemed to feel it just wasn’t fair that anyone else got to live if they didn’t. Malicious little buggers. And deadly. This one clearly fell into the third camp.
Tall and thin, it was an almost transparent oily gray that blended perfectly with the walls of the passageway. Correctly identifying the more substantial target, the death spirit dove straight for Jafar’s throat.
Time to see what the mercenary was made of. Kind of like a job interview, she decided. After all, if he couldn’t handle a death spirit, he wouldn’t be much use to her in the catacombs, now would he?
The death spirit certainly was a lively one. Challenging. It zoomed from one side of the tunnel to the other, trailing long gray creepers of rotting fabric behind its transparent body. A musty smell followed in its wake. Dropping to her stomach, Miu minimized her profile.
“Slippery bastard.” With a terse curse, the mercenary slammed a clenched fist into the side of the spirit’s head as it dove for his throat. In rapid succession, he fired off blows to its crown, temple, and eyes. His thumbs dug into its empty eye sockets, twisting. Howling, the spirit checked in mid-dive, bouncing off the male’s knuckles and colliding with the ceiling.
Score one for the living. With an angry screech, the spirit regrouped and altered course. Fists weren’t going to stop it for long. Propping her chin on her hands, Miu assessed the spirit’s trajectory. Going for the knees now, clever beast. Hamstring the mercenary and then the spirit could finish him off at leisure.
“You got this,” she called sweetly, “or you want a hand?”
The merck swung his large body between her and the death spirit, b
ut his only audible answer was a rasping growl. For a moment, she’d have sworn his eyes glowed in the dim light, but when she checked, they looked normal. Weird.
Then he brought the blades up to his chest and she realized that he did indeed know his way around a knife. He wasn’t trying a takedown on the spirit; he was going for the kill.
The spirit was already dead, of course, but there was some bit of leftover life that animated it, something extra that the spirit had squirreled away deep between its bony ribs. Get that bit and you were in business. Presto chango. The spirit popped along to the afterworld and you could relax.
She watched him feint, the blade a dancing silver line in his strong hands. He moved with the lethal grace of an experienced fighter. When was the last time someone else had placed himself in harm’s way, to protect her? This was something she could get used to. Maybe she would let him come with her. Frankly, she wasn’t sure she could stop him. Not without calling a whole lot of unwelcome attention to herself. So why not? Why not let him protect her, if he was so anxious to do so? She’d be able to keep an eye on him, figure out what he was really up to.
***
Jafar fought the change. Even though his Cat form would have given him an immediate advantage over the death spirit, he liked the way the femi looked at him, her eyes following his every movement. He was enjoying the feminine admiration. If he changed, that interest would evaporate to be replaced by terror. Strangely, he didn’t want that. So he fought the feral side of him that wanted to surface.
Fortunately, death spirits tended to count a bit too much on the element of surprise. This one was no exception. When he’d blocked its lunge for his throat, it had retreated to the ceiling of the passageway, buzzing angrily as it darted about.
He moved swiftly, again positioning himself between the angry spirit and his female.
“Hey,” the female hollered. “You’ve got this under control?”
The spirit darted toward her and he shifted positions smoothly.