by Sue Wilder
“Phillipe!”
The assassin turned, shouted, and for an instant, Lexi didn’t understand the words. Then he was beside her, reaching upward toward the sun. Lexi saw Phillipe’s hands clearly. Lethal hands. Intent on stopping a silver arc descending from the sky. Power surged bright and hot and seconds later the mercenary lay crumpled at her feet. Phillipe nodded once in satisfaction before falling to his knees. Then he was staring at the sky, the ocher sand beneath his head turning to bright red rust.
Lexi dropped to her knees, pressed her palms against the gaping wound in Phillipe’s throat and felt the pulse of warm blood each time his heart beat. She couldn’t stop the flow, and when the burning began between her shoulders she let it flare with the grief, gagging in her throat. Phillipe’s life wavered beneath her hands, and there, in that moment, she saw Zal, bending over Four’s body while the skies wept.
Lexi understood what Two expected her to do. She rose to her knees. The nerves in her back expanded like lightning and Lexi screamed an immortal command.
It was Three’s name. In Etruscan.
“Ci!”
✽✽✽
Christan heard the call and shifted, but not into the lion or the gold dragon that once stunned the world. He became creature of myth, black and copper and terrifying beneath the ancient desert sun, ripping through the remaining mortals before turning to the lone warrior who had accompanied them. The cardinal predator struck hard and without remorse, tossed the body and watched it shatter on the rose-colored stone. Then the creature leapt into the air, wide wings beating downward, shattering sandstone pillars that stood for centuries.
As the dragon arrowed away, his roar echoed with atavistic supremacy. The great shadow swept across the sand, and the beast’s blood ran hot with the invading Hun, back further, with the Persian, with the greatest gods of war and the over-riding mandate for which he had been created. The enforcer was once again the cold wind before the warm rush. He was death. He was vengeance. He was hers.
When he reached her, Christan was once again a man, hanging on to the shreds of his humanity. He crouched over Lexi’s curled body, fingers unsteady, hesitant as he pushed aside her hair, tried to turn her tear streaked face. The ground heaved on a tremendous burst of power and he looked up.
Three stood there, shock marring her perfect face.
“Phillipe.”
Her voice was tortured. Christan jerked against the sound, pulled Lexi aside as the immortal dropped to the sand. Three’s hands were like porcelain, white, smooth, steady as she moved them over Phillipe. An ancient chant rose with a cadence that shifted the desert sand. Heat shimmered as the bleeding began to cease.
In a voice as harsh as the sand, Christan looked at the immortal and asked, “How is it you’re here?”
“She compelled me.”
The enforcer was stunned. No one had ever possessed the ability to summon an immortal, let alone one as powerful as Three. “It’s not possible.”
“She called me Ci.”
Christan looked down at the woman most precious to him and shuddered. His hands tightened reflexively around her, felt the tremors that seemed to pull her body apart. He cradled her like a child, probing delicately into her mind, but met oblivion, hard walls erected in the aftermath of trauma. Her eyes were closed. Her face was pale and the brutalized hand was swollen and bleeding. Drifting his fingers over the tender flesh, Christan surged a ghost of power.
Three reached out and stroked his bent head. “She’s not Two, Christan. It’s not possible, even with magic.”
“Then what is it?”
“A connection they share. I think she remembered what Two wanted her to remember, when she needed to remember it.”
“It’s destroying her!”
“She’s connected to you, Christan. Hold on to her.”
Then Three rose gracefully to her feet, her posture regal, the sun in her hair burning with an ancient fire—and she did something she hadn’t done for over four hundred years. She compelled her warriors.
The sky brightened with exploding light, then faded. A crash of thunder splintered the air. On the horizon, yellow sand rose up in a wall of vibrating power that extended thousands of feet into the sky, nearly shutting out the blood-red sun.
Arsen and Darius were the first to arrive, followed by Robbie. Hard, on the verge of violence, they stalked out of the swirling storm wearing full battle dress. Giam followed, along with several more of the Italians. Within minutes over two hundred had arrived, forming ranks in a semi-circle around the prone figures on the ground. Within the next ten minutes that number swelled to over six hundred, spread out in the surrounding rocks and across the plateau. Three instructed them quickly. Some would accompany Christan as he returned his mate to safety. Others would scout the area for remaining threats. No enemy would be left alive, so investigations needed to be done, and when they returned home she would have more instructions for them. Then she gathered Phillipe gently in her arms and disappeared.
“Christan,” Arsen said, kneeling in the sand beside his friend. “How badly is she injured?”
“A wound to her hand. The blood is Phillipe’s.”
Robbie knelt too, gently lifting Lexi’s broken fingers and cradling them in his own. “Bones will knit together,” he said, using his healing ability to ease the swollen flesh. “Anywhere else?” he asked, quickly scanning for further injuries.
“It’s her mind I’m worried about.”
Arsen reached out carefully, mindful of Christan’s volatile energy. Warriors caught up in a deep protective stance could be unpredictable. Lightly, he touched Lexi’s forehead and pulsed a small amount of power through his fingertips.
“She’s strong, Christan,” he said quietly. “Feel her energy. Touch her memory lines and connect to her.”
Christan lifted his head and his dark eyes were empty. “She’s closed her mind, shut me out,” he said telepathically.
“Give her time,” Arsen responded in the same manner. “Where do you want to go? Back to the mountains? Marge is there. She can help her.”
Christan shook his head. “I want her away from everything that I am and we are. She cannot endure this.”
Arsen nodded in understanding. “Will you let me know where you are, when you find the place you want to rest?”
Christan searched the surrounding sand. He found a discarded bottle of water and washed Phillipe’s blood from his mate’s hands. When she was clean, he spotted the dark blue keffiyeh tumbling from her pack. Gently, he leaned her against his thigh and began to wrap the cloth around the riot of her blond hair, over the sides of her face, protecting her throat and shoulders before retying it around her head. He pressed his lips to her forehead and then surged to his feet with her in his arms.
By the time he was fully erect he had once again shifted into the creature of vengeance and death. Black and copper scales burned beneath the unrelenting sun. Reptilian eyes glittered with obsidian and gold. Massive forearms cradled a burden more precious than life while black wings snapped wide. A terrifying shape rose into the sky, and a rushing shadow swept in a blood red tide across the sand.
Within seconds, two additional black shapes joined him in the air. Within moments there was a dark arrow, a protective phalanx of winged forms filling the desert air. They continued the honor guard, flying away from the setting sun until the moon rose and the deep indigo night concealed their passage. One creature—the largest—turned toward the East. In unison, the others angled away, flying on toward the coast.
And the plateau of rivers, the deep silence of the Tassili, was once again a place of nothing, other than the susurration of the wind.
CHAPTER 32
An Island off the coast of Cambodia
Christan followed a circuitous route. He had not lived a very long life without knowing how to disappear when he wanted. There were debts he called in for payment. False trails planted. Sightings constructed. In the process, Lexi began to come back to him. He
felt the first soft brush of her mind while they were still above the Sahara, tendrils of gossamer web reaching out, and he had thrilled to her delicate touch, the slow return of trust. He called her all the secret names, anima mia, cuore mio, his soul and his heart. If she saw him in his dragon form it didn’t seem to frighten her, although he wouldn’t change back if it did. Sometimes flying was too convenient to do anything else. And it kept them off the ground.
When Christan could no longer remain in the air, he settled for convention. There was a yacht, waiting in the Mediterranean. Several private planes. Another ocean-capable yacht with a noisy, incredibly irritating helicopter that made him feel trapped in the belly of a deranged bee. Lexi never argued, not once, but then she was sleeping a lot, so that might account for her cooperation. Christan sat by her side, stroked her hair and longed to stretch his big body beside hers in a room filled with twilight and white linen, hold her against his heart. But he was half afraid to touch her. Probably because whenever he really thought about it, his hands began to shake.
In the end, he took her to the one place no one expected him to go, where he shielded their energy signals and could finally rest.
It was a small island off the coast of Cambodia.
And gradually, like a flower opening to the cool rain, she began to rouse.
✽✽✽
Over the same time period the Calata argued, but with escalating alarm.
No one knew why Three abruptly disappeared, or why her energy had been concentrated in the Northern Sahara. They all felt the immense surge of power when she compelled her warriors from around the world, an act considered unnecessary and aggressive and had not been used in more than four hundred years. That lead to further suspicions. Uneasiness. The days of absence wore on until Six issued a demand for Three’s presence while Caitryn murmured about “the dangerous instability of Three’s enforcer.” One did what she always did. Rumors of serious fractures within the Calata leaked into immortal society until the Calata stepped in with an announcement that the “compelling” of the warriors had been a prearranged drill.
Councilor One staged a drill of her own, but few were mollified by the explanation. Questions were whispered. Cocktails were sipped on exclusive terraces at summer homes. Powerful leaders within immortal society openly wondered why Three remained in seclusion despite the mounting pressure. No one had seen the Calata member, her enforcer or her famous academic since the surge of power in the Sahara. Their combined absence from the scene led many to believe Three had something to hide. Rumors about the “eighteen days of dying” again resurfaced, embellished quite dramatically. There was open speculation about serious damage having been inflicted upon Three, or upon others close to her. Perhaps even a power grab within the Calata itself.
Cloaked in secrecy, security in every Calata court jumped to high alert. None had forgotten the scandal of betrayal in One’s inner circle or the unrest in some sectors of immortal society. Borders were heavily monitored. Warriors called and armed with modern weapons as well as immortal powers, computer systems scanned and internet searches ordered with a scrutiny that would have made many immortals queasy if they’d known the depth of the information collected.
All of it, though, failed to stop the chaos. Mischief continued to be played, with interruptions, both minor and significant, in a variety of immortal-controlled businesses. The stock markets grew jittery, further reinforcing the entanglements of the immortal and human worlds. Private bankers paled beneath the weight of funds transferred in and out of secret accounts from around the world. It wasn’t until Three rejoined the Calata video feed that the alarm began to die down.
She apologized for her weeks of absence, insincerely, and explained that a minor insurrection in her territories, on top of humanitarian relief following a natural disaster, had demanded all of her attention. Human news channels had been covering the massive rescue efforts following a 7.1 earthquake in her southern territories, and fuzzy video images were looped continuously, revealing a man who seemed to look like her enforcer, working in the background with another man at his side. The more suspicious members of the Calata doubted the identifications, but Three maintained the pretense, and the Calata, at One’s request, moved on to the cyber-attacks on vital services that were affecting most of Europe.
No one thought to ask Three about her presence in the Sahara, or that, curiously, stone monoliths thousands of years old now lay crumbled on the desert sand. Nor was any attention paid to the reports of a lone human archeologist who went on the morning cable shows, complaining about the extensive damage to ancient ruins he’d been excavating. He suspected, without any real proof, that insurgents were again destroying World Heritage monuments in a headlong rush to erase culture. The talking heads discussed it until a new scandal came around, while immortals wondered at the absurdity of the discussion in the first place. Natural disasters happened all the time. The earth could be a volatile place every now and then, and immortals would know since they had lived on the planet for thousands of years.
Three remained in Seattle, or at least that was the supposition since her compound was heavily patrolled by armed security. Her boy wonder, Ethan, shared information with other Calata members in a demonstration of solidarity. It was reciprocated with the same false sense of cooperation, while privately, the Calata members removed sensitive information from all electronic sources, reverting to written records guarded by scribes who knew the penalties for breaches in security.
It was, all things considered, the best they could do.
✽✽✽
It was called the low season, Christan explained, which meant Lexi had the beach to herself. Their nearest neighbor was over a mile away, with most of the inhabitants living on the other side of the island. He bought a simple wooden bungalow with a thatched roof, just a few yards from the turquoise sea, and when the clouds closed in and the storms erupted, they made love to the sound of rain beating against palm fronds.
As the weather warmed they spent more time outside. Days passed where nothing more productive was accomplished than lazing on the pristine beach, while their nights drifted beneath a million stars. Supplies came in twice a week, delivered by an old man in a blue and white boat with the odd canvas roof that cut the heat of the sun. Packets came with spare clothes, books and eventually a laptop, although they needed to use solar power to charge it and after a while it was too much trouble.
Christan made a woven hammock out of soft rope and suspended it between two palms. Lexi bought the ingredients for nom banh chok from an old woman who came by in the morning, carrying baskets hung from a pole balanced across bony shoulders. Lexi tried to make the traditional noodles without much success, but they ate the noodles anyway; it had become a running joke between them now that she could boil the water.
The days passed and Lexi cooked fresh sea food and rice. Christan walked to the market for fresh fruit. She drew the line at ang dtray-meuk, grilled squid on wooden skewers, and the red tree ants cooked with beef and holy basil.
And Christan loved it, loved every moment watching her move about the tiny kitchen. When she bent to light the ancient stove with a wooden match, he asked her why.
“Because it’s human, Christan.”
He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his chin in her hair. “This is the way humans prefer to do things?” he asked, only half-teasing because he was curious. “The hard way?”
“It the simple pleasure of accomplishing a goal,” she said, bending further so her hips pressed temptingly against him. “Like using a match to light the stove.”
Christan thought he understood, thought she was helping him to become more human. Over the weeks he watched the soft glow of health return to her face, noticed that her collarbones were less prominent. The golden sand of the beach was soft, and when she was ready he began the simple exercises, building her muscles and her confidence. The day she put him on his ass he laughed out loud. They’d raced into the foam
y surf until she let him chase her to the bungalow. When he carried her up the steps, she was kissing him. She’d been naked by the time they were inside.
“Christan,” she said, as she sprawled across his chest. “I need a name for you.”
He nuzzled her throat, behind her ear and gave her several options in a deep-throated purr.
“Bad, bad man.” But the rest of her words had been lost as she rose above him and fulfilled all his whispered desires.
The weeks flowed into months and he taught her things. How to expand her control until she could sweep sand up into an impenetrable wall and hold it there against the wind. How to shield herself from detection. How to resist the telekinetic power of an enemy and turn it back onto the attacker.
She showed him how her ability to read the earth had increased. How she could reach down, deep into the sand, find memories centuries old and pull them up to the surface. She told him the story of Four, the vision in Zal’s cave. Showed him the strange little figure that had been carved out of love, and he held her until she was able to breathe without shuddering in deep pain.
Christan shifted for her, a lion stretched out lethal and lazy in the sun.
Lexi couldn’t shift for him.
He saw how that distressed her, and he pushed the tumbled hair from her eyes. He told her once was enough. The night in the Sahara, when she had flashed into something magnificent in his hands and then back again—that night had been more than enough to sooth the prowling energies inside him. She didn’t have to become him to be like him, his mirror, the highest reflection of his soul. He would always cherish her exactly the way she was.
The smile she’d given him had been radiant.
Finally, after four months on the island, the enforcer began to teach her how to fight, although it broke his heart to do it.
