Alekhsiy’s stomach jolted into his throat. By the Hunter’s long search, if anything happened to his lady . . .
Danae froze, her green-gold eyes narrowing like a hunting cat’s.
Far below, a loud whine and squeal of brakes screamed that a car was racing upward toward them. The would-be kidnappers had a means of escape.
The third man chuckled and flickered his green, woolen cloak to display the same gun.
Three enemies, all ready to shed blood, while he had but one knife and his body’s skills to protect his lady. His flesh chilled, terror’s sharp claws shredding the edges of his vision.
He began to calculate strike angles.
“Wicked, man,” crooned a man who’d been answering questions by the LARPers. He started to walk toward their group. “I’ve never seen a gun like that. Can I see how you peace-bonded it?”
For a split second, the would-be kidnappers gaped at the interruption.
“Drop, Danae!” Alekhsiy hissed.
Red God of War be praised, she did so—but her foot simultaneously lashed out in a spinning kick. It cracked into the kneecap of the villain closest to them, destroyed his balance, and slammed him onto his back.
Bam, bam, bam! His pistol roared a ribbon of fiery little lights and explosions across the ramp and into the sky. His head thudded against the pavement and he lay still.
Splat, splat, splat! The most distant brute fired his gun, sending a long, hot spray of death-dealing darts through the night.
Danae slithered under a car, disappearing in a blur more felt than seen.
The spokesman glanced desperately over to assess the new threat.
Alekhsiy grabbed him by the shoulders and whirled him back. He kicked him between his legs, slamming all the force of Torhtremer’s finest chain mail into his privates.
The threat to Danae shrieked and collapsed in a boneless heap. His rifle clattered to the stone floor and he moaned, making no attempt to retrieve it.
Bam! Bam! The other element of the kidnappers hadn’t run. He continued to fire at them from across the ramp.
People screamed and ran in all directions, across the deck and down the ramp. Others simply flattened themselves to the ground.
By all the gods, Danae could be killed! But if he couldn’t let them end her life, how could he do it? There was no time for such worries now.
Alekhsiy dove to follow her. He squeezed under the car where she’d taken shelter. A small white hand, barely visible in the darkness, waved at him from another nearby.
He growled deep in his throat and crawled like a worm toward his lady. His pulse raced hot and hard, spurring him forward faster than any High King’s strongest engineer.
Splat! Splat! Small dust devils erupted from the stone paving.
Success! His hand latched on to her hip and dragged her protectively close.
Her slender fingers, streaked with blackness even in the half-light, desperately twined around his wrist.
He twisted his arm and slid his hand into hers, silently offering what comfort he could. Words might cause their deaths.
She linked her fingers tightly with his and her breath shuddered into the same pattern as his. His chest rose and fell inside his mail, further constrained by the innumerable knobs and bars above them and his burningly hot amulet.
A series of strange, high-pitched, mechanical screams sounded from down below. Sirens?
The car below shrieked, paused, shrieked again, and started to fade away.
Ping! Ping! Metal resonated over and around them.
The thrice-cursed spawn of Chaos was shooting at the machine. Surely it contained enough bulk to keep them safe. Danae was quivering slightly against his arm but she hadn’t made a sound, the brave darling. May these thrice-cursed spawn of Chaos boil for ten thousand years in the lowest circles of Hell before they escaped to the realm of endless deserts!
Alekhsiy petted her hip, offering her what comfort he could. Surely those sirens meant that help was coming soon.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
Liquid slowly dripped onto the stone from underneath the van, setting loose a tart aroma near their feet.
Danae jerked, then began to scrabble desperately forward.
By all the Red God’s more harebrained battle tactics, what was she doing? The enemy clearly hadn’t found them.
She grabbed his arm and he followed her. If nothing else, he needed to stay near her. They slithered out as quietly as possible to slip under the next car, before escaping into a small gap.
“Where the hell did you go?” The shooter muttered and bent down to look under the cars. “A million dollars is too much to walk away from, dammit.”
Horror of horrors, Danae had blood running down her forehead.
Alekhsiy’s heart was pounding in his chest like the High King’s finest drum corps. Yet even at Tajzyk’s Gorge, he’d always been able to think clearly and calmly.
Plop! Plop!
He closed his eyes and reminded himself once again he was a general. He knew how to fight and how to maintain his composure. He could control himself and bring them both to safety.
She tugged his hand and pointed. Two turns and a mostly-concealed gap should bring them to a set of stairs.
He nodded his comprehension, then bent double and began to creep forward.
Ping! Another deadly little dart whizzed past their feet.
BAM!
The van they’d hidden under exploded into a ball of fire. Alekhsiy and Danae staggered sideways and fell against the parking garage’s wall.
BAM! The car next to it blew up, sending another pillar of black smoke into the sky.
Alekhsiy caught his lady up in his arms and bolted for the stairs, a few panic-stricken game players close on his heels. Fiery-hot air clawed his back like dragon’s breath.
Danae squeaked and tucked herself into a ball, making it far, far easier for him to carry her.
Blessed Mother of All Life, may my beloved remain safe, even if it costs me my own chance at the Afterworld . . .
He slammed the iron door open with his shoulder and burst into a narrow turret. Scarlet flames butchered the night sky overhead and the stones underneath his feet shuddered.
He took a deep breath, forced his racing pulses to steady, and started down. He would be of no use to anyone, least of all his darling, if he lost his concentration.
NINE
THE IMPERIAL THRONE ROOM, BHAIKHAL, TORHTREMER
“How many men did we lose?” Mykhayl snarled. He was pacing between the throne room’s great marble columns as if they were enemies his sword could behead. Young Rhodyon stirred against his shoulder, large enough now that only adult men could easily carry him.
Tenderness, mixed with the memory of agonized terror, swept across Mykhayl’s face.
Corinne started to leave her seat on the Tigerheart Throne to comfort him. But little Iskander’s bandaged hand batted her arm and he whimpered.
Her heart turned over, once again, at the memory of the bloody wreckage in the practice fields. How had the boys and Mazur survived that brazen attack from the skies? Had it been a kidnapping or murder attempt? Who cared?
She crooned to her second son, the worst wounded, and tucked him back against her heart and into the blankets. The Tigerheart Throne was a cold silver couch underneath her, since Svetlhana had disappeared on patrol once again. The throne room was the heart of the palace and Torhtremer’s magic, where every object showed some aspect of the Imperial Dragon and Tigress’s powers—if they were present. The boys were safest here but it offered little comfort.
Mykhayl adjusted the sleeping rogue and spoke again, gen tling his tone. “Do we have any new word from the Tents of Healing about the casualties?”
“Less than thirty are dead,” Ghryghoriy responded, his bloody bandage an obscenity against his raven hair. Normally Ghryghoriy was the Dragon’s Claw but he’d set aside his black and gold uniform and his spying duties to take up his former lover’s obligations as war l
ord.
“So far,” added Yevgheniy, never one to spare his High King the truth. Baby Levushka, named for Mykhayl’s grandfather, dozed on his shoulder, a chubby fist tucked comfortably into his mouth. His clean scarlet robe perfectly matched his idol’s robes of office and also hid his few bloodstains.
Mazur, their beloved companion, slept against the dais, too numb from Corinne’s spell to twitch even his tail. It was very, very hard to bandage a leopard who’d nearly been gutted. But he would survive, thank God.
Corinne briefly closed her eyes and reminded her stomach there was nothing left in it to hurl.
“Of the wounded?” A muscle throbbed in Ghryghoriy’s jaw. “We have very few of those since most who took injuries died. They fought to the death to save the young princes from the chimera.”
Mykhayl beat his fist against his leg. Even Yevgheniy couldn’t find words to respond.
“The queen and wizards have done”—Corinne shot Ghryghoriy a ferocious glare—“are doing everything possible for them.”
Mykhayl returned to the throne, his gaze as restless as the thoughts behind his eyes.
“Now we must consider where to array our forces.” Mykhayl drummed his fingers on the Dragonheart Throne, as if trying to summon Khyber. “Before the Imperial Terrapin always aimed such attacks at the countryside.”
“Aye, his monsters are ever greedy and eager to breed terror,” agreed Yevgheniy.
“So why is he focusing on the capital?” Corinne demanded. “The chimera today, a hydra the day before yesterday, a manti core last week—and all of them right here. If he wants to have a war, why doesn’t he go someplace else?”
“I believe he hoped to kill the two eldest boys and steal the youngest.” Yevgheniy’s deadly calm voice held too much brutal honesty to be ignored. Every one of his years and bitter battles carved deep grooves in his face. “Only Prince Levushka isn’t a sorcerer, making it far easier for him to be manipulated.”
Terror shredded her heart and ripped out her breath.
“He probably wants to draw our attention away from Alekhsiy.” Ghryghoriy offered hope in his old friend’s name.
“He’s been gone for weeks.” Mykhayl looked almost as old as Yevgheniy. He gripped Corinne’s shoulder and she quickly covered his hand with hers to give them both comfort.
“Time flows differently there,” she reminded him and herself. “He could think he’d only been there for a few hours or days.”
“He might not have found the new catalyst.”
“He certainly hasn’t killed him yet.” Yevgheniy kicked a blameless piece of dust.
“Can we build wards that will protect us until next spring? When I can take an army to finally destroy that scum?”
Corinne flinched, thousands of hideous visions flooding her author’s brain. Could Mykhayl kill Azherbhai or would he only cause his own death in battle? Perhaps she could cast a spell, which would keep him at her side.
“Corinne?” her beloved husband turned to face her, their son nestled in his arms.
But if he didn’t take an army north, wouldn’t their children be killed? How many women through the centuries had ever needed to watch their husbands march out to fight for their babies? If only she could ask Svetlhana’s opinion now . . .
She was cold, so cold. Even the heat coming through the great seal of Torhtremer set in the marble floor didn’t help warm her.
“We’ll need both Khyber and Svetlhana’s help to build any wards that could hold off the Imperial Terrapin,” she said, stalling for time.
“True, two imperial beasts are always stronger than one,” Mykhayl agreed.
“Pity Khyber can’t roast that monster in his shell,” Ghryghoriy snarled.
“No imperial beast can kill another, only their catalyst.” A lesson she’d learned all too painfully once before.
“May the gods lead Alekhsiy to do so quickly, lest we must do so here.” Mykhayl surveyed the small gathering, measuring their resolve, and nodded. “We will prevail.”
God willing.
ATLANTA LATE SATURDAY NIGHT
The street below the parking garage was an insane mixture of milling police, firefighters, TV crews, and gaping Con-goers—every single one of them standing on wet pavement.
Danae took off the singularly ugly brown blanket provided by the Red Cross and returned it with thanks to the ladies still passing out doughnuts. She wasn’t cold any more, especially since she hadn’t gotten wet. Besides, if she had to hang around in this circus, she’d rather do so in her own clothes. Her hoodie and jeans were eminently suited to urban late nights.
The firemen had had a field day pouring water onto so many burning cars high atop the garage. And all that liquid had had only one place to go—down, down onto the street, across the asphalt, and into every drain it could find. For a while, it had looked like Noah’s Flood was running below the Krakatau volcano.
Alekhsiy still stood where she’d left him, a pillar of strength, albeit somewhat streaked with grease. A lot of LARPers were in similar condition, down to the whiteness around their tight mouths.
A slow curl of something far more than affection rolled through her gut. Alekhsiy had hit the man with a rifle, even after that other guy’s pistol had gone off, and he’d carried her out of a burning building. He’d saved her life.
“Hey, big guy.” She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head against his chest. Two seconds with a paramedic had taken care of her scraped face but Alekhsiy had needed longer than that to stop shaking.
He immediately hugged her until he held her so close she could hear his heart beating, even through the chain mail.
“How much longer do you think they’ll be?” he asked, and jerked his head toward the cops. Like all of the LARPers, the bystanders in the street, and the late-night gym attendees, they had to talk to the police.
“Not too much more.” She craned her head around his shoulder to look. “There are only one or two people ahead of us in line.”
“How can you tell?” he hissed, clearly horrified.
“Dance studios are not located in the best parts of town, darling. Do you know how many seedy industrial areas I’ve been in? To say nothing of the New York City subway system at the worst hour. And the police reports afterward.”
“Too much crime.” His arms tightened until she almost gasped. They immediately loosened slightly.
“Let’s just say I’ve seen more than my share of real-life cops and robbers. I decided a long time ago I wasn’t about to be a victim.” Like after the first attempted mugging when I was seventeen and on my own in New York. If my father hadn’t taught me so well . . .
She shivered and moved closer.
“That’s why you immediately fought.” His voice was barely a breath against her hair.
“Yeah.” She inhaled, reassuring herself with the faint spiciness that was uniquely Alekhsiy. He didn’t carry any special toiletries, either. She’d miss it when he was gone.
Gone. His chest was warm under her hand, very, very warm in one particular spot.
“Your pendant!” She stared up at him. “It’s so hot. Does this mean it’s fully charged?”
“Yes, sweeting.” He nodded, his mouth very tight.
He could leave tonight. But she’d thought he’d stay for the entire weekend. She wasn’t ready to say good-bye yet.
Unaccustomed moisture dampened her eyes and she blotted it away impatiently. She did not cry over men. At least she never had before, for any significant amount of time.
Something flashed through his gaze but she couldn’t read it very clearly. Surely it was a trick of the bizarre light here, a mix of streetlights, hotel signs, and TV klieg lights.
Stick to business, dammit. She needed to arm him for the upcoming interview. “By the way, your name is Icelandic.”
“Ice Land?”
Thank God he had kept his voice down. Even an anti-scrying spell probably couldn’t cope with a full-fledged bellow.
“Y
eah, it’s a country in the North Atlantic Ocean. Their names are old-fashioned Viking ones, where men’s last names are based on their father’s first name.”
“As they should be.”
She harrumphed in mock disgust and he winked at her.
“In that case, I must not be carrying my passport, because I’m in costume.”
“Correct. You’re very quick on the uptake, you know?” She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.
“Passports. Shootings.” He nuzzled her hair. “Dancers working in fear of their lives.”
Huh? She leaned back to stare at him. She was close to her profession’s top and things were easier now for her. She opened her mouth to correct him.
“Brutes determined to capture you.”
She shuddered, her objection dying away on her lips. Well yeah, there was Turner. Three armed kidnappers, two of them with rifles for God’s sake, were a whole ’nother matter and a very scary one.
He dropped to his knees before her.
“Will you marry me and come home with me?”
“What?” she squeaked. People around them turned to stare but he barely glanced at them.
Kneeling must be so unmistakable that his anti-scrying spell wasn’t trying to hide his words.
“Stand up, you fool.” She tugged at him but she might as well have tried to lift the Empire State Building by herself.
“The fire tonight showed me how much I love you.”
What? They were just having a quick weekend affair, right?
“Will you marry me? I’ll build you a fine house of your own.”
“Oh, how sweet,” somebody murmured. More people began to watch. Two stormtroopers leaned against each other and cooed, their white armor making them look like tall turtledoves under the streetlights.
She flushed.
“Aleks . . .” She stopped and gritted her teeth.
“Alek, stand up or I will never speak another word to you again, so help me God!” Her voice rose to a shout on the last word and hot color flooded her cheeks.
He came to his feet, graceful as a hunting cat despite the layers of tunic and chain mail. He scowled and spun on his heel to glare at any overly inquisitive neighbors. Their audience promptly found numerous other items nearby much more entertaining than they had been. Several even scampered back toward the hotel.
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