Rise of the Gryphon (Belador)

by Kenyon, Sherrilyn

  He sucked in the staggering stench of licorice.

  Not the nice smell of candy but the smoky odor that came from dealing in the dark arts. Deadly dark arts.

  He gagged and coughed, also smelling something dead that should be buried far away and deep.

  That was the moment he realized he was not alone.

  “Buenos días, Storm,” whispered around him.

  The witch doctor.

  He spun in a circle, searching for her. That was her voice. And this was her spelled area. He’d walked right into her trap. This wasn’t the way he’d planned to face her, exhausted and in her territory, but his enemies had never played fair.

  Neither would he.

  He roared, challenging the witch doctor to show her face.

  Laughter bubbled all around him, echoing as if he stood inside a canyon instead of a grassy patch surrounded by a circle of trees. “Not yet, my black demon. I am not quite ready to risk standing so close to you. Soon, very soon.”

  Should he be glad he’d have a second chance to be better physically prepared or concerned about why she would delay this meeting?

  She made a tsk-ing sound. “You have cost me much time. You foolishly think you can outplay me, but in the end I will win.” Her words whipped past his ears, sliding away then zinging back at him. “You wish for blood. That is not the way for us to be. We are much alike, you and me.”

  I’d cut my own throat to protect the world if I was anything like you.

  “You are not ready to come to me voluntarily today.”

  Hold your breath and wait for that to happen. Should he shift so he could talk to her? Or was she hoping for that? He was strong in his human state, but far more powerful in his jaguar form.

  “I must leave you, Storm. I have much to do, and we will see each other again, but I cannot allow you to interfere with my Langaus now that you have the scent. Why do you make my life so difficult?”

  Langau? He searched his mind for what she could have brought to this country . . . or created since coming here.

  “I will allow you to live because you have much to do for me. You force me to make you regret coming in here unless you are ready to give your word and come to me on your own.”

  He snarled, showing his fangs.

  “So stubborn. It is a shame that you do not accept your destiny. Perhaps a lesson in humility will show you who holds the most power between us. Adiós, Storm.” In the next moment, he saw the witch doctor outside the clearing, walking away.

  Still beautiful and hadn’t aged a day. Had gotten younger looking if anything.

  Or was that a spell?

  If so, did she have to renew it often? Something to keep in mind when he did face her later.

  She looked back once, smiled, and continued on, disappearing in the trees.

  Storm tensed for whatever threat she’d conjured up, sure he could not simply walk out of here the way the witch doctor had. And neither could he turn his back on an unknown threat.

  A form wavered into view.

  As it took shape, Storm moved toward the invisible perimeter around this clearing. He kept an eye on the image of a brunette woman as she solidified into a human form. She had a college-girl face with deep golden skin and layered hair that stopped short of the black-and-pink scarf draped over a pink sweater. An unnatural breeze swirled through the clearing, lifting strands of her hair and ruffling her black pants.

  Pretty hazel eyes without a flicker of life to them.

  Now he understood what the witch doctor had done. Her Langau was an alma condenada, or a condemned soul. Very likely a soul the witch doctor had stolen, then used to create demons.

  Just like she wanted to do with Storm, since she owned his soul.

  That meant this Langau was deadly, but the witch doctor had indicated she would see him again.

  That meant she wanted him left alive, but she’d said nothing about what condition he’d be in.

  The brunette took a tentative step toward him.

  He’d never harmed a woman, but he reminded himself this was nothing more than a creature the witch doctor created from dead parts and blood sacrifices. Fighting it was not an issue, but the witch doctor wanted to punish him.

  To slow him down from hunting her Langaus. Plural.

  Where had she released them?

  What made the witch doctor think he couldn’t kill this thing? She had to know better, which meant she might have given the Langau a poison to inject in some way. A poison from South America she’d know would cripple him.

  Avoiding this Langau was the smartest move.

  The creature sauntered closer with a feminine sway.

  He snarled, a low, throaty sound that stopped her and warned another step could be her last.

  Her slender hands twisted and lengthened into razor-sharp nails with enough curve to cause maximum pain. Or death. Her face lost its youthful appeal, skin wavering and sliding until rotted flesh showed through in spots and the eyes sank in.

  Her mouth widened and lips narrowed, much like a mouth on a large snake, but this one was filled with spiked teeth.

  That’s how she’d inject the poison.

  She lunged at him, but adrenaline had kicked in and Storm leaped to the side, leaving her to stumble through air. He bumped into the barrier and mentally marked the spot for when he had an opportunity to get out. He couldn’t now, with this threat at his back.

  Swinging around, she came at him, claws in the air.

  He dodged to the side again, but she did, too, this time. There was nothing for it but to attack. Ramming her with all his power, he knocked her backward and she went down.

  But not before raking her claws across his shoulder, cutting three deep gouges. Storm ripped her throat out. Her head rolled to one side and her body jerked back and forth.

  Fast and final, but his shoulder burned as if acid had been poured in the wound.

  He took a couple of steps toward the center of the clearing, then turned around and dove headfirst through the invisible barrier. Going back through was painful and a battle, but he made it. When he landed on the other side, he looked around and saw only trees, bushes and grass.

  The Langau was gone.

  Storm’s shoulder ached, telling him to get moving. He took off at a quick pace, in a hurry to reach his truck two miles away. By the time he got to it, his mouth was dry as cotton, and an ache had settled into all his muscles, much like a bad case of the flu.

  Shifting into his human form took longer than normal. He was panting by the time he finished. He guzzled a bottle of water, then put on his jeans and shirt over his clammy body. When he climbed into the truck, the clock on the dash showed the day closing in on three in the afternoon.

  That would give him time to get home and drop into a deep, healing sleep to push the poison or whatever that Langau had injected him with out of his system. He could do that and still get to Evalle by sundown at half past seven.

  Black clouds joined ranks overhead, and thunder pounded.

  On top of fighting off whatever was in his system, he’d have to drive through rain to get home. He groaned over the effort it took to lean forward and crank the engine, then he eased back for the half-mile ride to the highway.

  His vision doubled. He squinted and realized he might not make it home. Sleeping out here was a bad idea.

  Storm chanted, tapping his majik to flood him with energy.

  That should keep him awake long enough to make it home if this was only poison. He read road signs and . . .

  Time disappeared between thoughts.

  One minute he was driving through the forest, and the next he was on the interstate heading south into Atlanta.

  Cold seeped inside his hot skin.

  He’d never encountered a poison like this one. Chanting to keep himself awake and more alert, he finally pulled into his driveway just over an hour later, never so glad to see his house. His mind blanked and the next thing he knew he was at his front door, checking the w
arding before he entered.

  Another lost blink and he was stretched over his bed, panting. Why the gaps between his thoughts?

  He called up his jaguar to start the healing process now that he didn’t have to remain conscious.

  His jaguar barely stirred.

  What?

  Storm drew on his healing powers again, and his muscles quivered with the effort. What was wrong with his jaguar? Poison had never stayed long in his body or debilitated him this badly.

  Why hadn’t the witch doctor stuck around? She could have taken advantage of his weakened state.

  But she’d tried that once before and it hadn’t gone well for her.

  She feared him, which she should, considering they shared blood. He hated her more every time he thought about how she’d tricked his father into breeding her a Skinwalker she could turn into a future demon.

  Storm’s eyes drifted closed.

  All he wanted to do was sleep, but he had to wake up in time. Reaching over to his clock, his hand flopped on the nightstand, knocking the small digital unit to the floor. He had no control over his arms.

  Poison had never made his limbs rubbery.

  His body started shaking with tremors hard enough to rock the bed.

  Not a poison . . . an infection.

  He fought the sleep dragging him under. And lost.

  NINE

  That bloody woman is going to wish she’d never crossed me.

  Vladimir Quinn shoved the hotel security card into the slot to activate the elevator that would take him to the penthouse floor of his hotel in downtown Atlanta.

  Alone, thankfully.

  He wasn’t ready to go down to the suite he was actually staying in and deal with his teenage cousin Lanna, yet another problem he had to handle. Dark was coming on soon. Perhaps she’d be asleep if he gave it a couple of hours.

  Self-loathing should be done in private.

  He was a trusted Belador in a high-level position, and for him to give a Medb priestess, sworn enemy of the Beladors, access to any Belador information deserved brutal punishment.

  Especially for bloody classified information.

  And that’s exactly what he’d done.

  The fact that he’d done so unintentionally didn’t matter. The information had been his to protect. But now Kizira would find out what it meant to double-cross a Belador as powerful as he was.

  Quinn would willingly accept his due from Macha for opening his arms to Kizira.

  But he hadn’t just opened his arms to her. He’d made love to the woman four days ago, and only hours later she’d launched an attack on Treoir Island, putting their warrior queen’s life in danger and threatening the seat of Belador power.

  He’d done the kind of damage expected of the traitor everyone was hunting.

  All because he’d believed Kizira when she’d claimed she wanted to end the conflict between the Beladors and the Medb so they could be together. That she cared for him.

  So damned convincing. What else was he supposed to think when she’d given him permission to breach the barriers to her mind and withdraw what he could find about the Medb plans?

  She took a hell of a risk to come to you. That was what his heart had said four days ago. But his heart would no longer call the shots where Kizira was concerned.

  She’d made it clear that being compelled by the Medb queen prevented her from giving him anything voluntarily, but she’d given permission for him to retrieve whatever he could on his own. Hell, she’d practically begged him to try even though she’d doubted he could actually get past her shields.

  He’d jumped at the chance.

  And when he’d broken through, he discovered the Medb had sent Svart trolls, deadly black ops mercenaries, to quietly invade Atlanta.

  On the surface, that had appeared to be a win-win, since he wouldn’t deny that he enjoyed having Kizira back in his arms, but he’d been a fool to think he’d been the only one fishing for intel.

  Love did that to a man.

  Turned a highly respected warrior into an idiot.

  Couldn’t even blame his actions on thinking with the wrong head. No, his heart had convinced him that Kizira had told the truth, and he’d trusted the traitorous organ.

  Not again.

  The intel he’d gained that day had saved many human lives, he’d give Kizira that.

  But she’d teleported away with a far greater treasure, withdrawing vital classified information from his mind on how to locate Treoir. Only a handful of chosen Beladors had known the location of the island hidden in a mystical fog above the Irish Sea.

  Now Kizira knew. A powerful Medb priestess.

  While he’d worried over her fate if the Medb figured out she’d clued the Beladors to the Svart troll invasion, she’d been sending another army of Svarts to kill Brina.

  That his people had managed to shut down both groups of Svarts didn’t matter. Beladors had been lost in the battle to protect Treoir. And the Medb now possessed the route for teleporting to an island that had been successfully hidden for two thousand years.

  Kizira hadn’t made a peep since then. Not a single attempt to contact Quinn telepathically, and he’d been too busy to deal with her. Until now.

  Time to turn the tables and make the witch pay.

  When Quinn reached the suite he’d booked just for meeting with Kizira, he wanted to slam the door after entering, but he closed it quietly. Why should anyone else suffer just because his chest felt caved in where his heart used to be?

  Jerking off his wool overcoat still damp from the drizzle he’d walked through on his way to the hotel, he tossed it on the sofa and stalked to the bar to pour Boodles and water over ice.

  A stiff one. Just what he needed for this showdown.

  He settled on the sofa and dropped his head back, eyes closed, preparing to reach out to Kizira. He called to her silently. Kizira?

  No answer. Did she think she could hide from him? That bloody connection went both ways.

  Quinn put force behind his next telepathic shout. Kizira!

  A soft cry fluttered through his mind, sounding like the scattered pieces of an eggshell voice that had been shattered. Then one word squeezed through in a plea. Quinn.

  What was she up to this time? Did she think he’d be so easy to trick again? He bit down on the urge to unleash his foul temper and kept his telepathic voice calm. I’m in no mood for games. Come and see me. I have something for you.

  He fished a slender weave of braided hair from his pants pocket. No thicker than a strip of chewing gum and just long enough to fit around Kizira’s narrow wrist. She’d recently given him the thirteen-year-old keepsake made from his hair as an apology.

  One he’d accepted, but he knew better this time. What’s going on, Kizira? I’m tired and I haven’t got a lot of time.

  Cold fingers clawed into his brain. Sharp as talons with a fierce grip, they jerked him from his relaxed state. He slapped the drink down on the glass table at his side and grabbed his head. What the hell?

  Quiinnn? quivered through his mind in a pitiful cry.

  Stop it, he shouted back at her.

  Trying to . . . talk to you . . . but I need help.

  Lies. Always lies. Why wasn’t she teleporting in? Did she suspect retaliation for what she did? I know you’re compelled to do things. Come see me. This may be the last time I can talk to you.

  Let her think something was going to happen to him.

  No . . . wait . . . trying.

  Her fear clutched at him, scratching for a hold. Blood trickled from his nose. He clenched his jaw, debating on using power, but he had to prevent a Medb from taking control of his mind. He shoved a blast of energy back through the connection.

  The pressure stopped immediately.

  What was going on?

  For the slimmest moment, he considered her fear. Was it genuine? What could stop her from teleporting to him?

  Nothing. Just another Medb trick.

  He had to get her clos
e enough to him physically for any chance of taking her captive.

  This time, when he took her into his arms—and he would—Quinn would use his mind lock to prevent her from teleporting away. He swallowed against what he had to do. I thought you cared about me.

  A rock of guilt balled in his throat and sank to his gut. He’d been a fool, still caring about the woman he’d met thirteen years ago. When he hadn’t known she was Medb.

  Don’t think of her any other way and this will work.

  Chilly energy swirled near him, brushing the skin on his face. Quinn opened his eyes to find an image trying to take shape between him and the window, where night still ruled. Kizira’s form normally coalesced quickly when she teleported, but the figure coming into focus now was nothing more than a wispy shape, blurry from the neck down.

  Her eyes were red-rimmed, not glowing like they’d always been before. Beautiful, sad eyes stared at him, damp and pained, as though she’d been crying. Her lips moved.

  No sound came through.

  She tried talking again. Her face erupted with panic, then she squeezed her eyes shut. Veins on her forehead stuck out as if she was concentrating all her energy on one thing.

  He sat forward, studying the strange vision, and spoke out loud. “What are you doing?”

  Slowly, her neck and shoulders came into focus. She opened her eyes and took a couple of panting breaths. “Trying . . . to communicate.”

  “Why aren’t you teleporting in?”

  “I . . . can’t.”

  “Why?” he asked with a load of suspicion.

  “Locked . . . in dungeon.”

  Truth or trick? He suffered a moment of ambivalence over the misery pulsing from her. Was she projecting her body from inside TÅμr Medb and really in a dungeon? “Who locked you up?”

  “Flaevynn.”

  The Medb queen. But could he believe her? “For how long?”

  “Don’t . . . know.” Her words came out in spurts, and sweat streamed down her face. The bulk of her body still hadn’t taken shape. “Sorry about trolls. Don’t . . . hate me.”