by Addison Fox
“I don’t think so.” His movements true, Brody lunged for the guy as another wave of electric fire lit up his body.
Ignoring the pain, he maintained his forward movement as the wicked edge of the Xiphos sliced through the guy’s shirt and straight for his heart. Although not the killing blow, it slowed the asshole just enough to give Brody the advantage.
With quick movements, he had his blade out of the chest cavity and into the guy’s throat before the Destroyer could conjure up any further heat.
The shell of the Destroyer’s body went slack immediately, the limp form falling to the sandy ground to a matched fate with his partner.
Job done, Brody rushed to Peter. A slight, thready pulse pumped in the hollow of the man’s neck, as his breath wheezed in and out in light pants past blue lips.
“Peter. Peter, man. Come on. Can you hear me?” When he got no response, Brody tried again. “Peter, come on. Maggie’s waiting for you. She wants to talk to you.”
Peter’s eyelids fluttered open at the mention of his love’s name. “Not . . . not gonna make it, Talbot.” He exhaled a large gasp. “Mags’ll be seriously pissed at me.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine. We’re going to get you help.”
Brody was surprised by the strength of Peter’s grip when he grabbed his forearm. “You gotta tell her I love her.”
“I will. And so will you.”
Another heavy breath wheezed out as Peter shook his head. “Need—need to tell you. The relief. It’s def-definitely not funeral text.”
Brody supported Peter’s neck, trying to find some way to ease the horrific pain that clouded his eyes as he pushed his body. “Okay, okay. Take it easy.”
“Know you tried, Talbot. Know you’re not like us.”
What? “Come on. I’m on your team.”
“Nope.” A slight smile ghosted Peter’s lips, which were turning bluer by the second. “Never were. I knew. You know there’s something not right. You know.”
Respect for his colleague grew tenfold as Brody held Peter’s body. “Yeah, I do.”
“I heard those guys before they got me. Before they knkn-knew I was listening. You need to take care of this, Talbot. The relief is a prophecy. And they’re coming for it. They’re coming for her.”
“No one’s going to hurt Maggie.”
Peter’s eyelids fluttered as his eyes rolled back.
“Peter. Come on, Peter. I promise you, no one will hurt Maggie.”
Another sputter of air slipped from the good doctor’s lips as his eyes opened again, a soft smile playing around his lips. “Not . . . not my Maggie. Maggie’s . . . safe. You have to protect her.”
“Who?”
Peter gasped, his chest heaving as he tried to push out the words. “Har—”
Har? Her? “Who is she, Peter?”
Peter took one more strangled breath of air, his final words leaving his body on a rush of air. “Sh-she’s next.”
Brody felt Peter’s body slacken as the last vestiges of life left him. His eyes cut from the young face to the twin pools of oily residue that lay a few feet from them as rage filled his chest, making him want to howl at something.
Anything.
Enyo had taken another good man.
And clearly she had her next victim square in her sights.
Chapter Two
Today, New York City
Brody had kept an eye on her for three days and all he had to show for it was a caffeine headache from an endless parade of Venti lattes and a raging hard-on. All of this had managed to make him feel like a cornered pit bull—tired and cranky and pissed as shit.
Because he never got headaches.
And because, if he wanted to, he got relief from a hard-on in way less than seventy-two hours.
And most of all, because in those wretched, agonizing seventy-two hours, she hadn’t noticed him.
Not even once.
Fuck.
Ava Harrison smiled at the guy behind the deli counter where she’d ordered her third dinner of champions in a row—a toasted bagel with cream cheese. Brody hadn’t even bothered to follow her inside this time, but had just hung out on the corner observing. On top of the fish eye he’d gotten that morning from the proprietor when the man had noticed him milling around for the third morning in a row, there was no way he could stuff down another cup of coffee.
And besides, he could see her just fine out here.
Two months.
It had taken Brody two mind-numbingly frustrating months to figure it out. Peter had given him a clue and he’d been so focused on getting an answer, he hadn’t really listened.
A dying man’s last breaths. “Har—”
Not her.Har. As in Harrison.
Ava Harrison.
Three nights ago, it had all come together as he sat going over Quinn’s intel for what felt like the millionth time since returning from Egypt.
The copious notes on Russell Harrison’s daughter, Ava. The detailed descriptions of her educational background, work experience and published works. The full report on her curation of the upcoming exhibit.
Why that time—that read-through—the pieces fell into place, he’d never know.
Brody only knew his saving grace was that Ava had been blessedly untouched by Enyo or her minions.
After three days of following her, the mystery was only murkier. What did Ava have to do with the prophecy from Thutmose’s tomb? And an even bigger question, to Brody’s mind, was what Enyo could possibly want with her, a mousy, scientific type who hid her body behind shapeless clothing and worked the hours of a slave?
Yep, he was still working on that one.
He’d been through the translation on the prophecy’s hieroglyphics until his eyes bled and still, he had nothing to show for it—no clues that told him why Peter had been killed or what Enyo’s next move would be.
He focused on Ava again, watching as her pale blond hair picked up the dingy light of the overheads as she moved to the counter.
Like a halo.
But that made absolutely no sense, since the deli’s lighting was for shit and that ugly gray sweater she swathed herself in absorbed light like a funeral shroud.
His cock sprang to attention, a painful reminder that it hadn’t been let off the leash in weeks—months, if he were honest, which only added another layer to the royal piss off.
Over a gray sweater a grandmother wouldn’t have been caught dead in?
With another quiver, said cock confirmed it. Yep. The gray sweater had an odd sex appeal to it.
So he was in a dry spell.
And yeah, while it chafed at his famous leonine pride, he hadn’t figured out a way around it. He hadn’t enjoyed looking at a woman quite this much in far too long.
Maybe that was the reason for the dry spell. No one had fired his blood like this in centuries and he’d gotten sick of going through the motions. As he took in the smooth curve of her cheek as she turned away from the counter, he had to admit no woman had had him this enthralled in—well, ever.
Not even Sasha. He’d loved her in a gentle way, as though he wanted to spend his entire life protecting her.
But this—this fierce need was something else. The most primal part of him wanted to cover her, brand her with his scent and make her his mate.
And she was oblivious to him.
This seriously sucked.
Even though he had to admit he was seriously enjoying himself.
Ava pulled her cell phone from one of her pockets as she pulled money out of the other one. Her delicate shoulders moved up and down in a slight shrug as she closed the phone almost as quickly as she’d opened it. After she paid, she picked up her dinner from the counter, gave a small finger wave to the guy who’d made the bagel and headed out of the deli and toward her apartment. Keeping a good distance, a bag of cashews in hand to munch on, he followed her as he’d done the last several days.
Although the ratty sweater covered her ass,
he could still see the outline of her curves through the stretch of the material—high and firm, with plenty of room to plant his hands.
His fingers itched to touch the sweet arch of her delightful bottom as her back curved straight into it. Under him. Over him. Next to him. Soaping him in the shower.
Oh man, he had it bad.
Ava turned the last corner toward her block, just barely moving out of his line of sight. He kicked up his pace, moving faster so as not to keep her out of his field of vision. Just as he rounded the corner, without warning, a ball of energy blasted him, shooting him straight on his ass and scattering what was left of the cashews across the sidewalk.
“Son of a bitch,” he rumbled, a cocktail of anger and adrenaline infusing his bloodstream in a rush.
Scrambling, he moved his limbs to shake off the fireball as he moved into a run. Ava’s screams assaulted his ears as he focused in their direction and found her locked in the grip of a muscle-bound Destroyer. Slabs of his forearms covered her chest and neck as the asshole traced his tongue around the rim of her left ear.
The Destroyer’s dead eyes focused on his and, coupled with the fireball, ensured Brody knew exactly what he was dealing with.
Waves of static rushed off the Destroyer, the constant popping and crackle of electricity floating toward him in the darkness.
Shit. This was so not good, although the Destroyer’s presence did confirm a few things. Namely, why Quinn’s intel had suddenly gone off the rails three days ago, suggesting they follow the lovely Ava Harrison. Where Destroyers dared to tread meant Enyo was sure to follow.
But where was the Destroyer’s second? These assholes always traveled in pairs and he was only picking up on a lot of swirling static from this one guy.
Refocusing his energy on the threat in front of him, Brody looked at the Destroyer. Six foot two and a solid one-ninety—or that’s what you were supposed to think when you looked at him. The reality was far, far different. As a soldier in Enyo’s army, he carried out her orders with about as much internal thought as an android.
And he was treated as equally disposable.
Brody hadn’t met this one before, but that was hardly a surprise. Enyo had a ready supply of minions to do her bidding and few of them survived a skirmish with him or his Warrior brothers.
Question was, did the Destroyer know a Warrior was protecting Ava?
Forcing equal parts gym rat and oversexed cowboy into his swagger, Brody approached the pair. “Leave the woman alone.”
Ava’s soft brown eyes were large and wide as she struggled against the beefy arm covering her windpipe. A heavy ringing pulsed in his ears, in time to the pumping of his blood. The very thought of the panic she must be feeling shot wave after wave of anger through him as he continued stalking toward them.
The Destroyer stopped curling his tongue around Ava’s ear long enough to look up with a menacing stare. “Get out of here, asshole. This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does now.”
Brody began to charge when, without warning, Ava shifted her stance, stepping on the Destroyer’s foot and knocking him just enough off balance to free her arms. With swift movements, she spun around, then extended her hands toward the Destroyer’s neck, hitting both sides with a large, chopping movement.
A heavy, inhuman growl went up as the Destroyer’s eyes went wide. Although her movements weren’t hard enough to deliver the death blow, Ava had done a damn fine job of stunning the Destroyer and forcing him to regroup. Wild waves of static flew through the air, forcing Ava’s hair into an untamed pattern as the guy stumbled back on the sidewalk, staggering like a drunk.
Moving on instinct, Brody wrapped Ava in his arms, dragging her down the street. The need to move her away from the Destroyer was overwhelming, and his muscles braced for an attack from behind once the Destroyer regained his equilibrium.
In all his years in service to Themis, he’d never felt such a primal urge to defend.
To protect.
To shelter.
His lion tattoo was restless with the need to move, but similar to the night in the desert two months ago, he kept it on a tight leash, unwilling to expose himself to Ava in that way if he could help it.
He glanced down at the gloriously disheveled mess of woman pressed against his chest. Her blond hair still stood out from the Destroyer’s static electricity and he felt the heavy pumping of her heart where she pressed against him. With his free hand, he tilted her chin up to him, concerned to see flat eyes and a dazed look that suggested she was near shock.
Fierce tenderness rose in his chest in great, syrupy waves. His need to protect went so deep, he didn’t know where his own needs started and his job as a Warrior of Themis ended. His instincts, normally razor sharp and honed to a definite point, were all over the board. Finish the job and kill the Destroyer or take care of her.
The tender side was putting up a hell of a fight.
And winning.
It was insanity—mind-numbing, wonderful, glorious insanity.
He squeezed her shoulder, even as he picked up their pace once more. “Come on, sweetheart. We have to keep moving.”
He headed for Columbus Avenue, a more heavily traveled street, so he could put both of them in a cab. He’d get her back to the museum, try to explain what was going on and then try to convince her that she needed protecting.
Neat. Clean. Orderly.
His Warrior brothers liked to rib him for his impulsive approach to life. To hell with that. He wasn’t taking impulsive chances with Ava.
“Who are you?”
He glanced back down at her as her whispered words penetrated his thoughts. “I’m a friend.”
An eyebrow quirked over one brown eye that was rapidly losing its sightless, fearful gaze. “And you expect me to buy that?”
She pushed at his waist and he had to keep a firm grip on her upper shoulder before she could squirm out of his grasp. “Excuse me?”
Her voice grew breathless as she continued to struggle under the heavy weight of his arm. “A friend. Yeah. Right. You and your friend back there. You’re tag teaming me?”
He let go of her so quickly, she nearly stumbled as her words penetrated.
She thought he wanted to hurt her?
Before he could question her, she took off down the sidewalk.
“Wait!”
She ignored him as she kept running. His longer strides closed the distance in short order, even as he cursed himself with each footfall.
Damn it, but he was off his game. First, he hadn’t anticipated the Destroyer attack.
He saw Ava round the corner and added a burst of speed, continuing the mental tirade. Second, he was so surprised by this slip of a woman that he’d dropped his hold on her.
And third . . .
Shit.
His biggest mistake of all.
Unless his ten thousand years of training had been for naught, they’d just found the second greaseball. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do as he watched Ava run headlong into the other half of her worst nightmare.
Oh God. OhGod. OhGodohGodohGod.
What was she in the middle of? Who were these people? And when had her quiet little West Side neighborhood turned into a war zone?
Panic flooded her in hot waves as her stomach cramped. A scream lodged in her throat as her attacker’s heavy arms wrapped around her, pressing her face into his chest. She faintly registered the garish print of his Hawaiian shirt.
Where was his coat? It was November.
And you’d be worrying he’s going to catch cold, Ava Marie?
Idiot.
More weird waves of static hit her, making her limbs quake with pinpricks of activity.
Where was someone—anyone—to help?
She’d run toward Columbus on purpose, hoping the additional level of activity on a busy avenue would attract attention. Of course, she’d worked late—again—and damn it if now she wasn’t paying for it with no one around to help.
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What kind of scam were these guys running? Three of them? And all of them using bodily attacks? Didn’t they just want money so they could go get their next hit?
The big one didn’t look like a drug addict. He looked like a fashion model—one of those large, hot, nonmetrosexual ones who knew how to wear an old T-shirt just as well as Armani.
He had broad shoulders and an acre of chest that narrowed down to a taut stomach and slender waist; blond hair that would have been girlish if not for the harsh planes and angles of his face; a sharp jaw, firm nose and a pair of killer cheekbones.
And the most incredible, sky blue eyes she’d ever seen.
Damn it, Ava. Focus.
Determination renewed, she struggled against the prison of hands and arms, her self-defense classes coming back at her in a rush as she used her elbow to jam a harsh blow to Hawaiian Shirt’s midsection. Although his grip didn’t lessen, he did grunt in pain.
Guess that self-defense instructor at the Y really did know what he was talking about.
Continuing to struggle like a she-cat, she slammed her foot down on his instep. More of that weird static shot through her, but she’d made enough of an impact that his grip lessened, enabling her to slide through his arms, the silky material of his shirt helping to ease her way. Scrambling, she pushed herself across the sidewalk, trying simultaneously to escape while attempting to get her footing.
Which meant she did neither well.
Those horrible hands reached for her again, plucking her up and dragging her to her feet. A scream lodged in her throat, desperate as she was to alert someone to her predicament.
Before she could let out another scream, the other guy was back.
Mr. GQ.
The grip around her tightened, her back to his chest, and even without being able to see him, she felt her captor’s movements. His head lifted away from her neck and in the direction of the large man who stood before them.
“Leave the woman alone.”
The man behind her grunted, his fetid breath skating across her cheek and forcing goose bumps down her spine.
The blond continued toward them, his long hair reminding her of a lion’s mane as he stalked toward them.
