Mercer could practically taste the reptile scent that coated the air. They weren’t being sneaky as they climbed the rocky path. “Peachy.”
The assassin stopped, his attention drifted up the straight cliffs. “Your breathing changed.”
“You never mentioned we’d be exploring a cave,” he countered.
“That’s not why your breathing changed. Can you control your nature this close to the full moon?” Wolffey turned his attention to him and he was startled by how wide his pupils were dilated. His brows crinkled in thought. “Maybe we can use your infliction.”
“Infliction?”
Wolffey’s attention drifted along the walls. “They are blind and deaf, but they have a sharp sense of smell and taste. They will smell you.”
Mercer stayed relatively close as Wolffey started picking his way over the rocks, forcing them to climb upward. In this realm, it felt like he was already at an angle and climbing. “How close were you when you saw them?”
Wolffey’s shoulders tightened. He’d never noticed before, but the assassin’s thoughts showed in his body, ever diminutive, but present. Despite the glowing rocks, the cave was freezing. His breath fogged and quickly dissipated.
“Close enough to observe their hunting techniques,” the assassin grumbled. His hair slid over his shoulders like silk. The strands caught the gleaming light, reflecting numerous shades of brown, exotic in their profuse tints.
Again, he wondered what Wolffey knew about his werewolf heritage. Did he understand that he’d marked Mercer years ago, during one of their bouts of aggression? He doubted it. The assassin was well composed.
“You knew the person the succubus victimized,” Mercer stated.
Mercer’s attention dropped to the assassin’s neck covered a few times by the black scarf. Pity. He really wanted to bite that swan neck, to watch the skin purple with his bond bite. Never had he felt so strongly. “My thoughts keep wandering.”
“It’s the essence radiating through the cave,” Wolffey said. The assassin bent down to examine the glowing rocks under their feet. “A current of energy must feed through here.”
That offered little explanation on why he felt like his werewolf was ready to tear through his body and claim the assassin. The moon never left him this irrational. “It’s distracting.”
Wolffey gave a noncommittal huff as he stood and brushed his gloved hands off. “Can you smell a strong scent in the direction we’re heading?”
“Yes, it smells reptilian.” It made his nose itchy. He liked fur, not scales. He didn’t have to concentrate too hard to pick up on Wolffey’s scent; orange oil and leather, clean silk and dark chocolate.
Wolffey took a deep breath and let it out slowly; relief. “Good. We’re heading in the right direction.”
“Can’t you smell it?” Mercer asked.
The gold-red light from the rocks darkened the blush that crept over Wolffey’s pale cheeks. The skin was dark purple under his eyes giving them a bruised tint. He turned away when he realized Mercer was watching him closely. “I don’t smell what you do.”
There was something more about the cavern than the mood lighting. “But you do smell something?”
Wolffey’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. I suggest we keep moving least you lose focus again.”
Underneath that comment laid a very frustrated being. The assassin wasn’t as frosty as he thought.
He fell in stop beside him. “Why did you need me to open the doorway?”
“Not your concern,” Wolffey growled.
The gestohlen stopped and he followed the assassin’s gaze. A deep red light glowed at the base of a circular hole in the ground. His first thought was of Hell, except it wasn’t as hot as he thought it would be.
Mercer started towards the light with his nerves vibrating. The light softened from red to pink and the scent shifted from reptile scales to his forest in late summer. He breathed it in, vaguely conscious that the comfort was false.
Wolffey caught him by the arm, pulling him back. They tripped, losing their balance on the uneven rocks underfoot and Mercer slammed up against the wall with Wolffey pressed against him. It took a second to realize that a gloved hand was against his mouth. The leather was worn and soft, smelling like orange polishing oil and leather.
The motion was surprisingly protective, not an attribute he thought the assassin possessed. He held his breath; not wanting Wolffey to realize how close they stood. Heat radiated from the body pressed up against his. His lithe figure was deceiving. Muscle, hard and unyielding, curved to his body as Wolffey placed a barrier between him and the perceived danger.
When nothing moved, Wolffey dropped his hand and took a step back. “Excuse me,” he muttered, careful not to catch his eyes.
Mercer caught his arm, expecting resistance and was surprised at how easy it was to pull Wolffey back towards him. Orange blossom filled his senses, drawing back the haze that had followed him since he stepped foot inside the mountain. “You’re the first person to believe they’re superior to me since I’ve become an alpha. I’m flattered, but I don’t need your protection.”
The assassin was unreadable. “Next time, I’ll let you step out into the open like an idiot.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Not that he was protesting the closeness either, but he wasn’t use to people treating him like a beta or worse, an omega.
Wolffey was in motion. The assassin he remembered from youth was back in stealth mode. His movements were slow and calculated as he pulled away. His eyes darted around the space, taking in everything, but avoiding him.
“We need to keep moving,” Wolffey said. His tone lost its heat. He sounded uncertain; young.
A delicate scent plumed in the air, with a musky male aroma underneath. The testosterone refused to be hidden by female pheromones. Wolffey drew his blade and moved with stealth towards the hole, a mere shadow like the rest of the cave that the light couldn’t penetrate. Mercer followed behind him, suddenly aware that he should’ve brought his Glock.
There was a thudding, ebbing flow to the light as if it were responding to a base player. The cave remained silent, except for the few loose rocks they kicked. If they were heading down, there was nowhere solid to tie the rope the assassin carried at his hip. When they got to the edge, he realized the rope wasn’t necessary. There was a stone path that spiraled along the wall. The walls inside the hole had the same consistency as honeycomb with a thin golden film closing them off. Light pulsed behind the amber gelatin, warm and beckoning. The come-hither smell was thick.
“It looks like the inside of a beehive,” Mercer said. The assassin didn’t respond. “Please tell me these demons don’t have stingers.”
Wolffey chuckled. “Some demons don’t need stingers. They’re a lot more persuasive.”
They stood side by side, staring. The light didn’t stretch all the way down. The staircase went into gloom before it was completely hidden by pitch black. Dread rolled through him. The world below looked bottomless, justifying the bone deep chill within him
“How far down are we heading?” His next question was going to be about a flashlight.
Wolffey caught his eyes. “How strong is my scent?”
The question caught him off guard. He cautiously leaned in and sniffed the air, but he already knew how strong the assassin’s scent would be. “If you’re asking how aware I am of you, the answer is very.”
Wolffey nodded, distracted. “Then our travel maybe short. Like the faeries, this place is a world of glamour. The demons will show you your deepest desire in order to get what they want. Stay cautious, alpha.”
The assassin took the first step, then paused and turned back to him with something in his hand. It was a gun. Mercer stared at it, gauging the offer.
“Do you know how to aim and fire?” Wolffey asked. There was no sense of mockery in his tone. The bland question was merely an inquiry, something he should be use to from the stoic assassin.
Mercer took the gun. �
��I can handle this.”
EIGHTEEN
He allowed Wolffey to stay just ahead of him on the glossy, obsidian stairs. With no railing, he didn’t dare walk beside the assassin. No reason to make it easy for the assassin to pitch him over the side. They walked in companionable silence, but when the younger man swayed up against the wall and slid down onto his rump, he closed in.
He pushed the black, silk wrap from Wolffey’s head and untwisted it from around his neck, expecting to have his hand shoved away. When he wasn’t dismissed, he knew something was wrong. The gestohlen was hardly the passive type to let someone mother hen him.
“Hey cowboy, you don’t look so hot,” he said. Wolffey was so pale, his skin almost looked gray. His skin was clammy and his pupils were pinpricks.
Wolffey’s lower jaw quivered. “Obviously, I’m nary hot.”
Mercer smirked. The brogue was distracting. “Clearly.”
Wolffey frowned at him. “We need to keep moving.”
Mercer caught him by the shoulders, expecting the willful assassin to pull away. Instead, he allowed the closeness, and tolerated the assistance to his feet. When he didn’t immediately break the contact, Mercer held him closer. A demon realm wasn’t ideal for exploring these feelings, but damn, it was easy to lose that focus.
Mate. The werewolf purred.
“Maybe,” he growled in irritation.
“What?” Wolffey’s words were muffled against his chest. The words were hot through the fabric of his clothing.
He really should pull away before the assassin pitched him over the edge, but his hands tightened. When Wolffey started to go slack, he gave him a gentle wiggle. “How much farther do we need to go?”
Wolffey raised his forehead from Mercer’s chest to look at him. The dark circles under his eyes and the purplish bruise on his cheek were stark against his graying paleness.
He silenced the spark of panic at the center of his thoughts that if something happened to his guide, he’d be stuck in a demon realm. “Wolffey?”
The assassin blinked a few times before giving him a shove that would’ve made him feel better if there had been proper force behind it. Wolffey’s attention drifted back up the stair levels they previously walked before settling back on Mercer.
His guide was in need of medical attention. He needed to keep Wolffey focused. “Talk to me. What do we need to do here and what do we need to do to get back?”
Wolffey fumbled with his navy blue pouch. The minute it opened, the smell inside was strong. He pulled the dried plant out and stuffed pieces of it in his mouth.
“Marijuana?” he asked.
Wolffey tightened the pouch closed and let it dangle at his side. He winced when he straightened, his hand lingering on his side for just a second. It was a telling sign where his pain was centered. “It’s surprisingly helpful for a Topside medical antidote.”
“That’s debatable. I need you alert and focused. I have no idea what we’re looking for or how to get back out of here once we find it.” He had no interest in staying in a demon realm. It was ridiculous even thinking he was in a realm outside his own. Until Hota went missing, he only believed in the young werewolf who looked and dressed like the fey. He didn’t believe in the fey folk.
“Believe me, I’m more alert than I want to be right now,” Wolffey grumbled.
Mercer pulled away, not sure if the assassin could be goaded into aggression. “What are we looking for?”
Wolffey rolled his shoulders and brought a hand to the back of his neck. He subconsciously licked his lips and stretched. “The ruby eye is the point of destination. It’s so bright that one could see it from the bottom of this pit.”
Mercer looked over the side. “I hope it’s not actually at the bottom of the pit. That’s a long walk. Is there any way to speed this up?”
“Yes.” Though the word was crisp, there was hesitation behind it. Wolffey continued without prompting. “You need to do your mating wolf routine to lure Lilith out.”
“What?” He stared hard at the glazed eyes staring back at him. Had Wolffey just insist he behave like a werewolf after all the times he put werewolves down? He approached the subject cautiously, though there was clear reason to be insulted. The assassin considered the werewolves lowly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do something werewolf-ish to benefit the assassin, though Hota’s life was on the line. If this would speed things up, who was he to dismiss it? “What do you consider a mating ritual?”
“Anything annoyingly howler like,” Wolffey answered.
The assassin was feeling well enough to insult him. They were on the right track, but he didn’t like Wolffey’s suggestion.
“You want me to pee on things?” Mercer asked.
“If that will help our cause.” His answer was insipid. He had his bow and three quivers already lined against the string. A werewolf would prowl. The assassin chose to stalk. His steps were carefully placed, toes only, no heels. It wasn’t solid like a wolf ready to pounce, though he knew from experience that Wolffey never ran from a fight.
Mercer frowned, ready to point out that it was a joke, but it was clear the gestohlen didn’t care. He looked dutifully cognizant in what he was doing. Mercer pressed his fingers in his pockets and waited for the assassin to bring his attention back to him.
Technically, courtship was part of the mating ritual. He would give Wolffey what he was looking for, though not exactly how he was expecting it. “The third time we met, you bit me. You might be fuzzy on our traditions, but my inner wolf intimately interpreted it as intention.”
“My intention was far from intimate,” Wolffey scoffed. His attention remained on the surrounding honey comb colored walls.
Mercer took the steps until he was right behind the assassin. Wolffey didn’t turn to look at him, but the way his shoulders tensed, the younger werewolf was aware of his presence. He leaned in and whispered, “Wolffey, when you bit me, you claimed me as your mate.”
The arrows went downward. He had the assassin’s attention, even if the younger man refused to turn around. “You misinterpret my annoyance, howler. You didn’t know when to stay down. I was giving you incentive to stop being a pain in the ass.”
Mercer chuckled and Wolffey tilted his chin a hairs breath. It took everything inside him not to push back the assassin’s hair to expose his neck. His teeth ached to bite the pale, swan neck in front of him and to return the favored mark, but the bow and arrows were still in the younger werewolf’s hand.
“Your incentive shifted gears in my primitive brain,” he mused.
Wolffey turned to look at him. Lavender flared in those golden eyes. Despite what the assassin claimed, he couldn’t deny the interest now, even if the gestohlen didn’t quite understand it himself.
He pushed Wolffey’s hair behind his shoulder and when the younger werewolf didn’t shrug his hand away, he gripped his shoulder tighter, drawing him closer. The arrows were now pointed at the ground, allowing him to close the space between their bodies. He brushed the tip of his nose against the assassin’s, taking in the soft scent of orange blossoms and the richer scent of werewolf.
Mercer caught his jaw, drawing Wolffey to his mouth and the assassin was all too allowing as he leaned in. Their lips brushed. He could feel the younger werewolf’s quickened pulse from where his fingers drew along his neck just under his jaw. It wasn’t enough. He hungered for this moment, but pulled away. It was better to take the longer journey when the prize at the end was Wolffey.
The energy was static with electricity. It made the hairs on his arms stand and his hackles rise. Something was watching them… no, numerous eyes were watching them. “We have company.”
There was movement at the edge of his eyes, too far to be a threat. The person in front of him shivered too, Wolffey’s eyes dipped to his lips, then back up to his eyes. He wanted to trace the bruise on the assassin’s face with his thumb, trying to picture what the young man had gotten himself into and why was he now sick?
“When you bit me, it was during the mating moon. That moon comes once every four years. It’s the largest moon is in the sky,” Mercer said.
“The Ghost Moon,” Wolffey said. The assassin’s nostrils flared, no doubt, taking in the alpha’s scent.
“Not many people outside the Skin Walker culture know about the Ghost Moon,” mostly because the Native American werewolves didn’t talk about their culture, which was vastly different from the general population of werewolves.
“I study my rivalries thoroughly,” the assassin said. He looked much younger than he had in the club. His skin was pale, his eyes were large. His lips the same color pink as flowering Dogwood. Despite the assassin’s constant irrational anger with him, it didn’t mar his youthful features.
“So you’re interested in me.” Mercer pressed with words only. Though he could close the distance between their bodies, he was extremely aware of the growing movement around them. It wasn’t safe to have his hands tangled when they needed to be prepared to fight.
“You’re distracting me,” Wolffey whispered, looking thoroughly distracted. The assassin licked his bottom lip.
“The feeling is mutual,” Mercer said. This was the first time he’d seen the younger man look so hazed. He leaned in. “I can smell your interest in me. Why are you fighting this?”
Wolffey shook his head, snapping out of his trance. "You wouldn't understand. We can't do this. You're going to regret it."
He took a step back and Mercer caught him before he was out of range, pulling him closer. Solid muscle tightened under his grip. "Why don't you let me decide what I'll regret?"
"Fine, I'll regret it," Wolffey said, still the assassin wasn’t attempting to break his hold. “Think of me as a plague and getting involved will eventually get you killed.”
“I’m not giving up until I know your heart matches your words,” Mercer answered.
Wolffey swallowed. “This shows how little you know about me, howler. I don’t have a heart.”
Mercer smirked. It was more than the gentle ebbing scents in the air. The assassin often left him feeling like he was over his head. “Then you should have no problem slowing your nonexistent heart from its rapid beating.”
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