by Sue Wilder
Christan readjusted his position in the sand. The sun warmed his flesh. While his mind remained strong, the sensory deprivation within the Void still lingered in his bones, aggravated him to where he needed to feel, to touch, to regain a sense of his physical body. He’d shifted several times, and that helped quell the restlessness. Before he gave into the need to shift again, he rose to his feet. His eyes narrowed as he studied the homestead below, searching for any movement.
“Enforcer.” The mental probing was firm. He recognized the telepathic energy, the ephemeral beauty in pure vibration. He remembered how she always wore opalescent fabrics, shimmering when she moved, as if white would hide the blood on her hands. Only the ignorant ignored her, and his response was to the point.
“Three.” A deliberate pause. “Do you have someone you need me to kill?”
“I sense your hostility. There’s no need.”
“Then why the summons?”
You’re still bound. I’m reminding you of your loyalty. You might be angry”—his mental snort— “but it was necessary to call you back. Are you at full strength?”
“Yes.” Not a complete lie; he needed a few more days. “Are you still waging war?”
“I cannot control what Six does.”
“But blood is blood and you would answer him.”
“A monster lives in all of us, you know that, and yes, I will answer him.” A pause. He could sense her frown. “You’re colder than when you went away.”
“How do you know this?”
“I made you. A mother knows her children.”
“You are hardly a mother.”
“And you are not a son.” The tone was tight. “Have you found your girl, Enforcer?”
“Why ask when you know?”
“Why fight me when I do?”
A deadly silence. He was not in the mood to be polite, and Three probed his mind with more strength, a sharp reminder of who she was. It was part of their unspoken agreement. In public they maintained the hierarchy, in private they were equals up to a point. Three was ancient enough to hold immense power. But she had also created him, made him nearly equal to her in strength. He would allow her to control him up to a line they’d drawn in the sand and no farther.
It seemed she was willing to cross that line.
“It was not an easy choice to bring you back. I wanted to respect your feelings on the matter, but Phillipe insisted.”
“Your new advisor?”
“He’s convinced the magic is out of control. If the girls keep dying the warriors will react and I need you here.”
“Hire someone else for your blood work.”
“It’s not just blood work I want from you, Christan. It’s the threat and the reminder of the past. I thought you understood the full impact you have on immortal society.”
“You wish me to frighten little children out of my sense of duty?” Christan shifted his stance, scanning the horizon. “Even for you, Three, the argument is weak.”
“You used to respect duty.”
“And now I don’t.”
“Honor, then. Do you still possess that trait?”
Silence.
“You must get past what Gemma did.”
“Getting past it would change nothing.”
“You need her.”
“Why?” There was no fucking way he needed her.
“You spent too much time in the Void. I want you more human. She softens you, she always has.”
“I would not be softened.”
“So arrogant. I need this from you, Enforcer.”
“What else do you need, Three?”
“I need her. I need the two of you. Together.”
The single word Christan used was said with enough force to send the birds from the trees.
Lexi ran another search and waited while the choices filled the computer screen. After an hour of scanning web sites and public registries, news stories and business sites, she found nothing. Marge had been right. Arsen did not exist in the electronic world. He was hidden behind a shroud, with no cyber threads she could unravel, not even with the backdoor tactics one of her clients taught her how to use. Oh, there’d been two leads she discovered, followed them as they pinged her around from one IP address to the next. She’d been hopeful, until she realized Arsen’s tech people were playing with her. Lexi should have expected the misdirection since they’d hidden their activities so completely. They would want her to know what they could do.
She closed out her browser, considered using the computer program guaranteed to provide cyber-related privacy, and then thought, what the hell, they’d probably compromised that one, too.
An empty search bar appeared. Lexi started with the myth and a remembered name from the dream, guessed at the spelling. The computer responded with a ‘did you mean ‘Thessalonian King’ message. Links led her to the story of Kyrene. Common knowledge and not the proof she needed.
She searched again, found links to Cyrene. Libya. An ancient city, now an archaeological site decimated by war. Lexi expected the images to be familiar and they were, in a generic way; her grandmother had watched every history channel program available, thought it was like looking into the souls of those who lived in the past. It still wasn’t proof.
“How’s the search going?” Marge asked, setting a white mug on the table. The fragrance of fresh coffee reminded Lexi of Adirondack chairs on a misty deck. She looked back at the arid images on the computer screen.
“You were right about Arsen. I think his tech guys were having fun.”
“There’s only the one guy. Ethan. Nice. He lives in San Francisco.”
“Figures.”
Marge settled into a chair, scooted closer to Lexi’s laptop. “What are you researching now?”
“Ruins in Libya.” Lexi clicked on the image link and scrolled through the photographs. An archaeologist, dressed in a white shirt and brown shorts, was standing with one foot braced on a fallen column. Another image—marble floors with jagged cracks—reminded Lexi of a demolition site she’d once researched for a client. He wanted to raze the existing building and develop an exclusive high-rise complex. Lexi had advised him against the idea. “Find somewhere that doesn’t feel like murder,” she said when his disappointment overruled her evaluation. He did and had been so successful he’d come back to her for another project.
Marge was peering over Lexi’s shoulder, interested. Images of an arid landscape were splashed across the computer screen. Cyrene had a rich history, centuries of influence from many cultures. Lexi stopped scrolling when she came to the image of a stone lion.
Marge said, “The workmanship on that statue is exquisite.”
“The lions were revered,” Lexi agreed. “They were so lifelike that the people believed the gods had created them as protectors.”
“Really?”
Lexi clicked on the image of a lion, followed another link asking if she wanted to see the source. Her fingers paused on the keyboard. She realized Marge was touching her arm, a comforting, grounding gesture.
“Let it go, Lexi. Just let it go.”
“I can’t.” She knew that lion. It lived in a place deep in her soul that was bleeding. Lexi moved the mouse, enlarged the high-resolution photo, maneuvered the image until she was looking at the front paw, beautifully carved in the marble, exquisitely lifelike. Even the dip, where a muscle flexed, as if the animal had tensed.
Now there was a shard missing, evidence of a tragedy so long past she shouldn’t remember the pain. But she did, felt it slicing as that sword had sliced, the blade passing through her father’s body and into the stone of the statue behind him. Destroying as it was withdrawn. Heard the screams and desperate racing feet. Blood hot and wet in the drying sun, crimson spreading on the ground. Real. All of it real.
Lexi snapped the laptop closed and sucked in a calming breath. A moment later Robbie walked into the kitchen and she was able to smile when he bent to kiss Marge’s forehead.
�
�Is this still girl talk?” he asked.
“I think Lexi might have questions.” Marge stroked her hand along his firm backside because, for a man of his age, he could still fill out a pair of jeans. Lexi watched their moment of tenderness and slid lower in her chair, knowing she would never look at Robbie again without thinking about boob lights.
He was filling a mug with coffee. When he turned to lean against the counter, Lexi noticed his eyes. They were cedar green, edged in brown. Beautiful, caring eyes. She could see the healer in him, and she wouldn’t blame him for what others had done.
“Feeling better this morning?” he asked.
“Yes, but I don’t think I thanked you yesterday.”
“It wasn’t necessary.”
“You’ve been very kind.”
“But I can see you’re consumed with curiosity.”
Lexi grinned. “One could say it was the curiosity that killed the cat but was too damned entertaining to interrupt until the cat’s demise.”
Robbie nodded. “It could be said.”
He sat down next to Marge, and when prompted, began to explain their situation. “Imagine a chess game, where one opponent positions the Black King and the other reacts by summoning the White King.”
“Kace being Black, positioned by Six?” Lexi asked.
“And Christan belongs to Three.”
Lexi was beginning to hate that word. “Then, Six is bad, and Three is good?” she asked.
“Immortals don’t think in terms of good or bad,” Robbie answered. “They think in terms of power.”
“You talk about belonging to them. Is that because they created you?”
“Yes. Two alchemists were responsible for the magic. The other members of the Calata have no idea how warriors were created.”
“Do you?”
He smiled. “No.”
“Marge said you had to do what the Calata ordered.”
“Those were the requirements of the Agreement, safety for the human girls in return for compliance from the warriors. Now, there’s less need for brute force. I don’t think a warrior has been compelled into service unwillingly in over four hundred years.”
Lexi was curious despite her reservations. “What did you have to do when they compelled you?”
“We found and returned lesser warriors who’d violated their commitments or started little wars of their own, worked behind the scenes in the military or political arenas. Helped in disputes, negotiated doctrines like the Peace of Nicias that ended the war between Sparta and Athens. That was the document the Agreement was based upon.” The two inviolable exchanges that could not be broken. Lexi remembered that much from an old history class.
Chills crept up Lexi’s spine. “This thing with the memories returning and girls dying—”
“Is an attempt to break the Agreement. It cannot go unchallenged.”
Robbie’s smile remained in place, but Lexi heard the steel beneath the words. “This is why Christan was recalled?”
“Yes. He’s Three’s enforcer. All six remaining Calata members have enforcers. Some are more effective than others.”
“You’re loyal to Christan.”
“Of course.” A wealth of information in two words. What experiences had bonded these men into an unbreakable unit? Over how many centuries? Their existence was far from what Lexi had imagined, and she looked away when Robbie took Marge’s hand.
“How can you stand it?” she asked.
“Sometimes we remember the past. Take Christan, for instance. Marge has been asking for this story. Want to hear it?”
When both women nodded Robbie continued, “It was centuries ago, and a battle raged for months in what is now known as the Qilian Mountains in China. Six backed one of the armies and wanted to enjoy the carnage, so he demanded Christan shift and fly him to the battlefield.
“Christan refused, and Kace flashed into an eagle, offering to take Six. But Six wanted to remind Christan why we never refuse, and after twenty minutes of what I will not describe to you, Christan relented. He turned into a gold dragon, all shimmery with horns down his spine, and Six jumped on because he thought he’d won. When he realized what he had to sit on, Christan was already in the air, swooping and jiving with Six’s eyes all buggy. When Christan finally dumped him in the middle of all that blood and gore, the immortal was so overloaded with the sensory experience he forgot about his threat to strip the flesh from Christan’s back.”
The violence in their world was staggering. “Six could do something like that?”
Cedar turned to jade. “Oh yes, he could. And did so a week later.” Then the soft, caring cedar green was back, warming with a hint of cinnamon. “Every time you see a dragon parade, with men dancing around in the gold dragon suit, you can thank Christan for giving them the inspiration.”
“No way,” Marge whispered.
“Yes, way,” Robbie said, “although Christan denies it ever happened.”
“Then how do you know?” Skeptical, Lexi narrowed her eyes, aware that she didn’t like this version of the man who alarmed her with such pure, lethal focus. “Were you there?”
“Eye witness.” Robbie tapped his chest.
“Can any warrior change like that?”
“No one can do it like Christan, although Arsen tried in the Middle Ages. He flew through the market, got tangled in the skeins of drying wool, and was chased out of town. Not by knights—it was a pitchfork-wielding crowd of women and children. I believe a few tomatoes were involved. Only the bravest still tease him about it now.”
Lexi fell silent, thinking of unrelenting power until a sudden vibration rolled beneath the floor. It was the earth energy, warning her. The warning came too late. A window shattered. Something hard clattered across the floor. Blinding white light. The concussion knocked her from the chair, and Lexi screamed into the expanding silence.
CHAPTER 12
Explosions were odd, Lexi thought, odd like the dreams. Not quite real until the silence crashed in upon itself. She pushed to her knees and spit plaster dust from her mouth. The smell in the air was acrid with the stink of burnt oil. Smoke swirled like shredding cotton. Whatever the explosion was, the purpose was concussion and not incineration; there was no fire.
Lexi heard Marge calling to Robbie, saw him crawling in the woman’s direction. A large feral cat was streaking through an open door that hung on shattered hinges. The animal was alarming, and Lexi remembered how Arsen had shifted into a tabby cat. She wasn’t sure if this was an enemy or not. She pushed to her feet, picked up a black fireplace tool. Held it defensively while the air vibrated in heated, choking waves.
The yellow cat screeched to a halt. The animal’s lips pulled back, sharp fangs clear as it crouched. Marge remained on the floor. The pressure in the room increased. The cat lunged. Lexi swung the heavy tool in her hands—until it slammed violently to a halt.
Christan was gripping the iron poker, prying her fingers up one by one.
The cat had disappeared.
“It was going toward Marge,” Lexi said, her muscles still cramped with pain. From the look in Christan’s eyes, she needed to defend her actions.
“It was a damn feral cat,” he ground out. “Do you think you scared him?”
“It ran away, didn’t it?”
“And you’d know all about running.”
Christan’s voice was rough with aggression, his face sinfully beautiful. Every muscle in his body was hard, impressive and too damn overpowering as he tossed the iron poker aside. Lexi didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t avoid the thinking, not with the heat that rolled her way. His eyes were cold and yet they burned. Scorched. His anger erupted from deep in the past and she didn’t care if they were fighting about the cat or something else, she just wanted to provoke him. Push him. Get him to move as far away from her as possible.
“Screw you, Christan,” she said. “You think you can just walk in here and start assuming things because of some damn past life? Do not ever assume
things about me.”
It took a beat. And then heat exploded and he reached down, his hand fisting in the material of her yellow shirt. He dragged her toward him with heavy strength, impulsive, and the memory hit her like a body blow. There was no touch like his touch. His words were seared into her mind and oh, god, the images were there, the firelight on bronzed male skin, the way his hands had stroked, his mouth, hot and aggressive, needing, wanting. He’d held her on the edge, trembling while she waited for him to pull her back. Even now, with his hand fisted into her shirt, he held her. Then his fingers unclenched.
“I know you, and I do not assume.” His mouth curved. It was not a smile, and that single act of rejection filled her with such devastation, she picked up a piece of broken plaster and threw it in his direction.
Christan twisted and looked at her with cold amusement—the insane harpy with hair wild and streaming. Lexi saw the image of herself mirrored in his eyes and he was so damn, just so damn arrogant. He’d always been like that, accusing her of things and never listening to the vital answers she’d been trying to give. His bladed face was so starkly male it was perfection, carved by a master’s hand until even the stone began to weep. The mystery of him had always ruined her, kept her tongue-tied and helpless and furious. She reached for something else to throw.
Whatever it was, the object was ineffective, bouncing off his shoulder and falling to the floor. Lexi’s pulse raced tight in her throat when Christan lifted his hand. She knew he was on the edge, would put her on the ground again. She didn’t think she could endure that dark emptiness if he did. Frantically, she dragged a broken chair between them. Christan’s hand moved. The chair went flying to the side, splintering into pieces.
The sound broke the spell that kept her tongue-tied. “What the hell did you do to me in the rocks?”
“Nothing you haven’t asked for.” The words were as sharp as the glass on the floor. Lexi realized she was leaning toward him, drawn to his dark sun. When he straightened, she recognized the stance, knew the kind of man he was. It should have alarmed her but didn’t. Everything should have alarmed her, but they were lost, now, in a great angry sea with no land in sight, drowning in the last of what they once were.