The Hunt: Complete Edition

by Anne Marsh

  My voice fails me. His fingers found my nipples, stroking until bright pulses of pleasure build behind my half-closed eyes. He’s taking charge. Taking control.

  “I’m not waiting,” he announces, and his words make me cream more. He’s going to give me pleasure, make me enjoy this whether I’m ready or not. “I’m going to see to you now,” he promises.

  See to me. Even as my brain protests the arrogance of his words, my body tightens in welcome.

  “Up.” His hand strokes the hard shelf behind me, sweeping the small pots to one side. “I’m going to have you here. Make you wetter.” His dark eyes explore my face. “I’m going to find out what your cream tastes like.”

  I can’t let him take charge like this.

  Desperately, I fight back with every erotic weapon in my arsenal, my fingers dancing up the thick length of him, nails scraping delicately over his slick head. The width of him, the uncontained power, takes my breath away. The raw play of muscle and masculine power as he shifts in my embrace is intoxicating, as is the way his body flexes and stretches in a feline undulation that leaves me groaning with pleasure as the heated, hard length of him thrusts against my drenched sex.

  “You undo me,” he says in a low voice. His whispered word extinguishes the flarestick, plunging the room into darkness except for the faint glow of his eyes.

  His eyes. I raise a hand to touch them, but his lids flutter down, concealing the curious glow until I’m aware of only the dark, powerful shadow surging deliciously below me. I touch his hair, my fingers moving over the long length, brushing it against his body, then exploring his shoulders, delighting in his smooth, warm skin. But when my hands discover the chiseled planes of his abdomen and travel downward, he groans an admonition. “No. This is for you.”

  I’ve got no problem with that, I decide. How long has it been since someone wanted to take care of me? I lean backward into the large hands running down my spine, soothing and agitating the burn inside me. One hand kneads my ass, while the other slips between my thighs. The smooth, slick rub of my outer lips almost pushes me over into orgasm as I part beneath his questing fingers.

  “Open,” he demands, gently pushing my thighs farther apart. And then his fingers sweep inward to find and rub my core, move up to circle my clit.

  I buck against the sweet probing of his fingers until I spasm wildly.

  “You liked that.” His voice is a throaty hum against my skin.

  I have. I’ve never felt such intense pleasure. I fist my hands in his hair, dragging his head down to my breasts. “More,” I demand. He says that this is for me; I hope he means it, because a quickie orgasm is definitely not enough for me.

  With a masculine chuckle that makes my toes curl against the grimy silk of my once-white robe, he obliges, drawing a breast into the hot, greedy cave of his mouth. His tongue flicks mercilessly, flaying my nipple with pleasure and drawing the sweet nubbin into a tight, aching pucker that shamelessly begs for more. More pleasure. More caresses.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Just like that.” He knows precisely where to touch, how to coax the flames of passion higher and higher still, until I’m about to combust, my thighs clenching on either side of him.

  I’ve never been so greedy, but his eyes tell me he finds my hunger sexy and he’s completely at my service, using his finger with wicked skill. Almost mindless with the hot strokes of pleasure, I run my hands down his back, over his buttocks. With the orgasm that roars through me comes sweeping clarity.

  There is no thief mark on him.

  Who the hell is he?

  He’s misled me. Lierr has not sent him. Jafar has none of the Master’s scars on his perfect body.

  In the stifling darkness of our refuge, Jafar is a larger, blacker shadow against the rock-blocked entrance. Instead of retreating now that I’ve found release, he presses boldly, rubbing small, certain circles around my still-pulsing clit. Coaxing. Promising. Pressing firmly with his palm, he gently pinches until new quivers build beneath his fingertips and shudder into being in the dust-filled darkness of the alcove.

  No. Not again.

  “My femi,” he whispers, and he’s not here by my side because tons of banshee-induced rock and rubble blocks the doorway. No. He sounds as if he remains for other, more primitive reasons. Fear trickles through me. This is casual sex. Nothing important. Right? So why does he sound so possessive?

  When he pushed deep inside me, I lost my mind to the pleasure. How long will it take for my memories of his thick finger spreading me, exploring me, to fade? How can I have let myself become so distracted from my real purpose here?

  As if to remind me, the scrying bowl in my pack vibrates demandingly, shattering the sensual spell Jafar has cast on me.

  “Off,” I demand, pushing frantically at his shoulders.

  Jafar curses low and long, lowering me until my feet touch the floor. Hastily, I yank the virgin’s robe back into place.

  Wet and clenched tight with fresh desire, my pussy broadcasts a determined message of its own. Fortunately, my mind now remembers what’s at stake here.

  I’ve never had a partner like my merck. He’s sweet and greedy and domineering—and I want to jump his bones and finish what we started. Even knowing that he’s lied about who he is doesn’t cool me down. Temporarily abandoning my rule of show no weakness, I hide my face in my hands and groan.

  “We’re never going to get out of here this way.” I try hard to put a note of authority in my voice. “Why don’t you start digging over there?” With a hand that shakes suspiciously, I indicate the blocked entranceway.

  As soon as moving blocks of stone occupies Jafar, I grab the scrying bowl from my bag. Sweat gleams on his shoulders, beading in the enticing hollows and planes of his hard chest. Distracting. And enticing. The muscles in his arms cord as he turns his formidable attention to shifting the debris that blocks the entrance to our refuge. Working single-mindedly to free us from our prison, he’s even more attractive than before, but the Master calls.

  And in the scrying bowl lies my chance to confirm that Jafar is in fact not a fellow thief and to learn who has sent him after me. Chances are good, even if he doesn’t belong to the Master, the Master will know to whom he does belong.

  Because the merck has me twisted in knots. There. I’ve been honest with myself—and the truth scares me. How has he gotten to me so fast?

  In my hands, the bowl warms and I quickly shift it behind a large funerary urn that has fallen on its side. Hopefully, the noise of the shifting rocks will mask a whispered conversation.

  The Master’s face swims into sight above the bowl. “Miu?” he snaps. Damn. His cold irritation almost freezes me—and the temperature in our prison is downright sweltering. It’s never wise to irritate the Master.

  “I’m here,” I say. “You rang. I answered.”

  “Report,” he demands. “Have you gotten the necklace?” Have his eyes softened? An illusion. I examine his face, looking for clues. Some emotion flickers in his eyes, but for all I know, that could be the effects of last night’s dinner coming back to haunt him. I’ve wondered before if he feels something for me besides pride in a student well trained, but there’s just no telling. The Master shows nothing. Gives away nothing.

  Which leaves me with…nothing.

  “Complications. I need more time.” He’s originally given me only one week to reach the temple, steal the necklace, and bring it back to him. It will take three days just to make the return trip, so there’s no way I can get back in time. And, since he has my sister, he will undoubtedly make an example of her. Panic surges and I fight it back.

  “You did not expect complications?” His tone mocks me, but he’s listening. Maybe I can convince him.

  “Not this sort.” I keep my eyes fixed firmly on his, showing no weakness. Remembering the rules. “You sent others in after me,” I accuse.

  “Of course.” He steeples his fingers beneath his chin and nods for me to continue.

  “One of
them was a banshee. She screamed the place down around my ears.” I’d be pushing my luck to point out that one of his flunkies has jeopardized the entire operation; the Master can connect those dots all by himself. He hasn’t clawed his way to the head of a wide-flung network of thieves by being stupid.

  “Did she?” He might be discussing the weather. Across the room Jafar’s head swings slowly toward me. For a moment, his features seem to take on a distinctly feline cast and then the impression is gone.

  “She did. Took out one of your other thieves as well. Burst his eardrums. Stupid, really. The noise of the massive rockslide she started—well, let’s just say that the Guardians would have to be really, really deaf not to have heard this one. And here we are—trapped and waiting for them.”

  This time, the Master winces. “Right,” he says. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Give me an extension.”

  “I do have a policy,” Lierr replies, casually inspecting his fingers, “of not granting extensions. You work with what you’ve got. Get back here in four days and”—he shrugs—“you’ll still have a sister. I could let you choose.” The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Pick the part of her you’d like to keep intact. ”

  Panic threatens to choke me. “Hurt her,” I threaten, “and I won’t come back at all. No necklace.” I smile sweetly as I utter the bluff of a lifetime, hoping against hope that he believes me. “You can torture me to death from where you are, but you still won’t have the necklace. How many of us did you send down here? The three on my heels are toast. And the Guardians are doubtless racing here right now. I’m your last shot.”

  This time, the Master’s smile is overtly cruel. “You’ve still got just four days. Four days for your sister to live. Your choice.”

  “What about the merck?” Now’s the time to find out for certain whether or not the Master has sent Jafar.

  “The merck?” Something in the Master’s voice makes me pause. “You’re not alone?” His dark eyes seem to bore into my surroundings from the hazy aura above the bowl, even though I know the mazhyk has its limits and he can no more see my prison than I can his elegant set of rooms.

  “No. I’ve got company. One of yours?” His eyes sharpen. Next moment, it feels like I’ve been hit by a speeding daemon. The bowl bounces, cracking on the stone floor as Jafar knocks it from my hands.

  JAFAR

  Miu smells of despair, fear seeping from her body like some rank perfume, as she stares at the small metal bowl she cups and the image projecting above the bowl’s surface.

  Why does this person to whom she speaks frighten her? Nothing—no one—scares my Miu. I hadn’t realized until now how much I admire that quality in her. She’ll go toe to toe with me even if she knows who I am.

  What I am.

  And it’s only a matter of time until she finds out. She has to be communicating with the master thief, the male she calls the Master. Stalking across the room had been an easy call to make, as had been knocking the bowl onto the hard floor. Clearly spellbound, the bowl neither shatters nor spills, a wavering image slowly reforming over the charmed water.

  “What are you doing?” she screeches, grabbing for the bowl. Luckily for me, my arms are longer. Wrapping an arm around her waist to pin her in place, I easily grab the bowl first.

  “Who’s in the bowl?” The bespelled water remains firmly inside the bowl, even when I tip the container upside down.

  She scowls, not answering my question. “It’s mine. Give it back.”

  Not likely. Not until I know with whom she’s trying to communicate and why. Every sense I have screams this is an important clue in unraveling the puzzle that is my Miu—so I am hardly going to hand it back over. For the first time, I feel like I am really getting somewhere.

  “Manners,” I say calmly, not betraying my sudden inner turmoil. She growls what sounds suspiciously like a curse. Hunkering down on the floor, I cup the metal bowl between my hands. The metal warms, its liquid surface stirring. As the aura sharpens again, cursing fills the room.

  Male cursing.

  Unfamiliar jealousy eats at me: she is supposed to turn to me. Instead, she is relying on some unseen stranger who is little more than a useless astral projection in a bowl of dirty water. I, on the other hand, am a Guardian; protecting is second nature to me. I’m her best bet here in the Temple. So why do I suddenly feel so unsure of myself? I certainly don’t get the sense that she trusts this other male—but she doesn’t distrust him, either. Which makes the unseen male a threat.

  Competition.

  “Miu? What the hell just happened?” The bowl vibrates with outrage.

  Lifting the bowl, I keep my face concealed. No point in tipping my hand—not yet. My companion’s ignorance about who—and what—I am works to my advantage. Plus, I love touching her. I can admit that to myself. Once she knows I’m a Guardian, she’ll put an end to the touching.

  “No,” I say when Miu reaches for the bowl. I give her a low growl, making it clear that I am not to be crossed in this. Message received, she backs against the far wall, cursing and rummaging in that damn bag of hers. Probably looking for one of that impressive collection of knives she’s been toting around.

  I’m not a fool. I lifted the lot and disposed of her blades before we’d entered the tunnel. She hadn’t even noticed.

  “Who is that?” snaps the man in the bowl.

  “What are you to her?” Unfortunately, the male in the bowl is handsome. Women will like his looks. Pale skin. Dark hair clubbed back from fine cheekbones. The man looks like a bloody prince, but possesses the lethal intensity of a paid assassin.

  “Give the bowl back to Miu,” the male demands.

  I shake my head slowly. “First, I want answers. I want a name. Yours.”

  A mocking smile crosses the man’s lips. “She calls me Master. You may do so as well.” I call no one, not even the Amun Ra, master. My pledge is to the Valley, to the task of guarding against incursions from the Qaf dwellers. That might mean acknowledging the Amun Ra as the titular head of my pride, loosely directing the actions of the Guardians and mediating between them and the outside world, but it does not mean blind obedience. Only a sort of casual deference. And a vow of honor.

  “No?” The man’s voice turns sharply cold. “I do not share my name with outsiders.”

  “Make an exception.” I examine the man’s face for signs of weakness and discover none. Unless Miu herself is a weakness—after all, I am fast discovering that she is my weakness.

  “Who are you?” The male counters with a question of his own.

  Across the room, Miu’s head swivels. Uh-oh. Now I am definitely in trouble.

  “Consider me an independent contractor,” I suggest.

  “Who the hell are you?” she demands.

  The male regards me thoughtfully. No indication of what he thinks crosses his impassive face. “You don’t appear to be a Guardian,” he says at last. “No bars. No marks. Although the build is right and I wasn’t aware of any other—interested parties. I suppose you could be from Qaf,” he offers, “although then, quite frankly, I’m surprised that you’ve left Miu alive. Still, there is something about your eyes. I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  I clench my fists, fighting an urge to destroy the bowl. Miu’s eyes widen. Qaf? she mouths silently, as if the possibility that I am daemon spawn seems entirely feasible to her.

  “Does she even know why you really sent her here?” I have to ask, even if it condemns Miu. I have to find out as much as I can so I can stop the stream of uninvited intruders into the temple.

  “Enough.” The Master shrugs. “I told her just enough. As I did the others.”

  “Do we have a deal?” Miu comes up beside me, leaning over my shoulder. This time, I let her.

  “A deal?” The Master eyes her. “No. Nothing’s changed. And I am going to suggest that you rethink your choice of companion. The banshee may have been a miscalculation on my part. This merck of yours is a simila
r misstep on yours. If he’s not with me and he’s not with the Guardians—then who is he with?”

  MIU

  “You said you were a merck.”

  The accusation hangs in the air between us long after the bowl has gone silent and dark.

  “You said you were here to protect me,” I continue. We’ve been shifting rocks for what seems like hours. The bottom half of my ridiculous robe has been sacrificed to make more dust masks; motes of dust thicken the air, visible even in the dying glow of the flarestick. Pretty soon I’ll be relying on my own eyes.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  The monotony of the work provides ample time to contemplate his lie and to come up with a plan to ditch him. When I was stacking the smaller stones, I noticed an air shaft in one corner, a shaft that appears to go straight down to the burial chambers below. But getting into it—without being followed by the merck—will take some planning. Along with one of my disposable spells and a whole lot of luck. Carefully, I palm the knockout spell.

  Stun the merck and dive for the tunnel. Once in, I’m home safe. With his broad shoulders, he’ll never fit through the opening; even I will have to wiggle. Discreetly, I give the elaborately carved grate covering the shaft a good tug. Loose enough. Presumably, the shaft is there to provide air for the stale confines of the catacombs.

  I’ll have to move the urns in front of the grate and slide it out of the grooves, get in, and then slide the whole lot back into place—with a good reinforcement spell—before my merck realizes what I’m up to.

  He can find his own damn way out—I’ll finish my job and save my sister. Alone. The way I should have worked from the beginning.

  Before I can lose my nerve, I lob the spell at him.

  And move like hellhounds themselves are after me.

  Part Three

  CAPTURE

  MIU

  I immediately recognize the burial chamber from the Master’s description. Sure enough, it’s located right at the bottom of the air shaft. Honestly, the banshee did me a favor, trapping me in that particular storage room. I still have the map to help me find my way out, and I no longer have to deal with my unreasonable attraction to the merck.