The Wild Rites Saga Omnibus 01 to 04

by Anna McIlwraith

  Emma huffed out a sigh. “Sounds promising. What about the rulers themselves?”

  Alexi cocked his head at her. “There is only Yevgeny and his daughter.” His cheeks took on a hollow look beneath the scars when he mentioned the child, Emma noted, but he went on in the same cold tone. “The woman, Nadezhda Denisova, she is the child’s caretaker, but she is not of noble birth. There are photographs everywhere throughout the house, recent ones, but we have yet to see any of these many relatives.” His nostrils flared, flickered, and his eyes turned cool. He was suspicious.

  Hell, so was she; the last time they’d done this, they’d had to trek through hundreds of miles of Egyptian desert, straight into a hostile nest of evil and corruption, and here Alexi was talking of mansions and bay windows and balconies and photographs. Sure, she wasn’t suspicious for the same reasons he was — he’d probably had tons of cordial visits with neighboring kings where tea was served instead of an impromptu fight to the death. No, he suspected the wolves of hiding something — where Emma just suspected it might be a big practical joke, and when the limo stopped she’d be tossed into a stone dungeon instead of onto the front stoop of a respectable country estate.

  Alexi made a curious sound, and she refocused to find him staring at her with one corner of his mouth tipped up. It would have been a smile if not for the hard curl of his eloquent nostrils and the jagged, angry streak of scar running away from his mouth like lightning made flesh.

  Emma’s mental shields slammed down, and her cheeks heated. Damn it, why couldn’t she concentrate when he was around? Fern’s mind nudged at hers, but she squeezed his hand and rejected the merge. She didn’t have to cower in Fern’s mind every time she came into contact with Alexi — and if Alexi really wanted to know her thoughts, he was welcome to them. He’d already assured her he had no interest whatsoever, so she shouldn’t have anything to worry about — which didn’t explain the look on Alexi’s face.

  Horne stirred beside her, turning to Red Sun. “How long will it take you to scope out the mobility at Yevgeny’s sanctuary?”

  Emma frowned. Mobility? Red grumbled, coughed, sounding like a big cat. He had to be cat. “Few minutes, tops. Should feel it if there’s anything hefty there, like in Egypt.”

  Ah. They were talking about Red’s neat little trick of dematerializing. Apparently, he’d transported her from the jackal king’s palace to a nearby healer’s hut back in Egypt via his unique method of travel, but she’d been busy keeping an appointment for a near-death experience at the time, so she didn’t remember. As for how the hell he did it, or where he’d picked it up — just another goddamn mystery.

  Speaking of mysteries, what had Alexi meant before, when they were talking about Telly disappearing?

  Was he happy Telly wasn’t here? He had to be. Was she the only one who gave a shit that the walking god was gone, that Telly had left her?

  Of course she was. To everybody else, he was either an enemy or a scary dude whose protection was convenient, nothing more. The ranch was still safe, in whatever way he’d made it safe. She still had the mark.

  Then again, Alexi and Seshua were ancients, and from the way they’d both spoken, Emma guessed they’d dealt with Telly’s disappearing act before. But they were ancients . They would still be around in another few hundred years when — if — Telly returned.

  She would not.

  Em, don’t. Nobody knows for sure. Fern’s voice was gentle, his touch in her mind like butterflies, but there was a razor edge to it. She glanced at him and found his eyes on Alexi. It was the first time she’d seen him look at the serpent priest like that. Fern hardly ever looked at anybody like that.

  Fern?

  Fern never got a chance to reply; Alexi cleared his throat, startling Emma into looking at him. His yellow eyes, always so direct, now hooded. Hiding something.

  He dropped his gaze. “This…” He turned his right hand over with a ripple of his knuckles, and Emma went still.

  He held the iPod in his large, long hands. She tensed, ready for him to throw the thing at her.

  “It is yours?”

  Emma blinked, and managed not to do her best impression of a goldfish. “Yeah. It’s mine. I mean it’s…” She dropped her voice. “Well, it’s yours now.” Couldn’t look at him. She was going to die of embarrassment. When you gave someone a peace offering, they weren’t supposed to turn around and quiz you about it; that’s what subtext was for.

  Alexi turned the iPod in his long, lean fingers. “I mean the music.”

  Emma looked up. “The music?” She became aware that the guards were glancing over and she willed herself not to meet their eyes — which meant staying fixed on Alexi.

  “Yes.” A flicker of annoyance tightened the delicate skin around his eyes, made the faint iridescent sheen of scales on his cheekbones glitter in the limousine’s dim interior lights. “Did you choose it?”

  Emma nodded, finally curious. “Why?”

  Alexi pushed his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, exposing muscular alabaster forearms, marbled with the faint blue and green tracery of veins. A frown drew his severe black eyebrows down. Concern and suspicion and something brittle roiled in his gaze, like smoke to the fire of his yellow eyes.

  His voice was soft; a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Do you wish to mock me?”

  Mock him? Sure, because she totally had a death wish.

  Emma leaned forward, challenge in her eyes. She coaxed her anger upward from her toes and let it settle warm and solid in her chest. “Is that the only explanation you can come up with for anything?” She kept her voice low, knew they were all listening anyway, watching. “Just because you —”

  “Wait. ” Alexi’s voice cut through her like a gust of arctic wind. He sighed through his nose, and reluctance flickered through his face like a barely glimpsed shape beneath water. He dropped his gaze. The muscles at the base of his neck tensed. “The names are ridiculous. I simply was not sure what to think.”

  Emma stared at him a moment. “The names? Of the bands, do you mean?”

  His eyes came up to meet hers, hard and veiled with defensive arrogance. “Yes.”

  Emma bit her lip. Careful. If he thought she was laughing at him, she might lose a limb. “Which bands are you talking about?”

  Alexi’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. Jaw clenched, he brought his chin down and looked at the gadget in his hands, thumb on the power button. The little screen blinked to life, and he frowned. Emma waited, determined not to look at Fern; she didn’t want to know what he thought about this situation. Bad enough he could read her mind — she didn’t have to read his.

  “See?” Alexi grunted. “Mr Bungle? Def Leppard. KISS.” He looked at her, cocked his head, challenge in his eyes. The thin line of his mouth pulled down at one corner. “Whitesnake.”

  Oops.

  “Bands just tend to have weird names,” Emma said, trying to sound casual. She nodded at the device in his hands. “There are less weird ones on there.”

  He grunted again, looking down at the iPod. “There is a lot of Faith No More.”

  Aaand now she was blushing for no good reason. “They’re my favorite band.” They were definitely before her time, but her mom had loved them.

  Alexi’s brow smoothed out. Without the severe frown and the sneer, he was handsome in a lean, frightening way. Emma had to remind herself the scars hadn’t always been there. Before she could stop herself, she wondered what they would feel like, with their rough edges and shining, satiny smoothness — red and purple and silver, angry, but captivating in their own way.

  Alexi flinched, but his eyes never left hers. Her mouth turned chalky and she slammed her shields down, but too late, always too late.

  She swallowed roughly and surprised herself with her own voice. “But do you like the music?”

  Alexi’s nostrils flared wide. He leaned back in the seat, leather creaking against leather, hands and iPod in his lap. Ignoring the stares of everyone in the limo, Alexi unravele
d the cord and settled the earbuds in his ears with deft fingers, tipped his head back, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. “You know,” he said, with a smug look on his face that wasn’t a smile but came damn near close. “I find that I do.”

  13

  The scenery visible through the dark limo windows went from industrial sprawl to lush green suburbs, and then roadside forest alternated with flat countryside, all crisp and pale in the blue morning light, quaint traditional style farmhouses dotting the landscape. Eventually the view either side of the highway became a monotonous blur of forest with the occasional glimpse of fields or lakes, and she hadn’t seen another house for at least half an hour by the time the limo made a turn-off down a featureless side road.

  Another seven or eight minutes passed in thick silence, only trees and flickering sun dappled shadows visible beyond the limo windows, rows of them flanking the rough, neglected road. Emma swore she could hear the squeak and scrape of everyone grinding their teeth — everyone but Alexi, who still sat with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, no telltale movement beneath dark, bruised-looking lids. Almost serene — but Emma knew better.

  She was the only one who didn’t flinch when Alexi sat up with a liquid movement and snatched the earbuds from his ears. By the time the limo pulled to a stop seconds later, he had the earbud cord wrapped neatly around the iPod, and then it disappeared into a pocket with the quick finesse of dexterous hands, too fast for the eye to track.

  By some unspoken agreement, nobody moved to climb out until the muffled sound of other car doors slamming confirmed that Seshua and the others were out and ready. Then the limo door opened, and Anton drew the big semi-automatic from beneath his jacket and followed the weapon out of the vehicle.

  Emma wasn’t surprised to come last, but she was surprised when she stepped out of the limo and looked up at the stunning white mansion sparkling in the bright morning sunshine. Modern architecture was made charming with ornate lacework and dark green ivy climbing the plain pillars either side of the front door, framed by landscaped gardens and tall silver birch trees. There was even a fountain in the center of the circular drive — marble, a stag leaping high, two wolves flanking him, water jumping and glittering silver all around them. The moment just before the climax of the hunt, joy captured with none of the gruesome consequences.

  Fern’s mental voice held the edge of the grin on his face. It’s not exactly Castle Frankenstein, is it?

  She looked at him, gave a little shake of her head, and hooked her arm through his. If they were dressed to match, they may as well look the part, even if him looking so spiffy did give her an inexplicable case of nervousness.

  It might not look like Dracula’s lair, but the fountain creeps me out.

  Fern covered her hand with his and squeezed back. Just wait until you meet the real wolves.

  Now there was a sunny thought.

  Seshua came stalking up to her, looking big enough to block out the sun. He wore a tailored black suit jacket over a midnight blue muscle tee, and it made his smoky cobalt skin look bluer.

  He towered over her, eyes flicking up and down her body in a way that had less to do with sex and more to do with making sure she didn’t have a hair out of place. “Are you ready, pequeña? ”

  His gaze moved beyond her, and she sensed without knowing how that Alexi was behind her. Maybe it was the chill that skipped down her spine. She glanced around at all the faces, surely more than were needed here; she caught the eye of one of the dark-haired Russian girls, and her anger at Seshua flared just as hot as before. But now wasn’t the time — see, she was learning. She didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing — perhaps she was just learning to give in.

  How long before the notion of choosing your battles turned you into a coward who chose none at all?

  She set her jaw and flashed a searing look at Seshua. “Let’s go.” She moved away without him, warmed by the sudden glitter of uncertainty in his blue-lagoon eyes, even if it was petty.

  Her boot heels crunched on gravel as she was escorted toward the deeply shaded front door, surrounded by guards and maidens. You’re not a coward, Em. Fern’s mental voice was gentle, but it held a steel core.

  She glanced up at him. Still couldn’t get used to his hair being styled up like that instead of flopping over his brow. I’m glad you think so.

  He narrowed black eyes at her. I don’t just think so. I know it.

  She looked away, even as something inside her chest eased.

  Gravel underfoot turned to pavement, and Emma glanced up as the front doors opened and Nadya Denisova greeted them with a deep bow. The frosty blond woman looked much more at home surrounded by crisp sunlight and smooth, elegant architecture. Her pale hair hung loose about her shoulders, dead straight, and she wore a simple cornflower blue sheath that fell from beneath her armpits to her ballet-slippered feet.

  Emma tried not to feel silly, peering out from behind Seshua, Horne, Andres and Raul as they made their way up the steps. They gained the porch landing and came to a stop in front of Nadya; the Russian woman met Emma’s eyes, and Emma resisted the urge to look away.

  Nadya tilted her sharp chin in a nod, not breaking Emma’s stare. “Welcome to the sanctuary of the Ruskiy wawkalaki.” Nadya’s chin came up, and her gaze intensified. “Our home is yours. All things in it, save the princess, are yours, should you want for them, for you are Caller of the Blood. ”

  Emma fought to keep her eyebrows from flying off her face. In front of her, Seshua and Horne and Andres had gone very stiff, and she could practically see Seshua itching to turn around and tell her how to accept such a grandiose welcome — but he wasn’t going to get the chance.

  She shoved her way into the narrow gap between Seshua and Horne. “I don’t want your house or anything in it, Nadya. I just want to help.”

  Genuine shock claimed Nadya’s face, and her glacial beauty fell apart. Lips parted, she blinked like an idiot, and Seshua shot Emma a look over his shoulder that made her suspect she’d maybe said the wrong thing — just maybe.

  Fern cleared his throat. I don’t know whether she’s offended or just surprised or both, but you’d better say something, fast.

  Emma glared at him. Thanks a lot. Out loud, she said to Nadya, “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a perfectly good house back in California, with way too much stuff in it already. You can keep your stuff.” Nadya’s left eye twitched. “I mean I’m sure your stuff’s great, perfect, much better than mine…” She trailed off, stifling a groan as she took in all the mortified faces around her, Fern included. “Well fuck, I’m not making this any better, am I?”

  She was just about to turn around and see if she could claw her way back into one of the limos, knock the driver out and make a quick getaway, when from inside the house came an unmistakably male laugh, somehow dry and rich at the same time, throaty and laced with something Emma could only call power.

  Nadya’s whole demeanor changed, face gone still and careful, shoulders tensed, and she breathed harder. Emma thought the woman’s jaw trembled as she turned to look over her shoulder, and then Emma stopped seeing Nadya at all as the man stepped into the diamond sharp morning light.

  Sunshine turned his mane of hair to white fire: thick silver waves swept back from his face, tipped with brown and autumn orange, with black streaking from his temples and from a steep widow’s peak. All that hair cascaded down, pale and tawny against the wine red of his shirt, and framed a tan face that was not pretty — not even beautiful in the arrogant way of the jaguars. Square chin, thin lips, wide jaw and cheekbones too high on either side of a nose that was thick and had obviously been broken too many times to heal straight.

  But then all Emma saw was his eyes, strange and shocking, and her stare locked with his, and part of her screamed look away! and she couldn’t.

  Those eyes were slanted, orange, and lined with black — not makeup but flesh, his inner lids and the deep inner corners
of his eyes, black, just like a real wolf, and the pupils were eerie pinpoints, just like a real wolf, and she could smell the dense and fertile scent of earth and vegetation, lush new green things and old black dead things and riding it all the fruity copper-tang of spilled blood on snowmelt, on icy, hoof-packed dirt.

  And he towered over her, and she thought, how could she be so fucking stupid ? She’d led herself straight to the monsters this time, no coercion necessary.

  Without taking his eyes off her, Yevgeny Mihaylov tipped forward from the waist and spread his arms wide in a bow, the movement exposing the corded length of his forearms — tawny and dusted with white hair — as his rolled up shirtsleeves strained. Emma almost expected to hear buttons popping. She did hear growls, all around her, and still she couldn’t break his stare.

  He straightened, tendons in his neck standing out. “My lady,” he said with a thick Russian accent, voice fluid with power, “If I could look away I would, but I am king and you are caller of the blood. It seems I do not have it in me. You will have to find strength enough for us both.”

  Sure.

  Right.

  The guy was hysterical.

  Emma screamed at her brain to obey but it wouldn’t. Not even with Fern’s hand on her arm, his mind in hers, his mental touch digging in with teeth and commanding her to do as he asked — he’d never been one for making commands to begin with. Pain slammed through the right side of her skull, and she swore she heard the defiant cry of something with hooves thundering to its death.

  Then cold magic hit her from behind in a breath stealing wave, and Emma recognized the touch of Alexi’s power as he opened the call, flinging sensory awareness at her in a focused attack. Rivers of cold fire danced from the nape of her neck to her tailbone, spreading gooseflesh in painful swathes down her arms and up over her breasts until finally she gasped, but the Russian wolf king still held her gaze pinned, chained to his own, something uncertain dawning in his orange eyes —