The Wild Rites Saga Omnibus 01 to 04

by Anna McIlwraith

  “You needn’t worry for her safety,” Khai-Khaldun said to Telly, who cocked his head and fixed the king with a hard, unblinking stare. The king seemed unaware of Telly’s rising anger, but Kahotep flinched. The tiniest movement.

  “A fair fight,” said Khai-Khaldun amiably. “Merely good sport. The aim is to subdue, not wound or kill. No shapechanging, no edged weapons.” He looked at Emma, and the pretense of good manners died as the smile left his face. His eyes dropped for a second to her body. When they returned to her face, nothing in them had changed, but calculation tightened the corners of his eyes, etched a thin line down either side of his mouth. “Besides,” he said. “You are the caller of the blood, chosen of all our races. Your power is great. A mere hand to hand duel should not pose an insurmountable challenge to you.”

  Alexi stepped forward, and Emma swore she heard him hiss. Cold, biting wind stirred the air, mingling with the heat of Telly’s power, for once not battling against it. Alexi’s butter-yellow eyes flashed, neon in the jumping torchlight.

  “One of us will fight in her place,” he said, voice like iron. “We can up the stakes. Life or death. Surely that will provide you with more sport than the trifling spectacle of a human girl fighting one of your guards.” Alexi sniffed, nostrils flaring wide. “The very idea of it is an insult to us all.”

  The jackal king laughed, harsh and throaty. “You, priest, evidently do not place much stock in the powers of the caller of the blood, the prophesied Eye of Re. But I do.” His eyes lit up. “It is she I have invited here, and it is she who wishes to bargain, and it is she who I wish to observe in the poetry of battle.” Khai-Khaldun crossed his thick arms over his chest — or almost did. “There is no reason for senseless violence here and now, and that is what a duel between one of your men and one of mine would be,” he said to Alexi. “Life and death indeed. No.” He motioned to Tarik. The king’s second in command nodded and slipped past the jackal guards, shooting a look at Emma that she couldn’t decipher.

  “Your precious caller of the blood shall have an opponent matched to her,” said Khai-Khaldun, triumph in his cold golden eyes, as the jackal guards parted their ranks.

  Emma’s heart dropped into her stomach.

  The warrior who stalked forward, dark eyes glinting malice, body a fabulous symphony of rippling muscle and feminine curves, was hardly a matched opponent.

  “This,” said the jackal king, satisfaction practically dripping from the words, “Is Nathifa.” Tarik emerged behind the tall, exquisite black woman, moving to take up his position next to the dais of the king. His eyes were glued to Nathifa — and Emma could hardly blame him. She was stunning. And she was about to wipe the floor with Emma.

  Emma ground Fern’s fingers together in her grip. We don’t have a choice, do we?

  Fern forced strength into his mental voice. I believe in you.

  Nathifa stepped forward, threat etched in the tense lines of her body, her mane of thick, springy dark curls falling around her face and over her muscled shoulders, swinging well past her waist. Emma stepped back, Fern and Telly and the guards going with her.

  “Telly,” Emma hissed at him, ignoring the murmurs of the guards who didn’t have a clue how to get them out of this. “What are we going to do?” She couldn’t fight Nathifa, couldn’t fight anybody, she just wasn’t good enough — and what’s more, she couldn’t say it to anyone, because if Khai-Khaldun suspected she wasn’t as powerful as she was supposed to be, it was the first nail in their collective coffin. Although he was about to find out soon enough — like in about thirty seconds time, when Nathifa kicked Emma’s scrawny white butt all the way back to California.

  Telly turned to her, a dangerous gleam in his eye. “We’re going to fight.”

  Emma tried to stop her eyes from bulging. “You mean I’m going to fight. How the fu—”

  “Hush. ” He grabbed her, wrapped an arm around her, putting his forehead against hers and shielding her from the view of the jackal king. Then he reached across and caught her right wrist. Fern, inches away, met his eyes and then glanced at Emma.

  Trust him. Fern let go of her hand.

  Emma’s glare turned to wide eyed shock as Telly grasped her right hand and woke the mark.

  19

  Emma felt as though she held a live coal in her palm; invisible flames engulfed her hand and climbed her arm, and cold electricity fizzed against her skin, racing up her spine and over her chest as heat from the mark coming alive tried to swallow her.

  She doubled over and Fern caught her before the jackals saw.

  What is he doing? Emma tried to breathe through it, clutching Fern. The mark won’t win me this fight.

  Not just the mark, came the reply. Emma gave up trying to breathe; Telly had just spoken in her mind.

  You can do this all the time, this mind-speak thing? With me I mean. She remembered his voice in her head, when they’d walked in the woods, a hundred years ago, remembered thinking she’d imagined it.

  Yes I can. The mark. He caught her arms, brought her up against his chest, made her look into his eyes. They were close, huge, white with power.

  Why? She didn’t struggle, instead tried to melt into him, tried to appear to the jackals as though Telly had grabbed her for a last minute embrace. It was Telly’s thought, not hers, but her body obeyed as if it didn’t matter.

  Why what? He bent his mouth to her ear, pretending to murmur sweet nothings. Why now, why not sooner? The threat is now. I would have left it as long as I could if we didn’t need to do this, but we do. We can’t lose, Emma. The rest of us also need time — time to find the missing serpent priest. Khai-Khaldun has designed this so that we do not have that time, so that he can view our strengths out in the open and in turn weaken you. He will take us all now, if he can.

  She tore her gaze away from his and watched, heart sinking, as the jackals formed a wide arena with their armored bodies. Nathifa stood poised at the center. Khai-Khaldun surveyed them from his throne.

  “Whenever you are ready, caller of the blood.” His full mouth curved, smug stamped all over his face. He was certain of victory.

  It’ll take more than the mark to win this.

  Telly shook his head. You’re in my head, yet you don’t read my thoughts. We have more than the mark. He shook her, wrenching her focus back to him. His face turned grave and angular, man slipping beneath the beast, but his eyes softened, full of something Emma couldn’t name.

  I want you to know that I am sorry. Emma frowned, but he pushed his way through her halfformed objections. You’re not going to like this, but we can argue about it later. He glanced up, over her head. Merge with her, Fern.

  Anger and regret — not hers, Fern’s — slammed into her mind a split second before the merge took hold, then everything disappeared as Fern poured into her, everywhere, filling her body with heat, adrenalin, racing nerves of pure fire. White-hot faith beat against her brain like a drum; Fern’s consciousness hit hers and dissolved, melted, and something dark and huge molded itself to the space inside Emma’s skin. The tarantula, Fern’s beast, shapeless and shadowy but waiting to take form. Emma’s hands pulsed with light and shadow, echoing the banded pattern of the tarantula’s legs, and Telly gathered them close to his chest, covered them with his own.

  Why is it like this? The merge hadn’t felt so suffocating before. When Fern’s voice answered in her mind, it was rich and deep and boomed off the walls of her skull.

  Telly’s mark. It’s as though you’ve opened the call. The feel of his voice was thick and hot in her mind, her heart, every atom of her being, completely unlike the Fern she knew in real life, outside of her own body. Inside her body, his voice was her blood, the electrical impulses in her brain, the thud of her pulse. She almost keeled over.

  If this is what the merge is like when I open the call, maybe I’m better off never coming into my powers.

  Telly’s voice chilled her like a wind blowing off the sea: I agree, velleheshli. Now let us fight. He
let go of her hands and swept her robes from her shoulders. They pooled at her feet and she stepped out of them, into the makeshift arena, vision swimming and streaming with colors and shadows as the firelight jumped to the beat of the wind. Telly and Fern retreated to give her room, but their merged presence was solid and immovable at her back, in her mind, in every cell of her body. She felt the exact moment when Telly took Fern’s hand in his; felt Fern’s gratitude, felt his amplified strength pour into her, faith that she could do this, terrible fear that he would let her down — and terrible anger that she had been violated again. That was what he thought this was, a violation, reminding him too much of what he’d done to her not so long ago.

  He thought it the same thing, but Emma didn’t agree.

  She met Nathifa’s hard eyes and fear burst into her mouth like blood. Her heart raced, too fast, pulse roaring in her ears. Nathifa snarled, lip curling, and feinted lazily to the right; a test. Emma mirrored the movement and found her body supple, nerves singing with energy, heat sizzling through her bloodstream. Inside she felt like she might throw up, her system flooding with enough adrenalin to make her pass out, but her limbs moved with a smooth precision that belonged to someone else — two someones.

  Nathifa lowered her head in open challenge, body tightening. Emma’s eyes saw it; the men’s minds knew it for what it was. Nathifa leapt and Emma dropped, boots kicking up sand as the female sailed over her, hands curved into claws. She twisted mid air and landed in a crouch. Emma scrambled, legs and arms moving faster than she thought about it, bringing her to all fours and propelling her backward in a swift crawl, all shapechanger grace. Her heart screamed in her chest; she could not do this! They weren’t even fighting yet!

  Even as she thought it she rolled to the side, twisting and flipping to her feet, retreating from Nathifa. The female was relentless and terrifying, hair flying as she came, hooked hands out at her sides and ready to swipe, grab, wrest Emma to the ground. The king had said no mortal wounds, no kills. What the hell did that mean? How was she supposed to subdue a jackal warrior without killing her?

  You must attack, Emma, stop evading. Telly spoke in her mind, voice gentle, will iron. Emma ran at Nathifa, horror exploding in her gut — what the fuck was she doing? Nathifa grinned in triumph, loping forward to meet the attack, and Emma did the only thing she could think of — was it her thinking or the men doing it for her? — she slid to the ground and used her momentum to smash into Nathifa’s legs, left hand grabbing one beautifully muscled thigh for leverage, dragging her up for her right hand to jab the jackal in the ribs. Nathifa yelped as Emma’s marked hand hit flesh, more strength behind the jab than Emma should have had, and they both went down as the jackal doubled over and took them both to the ground.

  Snarls erupted — Nathifa’s and hers. Emma leapt onto Nathifa’s back but didn’t get to stay there. Her nails raked red tracks down the warrior’s shoulder blades before Nathifa twisted and brought one foot up to slam into Emma’s chest.

  Breath ceased to exist. Black sparkles swarmed Emma’s vision, and when they cleared it was just in time for Nathifa’s fist to smash into her face, the force of it throwing her to the side. She landed in a heap, sand in her mouth, sweat and blood in her eyes. She heard someone yelling, another screaming, recognized Felani’s voice. She gasped air and came to her feet, already moving, pretending to retreat from Nathifa.

  Nathifa darted forward, attacking with her hands, trying for a grappling hold and Emma slapped her away, feet dancing. A punch caught her chin and snapped her head back; strength flowed into her, a hot rush that pushed back the pain, pulsing to the beat of her heart.

  Why hasn’t she wiped the walls with me yet? Emma whirled as Nathifa’s claws raked out. Her feet moved of their own volition, drawing Nathifa forward, keeping her from moving in close enough to attack.

  She’s drawing it out, Fern sent, learning your technique. Emma felt Fern’s push behind the punch she threw at Nathifa. It glanced off Nathifa’s forearm and the jackal returned the blow, sending a concrete wall of pain crashing through Emma’s blocking arm.

  But I don’t have a technique! She cradled her arm even as she darted away from Nathifa.

  I know, Fern sent grimly. And she’s going to know that in about thirty seconds time, and then neither Telly nor I can make you win this. We can only help, we can’t take you over — your mind’s too goddamn strong. Telly could do it, but he’d have to leave his body, and if the jackals see him slumped on the ground and suddenly you’re all Rambo, they’ll call foul. His thoughts assaulted her in a wordless, continuous rush. He knew what Telly could do and how he could do it because they were all merged. His panic and desperation beat at her in bitter waves.

  Great, that’s just great. She ducked below the next swipe and ran, backwards, hands up to guard herself.

  Nathifa growled, stalking across the wide space of the arena, sudden determination stamped across her features. Playtime was over.

  Emma thought of Anton — his desperation to train her in hand to hand combat. You can’t defend yourself out in the open. You can’t outrun them and you can’t match their strength. You have to use your weakness against them.

  Emma stumbled and Nathifa charged, body stretching out, a blur of speed. One moment she was yards away and the next her shoulder hit Emma in the chest and they were airborne, Nathifa’s fingers digging into Emma’s ribs, hair flying out like a curtain behind them both. They hit the ground, sand and limbs flying, tumbling as Nathifa rolled and threw Emma onto her back, straddling her. The air slammed out of Emma’s chest; scalding heat rolled up the length of her torso, the men pushing magic into her, reinflating her lungs. The world swam as oxygen flooded her body. She swung for Nathifa’s face with her left hand and the jackal caught her arm, yanking her body up, wrenching Emma’s shoulder joint out of its socket.

  Emma screamed as the pain hit before the men could block it out and Nathifa’s face lit up with triumph. Emma watched in slow motion as Nathifa brought one hand up, arcing back, fingers curving into talons. The jackal warrior looked down at her and her eyes were dark with hatred, pure, blind rage. Emma felt her body swell with answering darkness, thick muscled shadow climbing her throat, not hers but Fern’s, with Telly’s magic following it like a firestorm, hurtling through her body and gathering terrible strength in the seconds it took Nathifa to take aim and swing.

  The jackal’s talons missed, plunged into hair as Emma rose, left shoulder screaming, right hand driving at Nathifa’s face. The heel of her hand collided with the underside of Nathifa’s chin with the force of a freight train. Nathifa’s head snapped back, body following in an arc, thrown into the air and sailing for a moment before she hit the ground in a tangled heap.

  She stayed there. One heartbeat. Two. Emma pitched forward onto her knees, swaying, unable to catch herself with either hand as she fell gracelessly to her side, sand grazing her cheek.

  Please don’t let her get up. Emma’s vision whirled, and she blinked sand and blood and sweat from her eyes, tasted it in her mouth, dirty, bitter. Her mind reeled, head buzzing with a dizzying combination of three minds thinking and hurling emotion in the same confined space. She crawled to her knees again, legs underneath her.

  Nathifa’s eyes were closed. The jackal guards started to murmur. Emma glanced up at Khai-Khaldun, found his gaze on her, face unreadable. His nephew’s eyes, though, were on Nathifa’s slumped body — and so were Tarik’s.

  Emma couldn’t have killed her. Absolutely not.

  Is she dead?

  Tarik moved forward from the shadow of the dais. He pointed at Emma. “You —”

  Khai-Khaldun snarled and Tarik fell silent, throat working.

  Telly’s mind poured strength into Emma. It doesn’t matter. Declare your victory before they can think of a way to take it from you. His voice was urgent, pushing at her with power.

  She stood. “Somebody get down here and help her.” Emma’s voice was a horrible, broken thing. She coughed, taste
d blood, mouth gritty with sand.

  Nobody moved, except Tarik, who vibrated with tangible anger.

  Emma made herself focus on Khai-Khaldun. “She’s your warrior, damn it.” Something flashed in his golden eyes, but Emma was in too much pain to give a shit. “I declare my victory, okay? Now get her some help.” Emma swayed, and when Fern and Telly flooded her with power, it only made it worse. She felt as though she were drunk.

  “She cannot have claimed the victory without foul play!” Tarik glared at Emma and she resisted the urge to thank him for the vote of confidence.

  The jackal king shifted in his seat. Somebody behind Emma was sobbing. Emma heard her own breath heaving, but could do nothing to slow it.

  Khai-Khaldun turned, leaning down from his throne to speak to one of the guards. “Examine Nathifa for wounds. She lives, but if Emma has won this fight unfairly, we need to know.” His gaze slid back to Emma, narrow, suspicious. But he didn’t really believe she’d fought unfairly. Emma could see it on his face; defeat. She’d bested him, and it was probably her first mistake of many.

  The guard went to Nathifa’s side and turned her over. She was either dead or unconscious. Shapechangers healed fast, and bruises were fading, minor cuts and grazes no longer visible. Only one huge, black bruise was spreading like a stain across her chin and jaw and wasn’t going away.

  The jackal guard ran his hands over her, stopping to turn her head from side to side, hands pausing on the slender column of her throat. He said something rapid in Egyptian. Khai-Khaldun’s jaw worked, a muscle twitching in his cheek.

  He stood. “Nathifa lives,” he said, voice dangerously deep. “The fight has been won with no major wounds or lethal blows.” His eyes found Emma, expressionless. “Caller of the blood, you are victorious. You have two nights in our kingdom to consider prince Kahotep’s pledge.” Emma felt relief flood through her, but it wasn’t her own.