Warlord pushed her away.
She grabbed him by the front of his thin T-shirt and pulled him back. She kissed him hard, branding him with her taste. ‘‘Be safe yourself. Fight well.’’ Turning, she sprinted down the hill . . . leaving her love behind.
Hell of a time to decide that.
‘‘A cliff,’’ she muttered. ‘‘Good thinking, Warlord.’’ Of course, from a purely strategic point of view, it
was
good thinking.
She could see the long stretch of ground ahead, dotted with giant incense cedars, then the break in the earth where the cliff fell away. If she and Warlord reached the bottom first, as Innokenti and his men came over the cliff they could pick them off. But Warlord wasn’t with her, the bottom was a long way down, and how did he think she was going to rappel when the only time she’d ever rappelled was when her father had forced her into a harness and flung her bodily off a training wall. She walked faster, her gaze on the edge of that cliff. If she concentrated very hard on the memory of Jackson Sonnet yelling at her, ‘‘Get your ass over, Karen!’’ that might get her in position—
A man stepped out from behind a tree and in front of her.
A Varinski.
She recognized him by his height, his strength . . . the red glow deep in his eyes.
In one smooth motion she brought her pistol out of her holster.
He put his hands up. ‘‘I’m Rurik!’’
She didn’t lower the pistol.
‘‘Rurik Wilder.’’
‘‘You might be.’’ Because he looked a little like Warlord, but with brown hair.
‘‘Did he tell you about me?’’ The red glow faded a little, and the guy who called himself Rurik tried to look meek.
It didn’t work.
‘‘He told me about you.’’ This guy was dressed for combat, too, in a minimum of clothing.
‘‘Jasha’s going to help Adrik.’’
Up the hill she heard a shot, then the shriek of a bird as it spiraled downward.
The supposed brother tensed, and the red glow intensified.
‘‘Why aren’t you helping Adrik?’’ she asked coldly.
‘‘Because Jasha put me here to help you.’’
‘‘You
are
Adrik’s brother.’’ She put her pistol away.
‘‘Yeah.’’ He frowned. ‘‘What convinced you?’’
‘‘You think I’m a girl, and you want to protect me. Instead, why don’t you give me some credit? Go help your brothers.’’
‘‘You sound like my wife,’’ he said in shock.
‘‘She must be a remarkable woman.’’
‘‘That’s one way to describe her,’’ he mumbled.
She started downhill.
When she looked back he was gone.
She ran the last steps to the top of the cliff, ran so quickly she almost skidded off—which would have solved the problem of protecting her, for the cliff was seventy-five feet high, with great boulders at the base. Solved the problem, yes, but would have ruined her day.
Behind her, she heard another shot, a human scream, and the deep-throated howl of a wolf.
Stupid to know that battle was joined, that her man and his brothers were fighting for their lives, and hers, and yet her mouth was dry and her hands shook as she hooked herself into the harness and fastened the rope to a tree.
Shouldn’t the bright, new, shiny fears trump the old, silly, worthless fears?
In the logical part of her mind, she noted that the cliff was sheer granite, with almost no handholds and no way to save herself if she fell. Which was ridiculous, because she had tested the rope. She hoped she managed to keep her eyes open long enough to find the cave. As she inched her way over the edge of the cliff—
‘‘Go! Go! Go!’’ She heard Warlord yelling, and looked up to see him racing toward her. ‘‘Jasha and Rurik are holding them, but Innokenti split the group. They’ve found a way down. We’re surrounded!’’ He climbed into the harness and fastened his rope to a rock. ‘‘I’m your defense in the cave.’’
She found she was over the edge, in the L shape, her feet firmly planted on the cliff face. She launched herself with a jump, let the rope play out, launched herself again. Her heart thrummed frantically. Her hands sweated. But she could do this. She could definitely do this. ‘‘I’m fine,’’ she yelled. ‘‘Hurry!’’
Below them someone gave a deep, ululating war cry. The hair rose on the back of her head.
Her hand slipped. She froze. She looked down. Five Varinskis swarmed out of the woods.
One had a face like a Neanderthal, a body like a tank, and wore machine bolts for earrings. He looked up at her—and grinned.
Innokenti.
Midair, Warlord passed her, speeding down the rope face-first, shooting with cool marksmanship.
No way would she let him be braver than she was; perhaps Jackson Sonnet wasn’t really her father, but he’d imbued her with his competitive spirit. She leaped as hard as she could.
At the top of the cliff she heard shots, doglike growls, and the sounds of battle.
Below, Innokenti gestured to his men. They spread out.
One took wing as an eagle.
Innokenti staggered back as one of Warlord’s bullets hit him in the chest, then straightened again.
Kevlar vest, she thought, and hoped it was true.
He took up a position, legs braced. He lifted his pistol, took aim, and shot.
Warlord collapsed. Began to fall. Brought himself up. Collapsed again. Blood covered his forearm, and he struggled to control his descent.
Infuriated, Karen screamed like a banshee. ‘‘Asshole. Innokenti, you asshole!’’
Warlord struggled to stay in place.
She leaped toward him. Realized the futility. Vaulted toward the cave.
She was rappelling like a pro.
Below her Innokenti laughed, great, booming roars of amusement.
Hail struck her face. No, not hail—bullets riddled the cliff around her, and rock chips blasted her.
‘‘Hang on,’’ she screamed at Warlord.
She jumped hard enough to land in the cave. Stripped off her coat. Freed her pistol. Stepped out on the ledge.
Warlord struggled with the ropes. If he lost tension, he would fall right into Innokenti’s arms.
Innokenti aimed at Warlord.
The eagle dive-bombed toward her, cruel eyes fixed, talons out.
She looked down the sights at Innokenti. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
And a blast blew the bird out of the air.
Feathers flew. The eagle screamed in pain and rage.
Jackson Sonnet stepped out of the forest below, a .30-06 rifle against his shoulder. ‘‘Take that!’’ he shouted. ‘‘No one’s going to hurt my goddamn daughter.’’
Innokenti fell, blood pumping from the wound.
The wolf pack charged Jackson.
‘‘Daddy!’’ Karen screamed.
Jackson shot one, smacked another in the head with the butt of his gun, and as he fell beneath the onslaught, she saw his hunting knife flash.
The animals squealed, not dead—impossible, for Jackson might be an old son of a bitch, but he wasn’t a demon. But he’d hurt them.
She was so proud of him.
Flinging herself flat on the floor of the cave, she crawled to the edge and positioned herself for the best angle. She shot a cougar as it turned toward Jackson, then shot another that pranced beneath Warlord’s ropes, shaking them like a boy shook an apple tree. She shot one bullet after another, and did as Warlord had instructed—she made each one count. She emptied the pistol, and as she thrust more bullets into the clip she looked for Warlord.
He hung there like a target.
Blood covered his arm. Using one hand he descended a few feet, shot at the beasts below, descended again.
She
had
to give him the time to get to the ground. She
had
to keep the Varinskis at bay. Nothing she had ever done in her life was as important as that.
Her fingers shook, and she counted each bullet as she pressed it in place. Five, six, seven . . . She heard a roar from below, and glanced up.
Innokenti was on his feet, weaving back and forth. He looked around his battlefield.
His victory was slipping from his grasp.
Angry color flooded his face. He fixed his gaze on Warlord, grinned evilly, and strode toward the cliff to wait.
Karen didn’t have time to load her weapon.
She refused to watch helplessly.
Grabbing the dangling rope, she kicked off, and from a height of twenty-five feet—more than a two-story building—she flung herself at Innokenti.
Maybe the Varinski blood in her made her stronger than ever in her life.
Maybe she was secretly a ninja warrior.
Maybe it was the strength of her love for Warlord.
She didn’t know. She knew only that when she slammed onto Innokenti’s shoulders, every bone in her body crunched, but the impact knocked him flat on his face. And she was still alive and fighting.
As he lifted his head, she smashed her gold-clad wrists against his ears. The bracelets clanged against his bolt earrings.
His head dropped again. He shook it like a dog shaking off water.
With a haste born of desperation, she wrapped the length of the rope around his neck and twisted.
Warlord was going to make it. He would be okay now.
But she . . . she was in trouble.
Beneath her, Innokenti’s massive body bucked like a maddened bull. He choked. He gagged. He gasped for air.
But his Varinski blood was pure.
Inexorably he rose. He reached over his head. As she rode his shoulders, he grabbed her thighs, lifted her high, and flung her as hard as he could.
As Warlord landed, feet on the battlefield, he heard a cry of pain.
A Varinski fell from the top of the cliff and splattered on the rocks. Up above, his brothers were fighting, and winning at least one victory.
He glanced back toward Karen, but she was gone. Innokenti stood, flexing his fists, looking dazed and chagrined.
Warlord had never imagined a woman could fight like that, like an Amazon, tackling Innokenti from such a height. He’d bet Innokenti had never imagined it, either.
She had just kicked Innokenti’s ass.
Now somehow she’d freed herself and fled.
Smart girl. Smart Karen.
Warlord’s arm was broken, the bone shattered by Innokenti’s bullet.
So what? Now it was
his
turn to fight.
He faced a charging cougar.
The cougar bowled him over, straddled him—and while Warlord was on the bottom, he cut out the cougar’s heart with his knife.
While the creature became human, while it twitched, while the last of its blood drained away, he called, ‘‘Innokenti.’’
The big bastard insolently looked him over, noting the blade and the blood. ‘‘Little man, this time I will kill you.’’
‘‘You should have done it when you had me in chains.’’ Warlord leaped at Innokenti, and as he did he changed. The sleek black panther struck Innokenti full in the chest, knocking him backward, landing with all his weight.
Innokenti began his change, transforming himself into a panther, large, strong, sleek, spotted.
But he wasn’t quick enough. While he was caught in the stage between man and big cat, Warlord ripped out his eye with one swipe of his claws.
For Magnus.
Innokenti shrieked with rage and agony.
Now the battle was even; Warlord’s arm was shattered, but Innokenti was blind on one side.
Warlord struck again, aiming at his throat.
Innokenti jerked back, but barely in time.
His sharp white teeth snapped at Warlord’s chest.
Warlord lowered his head and smashed it into the bleeding wound that was Innokenti’s face.
Innokenti shrieked again, and clawed at Warlord’s ear.
Warlord felt the pull, heard the flesh rip, knew it hurt . . . but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel the pain of his arm. He knew only one thing.
Innokenti did feel the pain. Innokenti was stunned by his wounds. Innokenti had never suffered defeat of any kind . . . and this glimpse scared and crippled him.
Warlord attacked, and attacked again.
Innokenti whirled and roared, ripping at Warlord’s arms, his belly. But Innokenti was on the defensive, always on the defensive.
Blood coated the ground beneath them, the smell of it inciting Warlord’s fighting instinct. Over and over he took pieces of meat off the giant cat that was Innokenti.
Then . . . the moment he’d been waiting for.
Weakened and in pain, for one betraying second Innokenti lost his panther form. He became a man.
And Warlord ripped his throat out.
For Karen.
He gave a roar of triumph. He burned with glory. He was a panther. He was mighty. He had defeated Innokenti. He had
won
.
He looked around for other battles to fight.
There were no more.
There should have been celebration, yet it was silent. So silent.
The Varinskis were fleeing, limping, crawling into the trees.
He spotted his brothers, both of them. They were alive. They’d made it down the cliff and stood at the base, looking down at one of the bodies.
Jackson Sonnet—Warlord recognized him from his picture on the Internet—stood there, too, scratched and covered with blood, apparently hale and hearty, but frozen in place.
No one was talking. No one was moving. This wasn’t right.
He walked toward them. He glimpsed the slight, still figure crumpled against the cliff.
Not a Varinski. That was not a Varinski.
No. Oh, no.
Triumph turned to ashes.
Warlord ran, and as he ran he changed. He was human once more. Blood covered him— Innokenti’s, his own—but true to his heritage, he was already healing.
When Warlord reached Karen, Jasha caught his shoulder. ‘‘Careful. He threw her against the rocks. She’s hurt. She’s so—’’
Warlord struggled free. He flung himself on his knees in the snow beside her.
She was alive. She was still alive. But . . .
‘‘No.’’
He ran his hands lightly over her face.
Her complexion was ashen, her lips blue. She struggled to breathe. Yet at the sight of him she smiled a glorious smile. ‘‘You . . . killed him.’’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘‘Yes. Karen . . .’’ She had suffered internal injuries. Horrible internal injuries. He didn’t dare move her.
‘‘Trusted . . . you. Knew . . . you would.’’ She lifted her hand.
Good.
She wasn’t paralyzed. That was a good sign.
He took her hand. Cold. Not a good sign. ‘‘Give me a blanket,’’ he said fiercely. ‘‘Something to warm her with.’’
Jackson handed him his coat.
Warlord tucked it around her.
She examined him anxiously. ‘‘You’re hurt.’’
‘‘Not badly.’’ The bones in his arm shot pain through his shoulder. The skin around his ear oozed. But compared to her wounds . . . ‘‘Karen, you’ve got to fight.’’
‘‘Did.’’ She closed her amazing aquamarine eyes. Opened them. ‘‘We won.’’
Pain blossomed in him, grew, choked him.
‘‘Won . . . because . . . we knew each other’s . . . secrets. You knew my . . . fears. I knew . . . you were part . . . part of a deal with the . . . devil.’’ She fought for every word. ‘‘With your blood in me . . . I am, too.’’
‘‘Stop talking. You’ve got to save your breath.’’ He was frantic, sick with anguish.
He wanted to gather her into his arms.
No. No, he shouldn’t, because moving her might make her internal injuries bleed more. Might jar her spine and paralyze her.
She had to live. Oh, God, she had to live.
‘‘No. Now’s the time . . . for talk.’’ She smiled again, but her lips were trembling. ‘‘I’ve thought . . . about it. Will . . . definitely . . . marry you.’’
She was slipping away, and he could do nothing. ‘‘Then you have to stay.’’
‘‘Next . . . time.’’ She smiled at him. ‘‘I love you.’’
He stared into her eyes. ‘‘I love you, too. That’s why we’re meant to be together. Karen . . ."
But she was dead.