The Hunt: Complete Edition

by Anne Marsh

  The death spirit floats lazily on the ceiling, all loose, lanky streamers that ripple with rot and decay. One of the younger spirits and a hothead to boot, it has plagued our Guardians a dozen times or more in the last two months alone. Usually, I prefer to simply remove the death spirits to the most remote regions of the temple, but now I don’t have a choice. There will be no containing this spirit; bloodlust consumes it. I toss a second blade up and down, catching and spinning the knife by the haft when it lands. Wait for it. Force the spirit to commit to a path.

  I slide one foot into a fighting stance. Has the spirit recognized a Cat—or has it simply scented prey, and easy, female prey at that?

  “You don’t want to do this.” I deliberately meet and hold the eyes of the spirit, making one last attempt to reason with it.

  The spirit’s eyes glow in the soft twilight of the passageway. “Yes. Yes. Yes,” it hisses. “Die.”

  So much for reason. I leap lightly to the far side of the tunnel, drawing the spirit away from my companion. The spirit dives tauntingly near my head, coming close but not within striking distance.

  “Fight me,” it croons. “Or shall I take her?”

  Over my dead body. Tightening my right hand firmly around the hilt of my shortknife, I deliberately relax my wrist, tracking my opponent as I wait for an opportunity. The death spirit will give me one. Spirits always do. Too simple in their thinking, they do not understand the need to wait. To plot. And then to strike. The spirit’s eyes flicker and I raise my arm to protect my chest.

  Come and get me.

  Surprisingly, my companion doesn’t look shocked by the appearance of the death spirit. Instead, she looks calculating. Most of the tomb robbers I’ve met would have been frightened. A typical Hunt virgin should be shrieking by now. Her calm confuses the spirit even more. Clearly, it isn’t used to being met by silence.

  “Will you win?” she asks, running her fingers lightly over her borrowed blade as she stares around the tunnel as if she is already committing her escape route to memory. What is she planning now?

  “Yes,” I bite out. “If you can manage to be quiet for a minute.”

  She actually laughs. My liking for her intensifies.

  Perched upside down on the ceiling now, the death spirit howls again. It loathes both the shift in focus and the lack of fear on our part. Fortunately, my companion doesn’t appear to understand the consequences of a loss here. In the unlikely event that the death spirit wins, it will rip out her throat without hesitation—unless it is in the market for a human bride, in which case it will settle for planting its razor-sharp claws in her flesh and dragging her off to its lair. There, it will alternate between mating and tearing at her until she is dead.

  “Carry on,” she says, settling herself back on her rocky seat.

  With an earsplitting shriek, the death spirit launches itself from the ceiling, slashing its beak downward with a sharp cry.

  I meet the descending weapon with my own. Sparks fly as beak and blade meet and clash. I push the spirit backward with the force of my counterthrust, holding the knife close as I circle. Opportunity knocks and I take aim, the blade flashing almost invisibly as it streaks along its trajectory.

  First one thin dark scratch blossoms on the spirit’s torso and then another. Already dead, it cannot bleed blood. Instead, it loses psychic energy. With each slash, the outline of the spirit fades a little bit more. I know my face radiates a feral intensity that is not quite human, but that can’t be helped. My companion will eventually understand who I am. What I am.

  “Mine,” I growl.

  The spirit responds with a pithy curse.

  I drive the spirit toward the wall, delivering another series of brutal blows. Jamming the point of my knife between two ribs, I probe. Twist. Beneath the seeking point, the spirit’s small ember of life pops.

  With a sharp crack, the spirit disappears.

  I whirl about and advance on the second order of business: my femi.

  MIU

  One large, hot, aggressive male backs me against the wall. His right hand pins my shoulder to the wall, forcing me to drop the shortknife, while the other traces the curve of my jaw. I ache to push him away. To redraw the boundaries between us. We are flirting with something dangerous and retreat is critical. I must establish my authority.

  “Where were we?” he asks, his voice a low, hot rasp of sound. His legs pinion mine. One nudge and my thighs will part around his. He feels so good pressed against me. Demanding. Hard.

  I lick my lips. “Discussing your employment.” Which suddenly seems like a useful idea.

  “Yes. My employment.” His lip curls, his teeth gleaming in the semi-twilight of the tunnel. “Care to reconsider my offer?”

  “Why, yes.” I’m sure the smile curling my own mouth is satisfied. Maybe even gloating. “I do. Price,” I order.

  His eyes snap to my face. “Excuse me?” You could bottle the arrogance in that voice. Apparently Mr. High-and-Mighty doesn’t like having a price tag attached to his ass, so I should savor the moment. Keeping his arrogance in check will be a full-time job.

  “What do you charge for this protection?”

  His eyes dip to the shadow of my collarbone but his hands don’t move from where they grip me. Hard, but not hurting. I don’t know whether to applaud his discipline—or bemoan it.

  “You want to pay me,” he says flatly. The heated warmth in his eyes dims, and he captures my face between his hands.

  “It’s customary,” I agree. “And before you say it, think again. I don’t trade sexplay.” Although he certainly tempts me to make an exception. That’s the truth, however much I dislike it.

  “Money.” The hands tighten, drawing my head backward. “I’m not here for your money.”

  No money. No sexplay. So why is he here really?

  “Consider me bought and paid for.” An unreadable look flashes through his eyes. “I’m here to watch after you.” His gaze hardens. “That would be the nonnegotiable part of this deal.”

  My instincts are flashing a great big “Caution—danger ahead!” warning. Or that could also be my hormones kicking into overdrive. Something about the big male makes me want to take him to the ground in a lip-lock of epic proportions. What would it be like to make him lose control, to have all that raw power unleashed on me?

  Trading him sexplay for muscle wouldn’t be bad at all if a girl didn’t mind being dominated in bed. The man bracing me against the wall wouldn’t take anyone’s orders—least of all in the bedroom. I’d be at his mercy in every way, and I wouldn’t enjoy that.

  Would I?

  Snap out of it, I warn myself. Focus on the job. Not on the unmistakable outline of his cock pressing against my hip, tantalizingly large as it is. “You’re a prepaid present. No financial outlay and I don’t owe you anything at all when this little journey of ours wraps up. Right.” I let him hear the skepticism in my voice. “I’m not that gullible. Who sent you? The Master?”

  Instead of answering, he looks deep into my eyes. Clever man. “I swear you will reach your destination alive.”

  He gutted the death spirit with effortless ease. Now he promised to turn all that leashed violence on anyone—or anything—that stood between me and the necklace. With his help, I’d get out of here more quickly. Be on my way back to ransom Lore before too much damage had been done to my sister. I can’t afford to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

  “Consider yourself hired.”

  He nods curtly. “Tell me your name.”

  Shaking my head, I shove free of him. “Unnecessary.”

  I realize my mistake instantly. Eyes glowing, he lowers the full weight of his body onto mine, spreading me ruthlessly open against the wall before I can so much as blink.

  JAFAR

  “It’s very necessary,” I growl, using my thighs to part her legs. Her body is deliciously soft, even as she squirms angrily. Channeling my aggression into a hot, hard kiss sounds good, so I thread my h
ands through her hair, holding her head still.

  “Wait,” she gasps, her voice smoky with emotion. Good.

  “I’m waiting for your name,” I bite out. She tries to shake her head, but my hands keep her prisoner. Her tongue shoots out and licks the pink skin of her upper lip, but she remains silent.

  I lower my mouth. Deliberately, I lick a damp path along her upper lip, then press a firm, sensual stroke against her skin. Demanding entry. She tastes hotter, sweeter than I’d imagined. The soft skin of her upper lip brushes mine, her lips parting on a small, needy breath, and I swallow the exhalation.

  Mine.

  With a growl of satisfaction, I increase the pressure of my lips. Careful not to hurt her, but allowing my larger body to dominate hers. Surrounding her in a heated cage of my flesh. My tongue traces the seam of her lips again and this time I nip delicately at her softer skin. I’ll take from her the way she’d sought to take from me. She’d come to my temple looking for something, and now she’d get what she had coming to her. I could snap her neck now, end it all, but I want more from her.

  I want satisfaction.

  I want her.

  I am no good at coaxing. Hell, Amun Ra should have sent Sanur—that Cat is a silver-tongued bastard and his females drive the rest of us crazy with their endless mooning over the dark-haired Guardian. Sanur would have had the secret out of her in minutes—and never mind that my Cat growls warningly at the mental image of Sanur wrapping his arms around this particular female.

  “Open up,” I demand, inhaling her scent, drawing her taste deep inside me as she gasps in reaction. Her lips part, letting me invade her hot sweetness and I am lost, my Cat purring with a sensual recognition I’ve never found before. My femi wants me, even if she won’t admit it.

  I can live without the words.

  For now.

  Later, later I can teach her to revel in her own sensual submission. Hear the whispered pleas she’ll give me for satisfaction. In time, she’ll give me the words. Right now, I want just the one word.

  “Give me your name,” I repeat, letting her retreat a little.

  Her breath huffs out in a small sigh. Disappointment? “There are conventions to be adhered to here. Name telling—not one of them.” She shakes her head. Hell, she won’t give an inch, will she? She has to make this deliciously hard.

  “I’ll tell you my name. It’s Jafar,” I offer, switching tactics and making her a present of my name.

  She is unappreciative. “Still no.”

  “You will tell me,” I warn.

  “Make me,” she dares.

  Does she think I cannot force her to yield to me? What are the males like where she comes from? I push her legs further apart. I am bigger, stronger, and won’t hesitate to use my body to dominate hers. She needs to understand this.

  “Do as I say, little femi,” I growl. Last warning.

  She shoots me a look that seems to say she intends to pick her battles.

  “You may call me Miu,” she capitulates, but her bold gaze holds absolutely no surrender.

  Miu. I draw her scent deeper into my lungs and then, responding to the challenge in her eyes, lower my lips to hers again. She tastes so very right. She moans into my mouth, and my cock thickens further with each feminine whimper. She’s lied to Amun Ra, and she hasn’t been truthful with me, but here, in my arms, her body is as brutally honest as the spicy musk of her arousal.

  Pressing a last, hard kiss against her mouth, I let her go. She doesn’t acknowledge my sensual dominance—but her breasts rise and fall more quickly in silent admission beneath their filmy covering of silk.

  My femi enjoys being dominated.

  Or she simply enjoys me.

  Without pausing, Miu bends and scoops up her pack from the ground—my eyes follow the delicious curve of her ass, selecting my next point of attack—and shoots me a triumphant look before sliding her legs over the edge of the opening in the floor. “Follow me, merck,” she orders, and then jumps down into the darkness.

  “Right,” I grit out, lowering myself after her.

  She only thinks she’s won our battle of wills. Teaching her otherwise will be my pleasure.

  MIU

  I just can’t win.

  After dropping down through the hole, I discover another series of bewildering passageways, but none of them can take my mind off what just happened. In other words, the hottest kiss I’ve ever been on the receiving end of.

  I need to get my libido under control. The merck—Jafar—is a convenient bodyguard. He can’t possibly be anything more.

  Striding down the passageway, I note fewer exit points. The shafts I spot merely cut up toward other corridors, circulating the already stale, warm air through the lower depths. Most are too small to allow anything other than currents of air—and assorted creepy crawlies—to circulate, but you never know. Maybe one could be large enough to accommodate a female body in need of a hasty exit. Mark your exits. That’s rule number one.

  My thoughts keep returning to that damn kiss.

  The kiss that left my head—and my body—at sixes and sevens. Heck even some nines.

  My head knows I need Jafar’s protection, but my body wants to negotiate a more extensive deal. And that could be just as dangerous to my well-being as any death spirit lurking in the temple.

  When his hand closes on my shoulder, I stare down at it silently, willing him to remove his fingers—and myself to ignore the thrill of pleasure I feel as he rubs slow circles over my collarbone. Even as I stare at the offending digits, the large hand whips away and claps itself over my mouth. His other hand loops around my waist and pulls me quickly and efficiently into one of the many small storerooms that lead off of the main corridor on this level.

  “Shhh,” the now-familiar voice growls in my ear. The man has almost no other tone than growly. Jafar slides the door closed, leaving only a thin crack. “Company,” he explains tersely. His hands tighten on my waist as if he doesn’t want to let me go.

  Fine. My nerves prickle, making his large body a welcome warmth at my back. In the thick ink of the small room, he seems both larger and stronger than before.

  His attention, however, is fixed on the passageway we’ve just abandoned.

  “Listen,” he breathes against my neck.

  I fight the urge to stiffen, to betray my nervousness about whoever is approaching.

  “Not going to hurt you,” he mutters, misunderstanding my apprehension. “Gave my word. Watch.”

  Large hands shift me forward another step, his body following until I’m pinned between the cold stone and him.

  The flarestick is abruptly extinguished and I blink.

  The sound of someone running echoes through the passage. The footsteps are light but erratic. A small body. Female. And not conditioned for that sort of rigorous exercise—harsh panting accompanies each urgent footfall as the runner struggles for breath. I hear no sounds of pursuit—and yet….

  “The Hunt?” I whisper, needing to know.

  I feel rather than see his nod.

  The female bursts into the corridor, holding a flarestick. I’m uncomfortably relieved to realize the runner is not the young girl I’d stood next to in the procession. This woman is of medium build, curvy, her dark hair intricately braided into hundreds of careful coils. The familiar white silk robe of a potential mate flutters around her with each step she takes. Flummoxed by a split in the corridor, the woman stands indecisively.

  What follows her into the corridor has my blood pounding wildly in my veins.

  A massive panther, ears flattened against its sleek black head, streaks out from the darkness. Impossibly large, the Cat stands seven feet from its massive paws to its dark, head. Eyes glowing in the light of the flarestick, the animal crowds the woman toward the wall.

  Heqet save her, I swear silently.

  Left, I want to howl. Take the left tunnel. Or the right. Either choice is futile—the Cat will have its prey in seconds—but just standing there seems s
o wrong. I’m all about fighting and have never, ever learned to give in. To let go.

  “Good puss,” the woman murmurs in a throaty voice, clearly of a different mind than me.

  “She likes him,” an amused voice whispers in my ear. I bite back a squeak of surprise as Jafar’s arms pull me up against his body, his legs pressing into the backs of mine. He holds me still, immobilized between his warmth and the stone.

  Fighting those hard arms seems important—no one has held me down since I was given my thief mark. Burned into my forearm, the black scars circle my flesh like a lover’s fingers, thin enough to cover with a bracelet, if I want. I don’t conceal the marks though. I won’t hide from what I’ve become—or forget who controls me. As if on cue, the mark burns. The pain is, of course, merely a warning. A small taste of what the Master can deliver when—and wherever— he wants. I’m already running out of time.

  “Watch,” Jafar growls, sensing my distraction.

  Desperate to forget the memories, I do. The large panther shimmers in the air as he leaps toward the woman. She just stands there, arms by her sides, watching him come. The feline shape wavers and then, in the blink of an eye, disappears. A large, rawboned man stalks toward the woman. His eyes devour her even as he reaches for her.

  “The stories are true.” I’m fairly certain I sound shocked to my core. Some things can’t be hidden.

  “Of course.” Jafar sounds satisfied. Smug, even. I immediately want to hit him. “He’s found his mate.”

  For a moment, the shifter’s head swings in our direction. Scenting the air, he growls low and deep in his throat, but then returns his attention to the woman standing before him. “Mate,” he snarls. And, “Mine.” His body flows with a liquid grace that promises he’d be a deadly opponent in any contest of martial arts or weaponry. He wears loose, dark pants and a longsword in a scabbard across his back. Other than that, he is naked save for the almost tangible aura of a terrifying power leashed. I’ve seen the claws—and can’t believe the woman still stands there. I’d be halfway down the corridor by now.