The Darkest Warrior

by Gena Showalter

  Maybe he'd surprise her?

  Ugh. Wishful thinking would only lead to disappointment.

  Would Puck even want her?

  Of course! The bond made her crave Puck, despite everything that had happened between them, therefore the bond made him crave her. It was science.

  Were they nothing but puppets on a string?

  Did it really matter? Want was want.

  Wait. Am I trying to talk myself into a sexcapade with him, or out of it? I'm confused.

  He wasn't exactly boyfriend material. Romantic dinners, gift exchanges, dancing, laughing and long, lingering glances or tender smiles--not exactly in his wheelhouse.

  Temptation said: Why not use him, just for a little while? Satisfaction awaits...

  The idea wasn't repellent. She could experience the beauty of sex without fear. As many times as she'd fantasized about Puck, old memories had never surfaced. And it wasn't like she could get off all by her lonesome. Whimper. Any time she'd attempted it, her body had shut down, thanks to the bond. Or maybe Indifference. Or both! Deep down she suspected she needed Puck to finish the job, his presence somehow making her desire too strong to be denied.

  And dang it, she was tired of writhing atop her sheets, desperate and aching, unable to satiate the need her husband had roused with a simple kiss. A need that hadn't abated in their time apart but grown. A need for Puck and Puck alone.

  Part of her mind cried Why not William? She'd known him years longer and had hero-worshipped the crap out of him.

  Yeah, body. Why? Though she thought of him every now and then, wondering if he could possibly be as gorgeous as she remembered--and though she always had fun taunting Puck about the other man in her letters--she'd never fantasized about him.

  A crack of thunder returned her thoughts to the matter at hand. "If I get caught..." Gillian began.

  "I know, I know. Slaughter everyone, risk my life more, and save you."

  "No. Are you kidding? Retreat, steal more weapons, acquire more magic and return."

  Another crack of thunder, followed by a blaze of lightning that spotlighted soldiers as they ran for cover; they knew no one in their right mind would attack during an ice storm.

  They weren't wrong. Gillian hadn't had a right mind for centuries.

  Shields were raised over the tents, offering protection for the people inside.

  "After this," Winter said, as unconcerned with the coming rain of death as Gillian, "the newly crowned Walsh king will probably stop courting you."

  "That's just a bonus," she said.

  Gillian had killed the last two sovereigns. The first had delighted in the pain he'd inflicted upon women, reminding her of her stephorrors. The next one had killed a beloved member of the Shawazons, not during battle but a shopping extravaganza. He'd stabbed her from behind.

  After a third crack of thunder, the first ice dagger fell from the sky and speared the ground a few inches from Gillian's face. Indifference howled with surprise before vanishing from her mind.

  Well, well. Near-death experiences weren't his thing. Good to know.

  "Now," she said. Raising a shield of her own, she popped to her feet and raced down the sand dune.

  18

  More and more ice daggers descended, deluging the land. Gillian had to jump, dodge and dive to avoid slamming into each new obstacle, even as other ice daggers slammed into her shield and shattered into a million little pieces.

  Thankfully, the same thud, thud and clink, clink echoed from the shields that covered the roofs of the tents.

  Winter remained a few steps behind her, guarding her back.

  No wonder the Lords of the Underworld enjoyed their skirmishes. Protecting the people you loved was the greatest high. The second greatest? Knowing the warrior at your side or on your six would die for you, if necessary.

  Family. Acceptance. Support. Everything Gillian had ever wanted, delivered in a package she'd never expected.

  Adrenaline surged through her veins, supercharging her. Magic stirred, her runes glowing bright, soon becoming beacons in the night. That wouldn't do. Unleashing a whip of power, she caused grains of sand to rise and form a tornado around her and Winter.

  When she'd first learned about magic, she'd thought different types produced specific results. Like superspeed, or the ability to flash. Superhuman strength. Unnatural endurance. Breathing under water. Night vision. Telepathy. Atmokinesis. Omnilinguilism. Echolocation. Mind control. Intangibility. Self-camouflage. Poison generation. Telekinesis. Pyrokinesis. Psychokinesis. The ability to fly. But it hadn't taken long to realize magic was simply power, and the more you had, the more you could do.

  A certain amount of magic was needed to perform certain abilities. The more magic you used on those abilities, the less you could do, your power draining faster and faster. It was a vicious cycle.

  Sin Connacht seemed to be the sole exception. According to word on the dunes, he'd possessed three abilities since birth: superspeed, shapeshifting and night vision. Puck had superspeed, too, and he'd shapeshifted the day he'd brought her into Amaranthia. Could he also see in the dark, like his brother? What else could he do?

  She would have liked to--

  Focus, girl!

  She released a second whip of magic, increasing the speed of the tornado to create a type of force field. In the eye of the storm, she and Winter remained unaffected.

  Unfortunately, her magic meter already teetered on empty. Finding the right targets had become increasingly difficult as men learned of her hatred for anyone willing to commit crimes against women and children. They were no longer so vocal about their crimes, no longer bragging or publicly punishing the people under their "care."

  One day, Gillian hoped to find a way to self-power, so that her magic built and never drained, allowing her to tap into every supernatural ability.

  It was good to have dreams.

  As she raced onward, voices drifted from the tents.

  "--telling you, I saw him with my own eyes." Panic infused his tone.

  "What does he want?"

  Who was him/he?

  Rescue first. Gather info second.

  Information could be as valuable as magic.

  Because the tornado limited her vision, she had to use more magic to see past the wall of wind and sand and even tent flaps to peer inside the dwellings. Warriors cleaning weapons. Women cooking. Couples having sex. Arguing. Laughing.

  When her gaze skidded over Johanna, Gillian stopped and backtracked. Heart thudding against her ribs, she used hand signals to send Winter racing to the other side of the most luxurious tent in the entire camp, where she would wait for exactly two minutes.

  A countdown began in Gillian's head. Two minutes, or one hundred and twenty seconds. She took stock. A rusty cage occupied the center, and Johanna crouched inside. Mud caked her corkscrew curls and dirt streaked her dark skin. Her clothing--a leather top with thin metal links over her vital organs, and a pleated skirt--were tattered. She gripped the cage bars, her brown eyes narrowed, her lips compressed into a tight line.

  One minute left.

  Fury seethed in Gillian's chest. She remembered the day she'd met Johanna, hundreds of years ago. She'd heard rumors about a male who beat and abused his daughters, so she'd snuck into his home, intending to kill him and steal his magic.

  He'd had sweet little Johanna by the throat, choking the life from her.

  Gillian had erupted and choked the life out of him--like for like. At first, Johanna had feared her. Over time, as Gillian trained her to fight the same way she'd once been trained by Winter, they'd become friends. Family.

  No one hurts my family.

  Thirty seconds.

  Johanna's captor--the commander of the outpost--lounged on a mound of pillows, sharpening a blade. "Looks like we're going to have another night together." He laughed. "Perhaps the Dune Raider will show up tomorrow. Or not. Perhaps she's afraid of me and washed her hands of you."

  Fifteen.

  T
he taunts of a cruel man, nothing more. Deserves what's coming.

  Ten.

  As quietly and quickly as possible, Gillian cut a slit in the side of the tent.

  Five.

  Before he noticed the sudden icy breeze, she slipped inside. Now! Mind locking on a single thought--will do what I must, always--she tossed her shield, nailing him in the temple, and palmed a second dagger.

  With a bellow, he clamored to his feet, ready to punish her with his sword.

  What he didn't know? Winter had entered the tent from the other side, a bow raised, arrow cocked. Whoosh. The arrow sliced through his wrist. His hand spasmed, and he dropped the weapon.

  One step, two, then she was running. Winter tossed a shield in her direction. The second it hit the sand, directly in front of her, she dropped upon it, knees to metal. Her momentum sent her sliding across the sand--through the commander's legs.

  She slicked her blades across his inner thighs. Not enough damage. The second she was behind him, she hopped off the shield, twisted and stabbed the backs of his knees.

  He toppled, and released another bellow.

  Winter had already freed Johanna and now needed to make the final kill. Or at least an attempt; she wouldn't want to, would want her friend to take the magic she needed to heal, but she would be punished by Selfishness if she didn't try.

  Reflexes well-honed, Gillian tossed a blade at Johanna. The Shawazon general shouldered a grateful Winter out of the way, caught the weapon and crouched in front of the commander--who she then stabbed in the heart.

  Dark mist rose from his body, quickly enveloping Johanna. Savoring the influx of power, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back. The runes in her hands glowed, almost brighter than the sun.

  "Thank you." Healthy color bloomed in Johanna's cheeks. "Thank you so much."

  "Anytime," Gillian replied, and meant it.

  From her perch on the ground, Winter grumbled, "Just do us a favor and don't get captured next time."

  "I wish you'd given me such sage advice before I entered the camp and tried to steal a kiss from a handsome stranger," Johanna said with a salute. "Would have saved me a little light torture."

  Impatience intensifying, Gillian tugged Winter to her feet and grabbed the shield she'd discarded. "You guys ready to fight our way out?"

  Johanna claimed the dagger the commander had sharpened and blew him a kiss. "Mind if I borrow this? No? Thanks bunches."

  "Hey. I wanted his dagger," Winter said with a pout.

  "How about we take daggers and swords from his friends?" Gillian suggested. The beauty of compromise. "And let's not forget magic!"

  Smiles abounded as they raced out of the tent and into the still-raging storm. Soldiers were now rushing outside, shields raised. Amid the chaos and confusion caused by the storm, Gillian and company blended in with the growing crowd...and performed the perfect sneak attack.

  Girls against boys. Girls--killed--everyone.

  By the time the last soldier died, ice daggers had ceased falling. The tang of old pennies and emptied bowels tainted the air. Blood had turned the ground into a crimson sea of destruction.

  Magic rose from the corpses and wafted to the rightful recipients.

  Tendrils of strength flooded Gillian...but didn't heal her. Ugh. Despite her many kills, the men had been short on magic.

  "How many Walshes did you kill?" Winter asked.

  Breaths sawing in and out, Gillian cut a strip of cloth from a tent, wrapped her wound and replied, "Lost count. Sorry."

  "Wouldn't matter anyway," Johanna said. "I bet I beat you both. How old are you grannies, anyway?"

  "Ha-ha," Winter said.

  "Come on. Let's go home."

  Winter and Johanna trash-talked as they raced across the dunes. Gillian would have joined in, but she was too busy ignoring the aches and pains screaming for relief.

  By the time they crossed the Shawazon border, the suns were in the process of rising, lovely golden rays glowing in the purple-red sky and highlighting...no, surely not. Gillian blinked rapidly, certain she wasn't looking at a tall, muscular form with bronzed skin, and silver razors in his dark hair.

  Or maybe she...was? He was speaking to Rosaleen, his back to Gillian. His bare back. With a butterfly tattoo the color of shamrocks.

  Tension stole through her body--but so did a familiar current of heat. Gillian came to an abrupt stop. Not yet getting the memo, her heart continued to race, faster and faster.

  "Puck?"

  19

  A voice with the power to make him grow harder than steel. Hers. Puck spun so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. Frantic, he searched--there! Gillian Connacht stood at the crest of a sand dune, Winter and a woman he'd never met at her side. He noted the presence of the others absently, noted the dried blood and other things caked on all three females, as well. He knew he should wonder about the cause, and he would, just as soon as he stopped lusting like a lad with his first stable.

  Gillian had undergone significant changes. Immortality hadn't frozen her at eighteen years old, but had allowed her to age into her perfect self. Her hair was longer, a shade darker, and wavy. Her cheeks were thinner, her breasts larger--luscious. Rounded hips were magnificently displayed in what must have become the Amaranthian woman's uniform: a black leather halter-top and short pleated skirt, bound together by metal links to shield vital organs. The rest of her was stunningly toned. Runes now branded her hands, the glittering swirls a stunning enhancement, like permanent flesh-jewelry.

  He must have changed, as well, because what he'd felt for her before paled in comparison to what he felt for her now. Desire ruled him.

  Perhaps their bond had deepened over the centuries she'd lived. Perhaps her magic called to his. The urge to close the distance, yank her into his arms, to touch and taste, to brand, bombarded him, nearly irresistible.

  I will have what's mine. Want her. Badly. Must protect. Must keep.

  Ambition protested. Must give her back to William.

  She winced and clutched her side as she shifted from one booted foot to the other. A crimson-soaked cloth was wrapped around her torso from rib to hipbone.

  Someone had hurt her.

  Someone would die.

  Barely controlling his rage, he rushed across the distance. Gillian met him halfway. They stopped in unison, only a whisper separating their bodies--his thrummed with new tension, hers exuded feminine heat.

  She kept her gaze steady on his, so unlike the girl he used to know. The one who had looked away at the first opportunity.

  When he inhaled the sweet scent of poppiberries, he couldn't stop a moan. Nor could the men in her clan, men who'd halted what they were doing to watch her with palpable longing.

  Puck bowed up, ready for battle. If they did not turn away, they would die just as surely as "someone."

  They caught sight of him and turned away.

  Better. As Puck returned his focus to his wife, fascination and awareness charged the air, and the rest of the world faded. Erratic and wild, his pulse points drummed against his heating skin. Each beat spoke: Take. Her. Take. Her.

  Indifference erupted in a chorus of displeasure, but not even the fiend could distract Puck from the vision before him. "Gillian--"

  She punched him, rattling his brain against his skull.

  "Well. Hello to you, too," he said, rubbing his stinging cheek.

  Up went her chin. "That's for lying to me."

  "I'm--"

  She punched him again, splitting his lip.

  "--sorry," he finished, his ears ringing.

  "That's for breaking my finger." Punch. "That's for abandoning me in a strange land." Punch. "That's for returning three hundred years later than promised."

  He waited for the next blow, but she drew in a deep breath, exhaled and nodded, as if satisfied in a job well done.

  Lifting a brow, he said, "Finished?"

  "Yep. For now." She knit her brows. "Hey, why aren't I hurt, too?"

 
; He tapped the gold cuff still anchored to his wrist. "Excellent form and flawless technique, by the way. Winter and Cameron trained you well. Until you began to train them, of course."

  Pride brightening her features, she fluffed her hair. "Thank you." Then her cheeks bloomed a lovely shade of pink, making him want to reach out and touch. How hot did she burn? "You've already read my letters."

  "I have." He'd used magic to absorb every word written by both Gillian and Cameron. But no amount of magic could have curbed his surprise as the details had been unveiled.

  Gillian had built an orphanage for needy children and a shelter for abused females. She'd been courted by kings and princes--who would be executed when Puck united the clans. She'd learned to wield magic, had even killed for it.

  With each new letter, Puck had actually felt her grow and toughen. And when she'd mentioned her happiness? His heart had fluttered, something it had never done.

  She'd mentioned she had "Hulk-outs," and he'd almost smiled. Had his wee wife thrown a temper tantrum or two?

  The urge to smile had faded when he'd come upon the Oracles' prophecy. No happy ending.

  Even now, guilt welled. By bringing Gillian to Amaranthia, Puck had set her on a certain path. In essence, he'd doomed her, an innocent who'd experienced a tragic childhood. Because, even if he severed their bond right here, right now, he would do her no good. The prophecy had been spoken; it would come to pass, no matter how hard they tried to circumvent it.

  Hadn't Sin proved this?

  "So? Where's William?" Gillian asked.

  That name on her lips! Hate it! Puck wanted to grab her by the shoulders and press her against the hard line of his body. He would kiss her so deeply, he would erase memories of the male from her mind.

  Where's William, my sweet? He's dead, if you ask about him just one more time.

  Ridiculous thought. Merely a pipe dream.

  "The fool struck out on his own, hoping to track you down," he said, "even though he knows nothing about this realm or its inhabitants."

  "And you just let him go?" Her chiding tone set his nerves on edge.

  "Should I have tied him down?" Puck had searched the Shawazon camp instead, thinking Gillian might be hiding inside one of the homes. He'd found no sign of her but had found countless women sharpening swords, making repairs on different dwellings and practicing combat moves.