Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (6 page)

So that was what they sought in this competition—to go back in time and keep Rydstrom's crown.

“My brother might have been willing to help others,” Cade began, “but after seeing what Mariketa did to the Lykae, I bet the witchling will leave us here to rot.”

“Is that true?” Rydstrom asked Mari.

Possibly.

“Of course it's not,” Tera answered for her. “Mariketa wouldn't leave us any more than we would desert her. She's part fey. Look at her ears. The Hie be damned—somewhere in time, her ancestors are our ancestors.”

“Oh, then by that reasoning, she won't leave me
either,” Cade said, sarcasm in his voice. “She and I are both mercenaries. There's a code there.”

“It's incidental if I would leave anyone behind,” Mari finally said. “I don't know that I could lift it.”

“What do you mean?” Rydstrom said. “You're strong. I can feel your power even now.”

“I . . . I blow things up,” she admitted. “And I mostly don't mean to. Mostly.”

Cade shook his head. “The entire structure's resting on the portcullis. If you explode that stone, the tomb would come down like a house of cards.”

Rydstrom said, “Let's look at odds and make a rational decision—exactly how often do you accidentally blow things up?”

“The times I can get my magick to work?” she said. “Ninety-nine out of a hundred.”

As Tierney swore under his breath, Cade said, “So we look for another way out. Did anyone find an exit in any of the chambers?”

“There aren't going to be any exits,” Tera said, her attention riveted to a frieze above the portcullis. Intricate animal signs and hieroglyphics were carved into the stone.

“Why do you say that?” Rydstrom asked.

Tera squinted up at the carvings, seeming to somehow make sense of the animal and geometrically shaped glyphs. “Because this is . . .
a jail
.”

“You've deciphered those marks?” Mari asked Tera.

Tierney answered for her, “She knows
all
languages.”

Tera translated for them. “It says this tomb is a jail holding six demon essence stealers—incubi—for their unnatural crimes against the daughter of a powerful sorcerer.”

“They probably all seduced her, then pops gets pissed,” Tierney said. “Locks them away here.”

Tera nodded. “The Mayans were custodians for them, of a sort. Kept them locked up—and fed periodically.”

“That explains the sacrificial headdresses,” Cade said. “Mayan females were offered up.”

Tera continued, “They're cursed never to leave this place—short of death. According to these calendrics, they have been here for eleven hundred and eleven years.”

“Well, that can't be right,” Mari said. “No one's home—”

Claws scrabbled over stone somewhere in the shadows. Everyone glanced around uneasily.

They weren't alone. . . .

“We left the front door open for hours,” Tierney said. “Why would they remain here?”

Tera said, “They probably are bound to the tomb, unable to cross the threshold.”

“If they are still here, it shouldn't be a problem,” Mari said, even as she backed her way to Rydstrom and Cade. “Right? Especially if Tera can speak their language.”

The incubi that Mari had known were all charming and hot. Finding one in your bed was supposed to be a good problem to have.

So why were the tiny hairs of her nape standing up? Gazing up at Rydstrom, she murmured, “Mind if I stick around you, big guy?”

In answer, he briefly laid his massive hand on the top of her head in a strangely comforting way.

Suddenly, the scent of rotting flesh pervaded the crypt. Mari felt evil all around them—
old
evil—circling.

As her eyes darted around, she unconsciously began to build magick again.

A drop of something . . .
viscous
hit her bare shoulder. In the unnatural lantern light, she slowly raised her face. Her lips parted, her mind unable to comprehend.

“Mariketa,” Tera whispered, as she crossed to her. “Your face has gone white. What could—?” Her words died in her throat as she followed Mari's gaze. Tera's bow and arrow shot up again.

But arrows couldn't kill what was already dead.

“The incubi!” one of the others yelled as shadowy beings swarmed the area, diving and flying all around them. Cade and Rydstrom drew their swords. Just when Mari was praying to Hekate that these people she hardly knew would protect her, Rydstrom used one hand to shove her behind him.

At the first crazed attack, the demons' swords struck and deflected. The archers shot wildly. The twang of bow and the clash of steel were deafening in the echoing space.

Yet the incubi seemed to be focusing their attacks on Rydstrom—and trying to get
to her
.

All at once, Rydstrom was besieged. Without his guard, Mari was knocked down, landing on her front so hard her teeth clattered. Blood from a wound somewhere on her head tracked down her cheeks. Power-laden blue light cast erratically from her hands and eyes but struck nothing.

“Cade!” Rydstrom yelled, struggling to ward off the onslaught. “Over here!”

His brother battled his way over.

“
They want the witch
—”

With a cry, she scrambled up only to be knocked to the ground once more. When she dimly realized the incubi were steadily separating her from the group, she stayed down.

“Why her?” Cade looked from Mari to Rydstrom. In the back of her mind, she recognized that Cade probably wouldn't have any interest in helping her—especially not at the expense of helping himself and his brother.

“
Why do you think?
” Rydstrom snapped, even as his sword slashed up.

Cade's eyes narrowed. “Oh, fuck that!” he roared, redoubling his fight—

Fangs sank into Mari's ankles. As she cried out in pain, her body began to . . . move.

Cade was closest to her and lunged for her, yelling, “Tierney!” With supernatural speed, the archer covered him with a torrent of arrows, but there were too many incubi diving right at them.

Blood sprayed up from Cade's body, and he bellowed with fury.

As she screamed, something dragged her back in frenzied yanks. Mari clawed at the stones, shrieking as it snatched her into the darkness.

Pit of the Fyre Dragán, Yélsérk, Hungary
Finale of the Talisman's Hie
Prize: The blade of the blind mystic Honorius to win

T
onight he would have Mariah back.

One last contest. One last struggle to put his wasted body through. Then his reward.

As he loped through a sweltering tunnel toward the Fyre Dragán's pit of flames, Bowe felt a sense of expectation, an almost light-headed anticipation that warred with the pain from his many injuries—
injuries that weren't healing
.

The Hie had been as cutthroat as he'd expected—and as he'd been prepared to be—but the witch had had the last laugh.

The spell from the tomb that he'd believed was harmless had actually taken hold of his body. Creeping through him like the strongest roots, day by day it leached away his immortality. No longer did he have the ability to regenerate, and for the first time in twelve hundred years, he felt that he was aging. In fact, he'd barely made it to the finals of this competition.

There could be no worse timing to lose his strength than in the Hie.

When the prize would bring back his Mariah.

For one hundred and eighty years, since the night he'd found her—with her thin body gored and her green cloak spread out in the blood-soaked snow—he'd searched relentlessly for a way to resurrect her.

Lingering on in a kind of half life, not dying but not really living, he'd continued to believe he could bring her back to him, when most Lykae would have found a way to die if they'd lost their mates. Others in his clan thought him mad, wondering why he continued to exist in that miserable twilight. Even his cousins, Lachlain and Garreth, who were like brothers to him, couldn't understand him.

But he would show them all, because after searching so long, a mad Valkyrie soothsayer, of all people, had alerted him to this competition—and had told him it was the means of reaching his mate. Desperate to try anything, he'd entered. When he'd learned the ultimate prize of the Hie was a key to go back in time, everything had made sense.

Bowe hadn't foolishly been hoping for something that could never be. The chance to bring Mariah back was within his grasp, and he'd fought mercilessly for that key.

Yet so had his two main competitors: the Valkyrie Kaderin the Coldhearted and Sebastian Wroth, a vampire soldier. Just two nights ago in a minefield in Cambodia, they'd forced Bowe into an explosion that had threaded a rusted length of shrapnel between his ribs and had blown away his left eye and part of his forehead.

Because of the witch's curse, those gruesome injuries remained.

Now, half blind and weak beyond measure, Bowe was
only confident of winning because just two competitors vied in this last round, and the other finalist was Kaderin. Yes, the Valkyrie was a single-minded competitor, but in the end she was still a female.

He slowed, struggling to detect if she was already here. During this final part of the Hie, killing was allowed. On this night, would Bowe kill a female to bring Mariah back? He had no doubts that if given the chance, the Valkyrie would take her assassin's sword and slice him crotch to collar without blinking her cold, emotionless eyes.

One thing Bowe did know was that if he lost, he would definitely kill the witch for weakening him so much.

A roar sounded deeper in the earth, and the cavern quaked, sending rock and dust falling over him. The Fyre Dragán—rumored to be a serpentlike beast, as large as a basilisk but with a body of fire—must be sensing Bowe's trespass.

This place was known in the Lore as
where immortals go to die
. Most immortals could die only by beheading—an unwieldy suicide option—or by total immolation in a pit of otherworldly heat like this. Yet in the ages that had passed, the location of this place had become virtually lost in the Lore. Until now . . . .

Another roar, another violent shake. Boulders began to rain down from the cavern ceiling. As he loped on, dodging them, the injury in his side screamed in protest. But the pain in his body was forgotten as he imagined what he'd do after reuniting with Mariah.

Together, they would start a new life, and he would spoil her with all the wealth he'd accumulated. They could live at his grand estate in Scotland or at the Lykae compound in Louisiana. The clan's property there was vast
with miles of swamps and forests to run. There was a central, main lodge for gatherings, and then separate, large hunting cabins were spread throughout.

Louisiana intrigued Bowe. Lazy fans always seemed to be overhead. Unusual food scents and the strains of music continually carried on the breeze. Surely Mariah would love it as he did.

And when he had her back with him, he would seduce away her fears of him so he could finally claim her, at last having her completely.

Gods, he needed her beneath him. Since that night in the jungle tomb, his long-neglected desires had come blazing to life. Even with his body battered, each day he'd needed to take relief from the throbbing ache in his shaft.

Though it shamed him, his mind would wander to the witch as he stroked himself in bed. His usual fantasies of laying Mariah down and gently claiming her were replaced by ones of Mariketa, even though her glamour made memories of her hazy.

He could recall being so damned pleased and aroused by the witch's body but not remembering why. More clearly, he recalled the small tattoo on her lower back—he'd imagined rubbing his face against that mark. Even the remembered feel of the back of her leg against his palm could put him into a lather; he would shudder at mere thoughts of her soft, giving thigh under his thumb claw.

Fantasizing about tasting the wet flesh he'd cupped would make him spend so hard his eyes rolled back in his head.

Once he'd taken his release, a bitter shame would set in. But each night, shame turned to determination to win.

When the tunnel opened up into a soaring cavern
chamber, filled with smoke and wafting ash, Bowe hurried inside—and spotted Sebastian Wroth at the edge of a pit of lava, his arm trapped under a huge boulder.

The vampire? When Kaderin should be here tonight?

“What's happened here?”

“A quake . . . rocks,” Wroth grated with difficulty.

“Where's the Valkyrie? She ought to be here, not you.”

“I'm here in her stead.”

Bowe had suspected that Wroth was newly turned—relatively—but now he knew it. An older, more powerful vampire could have traced out from under the rock.

“You can't reach the prize,” the vampire told him in his accented English. “It's on the other side of the pit . . . and the cable across it snapped.”