by Zoe Forward
Their terror washed over him in soothing waves. He flexed his biceps and stretched as power energized his muscles. Gods, this felt good.
When his two fingers pressed tightly together, all three men collapsed, now motionless in death, their hearts internally crushed by their own ribs. Blood dripped from the nostrils of two.
The high that followed the triple kill swamped his mind with euphoria. His brain demanded more.
Terek closed his eyes to focus on a quick meditation. He couldn’t lose sight of the end. Not yet. The residual bit of pentobarbital in his system from his injection two hours ago still packed enough suppression to keep him from losing it. Not much, but enough.
Leisurely, he walked through the dead bodies to Ryom who had backed himself against the concrete barrier at the edge of the parking lot.
“Who are you?” Ryom’s dilated gaze remained fixed on Terek’s eyes. His gun arm trembled, but he managed to keep his pistol upright. “What are you?” Ryom whispered.
“I’ve come to collect what is mine.” In a lightning-fast move, he grabbed Ryom’s gun arm. The skin of Ryom’s arm where he touched began to swell. Bloody sweat broke from dilated pores and a shocked cry gurgled from Ryom’s cracking lips.
Ryom steadied his gun as best possible through his pain.
“You’re not going to shoot.” Terek released Ryom, withdrew a small serrated knife, and nicked his own inner arm. He flicked his blood onto Ryom while chanting a new incantation. “Drop it,” Terek ordered.
Ryom’s face slackened. The gun thudded on the concrete.
“Where is my wesekh?” Pleasure laced his tone as he pulled Ryom away form the concrete barrier. The guy groaned and wavered. Terek placed a hand against Ryom’s chest to absorb every nerve pulsation of suffering.
Terror tears streamed down Ryom’s cheeks. The front of his khaki pants soaked through with urine.
“Coat pocket.”
Terek reached inside and withdrew the cloth-wrapped totem. Even before he exposed the object, the wesekh’s power blasted through him, confirming it was the right one. A thrill clenched his gut—reunited at last. Fortune would be his, again. This asswipe would die for stealing what was rightfully his.
“Who did Markus Langford have with him tonight?”
Ryom groaned and shook his head in a last effort to fight.
Terek smiled as he allowed frigid burning energy to funnel from his hands through Ryom’s chest.
“Called her his authenticator,” Ryom choked out.
“Name?”
“Didn’t say.”
“What was her reaction to the wesekh?”
Ryom struggled against the pressure in his chest to gasp out, “Backed off as if it was poisonous before she said it was real. Authenticated it.”
Without releasing his magnetic hold on Ryom’s chest, he ordered the Fedavis still hovering in the shadows, “Find the girl. Bring her alive.”
Terek smiled. With little effort, he twisted Ryom’s head off its axis and dropped it. The body slid to the ground.
Liquid pleasure from the kill rushed through him. In the ensuing high, every part of his being demanded more bloodshed.
He withdrew a preloaded syringe of pink liquid from his robes and plunged it through cloth deep into his thigh. The pentobarbital dulled the drive to destroy life. The dose was designed to kill a horse. For him, it deadened sensation for a few hours.
He staggered, barely avoiding an asphalt ass-kiss by grasping the concrete barrier. How he despised the torpor of suppression, but knew only too well once he started killing humans, he wouldn’t stop until he was so drunk from the ensuing high that he passed out. Or was shredded by magi.
Those sanctimonious bastards’ reign was about to end. He’d dodged them for a decade, and they still had no idea he was back.
Now that he had the wesekh, he was one-third of the way toward the Trifecta. Three items, each with unique powers, that together would grant him power equal only to the gods. And lift the curse of the daemon.
The wesekh may look innocuous to a mortal, but it granted its owner unlimited fortune no matter the cost to bystanders. And that luck extended to more than amassing piles of cash.
He ground his molars at the memory of how he had lost the collar. In a kleptomaniac moment, his nephew, Sekhemkhet, pilfered the collar while he was in the bath. That snaky worm had been a moron in life and, even though he ascended to Pharaoh, was a disgrace in death. Even Sekh’s pyramid never got finished. Sekh reigned for only a few years before the sickly kid died of flu. He probably never even wore the wesekh, ignorant of its true power.
Now he was one step ahead of the magi to acquire what they needed most—the second in the Trifecta, the Anukrati mk-t or amulet.
He had glimpsed the amulet briefly centuries ago when Egypt was the center of the world and he ruled. At that unique moment, the akhrian had not been closely guarded. Being human had been a disappointing weakness back then, and prevented him from eliminating the wily healer.
Most amulets of that time were in the shape of an animal, plant, or some other significant item.
Not this one. It was copper, an unusual high-demand metal, and circular, about the size of a half-dollar with the magi’s symbol—a triangle with three crossed scimitar blades—carefully inlaid in blue sapphire. Although unimpressive in appearance, the gods had designed it not for looks or monetary value, but for power.
Soon it would be his, and the gods’ favorite warriors would be little more than dust with no option for reincarnation.
Chapter Three
Her captor dragged Kira deep into the shadows of a recessed doorway. He clinched her chest so tight that she couldn’t breathe. A dizzy terror hazed her mind.
Keep it together.
He rolled her inward until her face pressed tight to his chest as if he feared she would scream.
“I’ll shoot,” she murmured against his rock-solid pecs, burrowing the muzzle of her Glock into his abdomen.
“Go ahead, sweetheart. Add it to the tally for the night. It’ll sting like a bitch, but I guarantee it won’t kill me.”
He sounded disappointed about the last part. Something about that lightly accented baritone struck her as familiar. Kira reined in her escalating fear enough to do an aura screen. He had none of the inherent darkness of a Hashishin. He radiated mystical vitality and ancient power. But not evil.
With a good push, she got herself some space. Yet he didn’t release her. She cricked her neck upward. It was a good ways up since this gladiator dwarfed her by almost a foot.
“Ashor?” She shook her head and whispered, “This can’t be real.”
It looked like him—the super-hot sex god who had starred in all her X-rated fantasies over the past few years.
She snapped her wide open jaw closed. Although he was ogle-worthy, now was not the time.
His dark eyes scanned downward, sliding over her face to the tops of her breasts. His perusal should have struck her as rude, but instead her pulse skyrocketed. When his gaze returned to hers, the heat reflected there sparked a fire that speared straight to her core.
A smile tipped the corners of his mouth. At the moment those lips were sensual. Yet, she knew from their last in-person encounter a decade ago, they could morph into stark brutality in less than a millisecond. Small creases appeared at the corners of his eyes.
As if in a slow-mo sports replay, she took in the irregularly long black hair that fell just beyond his wide shoulders. He had a natural tan and high cheek bones that reflected Grecian or possibly Arabic origins. A tribal-style tat trekked down the right side of his face to his neck, halting just above the collar of his dark leather jacket. Men just didn’t come much hotter than this.
He shifted and winced. Instantly, the healing power within her detected his pain from multiple injuries. She scanned his face, looking for some external indicator of discomfort. The guy was in agony, but he didn’t convey a smidgen of unease.
The healing power demande
d she fix him. Now.
No way. Like an impatient two year-old, it rebelled. His migraine-worthy head pounder became hers. Each breath burned like a nuclear explosion had detonated mid-chest. Why could she feel his injuries? With any other person, she could detect the damage but not experience it. Oh, God, make it stop.
The words to warn him of her intent to heal him died when his gaze turned deadly. His muscles tensed, inadvertently pulling her tighter against him.
Hashishins passed by without seeing them.
A vicious energy thrummed through his body. In that moment, her fear ramped up as she recognized this being was completely at ease with killing. And he’d marked his prey.
Had she misinterpreted that heated perusal? Maybe he wasn’t the mega-hot sex god revving up to give her a night to remember. Reality check: Those Hashishins planned to abduct and kill her. Ashor had obviously just left a nasty fight. He was in a lot of pain, and most likely planned to kidnap her for magi purposes. He would probably do anything to achieve that goal, including seduction.
Fear had her elbowing him to get free.
He locked her tight to him again and murmured above her head, “Quiet.”
She wiggled until her hand collided with his rock-hard arousal. Both halted. Breathing was suspended. She pulled her head free of his chest to look up. In that instant, she had his complete attention.
Slowly, his head closed the distance toward her face.
Her body pulsated with raw aching need. Rational thoughts of danger, death, and enslavement flew the coop. Would he do it? Would he finally kiss her? Never in all those bajillion fantasies she’d created had he done it. But now, at last…
Within centimeters of her face, he whispered, “Run.”
Run? From him or them?
Without warning, he pushed her away from him, propelling her in the direction opposite to the Hashishins. When she caught her balance and turned back to him, he was gone.
What the hell? Had she imagined him?
Markus was right. She was losing it.
Without hesitation she fled.
****
Ashor’s body pulsed with residual adrenaline from executing four Hashishins as he slid into the chair opposite Christian. He scanned the Jacksonville college bar taking in the virtually naked bodies bouncing off each other on the dance floor to an ear-piercing rhythm. Tanned day traders and horny college guys sharked around the bar for easy hookups. Swarms of twenty-something girls displayed themselves in colorful skimpy pieces of cloth that scarcely qualified as clothing.
Not a single one interested him. None was her.
Gods, she was beautiful. He recalled the sensation of Kira’s soft curves pressed tight to him. And those skin-tight jeans…he had definitely pulled a glance-back before slipping away. But none of that had been what had him rock-hard ready to rumble within seconds. The woman had been outmuscled, outmaneuvered, and frightened. Yet, she had the guts to push a gun to his abdomen. And threaten. Now that had been sexy as hell.
Damn, he was in trouble. He tried to breathe away the monstrous hard-on that refused to relent. He pushed down the testosterone-laced lust and the savage desire to hunt her down.
Somehow he had deluded himself for years that the gods had deemed him unworthy to find his senariai, his destined woman. Now he discovered they just thought to screw with him. Certainly he couldn’t have imagined a better punishment for his vow-breaker homicidal incidents than to bind him irrevocably to the only woman in the universe that was off limits. The akhrian.
Hell, he thought his life had been a pisser before. Even for the gods, this was a low blow.
He removed the dark shades that hid the swirling blackness in his hazel irises to stare across the blacktop table. Of all places, this meat market was not where he wanted to be. He glared high-test displeasure at the magus across from him.
“You’re late.” Christian’s eyes darted into the crowd in obvious avoidance.
Christian fit right in. Slick cyclist physique, designer outfit, and recently highlighted blond hair. A player to the bone. From what Ashor could tell, the only criteria Christian used when picking up an evening’s entertainment was that it be female and later be gone. Rarely did he double dip.
Ashor glanced around, noting he’d already attracted the kind of attention he wished to avoid. He was too tattooed, too leathered, and way too dangerous—a bad combo for a club like this. A fake redhead with legs to her chin tossed him an ocular come-on as she strolled past. The gym-pumped frat boy carrying her drink threw him a territorial challenge. Stupid kid.
When Christian wanted to meet, he never said it would be this kind of bar. If he had known, he might have done more than change shirts, wipe off the blood, and throw on a coat. Maybe he would’ve tried to look a little less like the vicious killer he was.
Ashor folded his black leather-clad arms in front of his chest and demanded, “Why here? This is your scene. Not mine. I despise being the dark horse in a sea of asswipes.”
“This place has lots of potential. Pretty rocking for New Year’s Eve, huh?” Christian smiled smugly.
“Whatever. You said it was life or death. Whose?”
“Yours.”
“Like that’s a news flash,” Ashor grumbled, irritated with this waste of his time. He took a hefty swig of the scotch he’d picked up on his way in. His stomach soured when the alcohol mixed with the handful of caffeine pills and the five energy drinks he’d downed before leaving his car. If he was human, cardiac arrest would’ve hit minutes ago.
Christian regarded him critically. “This isn’t about the suicidal marathon of daemons we’ve had to deal with over the past few months. This is an intervention.”
“Oh, hell.” Ashor rolled his eyes. “You’ve been watching reality TV reruns again.”
Christian produced a half smile and oozed supernatural charm.
“Cut out that charm shit,” Ashor said. “Waste of time on me.”
Christian shrugged apologetically. “You’ve got to take better care of yourself.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And stop hunting Hashishins.”
“You’ve got ’nads. I’ll give you that. But who are you to throw down ultimatums? Your problem is far worse. Can you even go twenty-four hours without? Or is the reason we met here so that you can find a slutty hookup for the night? You’re the one in need of an intervention.”
“My extracurricular activities are unlikely to get me killed. You, however, are walking a fine line, my friend.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit. You never sleep, at least by choice. You act like you’re on the Hollywood starvation diet, since the only thing I’ve seen you eat in the past two weeks is energy drinks, soda, and yogurt. And then you disappear to drive north toward Savannah at least twice a week after the…nightmares.”
Ashor went glacial. “So I’ve got issues about the past. Who among us doesn’t?” No way would he admit weakness. Not to this punk.
Christian took a refined sip of his martini and bit one olive off the toothpick. He waved the olive-laden toothpick at Ashor as he said, “You look unhealthy as shit. Hashishin hunting doesn’t agree with you. We all know what you do when you disappear, not that any of us would lift a pinky to help those freaks. Even so, I don’t think wiping them off the face of the planet will make you feel kosher about the past.”
“The past? You’ve never been imprisoned and tortured by them. Twice.”
“True, but we got you out both times and aren’t we resistant to their poisons and magik shit? It couldn’t have been as bad as fighting daemons.”
Ashor’s tone turned chilly. “We still feel pain. Our bones do break. And their serpents…Trust me, kid, there’s shit far worse than poisons and spells. Daemons are child’s play.”
“I’m not going to argue that they earned whatever you dish out. The problem is why you’re out there hunting them and single-handed at that.” Christian paused dramatically to sip his drink. “I think it’s because you
’re close to the Turn. That means your control is iffy at best.”
“Control is a problem for all of us.”
“My concern is eventually you’ll come out of one of those fights more than just a little fucked up. It might push you over the edge into the Turn. Who knows. And to top it all off, you went out alone again tonight. That’s just asinine. I can’t believe I have to tell you this.”
“You suggesting I take backup?” Apparently, they thought he had control over what happened after he passed out. He didn’t choose to hunt.
“Any one of us would go, if you asked. I’d love to terminate a couple of summoners.” Christian waited for Ashor to respond and got nothing. He pressed on, “None of us wants a sudden promo to Prime to replace you. That means you need to stay in the land of the living. Besides, how are we supposed to locate daemons once you get offed during one of your Hashishin episodes? Are we supposed to wait until CNN headlines a mysterious mass killing spree going on?” He shook his head and mumbled, “How you locate those evil bastards is beyond me, not to mention finding a Hashishin alone and outside their Savannah compound. That’s nothing short of bloody miraculous.”
Ashor shrugged. For him, daemons and Hashishins might as well hang a neon bad-guy-here sign above their heads. He could feel their evil energy continents away.
He squinted at Christian wondering where he was going with this. “We all die, eventually. It’s part of the deal.”
“And come back. If you could remember all this delightful crap when you return in your next life, then we wouldn’t be talking. Coming back as a big zero doesn’t work for me…for us. Too bad it’s against the rules to write yourself some crib notes to help you skip the newbie phase. You need to quit this random Hashishin-hunting business. Besides, you’re not supposed to kill humans unless they attack us, Hashishin or not.”
“I’ll take whatever punishment the gods dish out.” Christian may be dead right. But he would not let this conceited, sex-obsessed magus less than half his age and under his command dictate to him. Dark insanity poked through a crack in Ashor’s mental lockdown to suggest the presumptuous prettyboy would look much better with a solid nosebleeder. Ashor struggled to subdue the kem-seki. The psychosis pushed at his trigger-happy rage. Rage may be his special power, but it was only useful when fighting daemons. On a good day if he let it loose full throttle, it was difficult to control, but with the darkness of the inevitable Turn pushing, it was insanity to set it free. He hadn’t risked it in years.