by Kresley Cole
If El Dorado had merely been a man, then he probably would’ve been buried in a necropolis. Had he been buried with his gold? If he were surrounded by his golden treasures—like arrows? —then maybe El Dorado could still be a man and a place.
Lucia didn’t expect a neon sign pointing to the dieumort, but she and MacRieve had enough clues to… get them to the next set of clues. In truth, she’d never been on such an ill-defined mission. But if it were easy to find a dieumort, then it would’ve been found before.
And Lucia sensed they were getting closer, daydreaming incessantly about that perfect golden arrow, imagining how it would hiss through the air once she shot it.
She pictured the look on Cruach’s hideous visage when he realized she’d just dealt a death blow….
At other times, Lucia would read to MacRieve from an Amazon guide book that Izabel had given her. As Lucia discovered more about the perils they’d face in Rio Labyrinto—the anacondas and those creepy caimans—MacRieve carved arrows for her new quiver. With that sly look, he’d said, “If I canna fill your quiver in one way, I will in another.”
She’d chuckled. “Good one, werewolf.”
He’d grown quiet, seeming startled. “First time I’ve heard your laugh.”
“And?”
“And now I canna rest until I hear it again.” He’d leapt atop her, tickling her till she’d squealed with laughter….
She was so tempted to tell him everything. Especially when he held her against his chest, warm in the circle of his muscular arms, murmuring, “Let me in, Lousha. Confide your secrets in me.”
She knew he wanted her to reveal what her nightmares were about. But Lucia didn’t believe in confiding, had never comprehended why others sought to unburden themselves—thereby burdening another. No, she’d never understood the act of transferring misery, but especially not with a secret like this.
A fact-of-life secret, something that simply couldn’t be changed.
How would MacRieve react if he knew his mate was married? The rage would have to overwhelm him. And when she explained who her husband was and how she’d come to be wed, nothing would stop MacRieve from confronting Cruach. Which would be tantamount to suicide. Or worse.
Sometimes Cruach didn’t kill victims. Sometimes he kept them.
So she continued putting MacRieve off. Yet she felt he was only biding his time, as if he had no doubt she’d ultimately open up to him.
Which will never happen. Lucia had decided she would do whatever it took to keep her involvement with Cruach concealed from MacRieve. But on other matters, she was less resolved….
Regin always asked herself, Is the cake worth the bake? Invariably, for Regin, it was. Now Lucia had caught herself wondering if having a life with MacRieve might be. When all this was over, if she could truly kill Cruach…
No! What the hell am I thinking? Even if she didn’t have to stop an apocalypse, she couldn’t surrender her archery. It would be like erasing her identity.
You get off on being known as the Archer, he’d said.
Yes. Yes, I do. She’d go from being the Archer to being the Lykae’s Mate.
Never, she decided.
Then she went to go catch dinner.
Chapter 31
A three-foot-long fish plopped onto the deck in front of Garreth and Damiãno. Jutting from its head was an arrow with a line attached. Bow fishing.
From behind them, Lucia said, “Please put your penises away, gentlemen. Dinner is procured. By a woman.”
Garreth twisted around, found her slinging her bow over her shoulder, brushing off her unsullied hands. As she sauntered away, the lass said over her shoulder, “I caught, you boys can clean.”
Gods, that female. Drives me crazy. When Garreth glanced back, he saw Damiãno was gazing after her as well. “Look at her again like that, Damiãno!” He stepped in front of the man. “Do it, and let’s end this now.”
The man’s eyes flashed to a glowing green.
In a low tone, Garreth said, “You’re a goddamned shifter!”
“And you’re an escocês dog.”
That raised his hackles. “Scottish dog?” Revealing a good look of the beast within him, Garreth growled, “I’ve got your number, shifter. So stay out of my bluidy way.”
In turn, Damiãno revealed a hint of his own beast—a black jaguar with fangs as long as Garreth’s fingers. “Don’t get in mine, escocês.”
No fear of me—interesting. “You better truly be here as a doc and for no other reason.” Jaguar shifters were rumored to be exceptionally powerful. Might actually be a worthy opponent.
“I’m here to protect the Amazon. Don’t ever forget that.”
“I’m here to protect my mate. I’ll do it to the death. Count yourself warned. In the meantime, you’ve got fish to clean, gato,” Garreth said, turning away to look for Lucia.
What’s new there?
She was hanging over the rickety rail, watching the pink dolphins that swam alongside the ship. Her short shorts rode up until he could almost glimpse the cleft of her generous arse. He gave a low growl at the sight. Then his gaze fell on the slender column of her neck. His mouth watered for her, his fangs aching to mark the tender flesh there.
Now I understand why my brother marked his mate so hard. When Garreth finally got to do it to Lucia… I’ll mark the living hell out of her.
He was pleasuring her—hard and continually—but Garreth hadn’t gained any ground with her, was no closer to claiming her. She’d made no request that he take her completely. At least not out of bed.
And the full moon was tonight. He’d hoped to have convinced her to forgo her vows before now. So he could take off the cuff and claim her.
Added to that, he couldn’t shake the feeling of some impending threat. Something more than the nearing apocalypse and the full moon. He felt as if he were running out of time on all fronts….
A dolphin sprayed water from its blowhole, making Lucia laugh. She’d begun laughing more often. Whenever he let himself believe it was because of him, he stood a little taller.
The gift of a butterfly had been a stroke of genius. “You named it after me?” she’d asked, her expression growing soft, her eyes flickering silver.
That was what the wolf in him had been craving. Her approval, her delight. He’d soaked it up. Like a besotted fool, he tended that damned butterfly morning and night, feeding it with a sponge full of sugar water.
And the quiver he’d swiped from the fey? He inwardly grinned. That hadn’t gone unappreciated either.
For nearly two weeks, Garreth had made Lucia his study, continuing to dig into her past. And every day he turned up something new and surprising.
She’d revealed more about the foe Nïx had dispatched her to kill, this Crom Cruach. “Those infected with his influence feel compelled to sacrifice whoever they love, in the most ghastly ways. The more they love something, the more they want to annihilate it. Cruach can control their minds, forcing his victims to see whatever he wills them to. Their eyes turn milky white—that’s when you know they’re lost.”
“How does he do this?”
“His powers as a god. And he grows stronger with each sacrifice in his name. Whenever Cruach’s human followers from the Cult of Death—the Cromites—invoke him, they pray: To him we sacrifice, for him our cherished.” She’d said she couldn’t imagine a worse apocalypse—because this one would sweep the world, perverting the purest love and turning it into evil and death.
Lucia was convinced that the dieumort had to be an arrow. Now he’d become convinced as well. If one could be infected by Cruach, then it made sense to strike at him from afar.
Garreth planned to. Alone. The more she told him of Cruach, the more Garreth resolved never to let her anywhere near him. But she’d yet to tell him where to find the god.
One night after much coaxing, Garreth had gotten her to admit she’d only been with one man. “If you’ve only had sex with one bloke in all this time,” he’d said, “
then you must’ve loved him verra much.”
She’d turned away, her face paling. So that’s the way of it. The man had hurt her.
“Or you hated sex so much you would join a celibate order and forgo it for over ten centuries.”
She’d sighed, looking tired, with faint smudges under her eyes. Between her continuing nightmares and his attentions, she hadn’t been enjoying much restful sleep. In fact, it was only toward dawn, once her nightmares had ebbed, that she’d fall into a deeper, nearly comatose slumber. “MacRieve, will you just let it go?”
He’d said he would drop it, but of course he hadn’t. He needed to figure out exactly how bad it’d been for her. And who the male was. So I can slaughter him—
His phone rang then. It was Lachlain, no doubt calling to see what progress Garreth had made before the looming full moon. In a word: none. Still, the call was a welcome distraction.
Garreth answered with, “How goes it with you and the queen?”
“She took me to a mall yesterday.” Lachlain sounded as if he’d just stifled a shudder. “And she pointed to a boy and said, ‘I think I want one.’ So naturally, I start thinking, Where can I get a wee mortal? But she meant… she meant a bairn—our bairn.”
“You still fear getting a babe on your mate? Again, brother, how delicate can she be if she beheaded Demestriu?”
“Ach! No’ you, too!”
Actually, Garreth couldn’t talk. Before he’d found out the Valkyrie couldn’t get pregnant unless they ate regular meals, he’d planned to take precautions.
“In any case, I dinna call to talk about me. How goes it with your Valkyrie?”
Garreth rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. “I’d been so busy chasing her down that I never stopped to see if I truly liked her, had never had the opportunity to discover if I could.”
“And now that you’ve had the opportunity?”
Hesitation. Then he admitted in a low tone, “I like her.” Everything about her. Each day, he fell deeper under her spell, his graceful, exquisite mate with her dark flashing eyes. “She’s so clever.” The speed with which she was learning Gaelic was uncanny. “And I like that she’s proud.” He’d never thought he would desire such a prideful woman, but now that he’d had a taste of Lucia, he could never settle for less. “And she’s… passionate,” he said in the ultimate understatement.
Lucia was the best bedmate he’d ever conceived of—and they hadn’t even had sex. She brought him greater pleasure than he’d ever known, but released only the worst of the pressure—because she stoked his need beyond imagining.
“And does the Valkyrie return the sentiment?” Lachlain asked.
“I want her more than I’ve ever coveted anything—but I know she’s no’ mine. She holds herself away from me, keeps secrets. I fear she always will.”
Garreth had told her, “We need to talk about what will happen once we complete this mission.” She’d given him a cagey look and said, “Can’t we just keep our focus on that for now?” He’d asked her to confide in him, asked her what her nightmares were about. She’d refused to tell him.
“You’ve got to give her a free rein,” Lachlain said. “She’s made up her own mind about things for over a millennium—she will no’ take kindly to an overbearing male.”
“Aye, I ken that.” He exhaled. “If Lousha and I are fated, then why is this so difficult?”
“Everybody says the mate phenomenon makes the bonding easier. In my mind, it usually only brings grief, at least at first. Especially if a mate is other. Bowen and I could no’ be more content with our mates, but we each went through hell to get her.”
Hell. I’m there right now. Restlessness weighed on him. He wasn’t running at night, wasn’t providing for his mate, and could find no threat to protect her from.
“You’re still no’ bedding her?” Lachlain asked.
“Nay,” he said, then added in a mutter, “Everything but.” With each storm, he was taking her back to their cabin. But even when it hadn’t been raining, he was tempted, barely stopping himself from it.
He’d grown so desperate he wouldn’t have cared if Lucia’s lightning struck all around them on a cloudless day.
And when they were in bed together, he was only just keeping his promise to her. Claw marks riddled the cabin wall from the times he’d struggled not to take her, when his shaft had prodded right at her tight core—and instead of fighting him, she’d moaned, “Please…”
Each time he somehow found the strength to deny her, he resented her vows more and more. “I’m trying to be patient,” he told Lachlain now, “trying to respect her beliefs, but I doona know how much longer I can do this.”
“What will happen tonight?”
“Unless I can get her to accept me, I’ll be praying the cuff holds true…” His voice trailed off. Garreth scented her desire. And rain on the air. He turned to Lucia, found her gazing at him with expectation. “I’ve got to go!”
“Why, what’s happening?”
Garreth said, “Ah, brother, a storm’s coming!”
By midafternoon, once they were both spent, Garreth petted her hair, gently sifting his fingers through it, watching fascinated as the lamp light played off the strands.
“Your eyes turned completely blue,” she said, her voice drowsy. “Is it because the full moon is tonight?”
When he nodded, she said, “The cuff will work?”
“Aye. It’s working.” Because already his reaction would’ve been much stronger.
“Tell me more about the beast inside you, about turning.”
“It’s like a possession. When we turn, we call the transformation saorachadh ainmhidh bho a cliabhan—letting the beast out of its cage. Think of it as four different levels of turning. Say I got into a heated dispute. I’d feel the beast stirring inside me—like it’s waking. If I felt rage, it’d make my claws flare, my fangs sharpen. And lust to mark a mate?” He raked his gaze over her. “It’d take over my body. I’d still be there, still remembering all, comprehending everything, but the beast is definitely in control. To fight it would take a will that few are known to possess.”
“What’s the fourth level?”
“It’s the worst—turning so much that you canna come back. If one of our kind canna handle some experience, something that’s too hard to take, the beast rises too much, maddening its Lykae host forever. He’d never revert from his animal state.”
“What happens then?”
“He’d have to be locked away in our dungeons,” Garreth said. They should have known something was amiss with Bowen’s first “mate”—since he’d still been able to carry on after he thought she’d died…. “That’s why we doona change others into our kind—anyone newly made would have to learn to control the beast, a process that takes decades, if it works at all. We’d be forced to imprison them for all that time before we could even think of freeing them.”
“Change others, like Rossiter.”
“Exactly,” Garreth said, not unmoved by the mortal’s plight. “He’s no’ out of the game yet. Maybe he’ll find his orchid—or a pretty immortal who does no’ follow Lore rules….”
As the rain poured outside, they talked of other things, plotting what would happen tomorrow night when they arrived at Rio Labyrinto. With each stroke of her hair, her lids grew heavier, her expression soft and sleepy, until she finally drifted off.
Now he lay beside her with his head propped in his hand, lightly grazing his fingers up and down her sleek back. He exhaled, simply savoring the luxury of having her with him, in his bed, in his life.
But she didn’t trust him. And that pained him.
When she whimpered, his brows drew together. Again, she suffered nightmares, her low cries building with the tempest brewing outside.
She was of a warrior race, and yet she was terrified, speaking in some old Norse tongue he didn’t understand.
Who the hell had hurt his woman? Why did she refuse to tell him? His claws dug into his palms
as he fought to control the beast within him, the beast that needed to punish any fuck who’d given her pain.
Chapter 32
When Crom had asked Lucia to come with him and leave Valhalla, she’d eagerly agreed, though she’d known that once a Valkyrie left that plane, she could never return.
Lucia was sixteen and in love. Nothing, not her godparents’ warnings or Regin’s pleading, could dissuade her. She’d wedded Crom with no reservations, despite his strange customs—they couldn’t touch whatsoever until after they’d been married, and they had to wed in a bizarre stone temple with robed strangers all around.
At the altar, after they’d been joined forever, she’d turned to her beloved. And he’d vanished. In his place was one of the strangers with a raised club. He’d struck, knocking her unconscious.
Too late, Lucia had learned that Crom Cruach had never even been at the portal. Instead, he’d been trapped in a fetid lair in the earth, projecting the image of the fair-haired young man.
For as long as she’d been watching the sky, Cruach had been watching her. He’d needed a bride born of gods to beget heirs on, and like so many deities, he could project illusions for women he wanted to seduce.
When Lucia had awakened, she’d been trapped in his prison with her fair-haired man standing over her. Only then had Cruach unveiled his true self to her. His beautiful face had fallen away, revealing the Broken Bloody One.
A cloven-footed monster, Cruach clad himself in scraps of metal strung together, taken from his slaughtered victims’ proud shields or armor. On his massive head, stringy white hair hung sparsely around horns that jutted up like giant splayed fingers. His face was ghoulish, his eyes yellow, slitted with red and running with pus.