by Sandy James
Rebecca Massee couldn’t marry. It simply wasn’t possible.
Yet she’d given in so easily, as if knowing he would take her to her destiny. They reached the church doors before Artair allowed himself to accept her reaction.
His own response took him by surprise. He wanted her. Plain and simple. He’d never reacted that way to an Amazon before. She was exquisite. Blonde. Shapely. And powerful—more than he’d anticipated if her first earthquake served as any indication.
He buried his unwanted desire deep inside, because if she knew of it, she wouldn’t respect his role in her new world.
Rebecca could never know how he felt.
“Are you coming?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Aye, lass. Aye.” He swept past her, grabbed her hand and walked out of the church.
Chapter Two
“Where are we going?” Rebecca stumbled along, more behind Artair than beside him as they walked out of the sanctuary.
He pulled his sword and shoved the blade through the door handles, effectively keeping anyone in the church from following. Before she could ask why it was necessary, he grabbed her hand, hurried her down the concrete stairs and across the lawn toward the street. Her skirts tangled between her legs and her high heels kept sinking in the soft ground, making it next to impossible to keep pace with his long strides.
“There.” He nodded toward a beat-up blue cargo van parked just across the street. A woman with a red ponytail leaned out of the driver’s-side window and gestured for them to hurry.
Sanity came back to Rebecca in a flood. What in the hell had she been thinking to leave with this man? And who was that woman?
“I’m not going anywhere with a couple of strangers.” She planted her feet.
“Lass, we don’t have the time to waste.”
She shook her head. “I—I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have… I’m not going with you.”
God, what was wrong with her? In her anger-clouded mind, she’d decided to go with this Artair guy because she’d wanted to walk out of the church with her head held high. The gorgeous hunk of a Scotsman would probably take her to some bar, they’d get drunk, she would unwrap that kilt as though she was opening a gift box from Tiffany’s, and then nature would take its course.
She wasn’t planning on a threesome, and she sure as shit wasn’t going anywhere with a couple of wackos in a dilapidated van—especially when one of the wackos was as big as Hulk Hogan. She tried to pull her hand away from his grasp.
He wouldn’t let her go. “Becca, we must be away. You’re in danger.”
Artair started to drag her, and she stumbled as one of her shoes came off, remaining behind, the spiked heel stuck in the thick grass.
“C’mon, Celt!” the redheaded woman shouted in a deep, Lauren Bacall voice as she continued to urge them toward the van with her frantic hands. “The quake! They’re probably tracking her now! I’m not waiting around for the revenants to show up. She’ll be dead if we don’t move!”
There was something wrong. Something very wrong. Glancing back at the church, Rebecca could see the front doors shaking as though someone was trying to get out. Looking up and down the street, she realized it was deserted. Where was the limo driver? Where was the damn photographer?
She succeeded in wrenching her hand out of the tenacious Scotsman’s grip as he continued to march toward the van. She sat down hard on the sidewalk. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Touch me again and I’ll scream.” Digging through the tangle of skirts, she tugged off her other shoe and threw it at him. He easily sidestepped the high-heeled missile.
Artair folded his arms over his broad chest. Those green eyes that had been full of concern were now full of annoyance, yet she felt no true fear of harm from him. With the notable exception of the dipshit who had just abandoned her at the altar, Rebecca was usually a great judge of character. Her gut told her Artair wouldn’t hurt her. She hoped to hell her gut was right.
Getting to her feet, she turned to walk back to the church. When she found her Aunt Kay, they could take the limo on a nice tour of New York City and drink the mini-bar dry. After all, the damn thing had already been paid for. She didn’t make it three steps before Artair’s strong arms wrapped around her waist and he picked her up. Her feet dangled as she struggled against him.
“You can’t leave, lass.”
She tugged at his arm, raking her fingernails across the skin, feeling them dig deep enough to excise a layer or two. “Fire! Rape! Murder! Someone help me!”
She was shouting to a street full of nothing but parked cars.
“Pull in the talons, my wee hawk. ’Tis a trait for Fire, nae Earth.” Artair carried her back to the van as if she weighed nothing at all, chuckling all the way.
Fire? Earth? He was talking in riddles. “Put me down, you big bully.”
Rebecca fought him, hardly able to breathe with his arm so snuggly wrapped around her. The smell of trash and human waste suddenly hit her nostrils. A light breeze blew, and the already disgusting odor quickly intensified, becoming so strong and foul that it made her gag.
She stopped fighting. “Oh, my God. What’s that sm—”
“Sparks! Revenants!” Artair tossed Rebecca in the back of the van, reached inside and jerked up a piece of the floorboard. Fishing around in the compartment, he grabbed an enormous sword.
Growls came from just outside the door, the sounds sending shivers up her spine. The smell grew stronger. Rebecca fought back a retch, pulled herself to her feet and steadied herself by holding on to the door.
A cold, gray hand seized her wrist as fingers dug cruelly into her skin. When she tried to pry them away, one of the putrid fingers snapped off and fell to the ground. She gagged. A strong yank nearly jerked her out of the van.
She came face-to-face with a corpse.
One eye hung from its socket. The lips were all but gone, revealing yellowed teeth. A snarl rose from its chest. This—this—thing couldn’t be alive. A scream built from deep inside her and poured out her mouth.
“Get down!” Artair wrenched the hand away from her arm, shoved the creature back and raised his sword.
Rebecca landed hard on her ass and scooted farther inside the van. The driver’s-side door opened and slammed shut, and the woman he’d called Sparks shrieked what could only be called a battle cry.
The compartment Artair had revealed was filled with swords, knives and a couple of enormous hammers that reminded her of pictures of old railroad workers. Who in the hell carried around those kinds of weapons?
After only a few moments, the sounds of the fight died. Rebecca startled when Artair popped his head into the van, dropped his sword back into the cache and tugged the lid into place. He jumped inside and slammed the door shut as the driver took her seat again.
The woman tapped something against her hand, which was followed by the distinct flick of an old-fashioned Zippo lighter. Cigarette smoke began to drift to the back of the van.
“Who were those people?” Rebecca hauled herself up and took the passenger seat to get away from Artair’s intense stare.
“Just a couple of class-three revenants, newbie. Nothing to get your panties in a twist over. I’m Sparks, by the way. The Celt didn’t have time to introduce us.”
The woman appeared to be in her forties. Several gray hairs fanned from her temples to blend with the vibrant red that didn’t look to be from a bottle of dye. Her long hair was pulled into a ponytail and tied with a forest-green scrunchie. She had a cigarette pinched between lips heavily accented with crimson lipstick. She was beautiful. Model beautiful. Brown eyes. Straight nose. But there was a hardness to her as well. She jammed the keys in the ignition, fired up the engine and shifted the van into gear. The van lurched into motion with a squeal of tires.
“What’s a revenant?” Rebecca finally asked.
“Didn’t you smell them?” Sparks took the lit cigarette from her mouth and flicked the ashes out the open window. “Pee? Rotting meat?”
Rebecca nodded. “Both. It was disgusting.”
“That tells you they were just class-threes then. No sweat. They aren’t so bad to fight. They’ve mostly rotted away. Not much brain left, so they’re great for target practice. They don’t scream much when you hit ’em. That quake you set off drew too much attention to you, so we weren’t the only ones who found you. Class-ones might be close behind.”
“The earthquake I set off? Are you on dope? Smoking crack? Meth?”
Sparks laughed at her. “No, thanks. My life is exciting enough without chemical enhancement.”
“Uh, hello? Nicotine?”
She gave a conciliatory shrug. “Touché.”
Enough was enough. “It’s been great to meet you, but I’d really like this funhouse ride to end now.” She tried to maintain a calm tone of voice, even though she was talking to an absolute lunatic.
Sparks shot her a sidelong look before she put her gaze back on the road. “You sound just like Helen. You Earths are so damn level-headed. The only thing that lightens up Helen is tequila in massive quantities.”
“Why do you both keep calling me an ‘Earth?’”
“Because you are,” Artair announced from the back of the van. “Tell her, Sparks.”
“I’ll explain later, Celt,” Sparks replied. “I’m not going through the whole stupid story twice in the same day.”
“Twice? I don’t…” Rebecca’s thoughts spun in a thousand different directions, none of which were pleasant, and none of which made any sense at all. “I want you to pull over and let me out of this van. Now.”
“It won’t do you any good, you know.” Sparks turned the wheel sharply, sending the van squealing around another corner as Rebecca braced herself against the door. “If you don’t come with us, you’re dead. It’s that simple. Artair and I can protect you until you learn how to protect yourself.”
Dead? That got her attention.
“Protect me? Protect me from what? Who’s after me? What’s a revenant?” None of the odyssey made any sense. She glanced to where the Scotsman sat with his back to the metal wall, listening to every word of the conversation and seemingly unaffected by Sparks’s out-of-control driving. “You know what? I think you and Artair are a couple of escaped mental patients. You both belong in straightjackets.”
Sparks laughed again. “Yeah. Well…” She took a long drag from her cigarette. Rebecca had no idea how she had been able to drive without dropping the damned thing. The van began to slow to match the tempo of the other traffic. “You might be right about that.”
“Where are we going?” Rebecca asked even as she searched for an opportunity to bail. If she jumped out of the moving van, how badly would she be hurt? Would she even have time to unlock the door and throw it open before one of her captors stopped her?
Rebecca glanced back to Artair, who did nothing more than quirk an eyebrow. Could he read her thoughts? If she tried to escape, would he follow?
No doubt. He would.
“We’ve gotta find Megan. I can’t believe the luck of two newbies being near New York City when the call came. The other two are in California and New Mexico. At least I get to train Fire and Earth.”
Rebecca covered her face with her hands, desperately willing the nightmare to end. She slowly counted to ten. “I’m home. In my own bed. Getting ready for my wedding. This is all just—just a bad dream.” She pulled her hands away and realized a miracle wasn’t in the cards. “Oh, no…”
“Oh, yes.” Sparks grinned and the van rolled to a stop in the parking lot of a run-down burger joint. “Look, kid, you can run if you want. Go ahead.” She clicked the switch to unlock the doors. “The parking lot is full. Scream. Someone will help you. But it won’t do you any good. They’ll find you. Then they’ll kill you—just like they did Maria. And she was trained to fight the bastards.”
“Doesnae matter if you want to do this,” Artair added. “You’re already in their sights. They’ll find you whether you want to be found or not.”
“Who?” Rebecca shouted. “Who will find me? If you don’t want me to jump out of this van right freakin’ now, one of you will tell me what in the hell is going on!”
Sparks glanced at Artair and arched an eyebrow. He simply nodded in response.
“Come back here, lass. I’ve a tale to tell you.”
Chapter Three
Rebecca still didn’t trust her new companions. Artair plopped down on the floor next to where she’d reluctantly settled herself among her fluffy nest of satin and crinoline. She hated all the frills, wishing she could put on a comfortable pair of yoga pants and a nice, soft T-shirt. The vehicle lurched into motion.
He was sitting too close for her peace of mind, even if that mind was frazzled, so she slapped at him and scooted away. All she’d wished was to drink herself stupid and get frisky with this gorgeous man so she could forget her humiliation. This nightmare was exactly what happened when good old predictable Rebecca Massee tried to let loose for once. Damned hard way to learn a lesson.
Not knowing what to do with her hands, she tugged at the bobby pins holding her long hair in an upswept coiffure. Not that she gave a damn what she looked like now, but the familiar act of tending her hair helped her find some calm. Since she’d yanked the veil out, most of her tresses were slowly falling down anyway. Dropping the pins one by one on the floor of the van, she hoped she found them all as the whole tangled mess cascaded around her shoulders.
“You are one of the four women chosen for an important task, lass,” Artair finally said.
Rebecca stared at him. He might as well have spoken in Swahili for all the sense he made. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were born…special. Meant for something more than what your life has been.”
“Ever the master of understatement, Celt.” Sparks snorted a laugh from the front seat. She tapped another cigarette out of the pack and flicked her lighter. “You, my dear Rebecca, are the equivalent of a comic book superhero.” Tendrils of gray smoke drifted into the back of the van.
“Pull this piece of shit over. I’m outta here.” Rebecca scrambled to her feet, not able to stand at her full height because of the low ceiling.
Artair didn’t even stand up. He grabbed her wrist, tugged her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her. His warmth pressed against her bare back, and the kilt did little to put much buffer between her backside and his groin. “Let me go.”
“Nay, lass. You must listen to the whole tale. Then you’ll understand your destiny.”
“I don’t want to hear the whole tale. I want you to stop this van and let me go home.”
“Revenants will already be there,” Sparks called back. “And not threes this time. Ones. Fresh for the kill. I don’t know about you, but I prefer not to be ripped limb from limb by some undead bastards.”
“What? Undead? You’ve both lost your minds.” Or I have. Rebecca struggled against Artair’s steely arms.
“Stop wiggling,” he scolded. “Hear me out, Becca. I know you’re scared. You would nae be very bright if you weren’t a wee bit frightened. Sparks and I mean you no harm. We’re here to keep you safe. I’m to teach you to master your powers.”
“Powers? What powers?” Good God, every person in this van was certifiable. Including her. “You’re telling me I’m some superhero? That I’ve got superpowers? I assure you, I can’t throw on a cape and leap tall buildings in a single bound.”
They both laughed at her.
“You’re nae Superman, lass,” Artair said. “You’re a wee bit less powerful than that. Especially ’til yer trained.”
“Earth doesn’t have the really cool powers, either,” Sparks added. “Unless you like starting earthquakes and playing with plants. But our skin is basically Kevlar.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re bulletproof. A handy little gift from Rhiannon. She hates modern weapons like guns. But we can only stop bullets, not swords, knives or—” Sparks shuddered, “—revenant
s’ teeth.”
“You people are nuts.” Rebecca tried pinching Artair. All he did was growl at her. “Let me go.”
Sparks kept right on talking—complaining, actually. “You’d think one of the Ancients would give us immortality, but nooo. Only the Sentinel gets that privilege. Goddesses are so fuckin’ capricious.”
Rebecca glanced back at Artair. “If these superheroes are women, then why are you here?”
Sparks fielded the question. “Artair’s our Sentinel. He trains us so we’re ready to fight.”
“Two other new Amazons are training elsewhere and shall join you in a few weeks,” Artair added.
“Where are they?”
Neither of her captors answered. Instead, they rode in quiet for several minutes, and Rebecca grew more and more aware of the man in whose lap she sat. He smelled good—clean, like the outdoors after a rain. His warmth surrounded her as she sat in his arms, disgusted with herself for finding his embrace comforting and more than a little exciting considering her present predicament.
The van stopped. Sparks left the squeaky driver’s seat, and a few moments later, the back door jerked open.
The sun had set, robbing them of the last of the day’s warmth. Rebecca rubbed her upper arms against the early spring chill.
“C’mon, Miss Skeptical.” Sparks sounded perturbed. “I’ve got something to show you.” She gave them an exaggerated sweeping gesture of her arm. “Get yer arses out of the van.”
Artair stood, taking Rebecca along with him. Setting her on her feet just outside the van, he held on to her left hand, preventing her escape. “Stay close by my side, Becca.”
Sparks took a few long strides away from them. Lacing her fingers, she pushed her palms out to crack her knuckles like a concert pianist preparing for a recital. “Did’ya hear that, Artair? More snaps, crackles and pops than Rice Krispies. It sucks to get old.” She laughed. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”
