“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe a brainwashed servant.”
“I didn’t serve him.”
You wouldn’t understand. No one would.
In some warped way, her relationship with Dr. Heath Aster, heir to the human Aster cartel, was that of a torture victim coming to love her torturer. He had hurt her. He’d also left her in isolation for months at a time. She’d been twelve years old. After a while she’d craved his attention, no matter how painful, because being alone was far more devastating. Love was a strange emotion to feel for the man her logical mind knew was her abuser, her dismantler, her maker.
“You simply aided in the perpetuation of his crimes,” the Giva said.
“Your mind won’t be changed by anything I say.”
Without looking at him again, she resumed her slow, careful push through the ruins, searching, not knowing what her eyes needed to find.
“You can’t walk away from me.” His voice was louder now, more commanding.
“I can if you don’t know the way to follow.”
The hair on the backs of her arms and neck lifted—such susceptible little pores, frightened by the smallest wash of fear. The Giva, however, was no slight threat. On a par with the Pendray berserkers with regard to the violence of their gifts, the Tigony were like turbine engines. They pulled bits of electricity out of the air, down to the barest hint of static, then whirled and intensified them into storms worthy of the mighty Zeus throwing lightning bolts. The Pet briefly wondered if Malnefoley was descended from the Tigony man who must’ve inspired those timeless Greek myths.
“You’ll come back with me,” he said, his voice darkly ominous. “Now.”
She turned a corner, then another, looking back only briefly.
He was the revered, hated, distrusted, undeniable Malnefoley of Tigony.
He should’ve looked ridiculous wearing Armani in the midst of an abandoned archaeological site, yet, tall and imposing, his body was built for the well-tailored suit. Electricity snapped from his fingers and arced like a heavenly rainbow across his well-bred features. The sun was merciless, but it cast shadows as it dipped toward the west. The Giva had banished the shadows. He was completely illuminated. Blue eyes were bluer. Cheekbones were more dramatic. Blond hair was transformed into filaments of gold.
He was a powerful man and bore that power as if it were featherlight.
Surrounded by the proof of his clan’s magnificence, he adopted a grim, humorless smile. “Don’t make me repeat myself. And don’t give me reason to lose my temper.”
“You won’t hurt me. I spent enough months detained in the Tigony fortress to know that. You’re too convinced of my worth—the information you seek.”
Her heartbeat was a metronome that kept time using a sledgehammer, pounding a frightened tempo in her chest. She had survived so much. She would survive the Giva in all his tempestuous conceit. But the process of surviving was wearisome. Rest was a word from another language.
Cadmin was waiting for her, perhaps, maybe, somewhere. The Pet could only pick her way through the rubble and wait for the worst to happen, let it pass through her, and move on. That had been her life. That would always be her life. The Tigony absorbed electricity and magnified it exponentially. She absorbed sadness and pain, then reduced it down and down and down until she could breathe.
The bolt of electricity, when it came, stole her vision, obliterated her ability to hear, and seemed to peel back layer after layer of skin. In the moment between strike and agony, she was glad she couldn’t see her half-bared arms, for fear of finding exposed bone rather than whole, sound flesh.
But the agony would not be denied. Her heart’s metronome stopped its clicking smash. She blinked three times and fell to the rough, rocky ground.
—
Malnefoley was used to restraint, no matter the generalized bitterness that simmered deep in his bones. He was a politician. He was the head of the Council that served and oversaw the governments of the Five Clans.
He was not a man used to giving in to the urge to solve disputes with force rather than words. That weakness had been abandoned to a younger, impetuous version of himself.
Dr. Aster’s Pet, however, was an exception.
Five days ago, she’d escaped from the stronghold of Clan Tigony high in the mountains of Greece. He didn’t know how. None of his guards—loyal and tested—knew how. It was as if she’d transformed into air, swished through ventilation shafts, and caught the first breeze south to Crete. And she’d told the truth. A woman who feared getting caught would’ve made a better point of hiding. She must’ve known he would come for her. For Mal, finding her had been simple. Ask about an unusual, plain-speaking, coltish young woman with wild raven-black hair, and the answers were quick and sure.
He wasn’t through with her. She had served Dr. Aster as his devoted companion—so devoted that no one referred to her as anything other than the Pet. She must know the madman’s secrets, including how he had been able to solve the riddle of Dragon King conception. One so connected to the highest echelon of the Aster cartel was invaluable, and Mal wouldn’t see her gone.
So he’d used his gift. Unlike members of Clan Pendray with their berserker furies, the Tigony were a refined people. Mal knew his gift’s potential down to the slightest variable. To deliver his electric punch, he’d taken into account an estimation of the Pet’s weight, her physical condition, and even the ambient temperature. The result was a strike strong enough to knock her out for no more than two minutes, without lasting damage.
Then he breathed. He put his fleeting, petulant anger away. For two decades, he’d been the Honorable Giva, even in times when behaving like a calm, neutral leader had felt like a full-body straightjacket. That meant rational thought, smooth negotiation, and measured discussion—the training he’d received from his parents, the heads of the Tigony royal house. For years, he’d kept his powers close like a gambler holding a straight flush. The result of pairing anger and the true extent of his gift was destruction. Unchecked destruction.
The village of Bakkhos remained a scar in a distant Grecian valley. Because of him.
The Pet was too canny for Mal’s peace of mind. He needed her back in the Tigony stronghold. And he needed her to start talking.
That meant finding her.
She’d dropped to the ground following the force of the blast. She’d disappeared behind the rugged half walls of the ruins. Why here? What scheme was she enacting? Something on behalf of the Asters?
That didn’t ring right in his mind. Had she wanted to remain with the insane doctor, she would’ve escaped with the man when Mal had helped liberate his niece from the Asters’ laboratories in the Canadian tundra. Instead, the Pet had stayed behind. She’d surrendered to Mal without protest, which stood as the full extent of her cooperation. Every moment since had been a study in silence and frustration—silence from her and frustration strong enough eat away at Mal’s patience.
He didn’t have time to find her by navigating the labyrinth. After removing his suit coat, he wadded it into a ball. The expensive fabric served as protection as he climbed a jagged half wall. Navigating one at a time, he hoisted himself up using the coat as padding for his hands and knees. The ancient, crumbling rock was flaked and chipped like shale honed to razors.
He had just topped the last wall when a jerk behind his knees sent him sprawling onto the unforgiving ground. The Pet. She’d been pressed flat against the wall, waiting for him.
His head connected with a boulder the size of a large melon.
“Bathatéi,” he shouted, using the worst curse in the shared language of the Dragon Kings.
The sun overhead stole his vision, which meant he jerked his head to the side by instinct alone. Metal scraped against rock and shot sparks against his cheek. Those sparks might not have been visible to the naked eye, but he reveled in their minute flashes of power.
Only, he didn’t have time to collect his thoughts, his gift, and those tiny
bursts of electrical ammunition. The Pet landed another blow in the form of brass knuckles against his breastbone. Thudding pain shot out from the center of his chest and infected the rest of his body with paralyzing quivers. She landed two more strikes, one against his temple and, as he rolled—again by instinct, away from his attacker—one to the base of his spine. He couldn’t see, and he couldn’t move.
She landed atop him, squatting. Her boots were heavy. They fortified her slight weight. Beneath his dress shirt, the skin of his back was stretched by the industrial treads of their soles.
The Pet grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked his head off the ground. “You’re bleeding.”
“That would be your fault.”
“The rock’s fault. I take credit for making you fall.” She shoved his head back down, then smeared her palm across the back of his shirt. He caught the distinctly coppery smell of blood.
His blood.
Anger wasn’t a strong enough word for the fire gathering in his hands. That’s where his gift started, and where it found its full manifestation. His palms felt as if beetles and maggots wiggled across his skin. The only way to make that feeling go away was to let the electricity build and burn—then hurl it away.
He flipped over. She didn’t lose her balance, but needed to jump away. She was agile, petite, and canny. The way she’d recovered from his initial blast was impressive. She stood in a loose fighting stance. Only, now she held a switchblade.
“You don’t experience pain,” he said, standing and squaring off against her.
“I experience pain. You’d rather think that I don’t.”
He called on deep muscle memory to fight her hand to hand. Another concentrated, precise strike took time to build, but his power was already prepped and ready to burst. At that moment he could’ve blown up a mountain, but he didn’t want to lobotomize her. Martial training was the only alternative.
He swept his leg to try to catch behind her calves, but she jumped straight up like a leaping frog—then landed with the ease of a cat. That cat attacked again, twirling to one side and stabbing him twice in the shoulder. Her control of the blade was faster than he would’ve thought possible, which meant she was a deadly combatant. Only after that thought registered did the sharp, burning spike of her assault make his nerves scream. He grunted.
Mal snatched out and caught her trailing wrist. He yanked her against his body, spun, and used that momentum to slam her against one of the half walls. She caught her balance with both hands gripping the razor-sharp shale. Her scream was as wild as it was anguished. She dropped the switchblade. Mal tried to pin her, but the attempt wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t sure enough. When was the last time he’d used his body to fight? His muscles were unfamiliar weapons, but they were weapons he relished rediscovering.
She twirled and launched off the wall, throwing that propelled power into a punch. Brass knuckles connected with his jaw.
He reeled. His lip was split.
They squared off again, circling each other like two starving wolves whose only option was cannibalism.
“I’m walking away now,” she said simply.
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Then we keep fighting until one of us is a cripple. How long until you lose your temper and do too much damage?”
Mal breathed heavily through his nose. He would’ve rather been dangling over a volcano than have his options so limited. Let her walk away or risk debilitating her. She might as well have been carrying a bag of butterflies that would be crushed by too much force or would fly away forever if he let her escape.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “You didn’t bother to cover your tracks. You could’ve bribed any bus driver or boat captain who helped you escape the mainland.”
“I have nothing to use as a bribe.”
“Women always do.”
Her eyes became slits, her expression murderous. “I’ve had enough of that life.”
Mal chose to put that eerie comment aside. “Why are you here?”
“I’m looking for something.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t play games with me,” he said. “Nothing good will come from testing me. Because you’re right. I might lose my temper. I might destroy the only link I have to the Aster cartel and the answer to Dragon King conception.”
“A tempest in a suit. Does the Council know who sits at the head of their table?”
“Probably not.” He stepped forward. “Do you think I need you in particular? You’re convenient. You’re valuable. Yet other Dragon Kings are connected with the cartels. I’ll find them, one by one, just like I found you, until I get the answers our people need.”
She tsked as if patronizing a child or a simpleton. “Altruism propels you, I’m sure.”
“What do you mean?”
Standing at her full height for the first time, which wasn’t very tall at all, she smirked. She packed so much disdain into the single lift of a midnight brow. “Our people? No. In your heart, Honorable Giva, you only want to win. At any price.”
LINDSEY PIPER is the alter ego of an award-winning historical romance author. Her red-hot Dragon Kings series is her first foray into paranormal fiction. She lives and writes in Chicago.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Lindsey Piper
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ISBN 978-1-4516-9592-2
ISBN 978-1-4516-9595-3 (ebook)
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue: Twenty Years Ago
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Hunted Warrior Excerpt
About Lindsey Piper
Blood Warrior Page 31