Assassin's Touch, Iron Portal #1

by London, Laurie

  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.

  He fingered the hilt of his sword to remind himself of who he was—and that she was his bloody enemy. “Go,” he said gruffly.

  She didn’t budge. “Release me at once.”

  This petite thing was giving him orders? He choked back another laugh. “You got full of fire once you laid eyes on me,” he said, holding his arms straight out from his sides. “I must look like a fool or buffoon and not the fighting man I thought I was.”

  “If you let me go, I promise not to say anything. I have a terrible sense of direction—I’d never be able to find this place again.”

  She couldn’t be serious. “As if there’d be anyone for you to tell. Lucky for us, you were knocked unconscious, wiping out your shield of protection. Disposing of your unit was a simple affair after that.”

  “The whole…every one?” Horror registered in her expression and she shrank away from him.

  A twinge of something—regret, maybe?—stirred in his gut. Why had he said that? Although eliminating the advancing enemy was their prime goal, he didn’t know if Asher and the others had succeeded yet or not. He should have just kept his mouth shut.

  “If...if they’re all gone, why are you taking me with you? What do you want with me?” She spoke tentatively, as if she didn’t really want to know the answers.

  “As one with abilities, you are a very dangerous member of your army. I cannot permit you to join up with another group to threaten the safety of my people before my men have completed their mission.”

  Her head snapped to attention as if she’d been struck. “Threaten? We are a danger to you?”

  He wasn’t impressed. “You act surprised.”

  Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks as she thrust a finger at him. “You’re here—on our side. You’re the ones who threaten us.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to recall the images of his ransacked village. The charred bodies hanging from the trees. The missing children.

  He shoved aside those memories and stared at this woman. She didn’t look like she could be capable of such actions, and yet… “You are mistaken, little soldier.”

  She appeared shaken, but her tone was caustic. “You’re lying, barbarian. I’ve seen what you’ve done.”

  He took a menacing step toward her. What arrogance that this woman called him the monster, as if her people were innocent of unspeakable crimes, incapable of the atrocities he’d seen with his own eyes. Maybe Asher had been right. Maybe this was a mistake.

  She backed away from him, her delicate nostrils flaring. “What do you plan to do with me once we’re in the Barrowlands?”

  “Throw you in jail and wait for the courts to decide.”

  Chapter Three

  “Remove your clothing.”

  “Excuse me?” She couldn’t have heard him correctly with his strange accent. It sounded like—

  “I said, take off your garments. All of them.” The barbarian unbuckled the weapons strap that crossed diagonally over his chest and tossed it at his feet, then reached for the belt of his leather kilt.

  She had heard him correctly. Her heart lurched as she realized he was going to force himself on her. Frantically, she looked around for a telltale mattress or a pile of blankets, but saw only hard rock and rows of small wooden boxes.

  Was he going to take her like a dog? Push her up against the wall and kick her legs apart? Did he think she was going to give him oral? She ground her teeth together, hardly able to believe this was happening to her. But he was a barbarian, so why should she be surprised he was going to force himself on her? That was what they did. Rape and pillage.

  Think. Think. There had to be a way out of this. Maybe she should let him believe she would go along with his demands, then wait for an opportunity to knee him in the balls and run like hell. But the thought of caving, even if she didn’t intend to follow through willingly, was just too offensive to stomach.

  “I will not.”

  Though he continued to unbuckle his belt, he looked up. His angular jaw was peppered with a thin layer of stubble, making it hard to tell if he normally wore a short goatee or if he’d just not shaved in a while. Even in the light, his icy blue eyes seemed fathomless, and tiny crinkles appeared at the corners.

  He didn’t find this amusing, did he? Determined not to appear weak, she kept her expression hard, her gaze steady—her only weapons since he’d taken her real ones away.

  Then his mouth quirked.

  He did find this funny. Her internal temperature ratcheted up and her breaths became shallow and heavy. This was her life, her wellbeing, and yet it was just a game to him. How dare he make a mockery of her situation?

  “Suit yourself.” He turned his back to her as if he didn’t consider her a threat. At all.

  We’ll see about that.

  She glanced around for anything she could use against him—a rock, a handful of the gritty sand underfoot, a piece of—

  The muscles of his broad back flexed, catching the ligh
t and creating shadows along his spine. Dark hair swept his shoulder blades as he fiddled with the fastenings of the few remaining garments he wore—if you could call them garments. They looked more like the medieval costumes she’d sewn for clients. The leather dropped from his hips, exposing his tight butt, and when he stepped out of the clothes on the ground, the heavily roped muscles of his thighs contracted beneath his skin.

  His body was powerful and strong, his presence so commanding that she forgot who and what he was for a moment.

  She needed to turn away, but it was as if she were tethered to this man by an invisible rope. Something about him felt almost familiar, as though she’d seen him before. As though they’d shared…something. Okay, that was ridiculous. She’d never even met a Cascadian, and she’d certainly never met anyone who looked like this.

  What the hell was she thinking? Was she nuts?

  Maybe that bump on the head had rattled her more than she thought. She had to put as much distance between the two of them as she could possibly manage, and then maybe, while he wasn’t looking, she could take off.

  Digging her fingernails into her palms, she took a step backward. Then another. And another.

  “Stop. Do not move from me again.” He turned to face her with a look that said he knew exactly what she was planning.

  When she glimpsed what dangled between his legs, her breath caught in her throat. Oh God, it was…wow. His flaccid length was as thick as a pipe and it hung confidently in front of his balls. Somehow, she dragged her gaze away, though it was difficult. His magnificent body was a freaking magnet to her eyeballs.

  “Why... What... I will not have sex with you.” She looked up in order to avoid staring at his amazing physique, but even the stalagmites or stalactites—whatever—seemed phallic. “It’s not going to happen.”

  His laughter boomed through the tunnel, as if what she’d said was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “That is not my intention, little soldier. These garments are some of my favorites. I don’t want them destroyed.”

  It took a moment for his words to register. Relieved that he didn’t plan to force himself on her—if she could believe him—she kept her gaze averted from his brazen nudity. “I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand? That I’m fond of what I’m wearing?”

  “Why your clothes would be destroyed.”

  One of his eyebrows shot up. “Are you being serious with me?”

  Why would he think she was lying?

  “Don’t they teach that intelligence over here?” He pronounced the word as if it was foreign to him.

  She had no idea what he was talking about, which made her feel a little stupid. Maybe she hadn’t been paying attention during orientation like she should have. They had crammed a lot of material into the few short weeks before she was assigned to a field unit.

  He rubbed a hand over his raven hair, still clearly confused. “Clothing disintegrates during the portal crossing, and I rather fancy what I had on today. But it’s your choice. You can disrobe now or later. Either way, you will be unclothed when you reach the other side. Do you have any weapons on your person that I didn’t find?”

  “N…n…naked?” Why hadn’t she heard this about the portals? It wasn’t exactly a minor detail. She grabbed the lapels of her uniform, tugging them closer around her neck.

  “Answer me.” He acted vaguely pissed off and she didn’t know why.

  “Weapons? Uh, no.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he looked her up and down. She fidgeted under the intense scrutiny. “So you had no idea why they’re called Iron Portals?”

  “I…I never really thought about it.”

  He shook his head, as if he wasn’t sure he believed her. “You are carrying no weapons other than those I found? Because if you’re lying to me, soldier, you will regret it.”

  It occurred to her that this could be some sort of psychobabble designed to weaken her. Wasn’t that the first step in breaking the enemy’s will—get the prisoner to voluntarily do what you ask, like surrender any hidden weapons? “Is that a threat?”

  “I don’t threaten, little soldier—or play games—but if you are carrying any iron-based metals when you cross over, you could die. Believe me…death by iron sickness is not a pleasant one.”

  “And why should I believe that you care if I die or not?”

  “I don’t,” he said flatly, “but as a Talent, you’re valuable to us.”

  He propped a foot on the stone seat and folded the leather kilt he’d been wearing. Angled as he was, she caught a glimpse of what hung almost nonchalantly between his legs. Did these barbarians have no sense of modesty? Did they all parade around over there like cavemen, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination? No wonder their worlds were so different.

  She seriously needed to stop staring at him and focus on how to get out of here. And when she did, she’d alert someone to the portal location. The army had been searching for this opening for years. This could be the chance to prove to everyone that she wasn’t just an annoying necessity. Surely he couldn’t have killed all the R-Dubs. Forty men? No way. Probably another one of his brainwashing strategies. He had to be lying in order to make her think the situation was hopeless.

  He turned from her slightly, setting his things inside one of the chests. Now was her chance. Despite her bruised ribs and pounding head, she spun around and sprinted into the darkness.

  “You might as well stop,” he called after her. “I know you can’t see well. You won’t get far, and you will simply be out of breath.”

  Her head thunked on a stone outcropping. Ouch. There went her headache again.

  “Or hurt yourself further. I don’t want to carry you back, but believe me, I will.”

  What an arrogant bastard. All soldiers were—Cascadians, Pacificans—it didn’t matter. It was probably a job requirement. With her hands outstretched this time, she continued forward, but it was more like a quick shuffle.

  She hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps when she heard his footfalls closing in behind her. Then a vise—his large hand—gripped her upper arm and yanked her around. She stumbled and crashed into him.

  “Let me go.” She squirmed in his arms, then pounded her fists against his bare chest, but she got nowhere. Aware that the rest of him was bare as well, she was thankful for the darkness.

  Prickly heat, or maybe an icy chill—she couldn’t be sure—skittered across her flesh and her heart hammered out an uneven staccato inside her ribcage. Like the pain of an injury that takes a moment to register in your brain, it took a half-second until her body and mind were filled with the strangest sensations. Her struggles became halfhearted.

  A vision appeared before her like a scene from a silent film—misty and grainy—which didn’t make sense. She wasn’t a Psychic-Talent. She felt as if she were floating, dreaming, yet she wasn’t, because her fists were jammed against the assassin’s warm chest, anchoring her in this bizarre reality. She tried to push away from him, but he continued to grasp her tightly, his fingers pressing almost painfully into her triceps. A strange image came into focus in front of the stone walls.

  A woman with longish blond hair and wearing a pale blue gown turned in the mist and lifted her head.

  Neyla couldn’t breathe. The air was a brick in her lungs.

  Me? That’s…me?

  The woman looked exactly like Neyla. Down to the small chicken-pox scar in the middle of her forehead and the empty triple-pierced holes in her left earlobe.

  Neyla’s knees turned to rubber. She’d have fallen if the assassin hadn’t been holding her up.

  A man appeared behind the woman in the vision. A tall man with powerful, muscular arms and raven hair that fell to his shoulders.

  Oh God. Him!

  The assassin exhaled slowly. Was he seeing this, too? His warm breath whispered across her cheek, fluttering a loose strand of her hair. The strength of his beating heart pounded through her fists, her arms, her body.r />
  Neyla’s breathing became ragged as she watched, unable to tear her eyes away. The man in the mist nuzzled the woman’s neck, and when he ran his hands up her arms, her own flesh seemed to tingle in response. The woman’s dress slipped from her shoulders, past her hips, and pooled at her feet. Neyla gasped and a tinge of embarrassment washed over her. The woman—this reflection of herself—was naked now. They both were. The man stroked the woman’s breasts, her belly, her hips. Oh God, he was reaching between her legs.

  Then the man in the vision lifted his head and smiled. Directly at Neyla. As if he knew she was watching.

  What the hell is this? It’s impossible…

  The assassin’s grip had loosened enough that she was finally able to push away. Instantly, the mist faded. She rubbed her arms where he’d held her a moment ago, the heat from his hands still on her skin. Neither of them said anything for several long minutes. All she heard was the frantic beating of her heart and the panting sound her breath made, as if she’d just finished a training run.

  “Let’s go,” he said finally.

  The sound of his voice knocked her out of her stupor. “Not before you tell me what you just did.” Her voice cracked, making her sound desperate, but she honestly didn’t care. When he didn’t respond, anger rubbed along her nerve endings, the same ones that had been so titillated. “Are you going to give me an answer or not?”

  “I did nothing,” he replied.

  “And you expect me to believe that?”

  Something flashed in his eyes, only to be replaced by the hard, unbending look of a warrior glaring at his enemy. Like doors clanging shut on a train, there was no way out, no way to change things. “If you don’t move now, I’m going to hoist you over my shoulder and carry you back like any respectable barbarian would do. Is that what the bloody hell you want?”

  She needed no more prompting than that.

  In a few minutes, they were back where they started. The man ushered her past the wooden storage boxes into a tiny stone alcove she hadn’t noticed before, hardly big enough for one person. She spun around but he was right there, the heat from his naked body practically tangible. She drew the scent of him into her lungs. He smelled of soap or maybe herbal body wash, with an underlying tinge of musky maleness. If she moved a fraction, her lips would be pressed to the hollow at the base of his neck.