Shield of Fire

by Boone Brux

  She untied and unwound the straps, letting him help her with the garment. She pressed the material to her bare chest and hunched her back toward him. “Am I hurt? Is it bad?”

  He ran his finger in stinging loops across her sensitive skin.

  She jerked away from his touch.

  “I wouldn’t say injured, really.”

  She craned her neck, trying to get a look. “What is it? Another hole from a talon? It really hurts.”

  “Oh, I know it really hurts.”

  Was that amusement in his voice?

  Rhys guided her to the mirror on the front of the wardrobe. “Look at yourself.”

  She squinted at her image and leaned closer. “What is that?” She licked her thumb and rubbed at the blue line running from her bottom lip to just above her chin. A biting sting spread across her lower lip. She leaned closer to the mirror.

  He captured her gaze in their reflection and smiled. “It’s the mark of the Tell.”

  Ravyn’s eyes widened as understanding dawned.

  “I’m a Tell?” She shook her head. “But how can that be? I thought I was a Redeemer.”

  He smirked.

  With a slow pivot, she twisted toward the mirror and gasped. The image of an orange and red phoenix danced across her back. Its tail feathers caressed her left hip and its beak touched her shoulder. She backed up a few steps, drinking in the image of the bird. She turned to him. “It’s like yours.”

  He nodded.

  “Am I a Shield?” The words sounded right.

  “As much as I hate the thought of you being a protector, there’s no denying the brand.”

  “But what about the other tattoos? Why do I have those?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe you have the powers of all three groups.”

  “Can that happen?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see what develops.”

  She stared at the bird, unable to tear her eyes away. “Why the phoenix and not a dragon?”

  “Each Shield is branded with something particular to their nature. For you, fire is not only a weapon, it is what you can become.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When you need to, you will become a phoenix.”

  She backed closer to the mirror, examining every inch of her new brand. “But that’s impossible.”

  “Trust me—it is not impossible.”

  Something in his voice drew her attention. His arms were crossed and legs in a wide stance, his defensive pose. “Do you…your dragon…can you…change?”

  He nodded.

  She shook her head, trying to grasp the full scope of her lover.

  His gaze narrowed, as if he expected her worst reaction.

  “Rhys.”

  He tensed at her tone.

  “That’s amazing.”

  His stance relaxed, and he lowered his arms to his side. “Really?”

  “Yes.” She turned her attention back to the mirror. “I seem to be afflicted with the same malady. This is truly amazing. I can’t wait to transform and…oh.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m going to have to fly.” Her stomach churned. “I don’t like heights.”

  Rhys chuckled. “You’ll do fine. I’ll teach you everything I know.”

  Again, it was like seeing him for the first time. “We could fly together.”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated. “Could you give me a ride?”

  His deep chuckle rumbled and the world seemed right again. “Whenever you want.”

  Ravyn liked the way he said that, sexy and loaded with innuendos. The journal rested loosely in his hands. She pointed to the book. “Did you read your father’s diary?”

  He nodded. “Most of it.”

  “He loved you and your mother very much.”

  “I see this now. I think I always knew, but guilt plays strange tricks on a person’s mind.”

  She walked to him and twined her fingers with his. “You couldn’t have stopped Vile from killing your parents.” Her voice cracked. “He said he killed mine also.”

  He held her gaze. “Maybe he lied.”

  She shook her head. “I pray he has—for all our sakes.” She paused. “Vile said my father was King Janus.”

  Rhys’s eyes grew wide. “King Janus?”

  She nodded.

  “Another blow to the Bringers if he is dead.” He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  A weak smile was the best she could muster. The thought of never seeing her parents upset her. Odd, how losing someone she never knew could still hurt so deeply.

  Rhys sobered. “I’ll make him pay. I’ll hunt Vile down myself and bury my father’s dagger so far inside him there’s no possibility of him resurrecting.”

  Plans and ideas formed in her mind. “Rhys, if the dagger exists and it is an immortal weapon…”

  “Then the legend of the immortal arsenal is probably true,” he finished.

  “We need to find them.” Her mind raced with the possibilities. “Finding the weapons could turn the tide against the Bane.”

  “Yes, but our first order of business is to figure out what we know and decide who we can trust.”

  She perched on the edge of her bed. The road before them branched in many directions. “I only wish we’d known about the dagger sooner.”

  “There are a lot of things I wished I’d known or done sooner.” He sat beside her and ran a finger along her jaw.

  Warmth spread through her. She captured his hand and kissed his fingers. “We’ve been given a second chance. No regrets.”

  He smiled and stroked her cheek. “No regrets.”

  “How did you find me? Even as a dragon, that wouldn’t have been possible.”

  “Icarus.”

  Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. “What?”

  “He helped me find you and even helped us escape.”

  She shook her head. “Why?”

  “Greed. He wants the Bane throne.”

  She sneered. “He is the worst of them all, using whatever means necessary to get what he wants. I hate him.”

  Rhys didn’t contradict her, only stared at her. Finally, he said, “Powell is dead.”

  Ravyn blinked, waiting for some emotion—anger, elation, pity. But she felt nothing but numbness. “Who killed him?”

  “A demon, I think. We found him dead in the clearing from where you’d been taken by Icarus.”

  He watched her. Should she be angry that she hadn’t delivered the killing blow to Powell and avenged Angela? “Good,” she said looking at Rhys. “It’s a fitting death for him. Poetic in a way.”

  “Yes, killed by the beast he served. So you’re not angry that you won’t get your revenge?” he said.

  She shook her head. “Life is a sacred gift given by the Universe. I am not so prideful as to feel cheated because I wasn’t the one allowed to take his life, even if I hated him. Being spared such a gruesome task is a blessing, not a slight.”

  “Not all in your position would feel the same way.”

  “Perhaps I’m not the cold-blooded killer I imagine myself to be after all.”

  “Again, not a bad trait.”

  Silence stretched between them. Where would they go from here? Ravyn took a deep breath and exhaled. She was safe. Rhys was safe. And Powell was dead. “Now what?”

  A lascivious smile crept across his face. He eased her back onto the bed. “Well, first I’m going to make love to you.”

  Ravyn smiled as her pillow cradled her head. “Yes?”

  With achingly slow movements, he covered her body with his. Ravyn spread her legs to accommodate him, the discomfort from her back evaporating. “And then I’ll probably make love to you again.”

  “So far I like this plan very much.” She lifted her head and gave him a languishing kiss.

  “I’ll need to feed you so you keep up your strength.” He nibbled her earlobe. “Because I plan on making love to y
ou several more times before I let you get dressed.”

  “You’re a very good strategist.” She wrapped her legs around his waist and rubbed against his growing erection. “And when we’ve sated ourselves? Then what shall we do? Rally the rebel forces? Make a pact with the Council? Start searching for the immortal weapons?”

  Rhys cupped her breast and rubbed her aching nipple. “I have something more personal in mind.”

  She moaned and arched against his talented fingers. “And what would that be?”

  He slid his hand down her stomach and pressed his fingers between her legs. Nuzzling her neck he whispered, “I think it’s time Luc embraced his destiny.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “He needs to die.”

  She smiled and closed her eyes. “Mmmm, I’ll let you use my dagger.”

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to acknowledge my fabulous editors, Libby and Kerry. Both of you deserve Editor of the Year awards. Thank you is not enough. I’d also like to thank Liz Pelletier and Heather Howland for believing in me enough to give me several chances. You guys rock. And thanks to Becky, Liz P’s secret operative, who kept me on track and busted my butt with edits. Last, but certainly not least, I want to thank the women from my Alaska Romance Writers chapter, especially the Critwhores, who lovingly rip my stories to shreds and help me piece them back together. I couldn’t do it without you guys.

  Biography

  Boone lives in rugged Alaska with her vampire-pirate husband and her twin daughters, each of whom possesses the superpower to destroy a room with a single pass. She began writing in a desperate attempt to counteract the in-stereo babbling from her toddlers and to fill the lack of adult conversation in her day. After seventeen years in bush Alaska, Boone and her family made the big move to civilization, where she joined the local chapter of Romance Writers of America and realized she knew nothing about writing. Steeped in the paranormal world, Boone has a particular love for demons, good, bad, or otherwise.

  Find out more at www.boonebrux.com.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the first book in Jane Kindred’s enthralling House of Arkhangel’sk fantasy trilogy,

  The Fallen Queen

  Heaven can go to hell.

  Until her cousin slaughtered the supernal family, Anazakia’s father ruled the Heavens, governing noble Host and Fallen peasants alike. Now Anazakia is the last grand duchess of the House of Arkhangel’sk, and all she wants is to stay alive.

  Hunted by Seraph assassins, Anazakia flees Heaven with two Fallen thieves—fire demon Vasily and air demon Belphagor, each with their own nefarious agenda—who hide her in the world of Man. The line between vice and virtue soon blurs, and when Belphagor is imprisoned, the unexpected passion of Vasily warms her through the Russian winter.

  Heaven seems a distant dream, but when Anazakia learns the truth behind the celestial coup, she will have to return to fight for the throne—even if it means saving the man who murdered everyone she loved.

  Available December 2011

  Pervoe: A Discordant Note in the Music of the Spheres

  from the memoirs of the Grand Duchess Anazakia Helisonovna of the House of Arkhangel’sk

  As any demon will tell you over a bottle of vodka or a game of preferans, Heaven is not the paradise you have been told. Depending upon the demon who holds your ear, he may also tell you Heaven’s last ruler was a tyrant who cared nothing for the lives of the common angel. Never believe it. He was the kindest soul ever born to the supernal House of Arkhangel’sk; Heaven would be blessed to have him now. But put no faith in me, for I am his daughter. I was born within Elysium’s pearly gates and have been cast out.

  I do not like to think my impetuosity brought down the throne of Heaven, but on the darkest days, it is what I believe. When Elysium fell to a quiet coup, I was at a wingcasting table in Raqia instead of by my family’s side.

  It is a favorite game in Raqia’s dens of iniquity. A fast-moving combination of cards and dice, wingcasting requires single-minded concentration and a certain narcissistic audacity. Challengers who hope to unseat the reigning prince of the game progress from one table to the next until they are opposite the champion.

  I only reached this coveted spot on one occasion.

  Raqia’s reigning prince that night was a dark-haired demon with eyes as sharp as the waxed points of his hair. He played his hand as cool as you please and barely seemed to notice me, but he put nearly every card I discarded into play with his own and soon had me hemorrhaging both cards and crystal.

  Smoke burned my eyes while the demon nursed his cigar in a deliberate distraction. When he took it between his fingers, I could not help following with my eyes. Beneath the tattered lace of his cuffs, black crosses and diamonds, interlaced with characters of an unfamiliar alphabet, braced his fingers between the knuckles like rings made of ink.

  He followed my gaze. “Prison,” he said around his cigar, the first word he’d spoken not directly related to the game.

  He was trying to unnerve me; there were no prisons in Heaven. There was no need for any among the Host.

  Raqia, for the most part policed itself, preferring to game the crystal from wayward angelic youth rather than take it by force and risk the flaming hand of seraphic justice. If he had really been in prison, he was one of the true Fallen who had spent time in the world of Man—though all demons were Fallen, by the Host’s reckoning. Their indiscriminate breeding muddied the cardinal elements by mixing the pure water dominant in the blood of the Fourth Choir with the earth of the Third, the fire of the Second, and the air of the First. Such blending resulted in their sullied complexions and varied hue of hair and eye.

  A glance around the poorly lit den revealed half a dozen natural shades of brown and a dozen more who colored their hair and eyes with deliberately wild hues in defiance of celestial purity.

  Most who fell to the world of Man bore signs of aging not present in the Host; something in the air of the terrestrial plane made Men’s lives short. A fine layer of stubble that could only have been carefully cultivated and trimmed hid any weathering of my opponent’s skin, but studying his face, I saw the telltale signs: little lines around his deep-set ebony eyes that said he’d fallen more than once.

  I tightened the drawstring on the purse of crystal at my wrist, careful to keep the luminous celestine of my supernal ring turned toward my palm and cupped between my fingers while I played my hand.

  The demon raised a dark eyebrow, pierced with a thin bar of metal that accentuated his coarse nature. I had put down a card in my distraction without waiting for him to call the die. I blushed and snatched it up again, furious with myself for making such a stupid blunder. His immodest grin said he thought his ploy had worked, but it took more than a small-time terrestrial thief to unnerve me. No novice to the dens or to demon magic, I never came to Raqia without a protective charm tucked into my bodice.

  In truth, I had been distracted since climbing down the trellis to sneak out in the middle of a tedious banquet. My younger brother Azel was sick in bed, and my cousin Kae was acting strangely toward his wife, my sister Omeliea—and both circumstances were in some measure my fault.

  §

  Though I did not know it yet, the die had been cast against the House of Arkhangel’sk by my unbridled impulse on the day I turned seventeen. On a hunting holiday in the mountains of Aravoth, my father had presented me with a blue roan mare. I was eager to take her out, but the first snowfall had ushered in the season and my sisters were keen to head inside the lodge and curl up by the fire.

  I sulked while the groom took my horse to the stable. Not even a gift of a gorgeous red velvet riding cap lined with silver fox could coax me out of my bad humor.

  When my sister Omeliea admonished me for being moody, I tossed the cap back at her and announced I was taking my horse out by myself. Mama would never have tolerated such willful behavior, but she had stayed behind with Azel, and Papa was so softhearted, it pained him to d
iscipline his daughters.

  When I led the mare out of the stable, Cousin Kae was waiting for me.

  “Tell her to stop being such a child!” my sister called, wrapped in a fleece on the steps of the lodge. “It’s freezing out here!”

  Kae caught the reins and drew the mare to him. “Stop being such a child.” He winked, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “You can’t go alone.”

  I pulled the tether from his hands and swung into the saddle. “Then I suppose someone will have to mount up.”

  I trotted the blue roan out to the road and into the wooded heights, on a path muted with preternatural quiet. It seemed nothing but my horse and I existed. Here in the North, we were without the oppressive, constant presence of the Seraphim Guard, which Papa could not abide outside the city. In Heaven’s hinterlands, he said, there was no need for their protection.

  After a minute or two, I heard the light clip of Kae’s horse behind me.

  “Is Ola angry with me?”

  Kae drew up beside me. “Not as angry as she is with me for letting you go.” He shrugged beneath his cloak. “It will pass. Sometimes I think it’s her job as a wife to be angry. She’s very efficient at it.”

  I laughed at his feigned look of persecution. “Such trials you must endure for the crown.”

  “Yes,” said Kae with a mock sigh. “I shall endure anything to attain the crown. Even bed that shrew of a grand duchess of mine.”

  I nearly slipped from my saddle for laughing. Kae adored Omeliea and she, him. They were newly wed, and though betrothed at the cradle, he had courted her since childhood as though it were not prearranged. I could not imagine two people more perfectly matched.

  Kae stopped his mount in its tracks. “Did you see that?” His grey eyes fixed on a distant point where the trees met over the road. A peculiar fragrance hung on the air, like the freshly peeled bark of an Aravothan cedar, but I saw nothing. I shook my head, and Kae started forward once more.