Captive Desires

by Diane Whiteside

  Especially when Danae Livingston was celebrating with her boyfriend and friends only a few rows away from the movie director. Bitch. Nobody ever said no to him forever.

  His bodyguards hastily fell into formation around him and cleared the way through GriffinCon’s usual throngs. His people at least had the sense to obey him. The folks here, no matter how they were dressed, were slow—slow-witted and slow moving.

  He shoved his way through, heedless of whom he stepped on or knocked over. If they didn’t get out of the way, then they needed to learn how to look out for themselves. It was the law of the jungle, by which the fittest survived, and he wouldn’t cry for any of them.

  He dealt with the usual crowd at the elevators equally summarily. Wait a half hour—or more?—to go upstairs? For Chris sake, what a waste of time! No, he traveled as soon as he chose, where he chose.

  A few extra glares and his bodyguards’ strong arms gave him a private elevator. “Which floor, sir?” the team leader asked.

  “Straight up to my room.”

  “Very good, sir.” He punched the button and waited stolidly in the elevator, ever the most reliable man.

  Boris drummed his fingers on the rail and counted floors. The filthy hotel designer had wanted passengers to enjoy the view so he made the elevators slow. The hotel’s more recent management had compensated by installing monitors that detailed the latest news, mostly of events within the building.

  His bodyguard shifted his stance, subtly checking the gun hidden at the small of his back.

  If Boris never saw the fucking trailer for The Raven and The Rose again, he’d die a happy man. He’d survived the preview; wasn’t that enough for one lifetime?

  Damn, but Hollywood was so predictable these days! It was always so easy for the hero to win everything—the girl, the cute little neighboring kingdom’s crown, the key move for the big battle . . . And if that starlet who played the heroine, High King Mykhayl’s younger sister, had ever needed to lose more than five pounds in her life—well, he, Boris Turner, was Arnold Schwarzenegger’s kid brother.

  Couldn’t the underdog win just once? How much money would it take to convince ConComm to give his theories a chance? Apparently more than he had, which was damned amazing. But for the Livingston bitch to turn him down, too, was intolerable.

  The elevator monitor shifted images in a faint wash of sparks. Azherbhai’s immensely ugly head appeared, immediately recognizable to millions from six movies—and Boris’s dreams.

  Boris’s knees buckled and he barely saved himself from collapsing to the floor.

  “Who are you?” he demanded instinctively, unwilling to publicly admit any weakness.

  The elevator skidded to a stop.

  “Your friend and inspiration.” The beloved deep chuckle echoed through the tiny cab. “Who do you think I am?”

  “Azherbhai,” he suggested warily. How many times had he actually imagined what it would be like if Azherbhai were real? To meet this most misunderstood of all villains in the flesh? But surely this was a trick by some hacker who’d broken into the hotel’s systems and wanted to use his well-known obsession against him.

  “Are you certain—or merely pretending, little mortal?” The great Terrapin lunged forward and clacked loudly with its beak. For a moment, Boris thought the knife-edge was going to cut his throat or the elevator’s cable and he shrank back.

  The elevator shook violently, which sent him staggering closer to the glass window. He glanced around hastily to see if they’d been noticed but his bodyguard was still staring ahead stolidly. Incredibly, no other elevators were moving either, although they were all still brightly lit up. The escalator wasn’t shifting waves of slobbering fools between lobbies either.

  Oh shit, this was real. No hacker could have shut all that down without causing mass panic. His wildest dreams had come true and he was somehow caught between time.

  “Azherbhai?”

  “Correct, little one.”

  “What are you doing here? Are you only in the TV screen?”

  “Your faith has brought me closer to you.” The angular snout stretched wide in a lethal grin, displaying its massive jaws. He was so wonderfully deadly and magnificent that Boris reached out to stroke him. “Not yet, little Boris. You will have to travel to Torhtremer before you can join me.”

  As in, actually be there? Boris frowned. That was crazy. “How can I do that? Torhtremer is no place on Earth.”

  “Living stone can unlock the gate and bring you through.”

  Living stone? His accent was weird. Did he mean Livingston?

  “The dancer?” He knew there was something unusual about her.

  “You are an unfledged sorcerer but instinct still works. You will know by touch.”

  “That’s not very clear, sir!”

  Ancient dark eyes studied him, less hospitable than the mold at a dank well’s base. “Come soon, my catalyst.”

  The screen snapped black and then began to scroll GriffinCon’s Sunday schedule. His bodyguard finished adjusting his belt. The tiny golden cab swung smoothly into motion, the other elevators scuttled onward like beetles, and the rats began to race between lobbies once again. Him, the catalyst for Azherbhai? After a final moment of disbelief, Boris pumped his fists into the air, triumph surging through his veins sweeter than any Wall Street-born high.

  It was real. It was all real! He could defeat Mykhayl and rule Torhtremer. He could have his pick of the Dragon Hoard’s hundred concubines. He could have it all! He just needed to get there. And wasn’t that one hell of a problem, though. But he did know one man who should be able to help him solve it.

  He flipped out his BlackBerry. “Harrison?”

  “Sir?” The ridiculous amount he paid for the man to answer at any time, day or night, was well worth it.

  “I need to speak to Danae Livingston privately, in person, as soon as possible.”

  “How soon, sir?”

  Why was Harrison questioning him? Boris thought impatiently. Now that he knew her true abilities, he would stop at nothing to get to her.

  “Tonight, preferably within two hours.”

  “Two hours, sir?” Caution from Harrison? “May I remind you, sir, of the numbers of police present?”

  “Or four.” He could be patient for that long, if necessary. “Any and all methods are approved, of course. Her big bodyguard will probably need to be distracted.”

  “Do you think so? In that case, of course, sir, I’ll see to it right away.”

  Boris cast his eyes toward the sky. What you had to do nowadays to drag an agreement out of your staff! But Harrison had been hesitating. Maybe he should encourage action a little more.

  “If you can accomplish it by sunrise, you will probably want to check your Zurich files before you rest.”

  Harrison’s sudden intake of break of break was quickly turned into a cough.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll definitely do my best to check those files before then.”

  That was better. Boris clicked off and stepped out of the elevator, which had finally reached his floor.

  Harrison would work his ass off for a reward big enough to warrant a bonus directly deposited to his beloved numbered Swiss account.

  And Boris would have Danae Livingston and the trip to Torhtremer to become Azherbhai’s catalyst. What did he want to do first with Bhaikhal and the Dragon’s Hoard? Rework that gaudy throne into something more modernistic and monochromatic? Or just start fucking the bitches?

  Choices like that were the reward for a lifetime of hard work—and how many men had the brass balls to reach this high?

  Maybe he could combine the two options: fuck the bitches in the throne room until they approved of his decorating scheme.

  He began to whistle.

  Alekhsiy slapped Sasha’s palm to celebrate their triumph over the gods who controlled parking at GriffinCon. He could sing those praises, as he could for the dance he and Danae had performed earlier that evening, little though he rem
embered of it.

  Moonlight flung a silver veil over the buildings, as distant and remote as his chances of returning home to help his family. Far closer was the feathering white light cast by the standing lamps, like a coming nor’easter blurred by a linen curtain. The distant world was etched in crisp stripes of light. Only dim, silent boxes watched from nearby, all masked in shadows. Muted hums and purrs, mixed with occasional loud whines, told of cars prowling the streets far below, their deeds as remote as their territory.

  The stones here smelled less bitter than their distant brethren, as if the higher elevation had allowed the sun and rain to erase some of the machines’ foul stench. But not enough to bring back honest scents, such as sweet meadows, barnyard aromas, or campfires’ wood smoke.

  Alekhsiy could recall more of the dinner party afterward, when Sasha and Larissa had sung their praises at a restaurant far from the hotel. The obviously insane judges had awarded him and Danae Best in Show—whatever that meant—for their dance at the entr’acte. Odd, very odd, when they hadn’t even been official entrants, just performers.

  He’d spent most of the time since brooding on the implications of Danae’s identity as the sorceress who could transport Turner through the void. If he knew how great her power was, how soon would his enemy realize the same thing and act? He’d more than once had to stop himself from pocketing those sharp little knives—called steak knives for some unfathomable reason—as extra ammunition, in case the brute’s allies attacked during dinner.

  If Turner ever reached Torhtremer, he would bring war back to the people who’d died in the thousands before, whose fields were only now returning to fertility, and whose children had only just begun to fill the schools again. This would be the first year since Alekhsiy’s class that the North would have enough young boys to send cadets for the Imperial Military Academy.

  Turner would raise Azherbhai, the Imperial Terrapin, into roaring life with his army of deadly monsters. Mykhayl would fight once again from morning to night, barely eating or sleeping, his golden eyes harsh with the knowledge that a realm depended on him.

  And above all else, Turner would do his best to kidnap Mykhayl’s young sons, those delightful rogues whose ability to work magic charmed everyone who met them almost as fast as the need to clean up the results irritated them. Since they could summon Khyber, the Imperial Dragon, if he held them, he, too, would be able to command Torhtremer’s most potent weapon.

  Clapping Izmir’s Curse on Danae’s slender wrists would deny him that prize.

  Svetlhana, the Imperial Tigress, had not faced battle against Azherbhai in living memory and had always been unpredictable. She was a female cat who’d never served a male battle commander. Alekhsiy had devoted far too much thought to her possible strategy but reached no comforting conclusions.

  The thought was almost as disquieting as his need to see Danae smile.

  She chuckled and clapped Sasha on the shoulder from the backseat. “Are you very proud of yourself, now that you’ve found the last remaining parking space in the entire garage?”

  “Hell yes!” He opened the door and climbed out, automatically turning back to assist his wife.

  “Planning to use a can opener to get all of us out?” she asked tartly and accepted his aid.

  Alekhsiy had to admit he’d seldom seen vehicles packed so closely together, even at the most crowded fairgrounds. Even slender, athletic Danae needed caution to leave the minivan, while he found it a considerable trial. He didn’t draw a deep breath until he reached the main thoroughfare.

  The boxes around them resolved themselves into dozens of cars, vans, and a few of what Sasha had termed “pickups,” all of them far too large and stolid for a man who’d grown up with horses. They stood atop a ramp that circled down and around, again and again for hundreds of paces to the hotel’s entrance. Only a few paces away, a large flat space opened up, which would hopefully lead to the true exit from this tower.

  A shadow moved, then another, and a third, along the ramp.

  Alekhsiy stiffened and his hand automatically curled around Finger Nipper. The others, even Sasha, casually turned to look.

  Two of the shadows resolved into women wearing black trousers and coats that swept the ground, plus very angular eyeglasses.

  “Oh, look, they’re LARPing,” Larissa commented under her breath. “They must be fans of that new TV series set in the near future.”

  TV series? Ah yes, the readily available set of tales told by invisible bards.

  The two girls unleashed what looked like clumsy knives and briefly flailed at each other. Moments later, one yelled, “Killing Blow!”

  Killing? Alekhsiy tensed to run toward them, hot blood surging through his veins. Danae clamped her hand over his and he stared at her.

  “I can save her,” he growled, keeping his voice down for some unknown purpose.

  “Just wait and watch,” she retorted. “LARPers don’t want your help.”

  But death? He glared at her and she tightened her grip. He ground his teeth and waited.

  “Ow! I’m dying!” The second woman slowly sank to the stone floor. She looked over her shoulder, brushed away some pebbles, then folded onto her side.

  Her opponent tapped an impatient foot, her knife prominently displayed.

  The so-called dying woman collapsed onto her back and flung out one arm. An instant later, she groaned and folded it in across her stomach. Finally she was silent and still.

  Her opponent stood over her, one hand propped on her hip. Evidently satisfied the other wouldn’t move again, the victor quickly dropped back into an effective crouch and went back to creeping up the ramp, always hiding in the darkness.

  Alekhsiy glanced at Danae, not about to voice his question lest he be condemned as an outlander.

  “This must be one of the first LARPs for Black Rose,” Larissa commented.

  “Yes, I heard they were going to game the Chancellor’s assassination, the new modern day scenario,” Sasha agreed.

  “There are several dozen LARPers, aren’t there?” Danae craned her neck to look a little more closely.

  Alekhsiy reconsidered the moving shadows. If he saw them as but townsfolk with a few weeks’—or months’—training, then their clumsiness was understandable. But they knew the basics of finding cover and most moved boldly against their opponents.

  He’d played similar games as a child and as a cadet. These folk might have potential, especially since a handful were far more graceful.

  He turned to look into the garage’s edges a little more closely, peering past the cloak of darkness.

  “I’m for our room. Anybody interested in joining me?” Sasha leered hopefully at his wife.

  She chuckled and whacked him on his ass. “You don’t even have the key.”

  “Then I’d better bring you along, hadn’t I?” He tugged her lightly by the elbow and she giggled again. “See you tomorrow, guys!”

  They strode toward the elevator, talking happily amongst themselves and ignoring everything else.

  “Do you want to watch?” Danae asked quietly.

  “Will they mind?” Alekhsiy answered, equally reserved. His skin had chilled, more so than any breeze borne on this humid summer night could account for.

  “No, not as long as we’re quiet and unobtrusive. If they stopped for every set of non-players, they’d never be able to play here.”

  He grunted acknowledgment, still watching the shadows.

  The elevator clanked and then whined, announcing Sasha and Larissa’s departure.

  Two men farther down the ramp were apparently trying to decide how to adapt their plot. “How do you fit in an Austrian assault rifle?” complained one.

  Other LARPers continued to leapfrog up the ramp to the top deck, uttering odd cries of “Martial Attack” and “Martial Defense” to mark their attacks.

  A pair of booted feet whispered across the stone for an instant.

  Alekhsiy spun to listen more closely.

&nbs
p; The first LARPer he’d noticed stretched, sat up, and rose to her feet, then trotted off to the stairwell.

  Danae harrumphed disapprovingly.

  “Poor sportsmanship?” Alekhsiy asked, more to make conversation than because he truly cared. Were three LARPers working together to move up the ramp, rather than singly like the others?

  “She should have stayed ten or fifteen minutes to give the others a body to work around. It’s a pretty large group, after all.” Danae hugged herself, shivering slightly in a light breeze. “But she probably didn’t want to get any dirtier or more uncomfortable.”

  Alekhsiy sniffed in disapproval but said nothing more openly.

  “Have you played in many of these?” He slipped his arm around her waist and started toward the stairs. That trio was moving very fast toward the top.

  “No, not really, just a couple since I grew up. My father preferred board games, like chess and backgammon.”

  She paused to allow some LARPers time to move out of their way and he ground his teeth. That trio was moving far too quickly toward the top.

  A quick twist loosened Finger Nipper in its belt sheath, the only weapon he openly carried now. Using it would be an act of desperation, though, since it would sign his name to any wound. Few here had blades and the skills to use them in a fight.

  He and Danae finally reached the top deck and turned for the elevator. The swift-moving trio peeled themselves out of the shadows among the cars on the other side. Two men ran toward them, while the third hung back

  “Miss Livingston?” a burly man with a guttural, ruined voice asked. “Mr. Turner wants to see you. Now.”

  He flipped back his long, black coat to show an unusual rifle, compact, ugly, and utterly unlike anything listed in Corinne’s spell. It reeked of death, for all that he carried it casually on his hip. His companion sneered from a few paces farther away, just distant enough that Alekhsiy couldn’t take them both out with the same strike, and briefly flashed a big, square pistol at Danae.

  Two deadly projectile weapons, wielded by men more than willing to use them. No dart, however small or fast, could penetrate his chain mail. But no one else could claim such protection.