The Hunt: Complete Edition

by Anne Marsh

  Sitting on the edge of the hole, I swing my legs into the black pool of darkness, raising the flarestick over my head. A large dark shadow lunges out of the darkness. Behind me.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Without turning, I lob the flarestick—the satisfying smell of singed fur fills the air—and slide into the open hole.

  A feral roar shakes the tunnel. And, Oh shit, I think. Perhaps there is more to the Cat legend than I thought. The next moment, a shimmer of gold light spikes through the sudden darkness and hard male hands seize me about the waist.

  I’m pulled ruthlessly back through the hole, onto my feet, and up against a hard chest. A hard, naked chest. Stomping down with my foot, I aim for my attacker’s vulnerable arch. There is a satisfying grunt of pain.

  Take that.

  Snapping my head backward, I target his nose. This time, the results are less satisfying. The man pinioning me shifts smoothly, making my head ring when I strike muscled shoulder. Stars explode behind my eyelids. A hand twists mine up behind my back until moving means a painful gasp for breath. His other hand winds around my long ponytail, rendering me immobile.

  “Pax,” a rough voice growls in my ear.

  I’m not that crazy. Or that trusting.

  Instead of surrendering, I kick harder, trying to buck my attacker off. My breath sounds harsh even to my own ears, but he hasn’t made a sound after his initial protest at having his foot crushed. So not good. If only I could get my head around to see my attacker, I’d have a better idea of what I’m up against.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  The warrior restraining me is hard-bodied. Tilting my head back against his muscled chest, I look up into a face that is almost alien in its handsomeness. Gold eyes glow at me in the darkness. He has dark hair woven into hundreds of braids, each fastened with a small topaz, and tawny-colored skin that seems eminently lickable and matches his firm mouth because there is absolutely, positively nothing soft about this male at all.

  He pins me effortlessly against his hard, hot flesh.

  “Be still,” he grates, an unmistakable note of impatience creeping into his voice. Like I’m not going to make killing me as difficult and annoying as possible?

  “I don’t think so,” I gasp. “I haven’t done anything. Haven’t taken anything.” When he eases his grasp of my arms, I gulp air frantically. The smell of him is wild, intoxicating. What is he?

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” he rumbles against my ear. With his mouth pressed almost against my skin, the words seem like a lover’s caress in the darkness. To my surprise, my body is more than eager to consider the erotic possibilities of my current position. That this man’s hands have full access to my body and can explore where and how they please. As wetness slicks my sex, I kick my legs against his shins. Hard. How dare he be so damn attractive?

  “Not nice,” he grunts. His leg hooks around mine, immobilizing me. I’m pinned against his body. Helpless. “I’m here to help. Consider me a rescuer.”

  “That would be more believable,” I grunt, once again short of breath, “if you let me go.” Gods, could one of the hunters have caught up with me so fast? “You’re a Guardian, aren’t you?”

  I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer me but merely tightens his grip.

  “I’m not interested in being a mate.” I try again to throw his body off, but it’s like trying to shift a damn mountain. I have the effect of a gnat pushing against a boulder.

  To my surprise, however, he agrees with me. “Very well.”

  I feel my eyes narrow. “No mating,” I repeat. It can’t hurt to be clear. Crystal, crystal clear.

  “No mating,” he agrees. “All I want is to talk.”

  I doubt that. If he isn’t one of the Guardians, he may be another thief after the same prize as me. It would be just like Lierr to send two of his minions after the same treasure.

  “Let me go,” I repeat.

  This time, he does, although he keeps me trapped between his body and the wall. No diving down into the hole or sprinting up passageways for me. Even if I try, I suspect he will catch me with humiliating ease.

  He bends down and retrieves my flarestick. For a brief moment, as he strikes the thin tube against the flinty wall, he is vulnerable. One quick chop at his neck and I could be free. So why do I hesitate? It’s him or me.

  “You resisted temptation,” he says, straightening up, and I know he isn’t referring to the wrestling match in which we’ve just engaged. Now I’m just glad I didn’t give in to the urge to land a blow on his exposed nape. He expected it.

  And he was ready to stop me.

  In the orange light of the flarestick, I examine my opponent more closely. He’s tall. Broad-shouldered and overwhelmingly masculine in the small confines of the tunnel. The strong line of his jaw and cheekbones give him a face as harshly beautiful as Amun Ra’s, but the gold-colored eyes and the dark hair spilling loosely over his bare shoulders make him seem less civilized and more feral. I don’t doubt that the Amun Ra can kill if he wants to, but this man will do so without hesitating.

  I purse my lips, considering.

  And the man can’t possibly be much more naked. A pleated, loose linen cloth is wrapped around his lean hips, and he wears a leather weapons belt stuffed with an impressive array of knives and throwing stars. So, in addition to being practically buck-ass naked, the man is a walking arsenal. He looks tough. More like a mercenary than some sort of honor guard for temple valuables, and Exhibit A is the long pale scar cutting from one cheekbone down to his jaw. The only other items that he wears are simple gold cuffs fastened around his wrists.

  No, he doesn’t look like the Guardians I saw earlier, despite the similarity in size and high-handed arrogance. And the only tattoos he bears are dark marks inked onto the golden skin of both forearms. Missing are the telltale markings that Guardians reputedly sport--no bars cut across the golden splendor of his face.

  Maybe he isn’t a Guardian. Maybe he is another thief.

  And he stands between me and my necklace. Taking advantage of his relaxed stance, I dive for the hole.

  My attacker reacts more quickly than I think possible.

  Reaching out a hand, he yanks me back from the edge of the deep hole, his body crowding mine back against the wall, trapping me in a prison of his hot flesh and arms. His anger is tangible, his large body shuddering with tension as he inhales, first one breath, then a second. Deliberately calming himself. He is primal, dangerous, and deadly.

  Resting his forehead against mine, he groans. “Look before you leap, femi.” One callused thumb strokes the nape of my neck.

  “So say you.” Isn’t he going to snap my neck now?

  “Do you have any idea what’s down there?” Is he upset? If I break my neck, there is one less competitor for the necklace.

  “Sure. Another level. More stone walls,” I bluff.

  “You know this for a fact?” His eyes glow. “You’ve been down there before?”

  He knows I haven’t. “Research. Did some asking around before I popped over here. You should try it,” I say sweetly.

  Are those his teeth I hear grinding? Good. He seems very different from the Master’s usual brand of thief. Not only is he larger and more brutal, but he is too direct. As if he’s more at home letting his blades speak for him than his tongue, Heqet save me.

  “Look,” I explain, since he’s still not letting me go, “we’re likely after the same thing here. And there’s only one prize. Winner takes all. No splitting.” The Master’s thieves rarely work together. Vacancies tend to occur when multiple thieves are assigned to the same task. Cheating is a prerequisite for success and all of us fight dirty. So…is he trying to disarm me? Get me off balance so he can push me through the opening and break my neck that way? All possibilities.

  “So you are going down there after something.” He pauses, but I don’t fill in the blanks for him. “And it’s not a mate. You made that perfectly clear. I’m here to make sure you find what you’r
e after. In one piece.” He shrugs, finally putting a little space between my body and his. “Why not team up? You go on down there alone and I guarantee you’re not coming back up. Not whole. This temple is a dangerous place and I can protect you.” Hard eyes stare at me. “Keep you safe.”

  “For a price,” I counter, testing the waters without agreeing to anything. Of course he isn’t going to do this for charitable purposes. “Who sent you?”

  He gives me a small half smile. “I’m independent.”

  I give in to the temptation to examine those broad shoulders with my eyes again. Yeah, I’d just bet he’s an independent operator. The man screams alpha and imagining him taking orders from Lierr is damned difficult to do. I revise my original guess at his identity.

  “Merck?” That makes more sense.

  Mercenaries are notorious, for both their brutality and their greed. Coin is their only recognized code of honor; once payment changes hands, mercks finish the job. No matter what. As a result, most folks pay up front to reduce chances of a double-cross.

  If he really is a soldier for hire, my best bet is to hope he hasn’t been paid yet and get him on my side. Immediately. Unfortunately, I’m light on cash at the moment, not having anticipated any shopping opportunities inside the temple.

  I eye the muscles in his arms. I’ve already spotted the blades; the question really is, how much mazhyk does he pack?

  “Are you strictly weapons-grade? Or do you do mazhyk as well?”

  JAFAR

  The little femi has courage, I have to admit that. Up against a wall, literally, and she keeps right on asking questions. Non-stop.

  “Both,” I bite out. She’ll sense the mazhyk in me; better she thinks it is part of my stock in trade, one more weapon I sell for cash.

  “Right. Well.” When her gaze moves down my body, cataloging what she sees, I suddenly know precisely what a side of beef feels like.

  The obvious approval in her eyes rouses the Cat in me again. She is aware of the heat between us, too. I can tell, but I also can’t give in to it. I did that—once—and Guardians died for it. Trusting a female who appears inside the temple out of nowhere is criminally stupid and I won’t do it again. Nevertheless, for just a moment, I allow myself to imagine taking her mouth with mine, sliding my tongue against hers as I learn her taste. My cock stirs, voting for the immediate execution of that particular plan.

  Her eyes hold unease. Good. She is supposed to be scared of me, just like she is supposed to follow the rules. Maybe she is merely lost. Maybe she took a wrong turn and meant to behave herself and participate in the Hunt. But her own half admission condemns her, and every instinct I have screams she is trouble. Hot, luscious trouble.

  “You need me. Need my protection. Aren’t you afraid of the Guardians?” I demand against her ear as heat tears through me, thickening my cock still further. Will she take every inch of me if I cram myself into her sex? Or will she whimper with the agonizingly sweet pleasure of just the thick tip, thrusting in and out of her greedy, wet sex until she howls for more—and I give it to her?

  Her breath huffs out in a small sigh, interrupting my fantasies. “Absolutely not,” she declares, shaking her head.

  “Do not be stubborn, femi,” I croon into the smooth shell of her ear. She shivers. Good. She is deliciously sensitive. Delicately, I lick the curve of her ear, tasting her flesh and giving her just the smallest hint of pleasure. Stubborn female.

  “No,” she protests, squirming in my grasp.

  I can’t help admiring her tenacity.

  I like the way she refuses to give up. The way she uses every weapon at her disposal. Granted, her petite frame is no match for my larger, harder body. Even if I had been human, she’d have been outweighed. Easily pinned. But she is a warrior at heart and she fights. The Ifrits will still eat her up for breakfast, and that is only if my brothers don’t find her first. Fortunately for her, she has me. I’ll look out for her. After all, if she is dead—or spread beneath one of my fellow Guardians—I can’t discover what she’s really come down here for.

  I suspect it isn’t for a good fuck. My luck is unfortunate in that regard.

  “Hold still,” I warn.

  She ignores me of course, twisting deliciously in my grasp.

  “Obey me.” I sense something very hostile moving toward us. And that is to say nothing of the Cats who are just entering the main corridor over our heads. She has no idea of the kind of trouble she is in.

  “I don’t take orders—”

  Whatever she is about to say is lost in the earsplitting shriek that shatters the silence as trouble launches itself into the air, aiming for my eyes.

  MIU

  The death spirit flies out of the dark shadows of the passage. “Mine, mine, mine,” it shrieks in shrill tones as it dives for the mercenary’s eyes with the business end of its beak. Not my favorite kind of opponent. In addition to having a face that is half-human, half-bird, a death spirit can pass through just about anything—and wreak havoc while doing so.

  I saw one take a nosedive right through a man’s midsection once. Although the beak tore a gaping wound in the man’s skin, it was the ghostly passing through that tied the man’s innards into one large knot. He died screaming and sorely regretting disturbing the spirits’ nest. For my part, I learned then and there to avoid working in cemeteries. It’s almost impossible to spot the death spirits coming until they’re on top of you.

  “Not supposed to be here,” the mercenary roars, sounding royally pissed off. Death spirits are free agents, roaming where they want as long as there is a dead body somewhere in the vicinity. Since the temple is built atop a deep set of catacombs, the death spirits have free rein here. Keeping them out must be like trying to keep field mice out of a haystack.

  In other words: impossible.

  He pushes me behind him and, for once, I’m glad to shut up and go. If he wants to stand between me and the business end of that beak, I’ll let him.

  Only partly sentient, death spirits retain a few residual memories from their mortal existence and not much else. Sometimes, if the spirits led particularly happy lives before their deaths, they turn out to make fairly decent companions. Those are glad to show you about a tomb or two, share a few stories, and then wave you on your merry way. Others are so weepy that you can’t get a word out of them, just sobs and howls that make your flesh crawl with secondhand grief. I never ask what happened to those. The third sort, though—well, those seem to feel it just isn’t fair that anyone else gets to live if they don’t. Malicious little buggers. And deadly. This one clearly falls into the third camp.

  Tall and thin, it is an almost transparent oily gray that blends perfectly with the walls of the passageway. Correctly identifying the more substantial target, the death spirit dives straight for the merck’s throat.

  Time to see what the mercenary is made of. Kind of like a job interview, I decide. After all, if he can’t handle a death spirit, he won’t be much use to me in the catacombs.

  The death spirit turns out to be a lively one. Challenging too. It zooms from one side of the tunnel to the other, trailing long gray creepers of rotting fabric behind its transparent body. A musty smell follows in its wake. Dropping to my stomach, I minimize my profile.

  “Slippery bastard.” With a terse curse, the mercenary slams a clenched fist into the side of the spirit’s head. In rapid succession, he fires off blows to its crown, temple, and eyes. His thumbs dig into its empty eye sockets, twisting. Howling, the spirit checks in mid-dive, bouncing off the male’s knuckles and colliding with the ceiling.

  Score one for the living. With an angry screech, the spirit regroups and alters course. Fists aren’t going to stop it for long. Propping my chin on my hands, I assess the spirit’s trajectory. Going for the knees now, clever beast. Hamstring the mercenary and then the spirit can finish him off at leisure.

  “You got this,” I call sweetly, “or you want a hand?”

  The merck swings his large bo
dy between me and the death spirit, but his only audible answer is a rasping growl. For a moment, I’d swear his eyes glow in the dim light, but when I check, they look normal. Weird.

  Then he brings the blades up to his chest and I realize he does indeed know his way around a knife. He isn’t trying a takedown on the spirit; he’s going for the kill.

  The spirit is already dead, of course, but some bit of leftover life animates it, something extra that the spirit has squirreled away deep between its bony ribs. Get that bit and you’re in business. Presto chango. The spirit pops along to the afterworld and you can relax.

  I watch my merck feint, the blade a dancing silver line in his strong hands. He moves with the lethal grace of an experienced fighter. When is the last time someone else placed himself in harm’s way, to protect me? I could get used to this. Maybe I would let him come with me. Frankly, I’m not sure I could stop him anyhow. Not without calling a whole lot of unwelcome attention to myself. So why not? Why not let him protect me, if he’s so anxious to do so? I’d be able to keep an eye on him, figure out what he’s really up to.

  A win-win plan.

  JAFAR

  Death spirits count too much on the element of surprise. This one is no exception. When I block its lunge for my throat, it retreats to the ceiling of the passageway, buzzing angrily as it darts about.

  I move swiftly, again positioning myself between the angry spirit and my female.

  “Hey,” said female hollers. “You’ve got this under control?”

  The spirit darts toward her and I move, tossing a steel shortknife through the air to pierce the ground between us.

  “Use it on the death spirit if it charges,” I snap. “Eyes. Mouth. Heart. Twist hard.”

  The blade quivers between us, shivering from the force of my throw, two inches of the steel buried in the ground. Now at least she has a weapon to defend herself if necessary. Something tells me she knows precisely how to use the weapon. I search for my opponent and discover I don’t have far to look.