by Kresley Cole
"Oh, then by that reasoning, she won't leave me either," Cade said, sarcasm in his voice. "She and I are both mercenaries. There's a code there."
"It's incidental if I would leave anyone behind," Mari finally said. "I don't know that I could lift it."
"What do you mean?" Rydstrom said. "You're strong. I can feel your power even now."
"I... I blow things up," she admitted. "And I mostly don't mean to. Mostly."
Cade shook his head. "The entire structure's resting on the portcullis. If you explode that stone, the tomb would come down like a house of cards."
Rydstrom said, "Let's look at odds and make a rational decision—exactly how often do you accidentally blow things up?"
"The times I can get my magick to work?" she said. "Ninety-nine out of a hundred."
As Tierney swore under his breath, Cade said, "So we look for another way out. Did anyone find an exit in any of the chambers?"
"There aren't going to be any exits," Tera said, her attention riveted to a frieze above the portcullis. Intricate animal signs and hieroglyphics were carved into the stone.
"Why do you say that?" Rydstrom asked.
Tera squinted up at the carvings, seeming to somehow make sense of the animal and geometrically shaped glyphs. "Because this is... a jail."
"You've deciphered those marks?" Mari asked Tera.
Tierney answered for her, "She knows all languages."
Tera translated for them. "It says this tomb is a jail holding six demon essence stealers—incubi—for their unnatural crimes against the daughter of a powerful sorcerer."
"They probably all seduced her, then pops gets pissed," Tierney said. "Locks them away here."
Tera nodded. "The Mayans were custodians for them, of a sort. Kept them locked up—and fed periodically."
"That explains the sacrificial headdresses," Cade said. "Mayan females were offered up."
Tera continued, "They're cursed never to leave this place—short of death. According to these calendrics, they have been here for eleven hundred and eleven years."
"Well, that can't be right," Mari said. "No one's home—"
Claws scrabbled over stone somewhere in the shadows. Everyone glanced around uneasily.
They weren't alone...
"We left the front door open for hours," Tierney said. "Why would they remain here?"
Tera said, "They probably are bound to the tomb, unable to cross the threshold."
"If they are still here, it shouldn't be a problem," Mari said, even as she backed her way to Rydstrom and Cade. "Right? Especially if Tera can speak their language."
The incubi that Mari had known were all charming and hot. Finding one in your bed was supposed to be a good problem to have.
So why were the tiny hairs of her nape standing up? Gazing up at Rydstrom, she murmured, "Mind if I stick around you, big guy?"
In answer, he briefly laid his massive hand on the top of her head in a strangely comforting way.
Suddenly, the scent of rotting flesh pervaded the crypt. Mari felt evil all around them—old evil—circling.
As her eyes darted around, she unconsciously began to build magick again.
A drop of something... viscous hit her bare shoulder. In the unnatural lantern light, she slowly raised her face. Her lips parted, her mind unable to comprehend.
"Mariketa," Tera whispered, as she crossed to her. "Your face has gone white. What could—?" Her words died in her throat as she followed Mari's gaze. Tera's bow and arrow shot up again.
But arrows couldn't kill what was already dead.
"The incubi!" one of the others yelled as shadowy beings swarmed the area, diving and flying all around them. Cade and Rydstrom drew their swords. Just when Mari was praying to Hekate that these people she hardly knew would protect her, Rydstrom used one hand to shove her behind him.
At the first crazed attack, the demons' swords struck and deflected. The archers shot wildly. The twang of bow and the clash of steel were deafening in the echoing space.
Yet the incubi seemed to be focusing their attacks on Rydstrom—and trying to get to her.
All at once, Rydstrom was besieged. Without his guard, Mari was knocked down, landing on her front so hard her teeth clattered. Blood from a wound somewhere on her head tracked down her cheeks. Power-laden blue light cast erratically from her hands and eyes but struck nothing.
"Cade!" Rydstrom yelled, struggling to ward off the onslaught. "Over here!"
His brother battled his way over.
"They want the witch—"
With a cry, she scrambled up only to be knocked to the ground once more. When she dimly realized the incubi were steadily separating her from the group, she stayed down.
"Why her?" Cade looked from Mari to Rydstrom. In the back of her mind, she recognized that Cade probably wouldn't have any interest in helping her—especially not at the expense of helping himself and his brother.
"Why do you think?" Rydstrom snapped, even as his sword slashed up.
Cade's eyes narrowed. "Oh, that!" he roared, redoubling his fight—
Fangs sank into Mari's ankles. As she cried out in pain, her body began to... move.
Cade was closest to her and lunged for her, yelling, "Tierney!" With supernatural speed, the archer covered him with a torrent of arrows, but there were too many incubi diving right at them.
Blood sprayed up from Cade's body, and he bellowed with fury.
As she screamed, something dragged her back in frenzied yanks. Mari clawed at the stones, shrieking as it snatched her into the darkness.
5
Pit of the Fyre Dragán, Yélsérk, Hungary
Finale of the Talisman's Hie
Prize: The blade of the blind mystic Honorius to win
Tonight he would have Mariah back.
One last contest. One last struggle to put his wasted body through. Then his reward.
As he loped through a sweltering tunnel toward the Fyre Dragán's pit of flames, Bowe felt a sense of expectation, an almost light-headed anticipation that warred with the pain from his many injuries—injuries that weren't healing.
The Hie had been as cutthroat as he'd expected—and as he'd been prepared to be—but the witch had had the last laugh.
The spell from the tomb that he'd believed was harmless had actually taken hold of his body. Creeping through him like the strongest roots, day by day it leached away his immortality. No longer did he have the ability to regenerate, and for the first time in twelve hundred years, he felt that he was aging. In fact, he'd barely made it to the finals of this competition.
There could be no worse timing to lose his strength than in the Hie.
When the prize would bring back his Mariah.
For one hundred and eighty years, since the night he'd found her—with her thin body gored and her green cloak spread out in the blood-soaked snow—he'd searched relentlessly for a way to resurrect her.
Lingering on in a kind of half life, not dying but not really living, he'd continued to believe he could bring her back to him, when most Lykae would have found a way to die if they'd lost their mates. Others in his clan thought him mad, wondering why he continued to exist in that miserable twilight. Even his cousins, Lachlain and Garreth, who were like brothers to him, couldn't understand him.
But he would show them all, because after searching so long, a mad Valkyrie soothsayer, of all people, had alerted him to this competition—and had told him it was the means of reaching his mate. Desperate to try anything, he'd entered. When he'd learned the ultimate prize of the Hie was a key to go back in time, everything had made sense.
Bowe hadn't foolishly been hoping for something that could never be. The chance to bring Mariah back was within his grasp, and he'd fought mercilessly for that key.
Yet so had his two main competitors: the Valkyrie Kaderin the Coldhearted and Sebastian Wroth, a vampire soldier. Just two nights ago in a minefield in Cambodia, they'd forced Bowe into an explosion that had threaded a rusted length o
f shrapnel between his ribs and had blown away his left eye and part of his forehead.
Because of the witch's curse, those gruesome injuries remained.
Now, half blind and weak beyond measure, Bowe was only confident of winning because just two competitors vied in this last round, and the other finalist was Kaderin. Yes, the Valkyrie was a single-minded competitor, but in the end she was still a female.
He slowed, struggling to detect if she was already here. During this final part of the Hie, killing was allowed. On this night, would Bowe kill a female to bring Mariah back? He had no doubts that if given the chance, the Valkyrie would take her assassin's sword and slice him crotch to collar without blinking her cold, emotionless eyes.
One thing Bowe did know was that if he lost, he would definitely kill the witch for weakening him so much.
A roar sounded deeper in the earth, and the cavern quaked, sending rock and dust falling over him. The Fyre Dragán—rumored to be a serpentlike beast, as large as a basilisk but with a body of fire—must be sensing Bowe's trespass.
This place was known in the Lore as where immortals go to die. Most immortals could die only by beheading—an unwieldy suicide option—or by total immolation in a pit of otherworldly heat like this. Yet in the ages that had passed, the location of this place had become virtually lost in the Lore. Until now...
Another roar, another violent shake. Boulders began to rain down from the cavern ceiling. As he loped on, dodging them, the injury in his side screamed in protest. But the pain in his body was forgotten as he imagined what he'd do after reuniting with Mariah.
Together, they would start a new life, and he would spoil her with all the wealth he'd accumulated. They could live at his grand estate in Scotland or at the Lykae compound in Louisiana. The clan's property there was vast with miles of swamps and forests to run. There was a central, main lodge for gatherings, and then separate, large hunting cabins were spread throughout.
Louisiana intrigued Bowe. Lazy fans always seemed to be overhead. Unusual food scents and the strains of music continually carried on the breeze. Surely Mariah would love it as he did.
And when he had her back with him, he would seduce away her fears of him so he could finally claim her, at last having her completely.
Gods, he needed her beneath him. Since that night in the jungle tomb, his long-neglected desires had come blazing to life. Even with his body battered, each day he'd needed to take relief from the throbbing ache in his shaft.
Though it shamed him, his mind would wander to the witch as he stroked himself in bed. His usual fantasies of laying Mariah down and gently claiming her were replaced by ones of Mariketa, even though her glamour made memories of her hazy.
He could recall being so damned pleased and aroused by the witch's body but not remembering why. More clearly, he recalled the small tattoo on her lower back—he'd imagined rubbing his face against that mark. Even the remembered feel of the back of her leg against his palm could put him into a lather; he would shudder at mere thoughts of her soft, giving thigh under his thumb claw.
Fantasizing about tasting the wet flesh he'd cupped would make him spend so hard his eyes rolled back in his head.
Once he'd taken his release, a bitter shame would set in. But each night, shame turned to determination to win.
When the tunnel opened up into a soaring cavern chamber, filled with smoke and wafting ash, Bowe hurried inside—and spotted Sebastian Wroth at the edge of a pit of lava, his arm trapped under a huge boulder.
The vampire? When Kaderin should be here tonight?
"What's happened here?"
"A quake... rocks," Wroth grated with difficulty.
"Where's the Valkyrie? She ought to be here, not you."
"I'm here in her stead."
Bowe had suspected that Wroth was newly turned—relatively—but now he knew it. An older, more powerful vampire could have traced out from under the rock.
"You can't reach the prize," the vampire told him in his accented English. "It's on the other side of the pit... and the cable across it snapped."
Bowe surveyed the area and saw the coiled remains of a thin cable hanging loose from the opposite wall. He had rope in his truck but couldn't spy a single place in the sheer rock face to lash it to. Besides, the truck was aboveground several miles away, and with every minute that passed, the curse was siphoning off more of his strength.
He knew the vampire could trace them across with a blink of his eye, but to free him would be a great risk. Yet, though Bowe was weak, Wroth looked much more so. And Wroth didn't want the prize as badly as Bowe—he used this contest only to win over Kaderin.
The vampire was pale as death, blood pooling all around him. If Bowe left him to gear up to cross the pit on his own and failed, would Wroth even be conscious when he returned?
Decided. "I could free you to trace me across. Then, an open contest to take it."
"I could double-cross you."
Bowe narrowed his one eye. "No' if I've got ahold of your good arm."
After a hesitation, the vampire said, "Do it."
Bowe crossed to the boulder and shoved at it. Though he was constantly reminded of how weak he'd grown, he was still confounded to be unable to move a single boulder. He muttered, "Bloody, goddamned witches." Putting his back into it, he asked, "Where exactly are you tracing us?"
"Below the cable, there's a lava tube, another cavern."
"I doona see anything," Bowe gritted out.
"It's there. You want the prize? Then you're just going to have to trust a vampire—"
The boulder toppled over. Before Wroth could trace, Bowe lunged to grab Wroth's left arm, then whistled low at what remained of the vampire's right—pulverized bone and severed sinews of muscle. "That's got tae hurt," he said with a sneer.
"Have you looked in the mirror lately?" Wroth snapped.
"Aye." Bowe hauled him up. "And I plan to kill you for that. After this competition. Right now, I doona have all day."
The vampire seemed to just prevent himself from rocking on his feet. He blinked as though struggling to focus.
Bowe jostled him. "Are you even going to be able to do this—"
Without warning, the vampire traced.
Instantly, they were in a new tunnel. Though Wroth looked disoriented, somehow he'd done it. The smoke and steam were thicker here and flames seemed to sprout from barren rock.
Bowe caught sight of a reflection on the ceiling of the cave. He spied the source deeper within—a shining blade on a waist-high column of rock at the very end of the cavern. Bowe shot forward, sprinting for it. Wroth traced and got there first. He snatched the blade with his good hand and tensed to disappear.
But Bowe had already freed his whip. With a crack, he had the length coiled around Wroth's wrist and yanked down, preventing the vampire from tracing. "I'll be takin' that now."
Wroth transferred the blade to his right hand to raise it and claim the victory. But that ruined arm hung lifeless.
"Canna quite make it to your heart, then?"
The vampire bared his fangs. "I'll gut you before you get this."
"That equals the life of my mate."
"I've the same on my mind," Wroth bit out.
"The Valkyrie died?" That was why Wroth was here instead of Kaderin?
"Not for long."
The look in his eyes gave Bowe pause. He'd seen that level of unyielding determination in his own gaze in the mirror. "We could share it, vampire," he said, disbelieving what he was offering—especially when he had the advantage. "The key works twice."
"I need both of those times... for her." Suddenly, the vampire's wasted arm shot up. Impossible—The blade rose as if by its own accord and struck viciously.
Blood spurted from Bowe's wrist; searing pain erupted as his severed hand dropped. Freed from the whip, the vampire traced the distance across the pit, decisively out of Bowe's reach.
Bowe sank to his knees, staring dumbly at the blood streaming from his body.
How? He gaped at his lost hand, still clenching the whip handle. How had that blade risen?
I've... lost? His body shuddered violently at the realization. "I will kill you for this, vampire!" he roared.
Bowe had lost. He wouldn't be able to go back and save Mariah—save her from himself.
He'd lost her. Again.
"I will eat your goddamned heart!" But the vampire was already gone, leaving Bowe trapped in a cavern of fire where immortals went to die.
6
"Jump, Mariketa! I'll catch you."
Mari crawled on her belly inch by inch among the rancid corpses of the incubi slumbering all around her. In the last two weeks, this was the closest that she'd made it to the edge of their lair without waking them.
The night of the first attack, one had dragged her into the shadows, then lifted her into the air by her ankles, feet over her head, though she'd kicked and thrashed to be free. As the incubus had flown ever upward, her body had swung loosely like a rag doll. When her head had knocked against a shelf of carved stone, blackness dotted her vision. She'd awakened here on this ledge, somewhere high in the tomb.
Almost there. When she raised herself up on her elbows, she shook so wildly her head bobbed. You can do this, Mari. One elbow in front of the other. Finally... finally, she reached the edge—and barely stifled a gasp. She'd known she was high up, but didn't realize it was this bad. They were at least a hundred feet in the air.
Heights. Just ducky.
When Tera saw Mari peeking over the side, she politely turned up her lantern. Though the other immortals could see in the dark to varying degrees, Mari couldn't, not yet. "Mariketa, are you okay?"
Mari nodded weakly.
"Come, then. I promise I'll catch you," Rydstrom said once more in his deep baritone voice.
During the days, Mari had heard the five of them debating plans of defense or arguing about their escape, and she'd learned their voices and personalities. She liked Rydstrom the best, and not just because he was so stalwart and handsome. For the most part, he was coolheaded, especially for a rage demon, and remained rational even as hour upon hour lagged by.