The Hunt: Complete Edition

by Anne Marsh

He could find his own damn way out—she’d finish her job and save her sister. Alone. The way she should have worked from the beginning.

  Before she could lose her nerve, she lobbed the spell at him.

  And moved like hellhounds themselves were after her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Miu immediately recognized the burial chamber from the Master’s description. Sure enough, it was located right at the bottom of the air shaft. When she thought about it, the banshee had done her a favor, trapping her in that particular storage room. She still had the map to help her find her way out, and she no longer had to deal with her unreasonable attraction to the merck.

  Now all she had to do was take the necklace.

  She stepped gingerly into the burial chamber, scanning the room for hidden threats. For traps. Nothing. The room was blissfully quiet. But stepping onto the carnelian-colored granite floor blocks felt vaguely wrong, as if she were disturbing something.

  Or someone.

  Nerves. She’d let the merck turn her into a bundle of nerves with all his talk of danger and protection. She wasn’t going to think about him. She had— finally—reached her destination. It didn’t matter that she—almost—wished he were here to see the burial chamber. The merck could take care of himself. He was bigger, tougher, and savvier than most males she’d met; he’d be fine. She held her flarestick aloft as she peered around the chamber.

  Fitting, that an alleged princess had been buried here. The room was every little girl’s fantasy—if, of course, little girls daydreamed about possible funeral sites. In addition to the startlingly pink granite floor, the walls were an impossibly smooth pure white. Moreover, the walls were perfectly blank. No carvings. No friezes. No gold work. Just a pure white limestone that was blinding in its purity. Other than a handful of statues sprinkled in niches around the room, the only object was the coffin. Still, despite the beauty of the room, it felt half finished. Half empty. As if whatever had been buried here had been so terrible that no one had wanted to return, even when the other chambers on this level had filled up.

  She scanned the room one more time, even setting off a small seeking spell that ricocheted merrily off the limestone walls. The spell left a small scorch mark that spoiled the perfect blankness but turned up no obvious mazhykal traps. Safe? Maybe. She’d still play it careful.

  Get the necklace, she told herself. Forget the merck. Guilt was a luxury she couldn’t afford. It didn’t matter if the man had taken on that angry death spirit singlehandedly. And had then carted her to safety when the banshee had wailed down the roof.

  There was no reason for him to do these things— was there? He was just as self-serving as every other male she’d met. Because if she thought there was any chance that her hard-as-nails merck was harboring sweeter sentiments for her, she’d be rappelling back up the escape shaft—toward him—and that would never do.

  She had to have the necklace. She wanted her sister back.

  Decided, she strode across the chamber and threw open the lid of the coffin.

  ***

  She’d double-crossed him.

  She’d stunned him with a cheap witch spell.

  And he hadn’t seen it coming.

  In a fit of rage, Jafar shifted, battering himself against the grille she’d used to block her escape route. Unfortunately, he was too large to fit through the opening to the air shaft. That impossibility made him grit his teeth; he’d bet the little witch had known the precise dimensions of the crawlspace she’d used as a personal, private staircase.

  When he caught her, he’d wring her neck.

  Wring her neck . . . When he caught her, she’d have stolen the necklace she’d come for and he would have to execute her. As one of the Guardians, he was honor bound to do so if he caught her stealing. While the actual method was up to him, the yea or nay was not. Thieves died. He’d never questioned that black-and-white pronouncement, had understood that the temple’s dangerous proximity to the other realms required quick and summary justice. He slammed his hand against the stone wall of his prison, ignoring the fine rain of dust and gravel that showered down on him.

  He was a killer. An enforcer. So why was he questioning the need to kill now?

  He was growling when other Guardians appeared, shifting away the heavy rock fall with powerful forearms and even more powerful spells. How long had Miu been gone now? Half an hour? More? When the Guardians finally neared the alcove, he overheard a pithy curse as they discovered the remnants of the daemon’s corpse, crushed by a pair of falling girdle stones.

  “Bloody hell,” one Guardian muttered. “Hell of a way to go.”

  “No point in trying to resuscitate him for interrogation,” another agreed. “Spirit’s passed.”

  When the rocks fell away from the doorway, Jafar had his story ready. Leaning back against the wall, he deliberately kept his eyes away from the ventilation shaft where his companion had disappeared. If his nose had failed to scent the exit concealed behind the elaborate grillwork, these males should also be fooled.

  Crossing his arms across his chest, he stared levelly at the males entering the alcove. The confined space meant there was no room for them all to shift, which significantly improved the odds in his favor. If he had to, he could hold them off with his longsword. Buy some time.

  Buy some time? Was that what he’d decided to do? Perhaps if he could buy her time, she’d decide that she really could trust him. Strangely, he wanted her to do so. He wanted her to explain why she’d come for the necklace, why she wouldn’t give it up.

  For the first time, he wanted to know reasons.

  “You okay, Jafar?” His pride members stood there, examining him cautiously. Three men, all well over six feet tall and dressed in black hunting leathers rather than the ritual white of the Hunt. Each had a longsword strapped to his back, as well as an arsenal of shortknives tucked into waistbands, boots, and arm sheaths. Three pairs of gold eyes examined him. Three noses scented the air, delicately.

  “Seems fine,” said Hebon flatly. His hand didn’t leave his sword, however. Only a fool stood between Hebon and his target. Decades ago the male had channeled all his pent-up rage into his blades. He didn’t draw until he was ready to kill. And he never, ever missed his target. His mood was as dark as his visage.

  “Where is she?” Sanur teased. “You did have a female in here, didn’t you?” He scented the air again. “I can smell her, my brother, and she smells good. Good enough to eat.” A feral grin curved his lips as he stalked into the small room.

  Brooding, Jafar fought back the unexpected impulse to rip Sanur apart. He’d seen his brother use that same charming smile on countless females. Jafar recognized the sensual prowl as the male strode unerringly toward the narrow passageway that had allowed his female to escape from him.

  Sanur wasn’t going to taste her.

  Not today.

  Not—if he were honest with himself—ever.

  “Jafar doesn’t take females.” Hebon bit off his words,

  as if speaking were a waste of time, when he could be hunting down the intruder instead. His cold eyes examined the escape point. “He wouldn’t take up with a thief and an intruder.” The unspoken words again hung in the air between them.

  Could Jafar really bring himself to turn Miu over to their untender mercies? He’d hunted thieves with these males for centuries. He knew their methods, and they were brutal.

  “Where is whom?” Jafar asked innocently. Leaning back against the wall, he replayed his options.

  “The female trapped in here with you.” Sanur scowled playfully and nudged the still-silent Badru in the ribs. The other male grunted, but held his ground. “Damn it, Jafar, you know we can smell her, my brother. You had her here with you. Where did she go?”

  “Are you hunting her?” Jafar knew he had to be the one to find her.

  He was going to be the one to find her.

  “Depends,” answered Sanur, stepping through the wreckage. Picking up a small funeral pot, he
examined the seal. “Not broken. Thank the gods. The alcove down the hall is filled with traumatized death spirits. You’d think they’d never left their bodies before.”

  That had to have been unpleasant. “Sealed them back in? Or sent them on their way?” Either way, he didn’t give a damn, but conversation would give his femi a few more seconds of freedom. She hadn’t admitted it—he suspected she’d traverse the spider-filled air shaft a dozen times first—but the stories of shapeshifting Guardians had scared her. And yet she’d seemed willing to trust him. To shove a plug of bespelled wax into his ears to prevent his eardrums from bursting with the banshee’s wail.

  Of course, in the end, she’d abandoned him inside the alcove and gone on her merry way.

  “Is she a thief,” Hebon bit out, “or is she your mate?”

  “Did you bell her, my brother?” Sanur asked eagerly. Even Badru turned that eerie black gaze of his from his calm consideration of Miu’s escape hatch and looked at Jafar. Badru never said much—hell, his brother never spoke at all if he could avoid it—but the Cat missed nothing. He knew precisely how Jafar’s female had disappeared; he was just working himself up to the words.

  There was only one option left, so Jafar took it.

  He growled a warning. She was his. “Back off. She’s not a thief.”

  “But is she your mate?” Sanur demanded.

  “No.” He had to admit the truth. She wasn’t.

  “Then what is she?” Hebon countered. His fingers caressed the black hilt of his sheathed blade. A blade that had killed more tomb robbers than any other in the temple; rumor claimed the shifter had struck a bargain with one of the more bloodthirsty gods. True or not, he wasn’t getting Jafar’s female.

  “Mine,” Jafar stated firmly. He shoved away from the wall, his hands going to his blades. One of his pride brothers groaned.

  “Only if she’s a mate,” Hebon insisted.

  “And not if she’s nicking our stuff,” Sanur put in. Jafar didn’t underestimate the male, despite the lazy sensuality of his face. When Sanur decided to take his responsibilities seriously, he took them very, very seriously. “She shouldn’t be down here. The other females remained on the upper levels.” In the silence, three sets of eyes examined Jafar’s face. “As expected. Yours did not.”

  “She’s too close,” Sanur added. Jafar knew that was true. As a Guardian, he worked the lowest levels of the temple, the first line of defense against the other realms bordering on theirs. Down in the catacombs, it was perfectly clear who the bad guys were. Come out of the tunnels and you were cut down. No exceptions. If you weren’t a Guardian, you were assumed to be an Ifrit that had crossed over.

  And no one hesitated to kill an Ifrit anymore.

  “She won’t go through the Doorways.” Jafar didn’t know how he knew, but he did. For some reason, his femi had a strong anchor in this realm. She wouldn’t leave willingly. “She’s not comfortable underground. She’ll want to return to the surface.”

  “Not a mate.” Hebon turned to the others. “We hunt her then.”

  Jafar’s Cat didn’t care for that idea either. The beast roared to life within him, suggesting that the men filling the room were a threat to his female. Take them out. He fought the urge, but something must have shown in his eyes.

  Sanur threw up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “He’s going to mate her,” he said to the others. “He’ll have the bells out before nightfall. Cat just doesn’t know it yet.”

  That wasn’t possible, was it? Dark heads swiveled toward him, their eyes crawling over his face.

  “If she steals,” Hebon said in the icy voice that made even other Guardians hesitate, “she’s ours. Not his.”

  His brothers were skeptical and he couldn’t blame them. He’d never taken the slightest interest in the bride Hunts.

  “Why follow her, if she is not a thief?” Badru finally broke his silence, his voice hoarse with disuse. A good question and not one Jafar could answer. How could he explain that this small female fascinated him, that he wanted to see what she would do next? And if, he admitted to himself, she would indeed hang herself if he handed her the rope.

  “He’s hunting,” Sanur argued, narrowing his eyes.

  It was Hebon who asked the question they all were thinking. “But a thief—or a mate?”

  ***

  Miu pushed aside the lid of the coffin, careful not to let the heavy wooden panel fall onto the floor. Carved with spells for navigating the afterlife, the lid’s bright carnelian paint had faded considerably in the darkness. More to the point, someone had deliberately smashed the shabti statues for this woman. Someone had not wanted the dead woman to enjoy a pleasant afterlife.

  That was a bad sign.

  Forcing herself to take deep, even breaths despite the fetid stench that wafted up from the coffin, she examined her quarry. In the decades since her burial, the princess had lost most of her good looks. The ivory curve of ribs gleamed through the decaying remnants of a once-elegant dress. Time and a closer acquaintance with the dark, hot confines of the coffin had reduced the expensive fabric to tattered streamers of dull gray. But nothing could dim the glow of the jewel that hung about her neck.

  The necklace was fascinating.

  Miu had known it would be, from the moment she’d first felt the moonstone’s pull when she entered the temple. Set in the middle of a stunningly simple necklace of silver, the jewel was a deep, unfamiliar blue that pulsated with color as if the necklace’s creator had blended together sky, stars, and ocean to create this impossible mystery. Her eyes narrowed. The moonstone reeked of mazhyk. Was there more to this necklace than the Master was letting on?

  Possibly.

  Mazhyk or no mazhyk, Miu had to take the necklace.

  Tentatively, she reached out her hand. Even though she was expecting something of the sort, Miu had to stifle a shriek when her fingers closed around the necklace—and long, pale talons wrapped themselves around her wrist. The nails bit into her skin, carving shallow crescents into her flesh. Blood welled beneath the pinprick wounds.

  Heqet save her. A treasure daemon.

  “Hey.” The treasure daemon tugged insistently on her wrist. “Got you by the wrist here. Not letting go, bound till death does us part. You are familiar with that part?”

  Miu was, but no point in letting the daemon know that. “Really?” She eyed the creature thoughtfully. “Nothing at all will make you release my wrist?”

  “ ’Fraid not,” the daemon said regretfully. His nails sank deeper. “Unless perhaps you’re willing to leave the hand behind?” The note of hope in the daemon’s voice made her shudder. Looking closer, she saw that the coffin already held a collection of hands. Unless the princess had had a rather unusual abnormality that everyone had failed to mention, the treasure daemon had already collected.

  Multiple times.

  How long had it been since the treasure daemon had moved in and set up housekeeping inside the dead woman’s coffin? Fortunately, she’d come prepared. Al ways do your homework because you never knew when you were going to be tested.

  “Perhaps we can negotiate,” she suggested. The daemon looked bored, as if he had heard all possible suggestions before.

  “Doubt it,” he said. Just to punctuate his point, he took a good, long lick, the glass-sharp papillae of its tongue scraping over her skin. The skin broke, blood beading on the surface. “Oh, I doubt it. Too, too sweet.”

  Before the daemon could fasten onto her wrist— and either suck her slowly dry or force her to carve off her own wrist—she reached into her bag and whipped out a handful of herbs. The sweet-scented grass was the color of early limes, but far more potent than any citrus fruit. Usually, sweetgrass was difficult to obtain and cost more than your average treasure hunter earned in the best of years. She’d had the foresight, however, to insist that Lore learn both botany and herbalism. As a result, their kitchen gardens grew far more than squashes and lettuces. They provided a living, growing arsenal
from which Miu culled the best, such as the sweetgrass she was now dumping into her palm.

  A careful puff of breath sent the pollen floating across the dim air toward the daemon, who looked first surprised and then blissful as he inhaled. “Ah,” he said in surprise, and then “Oh, you didn’t.” She’d seen smokeweed addicts take shallower drafts than the daemon’s second.

  “Got more of that stuff?” he asked, rubbing his crotch with lazy strokes. Her sister hadn’t mentioned that the grass was addictive or—she eyed the daemon warily—that it apparently acted as an aphrodisiac. Great. She had one blissed-out daemon on her hands.

  She countered, “Going to let me pass?”

  A crafty look appeared in the daemon’s eyes. “Hand it over,” was all he said. And then, “I don’t suppose you could help a guy out here?”

  Disgusted, she shook her head. No way was she feeling up a daemon, not even to fetch the necklace. Shaking his head, the daemon grabbed the pouch from her hands and tottered out of the coffin. He curled up in a boneless heap in one corner of the chamber, slowly shifting forms as the weed took effect. “Enjoy,” he slurred before closing his eyes.

  Right. One obstacle removed. The daemon was vulnerable enough that she could have slid her blade through his neck, but she hated killing anything if it wasn’t necessary.

  Shaking the droplets of blood off her wrist, she reached farther inside the coffin. The hard wooden lip cut into her hips, forcing her to stretch off balance. The necklace was too formfitting to allow her to pull it over the dead woman’s head; she’d have to undo it. There. Brushing aside the remainder of the rags, she twisted the necklace around until she spotted the clasp. Keeping half an eye on the daemon, who was now uttering small, wheezing snores, she tugged on the small lock.

  The clasp didn’t budge, but instead set up a high-pitched wail that would draw the attention of every Guardian for miles around.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The unearthly wail shattered the stillness, shooting up the escape shaft toward them. Jafar didn’t blink, but he knew that scream. They all did. The privately wealthy could afford to bury their dead with elaborate grave goods. To keep away grave robbers, some purchased protective spells to guard the coffins. Judging by the strength of that scream, someone had just attempted to remove a very valuable object indeed.