The Unforgiven (25 page)

“No!”

With a sudden burst of strength, she clawed at Cade’s face, his arms, his chest. He responded with curses. She landed a blow to his ear and almost escaped. One leg was over the edge of the mattress; her foot touched the ground. Then his hand clamped on her upper arm and yanked her back.

Something cool encircled her wrist and tightened. With a cry she tried to break free, but the cord held, its knot sealing into a seamless cuff around her wrist. She stared, uncomprehending. This was no normal rope. Not something to be cut, or torn, or unknotted.

The cuff glowed with magic. She followed its trailing end to Cade’s arm, where it disappeared into the pattern of his tattoo. The cord
was
his tattoo. But . . . he’d thrown a tattoo net at Raphael. It had disappeared with the angel under the sea.
When and how had it returned? How could it be that he was unraveling the same tattoo, transforming ink into fetters?

His expression was grim. He tore the rope, leaving a length trailing from Maddie’s arm. He yanked its free end toward a corner of the bed’s iron headboard. He meant to tie her to it.

“No!” she screamed. “No!”

She couldn’t let this happen. Bound, she’d never escape.

She threw herself at him, hissing and clawing. The rope wove tightly about the bed’s decorative iron scrollwork, immobilizing her left arm. She punched out with her right fist, only to have that arm caught and secured by a second length of magical cord. She was now bound, naked from the waist up, arms spread.

The restraint increased her frenzy. Kicking, churning, cursing, she threw all her rising madness into the fight. The monster, emboldened, reappeared and approached from the shadows. Its terrible gaping jaw was laughing.

Cade stood out of reach at the foot of the bed. His expression was blank, his massive body immobile but powerful. He watched her struggle until her strength gave out and she collapsed onto the mattress, panting; only then did he move, grasping one ankle and securing it to the footboard. The second ankle was swiftly handled the same, almost before her mind had time to register what he’d done. She lay open and bound before him.

“No,” she gasped. “Please. I don’t want this. Untie me.”

He didn’t answer. His left hand came up to touch the tat on his right breast. The image of a jeweled dagger separated from his skin and became solid in his hand. She was trussed like an animal. The magical shackles couldn’t be broken.

He turned the blade toward her, and she sucked in a breath. All this just to kill her? Was she to be trussed and offered as some kind of sacrifice?

He mounted the bed, leaning over her. She felt him in her
mind then. His presence pushed away the dark, gaping mouth of insanity. Even the whispering voice fell silent. Only the tide of her rising desire remained. And she knew the truth: she was his. He was her master, utterly and completely. It was useless to resist.

As his knife neared, she did nothing to stop it. But the blade did not touch her skin. It sliced instead through her shorts and underwear. Cade yanked the last shreds of fabric away, and she had no defense left. His gaze raked down her body.

It was as if he trailed a finger over her, awakening lust in every cell. When his scrutiny lingered on her breasts, her nipples peaked. When he gazed between her legs, a flood of slick lust poured from her body. His skin glowed, matching the colors chasing over her. His chest rose and fell heavily, but his eyes gave away nothing.

He left the bed and shoved his pants, already open at the waist, over his hips and to the floor. He stood before her, naked, aroused and magnificent. His eyes glowed red, his opalescent skin gleamed with dark menace. His shaft, rising from that nest of dark, curling hair, jutted toward her.

Her demon nature responded.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

Why she bothered to ask, Cybele didn’t know. She always knew when Artur was near. The sensation was like effervescent glitter rushing through her veins—or tiny, painful shards of glass. With Artur, she never knew which extreme to expect.

This morning, when she woke, there was . . . nothing. Maybe this was what Oblivion felt like.

The scent of strong coffee had drawn her from bed to the kitchen. Brax, seated at the table, glanced at her over the screen of his laptop. Hearing Cybele’s inquiry, he leaned back in his chair and reached for his mug.

“He left a few hours ago.”

“Where?” she asked. “Prague.”

“Damn.” The warmth drained from her face and ice-cold fingers clawed at her throat. Knees abruptly weak, she sat down hard in the empty chair across from Brax. “He’s gone to confront Dusek.”

Brax shook his head, but his eyes were troubled. “No. He wouldn’t. Not even Artur is that reckless.”

Cybele offered a withering glance. “You can’t believe that.”

“He’s gathering information. That’s all. Blast it, that
better
be all he’s doing. He’ll be back soon enough. After Gareth . . .” He trailed off into silence.

Cybele looked at her hands. After Gareth’s
transition
, he’d begun to say. “Artur expects me to grant Gareth’s petition,” she said.

Brax stood and filled another mug from the coffeepot on the stove. “Artur knows what’s best for the clan.”

“What about what’s best for me? What about what’s best for
Artur
?”

He handed her the mug. Reflexively, she took a sip.

“Artur doesn’t care what’s best for himself,” Brax said. “He does what’s necessary. For all of us.”

The coffee was very hot and very bitter. “If I anchor Gareth, it will be the end of Artur and me.”
Not that there’s much left.

“If you don’t, it could be the end of the clan,” Brax said. “We need every adept we can muster. Artur knows that. You know it.”

“He left the choice to me. He didn’t order me to do this. He could have, but he didn’t.” She swallowed. Her throat burned, but she didn’t think the coffee had anything to do with it. “That has to mean something. Maybe . . . maybe it’s a test. Maybe he wants me to refuse. So we can start over.”

“Cybele . . .” A grimace crossed Brax’s handsome face. “I know you want to believe Artur will forget what happened between you and Cade, but—”

“No. He won’t ever forget. I know that. But maybe . . . maybe he could get past it. Maybe he could forgive me.”

“This is Artur we’re talking about, remember? Forgive? He’d rather enter Oblivion.”

“I hurt him,” Cybele said.

Brax shook his head. “Artur, hurt? I’m not sure that’s even possible. His heart—if he has one—is hard as a diamond. And just as cold.”

Cybele stared at her hands.
Not true,
she wanted to shout. Except that, after this year, she was very much afraid it might be.

Brax returned his attention to his laptop. Silence ensued. Cybele sat, turning her empty mug round and round in her
hands, wondering just how big a fool she was for hoping he was wrong. If only Luc were here. Luc, with his caustic wit and biting good humor, tempered—at least where his twin sister was concerned—by glimmers of honest compassion. Luc, who didn’t even know yet about the massacre, or about Vaclav Dusek’s challenge.

The simmering anxiety that accompanied Cybele’s thoughts of her brother threatened to rise and pull her under. Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? Full siblings were rare among Watchers—a Watcher female could bring only one pregnancy to term in a lifetime. She and Luc shared a unique bond; before they’d discovered their British kin and traveled to England, they’d rarely been parted. Three months was far too long for him to be out of touch.

Brax, eyes intent on his computer screen, gave a low whistle.

Cybele looked up. “What is it?”

“I’ve been doing a little investigating into the financial life of Demon Annihilators Mutual Network.” Brax shook his head. “You’ll never guess who’s funding Dr. Simon Ben-Meir’s quest to uncover the historical origins of the Watchers.”

“DAMN? But . . . that’s impossible. Jonas Walker has denounced Ben-Meir’s expedition.”

“True. And I don’t doubt Walker’s sincerity. But his business acumen? That’s another story. I’m willing to bet the priest doesn’t have full control of DAMN’s finances. There’s a clear trail from DAMN’s New York bank to Ben-Meir’s account in Tel-Aviv. Interestingly, the money’s taken a brief detour through Prague.”

Cybele stared, aghast. “Vaclav Dusek’s diverting DAMN funds to Ben-Meir?”

“Looks that way. And it makes me wonder. Who’s calling the shots on that dig in Israel? And why?”

Cybele shot to her feet. “What if Dusek visits the dig? Cade won’t be able to compete with power like that. We have to warn him, Brax. Right now. We have to get Cade out!”

“Relax,” Brax said. “As far as I can tell, Dusek hasn’t been anywhere near the Negev in months. As for Cade, he’s already left Israel.”

“You’ve heard from him?”

Brax nodded. “He texted last night. He secured the dormant female and has left the Negev with her. Her crisis is approaching.”

Cybele drew a steadying breath. “He’s bringing her here for her transition?”

Brax shut his laptop with a click. “If he can make it in time.”

Luc didn’t have much to his name. Just a couple changes of clothes, a wide-brimmed hat, a cell phone and charger, a roll of cash, a gun enhanced for killing hellfiends, and a couple rounds of ammo. All were still safely stashed in a Missoula bus station locker when he went to retrieve them.

He put the hat on his head, grabbed the phone with one hand, and slung the pack containing the rest over his other shoulder. Standing in the station parking lot, he powered up the phone. The signal was weak, and three months out of use the battery was just this side of dead. Guilt, which he’d suppressed for three months now, had finally prodded him too insistently to ignore. Cybele was going to burn his ears when she finally heard from him. He felt a twinge of guilt over that. He had no idea what she would say when he explained to her what he’d been about roaming in the wilderness all this time. If he
could
explain it.

His text inbox was full; the symbol denoting unopened voice mail was flashing. The missed calls were largely from Cybele, with a few from Brax. One from Artur.

The phone went dead before he could retrieve any of it.

Lust and frenzy. Twin legacies of the damned. Cade would use both to his purpose.

The black pepper-spiced scent of Maddie’s passion crackled like an unholy fire. The third wave of her crisis was peaking. She’d begged for him to take her, and he had no intention of denying her.

She’d despise him when it was done, when she realized he had no intention of relinquishing the role of master. But he wouldn’t think of that now. He needed to concentrate on seeing her safely delivered into her Watcher power. Afterward, when she was securely enslaved, there would be time enough to face her hatred.

He stood motionless at the foot of the bed, letting her fevered entreaties wash over him. He didn’t trouble himself to listen. Her passion had nothing to do with him, not really. She’d have begged any Watcher male with the same words. Cade remembered well enough how he’d pleaded with Cybele. And yet, the sweetness of Maddie’s plea entranced him. He clung to the illusion that her passion was for him alone.

Exhausted, she fell back limp and panting, ceased her struggle against her bonds. Her scent softened into violets. She uttered a low moan.

He hardened unbearably. Reaching down, he stroked her foot. He started at the heel and drew his thumb along her instep, and her eyes opened in a flutter of inky black lashes. Their gazes clashed. His hand continued its path up her calf
and lingered on the delicate flesh behind her knee. Her eyelids drooped. She drew a shuddering breath.

He watched her chest rise and fall. Her breasts swayed with the motion. Her nipples, dark and hard, resembled round, perfect pebbles. Between her legs, moisture glistened like dew. The musk of her surrender made his knees weak.

He removed his hand from her leg. Abruptly, her eyelids flew open and her gaze shot to a point behind his head. Raw fear flashed through her eyes.

“No—” she choked out. Hands fisted, she jerked against her bonds.

He wondered what, exactly, she saw. Something similar to the horrors he’d witnessed during his own crisis? Or were Maddie’s private horrors entirely different?

Leaning forward, he closed his hand around her calf. “Maddie. Look at me.”

She did not listen. “It’s coming.”

He rounded the bed and sat beside her right hip. The mattress depressed and her bound body shifted toward him. He laid his open palm on her belly.

“Look at me,” he said again.

She dragged her eyes from whatever apparition it was that she watched. Her gaze met his and clung. She licked dry lips.

“Cade.”

She remembered his name, at least.

“It . . . it wants me. It’s coming. I can’t stop it. I—”

He leaned close. “Don’t try to stop it, Maddie.”

“But—”

“I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

“You won’t leave me?” she whispered. The desperate hope in her eyes wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

“I won’t leave you. Ever. You’re mine.”

A shudder racked her body. “I want you. I need—”

He climbed fully onto the bed, sheltering her with his body.
He knelt between her spread legs, his hands braced on either side of her shoulders, and he looked down at her. “I know,
caraid
. I know.”

He slid himself into her. It was so easy, so natural, that the joining almost took him unaware, though it had been entirely deliberate. They were one.

Holding himself deep inside her body, he slipped into her mind. And pitched headlong into screaming, clawing chaos.

Vaclav Dusek leaned back in his leather desk chair. Fingers steepled beneath his chin, he listened. A hoarse female voice, thick with worry, spilled from the telephone speaker.

“Two nights ago, Professor,” the woman was saying in Israeli-accented English. “That is the last any of us saw Dr. Ben-Meir or Maddie Durant. We didn’t realize they were gone until the following morning. Yesterday. Ari noticed Dr. Ben-Meir’s jeep was missing. We thought perhaps he’d driven into Mitzpe Ramon for supplies. But Maddie and I share a hut. Why would she leave in the middle of the night without waking me?”