Hunted Warrior (11 page)

He held her possessively, but with something like respect. She'd never felt such a thing, so it was only a guess. An enticing guess.

“Do you like your name?” he asked, his voice so low and intimate.

“Very much.”

He smiled at her, broadly, brightly, which was nearly as shattering as the powers he could rip from the sky. “I'm glad.”

Enough of this . . . this . . . wiggling unease. She would wind up back in his arms, relishing his taste and his scent, wanting more than she was ready for. She ducked beneath his arm and walked out of the alley. Her knees were watery now, when they'd been steady and reliable facing off against three Pendray.

Full sunshine made her blink. She shielded her eyes, then set off to the north of the town. She angled a glance toward the hostel. “We'll stay there tonight.”

“A prediction?”

“Sometimes it just
is
, like now. That's the only public place to sleep in town.”

Avyi began to cross the barren street between the small whitewashed buildings. They must've looked like rats having crawled from a sewer, but perhaps the grime would cover the obvious—that, to humans, they may as well have been gods walking the earth.

CHAPTER

M
alnefoley stood in front of the small, age-clouded mirror in his room in the hostel. He angled his upper body to get a better look at the damage done to his shoulder. The light was poor because of the oncoming dusk and the claustrophobically tight walls. The close heat of the hostel room, with its window that opened but a scant few inches, and his injury meant he left his new shirt off.

He liked being able to inhale fresh early-evening air, rather than the lingering damp-dusty stench of a room that needed a fierce cleaning. He would've preferred sleeping out in the open once again, except for the temptation of the mattress. It lay on a hardwood floor that pierced splinters into his soles. He'd donned his shoes and a new pair of jeans just after bathing.

Jeans, too, were a compromise. He couldn't remember the last time he'd dressed so simply. All of the supplies he'd acquired for him and Avyi were of the barest necessity. She had stayed in the hostel—and kept their weapons out of sight—while he traded with locals for additional supplies. He hadn't asked her to accompany him, not after the out-of-character fear he'd seen in her eyes and in her, like an animal readying to flee. What was he to make of her story? Just another clever ruse from a woman who spoke in riddles and insinuations?

But no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape one fact. She had predicted that with his dying breath, he would whisper the name of his long-dead mistress. The future was not to be trusted. That she knew Pollakioh's name at all was beyond belief . . . but very, very real.

He gingerly touched the skin forming over his injury, his mind re-creating a host of sensations. The initial slice. The throbbing gush of blood. Avyi's fingers holding his in place. And finally, the electrical strike he'd managed despite his slip toward unconsciousness.

It could have been far worse.

He had every reason to be more cautious than before, but that was a matter of physical and mental alertness, which he could supply in abundance. His foreboding now was different and inexplicable, with Avyi at its heart.

He'd been called the Usurper for his entire reign as Giva. They whispered the moniker in his trailing wake and thought he couldn't hear, or didn't know. He knew. But he'd never thought the resulting suspicion and resentment might boil over toward thoughts of rebellion—let alone an actual attempt on his life. Somehow, he had to make contact with Nynn and the underground rebel faction. Maybe they could shed light on the reasons behind violence that would mean far more than his death.

He kicked off his shoes and flopped wearily onto the mattress, which offered so little padding that his skull sank through to the hardwood. Grousing, he tried to find a comfortable position for sleep. He had food in his belly, and had swallowed bottle after bottle of water. A sponge bath and a fresh change of clothes should've been enough. Just
sleep
. He needed it, although he couldn't afford to let down his guard for long. Neither could he let fatigue cloud is judgment.

In the end, he had no choice in the matter. Sleep refused.

With a frustrated sigh, he turned onto his back once again. The ceiling was covered with dingy paint that might've once been white, where condensation had bubbled its texture. A large crack exposed wires that dangled across one corner. He refrained from lighting the room, even as darkness settled inside its walls. He didn't need another brush with the temptation of electricity in his veins. It was a drug unlike any other. Ecstasy was in its release.

The unapologetic knock at his door could only be one person. She was a demon stalking him as surely as a shadow.

The room was so small that he could kneel at the foot of the mattress and flip the lock. Why he had locked it . . . beyond him. Humans wouldn't last long if they intruded. Dragon Kings would bust through. He had his sword at the ready to deal with them.

Avyi opened the door and entered as if he'd invited her to an official Council meeting. Her posture was no-nonsense. She sat on a rickety wooden chair, the room's only furniture other than a small wooden sink cabinet with a faucet that leaked.

“Who tried to kill you?” she asked.

Her lack of preamble was as surprising as it was refreshing, but it was no longer so off-putting. Politicians and even human beings could spend minutes, even hours, building up to the point. Mal was ready to keep up, if only because he knew her bluntness was a limited engagement. He doubted he would ever meet her like again.

The thought left a hollow in his chest he couldn't explain. Didn't want to explore.

“Apparently you should've been able to glean that from their severed heads.”

“You killed them too quickly.”

“I was trying not to die.”

She edged the chair toward a wall so she could lean back. She wore the same heavy boots. The sole of one was pierced. New pants made from tanned leather clung to her slim legs as if they'd been tailored to her petite frame. A simple black tank top did its part to accentuate her rough femininity by clinging to small breasts and revealing arms that were slender, gracefully shaped, and barely tinted by the Mediterranean sun.

She looked down at where he sat cross-legged on the mattress. He wanted to find his new shirt, but that would admit that her blatant appraisal of his body made him very aware of their contrasts. Man and woman. He was reacting to this strange, incredible woman in ways that made him edgy and . . .
more
. Needy. Eager. Perhaps it was simply intimacy. His sexual encounters were limited to brief affairs and the occasional lover, with whom he shared little but carnal exploration.

The Honorable Giva could share nothing more.

“So. Your enemies. Name them.”

Mal laughed. The sound was warped and painful to let loose, but he laughed anyway. “Who
isn't
my enemy? Name a Dragon King, and he or she has a reason to want me dead.”

“Avyi.”

“What?”

“A Dragon King who doesn't want you dead.”

Blinking against the gathering gloom, Mal lost track of the finer points of her features. Unacceptable. If he was going to have a conversation with Dr. Aster's Pet—a fact that didn't change because he'd given her a name—he would do so while being able to see each reaction and cue.

He snapped his fingers. Sparks of light appeared before the sound of the snap even registered. He tossed the sparks between his hands like a ball until the motion created a continuous arc of light. He threw the arc toward the ceiling, where it cast its glow throughout the room.

Avyi nodded toward a lamp on the floor in the far corner. “Why?”

“I wanted to show off.”

He kept saying things to her that were dangerous. Not because of the words themselves, but because he hadn't checked his thoughts before uttering them. They shot from his mouth without reservation. Was that due to fatigue or just . . . her?

“I'm impressed.” Her lips were curled into a smile as old as time. It was tempting and teasing, and frankly, he'd underestimated her ability to conjure such magic. “Now . . . think this through.”

“Avyi, this is pointless. There's no sense in racking our brains to identify which of hundreds of people, human and Dragon King, would benefit from my death, if only for their personal satisfaction. The trick is finding out how best to counter the next move.” He stood and stretched, his back already stiff from the few hours he'd spent trying fruitlessly to sleep. “I'll call on my bodyguards and espionage experts to increase security at the stronghold before we arrive.”

“The bodyguards who didn't notice my escape?”

Mal flinched.

“And the espionage experts who told you where to find me? Did I present a challenge for them?”

Fatigue was a nasty rat in his brain. He didn't have the patience to deal with Avyi, even when he was fully rested—although the last time he'd been fully rested, he'd impaled her with a bolt of lightning. “No, you didn't. So if not my men, what do you suggest?”

“We don't hide, at least not from Dragon Kings. We wait for the next people who try to kill you. And we ask them. Unless you kill them first.” She slanted her eyes in an expression of unmistakable humor. She
was
teasing him. He hadn't been teased so playfully, so innocently, in longer than he could remember. The Council didn't tease; they jabbed knives.

“I'll refrain if at all possible,” he said, smirking.

“Plain sight will draw them out, and will have the advantage of showing the Council you're not afraid.” She pulled her boots up to the seat of the chair and wrapped her arms around her shins. Mal hadn't thought her able to assume a tighter, more defensive position than her signature crouch, but she managed. This new pose struck him as so defensive as to border on vulnerable, as though she were a child crouched in the corner of a train station.

“And unpredictable.”

“You're catching on.”

“Miracles never cease.”

“I wouldn't have thought you one to believe in miracles.”

“It's just an expression.”

She tipped her head. “Born of a kernel of truth.”

He closed the scant distance between them and, on impulse, touched her black-on-black hair. The light he'd created still glowed overhead. He needed to feel the texture of such a wondrous feature. She was scrubbed clean, smelling of soap, water, and woman. Her hair remained in untamed spikes, pinned back from her face without care. Mal traced his fingers over a lock that brushed her cheek. It was far softer than he'd imagined, much like the woman herself.

She looked away.

“You deserve to be admired,” he said, surprising himself. “I can't trust you, but you're one of the most resilient people I've ever met.”

“Stop. Please.”

“No. Uncurl for me.”

“What?”

“I'm not asking you to take your clothes off.” His temper shot to life for reasons that he couldn't deny or ignore any longer. He wanted this woman to feel comfortable enough around him to quit behaving as if he'd beat her at any moment.

Hypocrite.

He'd just about leveled her with the blast of his gift. He had kissed her with so much force that she'd practically jumped clear of him. She had every reason to believe he could still do her harm. What she couldn't know was that his thoughts, his emotions, were beginning to change. Dragon Kings knew it would be simpler if they didn't, but he was
feeling
. A Giva didn't feel. He remained impartial and made impartial judgments. He recruited soldiers of good repute to infiltrate the cartels and work toward bringing them down from the inside. He fought the Council's recalcitrance and stubborn negativity, their petty infighting.