The Wild Rites Saga Omnibus 01 to 04

by Anna McIlwraith

  “It’s just knowing she is near, so close, yet so out of reach. I’ve never before felt her in my head as strongly as I do now. If I had, I would have known, and she would be ours already.” Alan pinned Robert with his gaze. “Her power stirs and it calls to me. Maddening.” Alan took another of those deep, deep breaths. “We must have her. If not tonight, then another, but we must have her.”

  Robert nodded grimly. He couldn’t agree more.

  17

  Emma dressed quickly. Like taking medicine, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she could just get it over and done with. Except when this was over and done with, she was left wearing a cape and a string bikini.

  The bikini top was soft golden suede, two tiny triangles and four leather thongs. A roll of masking tape would have been more effective for covering herself up. She felt like she was going to a tacky dress up party. Fair enough, the bottoms were boyshorts, and the cape was some incredible kind of fur that reminded her of something a Viking might wear and made her feel kinda badass so long as she didn’t think about where the hell it came from.

  But it was still a cape and a string bikini.

  But the black shorts with their thick leather belt held the gun firmly in place against the small of her back, even if it did dig in a little. Well, a lot. She fastened the cloak around her shoulders and twirled in front of a gilt edged full length mirror.

  Oh God . She looked like a cross between an Egyptian queen and a leather queen — but the gun was nowhere in sight. Perfect. And the cloak was warm and comfortable. It was tailored well enough that it didn’t pull at the front of her throat, like she’d expected it to. She could pick the ends of it up if she needed, and gather the bulk of it around her hips, securing it at her elbows like wearing a big blanket draped around her shoulders. The gun was even more securely hidden that way, too.

  She could live with it. She didn’t feel very badass at all, didn’t feel like the ancient warrior she sorta resemblede, but she could live with it.

  As comfortable as she was going to get, Emma clutched the edges of the cloak together and made for the doorway leading out of the chamber. She was halfway to it when the sound of something scraping against stone brought her up short. She whirled, facing the far wall with its open archway into the bath chamber, uncertain if the sound had come from there. She thought so, but she could be wrong.

  Nothing there. Alone in the chamber, as she should be. And what did it matter anyway? So she’d heard a noise. She should probably be surprised she hadn’t heard more; this was, after all, a big spooky underground stronghold full of supernatural creatures. Feeling stupid, she turned away.

  “Help me.” The voice was muffled and far away, barely more than a whisper, but it had been real. Emma froze, senses straining. The sound came again, something shifting against stone. Like from behind a wall. The far wall.

  “Please.”

  Emma crossed the distance to the rear wall of the chamber, through the archway and past the sunken tub, past the dressing screen, apprehension skittering up her spine.

  She stopped less than a foot from the wall. The sound of her breath rasped loud in the quiet.

  “Please,” came the disembodied voice again. Emma couldn’t tell if it was male or female, but whoever it was, they sounded desperate.

  She shouldn’t care. She should walk away. She was a prisoner here, and whatever went on behind the many thick walls was none of her business and beyond her control.

  Maybe that was exactly why she leaned into the wall and pressed her ear against the rough stone. “Is somebody there?”

  One heartbeat’s length of silence. Two. Then something moved against the other side of the wall.

  “Come to me.” Closer, louder. Emma blinked. Her eyelids seemed heavy all of a sudden.

  Okay. She should move away from the wall, she knew she should. The command just wasn’t traveling from her brain to her legs. She sagged against the warm stone.

  “Put your hand to mine.” What the hell? Emma swallowed, trying to focus. Her hand came up of its own volition and pressed flat to the wall. A second later, heat flooded her palm. She jerked her head back but her hand remained where it was.

  This was bad. This was really, really bad. She watched in horror as her hand slid along the bumpy surface of the stone wall, her arm and the rest of her body like a dead weight at the end of it. Helpless to stop it. Terror swelled in her chest, but she couldn’t make herself scream.

  She could only watch, as though shackled by the lazy menace of a nightmare.

  “Push.” The voice was now unmistakably male, insistent.

  Helpless, she pushed.

  The wall swung away from her with a groan and she fell forward into darkness, lost her balance, her hand suddenly free of its awful compulsion. She staggered and caught herself on hands and knees, palms slapping cold stone. The yellow bar of light falling from behind her narrowed, and then disappeared as the section of the wall that had swung inward completed its turn, sealing her out, throwing the world into pitch black.

  Shit . Emma straightened and then froze, blind. She waved a hand in front of her own face and couldn’t see it. Something moved behind her. Her heart gave a sickening lurch. She listened, her pulse like a weight in her throat, as footsteps whispered away from her.

  The sudden crack and bright flare of a match destroyed the darkness. It threw red light against bare stone walls, sending shadows leaping, for a moment just as blinding and disorienting as the black before it. Emma whirled, gaze raking a large, empty domed chamber, walls hung with mouldering silken drapes.

  Her mind absorbed it even as her eyes came to rest on the shadowed figure who held the match to a torch set into the wall. Orange light jumped and grew brighter. The figure stepped forward, and Emma had to struggle with not screaming.

  It was the tall, skinny, guy who had driven Anton’s truck to the Roadhouse. The Aranan.

  What the hell was his name? Why could she remember the word Aranan but not his name? Panic washed through Emma in a sharp, crystalline tide, drying her mouth. She could only stare.

  His black eyes gleamed like glass from deep, dark hollows, sparkling and empty. His t-shirt was gone, and instead of jeans he now wore an uneven length of green fabric wrapped around his hips like a towel — it shone dully, and looked suspiciously like a torn piece of wall hanging.

  He moved towards her, torchlight blazing on his skin, making shadows pool in the hollows beneath his stark ribcage, turning his slim, lean face into a haunted mask. Easier to see now, just how hard and severe his body was; muscle stood out in starved definition, rippling like steel cable with every movement he made. There was something nervous in the way he held himself, like caged electricity. Even his black hair seemed to bristle with it. Then Emma realized what it was: his whole body radiated hunger now, the same hunger that had yawned from his cold gaze when he first laid eyes on her.

  She wanted to scream like she’d never screamed before. Bring down the roof. Scream to wake the dead and bring every living thing in the place to her rescue, but how long would it take them to get to her? She could be dead by the time they heard the echoes.

  She stepped back and found herself up against stone. She’d hit the wall. Great. Running was not going to be an option. “What do you want?”

  The Aranan stopped, gazing at her. He looked terribly young, too young for those obsidian eyes. His face seemed hopeless and desperate somehow. “You have to help me,” he said. Deep voice, seemed too old for him. He took another step towards her. “You have to help us.”

  Help, right. Emma tried to shift her awareness to the rest of the room without moving her eyes from his. There had to be a way out of here, but it was too dark to see, and the torchlight just messed with her night vision.

  The Aranan licked his lips, a small nervous gesture. “I need you. My people need you.”

  Jesus , she thought, Get in line . Even if she did have all the power everyone seemed to think she had, how was she supposed to help the
m with it? If someone had told her something useful —

  Fern. His name was Fern.

  “I’m sorry Fern, but I can’t help you. I’m not what you people think I am. I —” she paused as he shook his head.

  “You have to,” he said, his voice deepening. “You must. I’m sorry too, there’s just no other way.” An almost genuine expression of regret passed over his face like a shadow and was gone, replaced by determination. And hunger. Desperate hunger.

  “Fern!” Emma started to argue, but it was too late. He advanced, nothing tentative in his step now.

  Her mind froze, torn. Go for the gun, or run? Fuck!

  He closed the distance between them and her body decided for her. She panicked and bolted, bare feet slapping the stone floor as she made for the only section of wall that could possibly be an exit — she drew closer and saw the faint outline where the door slid into place — she had to reach it, or gain just enough room to draw the gun and surprise him at close range, why the fuck had she panicked, stupid, so stupid —

  Hands closed on her upper arms. She screamed. No schoolgirl squeal, but a full-throated shriek that hit the roof and shook dust from the stones. It startled Fern and he lost his grip for a moment, long enough to give her room to thrash; she bucked in his arms, threw her head back and saw stars as her skull connected with something meaty.

  “Fuck!” He sounded muffled, surprised. “Just stop it, please!” Stop it? The hell she would. His arms shifted to get her under control and she twisted in his grip, reaching behind her, searching for the gun. She raked at his face with her left hand but the angle was all bad. She snarled in frustration.

  Fern grunted with exertion and spun her around, capturing her forearms with his crushing hands. “Stop .” Emma jerked against his hold, but stilled when she saw it was useless. She had no leverage with her wrists caged by his fingers, and she was no match for him in strength. She kicked forward, but he held her out of reach.

  “Let me go,” she growled. “Someone will come for me.” She had no idea if it was true, but damn it, she had to hope. She looked up into his face. His nose streamed blood, coating his mouth and chin, turning the bottom half of his face into a savage mask.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, breathing fast and heavy through his mouth. “When you’ve helped me, none of them can hurt me or my people, ever again.” His eyes were wide and riveted on her face, glassy yet completely focused. Possessed. He opened his mouth, ran his tongue along his bloodied bottom lip. His chest heaved.

  Emma clenched her jaw to keep from whimpering. “I can’t help you if you eat me.” Her hoarse throat reduced her voice to a whisper.

  Fern’s eyes widened, the black irises expanding, until the whites were swallowed up and his eyes were round black orbs in his slim face. His skin glowed even paler against the black holes of his eyes, like he was lit from within — and shadows moved across him that had nothing to do with light. Stripes the color of smoke pulsed to the time of his heartbeat, mirrored the hard curves of the bones of his face, like his skin was too thin, and something deadly and fluid roiled beneath.

  “Not going to eat you,” said Fern, voice impossibly deep and rasping as though his throat weren’t made for words. His mouth opened, wider and wider, jaw gaping, and Emma stared in paralyzed horror as his incisors turned sharp and black, and lengthened, thickening. They each grew down into a vicious curve, two huge, black, gleaming fangs.

  The muscles in Emma’s legs twitched with the need to run, even as the sight of Fern’s changing face drained the strength from her body.

  He made a noise in his throat, breathless and pained, and his eyebrows drew together over those round shining eyes in an expression of such intense desperation, it stunned Emma for a moment. He closed his eyes and shook his head once, black fangs dripping fluid. Emma gathered her strength for one final attempt at freedom, and then he opened his eyes, pulled her up against his chest, and sank his teeth into the base of her neck.

  She found her voice again, and screamed.

  18

  Ricky snapped his head towards Anton. “Did you feel that?” He clenched his fists around the bars of cage. His breath came fast, the echo of the scream dying in his ears, as if he’d merely imagined it.

  Anton growled in answer as he turned away to pace the length of the cage once more. Emma was in trouble, and they were helpless. Fucking great. In the corner of the cell, Bruce stood with his head hung low, his eyes fixed on the opposite side of the dank room, the other side of the bars — the way out. The dog hadn’t stopped snarling since being stuffed into the cage, despite all Telly’s reassuring words.

  Anton glanced over to the far side of the cell, where the two harpy eagle girls huddled together, their dark hair, eyes, and skin making them barely more than a smudge amongst the shadows. They had spoken few words despite Anton’s gentle coaxing. Their wounds were mild, but avian shapechangers had the fastest metabolisms of any race, so there was no telling how bad the original damage had been. Their glassy, terrified eyes would haunt Anton for the rest of his very long life, though. They had suffered, and it was partly his fault.

  He bit back an involuntary sound of despair. “I can’t fucking believe this,” he breathed.

  Telly came to his feet from where he’d been sitting for over an hour. He was dirty, sweaty and grim, but calm. “Hang in there, muchacho,” he said. “Somebody’s coming.”

  The barred door swung open and crashed against the wall behind it. Alexi stood framed in the doorway, visibly fuming, guards at his back. He strode into the room and stopped at the bars, raking the men with a furious stare.

  “It wasn’t you, was it?” He didn’t address the question to any single one of them, so none of them answered. Alexi whipped his braid over his shoulder with a sharp flick of his head. His yellow eyes came to rest on Ricky, who of them all, looked the most shaken. His eyes were frantic, his chest heaving.

  “It was her,” Ricky blurted. “You’ve got to go to her!” He strained against the heavy steel bars. “Damn it, do something!”

  Alexi’s stark eyes narrowed with angry resignation. He hissed — then lifted his head at the sound of more footfalls.

  Marco, the leader of the guard, stormed past the guards manning the door. His eyes held the same panicked look as everyone else’s.

  “Alexi, we can’t locate the Aranan. Fern is still missing. And you must have heard it.” Marco paused, glancing at the caged men, and before he could open his mouth to speak again another scream reverberated faintly through the stone walls. They felt it more than heard it.

  “I don’t know how, but he must be in the maidens’ chambers,” said Marco. “Or the girl strayed and ran into something. I’m sending word to the king. And I’m taking the guards and going to her.” Marco waited a heartbeat in deference to Alexi, and then turned on his heel and sprinted from the cell.

  Alexi snarled, raking the prisoners with one last hot glare, and rushed after Marco.

  When the sound of their footsteps had died, Telly stepped forward and eyed the four guards who had been left to watch them. The guards, though seasoned and well trained warriors, shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

  Telly’s eyes glittered. “If Emma has come to harm, then our truce is over,” he told the guards, flexing his hands.

  Power whispered through the room like wind in dry grass.

  The guards drew their weapons.

  Anton almost felt sorry for the warriors, left to stand alone against Telly. With nothing to keep him in check, no truce or active bargain to make him behave for the sake of the lives of others…

  A hot wind that smelled of dry grass and magic rushed into the room. With a groan of stressed metal, the cage door buckled off its hinges and clattered to the damp stone floor.

  Telly smiled.

  When the Harpy Queen’s allies were gone and the guards unconscious in their wake, the two harpy eagle girls turned to each other with wet black eyes and shared a moment of silent agreement.
They would hide as Telly had told them to do, yes, but they would not rely upon him to return for them. Anything could happen to him. Tiala and Nysh knew well from experience how hollow the good intentions of compassionate strangers could be. There was only one person they trusted — their new queen, Selena.

  19

  The Aranan’s fangs tore through soft skin and muscle, sinking in deep and digging for purchase. Her scream dissolved into a whimper. She kicked out, but couldn’t move her torso, too much jolting, spiking pain. She could only stand there, pinned to Fern’s chest, arms shackled by his fingers, neck on fire. She tried to drive a knee into his groin but he merely caught her thigh between his own strong legs, trapping her there.

  She swayed as the world went gray. And then she felt it. Something hot, burning, spreading from the white-hot agony of her neck in a liquid rush. Spreading through her, pumping into her. She had a ridiculous flashback to being small and having an immunization shot, the feel of the needle sliding in, the thick, tight sensation of fluid being dispersed beneath skin. Suddenly the agony of his teeth in her flesh was just pain; the feel of something pushing into her bloodstream, against her skin, overrode it in a sickening wash of revulsion. Nausea curdled her stomach. Her body fought, sweat breaking out, as her temperature climbed and she shuddered in Fern’s grip.

  Then her vision dissolved, and the world went black.

  Still conscious, but blind.

  “What have you done to me?” She could barely hear her own voice. Fern’s hands tightened on her arms.

  Suddenly images poured into her mind unbidden with vivid clarity. Shadows. The inside of a temple, the curve of a low domed roof, shadows like specters arcing against the walls. Shapes writhed in the darkness, looming over her, furred and hulking, too many for her to comprehend — too many legs. She jerked back, but the images stayed, as though replaying a memory she was helpless to stop. Something brushed against her and the feel of it was so real, she screamed, trying to brush it away.