The Unforgiven (9 page)

He grunted. She struggled to climb from his lap. He resisted her pitiful attempt at escape, his arms banding around her like steel.

“Let me go!”

She tried to get leverage, wriggling and shoving. Then she froze. His erection was pressed against her butt. Her body responded with a flood of moist, yielding desire.

She experienced a fresh surge of panic. Dear God, she had to get away! She renewed her struggle with a vengeance. She struck out, punching and kicking whatever part of his body she could reach. One solid arm encircled her midsection, trapping her arms while pressing her more firmly into his hard-on. His hand covered her mouth just as her chest heaved, drawing enough air to scream.

The restraint infuriated her. It was also maddeningly erotic. The more she struggled to free herself, the harder he got and the more her body softened to his restraint. The more she felt herself open to him. Damn the man! It was as if he’d cast some kind of spell over her.

She managed to free one hand to shove against his chest. Her butt wiggled. His erection jerked and throbbed under the pressure. His jaw went rigid; his nostrils flared. Air hissed through his teeth. A low growl rumbled in his throat. Their eyes locked.

Raw carnal knowledge arced between them. Maddie knew then—
knew
, without a doubt—that this powerful, aroused male was one heartbeat away from ripping off her shorts and plunging himself into her body. Worse, she was half a heartbeat from begging him to do it.

What the hell was happening?

“No,” she gasped. “No. We can’t do this. Not here. Not ever.” The thought of surrendering to this man terrified her on some deep, primitive level. “Let me go.”

“Maddie.” His voice was hoarse. “You don’t understand—”

“I don’t care. I can’t do this. I won’t. Let me go.
Please.
”

A brief hesitation, then his arms fell away.

She scrambled to her feet. Or at least, she tried to. The disorientation left over from the waking dream hadn’t completely disappeared. She stumbled.

Cade, already on his feet, caught her. “Careful,
caraid
.”

She jerked away, steadying herself on the pit’s shoring instead. Her canteen rested on a nearby ledge. She snatched it up as if it were a lifeline. She drank with shaking hands as Cade stood silent behind her.

Not turning, she forced herself to speak as if nothing disturbing had happened.

“Thanks for catching me. When I . . . I fainted. I don’t know what happened. Heatstroke, maybe.”

“No. Your skin is cold,” he said.

And her hands felt like ice. “Dehydration, then. I haven’t been drinking enough water.”

“I doubt that had anything to do with it.” His tone was grim. “It’s this place. It’s cursed.”

She could almost believe it was true.

“Come on, then,” he said. “You need to get out of this pit.”

“That’s . . . that’s probably a good idea.”

She was thankful he didn’t try to touch her as she climbed the ladder, though he hovered close behind. Once she stepped away from the edge of the pit she felt much better. Until she made the mistake of looking down. The well was awash with red light.

Something’s there. Something real.
She wanted so badly to believe it, even though she knew there was nothing in the well but sand and stone. The source of the glow was not in the ground but in her brain. In the cancer growing behind her left eye.

Without a glance at Cade, she turned and fled.

Bloody hell. Cade had no experience with transition—other than his own, of course.

He’d begun his transformation after a knife fight had left him all but dead. Like Maddie, he’d been unaware. He’d thought himself fully human. He’d had no idea what was happening to him, what his body was preparing for. And then the first wave of his crisis broke.

He grimaced and blanked the memory from his mind. Even now, more than a year later, he avoided thoughts of that night. The emotions tangled up with it—a mélange of desperation, pain, and fear—were just too powerful. There had been pleasure, too, of course. Incredible, searing bliss. There had been the heat of Cybele’s body. Her lush breasts, her hands, her mouth. The wet sound of his cock working inside her.

He’d fought his bonds like a madman. He’d been desperate to touch Cybele on his own terms, to bend her to his will. He’d
been forced to surrender to hers. His wrists still bore the scars of his frenzy.

Every adept of Clan Samyaza had endured a similar transition. Each of the others, however, had grown up aware of what was to come with maturity. Each of the others had actually sought the brush with death that triggered his or her change.

Cade had believed he was human. Then he’d been flung from the precipice of death toward something far more terrifying. It would be the same for Maddie, and Cade wasn’t at all confident of his ability to guide her through the experience.

He knew next to nothing about the role of anchor. Due to the imbalance in the ratio of males to females in Watcher society, few Watcher men were required to act as anchors. As far as Cade knew, of the surviving male members of Clan Samyaza, only Artur had ever performed the role. For Cybele.

Morgana—mature, wise, beautiful Morgana, slaughtered by DAMNers—had anchored Brax, Lucas, Niall, and even Artur himself. Cybele had anchored Cade. She’d been as inexperienced then as Cade was now.

She’d acted solely on instinct. Cade didn’t fully trust his instincts. He wanted a plan. He wanted objectivity. He had neither.

When he thought of the coming days—when he imagined what Maddie would endure—pity warred with lust. His mind balked, even as his body hardened in anticipation. The Watcher pheromones her body was throwing in his direction made it impossible to think clearly. Impossible to set a course, to anticipate obstacles. There was really very little he could do to prepare Maddie for her crisis. He could hardly describe it to her. If she knew what was going to happen, she’d be paralyzed with terror.

She was well acquainted with fear, he imagined. She thought she was dying of cancer. Most likely she wondered, as all
humans did, what the afterlife would be like. She had no idea that for her, as for all Nephilim, there was no life beyond this earthly one. After death came Oblivion.

Cade wondered what Maddie would choose if she were free to do so. Would she endure the crisis for the chance to live out a cursed Nephilim life? Or would she escape that fate by flinging herself into immediate, eternal nothingness? Which would
Cade
have chosen?

He thought she’d choose life. He sensed she was a fighter. She’d certainly battled her cancer like a warrior. But, it was a moot point. From the moment Cybele found him in that alley—shuddering, raving, half-mad—she’d taken control of his body and his life essence. She’d birthed his demon nature, as Cade would birth Maddie’s.

But, not here. Not atop the very soil upon which Samyaza, Azazel, their brother Watchers, and so many of their first-generation Nephilim offspring had met their doom. Cade would not anchor Maddie in the very place where his defiant ancestors had forfeited their souls.

It troubled him more than he liked to admit that Maddie had collapsed in the pit this afternoon. Could her transition have caused the episode? An awakening dormant was subject to bursts of intense energy alternating with periods of intense fatigue. But somehow Cade didn’t think Maddie’s fainting spell was related to her impending crisis.

Her weakness had been caused by this land; he was sure of it. Incredibly, the stench of the Watchers’ curse still clung to the desert rocks, even if five millennia had passed since the archangel Raphael delivered it. The odor festered in Cade’s nostrils, a foul brown burning that coalesced in the back of his throat.

He needed to get away. He needed to get
Maddie
away. Quickly. Because if her crisis broke in this cursed place, only God himself would be able to save her.

God, Cade knew, wouldn’t bother.

Lolo National Forest, Montana

He hadn’t eaten in seventeen days.

The hawk’s sharp cry preceded its earthward streak. A flurry of feathers and fur, a panicked squeal, a rustle of dry grass—then the kill was over, the raptor rising with its victim limp in its claws.

Lucas Herne watched the bird glide across the valley. He was that hawk. That killer.

The sudden disturbance over, the land around him calmed. Protective silence gave way to birdcalls, to movement in the grass, to the buzz of insects. Far from dulling his mind, his long fast had only sharpened his senses. Colors seemed brighter, sounds clearer. His dark blond hair, which he wore loose, lifted in the breeze, sending a tingle over his skin. His existence was alive with form and sensation; his world was vivid in a way it had never been. It was as if he were touching and seeing nature’s soul rather than its substance. If only he could be certain what he sensed was real and not a fabrication of his mind.

He cocked his head, listening. He could hear the beat of his heart, the blood rushing in his veins. And with it all, the shewolf’s call. Closer than it had ever been.

His body tensed with anticipation. He’d been waiting for . . . how long? Hours? Days? A week? Impossible to tell; time had lost all meaning.

He’d been waiting his entire life, it seemed, but when the
animal finally appeared, he didn’t even see its approach. He didn’t recognize it until it stood before him. Her fur was a deep, dark cinnamon, shining with health and beauty. He reached out a hand and, trembling, touched one soft ear.

She shied away; he let his hand fall. A wash of shimmering light illuminated the beast. Reflexively, he shielded his eyes until the radiance passed. Upon lowering his arms, he beheld not a wolf but a woman.

She was past middle age, he could tell. Her eyes held wisdom if her red-brown skin remained unwrinkled and not a single strand of silver marred her arrow-straight black hair. When her lips parted, her speech was as strong and as delicate as the wind in the trees.

“You are a stranger to this place,” she said. “Why have you come?”

“For guidance.”

She frowned. “I guide only the living.”

“I am alive.”

She shook her head. “You breathe, Nephilim, but you are not truly alive. You are a demon.”

“Yes. But I am a man as well.”

“You have no soul,” she replied. “And you are a killer.”

“As is the hawk.”

“The hawk kills for survival. You do not.”

“I kill hellfiends.”

“And the humans they inhabit.”

Lucas shrugged. “Their souls are doomed anyway.”

Her eyes seemed to look right through him. “Then perhaps you are fortunate you do not possess one.”

“Am I?” Luc gave a harsh laugh. He growled, “Human hosts are doomed by their own weakness, their welcome of the evil creature that seeks to use their souls. We Nephilim are cursed by the sins of our fathers. Is this just?”

“Just? Is the killing of the mouse by the hawk ‘just’? The
notion of justice is a human invention. It does not come from the Creator. Nature seeks harmony. That is not at all the same thing.”

“Harmony also eludes the Nephilim.”

The woman frowned. “That is true enough. What do you want of me?”

“A soul. Harmony with the Creator.”

Her eyes, wolflike, seemed to widen. “I do not know if such a thing is possible. I do not know if the curse you bear can be reversed.”

“Nature is closer to the Creator than any human being. I believe you can help me.”

She tilted her head to one side. “It would be an interesting endeavor. But are you worthy of my aid?”

“I am willing to do whatever is necessary.”

“Willing, yes. But able? That is the real question.”

“I can but try.”

She fell silent, her black eyes turning inward. “I sense your desire. It is pure. But you are burdened by hatred and pride. You lust after vengeance. You cannot achieve harmony while carrying these burdens. Can you put them aside?”

It was Luc’s turn to look inward. He sensed a glib answer, or an eager one, would drive away the guardian spirit he’d struggled so hard to summon.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Neither do I know if I can help you. But I will try.”

He bowed his head. “That’s all I ask.”

“Cybele?”

Cybele turned from the bedroom window, glad for the interruption. She missed the countryside. Missed Glastonbury. She hated London. She despised the dirty streets, the fog, the
crowds that wouldn’t let her breathe. She especially loathed Artur’s flat, with its dingy furnishings and endless clutter. How could he stand it?

“Gareth,” she said. “Come in.”

Had she been glad for the interruption? Forget that. One look into Gareth’s wary eyes had her dreading the encounter. She wished she’d locked the door and shouted at him to stay away.

She closed her eyes briefly, wishing she could hide as easily. But there really was no avoiding this, was there? If she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she’d been expecting it.

He entered. For a moment she thought he might sit on the bed. He passed it by, in favor of making his stand in the center of the room.

His youthful face was flushed. The color clashed oddly with his cropped ginger hair and expressive, sky blue eyes. Whipcord-lean, he wore a black T-shirt and jeans with the knees ripped out. The scar on his left cheek, a reminder of the massacre, made him look older than his years. His forearms, dusted with pale hair, were surprisingly muscled. She’d never noticed that before.

He seemed to want her to speak first. She leaned against the window frame and said nothing. Finally, he ran a hand over his head and got to the point.

“You know why I’ve come.”

“Do I?”

His cheeks flushed even redder. Her lips tightened. She wasn’t going to make this easy on him. If he couldn’t face this small embarrassment, how in hell did he think he could face the rest of it?

He drew breath. “I turned twenty last autumn. I’m old enough. I know it’s the custom to wait longer, but with all that’s happened . . . the clan needs every warrior. I have to act now. And you—”