The Bitten

by L. A. Banks

  Repeatedly the 4 × 4 went airborne two feet and then came down hard with a jarring thud only to bounce and get dragged some more. The impact was so intense that she had to grit her teeth to keep from chipping them or biting off her own tongue. But the beast’s panicked flight had a steady rhythm in a flat-out run. The cord would go tight as it came down from a long, loping hop, go slack for a few seconds as the animal’s powerful hind legs pushed off the ground, then go tight again. Like music, it filtered into her awareness—she could hear it, feel the pulse of it, recognize the refrain—and she was determined to make that work to her advantage.

  New strategy. Damali dropped her crossbow on the floor of the pickup, climbed over the top of the bent-up caged cab section, holding the wire taut until she could swing her body down to plant her feet on the vehicle’s hood. She braced for the coming slack in the cable, knees bent, holding the cage, only to release it and grab the cable when it went tight again. The head of that monster had to come off, and the Isis could handle that. The problem was, the were-roo seemed to sense exactly what she was about to do and changed direction again, making her lose her footing.

  The wire momentarily went slack with a change in the beast’s rhythm. She rolled, caught herself on the cage, slamming her against the metal exterior and temporarily knocking the wind out of her. The driver tried to reach for her, but she couldn’t let go to grab his hand. Cable had cut into her palms, the pain like a blowtorch. But summoning a deep breath, she swung her body with the centrifugal force of the next turn, landed on the hood with a grunting thud, and was thankful that her hands weren’t between the cable and the metal—a sure amputation at that torque.

  Now this thing had really pissed her off. Attempting the head-sever again, she quickly went hand over hand down the cable toward the animal during a ten-second taunt period, and when the cable went slack, she went with the dip, pulling her knees up, riding the air but keeping her legs off the ground, avoiding the wildly thrashing tail. The moment the cable went taut, she used the next hard snap to propel her body like a rocket forward and grasp onto its stinking fur.

  The moment her body touched the creature’s, it leapt straight up, twisting and writhing, trying to shake her off, but she dug her hands deeper into the offensive fur and gripped its body hard with her knees. The Rover was airborne, coming toward them, a direct collision with her riding the beast’s back, imminent. But she held the protruding shoulder stake like a saddle grip, and her blade chimed in the wind as she drew it, saw the African diplomat’s vehicle slow and swerve away, and she swung.

  A demon screech sliced the night. The demon body beneath her stopped and dropped, bringing her crashing to the ground with it—the Isis flung far from her as the Range Rover being dragged by the tow cable flipped overhead, snap-jerking the demon carcass in a long slide toward a huge rock.

  “No!” The African diplomat was out of the back of his vehicle and standing on the hood of his fast-moving 4 × 4, leaning out toward her, his grip on his driver’s cage, one arm outstretched, yelling about the lines, his hand opened wide. “Baby, don’t do it! It’s not worth it. Let go!”

  Truth was truth, whatever the source. She could feel the African master using his power to pull her to him. His expression was pained as he opened his arms, trying to spare her, putting himself in jeopardy of losing the game by leveling dark power. But she couldn’t reach him even if she’d wanted to, and truth be told, at that second, part of her did. It was about survival.

  She could feel his strength lifting the vehicle, his erotic charge entering her body, attempting to bend her will to give in and go off into the night with him as her prize. Yet, she was resolute and would not go to him. If she did, all that she’d wagered would be lost, and that was also a fate worse than death.

  Their electric charges scorched the night sky, met in the air, and created a large sonic boom that cancelled each other out, leaving them both weakened. However, she’d gotten firsthand knowledge of just how strong he was.

  Panic transformed into terror as the Range Rover came down on a massive sacred rock formation upside down and exploded with her driver trapped within the cab cage. Fire and gasoline lit up the night, the scent of burning flesh and fuel filled the air, and she was heading toward it all in an unbreakable momentum slide.

  “Baby, come to me. Now!” Amin commanded, twisting and lifting Damali’s body as she fought against him and the demon that was dragging her.

  “Back off!” she yelled, trying to focus on the beast that was dragging her through dirt and rocks on a brutal ride. Her leg was trapped and she snatched her dagger, raised the baby Isis, hit the creature’s heart from its rib cage, and torched it. Damali rolled off the creature, slapping cinders from her pants, and then lay very still on the ground for several minutes clutching her weapon. She peered up as three Range Rovers came next to her, and she shut her eyes and breathed out slowly. Good. Thank you. But she knew better than to even mentally reference the hallowed name of who’d probably helped. She was alive and still had all limbs. She hadn’t rolled over the line, but her driver was dead and her vehicle totaled. Her body felt like she’d been beat-down by a girl gang in the streets. She slowly pushed herself up to stand, disgusted, and sheathed her dagger.

  “Shit!” she hollered. “Only got one of them and my Rover is wrecked!”

  Three foreign masters stared at her for a moment, glanced at each other, then motioned for their drivers to head off in a different direction.

  She slapped the dust off her, glanced back at her flaming Range Rover, and went to go get Madame Isis. So it was like that, huh?

  His Australian host was giving him a run for his money. They were two for two, and this was McGuire’s back yard. Carlos brought his vehicle up beside McGuire’s with a were-roo running flat-out in an eighty-mile-an-hour gallop between both Rovers. Problem was, the thing was playing them both, making them take aim at each other, then dipping into a portal, coming up alongside one of the 4 × 4s to slam it into the other one. When the Transylvanian master tailgated Carlos, the were-roo disappeared underground, came up dead-center of Carlos’s vehicle, causing Tetrosky to ram him.

  He had to get out of the center of the pack, and get on the sidelines for better maneuverability. Bunched up, they’d easily hit a light rail, and that was obviously the roo’s objective. Then his synapses arced danger. Carlos ducked just as the Transylvanian’s stake whirred over his back and took down the roo. Instant incineration, a marksman’s shot. Carlos’s Rover blew grizzly ash across the plains as it went through the smoldering remains. Fury coiled within him. Yeah it was a warning shot for him, too, right over the bow. Assassination was in the air, just like were-roo sulfur.

  Tetrosky gave him a triumphant nod as the other vehicles pulled away to chase another fast-moving target. But Xe was already on it, and had dusted the beast from a hundred yards away.

  “Score?” Carlos hollered at his driver, who registered kills on the dashboard.

  “The lady has one marked as a twenty-point tackle even though it torched, because she left the vehicle and beheaded it first. She gets five bonus for the near-rail risk shot. All masters, two torches—twenty each. We’ll allow for Amin’s transgression, because he was attempting to save the mistress, not score on his own behalf.”

  Carlos nodded. This was way too close a score. The weres were also getting scarce. Then he saw a beauty riding the rails . . . and it had his name on it. He was out in the open after Tetrosky pulled back, and the other ambassadors had gone in Xe’s direction. But this had to be a hand-to-hand bring down, near the rails, to put him out in front at forty-five points.

  His driver shook his head no. “Too close to the rails, Mr. Councilman. That’s why the odders pulled up.”

  “Take me to her,” Carlos ordered. “She’s mine.”

  “The roo, or the woman, sir?”

  “Both!”

  “We don’t need to risk—”

  “Do not argue with me!” Carlos had the crossbow to h
is chin, his aim steady, timing the hit to nick it, make it change course to avoid the rails if it fell from being wounded. Banking on the survival instinct of the beast, he released the stake, severing the animal’s jaw. Timing was everything. It howled, ducked underground, and came up on the other side of the Range Rover. But that trapped the vehicle between the angry creature on one side, and the rails on the other.

  Eight hundred pounds of furious, wounded animal slammed the vehicle’s side panel, tipping the soupped-up 4 × 4 onto two wheels.

  “We’re going over!” the driver hollered. “Dismount, sir!”

  “Hell no!” Carlos yelled back, the vision of what the African master had attempted making him reckless. No man was going to outdo him in front of Damali. He jumped to the opposite side of the open cargo space, righting the Rover with his own sudden weight. Choppers overhead followed his Rover. He was in the lead. In his mind’s eye he could see a dusty trail of other masters fast approaching behind him, trying to get into position to aim and bring down his sure kill.

  He felt a harpoon whiz by his head, and knew Amin had sent it his way dead-aim, and not by accident.

  When the roo charged again, he got off a shot, which sent a stake into its shoulder. But it reared, slashed its tail under the axle from the front and flipped the vehicle. The force of the impact knocked Carlos out of the open back section, and he hit the ground sliding to a stop, then jumped up running toward the demon. The driver had crossed the line; Carlos was dangerously near it on foot on the ground. In its wounded fury the were-roo charged Carlos, stopped short, claws reaching. Bowie knife drawn, he severed one of the hooked talons, making it rear back dripping green slime, then a tail struck him so hard he went airborne, dazed.

  From a remote place in his mind he heard McGuire yell his name. He heard vehicles slowing. Heard a chopper land, Damali’s voice hit a panic decibel that roused him, and he rolled back toward the creature, her footfalls in the very dirt beneath him like a pulse, helping him to stand. The roo was down, wasn’t burning. He was closer to it than any competitor. This was for her. Motion, awareness snapped back, and he ran . . . he was air, was night, was the speed of light in the darkness . . . and the roo was down, within his grasp, breathing hard, dying slow from his crossbow hit and bleeding out from the severed limb. It was a damned demon. Something foul that fed on human flesh and remains like a scavenger. A parasite against humanity. It was the one thing standing between him and his Neteru. And its head was coming off in his bare hands.

  Triumphant, he held the head up over the twitching body on the ground, threw his head back, and let out a sound that went back to the beginning of time itself.

  Blood filled his mouth from the internal injuries that were swiftly sealing, sweat stung his eyes and he couldn’t see. Adrenaline shot through him so hard and so fast that it made him stagger where he stood, converting into a pure testosterone rush of sudden euphoria.

  “Score?” he shouted with his eyes closed. No one answered. That’s right, his driver was dead from the crash. His own voice was foreign, deeper than when in battle; he couldn’t even close his mouth it was so packed with fangs. Something nudged his legs at both sides, and then loudly sniffed him, whimpering. Yeah, the dogs could have all the dead drivers and whatever demons hadn’t flamed. Then something electrifying lit his system like a rocket and knocked his head back. The scent stole his equilibrium, made him search the air for it, blind, drop the beast’s head for the dogs, and open his eyes, wiping at them with his dusty forearms.

  It happened in what felt like slow motion. Golden, sparkling light created an unnatural luminescence before him. His flight-weary dogs that had flown from the castle to protect him backed away from it. Footfalls coming in his direction. The vibrations echoed a familiar sound. His name splitting atoms on the wind carried by the voice of an angel, hiccupping hysteria, the glint of a blade catching moonlight and a hot body flung against him so hard he almost fell.

  Disorientation gave way to instant awareness as he buried his nose deep in her damp hair and encircled her perspiration-wet back, her sword tight in her fist against his spine, she was bloodsaturated adrenaline, pure Guardian Neteru, clinging to him, tears stinging his wounds, making him lift her off her feet to spin her around, laughing. He’d won. For her. She’d been the only thing on his mind when he went for the roo . . . it was a matter of honor—hers, his, theirs. Didn’t she know?

  Slowly advancing vehicles soon drew his attention. He put Damali down easy, but didn’t let her go. Victory made his spine straighten, every vertebra separating, lengthening, his jaw set hard, eyes unmoving. Yes. He’d won. Fair and square—no special powers, just brute strength. She was his.

  “Score, gentlemen?” he said, confidence sending his voice across the divide to them like sudden thunder.

  They just stared at him, and he could feel Damali tense and draw in to him closer. They had to be out of their minds if they even thought . . .

  “You crossed a major prayer artery, Councilman,” McGuire said, fear and awe in his voice.

  Carlos glanced at the other masters, and then laughed. “Oh, bullshit! I got close, but I would have fried.” He glanced down at Damali, and her complexion was ashen from apparent trauma. He felt his face, and was still showing eight inches. “Explain these, then,” he yelled, pointing to his fangs.

  The Transylvanian dropped to one knee and lowered his head in total submission. “Never in history, sir. We are not worthy to be in your presence.”

  The others followed suit, each dropping to one knee before Carlos, each rendered mute by the unfathomable in their world. It was so quiet for a moment that Carlos was sure he could hear their still breaths.

  “We have seen a new era usher forth in the empire,” Master Xe said, his head bowed. “Our generations will know of your great accomplishments for all eternity. My lands have been ceded to your wife, and my complete allegiance is yours.”

  “As are mine . . . and my allegiance to our councilman is unwavering. For generations, we have waited for such unstoppable power to concentrate,” Master Amin said, his voice a murmur of respect as he lowered his gaze. “And your bride . . . I saw it with my own eyes, sir. She fought with equal ferocity to any of us here. She almost hit a line, and yet would not take my hand or use her powers that might jeopardize your claim. The commitment beyond self-survival . . . never have I witnessed such in all my years.”

  “You’ve won all of Europe, Mistress Rivera, and have my crest seal as my blood bond. I cede to you. And I humbly beg your husband’s pardon for all transgressions.” The Transylvanian’s voice broke, and he took a deep breath.

  The Aussie spoke, but dared not look up. “Sir . . . ‘Sidney was made by Satan,’ you told me a writer once said, when you arrived. Your Excellency . . . was that you?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HE COULD barely keep his hands off of her in the chopper, but settled for kissing her wounded palms to seal the cuts, then clasping one of her hands tightly within his. She was blind to the lines, was trailing gold—something he’d never seen her do . . . and she hadn’t dropped fang to come to his aid in a sure extinction. Clearly she was no longer vampire. Whatever was inside her was stronger than vampire. Whatever fired her system up out there had transformed her again, and he could actually feel the raw Neteru power still pulsing through her. A will of iron, confidence, no fear.

  Yet it was a frustrating transition for him to observe, bittersweet to the bone on many levels. Tonight, her being human would be a problem, like the way she trustingly tilted her head back against his shoulder, desire, relief, and pride in him running all through her and therefore running all through him. He closed his eyes, his nose grazing her hair, indulging his senses before he pulled away. Oh, yeah, this was a serious problem.

  Carlos glanced down and out the window, seeing his dogs lagging behind the choppers in the distance, their wobbly flight pattern showing their fatigue. There was so much to tell her, so many questions he had . . . so many things
he owed her an apology for. She’d literally put the world at his feet, had lands ceded from every nation, all for him. Had given him an immunity never even granted vampire line-founding kings. Even in a full vamp transformation, she had bargained for the life of a child . . . had tried to restore his honor, and hers, in a room of violent aggressors and had averted a cold-blooded coup . . . her Isis before her, head high.

  This amazing, wondrous creation, this woman . . . had chosen him. A Neteru, bending cosmic rules, risking her life, playing the game—even playing him, at critical times, for his own good. She’d taken every dark corner of his heart, even his world, and had stood it on its head, flipped the script, and made it all work out. Yeah, he’d been shrewd enough to keep pace with her quick strategy moves, but she was the one with the real magic. Spellbound, how could he ever leave that . . . his temptation, sweet addiction . . . apasionada?

  His chopper landed first, and the butler brought out the full staff with him, flanking two lines before it. When the door was opened, the entire staff line went down on one knee and bowed as he and Damali disembarked and strolled up the castle’s massive front steps without looking back. Behind him he could hear the other choppers land, and soon the voice of the manservant addressed him.

  “I am honored to be in your employ, Councilman Rivera. I do hope you will elect to allow me to continue to serve you and your lovely wife?”

  Carlos just nodded and kept walking.

  “Sir, the banquet?”

  “Prepare for the guests as my wife had specified earlier. We’ll be down for dinner shortly after we change.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Carlos kept his eyes forward, taking Damali up the stairs on his arm. She wasn’t vampire, and after the hunt, they didn’t need to see that she couldn’t just transition into a ball gown at the door. It was certain that none of the other masters would rush him for her now, their agreements were registered in blood. He had to get her out of there before she dehydrated and dropped from fatigue and lack of food. She needed to get to her team, and get away from him . . . get away from the castle and to stay human for her performance tomorrow night . . . and for the rest of her life. That’s also why she had to get away from him, because his willpower was not his own.