Hunted Warrior (5 page)

“Then your spies aren't worth what you're paying them.” She backed away from him. “
I
can find out. But only after we find Cadmin's weapon.
Some
weapon. She'll need it.”

“Why?”

“She's eighteen now, and a Cage warrior. The upcoming Grievance will be her first . . . and it will be the last ever held.”

CHAPTER

T
he last one,” Mal said, unable to keep the incredulity from his reply. Incredulity—and maybe hope. If the rebels succeeded in their underground war against the cartels . . . But no, he couldn't start buying into the Pet's mad prophecies. She would say anything to keep from returning to Greece as his captive. “Grievances have been held for a thousand generations.”

“By
our
people. The Five Clans. The Pendray stormed down from the Highlands to fight your Tigony followers for control of Europe. The Sath slinked off the African deserts to use secrets like weapons, while the Garnis appeared seemingly out of nowhere to prove they were not extinct. And the Northern and Southern Indranan proved to be as fractured as ever.” Her voice was rich with passion. “The Grievances held purpose to leech bad blood and keep the Dragon Kings sound as a species, no matter our differences. They've only been co-opted by the cartels over the last fifty years. Old Man Aster is very good at using tradition against us.”

“And this girl has to do with it how?”

“Fighting,” she said. That's all I know.”

“More variables?”

The Pet shook her head. “No. The fighting is a fixed point. How it happens is a mystery.”

“But it involves you and me being here?”

“You? I couldn't say yet. Me, however—yes.”

She shrugged free of his hold and continued her careful trudge through the maze. The sun continued its slow slope toward the western horizon. The deepening gold and pink cast color over her skin and clothing, but her black, black hair absorbed the light. It was a tangle of spikes and twists that could've been intentional, or a testament to some wild disregard for the outside world. Aside from her ability to fight, she seemed to live exclusively in a make-believe place in her mind.

Mal experienced a sudden flash of regret. He should've been at the Greek fortress to spend more time with her, to learn more about her. The Council had occupied his time, as had the bloody resurgence of the civil war between the northern and southern factions of Clan Indranan across the Indian subcontinent. Rumor had it that his late aunt's brother-in-law, Tallis, the Heretic, was involved in the explosion of new violence. Mal needed to get back to civilization in order to deal with problems that could wipe out the Dragon Kings even faster than watching each generation wither and flake away.

But now, the Pet had quickly rocketed to the top of his list of priorities.

“We're not going to make it to the nearest village before sundown,” he said.

Her back was straight, but the furtive way she moved made her seem on the defensive. Although she stood at her full yet diminutive height, she gave off the appearance of crouching and readying for attack, that appearance of crouching and making herself seem smaller. Had life with Dr. Aster developed that means of self-defense?

Why did that idea twist in his chest? She was powerful. She was formidable. Yet, how many years had she spent watching and waiting for the next blow?

“I won't be heading into a village.” She turned a corner, then another, and another in quick succession.

Mal could still see her head, but the path to follow was quickly lost to him. He had to double back when a dead end barred his way. He balled his fists, ready to punch solid rock. Had he wanted to, he could use his gift to disintegrate the walls into smoldering, charred heaps, but the Pet had reason to be there. Hauling her back to Tigony lands would be more difficult if he intentionally pissed her off—no matter her insane claims. Humoring her might be the better course until he was given no other option.

Some excited noise, or the closest to it the Pet was likely capable of, drew his attention. She must've ducked low, because he could no longer see her.

This damn maze
.

“Over here,” she called.

Eventually he was able to follow the sound of her voice and meet her at yet another dead end. “Tell me you've given up.”

“No need. I found it.”

From under a cover of rock and chalky dust, she pulled a slender quiver made of boiled leather. From the Dark Ages? Even older? A shiver worked up from the small of his back. The Pet pulled out an arrow. A flash of dying sunlight caught on what must've been gold. The dull, yellowed light glinted across her face in quick patterns. Her eyes were large and her mouth was tiny, but both features became more exaggerated as she examined the arrow. Eyes wider. Lips slack with apparent awe.

Mal crouched beside her. She edged away—from what seemed to be habit, not enough to put real distance between them. “May I?”

“Yes.”

He shot her a sideways glance. “So willingly?”

“Because there are four more. I'd get this one back if you forced me to it.”

“No more forcing for now.” He extended his hand, catching sight of the dried blood on the forearm of his dress shirt. It was dark brown in the gathering shadows. What had made him trust that she wouldn't slice his wrist? What made him feel this affinity to be with her?

Fate.

The word was unwanted. It was heinous. Fate meant he had been intended to arrive at that moment, at that time, with this woman, despite every choice he'd ever made. That might've been a comfort when thinking of Bakkhos—that he hadn't been responsible for his actions there—but it also meant that he'd been fated to act as judge, jury, and executioner without any say. Why force that responsibility on him? Or burden him with the title of Giva? Surely there were more violent criminals to do the dirty work and more stable, sensible men suited for leadership.

He took the arrow. It was light . . . so very light. “Feathers hold more heft. How is this supposed to fire from a bow, let alone serve as a weapon?”

“I already said. Magic.” For the first time, the Pet's voice sounded almost teasing. “But you don't believe in magic. Assume it's useless and give it back.”

Yet Mal was entranced. Twenty-four-karat gold was too soft for crafting jewelry because it was relatively malleable. He would've been surprised had the arrow been made of anything less valuable. The gold was deep and lustrous, its orange-bronze gleam too dull to be considered attractive.

He held something unearthly. And this woman, this inexplicable woman, had known it would be among some forgotten ruins in Crete—the apparent ruins of a prison. Unbelievable, even when his senses couldn't deny the arrow in his hands. Its strangeness. Its great age and fascinating sense of purpose.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Look.”

Mal studied her profile first. The tip of her tiny nose turned up. Her upper lip was full at its apex. She had wide cheekbones and small ears. The upward sweep of haphazardly pinned hair revealed a graceful neck and a hint of delicate collarbones. She still wore the brass knuckles on her right hand. Softness and deadly skill. He was disturbed by his fascination, which was as unwanted as any thought of fate.

He hadn't noticed a woman the way he noticed her in . . . He couldn't recall a more visceral, compelling attraction.

“What?” His question was gruff. Had he spoken that way before the Council, the two representatives from each clan would've known a barb had struck home, or a protest had been met with his frustration. It was another rarity he shared with only the Pet.

“This mark.” She tipped another arrow into the light. “What does it look like to you?”

Mal examined it more closely. Shining in the last of the light was an engraving. “The Pendray representation of the Great Dragon,” he said, the hairs on his forearms prickling.

“Exactly. An Earth Mother. Fat and fertile. Yet winged with a tail. Breathing fire.”

Examining the arrow in his hand, Mal found another engraving. “This one's Garnis. Thin and long, like the Chinese interpretation.”

Sure enough, each of the arrows was marked with a clan's differing vision. Somewhere throughout the centuries, the idea of Great Dragon—their creator, their mother and father combined into one—had splintered until no clan could agree on its true likeness. They could find less vital topics to bicker about on any given day, but the image of the Dragon brought out fierce tempers. The most level-headed of their kind still mustered loyalties enough to argue the point.

“Which do you believe?” he asked. “Since you're so intent on believing in myths and superstitions.”

“None of them are real, so it would be a waste of breath.”

He handed the arrow back and watched as the Pet reverently returned it to the unassuming quiver. “None of them are real?”

“We split into five pieces. Do you think any one clan got it right?” She stood and shouldered the quiver. It looked good across her back, the weapon of a fey creature from another era. “I'm done here.”

“Then you're ready to return to Greece?”

“I'd rather resume—”

Her answer was cut short by the sound of footsteps. She dropped low against the wall. Mal turned—just in time to avoid the downward arc of a huge, glittering sword.

*  *  *

The Pet hadn't known she could move so quickly. Just because she had been raised by a Garnis family, with their superhuman reflexes and animalistic senses, didn't mean she was blessed with their special skills. Her instincts said that didn't matter. Three Pendray wearing the collars of Cage warriors leapt over the wall in the throes of berserker rages.

She jumped almost straight up, landing in a crouched balance on the top of a wall. A sharp spike of glassy rock pierced the sole of her boot. Malnefoley had fallen backward, scrambling crablike away from his attackers. Had he not reacted so quickly, he would be dead—his head severed forever from his body. The glittering metal meant the Pendray wielded a Dragon-forged sword. Its metal had been honed in the fires of the Chasm. Decapitation by such a weapon was the only way to kill a Dragon King.

The Pet jumped off the wall and onto the back of one of the Pendray. With her knees on his shoulders, she clamped her thighs and squeezed. His rage was so intense that he resembled an angered wolf, spinning and snarling. He flailed back with his arms, trying to dislodge her. She wrapped her forearm around his eyes. His bellows were more powerful than an animal's howls, like a bear ready to swallow her whole. She used her brass knuckles to repeatedly punch his temple. He staggered, then caught her around the waist and flipped her onto the ground.

She landed on her side. The wind gusted out of her lungs. She reached behind her back and grabbed one of the seemingly fragile arrows.

The Pet exhaled and strove for calm. If the arrows were strong enough to serve as Cadmin's weapons in a Grievance, surely they would protect her.

Trust.

Belief.

The Pendray man leapt down to straddle her, with his fists raised to pummel her head against the rocks. With all her strength, she held the shaft straight up. His descending body did the rest. The tip of the arrow pierced his right lung. He screamed and landed a solid punch to her gut before rolling away in agony. Still winded, her stomach clenching in pain, the Pet jerked the arrow from her enemy. Blood flowed in its absence.

Goose bumps flared across her skin in the now-familiar feeling of an oncoming storm—not one made by nature, but forged by a very angry, very powerful Tigony man. She turned toward the force pulsing at her back, powerless to do anything else.

All around the Honorable Giva, sparks of frenetic electricity gathered and intensified. The color of his eyes deepened to a blue that was almost black, and blazed with an otherworldly glow. He made for a ghastly, primal sight, with blood from his torn shoulder soaking the sleeve of his shirt. He was a warrior in the midst of battle. He was wounded, but not on the defensive—not when he was master of one of the greatest of the Dragon's gifts.