A sea of angry growls grew in volume, and several warriors whipped to face Darius, staring at him with expectation, as if they waited for him to coldly slay the warrior who had voiced what they had all been thinking. Tagart merely laughed, daring anyone to act against him.
Do they truly consider me heartless? Darius wondered. Heartless enough to execute his own kind for something so trivial as a verbal insult? He was a killer, yes, but not heartless.
A heartless man felt nothing, and he felt some emotions. Mild though they were. He simply knew how to control what he felt, knew how to bury it deep inside himself. That was the way he preferred his life. Intense emotions birthed turmoil, and turmoil birthed soul-wrenching pain. Soul-wrenching pain birthed memories… His fingers tightened around his fork, and he forced himself to relax.
He would rather feel nothing than relive the agony of his past—the same agony that could very well become his present if he allowed a single memory to take root and sprout its poisonous branches.
“My family is Atlantis,” he finally said, his voice disturbingly calm. “I will do what I must to protect her. If that means waiting before declaring war and angering every one of my men, then so be it.”
Realizing Darius could not be provoked, Tagart shrugged and returned his attention to his meal.
“You are right, my friend.” Grinning broadly, Brand slapped his shoulder. “War is only fun if we emerge the victor. We heed your advice to wait most readily.”
“Kiss his ass any harder,” Tagart muttered, “and your lips will chap.”
Brand quickly lost his grin, and the medallion hanging from his neck began to glow. “What did you say?” he demanded quietly.
“Are your ears as feeble as the rest of you?” Tagart pushed to his feet, leaving his palms planted firmly on the glossy tabletop. The two men glared at each other from across the distance, a charged stillness sparking between them. “I said, kiss his ass any harder, and your lips will chap.”
With a growl, Brand launched himself over the table, knocking dishes and food to the ground in his haste to attack Tagart. In midspring, reptilian scales grew upon his skin and narrow, incandescent wings sprouted from his back, ripping his shirt and pants in half, transforming him from man to beast. Fire spewed from his mouth, charring the surface of everything in its path.
The same transformation overtook Tagart, and the two beasts grappled to the ebony floor in a dangerous tangle of claws, teeth and fury.
Dragon warriors were able to change into true dragons whenever they desired, though the transformation happened of its own volition whenever raging emotions gripped them. Darius himself had not experienced a change, impromptu or otherwise, since he discovered his family slaughtered over three hundred years ago. To be honest, Darius suspected his dragon form was somehow lost.
Tagart snarled when Brand threw him into the nearest wall, cracking the priceless ivory. He quickly recovered by whipping Brand’s face with his serrated tail, leaving a jagged and bleeding wound. Their infuriated snarls echoed as deep and sharp as any blade. A torrent of flame erupted, followed quickly by an infuriated hiss. Over and over they bit and lashed out at each other, separated, circled, then clashed together again.
Every warrior save Darius leapt to his feet in a frenzy of excitement, hurriedly taking bets on who would win. “Eight gold drachmas on Brand,” Grayley proclaimed.
“Ten on Tagart,” Brittan shouted.
“Twenty if they both kill each other,” Zaeven called excitedly.
“Enough,” Darius said, his tone even, controlled.
The two combatants jumped apart as if he’d screamed the command, both panting and facing each other like penned animals, ready to attack again at any moment.
“Sit,” Darius said in that same easy tone.
Rather than obey this time, they growled gutturally at each other. Not so the rest. They sat. While they might wish to continue cheering and taking bets, Darius was their leader, their king, and they knew better than to defy him.
“I did not exclude you from the command,” he said to Tagart and Brand, adding only slightly to his volume. “You will calm yourselves and sit.”
Both men leveled narrowed gazes on him. He arched a harsh brow and motioned with his fingers a gesture that clearly said, “Come and get me. Just don’t expect to live afterward.”
Minutes passed in suspended silence until finally, the panting warriors assumed human form. Their wings recoiled, tucking tightly into the slits on their backs; their scales faded, leaving naked skin. Because Darius kept spare clothing in each room of the palace, they were able to grab a pair of pants from the wall hooks. Partially dressed now, they righted their chairs and eased down.
“I will not have discord in my palace,” Darius told them.
Brand wiped the blood from his cheek and flicked Tagart a narrowed glare. In return, Tagart bared his sharp teeth and released a cutting growl.
They were already on the verge of morphing again, Darius realized.
He worked a finger over the stubble on his chin. Never had he been more thankful that he was a man of great patience, yet never had he been more displeased with the system he had fashioned. His dragons were divided into four units. One unit patrolled the Outer City, while another patrolled the Inner. The third was allowed to roam free, pleasuring women, losing themselves in wine or whatever other vice they desired. The last had to stay here, training. Every four weeks, the units rotated.
These men had been here two days—a mere two days—and already they were restless. If he did not think of something to distract them, they might very well kill each other before their required time elapsed.
“What think you of a tournament of sword skill?” he asked determinedly.
Indifferent, some men shrugged. A few moaned, “Not again.”
“No,” Renard said with a shake of his dark head, “you always win. And besides that, there is no prize.”
“What would you like to do, then?”
“Women,” one of the men shouted. “Bring us some women.”
Darius frowned. “You know I do not allow females inside the palace. They pose too much of a distraction, causing too many hostilities between you. And not the easy hostilities of a few moments ago.”
Regretful groans greeted his words.
“I have an idea.” Brand faced him, a slow smile curling his lips, eclipsing all other emotions. “Allow me to propose a new contest. Not of physical strength, but one of cunning and wits.”
Instantly every head perked up. Even Tagart lost his wrathful glare as interest lit his eyes.
A contest of wits sounded innocent enough. Darius nodded and waved his hand for Brand to continue.
Brand’s smile grew wider. “The contest is simple. The first man to make Darius lose his temper, wins.”
“I do not—” Darius began, but Conner spoke over him, his rough voice laden with excitement.
“And just what does the winner gain?”
“The satisfaction of besting us all,” Brand replied. “And a beating from Darius, I’m sure.” He offered them a languid shrug and leaned back in the velvet cushions of his chair. He propped his ankles on the tabletop. “But I swear every bruise will be worth it.”
Eight sets of eyes swung in Darius’s direction and locked on him with unnerving interest. Weighing options. Speculating. “I do not—” he began again, but just like before he was silenced.
“I like the sound of this,” Tagart interjected. “Count me in.”
“Me, too.”
“And me, as well.”
Before another man could so easily ignore him, Darius uttered one word. Simple, but effective. “No.” He swallowed a tasteless bite of fowl, then continued with the rest of his meal. “Now, tell me more of the vampires’ doings.”
“What about making him smile?” Facing Brand, Conner shoved eagerly to his feet and leaned over the table. “Does that count? It’s a show of emotion and as rare as his temper.”
“Abs
olutely.” Brand nodded. “But there must be a witness to the deed, or no winner can be declared.”
One by one, each man uttered, “Agreed.”
“I will hear no more talk of this.” When had he lost control of this conversation? Of his men? “I—” Darius snapped his mouth closed. His blood was quickening with darkness and danger, and the hairs at the base of his neck were rising.
The mist prepared for a traveler.
Resignation rushed through him and on the heels of that was cold determination. He eased up, his chair skidding slightly behind him.
Every voice tapered to silence. Every expression became curious.
“I must go,” he said, the words flat, hollow. “We will discuss a tournament of sword skill when I return.”
He attempted to stride from the room, but Tagart leapt up and over the table and swiveled in front of him. “Does the mist call you?” the warrior asked, casually leaning one arm against the door frame and blocking the only exit.
Darius gave him no outward reaction. But then, when did he ever? “Step out of my way.”
Tagart arched an insolent brow. “Make me.”
Someone snickered behind him.
With or without his approval, it seemed the game had already begun. This wasn’t like his men. They must be more bored than he’d thought.
Darius easily lifted Tagart by his shoulders and tossed the stunned man aside, slamming him into the far wall. He thudded to the floor in a gasping heap. Without facing the others, Darius asked, “Anyone else?”
“Me,” came an unhesitant and unrepentant reply. A blur of black leather and silver knives, Conner rushed to stand at his side, watching him intently, gauging his reaction. “I want to stop you. Does that make you angry? Make you want to scream and rail at me?”
An unholy light entered Tagart’s eyes as he scrambled to his feet. He curled his fingers around the hilt of a nearby sword and stalked to Darius, his motions slow and deliberate. Never once pausing to consider the stupidity of his actions, he pointed the razor-sharp tip of the blade at Darius’s neck.
“Would you show fear if I vowed to kill you?” the infuriated man spat.
“That’s taking things too far,” Brand growled, joining the growing group around him.
A drop of blood slithered down Darius’s throat. The nick should have stung, but he felt nothing, not a single sensation. Only that ever-present detachment.
No one realized his intentions. One moment Darius stood still, seemingly accepting of Tagart’s assault, but the next he had his own sword unsheathed and directed at Tagart’s neck. The man’s eyes widened.
“Put your weapon away,” Darius told him, “or I will kill you where you stand. I care not whether I live or die, but you, I think, care greatly for your own life.”
One second dragged into two before a narrow-eyed Tagart lowered his sword.
Darius lowered his own weapon; his features remained stony. “Finish your meal, all of you, then retire to the practice arena. You will exercise until you have not the strength to stand. That’s an order.”
He strode from the chamber quite aware he had not given his men the reaction they craved.
* * *
DARIUS DESCENDED THE cave steps four at a time, ready to finish the deed and resume his meal in private. He removed his shirt and tossed the black fabric into a far corner. The medallion he wore, as well as the tattoos on his chest, glowed like tiny pinpricks of flame, waiting for him to fulfill his vow.
Expression blank, mind clear, he tightened his clasp on his sword, positioned himself to the left of the mist…and he waited.
CHAPTER TWO
GRACE CARLYLE ALWAYS hoped she’d die from intense pleasure while having sex with her husband. Well, she wasn’t married, and she’d never had sex, but she was still going to die.
And not from intense pleasure.
From heat exhaustion? Maybe.
From hunger? Possibly.
From her own stupidity? Absolutely.
She was lost and alone in the freaking Amazon jungle.
As she strode past tangled green vines and towering trees, beads of sweat trickled down her chest and back. Small shards of light seeped from the leafy canopy above, providing hazy visibility. Barely adequate, but appreciated. The smells of rotting vegetation, old rain and flowers mingled together, forming a conflicting fragrance of sweet and sour. She wrinkled her nose.
“All I wanted was a little excitement,” she muttered. “Instead I end up broke, lost, and trapped in this bug-infested sauna.”
To complete her descent into hell, she expected the sky to open and pour out a deluge of rain at any moment.
The only good thing about her current circumstances was that all this hiking and sweating might actually help her lose a few pounds from her too-curvy figure. Not that losing weight did her any good here. Except, perhaps, in the newspapers.
New Yorker Found Dead In Amazon
Such A Shame. She Was Hot!
* * *
SCOWLING, SHE SWATTED a mosquito trying to drink her arm dry—even though she’d applied several layers of ucuru oil to prevent such bites. Where the hell was Alex? She should have run into her brother by now. Or, at the very least, stumbled upon a tour group. Or even blundered upon an indigenous tribe.
If only she hadn’t taken an extended leave of absence from Air Travel, she’d be soaring through the air, relaxed and listening to the hypnotic hum of a jet engine.
“I’d be in an air-conditioned G-IV,” she said, slashing her hand like a machete through the thick, green foliage. “I’d be sipping vanilla Coke.” Another slash. “I’d be listening to my coworkers discuss stiletto heels, expensive dates and mind-shattering orgasms.”
And I’d still be miserable, she thought, wishing I were anywhere else.
She stopped abruptly and closed her eyes. I just want to be happy. Is that too much to ask?
Obviously.
So often lately she battled a sense of discontent, a desire to experience so much more. Her mother had tried to warn her what such discontent would bring her. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” she’d admonished. But had Grace listened? Noooo. Instead she’d followed her aunt Sophie’s lovely bit of wisdom. Aunt Sophie, for goodness sake! The woman who wore leopard print spandex and cavorted with mailmen and strippers. “I know you’ve done some exciting things, Gracie honey,” Sophie had said, “but that’s not really living. Something’s missing from your life and if you don’t find it, you’ll end up a shriveled old prune like your mom.”
Something was missing from Grace’s life. She knew that, and in an effort to find that mysterious “something,” she’d tried speed dating, internet dating and singles bars. When those failed, she decided to give night school a try. Not to meet men, but to learn. Not that the cosmetology classes had done her any good. The best stylists in the world couldn’t tame her wild red curls. After that, she’d tried race-car driving and step class. She’d even gotten her belly button pierced. Nothing helped.
What would it take to make her feel whole, complete?
“Not this jungle, that’s for sure,” she grumbled, jolting back into motion. “Someone please tell me,” she said to the heavens, “why satisfaction always dances so quickly out of my reach. I’m dying to know.”
Traveling the world had always been her dream, and becoming a flight attendant for a private charter had seemed like the perfect job for her. She hadn’t realized she would become an airborne waitress, jaunting from hotel to hotel, never actually enjoying the state/country/hellhole she found herself in. Sure, she’d scaled mountains, surfed the ocean waves and jumped from a plane, but the joy of those adventures never remained and like everything else she’d tried, they always left her feeling more unsatisfied than before.
That’s why she had come here, to try something new. Something with a bit more danger. Her brother was an employee of Argonauts, a mythoarchaeological company that had recently discovered the crude glider constructed by Dae
dalus of Athens—a discovery that rocked the scientific and mythological communities. Alex spent his days and nights delving deep into the world’s myths, proving or disproving them.
With such a fulfilling job, he didn’t have to worry about becoming a shriveled old prune. Not like me, she lamented.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Grace increased her pace. About a week ago, Alex had shipped her a package containing his journal and a gorgeous necklace with two dangling, intertwined dragon heads. No note of explanation accompanied the gifts. Knowing he was in Brazil and looking for a portal that led into the lost city of Atlantis she’d decided to join him, leaving a message on his cell phone with details of her flight.
With a sigh, she fingered the dragon chain hanging at her neck. When Alex failed to pick her up at the airport, she should have returned home. “But nooo,” she said with deep self-loathing, suddenly more aware of her dry, cotton mouth. “I hired a local guide and tried to find him. ‘Sí, senhorina,’” she mimicked the guide. “‘Of course, senhorina. Anything at all, senhorina.’”
“Bastard,” she muttered.
Today, two miserable days into her trek, her kind, considerate, I-only-want-to-help-you guide had stolen her backpack and abandoned her here. Now she had no food, no water, no tent. She did, however, have a weapon. A weapon she had used to shoot that bastard in the ass as he ran away. The memory caused her lips to curl in a slow smile, and she lovingly patted the revolver resting in the waist of her dirty canvas pants.
Her smile didn’t last long, however, as the midday heat continued to pound against her. In all her wildest dreams, her need for fulfillment had never ended like this. She’d envisioned laughter and—
Something hard slammed into her head and jostled her forward. She yelped, her heart pounding in her chest as she rubbed her now throbbing temple and skimmed her gaze over the ground, searching for the source of her pain.
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