by Alysha Ellis
Warriors and Lovers
Alysha Ellis
Sequel to Warrior’s Apprentice.
Firefighter Elijah Denton has a secret—he can move things with the power of his mind. His hidden ability has made him the hero of his local fire department but the gift comes with a dark side.
A disturbing visitor threatens to expose Elijah unless he helps to defeat the Dvalinn, a race of underground dwellers who pose a threat to humanity. But when he is trapped by a thermo-magnetic storm with Eora and Nieko, his supposed enemies, the attraction is immediate. They embark on a passionate mixed ménage that calls into question everything the three of them have believed.
Nieko has secrets of his own. Although the Dvalinn do not accept the concept of romantic love and punish any reference to it, Nieko loves Eora for her spirit and curiosity. His feelings for Elijah are growing as well. The trio must fight to keep their people safe—humans and Dvalinn—as they struggle for a way to make their love work.
A Romantica® science fiction erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Warriors and Lovers
Alysha Ellis
Chapter One
The spider’s long, articulated legs worked in nightmarish unison, inching it closer. Multifaceted eyes glittered and a pair of pointed fangs twitched. With primitive, hindbrain hatred, Elijah wanted it dead. His fist clenched around the smooth leather of a sports shoe.
A shudder shook him from head to toe and a cold wash of nausea trickled into his mouth. He stared in revulsion, the spider forgotten. The trainer he held had been on the shelf in his closet, in his bedroom, behind two closed doors.
Less than thirty seconds ago he’d staggered out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, barefoot and empty handed, turned on the light and come face to face with the eight-legged intruder.
The instant he thought of it the shoe had materialized in his hand. It shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been surprised into an instinctive reflex. Damn it! Years of practice, years of control sabotaged because some part of his brain refused to respond to discipline.
Too often in the past, he’d found objects he wanted suddenly and inexplicably within reach. Memories of himself as a toddler reaching out to grab toys that flew to his grasp were overlaid with visions of his mother’s fury.
He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t seen fear and anger in his mother’s face or a time when she hadn’t averted her eyes if he tried to meet her gaze. He remembered her harsh whisper as she beat him over and over again. “The devil is in you. He’ll destroy you if he is not driven out.”
She had never succeeded in her endeavor, no matter how hard she’d tried, but she had instilled in him the need to hide who he was and what he could do. He’d learned to shut out the stray threads of other people’s emotions when they insinuated themselves into his mind, and to ensure that objects stayed where they were supposed to.
That morning’s incident had been an aberration, one he was determined wouldn’t happen again. All it required was strength. Strength to lock those things away in the deep recesses of his mind. Strength to turn the key on the writhing horror that plagued him. Strength to suppress the knowledge that the urges were becoming more powerful, threatening to burst out of the prison he’d made for them.
Leaving the spider to stay or crawl away or whatever the hell it wanted to do, Elijah dressed, slammed out of the apartment and headed to work. The punishing pace he set on the one-mile walk to the fire station gave him a good excuse for his accelerated heartbeat and the thin film of sweat that coated his skin.
“Hey, Lije,” called Steve, one of his fellow firefighters, when Elijah walked into the locker room. “Reckon we’re going to have a quiet day or is your money on a big call-out?”
“How in the hell should I know?” Elijah snapped.
“Come on, Lije,” another man said. “You know you’ve got a feeling for it. How many times have I seen you pulling on your boots before the alarm goes off?”
A chorus of voices agreed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve got quick reflexes. Any one of you would—” He broke off and grabbed his jacket from the hook. He had rammed his feet down into his boots before he heard the clanging of the alarm bell.
“Told ya,” Steve said. “You know these things, man. You gotta be psychic or something.”
With a disgusted grunt, Elijah finished donning his turnouts and clambered into his accustomed spot on the fire truck.
On the way to the fire the men were too busy getting information and updates to pursue the conversation but the memory of it, the revelation that others had noticed things he tried so desperately to hide, kept Elijah unsettled and edgy.
The fire truck rocked to a halt and Elijah prepared to do what he did best. Inside the burning apartment block, people were trapped. Elijah’s job was to get them out. His record for saves was outstanding—no one else located victims as quickly. No one else calmed them or ushered them to safety as well as Elijah.
He was grateful every time he brought out someone who would otherwise have died, but he refused to examine the implications. Experience, luck, intelligence—any one or all of them together provided a more acceptable explanation than the one that lurked constantly at the back of his mind—and from the conversation back at the fire station, in the minds of some of his colleagues as well.
Wearing their Self Contained Breathing Apparatus, he and Steve worked their way through the smoke and flames, checking apartments, leading panicked residents to safety, helping them to breathe. Protecting them, leading them out of the inferno.
The two-minute low-oxygen alert vibrated on Lije’s mask at the precise moment they gave the all-clear. He staggered out into the fresh air and pulled off his helmet, pausing to grab a quick drink.
The first rush of water had just hit the back of his throat when a shiver rippled over his skin. With a deep sense of foreboding, he turned. A frantic woman was fighting desperately to free herself from the firefighter holding her.
“Jayden!” she screamed, as she plunged and twisted. A cop emerged from the crowd to help hold her back. “My little boy is in there. I went to the shops. I left him. Just for a minute.”
Steve stepped up to her. “Ma’am, we’ve checked. No one’s left inside.”
But they were wrong. Lije was already running before he heard the mother’s reply. “He was in the basement. He plays there.”
Pulling on his helmet with one hand, with the other he grabbed a new SCBA and shrugged it on. He picked up his axe and raced back into the smoke and heat. Damn it all to hell! The building supervisor had sworn the basement was locked with no one inside.
Whether the man was mistaken or had flat-out lied didn’t matter—a child was trapped. Elijah had to get him out. He picked up his pace and hurtled down the stairs. Above him the fire raged, the sound accompanied by the hiss of steam as the hoses poured gallons of water into the flames.
Three swift blows of his axe demolished the flimsy, hollow-core door. The fire burning above had funneled much of the heat away from the basement, but swirling black clouds obscured his vision. He stepped into the crowded, smoky maze of boxes, jutting walls and pipes. Steve, geared up and ready, clattered down the staircase behind him.
They searched in the grid pattern training and experience made routine, but found no sign of anyone. Time was running out, the need to find the child urgent. In the midst of the raging heat, Elijah stopped, let himself relax, slowed his breathing. An image of a small, cavelike space floated into his mind, the entrance hidden. “Shit,” he yelled to Steve. “He’s back near the water tank.”
Both men turned to look through the smoky gloom, located the metal cylinder and strode toward it. T
here was a loud crack, audible even over the noise of the fire and the hoses.
“The joist’s gone!” Steve called. “The ceiling’s going to collapse.” His voice rasped through the diaphragm of his mask. “We have to get out.”
Elijah knew Steve was right. Two hundred and fifty gallons of water a minute was pouring into the fire-damaged building, further weakening the already compromised structure. No firefighter was expected to put his life on the line when this level of danger threatened. He should get out now but Elijah knew the boy was there, cowering back in a heating duct. He heard the boy’s fear as clearly as if the child screamed it. He couldn’t leave him.
He pushed forward, ignoring Steve’s shout of protest. When he reached the opening of the heating duct, he knelt kneeled down. A pair of wide, terrified eyes, white in the gloom, peered out from the narrow tunnel. Elijah called to the boy. “Come on…” He remembered the boy’s mother screaming his name. Jayden. “Come on, Jayden,” Elijah said, holding out his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
A series of coughs shook the boy’s small frame but he didn’t move. “Jayden, my name’s Elijah. I’m a fireman. I’m here to save you. Come on. We have to go.”
He wished he could tear off his mask to talk to the boy. The breathy sound of his voice through the diaphragm sounded like a horror movie monster but rules existed for a reason. He tried again. “Don’t be scared, Jayden. I won’t hurt you.”
Tears rolled down Jayden’s cheeks but instead of moving forward he shuffled back even farther. The only way Lije was going to get the boy out was if he dragged him out. He might terrify the kid even more but that was way better than letting him die.
Beside him Steve yelled, “Come on, man—we’ve got to get out of here.”
With a wet roar, part of the ceiling in the opposite corner caved in. Water and debris rained onto the floor, splashing over Elijah. He glanced up, shuddering at the sagging bulge above his head. The rest was going to give way at any moment. He thrust his arm into the duct, trying desperately to grab the boy. His arm flailed around, six inches short of reaching him. He hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller, but it was futile. With his gear on there was no way he could get any closer. “Jayden, please,” he begged. “You have to crawl out here to me. Your mommy is waiting upstairs for you.”
The child didn’t move. Steve tapped him on the back. “Give it up, Lije. It sucks but there’s nothing you can do. Your dying won’t save him.”
“I’m not leaving him there,” Elijah roared. “I want him out of there now.” Suddenly there he was. A four-year-old boy, sobbing and writhing in Elijah’s arms. Elijah didn’t stop to question or think. He spun around and raced up the stairs after Steve, shutting his mind to the sounds of the roof crashing in behind him.
* * * * *
The newspapers leaped on the story. Firefighter Saves Boy’s Life. Miracle Rescue, the headlines read. Elijah did his best to avoid the reporters—Steve, on the other hand, loved talking to them. Not about himself. Steve wanted to tell everyone that Elijah was a genuine hero. “I’ll never know how he got that kid out of there,” one news report quoted him as saying. “One minute the boy was out of reach and the next Lije was striding out of the flames with him in his arms.”
The media loved it, and they loved Elijah. Lije’s refusal to talk to them fed their frenzy. Every time he reported for duty, the click of a camera or the flare of a flash told him another photo had been taken. The station notice board would have another article cut out and pinned to it and he’d cop more ribbing about being “Southwell’s Handsome Hero,” the tag he’d been cursed with by the papers.
Even his home was no longer a refuge. Cameramen and journalists clustered around the outside his building trying to get a comment.
The sight of a reporter waiting in the hallway outside Lije’s apartment snapped the frayed control of his temper. “I have nothing to say to the press,” he yelled. “Get the hell out.”
“I’m not from the press,” the man replied, turning to face him. “I’m not interested in what you do or do not want to say. I have something to tell you.”
The man was expensively dressed in a gray, designer-brand suit. Whatever the man wore would be noticed, because Elijah was certain not many people would feel comfortable looking at his face. One side was shockingly distorted, as if a dissatisfied sculptor had run a hand down the raw clay, blurring the hard lines, dragging the left eye and corner of the mouth out of alignment, giving it the look of a macabre mask.
Elijah mentally slapped himself. He knew what it was to be different, to be afraid that people were looking at you in disgust. He lifted his head and met the man’s gaze. His eyes were bright and hard—their surprising intensity combined with the laxness of his facial muscles made Elijah’s skin twitch but pity didn’t change his mind about wanting him gone.
“I’m not interested,” he said, heading toward his door.
The man blocked his path.
“All right,” Elijah snapped. “That’s enough. I don’t want a physical confrontation but if you don’t get out of my way, I’ll make you move.”
The man stepped aside. Elijah strode past and pushed his key into the lock. The stranger spoke, his voice low. “You don’t have use physical force to make things move. You can do it with your mind.”
Elijah froze. He stood so still he could hear the thud of blood as it pounded in his ears. Behind him the man continued. “I’m not a reporter but I have the power to make sure that interesting piece of information gets published in every major media outlet in the country. I’d strongly advise you to listen to what I have to say.”
The man spoke quietly, without particular emphasis. His very lack of emotion made the threat convincing. Elijah’s shoulders slumped. He’d wanted to come home and forget about the fuss people were making, not deal with another problem. With his luck, to set the seal on his shitty day, any minute now a genuine reporter would appear to start asking this guy questions. Questions Lije didn’t want raised. Ever.
“You’d better come inside.”
He opened the door. The stranger brushed past him. With mind-boggling arrogance he walked straight to Elijah’s table, pulled out a chair and said, “You need to sit down while we discuss this.”
His attitude irritated the hell out of Elijah. He’d have given his right nut to be in a position to kick him out, but the threat of exposure forced him to swallow his anger and shut up and listen. He had to know what this jerk knew about Elijah’s abilities.
He plonked his behind on his own damn chair and glared at the man. “Say what you’re here to say and say it quick. You’ve got five minutes before I throw you out, regardless of the consequences.”
The man nodded. “All I need is five minutes.” He leaned forward. “That child was too scared to come out of the heating duct. The duct was too narrow for an adult to reach him. The boy should have died but you rescued him. You, Elijah Denton. No one else could have done it.” He paused and let a moment pass by. “No one else but another telekinetic empath. That’s your secret. The real reason why you refuse to speak to anyone about the rescues.”
“It was a one-off. A freak event.”
“And all the other times?” The man’s eyebrows rose, the gesture grotesque on his distorted face.
He had to be guessing—there was no way anyone could know. Elijah forced himself to remain calm. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”
His unwelcome visitor pulled out his phone and touched the screen. “This file records all the rescue events you have been involved in for the past three years. It lists the number of times you’ve made saves no one else could have carried out. Times and dates, corroborated by your fellow workers.” He touched the screen again. “These are photographs taken by my operatives, showing a series of unexplained incidents around you. The evidence is here.”
He held up the phone to show Elijah a series of photos taken through the window of his bedroom. The bastard had been spying on h
im, compiling data, invading his privacy. Black rage burned in Elijah’s gut. “Get the fuck out of my house! Don’t come back.”
In spite of Elijah’s blast of anger the man remained seated. “There is no need for profanity,” he said, his voice flat. “You could claim the photos are faked. They’re no threat to you.”
“Then why take them? Why show them to me?”
“Because I can see your face in these photos. I know what you’re feeling.” He touched Elijah’s arm. A shudder passed over Lije’s skin. “You and I can help each other.”
“No,” Elijah replied. “Even if I had telekinetic power,” saying the words out loud made him feel sick, “ I wouldn’t use it, so if you’re thinking of making money off me, forget it.”
“I don’t need money.” The misshapen lips twisted in a one-sided smile. “But I do want to make use of your abilities. As you can see I’ve done a lot of research into your career. You have unique qualities. Qualities the human race needs if it is to survive.” He looked straight into Elijah’s eyes and waited. One beat, two. When he spoke again it was with the slow resonance of an orator. “This is the truth most people will never know. Humanity is under attack from an enemy race dwelling under the surface of the Earth.”
There it was. The explanation for this whole bizarre incident. The guy was insane. Whatever injury had caused his visible scars had affected his mind as well. There was no need to worry about the consequences of this visit. None of the accumulated evidence could hurt Elijah because once this nutcase spewed out this crap he’d be dismissed as a lunatic. No one would believe anything he said.
“I’m not crazy,” the man said in an uncanny echo of Lije’s thoughts. Then again, maybe not so uncanny. If the guy went around spouting that kind of nonsense he must get told he was crazy on a regular basis. “They exist. I’ve seen them.”
“Bullshit!” Elijah retorted. “If a race of anything lived underground we’d know about it.”
