Hunted Warrior (8 page)

She still didn't. Those Pendray . . .

And not even a flicker of warning. She'd known she would find half of Cadmin's weapon, but three cartel Pendray attacking them out of nowhere? Why hadn't her gift seen fit to share that important detail?

Although the night was sultry and scented with the salt of the distant sea, she was unnerved. They reached the rock shelter and settled into a craggy inlet. Being so near to him once again only renewed her awareness of the kiss they had unexpectedly shared in the maze. She was as curious for more as she was scared of the possibilities. They had a long way to go between her first kiss and her first time lying with a man.

They both slumped heavily against the rock. She was bone-tired, and knew Malnefoley would be equally tested. The quiver and the sword looked . . .
right
together, side by side on the gravelly ground. Avyi shivered, then began unpacking her cache of supplies. They ate and drank until the silence and her questions got the better of her.

“What if I'm wrong again?”

The words made more sense and didn't hurt as much when she gave them voice. When spoken, they sat in one straight line. A single sentence. In her brain, they circled like the electrical storm Malnefoley had conjured.

“Wrong?” His rough, low voice was voice eloquent, but it was deep and dripping with authority.

“They wanted to kill you. You're the Giva. That could mean it was political. Or it could mean a thousand other possibilities. Too many variables. That's why being around you is such a chore.”

“Then you can continue not liking me back in Greece.”

“You really don't understand. I won't be going back to Greece. Period. I have more important and frankly more dangerous tasks ahead of me.” She grinned in the darkness. “Be it on your head if I die trying. You named me. If I die, I'll come back to haunt you.”

“I'm not Garnis.”

“You know how connected the Five Clans are, underneath it all. Just because you're not Garnis doesn't mean their curses and superstitions stop with their bloodlines.”

Avyi exhaled heavily. If the Giva made a move, she would indeed wind up back in the Tigony stronghold. She wouldn't let that happen. She had to trust in her vision of their fate, that it simply wouldn't happen. They had only just come to know each other, barely, but they were inexorably linked as future lovers.

More than that, she hoped they would become allies. She shivered when she thought of facing so many important choices on her own.

“All the myths are true, Malnefoley.”

She looked skyward and picked out stars. So many had been named by those who'd worshiped the Tigony. Hercules and Orion, Cassiopeia and Draco—their vision of the Great Dragon. She smiled to herself. The Tigony were known as the Tricksters, having deeply ingratiated themselves into the human population, until Greeks and Romans had become the envy of history—and of the other four sacred clans.

The Tigony had bested rival Dragon Kings by coming into a position of dynastic power when Pythagoras decoded the universe based on mathematics, when Gutenberg invented the printing press, when Fleming discovered penicillin. They had a reputation for preferring talk to action, which was ironic considering the bellicose nature of the Greco-Roman traditions: the velvet fist.

But they were just as wrong about the visage of the Great Dragon as every other clan.

What was once will happen again.

Her eyes grew heavy. She hadn't been so close to a man since her imprisonment with Dr. Aster. This was so different as to be one of those distant stars.

“They wanted you dead.” She inhaled deeply. The blood he'd shed was the most prominent odor, but she would've needed to be born without a nose to miss his underlying masculine scent.
Malnefoley
. He wasn't clean and coated in fragrance—Dr. Aster's preference. No, this was the life-affirming musk of a man who had fought and conquered, the hallmark of warriors from the beginning of time. “Unfortunately, you killed them.”

“Sorry.” She could hear his smile—cruel and funny at the same time. The funny was new.

“But not all was lost. The head of the biggest man gave me a clue.”

“The head? I thought you were performing funeral rites.”

“I was searching what was left in their synapses. All I saw was the great dome atop the cathedral in Florence.”

“Italy?”

“Don't be dense,” she said. “That's not why you get to wear the fancy robes. Yes, Italy.

“It matches what I've seen before, a man beneath the dome of the Florence Cathedral. I didn't know it was you when I first glimpsed that image. That Pendray made it clear. Now I think the bow is there, and possibly more people associated with the plot against you.” She inhaled and let the air out slowly. “That's how I see it.”

“And that makes perfect sense to you.” His mocking tone irritated her, as if she were a cat with its fur being petted backward.

“Yes. So you have two choices. Take me back to Greece, where I'm useless and you'll learn nothing about another assassination attempt until they come for you, or travel with me to Florence and find answers.”

“What about variables?”

“They've narrowed. But I don't want to miss another surprise attack.”

“Being wrong again frustrates the hell out of you, doesn't it?” The note of sympathy in his voice was new. From the Giva, she didn't know how to interpret it.

“Being wrong makes for a poor soothsayer.”

“Another joke?”

“I'm trying.”

“Why?

Avyi hesitated. “Because you like them.”

In the darkness, Malnefoley closed his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. Maybe it was the struggle of the day and the weight of her responsibilities, but tears pricked behind her eyes. She hadn't been touched with such kind regard in . . . No, her memory wasn't that good. She couldn't remember a time. Their kiss had been combustion. This was comfort.

She accepted his strange attempt at comfort with a twitch of her fingers around his. It was lovely. But the last thing she needed was the impulse to please another man and seek his approval. Cadmin needed her, wherever she was and whatever she would do. That was what had pulled the woman named the Pet to Crete, digging among rocks and shale to find a quiver of arrows. Her mission remained clear, no matter that she was inexorably linked to the Honorable Giva who held her hand.

CHAPTER

M
al awakened with a headache, a feeling of suffocation, and the Pet—no, Avyi—curled away from him. She was practically fetal, in a tight ball. She defended herself even in sleep.

He blinked against the rays of eastern sun beginning to creep over his face, Helios making his arc across the sky.

The old myths were called myths for a reason. Dragon damn, Mal
had
to believe in coincidences. Otherwise the last twenty-four hours would mean something greater than merely finding Avyi, finding those arrows, and finding his shoulder nearly hacked off.

They could've journeyed beyond the rock outcrop shielded by scrubby juniper bushes, but it had seemed like a welcoming inn. Avyi hadn't consulted him; she had simply made a pronouncement. He couldn't remember a time when decisions weren't made without contentious arguments where he eventually put his foot down, like a parent settling a score between squabbling children.

Avyi was definitely no child. She had such a strong mind of her own that he could barely reconcile her with the subservient Pet of the Asters' infamy. He'd only seen her once before the liberation that had freed his cousin and other Aster warriors from the Cages—and patients from the labs. The Pet had been dressed in skintight black latex, collared with leather and spikes, and led around by Aster by the will of his voice alone. Sometimes she'd squatted by the man's feet, holding his thigh, looking out from behind well-tailored slacks with those unreadable eyes, as if hiding . . . as if waiting . . .

Avyi, by contrast, was so changed as to be an entirely different woman.

Now, his body was tense. His mouth was parched. He tried to shift without waking her. A lance of fire shot from his shoulder to his forearm and back up again. But the effect was not so crippling as it had been. The Dragon's brilliant gift of quick physical recovery from injury was much appreciated. He could feel his left extremities, the subtle warmth of the sunrise, and how the rocks jabbed into his back in several places. He hadn't cared the night before, when the pain had burned to a crescendo.

As he sat up, dizziness smoked the vision at the corners of his eyes, replacing bright sun and bleached plains with a cloying gray mist.

After he took a deep drink of the water from Avyi's hidden supplies, he stilled and looked at the sun. He was unwilling but unable to deny that he was wavering. In no way did he believe her predictions, but there was a certain logic to being unpredictable. For the moment, at least, he had no doubt that she would stay with him willingly. If going to Florence turned out to be a wild-goose chase, he could always take her back to the Tigony stronghold.

And then there was his intention to pick up where their kiss left off. She excited him as few women ever had, which meant desire propelled his decision as strongly as any twist of logic. It wasn't responsible, and it wasn't something he needed to do, but he was actively pursuing a woman for the sole purpose of seeking pleasure.

He itched where she had used her belt to secure the makeshift bandages. The blood had dried. He was in desperate need of a bath—and a shirt. The sunshine on his chest and stomach made him potently aware of his bare vulnerability . . . and his awareness of Avyi lying so close. What would she do if he touched her? Jump out of her skin?

He wondered if there would ever come a time when she didn't flinch from touches she didn't initiate. Maybe she was too damaged for that to ever come to pass.

He reached up to peel back the maddening bandages but found his hands stilled in mid-motion.

“No.”

She had turned and sat up without his notice. Was she made of smoke? Of liquid? No sound and no form. Except he'd felt her slight weight across his stomach when she'd straddled him. Her fingers had guided his into place. Her forehead had pressed against his, grounding him when pain and, yes, panic had threatened to warp his mastery over his gift. She'd helped him maintain control when that was something he took pride in keeping very much within his own grasp. He didn't know if he should be thankful for her assistance, or resentful that he'd needed it at all.

Both.

He remembered all of that like he remembered the rebellious tumble of her hair and her challenging defiance and the kiss that had changed the entire timbre of their time together. She spoke to him without words on such a deep, primal level.

“Not yet,” she said. The pressure of her hand against his, where he held the belt buckle, brooked no argument. He frowned. She needed to use more force this time. The long, slender muscles of her forearms strained to keep him from his task. “I'll check, but we'll need to replace the same bandage and find new ones if the bleeding starts again.”

“Out of bandages?” He eyed her with a mix of surprise and amusement. “I already sacrificed my shirt. Turnabout's fair play.”

“I'm not stripping,” she said bluntly.

“You had no problem stripping me.”

“Next time, if you'd rather bleed like a butchered animal, I'll refrain from touching your precious clothing.”

“So you foresee a next time?” Mal tried, but he couldn't help but smile. She was probably going to hit him—and part of him relished the chance to tussle with this frustrating woman. That didn't matter. He simply could not believe her talk about futures and prophecies.

“If you mock me again, I'll inflict the wound myself.”

“I have a Dragon-forged sword.”

She shook her head. “Don't make empty threats, Giva. It's unbefitting. You can't kill me and you know it. In fact, you're so curious, against your will, even, that you didn't bring reinforcements. You probably don't have any in waiting. Are you so arrogant, or are you so determined to find me compelling?”