Casey belched, leaning back in his chair and picking at his teeth with a fingernail. Angie shook her head. He had the hairiest, most powerful chest that she had ever seen on a man. Even his muscles had muscles, and all of it was covered in red fuzz that reminded her of his werewolf form. "Hot water’s great and all, but you got any beer?"
Shane smiled, his teeth small and white. "I think we can manage."
Chapter 4
Rayan Zar Davi knelt before her master, her gaze averted, the cold, wet ground hard against her knees and palms. Fear twisted her insides into a tight coil.
"Speak," he commanded, his powerful but alien voice rumbling with his displeasure, setting her bones shaking. "Where is the changeling we sent you to find?"
"Beautiful master, the Jaguar Knight, the servant of the feathered wyrm, interfered. Only luck kept me alive to bring you word of his interference. Had I not escaped to warn you—"
His belly scraped the stones as he shifted position. When he spoke again, his voice boomed down upon her from high above. "You pathetic creature. Do you believe I fear that one, the weakest and most cowardly of our kind? Where are his brothers? Dead. Where are his sisters? Dead. I should devour you for the insult."
Her forehead scraped the rocks as she prostrated herself, shivering. "No, of course I don't believe he can threaten you. I misspoke is all, beautiful one."
A white-hot lance of pain impaled her midsection, and her vision went dark. She screamed, a long, drawn-out howl of agony. The pain twisted in her gut, worsening. Then the agony moved up through her chest, and she feared her heart would stop, but when it slid into her skull, it became so much worse. When the torture finally stopped, she lay on her side, panting. The stench of her own fresh feces hung about her like a cloud, adding to her abject humiliation, yet she lived.
For now.
"I beg forgiveness, Lord of the Smoking Mirror. I make no excuse." She had set her torch on the rocks, where it fluttered weakly. Flames, much like any other light, did little in the presence of her master, one of the Blessed Twins. Tezcatlipoca's presence diluted light, bathing them in the eternal darkness of his lair. She felt his displeasure, his hunger, and risked a glance in his direction. In the darkness, she only saw the narrow slits of his eyes reflected in the sputtering torch. She'd need to explain now, before he took out his rage on her again, perhaps killing her this time.
"You dare come before me, stinking of failure and cowardice?" His voice wracked her. "You? Chief among those my sister and I have gifted with occult knowledge? Tell me, Mother Smoke Heart"—he made her title sound like an insult—"what discipline would you levy for such folly?"
She felt the full brunt of his majesty now, his raw, overwhelming power, his displeasure, and a chill coursed through her. "I ... that is ..." Idiot, she admonished herself, tell him now or die here. His sigh was like a furnace, drying out her skin and heating the air around her, making it painful to breathe. "The ... the wolf-bitch is not the promised changeling, my Lord of the Smoking Mirror. We moved against the wrong target. It is no true failure but a blessing."
Silence fell upon her, so heavy she felt it would crush her. But after several long breaths, she still lived. He rustled in place, a long talon scraping against the rocks. "Explain."
She had practiced this speech in her mind a hundred times during the flight here, but now, before him, her thoughts ran wild. She made tight fists, digging her fingernails into the flesh, hoping the pain might clear her mind. It was always like this around him. His dark aura left her exhausted, a shell of the woman she had built herself into. Yet as overwhelming as the terror was near him, it was infinitely worse around his sister, the Obsidian Butterfly. The last time Rayan had been in her presence, she could barely speak at all.
"The ... the prophesies of the Golden Dawn, translated from Olmtec into Mayan and then Aztec, are rarely clear, beautiful one, but on the matter of the catalyst, they state, 'the blood of the changeling holds the power to undo the stone binding of the treacherous wyrms.' I—we—believed that a changeling, Haanal X'ib in the original Olmtec, was a female shifter, a were-creature, and Erin Seagrave is the only known female werewolf. It only made sense to attempt to use her blood in the ritual."
"You bore me with my own knowledge, meat sack."
Rayan hurried on, knowing her life hung by a thread. "Yet Haanal X'ib can also mean 'one who is changed.' Not a shifter, not a were-creature, at least not exactly."
"Yet there is power in the blood of werewolves."
"Yes, beautiful one. I used the blood of one of my prisoners to summon Gouger of Faces. I suspect there is even more power in the blood of Erin Seagrave, particularly in her werewolf form, but I no longer believe she is the Haanal X'ib, the one who is changed."
He exhaled twin clouds of black smoke, choking her with its sulfurous stench. "Speak quickly. I grow weary."
So Rayan did. She drew out the journal that had belonged to Chararah Succubus and read aloud the passages that had so changed her understanding of the prophesy and the meaning of "changeling." Then she laid out her plan. Her master Tezcatlipoca listened, his breathing slow and powerful, like bellows. When she was done, he laughed, the sound like that of bones being crushed, but laughter nonetheless.
"And you seek to use those feral blood drinkers, the barbed howlers?" Once again, his laughter echoed through the darkness. "They will not love you for it. They desire only to be left alone in their subterranean lair."
"They are instruments, beautiful one, beasts. They will have no choice."
He considered her in silence for long moments.
"Go, find the one we need. But be warned, we shall not wait another century to bring our sire back."
She exhaled a breath of relief. "Thank you, beautiful one. I shall not fail your trust."
"I did not say I trusted you, insect. You must do more than bring us what we need. Too long has the cowardly feathered one hidden from our justice. Use the barbed howlers to bring death to the cattle he loves so dearly, draw him from his lair. The time has come for him to join his brothers and sisters in death."
"He … he hides, master."
"His weakness will draw him out. Make them suffer."
"Yes, beautiful one."
"And when we have dealt with him, kill the elf-bitch and all her line. She dares to plot with him, so she shall share his fate."
Once again, Rayan lowered her forehead to the stone. "I live to serve, beautiful one."
"No. You die if you fail."
He drew back then, disappearing into the darkness, followed by the distinctive clink, clink, clink of his movement over the rocks.
Rayan remained with her head lowered for long minutes, long after she felt certain he must be gone. Her torch began to burn more brightly now, to cast moving shadows in the dark cavern. She retrieved the torch and stood, her legs trembling, her heart racing. She lived, and she had a plan, but someday soon, she would kill those who had placed her in this position, most importantly, her hated foe, the damned Jaguar Knight Teccizcoatl. Then her thoughts ran to the adopted daughter of Chararah Succubus, Angela Ritter. This was as much her fault as the Knight’s. I gave her mercy once, offered her a quick death. Never again.
The corners of her lips lifted into a smile when she considered what she'd do to that one.
Chapter 5
The bed frame squeaked loudly, and the plain wooden headboard banged against the wall as Mago Diputado Octavia Maria Navarro, Tavi to her friends, cried out in ecstasy. A delicious warmth spread through her, and she gripped Shane's toned buttocks and pulled him in tighter. She gasped and cried out, her toes curling with each thrust Shane made. Her orgasm peaked, an amazing tingling sensation that swept through her, and she drove her fingernails into his skin. And then he, too, began to make that long, drawn-out cry she now knew so well. When that look of utter abandonment transformed his handsome features and he whimpered like a baby, she knew he was coming. She felt satisfaction and pride at pleasing him—her, the good littl
e girl, the perfect deputy to Constance Morgan, was as good in bed as any other woman, better than most. He hadn't been her first lover, but he was by far the handsomest. Even if she knew he would never be the one, his bed was rarely ever empty.
Shane rolled away and removed the condom before tossing it with a thud into the small trash can beside her bed. He hated using a condom and always complained, but she had a career to worry about and wasn’t going to throw it all away for an unexpected pregnancy. She didn’t think she was a prude, but the knowledge that his …stuff was right there in her trash can would keep her up all night. The moment she sent him back to his own room, she’d throw out the trash. For now, she lay back, breathing heavily, her face and chest flushed, her skin damp with perspiration.
He fell back onto the bed beside her, on his stomach, his hand over one of her breasts, holding it possessively, as he kissed her shoulder, his breath hot on her sensitive skin. "You know," he said huskily, "there's just nothing better than fucking your superior officer."
She trailed her fingers through his curly dark hair. "Don't be crude. I don't like that kind of language."
He sniffed, tweaking her nipple with his thumb and forefinger, flicking the nub playfully. "Oh, I think you do like it, Mago Diputado. Judging by the noise you were making, I think you like it a lot."
"The act, not the vulgar words. Have some class."
He grinned, his dark eyes flashing mischievously, looking way too fine for any man. "I'll remember that the next time you're sucking my cock."
She sighed, closing her eyes. He was just trying to get a rise of her, playing on her admittedly uptight manner. As she lay there with her eyes closed, he continued to play with her nipple. "Stop that," she whispered.
But he didn't. In public, among the other mages, he followed orders, but never when they were alone. That was one of the things that made her so hot for him. With him, she didn't need to worry about anything but being a woman. Besides, she didn't really want him to stop. It felt sexy, as if she had no control over what he was doing. Not that she was ready for another go, not just yet. She needed to calm her racing heart first. And he certainly wouldn't be up for more, not for at least another hour or two, and she wanted him gone long before then so she could get some sleep. It was already past ten p.m. Morgan had her working late, going over the resupply plan for the border outposts. There was too much to do these days, and the entire garrison was feeling the strain, especially now that word had spread through town about the presence of the Seagraves and Angela Ritter. She had always imagined she'd be the one to bring Ritter down in battle, the hated Angela de la Muerte, and avenge all those men she had burned to death. But instead of fighting her, she was treating her like an honored guest. Tavi sighed. What a crazy world.
Shane licked her nipple.
"If you keep that up, you'd better be prepared to finish." She opened her eyes and glared at him.
He smirked his handsome smirk, not a care in the world for what she thought—and that was getting her going again. "What's the word with the old lady?" he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Is she really serious about sanctuary?"
"She said it, didn't she? When does she ever say things that she doesn't mean?"
"All of them, the mage too?"
"Her too."
He laughed. "Coasties are gonna be pissed. Especially when they find out we got their helicopter."
Her breathing quickened again. "You're not wrong about that. Morgan said the presidente is concerned. She’s going to come here herself in the next few days. We don't need any of this shit, not right now."
"Language," he said in a mocking tone. Then his hand pushed between her thighs, where she was still wet and hot, and his middle finger slipped inside her, the tip expertly stroking her special spot. She shivered, gasping. He always knew exactly how to touch her, how to find it. For a young man, he was worldly beyond anyone she knew.
She bit her lip, moaning. "What do you think you're—"
He took his lips from her nipple and shushed her with a long kiss, his breath hot as he stroked her. Then he drew back and buried his head between her thighs and went to work with his tongue. His wonderful, expert tongue.
When she came once more, she made him go back to his room.
She really did need some sleep.
The very first thing Angie had intended to do as a guest of the Brujas Fantasmas was to visit their showers, but Erin insisted she have the sword gash on her back tended first. Angie demurred, and not because Erin was a physically intimidating werewolf woman—well, not just because of that—but because Erin was her friend.
She had too few friends these days.
Angie, accompanied by Erin, had visited the Brujas infirmary and sat patiently while a young female medic put twenty stitches in her back. Only when she was done did Erin relent, and they both showered, with Angie spending twenty glorious minutes with the hot water pouring over her head, taking pains to avoid the stitches as much as possible. Wonder of wonders, the Brujas even had scented soap and real shampoo. It had been like living in the Bunker again. When she had been in the Home Guard, she had never really appreciated how well off she and the others had been. By comparison, most residents of Sanwa City barely eked out a living.
After the shower and after Erin had taped a fresh bandage on her back, she had gone to her tiny guest room on the second floor to find a duffel bag containing woman's clothing in front of her door. In her room, she pulled on someone else's bra and panties, finding them a bit large, and then crawled under real sheets in a real, if narrow, bed and fell fast asleep.
She slept hard and fast until early the next morning. Her great-great-grandfather’s old Second World War Beobachtungs-uhren observation watch showed it was just after three thirty a.m. She couldn't sleep anymore, so she sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes and stretching, stopping when a sharp pain ran through her back. The cut had bled a bit, soaking through the bandage and leaving a spot of blood on her sheets, but the stitches were holding. She didn't remember dreaming, which was a blessing, especially because she had thrown away the Cloridine, the experimental PTSD medication she had taken such pains to obtain.
For six months now, she had been haunted by the helicopter crash and the lives she had taken, but she seemed to be coping now—at least better than she ever had before. Even the presence of the Other, her shade, no longer filled her with shame. It was a part of her once more, no longer walled off within her psyche by Char's magic. For so long, she had believed it to be a fire demon of some type, but she had been mistaken. It had taken a real demon, Gouger of Faces, for her to see the difference. Whatever else the Other was, it was as Char had always claimed, a shade, albeit the strangest one she had ever heard of—one that spoke to its host, displaying an unheard-of intelligence. It’s a shade. I’m a source mage. And I need to make peace with that, just as Char said.
Maybe she was already beginning to. Maybe that was why she had slept through most of the night without another nightmare.
Char might have helped her, but Char was gone. Grief shuddered through her at the thought of her adopted mother. Char was dead, her real parents had been dead so long she barely remembered them, and now she was alone in the world, an outcast and a traitor. Marshal had been like a father to her, but now he'd hang her. Erin was a friend—that had become abundantly clear in the last few days—but Erin had her own family, and the Seagraves were too tightly knit to have room for others. And there was no place for her here among the Nortenos; she could see that in Tavi's eyes. She thinks I'm a monster, and who am I to say she's wrong? I take my mana by killing people and stealing their life force. That's every bit as bad as Ephix Lamia. Worse, all she takes is blood, and she needs that to live. For maybe the hundredth time, she wondered if she'd be better off dead ... if maybe that would be a relief.
No. Char wouldn't want that, not that.
With a weary sigh, she rose, placing bare feet on the chilly wooden floorboards and stumbling t
o the window before pushing the curtains to the side. A gibbous moon painted the compound and surrounding city silver. She saw few lights beyond the compound, but this was not unusual. Even in Sanwa City, most nights were dark. Fuel for streetlights, especially kerosene, was growing ever scarcer. She shivered, wrapping her arms tightly about her torso. Even this far south in the California desert, it was cold at night. Nothing moved in the compound below, but there would be guards. Constance Morgan's word had been true, and they were free to move about the compound—except for those areas that were off limits—but that didn't mean the Norteno soldiers weren’t watching them.
She used the matches on the nightstand to light her sole candle and then dressed in its flickering glow, putting on jeans, a too-large T-shirt, and her own boots. She strapped Nightfall to her hip, knowing it made the guards nervous but not particularly caring. She felt naked without the familiar weight of the elven side-sword. Char had gifted the priceless weapon to her when she’d graduated from her school of magic.
Angie took the lit candle, cupping her hand around its small flame, and made her way out of her room, down the pitch-black hallway and past the Seagraves' rooms, to the stairs that led to the cafeteria and communal rooms on the first floor. She had decided she'd go into the cafeteria and make herself a tea and then take it into the surprisingly well-stocked library. According to Shane, Morgan was a book maven; Char would have approved.
A single lantern burned in the cafeteria, likely kept lit all night for the guard shifts. She lit one of the camping stoves and boiled water for tea. Minutes later, steaming tea in hand, she entered the dark library. Tall book stands jammed with books and old tomes filled the room, as well as plush reading chairs and footrests. To her surprise, Tec sat in one of the armchairs, a book in hand, a lit candle on the table beside him. He wore blue jeans and a tight black T-shirt stretched over his powerful body. He looked up at her and smiled. "Can't sleep?"
The Awakened World Boxed Set Page 32
