Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (11 page)

Another blister gave way against the machete handle, but Bowe ignored it. Wasn't like he could switch hands.

The odds were against her being alive, yet Bowe had hope. The scarred demon Rydstrom was a brutal warrior, but he was also honorable. And Bowe knew Rydstrom and Cade had younger sisters. If Rydstrom had decided to protect the witch, she might have a chance of surviving starvation—and the incubi.

And then there had been the unsettling interest that had flickered in Cade's eyes. The mercenary might be moved to protect her . . . because he wanted her.

The thought made Bowe swing the machete harder than necessary, slicing clean through a sapling.

Damn it, what in the hell had that little mortal been thinking to enter the Hie?

Even as he'd cursed the idiocy of her actions, he'd marveled at her courage, especially since she was so young. He'd suspected she was, but Bowe had since found out that Mariketa was an astonishing twenty-three years of age—
chronologically
. Not only hadn't she made the transition into immortality, she hadn't passed even a third of an average mortal life.

If Bowe had thought Emma, at eighty chronologically, was too young for Lachlain, then Mariketa was a damned bairn.

And
a witch—

Ear-piercing screams sounded.
From the tomb?

Bowe sprinted as fast as his wounds would allow, leaping over fallen trees. He ran headlong through the brush instead of cutting, ignoring the pain as vines snagged his neck and arms and abraded till they burned.

When he finally crashed through the tree line surrounding the perimeter of the tomb, he heard what sounded like a war inside.

White light glinted up through new cracks in the stone. The entire edifice rumbled. He heard Rydstrom roar with pain while the female archer shrieked. Bowe didn't hear the witch.

Was it already too late?

How the fuck was he going to
quickly
raise the stone portcullis? To set up the lift with one hand . . . too much time. Could he possibly raise it himself? He was a thousand times weaker than before. He didn't have a propping stone to lift from.

He didn't have two hands.

No way—

Bowe finally heard Mariketa's cry—weak, reedy. There was no time to analyze the consuming sense of relief he felt that she still lived. He knew she was badly hurt, knew she needed protection.

Bugger the lift.

He shoved his hand under the edge of the portcullis, claws digging down, wedging under for a good grip. When he heard another of her cries, he strained every muscle in his body.

Nothing.

Damn it, if she'd truly been his mate, he would have
been able to lift it. Which meant it was still
possible
even when she wasn't his—he could do this!

No longer did he hear her. Sharp fear stabbed at him . . . he heaved with all his might, yelling out. The stone began to budge. An inch higher, then two . . .

He'd lifted it only a foot when a limp body was shoved out from the fray.

Mariketa? Yes, though he scarcely recognized her without her glamour to cloak her looks.

As Bowe grappled against the weight, he jerked in surprise when the Instinct rang inside his head, strong and clear.

—
Yours.
—

Why would it return now, after so long? Why would it make him feel as though he recognized her as his own?

No, this was merely her spell, tricking him. Even knowing this, he had to fight panic when he comprehended how battered her body was. He focused his hearing on her heartbeat and found it erratic. Her lips were pale and chapped, her cheeks hollowed. Blood tracked from the corners of her mouth.

Just as it had on Mariah when she'd lain dead in the snow.

He couldn't hold the stone much longer . . . needed to drop it . . . but the witch's leg was in the way. As he struggled to reach his boot to the side to shuffle her out of the way, the battle continued inside.

“Duck!”

“Bloody
shoot
them!”

“I'm out of arrows!” Out of arrows? The archers had mystical quivers, said never to empty.

“Me as well—
Run!
”

The female elf screamed for Cade to help her. A second later, she was launched from the interior, her bloody bow strapped to her back.

Then claws scrabbled up as Cade and Rydstrom crawled out. They didn't acknowledge Bowe, just dropped their swords and weakly attempted to keep the stone raised until the last two archers shimmied out.

The strings on their bows were stained by blood from where they'd pulled them again and again. What exactly had they faced?

As if in answer, just as Bowe was about to drop his burden, a hand shot out from the tomb as some being with matted gray skin,
dead
skin, reached blindly but unerringly to the witch. Its claws sank into her ankle—she didn't react.

Another hand darted out from the tomb, its fingers clenched around . . .
one of the gold headdresses?

“
Drop it,
” Bowe yelled, and the three released the stone, severing the hands. As Bowe fell back against the sealed entrance, struggling to breathe, Cade lunged to Mariketa to pry the claws from her ankle. Her skin there was bloodied, marked again and again. Bowe knew in an instant that she'd been dragged like that repeatedly.

He squinted his eye at the other gruesome hand. Why offer a headdress?

Once Bowe raised his gaze, he faced the killing looks of five powerful immortals, promising retribution.

“Forget him for now!” The female archer hurried to cradle Mariketa's head. “She's in shock.” The others gathered around her, except for one of the archers, who twitched his pointed ears, then raced from the clearing.

When the witch began to shudder, Bowe dropped to his knees beside her.

“Water!” the female elf screamed at him. “We're losing her!”

He hastily unwound the canteen over his shoulder and handed it over. “What's happened to her?”

They all ignored him.

“
Damn it, tell me what's happened!
”

The witch went still beside him, seemingly at his raised voice. Her eyes opened dazedly as she moaned; white light flashed from them into the sky and boiled up from her limp palms. Her lips parted around her ragged breaths.

Without warning, she was on her feet, her eyes glittering with fury, and riveted to Bowe. As though in a tempest, her red hair swirled all around her bloodied face. Leaves and sand circled her body. “
You.
”

“I—”

With one flick of her hand in his direction, she tossed Bowe back against the tomb, crushing the contents of his pack. She pinned him there by his neck as he futilely writhed and fought for breath. In the midst of his struggles, he realized the toes of her boots were turned down—because she was no longer touching the ground.

Her body was too frail . . . too small to conduct this power—
unimaginable
power. Never in his long life . . . never had he seen anything like this.

The witch smiled with ghostly lips. “You came back,” she purred as the pressure increased around his neck. She was horrible. She was awing.

And he knew he was about to die.

M
ariketa, no!” Rydstrom bellowed. “Let me deal with him!”

Mari could barely hear him. Magick tolled in her ears and danced through her veins, pure and perfect for the first time in her life.

It feels delicious.

She tightened her hold around MacRieve's throat once more, vaguely noticing his missing hand, the bandages on his face.

“Give him to me!” Tierney had drawn his blade. Cade and Tera closed in on MacRieve, each wanting the pleasure of killing the Lykae for what he'd done.

Mari wouldn't give up her catch. Not until his head had left his body—

A sharp pop like a gunshot sounded in the near distance. She heard it even over the din inside her head.

“Mariketa,” Tera began in a wary tone, “drop him and run. Now.”

Wary?
After what they'd just lived through? More pops—definitely gunfire.

She'd sensed Hild had raced from the clearing, and now he returned. “Two guerilla armies engaging in the brush a mile to the west,” he reported between breaths. “Each with
at least two hundred humans. They've got rockets, mortar. We actually might have to consider them in our decisions.”

*  *  *

Bowe saw it all unfolding but could do nothing. Frustration welled in him, matching the torture of her strangling grip. The force was pinning his back against his bag, pulverizing the contents.

Then the witch's eyes changed, becoming a shade of silver—one color, unbroken—shining brilliantly. As he stared in incomprehension, he could see . . . could see they were . . .
mirrors
. Nïx's strange rhyme flashed in his mind, even as Mariketa was killing him.

With her other hand, the witch emitted a pulse of energy at Bowe—a beam that made him feel as if he'd had a transfusion of acid.
Turn your blood to acid,
she'd told him.

Rydstrom grabbed her wrists and moved to draw her magick from Bowe's direction, then frowned that he hadn't budged her thin arms. With both hands, he heaved back and finally got her to aim away from Bowe—toward the tomb.

Freed of her hold and the scalding pain, Bowe sucked in air, scrambling away. As he rubbed circulation back into his throat, her beam battered the stones. The entire structure trembled. The first rumble shook the trees growing over it. The second rattled them, stripping bare their swaying branches.

The witch's eyes, so brilliant, appeared fascinated.

Rydstrom yelled, “
It's going to blow!
” He yanked Mariketa up to his side. The light from her ceased, and she fell limp.

But it was too late.

The tomb exploded with atomic force—even the great
foundation stones erupted into the sky—leaving nothing but a gaping crater behind. Whatever lived inside had been annihilated.

With the witch in his arms, Rydstrom sprinted, following the others as they darted for cover from the plummeting stones. Though Bowe dashed off right behind them, for some reason, he lunged down and plucked the gold headpiece from the severed hand, then worked the heavy prize into his pack.

Just before Rydstrom reached the tree line, an immense stone landed on his leg, trapping him. The demon kept his hold on Mariketa, struggling to protect her head.

Bowe sensed what was about to happen, even before the towering hardwoods of the jungle began to bend and rock toward the crater where the tomb had once existed. “Give her to me!”

Rydstrom gritted out, “Directly after . . . she was about to
kill
you?”

Bowe didn't have time to explain, so he simply snapped, “I vow I'll get her to safety.”

“You don't understand, MacRieve! She can fucking
die
—”

“Aye, mortal, now release her!” When Rydstrom still hesitated, Bowe said, “You doona know what's coming?” The tomb had been a place of power. Extinguished power created a vacuum.

Rydstrom glanced back. He shook his head hard, and his grip on Mariketa eased. He eyed Bowe. “Another scratch on her, and I will take your head, Lykae.”

*  *  *

Mari came to with a moan, blinking open her eyes to find herself firmly strapped over some male's brawny shoulder—and
looking straight down the side of a mountain. Hundreds of feet below, trees and earth poured into a vacuous chasm that used to be the tomb.

Shaking violently, she drew a breath to scream, but a rasping voice said, “Hold your shrieks, and hold on to me. And doona dare try anything like before, witch—no' if you want to get out of this alive.”

MacRieve.
Hadn't she killed him? She clutched at his broad back for a hold. “Wh-where are the others?”

“Scrambling for safety below us.”

“Why d-did you go
up
?” Faced with her worst fear and forced to trust her life to this Lykae.

“Doona like heights, then? I went up because the humans canna.”

He was ascending by climbing
a vine
? “You'll drop us—you only have one freaking hand!” He'd been yanking down on the vine and catching it higher, propelling them up inch by inch.

“Aye, and I'll be havin' it back. Along with my eye. Now. Remove your curse and heal me.”

“Never. I hope you die from it,” she hissed.

“Then also hope my hand does no' slip any more on this slick vine. We go much farther down and that vacuum will catch us for sure. Ach, I can feel the pull on my feet already. And now it's starting to rain.”

She raised her head in disbelief. Fat drops of water beaned her in the face.

He deliberately let go, allowing them to plunge several feet before he snatched the vine back, jouncing her over his back as her hands frantically fisted in his shirt.