He took a couple of steps toward the center of the clearing, then turned around and dove headfirst through the invisible barrier. Going back through was painful and a battle, but he made it. When he landed on the other side, he looked around and saw only trees, bushes and grass.
The Langau was gone.
Storm's shoulder ached, telling him to get moving. He took off at a quick pace, in a hurry to reach his truck two miles away. By the time he got to it, his mouth was dry as cotton, and an ache had settled into all his muscles, much like a bad case of the flu.
Shifting into his human form took longer than normal. He was panting by the time he finished. He guzzled a bottle of water, then put on his jeans and shirt over his clammy body. When he climbed into the truck, the clock on the dash showed the day closing in on three in the afternoon.
That would give him time to get home and drop into a deep, healing sleep to push the poison or whatever that Langau had injected him with out of his system. He could do that and still get to Evalle by sundown at half past seven.
Black clouds joined ranks overhead, and thunder pounded.
On top of fighting off whatever was in his system, he'd have to drive through rain to get home. He groaned over the effort it took to lean forward and crank the engine, then he eased back for the half-mile ride to the highway.
His vision doubled. He squinted and realized he might not make it home. Sleeping out here was a bad idea.
Storm chanted, tapping his majik to flood him with energy.
That should keep him awake long enough to make it home if this was only poison. He read road signs and . . .
Time disappeared between thoughts.
One minute he was driving through the forest, and the next he was on the interstate heading south into Atlanta.
Cold seeped inside his hot skin.
He'd never encountered a poison like this one. Chanting to keep himself awake and more alert, he finally pulled into his driveway just over an hour later, never so glad to see his house. His mind blanked and the next thing he knew he was at his front door, checking the warding before he entered.
Another lost blink and he was stretched over his bed, panting. Why the gaps between his thoughts?
He called up his jaguar to start the healing process now that he didn't have to remain conscious.
His jaguar barely stirred.
What?
Storm drew on his healing powers again, and his muscles quivered with the effort. What was wrong with his jaguar? Poison had never stayed long in his body or debilitated him this badly.
Why hadn't the witch doctor stuck around? She could have taken advantage of his weakened state.
But she'd tried that once before and it hadn't gone well for her.
She feared him, which she should, considering they shared blood. He hated her more every time he thought about how she'd tricked his father into breeding her a Skinwalker she could turn into a future demon.
Storm's eyes drifted closed.
All he wanted to do was sleep, but he had to wake up in time. Reaching over to his clock, his hand flopped on the nightstand, knocking the small digital unit to the floor. He had no control over his arms.
Poison had never made his limbs rubbery.
His body started shaking with tremors hard enough to rock the bed.
Not a poison . . . an infection.
He fought the sleep dragging him under. And lost.
NINE
That bloody woman is going to wish she'd never crossed me.
Vladimir Quinn shoved the hotel security card into the slot to activate the elevator that would take him to the penthouse floor of his hotel in downtown Atlanta.
Alone, thankfully.
He wasn't ready to go down to the suite he was actually staying in and deal with his teenage cousin Lanna, yet another problem he had to handle. Dark was coming on soon. Perhaps she'd be asleep if he gave it a couple of hours.
Self-loathing should be done in private.
He was a trusted Belador in a high-level position, and for him to give a Medb priestess, sworn enemy of the Beladors, access to any Belador information deserved brutal punishment.
Especially for bloody classified information.
And that's exactly what he'd done.
The fact that he'd done so unintentionally didn't matter. The information had been his to protect. But now Kizira would find out what it meant to double-cross a Belador as powerful as he was.
Quinn would willingly accept his due from Macha for opening his arms to Kizira.
But he hadn't just opened his arms to her. He'd made love to the woman four days ago, and only hours later she'd launched an attack on Treoir Island, putting their warrior queen's life in danger and threatening the seat of Belador power.
He'd done the kind of damage expected of the traitor everyone was hunting.
All because he'd believed Kizira when she'd claimed she wanted to end the conflict between the Beladors and the Medb so they could be together. That she cared for him.
So damned convincing. What else was he supposed to think when she'd given him permission to breach the barriers to her mind and withdraw what he could find about the Medb plans?
She took a hell of a risk to come to you. That was what his heart had said four days ago. But his heart would no longer call the shots where Kizira was concerned.
She'd made it clear that being compelled by the Medb queen prevented her from giving him anything voluntarily, but she'd given permission for him to retrieve whatever he could on his own. Hell, she'd practically begged him to try even though she'd doubted he could actually get past her shields.
He'd jumped at the chance.
And when he'd broken through, he discovered the Medb had sent Svart trolls, deadly black ops mercenaries, to quietly invade Atlanta.
On the surface, that had appeared to be a win-win, since he wouldn't deny that he enjoyed having Kizira back in his arms, but he'd been a fool to think he'd been the only one fishing for intel.
Love did that to a man.
Turned a highly respected warrior into an idiot.
Couldn't even blame his actions on thinking with the wrong head. No, his heart had convinced him that Kizira had told the truth, and he'd trusted the traitorous organ.
Not again.
The intel he'd gained that day had saved many human lives, he'd give Kizira that.
But she'd teleported away with a far greater treasure, withdrawing vital classified information from his mind on how to locate Treoir. Only a handful of chosen Beladors had known the location of the island hidden in a mystical fog above the Irish Sea.
Now Kizira knew. A powerful Medb priestess.
While he'd worried over her fate if the Medb figured out she'd clued the Beladors to the Svart troll invasion, she'd been sending another army of Svarts to kill Brina.
That his people had managed to shut down both groups of Svarts didn't matter. Beladors had been lost in the battle to protect Treoir. And the Medb now possessed the route for teleporting to an island that had been successfully hidden for two thousand years.
Kizira hadn't made a peep since then. Not a single attempt to contact Quinn telepathically, and he'd been too busy to deal with her. Until now.
Time to turn the tables and make the witch pay.
When Quinn reached the suite he'd booked just for meeting with Kizira, he wanted to slam the door after entering, but he closed it quietly. Why should anyone else suffer just because his chest felt caved in where his heart used to be?
Jerking off his wool overcoat still damp from the drizzle he'd walked through on his way to the hotel, he tossed it on the sofa and stalked to the bar to pour Boodles and water over ice.
A stiff one. Just what he needed for this showdown.
He settled on the sofa and dropped his head back, eyes closed, preparing to reach out to Kizira. He called to her silently. Kizira?
No answer. Did she think she could hide from him? That bloody connection went both ways.
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Quinn put force behind his next telepathic shout. Kizira!
A soft cry fluttered through his mind, sounding like the scattered pieces of an eggshell voice that had been shattered. Then one word squeezed through in a plea. Quinn.
What was she up to this time? Did she think he'd be so easy to trick again? He bit down on the urge to unleash his foul temper and kept his telepathic voice calm. I'm in no mood for games. Come and see me. I have something for you.
He fished a slender weave of braided hair from his pants pocket. No thicker than a strip of chewing gum and just long enough to fit around Kizira's narrow wrist. She'd recently given him the thirteen-year-old keepsake made from his hair as an apology.
One he'd accepted, but he knew better this time. What's going on, Kizira? I'm tired and I haven't got a lot of time.
Cold fingers clawed into his brain. Sharp as talons with a fierce grip, they jerked him from his relaxed state. He slapped the drink down on the glass table at his side and grabbed his head. What the hell?
Quiinnn? quivered through his mind in a pitiful cry.
Stop it, he shouted back at her.
Trying to . . . talk to you . . . but I need help.
Lies. Always lies. Why wasn't she teleporting in? Did she suspect retaliation for what she did? I know you're compelled to do things. Come see me. This may be the last time I can talk to you.
Let her think something was going to happen to him.
No . . . wait . . . trying.
Her fear clutched at him, scratching for a hold. Blood trickled from his nose. He clenched his jaw, debating on using power, but he had to prevent a Medb from taking control of his mind. He shoved a blast of energy back through the connection.
The pressure stopped immediately.
What was going on?
For the slimmest moment, he considered her fear. Was it genuine? What could stop her from teleporting to him?
Nothing. Just another Medb trick.
He had to get her close enough to him physically for any chance of taking her captive.
This time, when he took her into his arms--and he would--Quinn would use his mind lock to prevent her from teleporting away. He swallowed against what he had to do. I thought you cared about me.
A rock of guilt balled in his throat and sank to his gut. He'd been a fool, still caring about the woman he'd met thirteen years ago. When he hadn't known she was Medb.
Don't think of her any other way and this will work.
Chilly energy swirled near him, brushing the skin on his face. Quinn opened his eyes to find an image trying to take shape between him and the window, where night still ruled. Kizira's form normally coalesced quickly when she teleported, but the figure coming into focus now was nothing more than a wispy shape, blurry from the neck down.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, not glowing like they'd always been before. Beautiful, sad eyes stared at him, damp and pained, as though she'd been crying. Her lips moved.
No sound came through.
She tried talking again. Her face erupted with panic, then she squeezed her eyes shut. Veins on her forehead stuck out as if she was concentrating all her energy on one thing.
He sat forward, studying the strange vision, and spoke out loud. "What are you doing?"
Slowly, her neck and shoulders came into focus. She opened her eyes and took a couple of panting breaths. "Trying . . . to communicate."
"Why aren't you teleporting in?"
"I . . . can't."
"Why?" he asked with a load of suspicion.
"Locked . . . in dungeon."
Truth or trick? He suffered a moment of ambivalence over the misery pulsing from her. Was she projecting her body from inside TAmr Medb and really in a dungeon? "Who locked you up?"
"Flaevynn."
The Medb queen. But could he believe her? "For how long?"
"Don't . . . know." Her words came out in spurts, and sweat streamed down her face. The bulk of her body still hadn't taken shape. "Sorry about trolls. Don't . . . hate me."
There was one way to determine if she was jerking him around or not. Reaching out to her mind, he lowered his control until he could enter hers without giving her warning, something he never did unless the safety of others was at stake. Right now, the safety of all Beladors was on the line.
The minute he entered her mind, sharp stabs shot back through the connection. He could feel the ward preventing her physical body from teleporting. She shivered in a cold room of stone. He hissed at the blades of pain streaking through her. "What . . ."
Her eyes widened. She shouted, "Stop!"
He snapped his control back in place, shutting down to the minimum access he'd allow to stay in contact with her. He'd planned for anything but this. Kizira really was locked away somewhere, and logic said the one person powerful enough to bind a Medb priestess would be the Medb queen.
His heart thumped with worry. What were they doing to her? Who other than Quinn would go up against Flaevynn to help Kizira?
What the bloody hell are you thinking?
He couldn't cross that line again with her, could he?
Evidently so, because he asked, "How can I help you?"
"You. Can't."
She'd very likely ended up in this situation by allowing him to access her memory and pilfer intel on the Medb, but Flaevynn still controlled Kizira, and Quinn still needed information. He swallowed a lump of regret, forcing himself to stick to his duty. His vow to the Beladors came first, so he'd retrieve what he needed for the Beladors, then he would find some way to free her.
But would she answer his questions?
She must have seen the dilemma in his face. "Ask. I'll answer . . . if I can. Little time."
She probably couldn't hold this out-of-body projection for long. He shoved aside his conscience, which would only get in the way of his interrogation. "How did Svart trolls find their way to Treoir?"
"Teleported."
"By whom?"
Her face fell. "Me."
The truth crashed hard between them. "You used me."
"No. Flaevynn . . ." Her neck muscles clenched and she struggled to breathe. Then she said, ". . . compelled me."
He knew that, but it didn't alleviate how deep the betrayal had cut. The last time he'd seen Kizira she'd warned him, "I can't promise that we won't meet on a battlefield or that I won't be compelled to do something that will make you hate me, but I don't want to do it, and I don't want to be your enemy."
Was he just supposed to overlook the invasion at Treoir? Dismiss the deaths of the warriors and the threat to the Belador race? He clamped his hand on the arm of the sofa, fighting against the frustration building in his chest. "Did Flaevynn compel you to steal the location of Treoir from my mind?"
"Not . . . intentional." Kizira's shoulders moved with the battle she fought to maintain her image.
Every time that happened, Quinn forced his hands not to reach out to drag her away from whatever was holding her prisoner. Stay in the game. "You may not have intentionally skimmed the information from my mind, but you intentionally used it."
"Yes. No choice."
Always the same answer. He surged to his feet. "How am I supposed to believe you when your catchall answer is 'I was compelled'?"
Tears pooled in her eyes, but not one broke loose. "Came to help. Can't hold long. Ask. Now."
She wanted to give him information in spite of being locked away? If he believed her, believed that she was imprisoned, then he had to let go of what had happened. Accept that some things were out of her control. "Okay, what can you tell me?"
That got him a cranky eye roll and one-word command. "Think."
He nodded. "Let's try this. You want to stop Flaevynn."
"You understand."
It took a moment for him to realize that she couldn't say yes or no to that because it had been too close to a question. How could he find out what Flaevynn was after? He asked, "What would be a good gift for Flaevynn?"
Kizira's eyes sp
arked with relief. "Alterants."
Plural. How many was Flaevynn looking for and why? While he tried to figure out another question, Kizira added, "Evalle."
"You can't have her."
"Number. One."
Did Kizira mean Evalle was the most important one to Flaevynn? Why? Just to be clear, Quinn added, "Would Flaevynn be unhappy if someone harmed Evalle?"
"Maybe."
"If Flaevynn tries to take Evalle, Tzader and I will come for her."
"No. You lose."
What did that mean? Quinn paced away, then back and said, "I don't give a damn who loses."
"I. Do."
How could two words twist their way inside his heart? Was he really going to buy this act? He didn't know, but his gut said to keep pushing. Back to the clever questions that sounded stupid to him. "Would Flaevynn be happy to receive a group of Alterants?"
"Very much."
"What would a group of Alterants be called?"
"Army."
"What would an army of Alterants be capable of accomplishing?"
She shook her head. "Beladors . . . dead."
He stared at her in disbelief and argued, "Flaevynn can't kill all the Beladors without facing massive retaliation from VIPER across the world. There are millions of us, many who work among humans in everyday jobs. Even if Flaevynn could destroy all the Beladors currently with VIPER, she'd face an army of our own that would step forward to take the places of those who fell."
"Not. Necessarily." Kizira whimpered and her image flickered.
Quinn moved toward her as if he could do something, then clenched his fists. Kizira would lash out before she'd cry. He thought he'd closed his heart against her, but no matter how much he fought it, he wanted to protect her. Wanted to believe she was just a pawn being tossed from one side of the Medb chessboard to the other, sacrificed for their queen.
That was the problem with love.
It constantly wanted to overrule logic.
Weary from an internal battle that showed no end, he finally asked, "How can I trust you?"
"Because . . ." Her form shuddered. She worked for her next breath and on the exhale said, "I. Love. You. Always have . . . always will."
Quinn had offered to turn himself in to Macha when he'd realized his mind had been breached by Kizira. To do so would have meant Quinn's death, a sanction he would accept for his failure, but Tzader was convinced that the Beladors needed Quinn's powerful mind to protect Brina and to defend Treoir. Once Quinn had accomplished all he could to help Tzader ensure the future of the Beladors, he would leave. Go far away where he couldn't be the weak link, because he'd never stopped loving this woman either.
Rise of the Gryphon Page 9