Rickert heard the sound of boots above him.
“Oh, please don’t.”
More rocks fell from the edge, followed by a dark shape. It narrowly missed Rickert and landed with a thud near his feet. The woman moaned and rolled to her side.
What the bloody hell was going on? Weren’t these two fighting for the same side?
“Oh, for chrissake,” the man muttered. “That bitch’s got nine lives.” From the sound of it, he was leaning over the edge.
Every muscle in Rickert’s body froze. He didn’t dare breathe. He prayed to the Fates that he was hidden enough in the shadows. If the guy spotted him—
The soldier cursed again and landed on the ledge with a grunt. Rickert smiled to himself. It wasn’t often that the enemy fell into his lap like this. First the woman, then the man. He’d make quick work of these two, then meet up with the others at the rendezvous point.
With his arms held slightly away from his body, as if they were too muscular to hang straight down, the pale-haired bloke strutted toward the woman. Enemy differences aside, he had an air about him that made Rickert want to plunge a knife into his belly just for the hell of it.
Palming his blade, he’d strike in three, two, one—
“Let’s see if you can survive this,” the man said, and kicked the woman.
Mo naire! What the bloody fuck was that?
Drawing her knees into a fetal position, the female soldier made no move to fight back or defend herself.
What kind of soldier would turn on one of his own—especially a woman who sure as hell didn’t act like a soldier?
Ha! The kind of soldier who just took his last breath.
Before the man could kick her again, Rickert slipped from the shadows. In one silent movement, he grasped a handful of the man’s hair, drew a blade across his throat, and the soldier slid to the ground as if his ligaments had turned to gel.
Rickert kicked the body over the edge and watched as it fell hundreds of feet to land at awkward angles on the river rocks below. He turned back to the woman. Of average height and with blond hair covering her face, she wore camouflage army fatigues and black boots. A Protection-Talent, huh? Then she probably wasn’t seriously injured.
Now what? It wasn’t like he could leave her to attract the attention of the other soldiers, especially not this close to the entrance. He rubbed a hand absently over his arm before realizing that the leather-corded necklace he kept wrapped around his wrist was on the other side of the portal. Twisting his blade, he watched the moonlight flash its reflection in the cold-forged Balkirk steel.
Why had one of her own tried to kill her? What had she done to deserve that? Recalling the brutal attack invading Pacificans had made on his family’s village a few years ago, he wasn’t surprised that these people were capable of senseless violence. No matter how long he lived, he’d never forget what awaited him in Summer’s Folly when he returned late one night. Violence between fighting men was one thing, but against innocent villagers...his own flesh and blood....
Anger pulsed through his veins like the river raging below him, feeding his never-ending quest for revenge.
Bloody hell, he hated them. Every single damn one of them. Including this woman.
Three quick whistle bursts, like the screech of a night bat, pierced the air. It was Asher, his second in command.
Given that she was a Protection-Talent, the dagger probably wouldn’t work on her anyway. Besides, he didn’t want to damage it to find out—the sturdy blade was one of his favorites. He’d been iron sick for days after bringing it through the portal, and didn’t relish the thought of suffering through that again just to get a new one. After tucking the weapon into the leather sheath strapped to his back, he whistled a sharp reply to Asher. Maybe they could figure out how to use her Talent to their advantage.
He bent over, planning to drag her away from the edge, but she weighed so little that he ended up hoisting her into his arms instead. One of her hands wedged against his torso, cold against his bare skin. As he straightened, a misty haze filled his vision. He stumbled and fell to his knees, careful not to drop her.
He blinked a few times, thinking he’d stood too quickly, but the mist before him remained. The cloud began to swirl and dissipate somewhat, revealing a figure in the center.
No, two people. A man and a woman. They were...
They were making love.
Rickert sat back hard on his haunches, the soldier still cradled in his arms.
The woman in the mist skimmed her hands down the man’s back, over the crest of his hip, digging her nails to urge him deeper. The man’s ass flexed as he drove into her with long, powerful thrusts.
Their movements became more frenzied until suddenly the man stopped, buried all the way to the hilt. He arched his back and—
Holy bollocks! They were climaxing together.
Rickert scrubbed a hand over his face as his cock swelled in automatic response to this erotic imagery playing out before him, even though it...couldn’t be real.
The two stayed joined for a moment—the man cradled between her bent knees, the woman gently caressing his back—before he finally rolled off. Rickert couldn’t hear them, but he imagined they were whispering words of love to each other.
The man kissed her tenderly in response to something she said, and placed a broad hand on her belly, filling the space from hipbone to hipbone. And as he did so, a strange yet pleasurable sensation roiled through Rickert’s body. Different from the easily sated lust he was accustomed to, this was something deeper, more emotional.
Through the years he’d bedded many women, but he’d never made love to any of them as this man made love to this woman. With such passion and significance. Was this what it felt like to love and be loved back? To have a future filled with the promise of such happiness?
He didn’t know, because he’d never thought about these things for himself. Protecting his people and preventing the deaths of innocents were his only priorities. When his sister had died so brutally at the hands of the enemy, he vowed to focus on nothing else. It’d be pure selfishness to think otherwise.
A sharp realization filled his mind, like a drop of water that sizzles when it’s flicked onto a hot skillet. The woman was about to conceive the man’s child from this lovemaking. At this very moment, the man’s seed was inside her, searching for its target, and her body was waiting to meet it. Although how or why Rickert knew this, he didn’t have a clue, but he was absolutely certain.
Rickert exhaled slowly, letting a quiet calmness fall over him. Shhh, he wanted to whisper to them. Be still. Let the Fates work their magic.
As the couple slept blissfully in each other’s arms, the mist thinned out further, and the faces came into focus. The man’s dark, wavy hair fell to his shoulders and the familiar face, which had always seemed angry when it stared at Rickert from a mirror, now looked peaceful and content.
“Bloody hell!”
No. Impossible. It couldn’t be.
He pushed the woman away and dragged himself to his feet, the mist disappearing into the cool night air. He tried to inhale deeply, but all he could manage were a few strangled breaths.
He was that man.
And the beautiful woman—the one from the mist—was the hurt little soldier before him.
CHAPTER 2
“I say we kick her over the edge,” Asher said as his dog sniffed the woman’s foot. Even though Conry often trotted ahead, scouting independently, the deerhound was never far from the man. The two were inseparable...in both worlds. “It’s got to be two hundred feet down to the river and Snoqualmie Falls isn’t far away. No one can survive going over that.”
The sour sting of bile rose in Rickert’s throat at the thought of harm coming to the woman, but he wasn’t about to tell his second in command what he’d seen in his head. Asher would simply say the vision was Talent trickery at work.
A seun, a spell.
Or maybe just the muddled mind of a desperate
man.
Before each mission, Rickert took a vow of celibacy in order to channel all available energy into killing the enemy. Asher always thought that was bullshit, and never passed up an opportunity to dally under the skirts in either realm.
“We can’t take the chance she’d live and join up with another unit,” Rickert said. “Protection-Talents are extremely rare and almost impossible to kill. Their army would waste no time putting her into action again before our mission here is complete.”
The other man started to protest, but Rickert cut him off. “Besides, they’re getting close to the Crestenfahl portal. We can’t make it any easier for them by letting her go back.”
Asher brushed away a thin black braid that had slipped from its tie. Considering his tight-fitting T-shirt and ripped jeans, he’d clearly stolen the clothes from someone who didn’t give a damn about his appearance. The only place they belonged was in a fire pit, but that was just Rickert’s opinion. His men were free to make their own choices, even if they wanted to look like New Seattle street thugs.
He rubbed a hand over his worn leather kilt. Practical and easy. What a proud Iron Guild warrior should wear.
“So what are you proposing we do if you don’t want to kill her?” Asher asked.
“Take her prisoner and see what kind of information we can extract.”
Asher frowned as if Rickert had just smoked an entire bowl of prath in one of the Crestenfahl hookah pubs, and was now trying to carry on an intelligent conversation. “Through the portal? We haven’t taken a prisoner in... Damn, I can’t even remember the last time.”
“True, but we’ve never captured a Talent before, either.”
“But there are families there, Rickert,” Asher said through clenched teeth. “Babies.”
“She’s not a threat.”
“You know that for sure?”
“Yes,” he said icily.
“And who do you think can take her through?” Asher patted Conry’s wiry gray coat. “Most of the men just came over and won’t be able to make another crossing for a few weeks.”
His friend was right. No one would risk being violently ill for days. Portal sickness was much worse than being seasick. And if done too often, a crossing could be deadly.
An explosion sounded from the other side of the canyon. The woman stirred, but still didn’t wake. Even unconscious, she made a lousy soldier.
“I’ll take her.” The moment the words tumbled out, Rickert felt himself relax...and he knew instantly this was the right thing to do.
“Are you crazy? We need you here. What about the munitions bunker? Who’s going to set the charges?”
“Toryn and Konal. They’re just as capable as I am. And you know the locations of the explosives caches. Besides, you said so yourself—there’s no one else to take her through.” He glanced at the position of the stars. “Daybreak is coming. We both must leave.”
“But...you’ve got more kills than the rest of us combined.”
Rickert cursed. Since when had his authority turned into a democracy? Maybe Asher had been spending too much time here and had forgotten how things worked back home.
“Enough. My decision is final.”
* * *
“Let’s go.”
Something hard jabbed Neyla’s upper arm. Her head pounded like a lopsided jackhammer, the ground was gritty sandpaper against her cheek. There was a muted stillness to the air, suggesting she wasn’t in the forest.
“Come on. Get up.” A man’s voice and that annoying poking again. A boot. Probably with a steel toe, given how hard it felt against her arm.
Wait—the cliff.
“Get away from me, Smythe.” She held up her hands, feeling vulnerable and angry all over again. But the moment she spoke, she realized it wasn’t his voice she’d heard.
“I’m not Smythe.”
The accent sounded—strange. One of the new guys? She probably should’ve introduced herself to the recruits, but given what had happened at the train, she’d been reluctant to reach out to any of them.
What mattered most right now was having this guy help her get back to the command post. She’d tell the Captain what Smythe had done, then take some heavy duty Tylenol, find the empty bunk where she’d stashed her duffel, and go to sleep.
“On your feet. Hurry.”
Jeez, whoever this was, he sure was bossy. He couldn’t be a friend of Smythe’s, could he? God, she hoped not. She cupped her forehead, trying to contain the pounding inside.
Resigning herself to the fact that she couldn’t just lie here, that she needed to actually get up, she sighed and rolled over. A quick glance revealed she was just inside the mouth of a cave. A large shadow of a man with his legs spread, hands on his hips, stood at her feet. With the night sky behind him, she couldn’t make out any details other than his formidable size.
“What unit are you from? Where am I?” Neyla pushed herself to her feet while he just stood there and didn’t offer to help. He kept his hands tucked into his—
She saw a slight movement of cloth near his hips. Was that a loincloth? A kilt?
Panic roared in her ears and her focus narrowed like an arrow speeding toward its target.
An assassin from the Barrowlands.
She reached for her gun. It was gone. The knife at her hip—gone. She sidestepped him, jumped toward the front of the cave, but he drew a large sword and blocked her path.
The throbbing in her head intensified. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyebrows and couldn’t help staggering backward.
What should she do? What could she do? What was army protocol in situations like this?
God, she had absolutely no idea.
* * *
The air cooled with each step as Rickert marched his prisoner deeper into the cavern. The woman stumbled again.
“Pick your feet up and you won’t trip so much.”
“I can’t see. Don’t you have a flashlight?”
“No,” he growled, not bothering to hide his exasperation. Bloody hell. He could walk faster with his eyes closed.
If he could throw her over his shoulder, it’d make things much easier, but he didn’t dare give her the chance to plant another hallucination, especially now that she was awake. The first vision on the ledge could simply have been an anomaly, but it had happened again as he’d carried the unconscious woman to the portal entrance. And, of course, it had to be another one of those damn sex fantasies.
A Talent trick, maybe—an instinctual protection technique activated by physical touch to keep an enemy from harming her. It was brilliant, actually, getting your enemy to sympathize with you. After seeing and feeling that, he wasn’t exactly compelled to draw his blade across the throat of his dream lover. Not that it’d even work, given her Talent, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let himself dwell on what he’d seen in those visions. She was his prisoner—nothing more.
If he wanted them to speed things up beyond this snail’s pace, he’d have to light a couple of wall torches, which didn’t really appeal to him. He preferred to stay secret and anonymous on this side of the portal, living in the darkness and shadows. No one over here who saw him as a Cascadian assassin lived to tell anyone about it. But what was the point? She’d see him when they got to the other side anyway.
She tripped again, almost falling to her knees. Och. At this rate, it’d take them another hour to get there. With a slight nod of his head, he concentrated on a wall torch up ahead. It fizzled and sparked before bursting into flames. She gasped and stopped in her tracks, her hands flying up to shield her eyes. He almost ran into her.
“What...magic is this? How did you—”
The little hairs on his arm tickled when she spoke, and he rubbed the sensation away. Figures a Pacifican soldier would think such a thing. Magic had been gone a long time, used up centuries ago during the Obsidian Wars, when the worlds had been divided. However, her people were convinced his side still had reserves hidden away and were desperate
to get at them. “No magic, soldier, just Talent.”
He wasn’t as powerful as she was—his only ability was a weak command over fire, which wasn’t even strong enough to be considered a Fire-Talent—but he certainly wasn’t going to tell her that. Let her think he could do all sorts of things.
Her eyes widened. “You’re a Talent, too?” Her lyrical voice contrasted with the harsh accent of a Pacifican to make a most captivating combination. Like sweet and sour. Being able to see once again had definitely given her courage.
He allowed himself to examine her a little more closely. She was petite, at least a head shorter than he was, and fine-boned. In the torchlight, her golden hair shimmered, and he found himself wondering how it’d feel between his fingers. Would the strands glide through like silk? Her almond-shaped eyes were the color of emeralds flecked with tiny bits of gold that reflected the light. Praise the Fates, even in this shapeless army uniform, she was beautiful.
One brow arched quizzically upward, as if she were waiting for him to do something. “If you’re not going to answer, then at least tell me where you’re taking me.”
That snapped him out of the spell. Enough of this nonsense. A celibate warrior didn’t let himself get sidetracked like this. Even by an incredibly gorgeous woman.
“To a jail pit in Cascadia.”
She took a step back, her gaze darting left and right. “You’re taking me into the Barrowlands? The portal is here?”
He bristled at that term. It implied that his world was on the fringe, created as an afterthought to her steel and concrete world, rather than the other way around. “Where did you think I was taking you? To one of your shopping malls?”
“You’re a—a barbarian.”
She was calling him a barbarian? The irony made him laugh. No use arguing—she’d find out soon enough. Their jail pits weren’t exactly civilized.
Her nostrils flared as she scrutinized him from head to toe like a piece of meat, her gaze leaving a trail of sparks over his skin. He was mildly surprised when his cock stirred again between his legs, brushing against the leather kilt. He’d always been attracted to strong, confident women, but clearly, his already poor judgment had been unduly influenced by those tantalizing visions. His vow of celibacy notwithstanding, he was normally much stronger than this.
Dark and Dangerous: Six-in-One Hot Paranormal Romances Page 48