by Adrian, Lara
“No. It’s really not necessary.”
“It’s the least I can do for you, and besides, I’ve already worked with most of the residents. They know me. And if anything should come up, between Trygg and me, I’m sure we can handle it.”
“I appreciate the offer, Sia, but—”
“Wonderful. Then it’s settled.” Sia gave her a look that invited no argument.
While Phaedra had once been part of the Atlantean royal court with her parents, those days were long past. Tamisia had only been exiled from her station as an Elder for a matter of months, and it showed in her unwavering gaze.
“First, we’ll have our tea and lunch, and you can tell me what happened in the dream this time,” Sia said. “Then we’ll start making plans for you to take a well-deserved, and much needed, break. Someplace relaxing and stress-free.”
Phaedra knew better than to argue once Tamisia had made up her mind about something. And she had to admit, if even to herself, that the idea of getting away from the crowds and bustle of Rome for short time did sound appealing. She wasn’t sure where she might want to go, nor did it matter.
Wherever she went now, she knew nothing would ever deliver her from the soul-shredding cries of the men who had perished so horrifically in the terrible light of her dream.
CHAPTER 2
One week later . . .
The translator seemed nervous.
Tegan wasn’t sure if the young Kazakhstani looked ready to piss himself because of what he was hearing from the wary old man he spoke with, or because of the big, scowling vampire waiting impatiently to receive the troubling news.
Tegan’s brows furrowed even deeper, his fangs prickling in his gums. He was in no mood for roadblocks or delays. He’d been gone from his home and his beloved mate back in the States for close to seven days now. His boots had covered countless miles of rough terrain, starting in Budapest where the missing Order warriors had last been heard from, then through the forested taiga of Siberian Russia where the team’s secret mission had abruptly lost all contact.
A combination of instinct, logic, and desperate guessing had brought him down into neighboring Kazakhstan last night. He’d waited out the daylight hours in Petropavl, a small city just across the border. With a train station and a university nearby, there had been plenty of humans around to provide him with the sustenance he’d sorely needed.
As a Gen One Breed, Tegan had to feed every few days. After trekking alone for at least that long through the Russian wilderness, he’d been half-starved by the time he finally sank his fangs into the throat of a young thug who’d had the bad sense to try to pick his pocket outside the station after nightfall.
It wasn’t until Tegan had taken his fill of fresh red cells from the thug’s carotid that he noticed the unusual weapon that had clattered out of the human’s hand. The long dagger was too well-made to belong to a common street hood, especially one who likely hadn’t ventured more than a few hundred kilometers away from the remote city or the barren steppes of his homeland.
No, the blade was not some crude weapon. It was beautiful, and crafted of something more than pedestrian steel. Hand-forged titanium.
The kind of weapon that belonged to a Breed warrior.
When Tegan saw the tooled grip that had been custom-fitted to the hand of the Order member who’d carried it, every cell in his body lit up with recognition—and with a cold dread he refused to acknowledge.
No warrior in the Order would ever willingly surrender his blade. Most especially, not the formidable male who had lost this one.
Tegan hadn’t needed to pick up the blade to know that it would fit his own large hand nearly perfectly.
After all, it had been made for his son, Micah.
He glowered at the thug he’d pressed into service as his translator back in Petropavl, who was currently asking questions on Tegan’s behalf. “What’s the old man telling you? You said you bought that blade off him three days ago. Where the fuck did he get it?”
Both humans flinched at his biting tone. No doubt, the glint of his elongating fangs in the dim light of the round, tent-like yurt didn’t give either man much comfort.
Good. His patience had been threadbare even before he arrived in this desolate patch of flat grasslands in Kazakhstan’s north country. Each second that kept him away from the truth about Micah’s blade only made his fury simmer closer to a boil.
The gray-haired man seated on the rug in the center of the candlelit tent was the patriarch of the clan of nomad herders temporarily camped on the steppe. They had set up there to let their sheep and cattle graze on the yellowed grasses before autumn turned to brutal winter.
The makeshift village was comprised of fewer than a dozen similar yurts. Outside the one where Tegan braced for bad news, nervous livestock bayed and snuffled, instinctively aware of the presence of the apex predator in their midst. A predator who was growing increasingly dangerous by the second.
The pair of humans staring at Tegan showed similar anxiety as the animals.
“The dagger,” he growled. “Where did the old man get it?”
The translator swallowed. “He says it came from a wanderer who showed up here in the camp last week. He was gravely wounded, traveling alone on foot. The old man says the wanderer was a . . . one of your kind.”
Tegan let a curse slip through his clenched teeth. He didn’t want to think the injured Breed male could have been his son, but the alternative was a cold comfort too. What might have happened to Micah to separate him from his teammates? He was their captain, a devoted soldier who would never abandon his comrades under any circumstances.
Just as Tegan was certain his son would never surrender his blade unless he was too weak to hold it. Or worse.
Those were thoughts he refused to consider.
“Tell the old man I need more information. Did the wanderer say anything—anything at all? What kind of injuries did he have? Where had he come from? How long was he here at the camp?”
The young Kazakh’s dark eyes were grim as he slowly shook his head. “He’s said all he knows about the stranger. His path ended here the same night he arrived. Not long afterward, he closed his eyes and never opened them again. I am . . . sorry.”
A sudden anguish seeped into Tegan’s veins, into his heart. He’d set out on this search determined to find his missing son and the Order team Micah had been leading. He’d told himself he would not rest until he had succeeded.
Worse than that, he had promised Elise nothing bad would happen to their son. He’d sworn it as an oath, not only to her but to himself as he’d stared into her beautiful, fear-stricken lavender eyes and made that vow.
Now, those words settled on his tongue like ashes.
He wasn’t ready to acknowledge what he was hearing. Christ, he’d never be ready for that.
“What did the old man do afterward . . . What did they do with his body?” The question sounded detached from him, wooden words that he could barely choke out.
The translator turned to the nomad elder to ask in their language. The exchange took longer than it should have, a rushed back-and-forth that seemed to stir confusion in the younger man.
Tegan stared, irritated to be left out of the conversation. “What’s wrong? What is he saying?”
Frowning, the Kazakh glanced back at Tegan. “There is no body. The wanderer . . . he didn’t die.”
Tegan growled. “You just told me—”
“Yes, yes, I know what I said. But the dialect of this region is tricky.” He shook his head. “The stranger came here with grievous wounds. He was very weak. He collapsed and has not regained consciousness.”
“You mean, he’s alive?”
The translator nodded. “They are keeping him in one of the yurts here at the camp. The old man says they’ve tried to look after him as best they can, but he grows weaker by the hour. His care exceeds what they’re able to give him.”
A wild hope surged inside Tegan, but he bit it back. Until h
e saw his son with his own eyes—until he confirmed that the injured warrior truly was Micah—there was no room to let down his guard. “Take me to him. Now.”
The translator communicated the command to the nomad elder. With a sober nod, the sheepherder got up from his seat on the rug. Bent, slow-moving, he motioned for them to follow him out of the yurt.
Tegan’s heart drummed as he walked impatiently behind the pair of humans along the tread-worn path between the rest of the small camp. A few curious heads peeked out of the tents to watch them pass, whispers and murmurs buzzing in Tegan’s wake.
The Breed had been known to their human cohabitants of this planet for more than twenty years, though hardly welcomed by the masses. That this remote clan had taken care of one of his kind at a time of need was a miracle Tegan never would have expected. It did more than surprise him. It humbled him.
Yet none of that prepared him for what awaited inside the dark yurt at the end of the encampment.
As they approached, the sickly stench of looming death assaulted him like a hammer driven into the center of his chest. Once inside, the reality hit him even harder. The rasp of shallow, irregular breathing made the air in his own lungs seize up. The sight of the large, yet obviously diminished, shape of the Breed male lying on the thin cot in the center of the yurt sent cold dread leeching into his veins.
The old man turned on a battery-powered lantern that sat on a low table near the entrance. The glow illuminated the tent, but Tegan’s Breed vision didn’t need the light in order to recognize that he was looking at his son.
“Ah, fuck.” The words gusted out of him on a choked breath.
He moved to the side of the meager bed and stared down at Micah, fear and a father’s indescribable pain filling the space behind his sternum.
“Son.” The word was raw in his throat. “Micah, can you hear me?”
No response, not even a flinch of the dark lashes resting on his ashen cheeks. Tegan took hold of Micah’s big hand, clasping the cool, heavy fingers between his warmer ones, rubbing them to create friction as he prayed for some kind of signal that his son would be all right.
Beneath the sheet and animal pelt that covered Micah’s body, the strong, formidable young warrior slept without stirring.
“How many days has he been in this coma?” Tegan asked the question without glancing away from the only child he had. Now that he had his eyes on him, he couldn’t bear to look away—no matter how wrenching it was to see such a force of nature laid low by what had clearly been catastrophic injuries.
The old man and the younger one spoke briefly behind him in their language. “This was the fourth day,” the translator said. “The fifth night starts tonight.”
Four full days. No wonder there was barely anything left of him. It was likely only Micah’s second-generation Breed genetics that had let him survive the severity of his wounds at all. Those same genetics would be the thing to finish him if he was allowed to waste away any longer without proper care.
Or without the blood his body needed in order to heal.
Tegan unsheathed his son’s dagger, then glanced over his shoulder at the younger of the two humans. “Come here.”
“W-what do you mean to do with that?” Panic edged the stammered question. “I did what you asked. I brought you here. I got you the answers you wanted. Please . . . please, don’t kill me.”
“I said step forward.”
The Kazakh shuffled closer, looking less of the cocky thug from the city and more like the terrified coward he truly was. As soon as he was within reach, Tegan took him by the forearm and hauled him next to Micah on the bed.
He gave him a flash of his fangs. “Relax. I’m not going to kill you.”
He sliced the edge of the titanium blade across the human’s wrist. Blood surged from the wound, dark crimson and thick with life-giving red cells. The young man howled, but Tegan knew it was only out of fear. He held the open wound over Micah’s slack mouth, willing his son to take some of the nourishment that ran over his lips and down his squared chin.
“Hold still,” he told the squirming human. He would mind scrub him of their entire encounter once Micah had taken what he needed.
If he would take it.
“Come on, son. Drink,” Tegan murmured. Resheathing the dagger, he used his free hand to open Micah’s mouth.
It wasn’t going to work.
The fresh blood pooled on his tongue, only a few drops making it down his throat.
If he couldn’t swallow, he couldn’t drink.
And if he couldn’t drink, he was going to die.
Either way, Tegan had to get him out of there.
With a growl, he pulled the man’s wrist to his mouth and sealed the wound with a swipe of his tongue. The bleeding stopped at once, the skin healing over almost instantly.
The young Kazakh scrambled away from him, sputtering something in his native language as he stared at his vanishing injury.
Tegan stood up and walked over to the old man who had given Micah shelter and care these past few crucial days and nights. There was a wariness in the dark eyes that stared back at him, but there seemed to be an understanding, even sympathy, in the old patriarch’s lined face. Understanding that needed no translation.
Tegan extended his hand. “Thank you for looking after my son.”
The aged human reached out, his grasp surprisingly firm as he gave a nod of acknowledgment.
While the younger Kazakh continued to inspect his wrist and hyperventilate on the other side of the tent, Tegan strode to Micah’s bedside and took out the satellite phone he’d carried with him since leaving the States. He would need to call Elise and let her know he’d found their son.
But first, he needed to make arrangements to get him home.
He punched in the code that connected him to a secured line at the Order’s Washington, D.C., headquarters.
“I have him,” he told Lucan Thorne, the founder of the Order and Tegan’s oldest friend. “I’ve got Micah.”
The exhalation on the other end of the line was filled with relief. “And the rest of his team?”
“Just Micah. He’s in bad shape. It doesn’t look good for the others, Lucan.” He glanced down at Micah on the cot, his slack lips stained with the blood he desperately needed but had barely absorbed. “Ah, fuck, Lucan. It doesn’t look good for my son, either.”
“We’re on it,” Lucan replied, his low voice grim but steady with resolve. “We’ve already got your coordinates. Gideon’s making arrangements to have a medevac team on the ground to pick you up ASAP.”
“Thanks.”
“No thanks required. You ought to know that by now, brother.”
Yeah, he did. Tegan fell silent, unable to express how much he needed to hear his friend’s reassurances. In the background, he heard the traces of Gideon’s British accent as he spoke and the clack of his fingers typing on a computer keyboard.
“Gideon says Lazaro Archer’s already responded to the call,” Lucan said. “He’s dispatching one of his units from Rome as we speak.”
“Okay.” Tegan stole another look at his son. He couldn’t hold back the jagged sigh that tore out of him. “And Lucan? Tell Lazaro to hurry.”
CHAPTER 3
Ash clung to the back of his parched throat.
Micah tried to swallow, but his jaw felt rusted tight. His tongue was thick, his mouth as dry as a desert. He groaned, and was shocked to hear the low sound vibrate deep in his chest.
He was alive?
Fuck.
Pain in his lungs as he choked in a gasping breath wrenched his crusted eyelids open, but only for a second. His retinas felt aflame, still seared from the explosion of light that had come out of nowhere and lit up the ghostly forest brighter than the midday sun.
He could still see his fallen teammates after he’d rushed back to find them. Or, rather, what little had been left of them.
All five Breed warriors who had served with him in their elite unit of the
Order, gone.
Nothing but cinders and melted weapons near the epicenter of the unearthly blast.
As their captain, his men would have followed him into any battle—and had—no matter the risk. Instead, the impulse that had pushed Micah to command the team deeper into the wastelands of the Siberian interior had led them into a trap he never saw coming.
He should have stayed on course.
They’d had their orders. They had carried out their mission with flawless precision. When it was done, he should have taken his team back to base. Instead, he’d felt a prickling at the back of his neck, as if the harsh forest terrain whispered to him. Beckoned him deeper. Kept pulling him forward until the taiga gave way to a woodland of skeletal, lifeless trees that seemed to stretch on for miles and miles.
He knew the place, even though he’d never stepped foot there. It was crazy. Hell, maybe he was fucking crazy.
That’s what he’d thought when he spotted the white doe that had emerged out of the charred trees. He’d seen it before, but this time it was real. So was the woman accompanying the ethereal animal. She, too, had materialized amid the barren woods like a vision. Tall and slender, yet mouth-wateringly feminine, she’d stopped him dead in his tracks.
He, the skilled warrior, the disciplined captain who had earned his rank through punishing training and unflinching focus on his orders and his duty, had left his men to run after her, curiosity only part of what drew him to her. Then, after he’d caught up to her, like an idiot he’d stood frozen in confusion—and in pure primal response—to the chestnut-haired beauty who seemed to have dropped into the center of his world like something out of a fantasy.
Right up until the moment when he saw her glowing hands and realized what she was.
Atlantean.
The immortal race whose queen, Selene, had declared them at war with all of the Breed and mankind alike.