Darkness Bound (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Whoever she was, he knew she wasn’t Expurgari. They only recruited men. A bounty hunter? An environmentalist reporting on the destruction of the rainforest who took a wrong turn somewhere, and now was hopelessly lost? Doubtful, but anything was possible. Either way, this would earn him points with the powers that be.

  Maybe they’d even let him kill her himself.

  Smiling at that thought, and grateful he’d found a satellite phone in the Alpha’s deserted quarters so he was finally able to make that important call he hadn’t been able to make for days, Viscount Weymouth shoved the female forward, broke through the edge of the trees, and walked into the clearing.

  Alejandro’s fist caught Hawk square in the jaw and knocked him staggering back.

  Regaining his balance quickly, Hawk snarled at him in the Old Language, a curse forbidden to speak to the Alpha—but as far as he was concerned, Alejandro was Alpha no longer. He lunged forward, teeth bared, and crashed headlong into his brother’s chest. They went down onto the dirt with a heavy thud that shivered the ground and was audible all the way up into the trees. Rolling and punching and howling like a pair of slavering wolves, they were a spectacle that sent the crowd into a frenzy.

  They leapt to their feet and began to circle one another. Alejandro swung, Hawk feinted. Hawk swung, Alejandro Shifted to Vapor, and his hand punched through a cool cloud of mist. The linen drawstring trousers Alejandro had been wearing slipped empty to the ground with a sigh. Hawk froze as a black panther appeared before him, crouched to spring.

  Hawk couldn’t Shift. His hand was injured; he’d cut it when he’d crushed the jar of ointment in his hand. Trapped in human form, he’d have to fight at a serious disadvantage.

  For a hair of a moment, Alejandro looked surprised, waiting for Hawk to Shift, also. When he didn’t, the look in the panther’s eyes changed to one of victory. Then one of deadly focus.

  There was only a single rule that governed this contest.

  The loser dies.

  Just as Alejandro leapt into the air with a powerful thrust of his haunches, Hawk caught sight of a flash of red with his peripheral vision. Distracted, he turned his attention away from the panther for a split second, snapping his gaze to the right and finding Jacqueline’s face, pale, grimacing in pain. The flash of metal beneath her jaw: a knife.

  Then a pair of razor-sharp fangs sank into his shoulder, and he went down, blood spurting over his chest.

  Morgan felt the disturbance in the air at the exact same moment she caught sight of Viscount Weymouth pushing Jacqueline through the crowd, which also happened to be the same moment Alejandro leapt on Hawk in the arena and tore a sizable chunk of flesh from his shoulder.

  Deep in the marrow of her bones, she knew what was about to happen.

  Time slowed to a snail’s crawl. Her vision came into perfect, crystalline focus, and she saw everything unfold simultaneously. There was Hawk on the ground, executing a swift, precise roll that took him from beneath Alejandro so efficiently for a moment the panther was off-balance, his long tail cracking like a whip behind him as he hissed and spun around. There was Viscount Weymouth, shoving his way toward where she stood with Leander, Xander, and the other Assembly members to one side of the arena, the expression on his face one of smug satisfaction, the crowd parting in shock to let him pass. There was Leander, rigid and feral-eyed, no longer paying attention to the contest below, but staring with avid concentration at the sky above, twilight staining it mottled purple and blue like a bruise.

  And there, far off in the evening sky, was a white dot, vivid as a star on the distant horizon. Only this star sported wings.

  It was moving fast in their direction.

  Together, Leander and Morgan whispered, “Jenna!”

  Jack’s heart was choking her.

  She couldn’t catch a breath with it in her throat, as it beat furiously in fear and horror. The man shoving her forward had the strength of a bear in spite of having the appearance of an elderly fop, and was sweating in his fitted white dress shirt and formal black slacks. He pushed her relentlessly on as she tried to twist out of his grip, stumbling, panting, trying not to let the knife on her jugular press too hard against her skin.

  He threw her down. Morgan was there, and Xander, and others she didn’t recognize, a mass of bodies pressing in to see, everyone gaping at her captor. But Jack was looking to her right and down, to the awful scene in the arena: a bleeding Hawk and a giant, spitting black cat, ears flattened against its head, muscles bunched beneath its glossy black coat, sinking into a crouch.

  My God, it’s going to eat him!

  “No!” she screamed.

  The panther flicked a look over its shoulder. Hawk took the window of opportunity and leapt on the animal, throwing his big arms around its neck, knocking it off balance. Then Jack was hauled to her feet roughly by a strong pair of hands, and she lost sight of Hawk altogether as bodies around her closed the gap in her view.

  “My Lord,” said the man who’d had the knife at her throat, bowing stiffly to Leander. He kept his hand fisted in her hair as he did so. “I found this”—he gave Jack a kick—“hiding in the shrubbery. Shall I slit its throat?”

  Leander shouldered past him, ignoring him, looking up at the sky as if it were about to rain diamonds.

  “You bloody duffer, Weymouth!” screeched Morgan. She hauled off, made a fist, and punched the man right in the nose.

  He fell to his knees with a cry, clutching his face. Blood poured between his fingers.

  Gasps went up all around them, loud and amazed, and for a moment Jack thought it was because of what Morgan had done. But then she realized no one was looking at Weymouth.

  Everyone was looking up.

  She stood. Her eyes rose to the heavens, and she squinted, searching . . .

  Impossible! Impossible!

  It repeated in her head like a record stuck in a groove, over and over. Her mouth dropped open. Her knees turned to Jell-O. Her heart took a swan dive toward her feet.

  Sinuous, beautiful, gleaming white as a pearl, the creature had silver-tipped wings and barbs along its powerful tail, a mane like a horse’s flowing down its long, elegant neck. It was moving at an incredible rate of speed, scoring the sky like an arrow shot from a bow, magnificent in the economy and grace of its every movement.

  Even at this distance, Jack saw the curved talons that tipped the legs drawn up against its belly, the preternatural yellow eyes . . . and the muzzle full of razor-sharp teeth.

  A dragon. Holy mother of God, she was looking at a dragon.

  A gentle hand on her arm. “Magnificent, isn’t she?” Morgan spoke in a soft tone of wonderment, as she shook out the hand she’d used to hit Weymouth.

  Jack’s mouth wouldn’t form words.

  “Jenna,” Morgan clarified. “The Queen.”

  Behind them, Weymouth was sputtering curses, staggering to his feet. He entreated Leander to punish Morgan, to make an example of such a volatile female, but Leander had no time for him, because he was watching the Queen like a bloodhound, watching her speed and the slight, telling tremble in the tips of her wings.

  “Too fast,” Leander muttered, judging the speed of the dragon by her distance from where they stood. “She’s coming in too fast!” He turned to the crowd and, waving his arms, roared at the top of his lungs, “MOVE!”

  Panic erupted in the clearing. Everyone began shoving and pushing, directionless, shouting at one another while trying to get away. Jack was pushed along by a surge of bodies toward the trees. She desperately tried to look for Hawk, but the arena was obscured by a sea of bobbing dark heads. She stumbled and fell, and someone picked her up with a hand under her arm.

  Jack looked up just in time to glimpse the dragon overhead—big as a starship, its vast shimmering wings beating furiously in a futile attempt to slow itself, thrashing the air all around so dust sw
irled up and her hair flew into her eyes—then the tops of the trees were sheared off as it hurtled past. Greenery exploded everywhere like confetti shot from a cannon.

  A great, thunderous boom was heard as it landed, shuddering the earth beneath Jack’s feet. It shook every branch in every tree for miles. Then came a deafening cacophony of shrieks and cries as thousands of birds took to wing, disturbed from their perches, rising in droves to darken the sky.

  Then all went still. Jack looked up through the flurry of leaves drifting down from above to behold the great white dragon standing in the middle of the arena, chest heaving, smoke pluming from its nostrils, wings aloft. It stretched its scaled neck, looking around as if trying to locate something.

  Or someone. Leander bounded through the crowd toward it, tearing off his shirt.

  Hawk, thought Jack.

  She pushed to the front of the crowd. Just as she reached the place where the bodies thinned to emptiness to reveal the open clearing, the long, ragged claw marks gouged deep into the earth, the dragon shimmered and lost shape. Seconds later, only a glittering plume of mist hovered above the ground where the creature had once been. Everyone around her took a sharp intake of breath.

  Jack sensed it, too.

  Power. Raw and elemental, a sizzling current passed over her skin, unlike anything she’d ever felt.

  Then the plume of mist gathered in on itself, reforming to take the shape of a woman.

  She was nude. Pale and blonde whereas all the others except Jack were dark and golden-skinned, she stood silently, her gaze trained on Leander. Jack suffered the fleeting thought that maybe this whole adventure was the result of a psychotic break. Maybe this all was happening inside her mind, because this couldn’t be happening in real life. It wasn’t possible. Then she spied Hawk and her poor heart gave such a painful throb she felt sure she was either crazy or dreaming, because she didn’t know him at all, but her heart definitely did.

  Somehow, he’d gained the advantage over the massive black panther. They were in one corner of the arena, and Hawk was on the animal’s back, an arm around its neck, the other squeezing his opposite fist, his muscles bulging as he bore all his weight down on its throat.

  He was choking it. Quite successfully, it appeared. It listed and fell sideways, and Hawk squeezed harder.

  Leander reached Jenna. He slung his shirt around her shoulders, quickly buttoned it to cover her nudity, then crushed her to his chest. They shared a passionate kiss, ignoring everyone, then the Queen buried her face in his neck.

  After a moment she raised her head. Over Leander’s shoulder, she locked eyes with Jack, and it took everything Jack had not to take a step backward.

  The Queen turned and looked behind her. She shouted, “Stop!” and Hawk froze. He looked up, and his face hardened.

  Could it be possible he hadn’t noticed her? No, Jack realized, as Hawk released the panther and straightened, putting his shoulders back. He’d seen her all right. He’d just chosen to ignore her.

  A hysterical giggle threatened to burst from Jack’s throat. He’d chosen to ignore the arrival of a white dragon, in order to continue his fight to the death with a black panther. The world had gone entirely mad.

  There was utter silence in the clearing, so she was able to hear with perfect clarity what the Queen said next.

  “Tell me,” she said to Leander, looking at the two men.

  Leander, even in profile, looked as if he’d had better days. His relief was palpable. “A challenger to the Alpha,” he said, sounding out of breath. He spread his hand over the small of Jenna’s back, as if to reassure himself she was really standing there.

  The Queen cursed, and Jack decided she liked her.

  “What’s your name?” she said to Hawk, ignoring the panther, who had crawled several feet away, and was shaking. It shook its head, coughed, and sprawled over the ground.

  “I’m called Hawk,” he replied, in a tone of impatient disrespect.

  Leander growled, but the Queen simply held up her hand, staring at Hawk. She flicked a glance to the panther. “Stand down, Hawk. This contest is over.”

  He snarled, “I’ll never stand down to the man who hurt my woman.” His eyes met Jack’s.

  My woman. Dear God.

  The Queen turned to look at her. From somewhere in the crowd, Morgan’s voice rang out. “I can explain everything!”

  The Queen’s gaze found Morgan, and a faint smile crossed her face. She nodded, said, “I can hardly wait to hear it.” Then she looked back at Jack and her voice turned hard. “But not just yet. First I have business to attend to.”

  Leander bent his head to her ear, murmuring, “You’re exhausted. You look pale, and you’re shaking. Whatever it is can wait until after you’ve res—”

  She broke from his arms without waiting for him to finish, and made a beeline toward Jack.

  Jack took one horrified step back, then another, until she realized the Queen wasn’t looking at her, but at something right behind her. Weak with relief, Jack pressed to one side and let her pass, and then the Queen stood before Weymouth.

  He was still bleeding. Red splatters decorated the front of his shirt in an erratic pattern, lurid against the white. He bowed, sniveling, his hand covering his nose. “Welcome, Your Highness!” he said nasally. “So wonderful to see you. And please don’t worry about me, it’s just a little—”

  The Queen’s hand shot out, and she grabbed him around the throat. “Traitor!” she hissed. Then the woman disappeared in a flash of glittering mist, power blasted through the clearing in a heated wave, her white shirt was shredded to confetti, and the dragon was there again, looming over them all.

  Weymouth was clutched in one of its powerful claws.

  His scream was high and piercing. The dragon flung him to the ground and he lay there, gasping, blood flowering through his shirt where the points of five sharp talons had punctured his skin.

  He tried to scramble away. His glasses fell off, as did one shoe. The dragon reared high above him, inhaled a breath, and opened its muzzle, revealing row upon row of gleaming, pointed teeth.

  Weymouth looked over his shoulder. Comprehending what was about to happen, he rolled to his back, pulled the same blade from his pocket he’d held to Jack’s throat, grasped it with both hands, and plunged it, hilt deep, into his chest. He made a gurgling sound, hideous and wet, which was summarily drowned out when the dragon stretched its neck and exhaled.

  A molten stream of fire roared from its mouth.

  Weymouth was incinerated.

  It was over within seconds. When the smoke cleared, a charred husk lay unmoving on the ground, the earth all around it scorched black.

  The dragon turned back to woman, who delicately burped a tiny flame. She covered her mouth and said, “Excuse me.” Then her eyes fluttered closed and she slumped to her knees, caught before falling all the way by Leander, who ran up to gather her in his arms.

  Jack didn’t see anything else after that because the ground came up hard to catch her, and the world faded to darkness.

  The rage inside Caesar felt like a nuclear bomb detonating in his bowels. He’d been staring at the satellite phone in his hands for long blank minutes, shaking with fury, needing to beat something bloody, thinking the same two words over and over.

  That. Bitch!

  This Queen of theirs was craftier than he’d given her credit for.

  With a curse, he threw the phone at the wall, whereupon it immediately shattered with a satisfactory crash, spraying bits of plastic and metal over the dusty stone floor. He began to pace, seething.

  “Filthy spy! You think you can come here and sneak around? You think there won’t be consequences? You think you can outsmart me?”

  He knew it was her now, that night when the desert air felt alive. Weymouth had just warned him in his hushed, hurried call that s
he wasn’t with their party in the jungle, and was probably headed his way.

  He wished he’d known earlier to watch out for anything white.

  “Fucking falcon!” he shouted to the empty room. “Fucking SPIDER!”

  She’d heard everything. She knew everything. Now there was only one thing left for him to do.

  “Marcell!” Caesar roared. In moments he appeared, bowing, in the doorway of Caesar’s chambers.

  “Sire?”

  “We’re going into Marrakech. Tonight. You, me, that mercenary friend of yours who’s such a good tracker. And the big bald one, the deserter from the Nepal colony who recently joined us.”

  “The Firestarter?”

  “That’s him.”

  Marcell’s brows lifted.

  Caesar said, “There’s been a change of plans. We need an airplane.” His eyes met Marcell’s and his lips, cold and red, curved to a smile. “We’re going to make a little unscheduled visit to Brazil.”

  Hawk had a lot of experience repressing his feelings. Before he met Jacqueline, he was profoundly uncomfortable even admitting he had feelings, and went to great lengths to smother, bury, or otherwise ignore them out of existence. Feelings were for the weak. Specifically, tears were for the weak.

  He never cried. Never. Even as a boy, when his father gave him a vicious beating for some infraction, imagined or real, he bit his tongue and endured it, dry-eyed as a marble statue adorning a grave.

  Only now, listening to the Queen speak, he thought he would.

  “. . . as soon as possible. I understand why you did it, Morgan, I know your heart was in the right place, but it’s not for us to make a believer from a critic with kidnapping and coercion. She leaves first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Morgan stood in front of Jenna, head lowered, looking appropriately cowed.

  Directing her fierce gaze in Hawk’s direction, the Queen quietly added, “And those pictures will be destroyed. Immediately. Tonight.”

  Her tone indicated exactly how despicable she considered him for his part in the whole wretched operation . . . an opinion with which he wholeheartedly agreed.