by Addison Fox
Titans—the original twelve children born of Uranus (Father Sky) and Gaia (Earth). Themis is one of the Titans, as is Cronus, Zeus’s father.
Warrior’s Tattoo—The Warrior’s Tattoo is inked on his body, generally on his upper-right or -left shoulder blade. The tattoo lives within the Warrior’s aura and, when the Warrior is in danger, the tattoo will expand as an additional form of protection. The tattoo is never separate; rather, it provides additional protection through the Warrior’s life force.
Xiphos—An ancient Greek weapon, the Xiphos is a double-edged blade less than a foot long. Each Warrior carries one strapped on his calf. Although a Warrior may use any Xiphos—or any weapon—when necessary, each Warrior is granted a Xiphos at his turning. A Warrior may deliver a death blow to a Destroyer’s neck when at close range, but the Xiphos provides an additional tool in battle. Although the Xiphos is nothing more than metal, many Warriors find a personal connection with their Xiphos because it accompanies them through many years of battle.
Zeus—King of the gods and ruler over Mount Olympus, Zeus is married to Hera. Zeus’s first wife was Themis, the goddess of justice and one of the Titans. Zeus entered the Great Agreement with Themis, which resulted in the Sons of the Zodiac, the protectors of humanity.
Turn the page for a preview of the
next book in Addison Fox’s powerful
Sons of the Zodiac series,
WARRIOR AVENGED
Coming from Signet Eclipse in September 2010
The poison coiled, a living, writhing beast that skipped through his veins on spiked heels. The venom was an unmerciful taskmaster, lying in wait for the one day each year when it could dominate. Control. Kill.
Even now, silky threads of it wove through his bloodstream—expanding, growing, pulsing with life.
Kane Montague, Scorpio Warrior of the great goddess of justice, Themis, ignored it. Ignored the whip-quick lashes that slammed through him from the inside out, as if his very organs were being rent in half. Ignored the brutal assault on his muscle fibers that felt like the stinging prick of a million wasps. Ignored the wicked, boiling sensation that filled his bloodstream like a flowing river of lava.
If you pretended for long enough that something didn’t exist, you could almost convince yourself that it didn’t exist. Almost.
He continued to bench-press, his rhythm even and easy, his breathing focused and controlled. Arms up, breath out. Arms down, breath in.
This cold-blooded, laser-sharp focus had been the hall-mark of his life, even before he made his life-changing agreement with Themis. The selection as one of her Scorps only sealed the deal.
Nothing got in the way of his militant focus and there was nothing that could pull him from his goals.
Not his Warrior brothers.
Not the poison.
And sure as fuck not a luscious brunette with endless legs and a gorgeous rack.
So why did she still dominate his thoughts six months later? The woman had gone by the name Ilsa. The double agent who had managed to seduce him, fuck him brainless and drug him so she could make her escape.
“You keep driving yourself like this and the poison won’t need until the end of the month to kick your ass to the curb.”
Kane grunted on an exhale and didn’t even bother to turn toward their Taurus and self-appointed leader as he walked across the weight room. “Get out of here, Quinn. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Since when don’t you want a workout partner?”
Kane ignored the Bull, although in his peripheral vision he could see Quinn Tanner’s hulking form move closer. “Since you’ve taken it upon yourself to treat me as if I’m still in diapers.”
Quinn dropped to a nearby weight bench and began lifting his own set of metal. “Concern, buddy. Nothing more.”
With a loud thud, Kane slammed the heavy bar onto its rack and slipped off the bench. He’d be damned if he was going to sit around and listen to this shit as if he were some invalid. He ignored the sharp stabs in his gut as the poison twisted his intestines like rows of tangled Christmas lights, and headed for the exit.
A rush of air greeted him as Quinn’s large body took shape in front of him in less than a second, as the Bull’s port from his own weight bench was instantaneous. “You’ve got two weeks, Kane. And you’re pushing too hard. Give it a rest. Stay strong, and once you beat it back, you can go after her again.”
Whether it was his own anger or added aggression from the poison, Kane wasn’t quite sure—nor did he care. He launched himself at Quinn, knocking the Taurus to the ground, where they fell into a heap of grunting, groaning testosterone.
Where Quinn’s body was broad, beefy muscle, Kane’s was long and lean, his muscles more sinew than heft. He knew they must not look very well matched from a distance, but his leaner form allowed him fuller range of motion and the ability to squeeze out of Quinn’s hold.
Of course, it also meant he took a sizable hit from Quinn’s meaty fists when the larger man finally laid one on him.
A satisfying zing ran up Kane’s arm as he planted his own fist in the middle of Quinn’s baby-faced mug. The satisfaction was short-lived, as he felt strong hands latch on to his shoulders and pull him from behind. The black silk shirt covering his captor’s forearm gave away the man’s identity before Kane even saw his face.
“Get off me, Grey. I don’t need your help.”
The strength of the hold persisted, but Grey’s voice held sly amusement. “What you need is an ass kicking from both of us, but you’re not worth the risk to my new Brioni slacks.”
The hold loosened, followed immediately by an open-palmed smack to the side of Kane’s head. Before Kane could react, Grey was already leaning down to extend a hand to Quinn, whose mouth was on overdrive, as usual. “Ignore him, Grey. The Scorp’s wardrobe is even flashier than yours.”
“Hardly.” Grey dusted a hand over those black slacks he was so proud of. “Seeing how I didn’t actually come here to break up a dogfight, you want to hear me out?”
Kane still felt pissy, but his curiosity quickly won out. “Fine. What’s going on?”
“I think I got a line on that brunette you’ve been after.”
A renewed flare of anger flooded his system, but this time it had nothing to do with the poison living underneath his skin. “How do you know it’s Ilsa?”
“She’s been paying an awful lot of attention to my club lately. Couple that with several jaunts up and down the front of this place that were captured on the cameras—they’re a match with the photo of her that Quinn turned up. I think we’ve got her.”
Kane’s stomach tightened again. He didn’t want there to be any we in Ilsa’s capture. He wanted to take her down himself. Shaking his head, he pressed through the selfish desires he had no business having. “She’s clearly a highly trained agent. There’s no way she’d be so stupid as to get caught like that.”
Grey shrugged. “Maybe she’s not as savvy as you think.”
“She knocked me on my ass, Grey. She knew what she was doing.”
Quinn rubbed at his jaw as he added his input to their little coffee klatch. “Grey’s got a point, Kane. Something’s always rung false for me, like how you’ve done nothing to make yourself a target. Hell, from the files I’ve hacked into, you’re seen as an incredible asset within MI6. What would be the incentive to get rid of you?”
Kane had asked himself the very same question for the last six months. Banging his head against concrete would have produced better answers than what he’d managed to come up with.
Grey held out his cell phone, a surprisingly clear image covering its glass face. “Is this her?”
Kane knew it before he’d even focused on the screen. It was clear as he took in the shape of her jaw and the aristocratic line of her neck. A blond wig couldn’t disguise the essence of her face. “It’s her.”
Grey was already in motion. “Then let’s go. She’s been outside Equinox the past three nights. If she follows s
uit tonight, we’ll intercept her outside the club.”
Kane stopped Grey before the Aries hit the doorway. “She’s mine, Grey.”
“Don’t worry, Monte. None of us are dumb enough to get in your way.”
There were serious benefits to being a Greek goddess. Immortality, permanent youth and a blessed lack of self-doubt all rode quite high on the list.
So when had she become so intent on second-guessing herself?
The goddess known as Nemesis hotfooted it down the New York sidewalk, which was growing increasingly full of humans as she neared her destination. When had she become a sniveling bore like the rest of them? And why in the name of Hades would she risk herself with these stupid jaunts past the Warriors’ club?
Even the name she’d selected was stupid. Ilsa. As in Ilsa and Rick from Casablanca.
It had seemed like such a great idea at the time, a cheeky wink at the Fates. Of course, somehow in her rush to make a joke of her original encounter with Kane, she’d forgotten one small fact: She’d watched that movie over and over, weeping each and every time for the ill-fated lovers.
And now she knew exactly how Ilsa had felt. Torn between bone-deep attraction for one man and duty to another. Suddenly trapped inside a life she didn’t actually want. Full of a love that drove you nearly mad.
So why, then, had that cold rock of a heart she’d ignored for millennia suddenly decided to come alive with a vengeance?
Kane, her conscience whispered.
Ilsa remembered the first time she’d laid eyes on him. Her contact inside MI6 had arranged for the two of them to attend a state dinner to ferret out as much information as they could from a well-connected scientist. Or at least that was what Kane had thought they were doing. Her real job was to keep an eye on the Warrior, searching him for weakness.
Vulnerability.
Something—anything—that might give her an advantage. In retrospect, Ilsa knew her first glimpse of him should have set off her instincts. They should have warned her somehow. Her only defense, when she’d thought about it later, was that there was simply no way anyone could have been prepared for the image of Kane Montague in a designer tuxedo. The suit jacket molded to his broad shoulders, descending in a vee toward the whipcord-slim hips that sat atop long legs. Legs that she now knew from a later viewing were all sculpted muscle.
She could still remember the feel of the silken fabric of his tuxedo jacket under her fingertips as he’d maneuvered her across the dance floor. She treasured the memory of his bold onyx eyes, their endless depths fathoms darker than the black cashmere of his tux, and the almost-harsh planes of his body as he pressed her against him.
No, there was nothing vulnerable about the man. Nothing.
Ilsa snapped back to attention at the loud squeal of a silly girl dressed in a nearly nonexistent miniskirt as she sidestepped a puddle of rainwater. What was she even doing here? Especially since she had a big job tonight and should already have been on her way to it. Duty called, and all that responsibility nonsense. Yet here she was, doe-eyed and obsessive, walking past this stupid club. Again.
Why are you here? He’s not worth it. Not worth what you’ll have to sacrifice.
Ignoring the mental bullshit, Ilsa had barely cleared the back side of the club when a harsh line of static burned a fiery path down her spinal cord. Although she was not fully immune to pain, very little could deter her immortal body.
But this? The intensity of the heat was so jarring that she fell to her knees in a puddle, rain running in rivulets down her back and neck, over the exposed line of her cleavage. Pushing the pain aside, willing the stinging heat away, she attempted to regain her footing. Surprise—and was that panic?—shot through her as a heavy weight bore down on her back, holding her in place as large arms wrapped her in a bear hug.
Vaguely, a shout registered through the adrenaline lighting up her system and the heavy rush of blood in her ears. “Do you have her yet?”
A vile stench filled the air as wet lips rubbed against her ear, breath coming heavy against her face. “Got her.”
Forcing strength through her slight frame, she rammed her head back toward the heavy weight, trying to dislodge the asshole who thought he’d have his way with her. Just as she made contact—a deep, satisfying thud—another wave of heat assaulted her, wrapping her nerve endings in liquid fire. Her neck, extended from the reverse head butt, swam with pain as she choked in breath, desperate for air.
Real panic flared, and with it, a wave of resolute anger filled her. She’d vowed the day Zeus abandoned her that she would never be weak again. Would never surrender to another. Would never be beaten back.
With grim determination, Ilsa forged renewed strength in the fire of the pain. Straightening inch by inch, she pressed against the immense weight at her back. She felt it—knew it—the moment she had him. As her captor’s resistance slipped, she used one final burst of strength to dislodge him.
Stumbling forward, she whirled around to finish the job and take the asshole down. No sooner did she have him in her sights—a large brute of a man with scars crisscrossing his face and a spiderweb tattoo covering his neck—then his head went spiraling off his body.
Ilsa blinked through the pouring rain. What the . . . ?
Kane Montague stood over the rapidly disintegrating corpse, his wolfish smile broad and easily visible through the torrents of rain. He held an ancient sword aloft in his firm grip. “Hello, Ilsa.”
She nodded and bit back an actual gulp. “Kane.”
“I guess there’s really only one thing to say.”
Her gaze drank him in as he stood before her. Rain poured off the short length of his hair, down over the gray T-shirt that now molded itself to every delicious inch of his torso. Ilsa heard her voice come out on a breathy moan. “What’s that?”
“Of all the gin joints . . .”
