Warrior Ascended

by Warrior Ascended (lit)

  He would not scream. Bill allowed the weird-as-shit body he still hadn’t grown accustomed to to absorb the pain. No, siree. He would not scream.

  “Now, are you ready for a chance to redeem yourself?”

  As the last shock faded, he turned toward Blondie. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “First, you tell no one. You’re in this with me and you’re taking orders from me now. Not a word to Enyo. Got it?”

  So maybe this guy could take a leak without Queenie’s involvement. And although he had no desire to go up against the bitch, Bill knew all about a bird in the hand and all that crap. Alive and working for this schmuck was better than dead waiting for orders from the lady. “Yeah.”

  “You ever been to London, my fine man?”

  “Shit, no.”

  “Well then, consider this your lucky day. We’re porting there now.”

  “Port? I can’t do that shit, man.”

  “No, but I can.”

  Brody felt Ava’s deep, even breathing where she lay against his chest and finally allowed himself a moment to relax. Against his better judgment, he’d grown accustomed to the noises of the plane in flight and, in the face of Ava’s raw fear at the nightmare, his earlier discomfort seemed foolish.

  The quiet also gave him a chance to puzzle through all he’d learned in the last day and a half.

  He’d gotten updates from both Quinn and Grey via texts before they took off. Quinn was digging deeper into Wyatt Harrison’s financial records and Grey was working his network of contacts to find out about any underground dealings, while the rest of his brothers were taking shifts keeping an eye on the museum.

  The texts weren’t all that surprising.

  An infusion of cash had recently made its way into Wyatt Harrison’s bank account in the sum of twenty million dollars. Add to that the news that Wyatt was asking around for places he could purchase a firearm in Egypt, and a few more pieces of the puzzle slipped into place.

  So the likelihood was high Wyatt had killed the site worker. But it still didn’t explain the Destroyers who killed Peter—or why it took almost two months for an attack on Ava.

  Brody pulled her closer, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. Was it just last night he’d imagined what it would be like to hold her? Last night, when he’d stood guard over her, watching and waiting.

  Protecting.

  Through it all, he’d been utterly captivated by her. The soft sweep of her cheek, the light rise and fall of her chest as she exhaled the simple, even breaths of sleep. Even her hands drew his interest with their long, tapered fingers and lightly polished nails.

  As the long hours of night faded into dawn, he’d grown more fascinated with each passing second.

  On first glance, her apartment had offered few clues to who she was. But as he’d sat in his spot on the rug by the front door, he’d come to realize that very sparseness told a different story.

  Her bookshelf held stacks of books, yet none of them were the educational or literary tomes he’d have expected of a woman who held a PhD and worked in a museum. No, instead he found the latest thrillers, row upon row of romances, a jumble of Westerns and a good, healthy dose of mysteries to boot.

  The woman was a beach-read addict and his fascination had grown a little more for it.

  The minimal pictures scattered around her house indicated there was no one to stand for her, to stand by her. Other than a few framed photographs on the bookshelf—one of her and her father, one that was clearly her as a baby in the arms of a woman, standing with the same man and the last, a stoic, cold picture of her and an old woman—that was it.

  That was all she had to show for her life?

  The thought saddened him in that place way down deep where he’d buried his old loneliness, his old inadequacies, his old life.

  Now, as angry as his Warrior brothers made him, they still had one another. And yeah, they fought, but it was more than that.

  They were a family—an odd one at best, but a family all the same.

  Other than a creepy uncle and a cold-fish grandmother, Ava had no one.

  As she burrowed herself deeper into his arms, the shudders that had wracked her for so long finally having faded, Brody wondered, again, what it would be like to kiss her.

  Kane Montague groaned as the most delectable tongue ever to rove over his body licked the edges of his scorpion tattoo. The incredible Ilsa—if that was even her name—had offered him the perfect distraction to while away a few days as he waited for Brody to arrive in London.

  He’d been collaborating with MI6 for almost a decade now. Although a perpetual free agent, he was well-known throughout the organization for his assassin’s abilities. Couple that with discretion that rivaled a vault, and his private number rang regularly with work.

  He knew he didn’t have a lot of years left with MI6—people tended to notice when their secret agents didn’t age—but damn it if he wasn’t going to miss the work. And damn it even more if that thought hadn’t been an increasingly frequent companion of late.

  Shifting his attention to a far more scintillating companion, he rolled under Ilsa, pulling her long, lithe body over on top of his. Dark chestnut hair cascaded over him, covering his head as she rained kisses over his face and down his neck.

  He’d wanted her from the first moment he saw her—long legs and toned arms shown to perfection in a little black dress and all that luscious hair pulled up into a sexy twist. She’d walked into his debriefing at headquarters exactly one week ago and every thought in his head—every single question he needed to ask about his mission—fell out along with his tongue.

  What was it about this woman?

  One week and he was as starry-eyed as Zeus for Hera—more so, if you considered he’d never felt this degree of attraction to anyone.

  He’d certainly enjoyed his fair share of companions over the centuries. From peasants to royalty, he’d tried them all. But this woman—she’d managed to twist his insides and drive his body into overdrive with barely a glance.

  Her tongue darted over the top of his pecs as she shifted, then moved lower, running wet circles around one of his nipples. The sensation shot straight to his cock, pressing even more proudly against her flat stomach.

  While she used one hand to support herself, the other moved down to stroke his straining erection. With firm movements, she took the wetness at the tip, painting his shaft with deft movements. Base to tip and back, her expert strokes had his balls curling up against his body with fierce need.

  “Whoa, darling.” He reached for her shoulders, the dim realization that if he didn’t slow her down he was going to embarrass himself before his mouth even touched her.

  Pulling her up toward him, he forced his mind toward reciting the Greek alphabet backward—anything to stop the madness clenching his stomach muscles as he fought to keep himself in control.

  Her voice, husky with dark desires, whispered against his lips. “This one’s for you, lover. Don’t ask me to stop. Just go with it.” She shifted again, using her thighs to squeeze his engorged shaft. He released her immediately as pleasure shot the length of his spinal cord, allowing her to slip from his grip.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, some small voice tried to warn him that something wasn’t right. Even the most devoted lover shared the pleasure, touching and stroking as those gestures were given in return.

  This—oh gods, what letter came before Omicron?—was like an assault of pleasure. A fight for—Xi, yes, Xi, that was it—for sexual control. A battle to draw—he gritted his teeth as the symbol for Nu wavered at the edge of his consciousness—an orgasm as if it somehow admitted defeat.

  The edge of her fingernail scraped the sensitive underside of his sac and he knew defeat was imminent. He opened his eyes, as if that small measure of control could counterbalance the fact that she was about to unman him three days into some serious marathon sex.

  “Good. Your eyes are open. I like that in a man. Makes the victory t
hat much sweeter.”

  Her words lodged dimly in the back of his mind as great, heaving spasms overtook his body. As he spilled himself over her belly and breasts, he barely registered the swift movement, almost didn’t feel the quick, stinging prick through the mind-numbing pleasure of his orgasm.

  Her sky blue eyes—absolutely unwavering on his—were the last thing he saw before his entire world blacked out.

  The nonstop excitement of Heathrow Airport greeted them the moment they stepped off the plane. Complaints about baggage checks, pages for gate changes and several businessmen running to catch their flight were a few of the sounds that made up the airport’s raging cacophony.

  “I’d like to go straight there, if you don’t mind.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Brody muttered as he played with his phone. Where the hell was Kane?

  “Who do you keep calling?”

  “My firm arranged for a London-based agent to meet us as well. I can’t seem to get a hold of him.” Brody rubbed his stomach as he listened to the sound of Kane’s voice mail for the fifth time. Where the hell was he?

  “Are you okay?” The silky tone of Ava’s voice shot straight through him, despite his rising discomfort at their situation.

  Brody glanced up from his phone midtext. “I’m just a little hungry.”

  “Airplane food is hardly filling.” She rooted around in her carry-on, several small tendrils of hair falling around her cheeks as she dug in the cavernous bag. “Here’s a granola bar.”

  He had the wrapper off and the bar half devoured before she’d even gotten her bag zipped up. “Do you have any more of those?”

  “No, last one. And it’s the middle of rush hour. He could have gotten stuck in traffic.”

  Their lethal Scorpio, who could get himself in and out of any situation . . . stuck in traffic? Even if he couldn’t port for some unknown reason, he should have been here. Kane never missed a meet. Never.

  Brody swallowed the last bite of the granola bar, his spirits lifted ever so slightly with the food. It wouldn’t last long, but he’d take what he could get until they hit the city.

  He tried Kane again as they moved through the arrivals area. Ava kept up his pace, her bright-eyed expression as she took in everything in the terminal warming his heart.

  “Come on, we’ll get a cab.”

  “No need. Grandmother insisted on car service at the same time she was forcing first class down my throat.”

  “Rough life.”

  “Don’t I know it.” She grinned at him, and a small knot of tension loosened in his gut at her carefree expression. The dream had upset her, but clearly she’d gotten some good sleep on the rest of the flight.

  “Look.” Ava pointed to a man holding a large white sign. “There he is.”

  Brody didn’t like giving up control to another driver, but he wasn’t interested in arousing suspicion, either. He’d have preferred to simply port them to Kane’s flat, but since he couldn’t very well knock Ava unconscious, they were stuck with the town car.

  The driver kept his head down and his cap over his eyes as he took care of their bags. Brody felt a stray wisp of something touch his subconscious, but turned toward Ava to help her into the backseat of the car. As he reached for the metal door handle, he felt it.

  The damn driver was a Destroyer—and the cap and hunched shoulders were hiding something else.

  Stray wisps of energy and a distinct zap of stray voltage came off the handle.

  Shit.

  “Ava,” he whispered against her ear, “turn toward me and giggle.”

  “Wha—” He didn’t get the giggle, but he did get an armful of woman. Pressing his mouth to hers, Brody pulled her against his chest, his back against the frame of the car to absorb the increasing streams of electricity.

  After a few, brief seconds of initial surprise, Ava responded, her body molding to his. Their tongues met, insistent and seeking. Fire raged through him as the insane urge to brand her as his gripped him.

  Brody knew he had a job to do—knew there wasn’t time for this—but damn it if he didn’t want to stay like this for real. Take his time. Learn her secrets.

  Make her moan.

  Opening one eye, he got a clean look at the driver.

  The guy from the other night.

  Shit, shit, shit. It was the one he let get away; the one who attacked Ava.

  Pulling his mouth back, Brody made a show of working his way down her neck, then back up toward her ear. With a low whisper, he murmured in her ear, “You need to get ready to run. The driver is a setup.”

  He felt her body tighten as she went fully alert in his arms.

  “Do you understand me?”

  At the subtle nod of her head, he reached for her hand. “Now!” he hissed, and pulled her along, threading their way through the throngs of tired travelers heading out into the London morning.

  Brody heard the shout behind them as he and Ava made a run for it. A glance over his shoulder showed the arrival of the airport police, who made quick work of their driver.

  “Is he following us?”

  Brody gave one last look before they got too far away to see anything and was satisfied to see their captor still hadn’t gotten himself away from the police.

  “He’s a bit tied up. Airport police won’t let him leave his vehicle.” He grabbed the bag she still carried on her shoulder—what the hell did she have in here?—shifting it to his own. “Come on. Let’s head for the Underground. It’s actually above ground for quite a few stops until we hit London. If we have to jump off, we will.”

  They wove through Heathrow and toward the airport’s Underground station. As they submersed themselves in the throngs of travelers, he kept a watchful eye behind them.

  Just what the hell was going on here? Even if the driver was deployed by Enyo, where the hell was Kane?

  Ticketing proved uneventful, as did their wait on the platform. It shouldn’t have surprised him when, twenty minutes later, Ava hissed at him from their standing-only spots on the packed train. “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”

  Brody watched the doors close as they cleared Osterley station. He really did need to relax. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  She kept a broad smile on her face as if to broadcast to anyone watching them that they were a happy couple, traveling on vacation. Her words, however, were razor sharp as she delivered them in calm undertones. “Let’s try that again. You know, where you don’t underestimate my powers of intuition.”

  He felt his mouth drop as her words penetrated. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I didn’t finish questioning you about what happened on my way home the other night because I got distracted at work. Then I was going to ask you about it on the plane and I had the nightmare. But you need to spill it. Who are these people and who are you? Really? You just happen to show up the night I get mugged on my block and then you show up at the museum, all ready to protect me. I’m not buying it.”

  He was Leo Warrior. He was a protector. He was a fighter.

  And he couldn’t very well tell her that. He could see the conversation now. “Oh sorry, Ava, you mean I didn’t tell you? I’m an immortal Warrior, working in service to the Greek goddess of justice.”

  Yeah, right.

  Add to it the fact they’d all taken an oath to keep their roles quiet. What had started out as a necessary step to keep humans unaware of their protectors—and therefore engaged in their own self-preservation—had morphed into something else entirely in the last fifty years.

  As humans developed ever-more modern technologies and devices that allowed them greater understanding of the world around them, no one, not even the powerful Greek gods, would benefit if they were found out. Either revered as deities, harangued as celebrities or sought after so humans could use technology to replicate their abilities, no one wanted discovery.

  If there was one thing they all agreed on—Enyo included—it was that no one benefited if humankind
knew who was protecting them.

  “I’m your bodyguard and, right now”—he eyed the Tube map over her left shoulder, seeking the stop they needed to change lines—“I need you to listen to me and follow my lead.”

  “Is this tied to my father?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “His murder was ruled a random act of violence, but I’ve never believed it.”

  As several people got off at the next stop, Brody saw an opportunity to shift their position, placing Ava in a more sheltered area behind him, two hard walls of the train protecting her back. “You think he was murdered?”

  “I know he was.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Murdered? But why?” He knew the intel, knew the rumors and knew the damn unusual coincidence that was Russell Harrison’s death.

  But the idea his daughter knew it, too? If she believed it, why hadn’t she pressed for justice? Pushed the police to keep working the case?

  “I was there with him when the guy came out of the park and assaulted us on our way home.”

  Brody ran a finger down her cheek, imagining the horror of it. To experience death at all was a tragedy, but to see it at such a young age and to have it happen in front of you—well, that was something many people would never have recovered from.

  He held his initial harsh thoughts in check as he let her explain herself. “Go on.”

  “It wasn’t random. For starters, it was broad daylight when it happened. I realize we’re from New York, but contrary to the tales told the world over, most people don’t get murdered in broad daylight. And certainly not on Central Park West.”

  “That’s true.” Unless they’re targeted for a hit, that is.

  “Add to that the fact that my father had a child with him. Further add to it that he wasn’t exactly dressed like a rich man, in his usual archaeologist uniform of ratty khakis and a T-shirt. It just never felt, well, arbitrary.”