by Anne Marsh
The Hunt…
No matter how they try to flee, the virgins who enter the twisting tunnels of the Guardians are destined to be caught. Actually, most don’t try too hard. The stories of warriors who can take on Cat form, of lovers who can make a woman scream with pleasure, are just too enticing.
But I’m no virgin, and I’ve joined the Hunt with my own agenda. After I steal the moonstone necklace I’ve been sent for, I have no intention of becoming some Cat’s tasty morsel. But you think someone would have warned me that these have some deliciously kinky habits, and the dark hunter on my trail isn’t about to let impudent thievery go without punishment of the most exquisite kind…
Part One
DOMINATION
Great gold statues of fearsome cats guard the Temple of Amun Ra, carvings said to take on lives of their own whenever a thief enters the treasure-laden tombs below. Whatever the truth of the tale, it is certain that Guardian warriors roam the catacombs beneath the temple, mysterious males whom the simple farmers of the nearby Valley both fear and envy. The warriors are summoned to protect, to pursue—and to hunt. For once a year, the Guardians claim their price for the protection they afford to the Valley and its inhabitants—the right to hunt the Valley’s virgins for mates.
MIU
My knees are shaking so badly that I consider dropping on all fours and crawling up the broad limestone ramp that disappears into the dark, cool depths of the temple. Heqet help me, I must be sun-crazed to have thought I could pull off this job. The red rays of the late-afternoon sun blaze a heavy path across my shoulders, the heat weighty rather than reassuring.
I straighten and walk faster. I will do this. I must.
Two massive pylons mark the temple entrance. A stonecutter has carved an elaborate depiction of two black panthers shifting from Cat form to warrior form, their massive claws morphing into steel daggers that bite mercilessly into the thief the two beings have just run to ground. The thief looks backward in horror, his mouth frozen open in a soundless shriek.
I can do this. I won’t end up like him. Ninety-nine successes and this can’t be my first failure.
No, Heqet willing, I’ll be in and out of the temple long before those lethal claws score my shoulders. Before its feline guardians realize they’ve let a thief wander loose in their midst.
The row of white-clad virgins in front of me steps over the threshold and disappears into the dark shadows of the interior. The woman next to me sobs audibly, the small mounds of her breast heaving wildly beneath her silk robe—she’s barely more than a girl and that disgusts me. It figures that the temple’s warriors prefer children for mates. Of course, the woman on my other side is of a more calculating bent—she rubs the silk of her robe between a thumb and forefinger, assessing the quality of the weave while she ogles the statues of Cats that fill the room we have just entered.
The Cats are well over seven feet tall and carved from what looks like pure gold. Dark obsidian glitters from the slashes of their eyes. One of those, melted down and refashioned into a series of less memorable ornaments, would keep me and my sister sheltered for months. A pity it isn’t possible. I take a second look—professional curiosity only, I assure myself—and then force myself to move away.
I’m not here to steal seven-foot statuary.
In fact, I’m here to steal something much smaller. A necklace. Made from silver and moonstones, and placed in a coffer some fifty years ago. It has other—special— properties, I’ve been told, but those don’t matter. Just as it doesn’t matter that I am not the one who wants the necklace. I’ll do as I’ve been ordered to do. Find the necklace, pocket it, and escape from the temple without being caught by one of the legendary Cat warriors. Then I’m home free. Literally.
Everything depends on finding the necklace.
And avoiding the temple’s Guardians. I eye the frieze again.
Frankly, I’m not convinced there is any such being as a Guardian. Warriors, yes. Undoubtedly, the temple’s defenders keep watch over its fabled riches. But a special breed of Guardians who can change into deadly felines? No. The stories of the Cats and their annual Hunt for virgin mates are too outlandish to be true. What man would really send the unwed females of his family into a great stone monstrosity of a tomb, to be chased down by shape-shifting warriors on the prowl for mates?
I wonder if anyone is checking to see whether or not all the women being herded into the sanctuary are, in fact, virgins. I suspect there is more than one poseur in the lot, starting with the avaricious woman to my right.
Patting the trembling girl to my left, I do my best to blend in. “It will all be over soon,” I promise, not knowing if I speak the truth. The words sound good though, and how can anybody with a conscience keep this child here?
The girl shoots me a teary-eyed look and then frowns. “Do I know you?” she asks. Not so simple as she looks then.
Because of course the girl doesn’t know me. Having prepared for this eventuality, I lie smoothly and wait to see if she will accept my fabrication. “I’m Miu. I’m from one of the outermost farms.”
Not looking convinced, the girl nods and then returns to her weeping.
I slip away in mid-sob. There is no point in being careless; if the girl decides she really doesn’t know a Miu, she might complain—and there is always some male, somewhere, who is willing to entertain complaints. Plus, the Valley is inhabited by farmers with carefully tended fields, an isolated group who does not welcome strangers.
The yearly visit of the traders, who enter the Valley leading pack animals loaded with whatever the townspeople cannot grow or make for themselves, has provided the perfect cover for my arrival. In the flurry of excitement generated by the traders, no one notices me slip away from the group. The following evening, no one objects when I join the procession of virgins trooping toward the temple for the Hunt.
Up until now, it’s all been so very easy.
The men herding the women into the temple stop and retreat. I try to look virginally distressed rather than desperate as the temple priest appears and launches into a long-winded address about the honor that will be paid to a select few of the assembled women.
A pontificating fool, I decide long, bored minutes later, who enjoys the sound of his voice and the delicious echoes of the high-ceilinged chamber in which we wait. The rows of Cat statues stretch away on both sides of us, but I see no guards, no weapons here inside the temple.
Still, I have the strangest sense of being watched. Then I happen to glance up at the galleries above. Heqet help me, the galleries are crowded with dark figures who almost tempt me to believe in the preposterous legends of the temple Guardians: impossibly tall, broad-shouldered males shrouded in long black robes, their hair bound back into disciplined queues that flow halfway down their backs. I’d like to undo them, muss them up and shake their stern demeanor.
My head shoots around as I catch the priest’s last words. “…virgins, of course,” he declares. The man’s words feel like a slap across the face. I am not a virgin, but unless I miss my guess, neither are many of the other women. Now the priest moves on from his self-congratulatory words on our well-preserved virginity (hah) and explains how the Hunt will be conducted.
No woman has ever outrun the Cat lords, he assures us. I want to scoff, but instead I keep my expression blank and my eyes demurely cast down. “When the signal is given,” the priest says, “the hangings will be drawn back from these walls. You will each choose a tunnel and enter it. Run. You have a night’s span to reach the standing stones on the other side of the Valley. Any woman who makes it there is free to choose whether she wishes to remain with the Cat lords or to return to her own kind in the Valley.” The priest smiles with a fals
e benevolence. “No woman who makes it to the standing stones will ever run again, and the dowry provided to each of you by the Guardians will be yours to keep.”
Ah, yes. Money. A perfectly understandable explanation for why there are so many women in the room and why their families have offered them up for the Hunt. Without money in hand, scruples are a luxury most cannot afford. Myself included.
The priest eyes us sternly. “Of course, there is another possible end to the Hunt, when a hunter catches you as his mate.” The details of what happens then—the ritual taking of the girl’s virginity—has been a popular topic in the Valley’s taverns. The legend has a savagery about it that impresses even the visiting merchants, who have seen a great deal of the outside world. Once again, I have my doubts about the truth of the tales. The Cat warrior will bell his mate—and mark her as his—so he will always be able to find her? Not likely. I don’t know what belling is, but it is undoubtedly some romantic euphemism for a sex act.
The priest is concluding his speech now, and his final words bring my head up in disbelief, because here is a wrinkle I have failed to anticipate.
“You’ll go, one by one, into the audience chamber and be examined by the Amun Ra,” he says. Interview with the lord high ruler of these Cat people? Not if I can help it. This Amun Ra will spot me for a phony, and I’ll end up like the thief on their ghoulish door frieze before I’ve even had a chance to do any plundering of my own.
This calls for decisive action.
My voice brings the proceedings to a standstill. “No.”
The old priest chokes. Red suffuses his face and one of his acolytes has to rush over and pound him unceremoniously on the back. He stares balefully at me, while I enjoy his consternation. “It’s not a choice for you to make, girl. The Amun Ra has spoken. He has made his wishes quite clear.” Apparently the wishes of his supreme high holiness trump those of a mere female. Really, stealing from these warriors will be enjoyable.
The priest tries to continue, but I cut him off. “Yes, yes”—I gesture toward the rows of feline statuary—“I realize that I’m merely prey for this charming Hunt of yours, but I never agreed to any examination. That kind of humiliation?” I shake my head dramatically. “Not what I signed up for.”
He stares at me, nonplussed. I stare back. One or two of the women nearest me begin to draw slowly away. Obviously no one challenges the priest.
“I don’t see why you—or anyone else—needs to inspect me. Clearly”—I let one hand slide down the front of my robe, deliberately pressing the thin silk against the round, firm curves of my thighs which are, if I do say so myself, quite lovely—“I’ve got two legs that work perfectly well. I’ve sufficient wind to run. And I don’t”—I cock an eyebrow at him just to see if that will set him off again—“plan on getting caught.”
I wait to see if the males watching in the gallery will take the bait. They are hunters. They should revel in the challenge I have so blatantly issued. And, being men, I doubt they will stop to wonder why I have issued such a crude challenge.
The priest makes the mistake of arguing with me. Yes! I win! “You agreed.” He points an accusing finger at me, stalking forward in a self-righteous swirl of expensive robes. “Your family took the dower. You came here.”
I smile soothingly. There is no need to tell the man I simply ordered the appropriate clothing from a seamstress back in Shympolsk and then slipped into the ranks of the women marching toward the temple. No dower has been paid for me and no family has agreed to send me. I am an imposter.
“And if some shifter decides he can drag me off as his mate, he’ll need to catch me first.” The intense interest from the galleries grows stronger. I can smell the heady scent of well-cured leather, masculine bodies, and no small amount of sexual interest pouring from the watchers above. It is a very good thing I have no intention of getting caught; I suspect that, legends or no legends, what those men take, they hold. Under other circumstances, I would applaud that sentiment. I hold onto what is mine too.
The man who strides out of the darkest shadows of the chamber is as impossibly tall as the hunters who crowd the gallery, but he wears the black robes of a temple dweller. His bare feet move silently over the mosaic tiles with all the grace of a fighter. A match for my skills indeed. This one will be harder to fool. The deep cowl hides his face, but I can just make out firm lips set in a stern line. He thoroughly disapproves of me.
He takes my arm and I allow him to steer me deeper into the cool, scented depths of the temple. “Come,” he orders in a voice of liquid darkness. Behind me I hear a muted roar. For a moment, it seems as if the stone statues of the panthers stir, shimmering into eerie life.
Which is impossible.
We step into yet another high-ceilinged, cool room wreathed in smoky shadows. A lintel carved with unintelligible glyphs decorates the entrance and the walls have been carefully pieced together from vast limestone blocks brought at some point in time from foreign quarries—no one in the Valley can remember how or when the temple was constructed.
The man shoves the cowl back from his head with an impatient hand and I realize he has more than just the build of a Guardian. He has the face of one as well. Three dark gold bars stripe the left side of his face and black eyes regard me unblinkingly. If what I’ve been told is correct, those three bars mean my escort is none other than the Amun Ra, the temple’s leader and the first of several obstacles on my path toward the necklace.
He sprawls on the low divan occupying the center of the room and I discover we are not alone. A stunningly lovely woman, wrapped only in a fragile, transparent silk chiton, reclines on the couch. She wears elaborate gold armbands on her upper arms, which chime with a small shimmer of bells whenever she moves. Her eyes narrow as she stares at me.
“Why have you brought this one here, my lord?” She runs a small, caressing hand up the powerful bulge of muscle in his forearm. A red flush colors her cheeks and her eyes glitter feverishly. She looks as if she wants to consume the Amun Ra whole, which is fine by me. I certainly don’t want him.
“She threatened chaos, love,” the Amun Ra replies absentmindedly. He splays one dark gold hand possessively against the woman’s bare thigh, opening her to his gaze. And mine.
To my own disgust, I make a choked sound of amazement. The Valley dwellers may be simple farmers, but these people inside the temple are more sophisticated than I have ever dared dream of being.
“You wish to join our Hunt.” Without dropping his hard gaze from mine, he speaks softly to the belled woman. “Spread your legs, my love, and show our guest what she may expect when she fails to escape from my hunters. This is Halilah,” he says, his eyes never moving from mine. “My lover for today.”
The dark finger pressing into the bare flesh of the woman’s sex arouses a throaty moan from his companion—and my unexpected fascination. I should be angry or shocked or taking advantage of the couple’s display to search the room for escape routes. Instead, I stare as mesmerized as a chicken before a snake, feeling an unfamiliar slick of wetness between my own thighs. The thin gold chain that circles the woman’s waist dips between her thighs and disappears. The woman does not merely wear the bells—she contains them. With every step she takes, the small brass balls must remind her of the Cat that has captured and belled her. Small sparks of electric pleasure will chime in the moist delta between her thighs, building into a helpless ache that only the Cat can—and will—assuage.
“Belled,” the Amun Ra says darkly. “Hunted. Taken. My hunters will track you through the passageways and they will show no mercy when they run you to ground.” He smiles coldly, but his fingers stroke his own mate’s liquid flesh with a tender discipline. “You posed them a challenge and you did so purposely. I would not have thought you the sort of woman to take part willingly in the Hunt.”
“But I am.” There is too much at stake not to convince him that this much is truth. “I merely prefer to play your games in my own way.”
“It is not a game we play.”
I know that now, but the realization cannot be allowed to alter my decision. I will not allow him to frighten me off with this dark passion.
The Amun Ra regards me levelly and then makes an imperious gesture with his fingers. The silk hangings covering the far wall fall in a soft whisper of impossibly expensive fabric. I count at least a dozen dark passageways leading away from the audience chamber; the entire temple must be riddled with them.
“Choose,” he says simply. “Choose. And run.”
JAFAR
The female saunters toward one of the passageways and disappears into the blackness. Strong, sensual, and cunning—all traits my Cat admires. And yet she is too confident to be one of the Hunt’s usual runners. Too different from the other females I’ve watched run over the years. “Who are you?” I ask under my breath, but the empty passageway has no answers for me.
For the first time in decades, an intense interest in the outcome of the Hunt surges through me. If I possessed even the slightest desire to take a mate, the tempting feminine morsel that the temple has just swallowed up would rank high on my list of candidates. My Cat wants to chase the honey-and-apples scent of her up the line of those surprisingly long legs. Bury myself in the creamy, gold-colored skin that has my Cat demanding to lick her from head to toe. Concentrating, of course, on all the creamy pink bits.
She’d have a good many of those.
She will also protest vociferously if I so much as lay a paw on her. I know that.
But persuading her to explore a little passion—with me—would be intensely pleasurable. Unfortunately, she’s picked a passageway that will drop her square in the middle of the Guardians’ personal chambers. Of course, most of the passageways lead through that particular area; it makes the Hunt simpler if we Guardians don’t have to spend hours combing the miles of dark, dusty passageways for lost females. One of my brothers will choose her and chase her; the next time I see her, she’ll be wearing another male’s bells.
