Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (8 page)

If he couldn't escape, as an immortal he could waste away here, never dying, becoming a shadow of himself. And Bowe knew no one was coming for him. Not even resourceful Lachlain, his cousin and king, could find this place. The coordinates here were known only in esoteric corners of the Lore—or by the vampire, and Sebastian Wroth would probably relish knowing Bowe suffered.

His body was wracked, his will gone. He should step down into the fire. Struggling to live on under these circumstances seemed even more cowardly than ending it.

Hell, for nearly two centuries, his clan had been expecting him to step down in some way.

I'd wanted oblivion. This would be the way to get it.

But he'd vowed revenge against that vampire. And he longed to make the witch pay for his unbearable defeat. As far as he was concerned, she'd ensured he lost the competition.
The Valkyrie and vampire had only capitalized on weaknesses Mariketa had provided.

Bowe suspected she and the other five had long since escaped the tomb; now he was the one trapped. He consoled himself by recalling the nasty surprise they'd been in for. Before he'd left he'd destroyed not only their vehicles but their CBs and sat-phones as well.

Yet stranding the witch in the jungle wasn't nearly enough retribution for what she'd done. He'd
failed
. Because of her.

He felt like he'd lost Mariah all over again. He'd allowed himself to have a glimmer of hope, to envision his mate back by his side. And he'd been smug about winning.

Until Mariketa had cast her spells over him. . . .

The bloody witch invaded his thoughts. He would try to remember Mariah and instead would see glimpses of stormy gray eyes and red lips. He hated the witch for that, hated that he couldn't picture his mate's face. When he slept, he dreamed only of Mariketa.

Bowe had been untrue to his mate in thought—and deed.

The fire serpent roared, as if impatient for Bowe to make up his mind. After several attempts, Bowe managed to rise, swaying at the precipice of the pit.

End it now. It was cowardly to live on.

He felt an unexpected flare of guilt.
Mariketa lives still. . . .

Why in the hell would he be concerned about his enemy?

Recognition hammered home. When he'd been gazing into her eyes, he'd known she was enthralling him. But
he hadn't known how deeply she'd done it or how permanently.

He wasn't suffering the effects of only one spell.

Bowe worried for her as if she was his
mate
. He dreamed of her as if she was. He thought of her as his—
because she'd forced him to with one of her disgusting hexes
.

Perhaps that bloody witch should learn to be careful what she wished for.

He knew his expression was pure evil when he took a step back from the edge.

T
he lack of sunlight and real food had begun to take its toll. Mari was getting sicker, was even now beset with fever.

Rydstrom and the others continued to encourage her to jump. Maybe if the five were asking her to swim across a crocodile-infested river or walk a low tightrope over a bed of swords, she could make herself do it, but not heights.

Ignoring them was becoming easier as each day she grew more delirious. Sometimes she would find herself smiling or crying blindly in the dark as she thought of her friends or her home.

In a feverish haze, she pictured Andoain, her coven's estate just outside of New Orleans. She'd never thought she'd miss the creepy place so badly, but now she'd give anything to go back.

To most, Andoain looked like a millionaire's stately fortress, adorned with colorful landscaping that attracted butterflies. The wrought-iron fencing surrounding the entire property was painted glossy black, perfectly matching the shutters. Apple trees—either laden with fruit or dotted with blossoms—grew in profusion.

Without the estate's glamour, however, the structure was a decrepit old manor complete with snakes coiling
along the rotting railings. The apple trees remained, but for every one butterfly in the glamour, multiple spiders and frogs lived in bliss. Reed-filled puddles dotted the property, bubbling up odorous fumes.

Deep within the groaning manor, her disparate room was wallpapered pink, with lace curtains and her cheerleading pom-poms on the floor. A spell at her doorway kept out anything shorter than the coven's obligatory black cats and dogs.

But Andoain hadn't always been her home. For most of her childhood, Mari had lived with her fey mother, Jillian, in a bright, modest beach cottage on the Gulf Coast. They'd been content there, just the two of them, since Mari's warlock dad had abandoned them with nothing but a jolly promise to be back soon.

Yet on Mari's twelfth birthday, Jillian had packed up their cottage and had taken her to Andoain. There she'd opened her arms wide and pronounced it Mari's “new home.” Rendered slack-jawed, Mari had run in the opposite direction faster than even her most hell-bent pursuits of ice-cream trucks.

For two days, her mother had remained with her there. Then she'd peeled Mari off her to leave her behind, bawling on the front porch. To go on
sabbatical,
to a secret druid island somewhere in Europe. Over the years, Mari had received sporadic letters, supposedly from her mother, but she suspected Elianna was actually penning them.

Without Elianna and her best friend, Carrow, the coven bad girl, Mari didn't think she would have made it past those first months she was abruptly immersed in nothing but witchery. Gods, she missed her friends now . . . .

Beautiful, raven-haired Carrow thought being a witch
was the best thing in the world. Whenever other Lore creatures like the nymphs and satyrs turned their noses up at the “hex-hacks,” Carrow would raise both her hands in the rock-on horns gesture and shout, “
Double, double, toil and trouble, muthafuckas! You just got cursed!
”

Then she actually
would
curse them.

Carrow was one of those rare three-caste witches, though she was mainly a warrior—with an incongruous specialty in love spells. Fierce Carrow was supposed to have entered the Hie with Mari, but then she got arrested at the last Mardi Gras for public indecency again. All poor Carrow had done was to invoke a little-known fashion rule—
It's not streaking if you're wearing beads
—but the covens had vowed earlier that they wouldn't fix her next offense for her.

Carrow was presently in County. Or probably out by now.

And Mari longed to see Elianna, who'd been the best substitute mother she could ever ask for. Though Elianna had received the gift of immortality from her witch mother, her father's humanity ensured she continued to age. Kindhearted, occasionally befuddled Elianna was over four hundred years old, and without her glamour, she looked every minute of it. She liked to joke that “all the exercise in the world can't help a sunbather.”

Mari hoped they didn't worry about her too much—

“Mariketa, it's time.” Rydstrom's voice carried up to her, cutting through her thoughts. “You need to do this
now
.”

*  *  *

Bowe's sole eye slid open when he had the vaguest impression that he wasn't alone. That for the first time in weeks it was no longer only him and the serpent.

“Lachlain?” he rasped, blinking for focus.

“Aye, Bowe, it's me,” his cousin said as he knelt beside him, his gaze flickering over Bowe's injuries. Bowe knew he was shocked, but Lachlain hid it well and simply said, “I'm taking you home,” then helped him to his feet.

Bowe's sense of smell was wrecked, nearly burned away in the heat and oppressive smoke, but he could still scent a vampire. He tore from Lachlain's grasp and lunged for the shadowy figure behind them.

Wroth, that cold bastard, simply traced to the side, sending Bowe reeling to the ground. All his medley of wounds reopened in a fresh wave of blood.

Lachlain reached for him once more. “Damn it, Bowe, do you wish to die? He's brought me here to retrieve you.”

Bowe tried to break from Lachlain's iron grip. “He put me here!”

“I hold no ill will against you, Lykae,” Wroth said in a measured tone.

“Because you fucking won!”

“This is so,” the vampire answered easily.

“How?” Bowe spat the word. “How did you raise that blade?”

“It was blessed never to miss its mark,” Wroth explained. “I had only to picture a target.” The vampire wouldn't be calm like this if he'd lost Kaderin for good.

“You brought the Valkyrie back from the dead?”

“I did.”

The key had worked! Bowe felt a flare of hope and swallowed before he asked, “Did you use it . . . both times?”

“Yes.”

Bowe lowered his head. He couldn't hear this—that his
enemy had managed to do what Bowe himself could not. The shame of his failure ate at him.

“We retrieved Kaderin's two blood sisters, who'd died long ago,” Wroth said.

“Talk of this later,” Lachlain said, eyeing the fire. “I see no reason to be here any longer.” Bowe understood Lachlain's uneasiness. For over a hundred years, the Vampire Horde had tortured Lachlain in a never-ending fire. Each day he'd been burned alive but could never quite die. He'd only escaped recently, and merely being here must be excruciating for him.

That reminded Bowe . . . “Lachlain, how can you, of all people, trust this vampire?”

“He's no' of the Horde. And his brother did save Emma's life.” Emma, Lachlain's beloved mate and queen, was a half-vampire, half-Valkyrie waif.

“Aye, he helped Emma—for a price. So why'd this one bring you here? What did he demand?”

“For Emma to meet with Kristoff, the king of the rebel vampires,” Lachlain admitted. “Kristoff's her first cousin.”

Bowe shook his head. “Too dangerous. I will no' have Emma take that step for me.”

“She wants to meet him. Besides, we dinna have a lot of choice. Just as you are the only one who knows how to locate that tomb in Central America, Wroth and Kaderin are the only ones who knew how to find this place.”

Bowe was suffering from blood loss and two weeks of food and water deprivation, and he grew confused by Lachlain's words. Why had he mentioned that tomb?

“If you want to leave this place, you have to accept his help,” Lachlain said, then added to Wroth, “Get one arm.”

Wroth gave a short nod and stepped forward.

“Doona touch me, vampire,” Bowe snapped. “I'll bloody stand on my own.” As he struggled to rise, he gritted out, “Why would anyone want to find that tomb?”

Wroth answered, “Because the players you trapped there, Lykae, never returned.”

“
What?
” Bowe rasped as he indeed made it to his feet by himself. Just before he lost consciousness.

W
hat the hell are you doing?” Lachlain snapped when he saw Bowe struggling to sit up in bed. It'd been a mere day since he'd been delivered back to the Lykae compound in Louisiana.

“Got somewhere I need to be,” Bowe answered. His tone was weary, and yet there seemed to be some kind of underlying excitement in his demeanor.

“You're no' ready to go anywhere yet.” Yesterday, before Bowe had come to, Lachlain had seen to it that all his injuries were debrided and dressed as best as was possible. The amount of damage done to Bowe had been staggering. Besides missing a hand and an eye, his torso had been pierced with some kind of rusted metal, tearing the bottom of his lung. “You're in no shape to be moving around so soon.”

“Does no' matter.”

“You'll reopen your wounds.” The idea that Bowe had been able to keep fighting on in this condition was astonishing—if one didn't know what he'd fought for. But after such trials and then such a loss, Lachlain couldn't understand why Bowe hadn't stepped into that pit. If Lachlain had lost his mate, Emma, not once but, in essence, twice, he'd have dived in within a heartbeat's time. Why hadn't
Bowe? What drove him? The subject was one of great conjecture among the clan.