Seal of Surrender

by Traci Douglass

  “C’mon, I’m hungry. Let’s eat.” He grabbed his luggage and headed toward a pub across the hall. He stopped halfway and waved at her to join him.

  Irena checked her watch — still plenty of time to grab a bite to eat. Damn. Too tired to fight an empty stomach and her nagging attraction at the same time, she picked up her stuff and trekked across the aisle.

  The hostess seated them at a table for two by the concourse. They surveyed the menus, gave their orders to the waitress, then stared at anything but each other as an awkward silence descended.

  “Probably the last good meal we’ll have for a while,” Irena glanced his way only to find him studying a blond across the walkway.

  “What?” Chago asked, turning back to face her.

  “Nothing.” Her tone snipped any further conversation in the proverbial bud. Irena pulled out her phone to check her e-mail. No word from her parents. They were tough and could handle themselves in a sticky situation. War had taught her that. But Drake’s underhanded tactics and covert objectives scared her. She glanced around the departure area again, but found no sign of him. Fuck. Panic wouldn’t help anyone. She needed time alone to formulate a plan.

  “You don’t have a lot of patience, do you?”

  “Sure.” She flashed Chago a saccharine-sweet smile and kicked the table leg. “For people who deserve it.”

  “And you’re saying I don’t?”

  “I haven’t figured you out. You’re still on my list.”

  “Oh, you have a list?”

  “You have no idea.”

  The waitress delivered their food and Irena dug in like a starvation victim. The crunchy fish and chips slathered in malt vinegar hit the spot. “Hmm. This is really good.”

  Chago nodded, a glob of ketchup from his burger running down his chin. She pointed at her jaw, indicating his need to wipe.

  “Thanks,” he said, his words muffled around another mouthful of food.

  “Anytime.” Irena gulped her soda and grinned, her irritation evaporating. The upcoming flight would give her plenty of opportunity to plan for her parent’s safety. “So, tell me more about your mysterious blended family.”

  • • •

  Ravenous hunger pushed Archon to the brink of insanity.

  After the evocation ceremony, the remote Bantu tribe had treated him like a venerable god. Their shaman had enshrined him within the tiny local temple with naught more than incense and a small bucket of water. Weak as he was, there’d been little he could do the stop them.

  If Lucifer could see him now, the mighty Archon laid low by a bunch of mud-painted witchdoctors, he’d eradicate him on the spot for his ineptitude.

  Head aching and vision blurred, he crawled from his mat and gazed around at the hut’s grass-thatched ceiling and dirt floor. Flies buzzed in through the reed-covered entrance to bite his limbs and moonlight streamed between holes in the roof to highlight the festering cut on his thigh. He required sustenance in order to heal.

  The unholy alliance of his parents had made him nothing more than a parasite, requiring the life force of others to survive. Over the long years of his imprisonment, he’d heard rumors of the succulence of humans, but had never been fortunate enough to sample them.

  Something rustled outside the door and a tray pushed through the entrance. On top were the trappings of a Voodoo spell — a bleached human skull, several crudely made candles, and a wooden cup filled with still-warm animal blood. Snatches of memory ticked through his mind: a shaman standing over him as the drumbeat resounded; tribal dancers circling a huge fire, their movements frenzied and desperate; power and black magic heavy in the air.

  Archon snatched the small cup from the tray and downed the contents in one gulp. The bitter aftertaste of narcotics coated his tongue. No matter. Human drugs had little effect on him. His stomach growled loud, eager for more.

  He stood and took a few steps then halted. Dizziness sent his world twirling. His stomach lurched and he fell to his knees. Once the heaves subsided, he wiped the back of his scaled hand across his mouth and slumped to the floor. Seems he’d escaped from one prison only to face a different demise.

  Again, something stirred near the entrance. Another hand fumbled through to grasp the tray. Archon sniffed the air, savoring the scent of flesh and human sweat before seizing his opportunity.

  The frightened shaman didn’t put up much of a struggle. Archon pinned him to the ground and sank his fangs deep into his victim’s spinal cord. His powerful venom worked its sorcery, liquefying the man’s bones and organs. After draining him dry, Archon rolled away and enjoyed the immediate strengthening of his limbs. As he watched, his muscles swelled and the gash on his thigh began to knit.

  More. He needed more.

  He stood and kicked the tribesman’s carcass to the far side of the hut before peering through the doorway. A large bonfire roared from the center of the plain.

  Archon slipped from the hut and skirted the sparse vegetation near the edge of the gathering. Men, women and children of all ages sat in a rough circle, about fifty in all. His gut ached, but he tamped down the urge to attack and instead settled behind a large, solitary tree to bide his time.

  Soon the drummers began their familiar, hypnotic rhythm. Painted dancers, festooned with feathers and masks, joined in the mayhem. A large bowl passed amongst the tribal members. Each drank then seemed to fall into a quiet stupor. The crowd swayed in time with the ever-increasing tempo, their eyes glassy and expressions vacant.

  The scent of burning wood and heated bodies threatened to push Archon beyond endurance. As before, a faint trill of melody slipped into his ear. He gazed into the vast expanse of star-filled sky and forced the face of his mother to the recesses of his mind. She was gone and he was left to fill the void. He must survive. He must win.

  The furious beat reached a thunderous crescendo. His time had arrived.

  Archon closed his eyes and breathed deep, allowing hunger to fill every crevice of his being. His fangs lengthened and acidic venom dripped to the dust below with a sinister hiss.

  He sprung from behind the tree with deadly stealth, tearing through flesh and bone with a single swipe. Two-fisted, he sucked one person dry while snapping the neck of another. Soon, the bonfire towered above his eight-foot height as he tossed the drained carcasses on the embers. Human adrenaline and infernal lust surged in his veins, driving him into a murderous frenzy.

  Firelight cast the now empty landscape into eerie relief. Archon scanned the area, content he’d destroyed all those who’d held him captive. His head pounded with exertion and his leg continued to ache, but for the time being his constant hunger had been sated. Now, he needed to move on, to plan his next step.

  Archon stumbled away from the fire and out toward the nearby Congo River. A small sob echoed behind him, halting his progress. He whipped around and sighted a small boy, no more than three, staring at the fire. Regret pinched inside him, followed close by mounting rage. He didn’t have time for remorse. Not with everything he’d worked for so close at hand.

  He stalked to the child and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him away from the fire and hoisting him up to face level. His current transformation allowed him to communicate only in indecipherable grunts and roars. The child quaked in his hands, blubbering and terrified.

  Impatient and half-crazed with bloodlust, Archon twisted the child around and prepared to sink his fangs into the boy’s tiny nape, to end the torment, to accept his true nature. His mother’s beautiful face flashed in his mind, halting his actions and reminding him of all he’d lost at the hands of his demented father.

  With a pained roar, Archon threw the child to the ground, stormed across the river and into the rainforest beyond, intent on escape.

  Chapter 8

  Irena’s muscles ached after a bumpy landing into N’dijli Airport and an adventurous shuttle ride down the chaotic Boulevard Lumumba. People crowded like livestock on the bus and once again she was forced to press into Chago’s s
ide or sit on top of a stranger.

  She concentrated on the hustle of people outside, an abundance of bright colors and abject poverty, and struggled to ignore the absent trace of his fingers over her bare forearm. They hit a rut in the road and she placed a hand on his chest to keep from toppling to his lap. Chago’s shuttered expression blossomed into a wicked grin before he turned his attention to the other passengers.

  After what seemed a small eternity, they arrived at the Kinshasa Grand Hotel. The assorted travelers, mainly foreign correspondents and businessmen from what she could ascertain, bundled out of the overcrowded shuttle bus and into the sub-Saharan heat.

  While Irena collected their bags, Chago finished a conversation with the driver in fluent French. In the short time she’d known him, he’d lapsed repeatedly into his native Spanish, so his use of other European languages didn’t surprise her.

  “Ready?” He rejoined her and extended a hand for her bag.

  She ignored his offer and walked into the lobby. Once inside, Irena stood in the air-conditioned coolness and admired the architecture. The hotel was larger and more modern than she’d expected, the white marble expanses and sparkling chandeliers remnants of its former glory.

  In line for check-in, Irena recognized Chago speaking to the clerk in Lingala — one of several native languages. French she’d expected, but not the local dialects.

  A second employee waved her up to the counter. She greeted him in French and handed over her paperwork. He entered her information and handed her a room key. Irena reached for it, only to be intercepted.

  Chago checked the number then passed the plastic card back to the man and rattled off a series of rapid-fire orders. The attendant nodded and typed in something else. This time when the guy extended the packet, Irena snatched it fast and shot Chago a defiant glare. “Why did you have him change my room?”

  “For your protection, querida.” He grabbed his own paperwork and picked up his bag.

  “I don’t need your damn protection.” Irena followed him to the elevators, completely incensed. “And where the hell did you learn to speak Lingala?”

  “I find it always pays to be prepared.” The mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed his serious expression. “Don’t you?”

  Irena remained silent, beyond exhausted. She craved a hot shower and a long nap, not a gold medal round of smartass Olympics. “What I find is you being an idiot. I can’t believe you told the guy we’re engaged. What the hell’s wrong with you? And don’t get any ideas about co-habitation, mister, because it’s not going to happen!”

  He gave her a road–weary stare and flashed a fatigued smile. “I got connecting rooms for safety. The last thing you need is a bunch of mercenaries bursting into your room in the dead of the night and hauling you away. With me present, I assure you such things won’t happen.”

  “Why? Because you’re just that tough?”

  “No. Because I’m just that good.”

  They reached their floor and walked the hallway to their respective rooms. Irena opened her door and tossed her bag inside then glanced back over her shoulder to find Chago’s intense gaze zeroed on her.

  “I’m not like him, Irena. I will keep you safe.”

  “Maybe I want someone to believe I can protect myself.”

  “I do, querida.”

  Chago disappeared into his room and the door clicked shut behind him. With an exhausted sigh, Irena followed suit.

  After locking the door behind her, she unpacked and turned on the shower, letting the room get steamy before she stepped beneath the spray to wash away the day’s grime. The water turned cool after only a few minutes and she hurried through a quick shampoo and rinse. Clean and drowsy, she emerged and pulled on her favorite pair of flannel PJs before collapsing into bed. Irena fell fast asleep, visions of a contentious, dark-haired warrior filling her dreams.

  • • •

  Chago stuffed the last of his clothes into the closet, his senses attuned to the woman behind the connecting door. He hadn’t been prepared for the way his body reacted to her or the tangled mess of confusion that made him want to spank her one second and kiss her senseless the next. Fuck it all. He didn’t need emotional complications at this juncture and he certainly wasn’t looking for more than casual sex. Something told him sex with Irena would be anything but casual.

  Damn Divinity and her agreement. If not for her promise of retirement, he’d have been long gone from this vexing mission and the woman at the heart of the trouble. He’d traveled this rocky road before and the path only ended in soul-crushing despair.

  He dumped his toiletries onto the bathroom counter and found his mind wandering once more, despite his wishes. What forces compelled her into such a dangerous career? While he admired her drive to help the less fortunate, war zones were no place for women. Disgruntled, he flipped on the shower and stripped. Madre Dio, he was beat.

  After a quick check of the locks, Chago padded naked into the steam and immersed himself under the hot water. His knotted muscles relaxed while he scrubbed clean and his resolve returned. No more women. Period.

  Bath complete and mind clear, he dried off, did a quick shave, then discarded his wet towel and climbed into bed. He drifted to sleep amidst images of a white-haired angel who smelled of flowers and kissed like the devil’s own temptress.

  His slumber felt like only seconds.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Chago squinted open an eye and struggled to discern the source of the infernal noise.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The amount and angle of light streaming in from the windows indicated it was now morning. He checked the nearby clock for confirmation. Nine-thirty. Shit.

  “Mr. Chago, sir. Are you awake?” A polite, accented voice called to him through his hazy consciousness.

  He jumped out of bed and raced to peer through the door’s tiny oculus. A thin black man shuffled in the hall. He cracked the entrance and scowled out the opening, cognizant of his nudity. “Oui?”

  The mystery visitor had a patronizing smile cemented in place. “Your fiancée sent me to fetch you.”

  “My fiancée? I’m not — ” He remember the registration and halted. Fuck. The guy must work for the hotel. “Please let her know I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Exactly a quarter hour after he’d tumbled from bed, he exited his room. The guy still waited for him in the hallway. “Who are you?”

  The man extended his hand. “Innocent Balewa. You call me Innocent.”

  “Chago.” Despite Balewa’s scrawny appearance, his grip was strong. “What’s your job here?”

  “I run a local bar. Among other things.”

  “Where’s my fiancée?” He didn’t like the idea of Irena traipsing about without his protection.

  Innocent grinned, his teeth bright white against his midnight dark skin. “She quite a talker, your Ms. Irena.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “She in the restaurant, with Ms. Adrienne.”

  “Who the hell’s Ms. Adrienne?”

  “Works for them Omega people here in Kinshasa. She more a helper, I think. And not a willing one, either, by the looks of her.” Innocent boarded the elevator and waited for him to follow. “She one lady gonna have her panties in a bunch if she don’t get her wants, you git?”

  Magnificent. He didn’t need another difficult woman to contend with. He appraised Innocent’s batik cotton shirt and loose shorts — definitely not the Grand’s standard uniform. “What’s your part in this?”

  “These Omega people, they think they can help with me problems.”

  “Problems?” He studied Innocent’s sunbaked face and guessed him at about fifty.

  “There’s trouble brewing in these parts. Some don’t want the freedom others died to achieve. Me, I think the freedom worth the dying. So I fight.”

  Chago took serious stock of the man beside him. He’d heard this speech before. Many times. Hell, he gave the speech himself, right before hi
s own death. A worthless demise spent to protect the woman he loved — except Yana had also been killed during the attack. Killed because of him. Chalk up another point for twisted irony. He dropped a firm gauntlet on the failures of his past and returned his focus to the present. “So you’re with the rebel forces then?”

  “Hell no. I’m with the militia.”

  They arrived in the lobby and Innocent led him into a bright atrium full of tables draped with white linen. He spotted Irena deep in conversation with another woman, a redhead. At their approach, the ladies glanced up.

  “Hello, dear. Glad you finally joined us.”

  He caught the distinct smack of sarcasm in Irena’s tone and boomeranged it right back in her direction. “Jet lag.”

  “Chago, let me introduce you to Adrienne Pierce.”

  He grasped the woman’s hand in a firm grip and assessed her cool, rich-bitch expression. “Pleasure to meet you, Adrienne.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Govnaru.” Adrienne turned to summon a passing waiter and missed his glower. He’d brushed up on his Croatian before coming on this trip. Govnaru meant shithead. Chago darted a narrowed gaze toward Irena and found her with a fist pressed tight to her mouth in an attempt to stifle a giggle. Fine. Two could play this game.

  “I’m also surprised you’re up and about this early, my love. I figured our activities last night would have worn you out.” He sipped his freshly poured coffee and winked at Irena.

  A delectable flush crept stained her cheeks fiery red. He couldn’t help wondering what other activities might entice her skin to color so beautifully. Women who blushed were a weakness of his.

  Irena’s eyes sparked with suppressed irritation, and her tart reply gave him an overdue reminder of her hellcat origins. “Darling, you know it takes a lot more than a mere dalliance to exhaust me. Fumbled moves and sub-standard equipment can be such a bore.”

  Adrienne’s eyes rounded to saucer-like proportions, but Innocent was the first to flee. “I hate to break up this nice meal, but I needs to git back to the bar. Miss Irena, you require anything more from me?”