The Wild Rites Saga Omnibus 01 to 04

by Anna McIlwraith

  Then she almost shouted in surprise as Red sat straight up and swung his legs off the side of the bed, but she recovered fast enough to snare his shirt in her grip. “Not so fast, big man.”

  He made a frustrated noise. “I am not content to have strangers take the first watch. I’ll sleep when Leah and Horne are awake.”

  “Then you may as well sleep now, because they’re definitely still awake.” Red half turned to her, ready to argue, and then he stopped. Emma could see his ears twitching.

  “Well they’re hardly on watch,” he said, voice rough. He let his head drop forward. “Fine. An hour. I’ll sleep for an hour.”

  Wary, Emma let go of him. “You need more than an hour.”

  “I need more than sleep,” he said, swinging his legs back onto the bed. Emma made room for him and he stretched out on his back, staring at the ceiling.

  “You can’t change here?”

  He closed his eyes. “I could. But I don’t want to. Need more than a few minutes away from this shape to feel good again, and hotels…” He shuddered. “Don’t make me feel very good either. No matter what shape I’m wearing.” He opened his eyes, frowned, and reached over to cup his right shoulder. His white tank left the clump of scar tissue exposed — it didn’t look ragged, but it wasn’t as clean as an amputation done with modern surgical procedures would be — and it had always reminded Emma of the bole of a tree.

  She thought of the vision she’d had when he kissed her the first time — something terrible and magical flying out of the darkness, something with row after row of shark-teeth, biting Red’s arm clean off. She shuddered.

  “Does it hurt?” She asked.

  He sighed. “Sometimes. When I’ve gone too long in human shape, yeah.” He was quiet a moment, then he glanced sideways at her. “My beast has all four limbs, see.”

  Emma propped herself up on one elbow. “How is that even —” she stopped. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He frowned at her, then closed his eyes. “Ain’t prying. I couldn’t regenerate the arm, because fae magic inflicted the wound, but fae magic can’t touch beasts. So my beast is whole. The way the magic figures it, a man stole the amulet, a man lost his arm for the trouble, so a man pays the price.”

  Emma was torn between compassion and rabid curiosity. “Are you ever tempted to change and never change back? Not because of your arm, I mean. Because of the curse?”

  He opened his eyes a fraction, and they were a soft amber. He looked at her like she’d done something interesting, but she didn’t know what it could be. “Used to,” he said. “Came close. But not anymore.”

  The bathroom door opened and Fern emerged in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around his waist and wet hair raked back from his forehead, leaving his face bare and strange and beautiful. Most of the rest of him was bare and strange and beautiful also, and it was an effort not to stare. Was it even possible for him to have gained more muscle since Emma had last seen him naked?

  And that was a thought she did not need to be returning to right now. He yawned hard enough to crack his jaw, politely ignoring her inner monologue. “Move over, bed-hog, I’m almost asleep already.”

  Emma wriggled into the middle, sort of — Red took up one whole side of the bigger-than-king-size mattress. He was on top of the covers, which meant Emma hadn’t bothered to get under them, and with the hotel’s central heating and a shapechanger either side of her, Emma doubted she’d be cold. Fern clicked the lamp off; the glow from the city beyond the window silhouetted him as he folded his towel and put it on his pillow to protect it from his wet hair.

  “Ouch,” Emma said as he stretched out beside her. “You’re on my hair.”

  “Sorry.” He rolled; she tugged the mass of her hair out from under his shoulder. It was too long, and the texture was different, thick and heavy like something alive.

  You’re not a monster, Fern sent gently, his breath warm near her temple and minty from toothpaste. You’re still you. Try to sleep, okay? We’ve got a whole five hours, and all this shit will still be here for us to worry about when we wake up.

  She exhaled. Five whole hours of sleep sounded pretty good.

  So of course, something was bound to screw it up.

  24

  The last five months had given Emma a lot of practice in waking herself from nightmares. Sometimes it wasn’t the nightmares that frightened her, it was how many of them she had, and how often. But she’d also read a lot of books on trauma syndromes and recovery techniques over the past few weeks, and according to those, it was normal and proper and right. She still had terrifying dreams of Seshua, and the shootout at the Roadhouse — and sometimes, of the night Telly called down the storm and left her — and she figured that was normal and proper and right as well.

  It wasn’t a bad dream of Seshua or of Alexi being shot that woke her this time though. Nor was it the most recent addition to her stable of sleep terrors — the highlights reel of her time as Alan’s prisoner, which included such gems as tearing out a man’s throat with her bare hand, being shot in the same hand at point blank, and seeing Katenka withered from the wasting illness and being thrown across the room like a bag of sticks. The main event, of course, was being eviscerated by Storm the genetically altered mutant and then forced into the ritual by her billionaire vampire ex boyfriend.

  But, nope — this time it was the attack on the ranch, but instead of the serpent priests it was Alan coming for her through the snow. He was dressed in full medieval armor, and he had Fern’s head on a pike.

  She heard herself gasp as she opened her eyes; sleep paralysis dragged at her limbs and turned her vision to a dark smear. There was something heavy draped across her stomach, and something bony lying across her legs. It was Fern’s feet. He lay turned away from her with his knees tucked up, feet resting on her shins, his shape a pale gleaming blade in the darkness. His side rose and fell with his breath, and Emma’s heart eased.

  Red had rolled to face her in his sleep. His arm was slung across her midsection and his breath ruffled her hair, his scent comforting and wild, even if he really did need a fresh t-shirt. And a shower. And more than the five hours sleep he was going to get — if he didn’t get up and try to take watch. He was stronger now, because of the pledge, but he had no idea what his limits were and neither did any of the rest of them, and they were all relying on him. Had he eaten at the wawkalaki mansion? Emma thought he had not. She decided they weren’t leaving in the morning unless he’d showered, changed clothes, and ordered room service.

  Listening to him sleep there in the dark, Emma was slammed by the sudden, sickening awareness of what it would do to her if something happened to him.

  She closed her eyes, clenching her teeth, trying to ride the rising swell of love and terror.

  It shouldn’t be possible to feel such a thing for more than one person, but she did. Him, and Fern. And Alexi, gods help her, he was the first. She couldn’t even convince herself she loved them in different ways; they were different people, all so different, but her feelings were the same. If she lost them — if she lost one — she would lose her mind.

  Unable to lie there any longer, Emma gave Fern a subliminal nudge via the merge to move his feet without waking him, and inched her way out from under Red’s arm. Somehow she’d never noticed that his bicep was the same width as one of her thighs, and she thought it probably weighed just as much. He growled, purred once, and settled himself over the warm spot she’d left, all in his sleep. It made Emma wonder how little time had passed since they’d gone to bed, if he was still sleeping so deep.

  Emma suspected the answer to that question was “not very much” when she snagged her jeans from the pile on the armchair and crept out of the bedroom, opening the door only wide enough for her to slip through, and found Ivan at the dining table with just the glow from the screen in front of him illuminating his sharp features. His presence was a bright spot not just in the room but also in Emma’s inner, metaphysical landscape; the p
ledge bond chimed like a soft bell behind her ribs, its music letting her know that he was there, and he was hers, and he was whole. He didn’t quite feel it himself yet, but —

  Whoah. Mental shields would be a good idea. Emma pulled them into place with a few deep exhales and resolved to try to get to know Ivan a little more via conventional means before peeking inside his head again.

  He had what looked like a tablet with a heavy rubber case propped in front of him, a few other gadgets and wires connected to it. He looked up as she padded into the lounge area, eyes still narrowed in concentration, and didn’t look phased to see Emma up and about in just her tank and underwear.

  “Has the watch not changed yet?” Emma kept her voice down.

  “Fatima is in the hall and Shadi is on the balcony. You slept less than an hour.”

  Great. “Yeah, well. Maybe I’ll try to get back to sleep in a little bit.”

  He sat back in his chair and made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “In that case you will not want any of the coffee that Fatima had sent up from room service.” He nodded toward the small wet bar.

  Oh God yes. Emma whispered her thanks and headed for the bar. Any guilt she might have felt at drinking coffee at two in the morning after lecturing Red Sun on how he needed sleep disappeared after that first sip of bitter, caffeinated goodness. She didn’t even bother with sugar.

  She really needed to put some pants on though; there was a chill to the air in spite of the central heating. But her jeans were kinda filthy. Ivan must have seen her shivering, because he cleared his throat and said quietly, “Fatima unpacked your things. There are clothes on the pack second from the right.”

  There were also painkillers. She took four. Black cargo pants and a zip-up fleece, along with the coffee, chased off the chill of nightmares and sleep deprivation. But it did nothing to warm the cold knot of dread that had lodged itself in her gut while she lay between Fern and Red Sun in the dark. Leaving Ivan to whatever he was doing on the tablet, Emma slipped out onto the balcony and into the biting cold night air.

  Shadi was perched atop a wrought iron breakfast table, one foot on a matching chair and various bits of gear in his lap, and his hair was loose and curling over his shoulders in thick glossy waves. The table must have been sturdy as fuck, because Shadi was almost seven feet tall and likely weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds, most of it muscle.

  When he looked up it was clear he’d been expecting Ivan or Fatima. “My lady commander?”

  “I guess you don’t have preternatural hearing either. That makes two of us.”

  “No,” he said, pale green eyes hooded. “I do not. It is too cold for you to be out, my lady.”

  “I’m fine. I have coffee.” He was right, but the cold was also good. Emma went to the balcony railing, the mug hot in her hands and the wind blowing through her fleece, and her spirit seemed to gulp at the cold as though it were some nourishing substance she hadn’t known she needed until now. She felt a little more solid somehow.

  From fourteen floors up, Moscow looked far away and deserted in spite of its lights. “I don’t know how much of this you remember,” she said to Shadi without turning away from the view, “but on one of our… rides, the shorter one around the perimeter of the ranch where the guards let me go alone, I told you about Alan and what he wants to do. What he plans to do to the world if he can.”

  There was a clinking of buckles and the sound of arrows jostling together, and then Shadi stepped up beside her. He kept a good three feet between them and leaned on the balcony. “I remember.”

  Emma sipped her coffee; she knew it couldn’t be true, but it felt like the best coffee she’d ever had. “I was just thinking, what would this view be like if he gets what he wants.”

  Shadi shifted position and turned his face to her. “There have always been men with terrible dreams of empires built on the ashes of the world. Few succeed.”

  Maybe, Emma thought. Maybe not. “The world’s a completely different place to when you were last human. I’m sorry.”

  “I am not.”

  She met his eyes. “You’re not?”

  He shook his head; his hair fell over his shoulder in a dark cascade, and he shrugged it back. “I was not a good man. And so my world was not a good world. I never would have become a good man in my lifetime.” He turned around, propped his back against the balcony, and took an arrow from the satchel strapped to his belt. “I never would have lived for almost nine hundred years, either — the oldest magi was no more than two hundred, and he was very powerful, and I am not. So I never would have lived to know you, and to have the chance to serve you, however I may.” The arrow moved in his hands, turning as his fingers traced its fletches and its fine steel head.

  “Why the bow?” Emma asked. His hands stopped and he looked down at her, city lights glittering in his shadowed eyes. “I mean, I know why you don’t use a gun. Some of the jaguars I’ve met used swords, and the jackals use spears as a traditional weapon as well as modern hardware. But you prefer a bow.”

  Shadi sheathed the arrow and crossed his arms. “I am a master assassin,” he said without a trace of ego. “I can kill with any weapon known to man, yet I need none. I am an expert in hand to hand combat, yet I am a prince of the magi, so I need not lift a finger. But some enemies cannot be killed with sorcery, and blades are slow and can be turned against their master.” He straightened and unslung his bow from where it rested across his torso; Emma hadn’t even known he had it on him, as the string was all but invisible against his dark shirt and the spine had been hidden in his hair. He shrugged the bow free in one smooth movement, while Emma was pretty sure she’d have gotten it stuck in her hair and then poked herself in the face with it.

  “This,” Shadi said, hefting the bow, “Is light as air in my hands, and cannot be taken and used against me.”

  Emma suspected it wouldn’t be light as air in her hands. They were a hell of a lot smaller, for one thing. “I’d have thought it’d be awkward and only good at long distances.” He looked at her like she was crazy, and she felt the need to defend herself. “It’s not a common weapon anymore, y’know. It’s considered a sport. People train for years, and it takes immense focus just to hit your target from a standstill, and — what?”

  Shadi shook his head, smiling. “This is a sport now? Hitting a target from a standstill, with the bow?” When she nodded, he made a disparaging sound. “Here,” he said, lifting the bow and drawing an arrow from the pouch on his belt. “I will show you something. See that flag, flying from the building down there?” He knocked the arrow to the bow, lifted it loosely and took a step back.

  “Wait wait! No!” Emma put her hands up, slopping coffee over the edge of her mug. “You can’t go shooting random stuff. Besides,” she frowned, transferring the mug to the other hand so she could dry her palm on her pants leg. “Isn’t the arrow on the wrong side?”

  “You jest,” he said with a dry stare.

  “No, really. How do you aim with the arrow on the right side?”

  He lowered the bow. “How would I aim with the arrow on the left?”

  She really didn’t know anything about archery. “Along your sight line?”

  “You are suggesting I aim with my eye?”

  “How else would you aim?”

  Without breaking eye contact and moving so fast Emma didn’t track it, he stepped up to the balcony railing and lifted the bow to chest height and let the arrow fly. There was no chance of tracking the arrow itself. But there was a fading whistle of the arrow shaft through the air, and a hole in the flag flying from the large historic building a block over from the hotel.

  “Um,” Emma said.

  Shadi re-slung the bow over his head and across his chest and approached her. When she didn’t back away, he stepped into her personal space and slowly wrapped his hand around her waist, and when her mark didn’t flare, she stood still and let him.

  “Here,” he said, gripping just a little. “I aim
from here.”

  She looked down, then up — way up — into his face. “Um. From your liver?”

  He let her go and stepped back. “Yes.”

  Okaaay. “I guess that means you can’t teach me how to do it then.”

  “Perhaps.” He turned away and went to his things on the small table, giving Emma an unencumbered view of the glory of all that dark, wavy hair hanging to his rump. “If you can build the strength. If you have no aptitude for it, then no. But mastering the bow — the proper way, not whatever it is people do in this time — could be a useful advantage for you. You are human in a world of demons. They are faster and stronger than you, but little is faster than the bow.”

  Emma thought better of disputing the term ‘demons.’ For someone who’d last been human in the thirteenth century, it was as good a term as any. As for the rest, he had a point. “Red’s been training me in hand to hand combat,” she said, reclaiming her spot by the balcony railing. “But it’s all defensive stuff. To make the most of this.” She waved her marked hand.

  Shadi lay his pouch of arrows on the table. “They do their best, these men and women sworn to protect you, I have watched them. In this form, and the other one. But they are creatures of magic and primeval instinct. They are powerful and deadly, but one day they will come up against a force that is just as powerful, just as deadly, and far, far more organized, and they will flounder.” He turned to her. “You have seen it coming, even if you do not know it. Your power outstrips their knowledge and soon will outstrip them. That is the reason for all this,” he said, his gesture somehow encompassing the hotel, the mission, the strange country they found themselves in.

  “I do know it,” Emma said, looking at her hands. “And it scares the shit out of me.” She looked up at Shadi. He was staring at her, hands forgotten at his sides; his nostrils flared and the look in his eyes was a familiar one. It was the fierce, defiant look that Sefu always got when he stamped his foot and called for her to come for a ride, to gallop and outrun whatever it was that haunted her. But he couldn’t do that anymore, and the set of his jaw told her he wished he could.