by Addison Fox
Although it galled her, she hoped the company of the other women would at least diminish the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed her.
Quinn didn’t say anything, but reached for her hand. Before she could say anything, the weight of the universe bore down on her shoulders.
And then she was flying.
“Here. Take her.” Montana heard the words before she fully caught her bearings, the image of a kitchen shimmering to life around her.
Quinn thrust her at Callie before barking orders toward Ilsa and Ava. “Central Park. East side bordering Fifth Avenue. Destroyers got our car and they appear to have kidnapped the driver.”
Ilsa stood immediately, with Ava close on her heels. “On our way.”
Montana watched in awe as both women simply disappeared. Quinn gave her one last glance before he followed suit.
“Son of a bitch.” She muttered to herself, whatever feeling of uselessness she’d felt in the car multiplying into infinity.
“Not one of his finer moments. But that’s our Quinn for you.” Callie patted her arm and led her to the raised stool in front of a ginormous butcher-block counter. “Come on and sit down. This may take a while. Or,” she added philosophically, “they could be back in ten minutes. You never know.”
“But Ava and Ilsa went with them?”
“Yes. They’re immortals and Warriors in their own right. They can help them.”
“But you’re an immortal and you didn’t go.”
A small light dulled behind Callie’s eyes and again, like earlier in the bedroom when she’d asked about the woman’s husband, Montana got the feeling she overstepped her boundaries.
“I’m sorry. I know you all have roles. Jobs to do. That was horribly insensitive of me.”
“It’s the truth. And you’ve been thrown into the middle of something you no doubt are struggling to understand.”
Montana marveled at the remarkable woman as she moved toward the stove to reach for a tea kettle. “I’ll fix us up something while we wait.”
Anxious for something—anything—to do to feel useful, Montana reached for her BlackBerry in her small purse, looking for Jackson’s good night message. He always shot her one after he left the house, a funny little ritual that always made her think of the Waltons.
He even put “Good night John Boy” in the subject line of the e-mail.
She suppressed a giggle at the idea she’d even managed to hang on to her purse. Funny, the things a person could manage by sheer subconscious thought, she mused.
When the screen showed no message, Montana laid the device back on the counter. “Will they be okay?”
“They’ve lived this long.” Although the words were callous, Callie’s voice was gentle when she turned from the stove and moved to the sink to fill the kettle. “They know what they’re doing and they’ll be fine. But Quinn would have been in more danger if you’d gone.”
Even as the words galled her, Montana knew they were true. “Of course.”
“What you need to do is focus on learning all you can. You’re an immortal, of that I have no doubt. But you’re a rising one and that means you’ve got a lot to learn. Some of it comes naturally, but a lot of it’s honed over time.”
“A rising immortal?”
Callie brought two steaming mugs of tea over to the counter and placed them down. Montana took in the rich, earthy aroma and felt the small measure of comfort begin to unlock the fist in her stomach. “I know you recently discovered her, but your immortality is directly tied to your mother.”
“How do you know this?”
“I know a lot of things.”
Montana laid a hand on Callie’s forearm. “Look. Tell me what you want or don’t tell me, the choice is yours. But it’s very clear you know things, likely far more than you let on. Please don’t talk in riddles and hints. It’s not fair.”
She saw a measure of respect fill Callie’s gaze and Montana felt a shot of satisfaction after two days of nothing but confusion. It was small, but it was victory all the same.
The small woman nodded, decision stamped across her face. “That’s fair. What do you want to know?”
Quinn triangulated himself back into the park, the sound of grunts and groans ensuring he wasn’t far off the mark. Ilsa and Ava were several yards in front of him and he gave a low whistle to catch their attention.
His stomach still full from dinner—even if it was rubber chicken and chewy mashed potatoes—ensured Quinn felt the ease of the port on his body. Even after millennia of holding the ability, it never failed to amaze him on some base level. But, like all gifts, it came with a price.
Extreme fatigue or hunger weakened the body and it weakened the ability to port. Food, sleep or the mother of all cures, an orgasm, was the only way back to full strength.
While he thoroughly enjoyed the last method, he’d found regular sex more and more of an impracticality as their world advanced and evolved around them.
He avoided bringing women home to the brownstone, as the compound was far too dangerous for a mortal to see. Its existence on both the human plane and the immortal one—damn near all of the breadth and depth of the mansion existed on Mount Olympus—ensured a human simply couldn’t be exposed.
And as their work grew more sophisticated, his free time had diminished to practically nothing.
So he found a woman when it was convenient and they both knew what they were getting out of the brief fling, and then he moved on.
“You ready or not?” Ava whispered in his ear. She practically quivered with anxiety and he saw her shift on the balls of her feet.
Although Ava had no idea of his thoughts, Quinn couldn’t help compare her question to his feelings for Montana. The forgotten images of his previous flings were nothing compared to the moments he shared with Montana.
Was he ready?
Ready for commitment? Ready to share his life with someone?
Should he be worried that those questions didn’t seem nearly as scary as they would have even a week before?
“Yes. I’m ready.”
Ilsa pointed in the direction of the battle taking place with his Warrior brothers. “There are ten left.” Ilsa flashed both her hands up to show the count as well. “I already saw Drake and Grey dispatch two of them.”
Quinn reached for the Xiphos strapped to his calf, suddenly aware his weapon was in the trunk of the limousine. Although his brothers had ported in with their weapons strapped to them, he’d known he’d have to go through security. Unwilling to deal with the hassle of explaining a ten-thousand-year-old knife, he’d stowed it in the trunk before entering the Waldorf. “Shit.”
Ilsa saw the movement and pulled a wicked blade from a scabbard strapped on her back. “We stopped in the basement before we left. Thought you might need this.”
Quinn leaned forward and bussed her cheek with a kiss. “You’re an angel.”
“Nah, but it’s sweet of you to think so.”
As he felt the weight of the hilt in his palm, the soothing flash of steel as he turned it under the park’s streetlights, a humbling thought came over him.
These women that had come into their lives—lovers to two of the Warriors, family members to the rest—and they looked out for them. Took care of them. They thought about preparation for battle differently and because of it, they brought a unique dimension to the Warriors’ ongoing battle with Enyo.
He and his brothers were better because of them.
Better fighters.
Better men.
On a quick cough, Quinn brought his attention to the matter at hand. “Focus on whoever’s having the toughest time as your priority. And stay out of the way of their tattoos. Grey’s ram in particular. Those horns hurt like the devil if they stake you.”
As the war cry rumbled up into Quinn’s throat, the signal for the three of them to charge into battle, a fireball hit him square in the back. Ilsa and Ava both grunted in pain and they fell to their knees beside him.
Struggling to his feet and turning to face the attacker before another hit could strike him from behind, Quinn watched six more Destroyers come out of the trees and brush of the park to form a wall. As the six soulless minions linked arms, a shot of electricity arced from the hand of the last Destroyer, headed straight for them.
Chapter Fourteen
Quinn lifted the sword just in time, deflecting most of the fireball with the broadside of his weapon. Of course, his arm rang like a son of a bitch as his skin absorbed wave after wave of electricity.
Fuck, it hurt. But it was better than a direct hit.
Before he could hold either of them back or instruct otherwise, Ava and Ilsa moved forward in unison, their focus on opposite ends of the linked Destroyers.
Although the assholes clearly thought working in unison would elevate their power, it also weakened them. In order to form the link, it was obvious they couldn’t break physical contact. The women used that to their advantage as their swords slashed in wide arcs in front of them.
Quinn followed quickly, watching their backs and offering a second line of defense. The tattoo that rode high on his shoulder twitched to be released and Quinn didn’t hold the beast back.
Unfolding from his aura, the large bull stamped the ground as it faced their attackers.
Although an exceptional fighting aid, the size of the beast and the close proximity of the fight meant the animal could inadvertently harm Ilsa or Ava, so Quinn waited. And watched. And allowed Ilsa the room she needed to finish her task.
As the battle played out before him, Quinn realized these women he’d come to care for had far more talent than he’d suspected.
Or bothered to give them credit for.
Ilsa sliced at the shoulder blade of the Destroyer on her end of the line, toying with him and luring him into breaking ranks. As if on cue, the slash—deliberately not fatal—did enough damage that the guy dropped arms with his brethren. Ilsa wasted no time. In whip-quick slashes, she went for the neck, nearly severing the head in the process.
Immediately, the body began to disintegrate, the form of the Destroyer no longer supported by the evil ooze that filled him.
Satisfied Ilsa could handle herself, Quinn switched his focus to Ava. Although she’d only trained as a Warrior for a little over a year, her skills were superior. She slashed at the Destroyer who’d thrown the fireball, nailing his neck in one, clean sweep of her sword.
Two down.
“Ava! Ilsa! Move back!” The women had taken care of the ends of the line.
He was taking the rest.
As soon as the women pulled back, Quinn moved forward and let go of his restraint. The bull leaped to his side, slamming into the Destroyer who now held the end position before the asshole could work up a fireball. Leaving the beast to focus on the end, Quinn shifted to the opposite side of the line. All the while, he shouted to Ava.
“Keep watch on them. I think only the ends can fire on us when they’re linked.”
He heard Ava’s agreement, pleased when she stayed behind to act as backup.
Quinn leveraged his footwork—one of his biggest assets for a man of his size—and kept himself in constant motion. His blade whistled through the air as he parried another fireball, the shot of electricity winging through the length of his sword and sending another shock through his arm.
Fuck, but these guys were loaded.
Anger mixed with adrenaline as he leaped forward, ignoring the pain as he thrust his blade. In one sinuous motion, man and beast leapt at their opponents. Quinn’s blade arced through the air, neatly severing the head of the Destroyer on the end as the bull ripped out the throat of its opponent on the opposite end of the line with a clamp of his powerful jaws.
Two more down.
Ilsa moved in when Quinn and his tattoo retreated, her aim steady and true, her war cry unmistakable. With lithe, graceful movements, Ilsa thrust her weapon at the Destroyer’s midsection, barely missing him when he sidled away from the slash of her weapon. As the man reached to grab her—the long reach of his arms more than capable of grabbing her smaller frame—Ilsa ducked low and came up at him from underneath.
Her blade pierced his neck in the vicinity of where an Adam’s apple would be if the asshole had one. The puncture wound took him down immediately and the husk of his body fell forward over her blade.
“Yes!” Ava screamed as Ilsa pumped a fist in the air.
One more down.
As Quinn advanced on the last Destroyer, he had a moment of surprise when the guy held his ground. Something registered in the back of his mind, but it was only when he took his last step forward, the tip of his sword pushing easily into the weak flesh of the Destroyer’s arm in his sights, that Quinn realized his miscalculation. His dress shoes slipped in the ooze from the Destroyer Ilsa had killed, knocking him off balance, the ground rising up to meet him in a rush.
Quinn’s Destroyer reacted immediately, the sword poke having done nothing to diminish his strength. Quinn felt the slam of the asshole’s body as it knocked the wind out of him. Distracted, he couldn’t keep a focus on the Destroyer and on his aura, and the bull folded back up on his body, unable to help deal with the threat.
As Quinn struggled to keep his grip on his weapon, his opponent used both hands to slam his sword arm against the pavement. Distantly, Quinn heard the sword clatter away as fire crawled up his arm and into his chest. While he knew he’d heal, the pain lingered and Quinn struggled to shift his body to gain the upper hand.
If he could just get the guy over…
Like a wrestler working to pin his opponent, Quinn struggled and heaved, seeking the upper hand. Seeking to expose his back once again so he could let the bull back out.
Muscles straining, Quinn nearly had the guy over when he heard a loud sucking noise, followed by a face full of ooze as the evil minion’s head went skating away off the top of his body. The shit stung and Quinn glanced up to see Ilsa smiling at him, her hand outstretched to him.
“Thought you could use some help.”
“You thought right.” Quinn gave her a hand as he used the other one—still stinging from being slammed on concrete—to wipe at his face. “I owe you one.”
“Damn straight. Come on. The guys need us. Grab your sword.”
As Quinn reached for the discarded metal, he was awed to watch Ava and Ilsa race on toward the continuing battle.
Damn, but they were some mighty warrioresses.
There was a time the idea he’d been saved by a woman might have bothered him.
As he looked at the six grease spots fanning out on the ground, Quinn realized just how much times had changed.
And how very happy he was about that fact.
“Is this about the meeting? About Montana taking the company public?” Jackson felt the waves of pain as they lapped over, around, in his body and marveled he could still speak.
Could still ask questions.
“I don’t need to tell you anything.”
Jackson watched Arturo Veron pace the room from where he slumped on Montana’s desk chair and wanted to scream in frustration.
He knew he was a dead man.
Had known it the moment he’d seen Arturo on the couch.
But instead of running, he’d let his fucking hormones drop his guard and here he was paying for it.
The harsh, tangy scent of blood filled his senses. Although his nose was broken, making it hard to breathe, he couldn’t keep the taste from his tongue. With the bitter flavor of truth, Jackson knew the only thing he could possibly do was try to leave some sort of message.
Some sort of sign Montana would understand.
“You’re killing me anyway. What have you got to lose?”
“More than you could imagine, little one.” Arturo pranced around the room again, his gaze lingering over various elements in the room. Photos. Mementos. The files Jackson had walked in with.
As Arturo flipped through those once again, he spared him a glance. “You re
ally know a lot about the inner workings of Grant Shipping.”
“I’m a secretary, nothing more.”
Jackson knew the words were a bad idea. They would only taunt the asshole, but he was unable to stop them. For his cheek, he got another round of electricity.
Where was this guy getting it from?
Jackson’s gaze roved the room in a wild arc, desperately searching for the source of the pain.
But it all seemed concentrated in the man’s fingertips.
How was it possible?
Rivers of pain ran through his body, violent hammers playing a rapt pattern on his nerve endings. God, how did anyone survive this?
With renewed clarity, Jackson acknowledged the truth.
No one did.
And with that clarity came the whisper of a memory. Could he reach it? Grab it through the pain?
Montana.
It was something she’d said. Something at lunch earlier. The comment had seemed out of place at the time and she’d quickly dropped it.
“What do you know about astrology?”
“Not much past what I read in the Post every morning on the subway.”
“And what about Greek mythology?”
“You mean like gods and goddesses and stuff?”
“I mean exactly like gods and goddesses. I think they’re trying to kill me.”
The small moment of triumph that he managed to remember the conversation was quickly drowned out by the stark reality of the man standing opposite him.
Was it even possible?
Was this man a god?
Or was the pain so horrible—so mind-fuckingly intense—that he’d believe anything?
“You’re a god. Aren’t you?”
Arturo moved forward, but he held his body in check. No outstretched hands. No random bursts of electricity. “You’re brighter than she gives you credit for.”
Drool oozed down his chin, but Jackson ignored the indignity. He had to find out what he could. And then he had to find some way to tell Montana. “What are you?”