by Bianca James
Relic Hunters
The Complete Trilogy
(Paranormal Dragon Shifter Romance)
Bianca James
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 Bianca James
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in full, without express written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Disclaimer
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. All characters depicted are aged 18+ and all sexual acts depicted are consensual and occur between non blood relatives.
About the Author
Hi! I’m Bianca James and I love to write fast paced, action packed paranormal romance stories filled with strong shifter men and sassy, curvy women who can handle them.
Action and adventure stories, mysteries and thrillers are in my DNA and I love to share all that and more in my stories, but that doesn’t mean I don’t make room for some steamy romance and a good dose of HEA along the way.
Those new to my books are welcome to join my mailing list.
You can also find me on Facebook.
Rescued by the Dragon
(Relic Hunters Book 1)
Prologue
Hoxne, Suffolk
England, 478AD
“We can’t stop here. We must run.” Terryn insisted. But Ryia didn’t stir at his sharp command.
“Now!” he commanded more harshly than he intended when she failed to respond.
The deep timbre of the distant hunting horn cut through the cold mist that shrouded the ground. Even the ravens, feasting greedily on the bodies of the fallen, were panicked by the ominous sound. Some took wing while others, their bloody beaks glistening wet, stopped feeding only long enough for their black, soulless eyes to survey their surroundings before dismissing the intruders, who were clearly too occupied with their own woes to pose any threat to their meal.
Terryn scanned the horizon, his eyes narrowed against the sun that painted the morning sky, threatening to expose them by chasing away the mist. They’d run all night, hoping to reach the coast before dawn. Before the hunters fell upon them. Failing that, they had hoped that passage through the now silent battlefield would hide their tracks and confuse their relentless and unyielding pursuers, buying them precious time.
They had clearly underestimated their pursuers. Or perhaps their desperation had caused them to be too optimistic.
He looked down at the blood slicked leather of Ryia’s vest. The arrow head had gone deep into her chest, the shaft protruding as if to remind them of the fate that awaited them should they be caught. Not that they needed such a reminder. They had been running for three days, now, their enemy never far behind.
They would never make it to the harbor, at least not fast enough to outrun the hunters. Not if they continued to carry the treasure. And without the treasure, there was little hope for them, even if they lived long enough to make it to the coast.
Terryn knelt and gently roused the wounded woman. The sheen of sweat that pebbled her face hinted at the pain she bravely tried to control.
“Ryia, my love, we must move.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. The tenderness in his voice and his gentle touch belied the urgency and desperation of their situation.
Her lips parted, but the words caught in her throat. They had drunk the last of their water one day ago, the same day their horse died, leaving them to haul the treasure themselves. Her dry lips parted as she grimaced in pain.
“Go,” she said as she looked to the horizon, beyond which lay the harbor.
Terryn shook his head resolutely. “I’ll not leave you.” He intended to keep his promise to her. No matter the cost.
They had taken with them only what treasure they could carry. The hoard consisted mostly of gold and silver coin to buy passage on a ship and start a new life across the sea. Terryn also had the foresight to add some silver trinkets and jewelry to the hoard so they could buy food, and silence, as they passed through the many villages scattered across the countryside, along their journey to the harbor. Once there, they hoped, to buy passage on a ship and begin a new life across the sea. But the thought of fleeing without Ryia by his side was unfathomable. He wanted her at his side. In this life and the next.
He would not squander the short time they had left. Something had to be done and they both knew it. He made his decision.
Scanning the horizon once more, Terryn unsheathed his sword and raised it above his head, ignoring the risk that the glint of the blade might be spotted from afar as he rose from protection of the mist. The muscles in his powerful biceps flexed and the ropey tendons of his forearms bulged beneath the skin as he looped the fearsome sword through the air as if it weighed nothing.
Ryia opened her eyes to see the polished blade catch the sun as it hovered in the air, ready to slice through the cold air, toward her.
“No!” she wailed plaintively. Pain etched her features as she tried to raise her arm to stop him.
A lone tear escaped the corner of one eye and traced a moist path down her cheek as the haunting, watery pattern of the Damascus steel blade caught the light and shimmered, as if the brutally sharp blade itself was alive.
Without the slightest hesitation, Terryn swung the heavy blade, scribing a silvery arc through the air as the blade, now an extension of the ropey, powerful arms that wielded it, sliced through the air before making a near surgical, but more importantly, near invisible cleft in the grass between Ryia and the chest that held their treasure. Their future.
Despite their dire circumstances, Terryn couldn’t help but display his mastery of favored weapon in a display of strength and skill intended to restore Ryia’s faith in his decision. He was a warrior. She needed to be reminded that on the field of battle, it was his sworn duty to protect her.
Once more, after a graceful and seemingly effortless twirl of the sword, he struck the earth once more, cutting through the thick grass, this time perpendicular to the first strike. By the time he had finished, a neat rectangle of grass had been cut with such precision that he doubted anyone would notice once he’d finished.
As he knelt alongside Ryia to carefully excise the layer of dissected grass, she reached for his forearm and held it firm. The warmth of her touch stilled his heart. But only for a moment. They were out of time.
“Leave me,’ she urged. “Take the treasure and buy a new life.” She looked to the horizon where the morning rays of the sun lit the sky. “It is a good day to die. Let me die with honor, with my sword and shield.” She struggled until she looped the leather strap of her shield around her forearm, ready for what might come.
Not trusting himself to speak for fear that his voice might betray him and crack with emotion, Terryn simply began to scoop the soil with his dagger, making a rectangular recess in which to ensconce the sturdy, iron strapped chest of treasure.
Before placing the chest in its final resting place, Terryn took a small leather pouch from around his neck, feeling the weight of the two coins inside as he did so, but not even daring to look inside. He cracked open the stiff hinges of the chest and threw the pouch inside like he feared to hold it lest its contents imbue him some kind of plague or worse, a curse, before covering the chest with the freshly excavated soil.
As he quickly replaced the grass he had removed and scattered the remaining soil he had dug out, he looked into the eyes of his true love. Where once he had seen her true beauty and raw sexuali
ty in those smoldering eyes, all he saw now was fear and dread. To look at her like this made his chest tighten and his breath catch in his throat. He should have left her. Better to live a long life with a broken heart than to die in a bloody field of battle surrounded by ravens feeding on rotting corpses. He shook his head at his own foolishness.
Terryn couldn’t have stayed, that much was certain. Not after they found out who he was. Or what he was. He should have taken his treasure and left without any farewell. As cruel as that seemed at the time, it might have been the kindest thing to do. She was the daughter of a Saxon chieftain, after all. She could have lived a good life if her father continued his campaign against the fleeing Britons.
But Ryia wouldn’t hear of it, such was her love for him and her staunch desire not to spend the rest of her life sharing the bed of the pock faced, toothless chieftain from their homeland. The vile, bilious excuse of a man had seduced her father with promises of warriors and weapons in exchange for his only daughter. Her father had pledged her to him without as much as a word from her on the matter. She hated her father for who he was and for the way he had sold her to form an alliance and to expand his clan’s territory.
In equal measure, she loved Terryn for the man he was and for his solemn vow to protect her forever. The fact that he was a pleasing to the eye, hard-bodied and fearsome warrior, who seemed to attract far too much attention from most of the village women, both young and old, only served to further stoke the fires of her passion for him, despite her father’s decree that they should not see each other. Even the ropey scars across his thickly muscled chest from battles past only added to his allure and Ryia was drawn to her battle hardened man like a moth to a flame.
Arooo.
Her reverie was broken by the sound of the hunter’s horn. They were close. Too close.
Arooo.
A second sounding of the horn. Her chest stilled after a sharp intake of breath.
Arooo.
A third blast. They looked to each other, silently acknowledging that it was too late for both of them. They had been found. The Chieftain’s guard was calling together the remaining warriors, who had dispersed to search the surrounding fields.
“Let me shift. Many of them have not fought dragons before. We might still have a chance.” His eyes betrayed him. He didn’t believe his own words any more than he expected her to.
Ryia coughed. A worm of blood escaped from the corner of her mouth.
“You know we can’t beat them all, not even with your dragon fighting by my side. They outnumber us and they are rested and fresh for battle while we are worn and frail from our flight through the mountains.” She fixed him with a flinty gaze while she wiped the blood from her mouth before licking it from her fingertips.
“Fight alongside me as a man. Let storytellers through the ages tell of the brave warrior who fought for the love of his life, not of the fierce, monstrous dragon who was slayed by these so-called warriors.” She spat a gob of blood stained phlegm to mark her disdain for the men who supported her father. “Don’t make these …” she waved her hand dismissively in the direction of the horn blasts, “sad excuses for soldiers into heroes.”
Terryn stood then leaned down to offer his muscle-corded forearm to Ryia. She pushed it aside and stood herself upright, although she did allow him to catch her elbow to steady her when she wavered with dizziness from standing so abruptly. She drew strength from the warmth of his hand on her skin, her thoughts returning to the first night they spent together on the hard ground of his hut, smothered in the warm fur of some beast he had hunted. Although, she long suspected that it was their vigorous lovemaking that warmed them, not the fur.
“It does no good to think of moments like that before battle,” Terryn cautioned.
“You promised you wouldn’t do that.” Ryia hated it when her thoughts were read by his dragon. It felt like her privacy was being violated.
“No, I promised I wouldn’t share your private thoughts. Our times together are shared memories.”
They stood alongside each other, shields at the ready and swords unsheathed, glinting in the rising sun. A tableau of strength and determination. And deep, everlasting love.
As the warmth of the sun touched Terryn’s face he smiled.
“You were right,” he said.
“Which time?” She didn’t look at him, but a defiant smile lifted the corner of her mouth.
“It is a good day to die,” he replied as he basked in the glow of the sun and made peace with his inner dragon for what they were about to do.
Chapter 1
British Museum
Bloomsbury, London
Present day
The intricate glass and steel lattice roof of the British Museum’s Great Court spanned the cavernous space below like a giant spider’s web — a 6,000 square meter, 800 tonne spider web. There was nothing else quite like it anywhere in the world. As the largest covered public square in Europe, it was a triumph of state-of-the-art engineering and a testament to the architects who designed the tessellated roof constructed of some 3,312 computer designed panes of glass, miraculously held aloft by a unique and economic geometry of steel framework.
No two panes of glass were identical.
And that was the only fact that interested Bryce Armstrong in the slightest as his lithe figure crabbed across the undulating glass roof, in search of one panel of glass in particular.
The enormous dome of Sydney Smirke’s Reading Room dominates the center of the glass covered cultural behemoth and forms a centerpiece of beauty and heritage within the magnificent structure. The dome itself was inspired by the Roman Pantheon and represents a masterpiece of Victorian era engineering and technology. Right now, though, for Bryce, at least, it was nothing more than a giant pain in the ass because it meant he was forced to circumnavigate the 140 foot diameter dome to reach his true objective. He paused momentarily to plan his route across the geometric network of steel frames.
Even though security patrols had been scaled back in favor of more efficient and economical, technology based security measures, Bryce didn’t want to be exposed on the glass roof any longer than absolutely necessary. The risk of being seen was small, but the consequences of being spotted were dire and inconceivable. He’d waited 10 years for this opportunity. Failure was not an option.
Heaving his heavy pack onto his shoulder, Bryce caught sight of his reflection in one of the triangular glass panels. With a ski mask covering his face and wearing only a black sweater and pants, he thought he looked like a dropout from the Marvel school for superheroes. Expelled and stripped of his cool costume and superhero name. He wasted precious seconds smiling at his own joke. As if anyone would believe someone could shift into the form of a fire breathing, airborne dragon. No, he thought, not even Marvel would touch that idea.
Of course, the mask was just a precaution. He couldn’t afford to have his features recorded by any of the ubiquitous CCTV cameras. The stakes were too high and the heist must never be traced back to him. To ensure that, he had planned everything with the same meticulous detail with which he planned everything. He shrugged off his nagging concerns and resumed his crab-like, sideways scuttle around the glass canopy, dismissing his doubts as nothing more than his overactive dragon senses messing with his head. After all, with such a detailed and bold plan at hand and having waited a decade for the perfect opportunity to execute it, what could possibly go wrong?
The ease and confidence with which the lithe, black clad figure scooted across the metal framework hinted at the raw strength and disciplined athleticism that lurked beneath the high tech body suit. Like a prowling panther, well-defined muscle and sinew undulated beneath the sleek black material, making Bryce look every bit the predator that he was. Or at least could be, when he needed to be. Of course, the state-of-the-art suit was designed to fool the myriad of thermal imaging sensors that made up the Thermal Fence perimeter, but Bryce saw no reason that function couldn’t be stylish and somewhat
flattering to his physique at the same time.
Having reached his final destination, Bryce paused for a breath to take in the enormous acreage below. By day, it was teaming with tourists, bustling from one awe inspiring gallery to the next, crossing a magnificent floor space which, unknown to most, had been closed to the public for over 150 years. Only a few feet away stood the imposing granite statue of Ramesses II. At nearly nine feet tall and weighing over 7 tons, the Son of Ra had once kept silent vigil over the ancient Egyptian Ramesseum. Although its lower body and legs have long since been lost to antiquity, it’s sheer size and stateliness make it easy to imagine how it might once have looked, mounted high on the great temple at Thebes, gazing down upon those who were privileged enough to have passed through its doorway.
“And now, my old friend, they have you standing guard over the museum gift shop and its precious racks of plastic Rosetta Stone key rings.”
Bryce started to smile at his own joke before a distant memory of stories told to him as a child entered his mind. Stories of ancient times. Stories of his ancestors and their ancestors. The same stories that brought him to this place. No, compelled him to come to this place, seeking knowledge. Seeking the truth.
At least Ramesses II was not alone with some of the finest and most important treasures of the ancient worlds as company, all under the roof of one of the world’s most prestigious museums. In fact, during the Victorian era, an age of unprecedented scientific discovery, such was the importance of the British Museum that it even had its very own tube station. No longer part of the modern London Underground network, the British Museum station had become one of many London ghost stations, abandoned deep below the thriving city streets. As a young boy, Bryce had been brought to the museum on countless occasions to marvel at the treasures of ancient civilizations. Memories of times past and the stories that went with them uncharacteristically distracted him from his task.