Seven Seals, Books 1 & 2

by Traci Douglass

  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 side 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 his 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?”

  “Not right now. Thank you.” Irena flashed Innocent a sincere smile. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “You and Mr. Chago come to my place for dinner tonight. Me wife cooks up the best food in town.”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “I’ll send a taxi at six. Ms. Adrienne, you welcome too. Bring a boyfriend, if you got.”

  “I’m busy.” Adrienne waved off his invitation and turned her attention to Chago. “Mr. Govnaru, what’s your line of business?”

  “Please, call me Chago.” Her hand affixed firmly to his knee and he managed not to choke on his last swallow of coffee as he answered. “I’m in security.”

  “Security?” Adrienne’s brushed up his thigh. “Well, that explains your buff bod. We can use more protection around here. It’s a dangerous place after sunset.”

  “Only at night?” he asked, trying to scoot farther away.

  The waiter delivered breakfast and Chago downed his meal in record time while dodging Miss Pierce’s voracious hands.

  “I was telling Irena about the Bantu murders.” Adrienne waited until a busboy cleared a stack of dirty plates before she continued. “A whole tribe decimated.”

  “Decimated?”

  “All drained completely dry. Only their skins left. Not to mention the weird symbols and herbs and tribal sorcery. Crazy stuff.” Adrienne shivered, her face scrunched in disgust.

  “Skins?” Irena and Chago asked in unison.

  “Their bones and organs were missing. There was only one survivor. A small boy, too young to speak.” Adrienne leaned forward to grab Irena’s arm, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Enough with the gory details. I hear Drake Benedict’s in town. When can I meet him?”

  Chapter 9

  Chago should have suspected Drake would follow Irena to Africa. He connected the dots to her incident on the plane and his anger soared. If he’d known that asshole lurked in first class, he would have given the fucker a quick trip out of the cargo compartment, sans parachute. Now, he planned to assure the Omega leader kept a respectable distance from Irena.

  After escorting her back to her room, Chago returned to the café to access the hotel’s wi-fi system and check his voicemail. Two more messages popped up from Barron, followed
by one from Luther and three from Xander. Chago punched the speed dial for his commander, choosing to start with what he hoped would be the most beneficial conversation.

  “Well, well. Sleeping beauty has awakened.”

  “The term is jet lag.”

  “Right.” Xander chuckled, not the least bit put off by Chago’s irascible tone. “At least now you’ve got an excuse. Morning is not your best time.”

  “Is there a purpose to your call?”

  “Yes. Luther and I should arrive later this week for support.”

  “Good.” Adrienne’s breakfast conversation topic reared its ugly head. “I believe Archon is here. There were a rash of murders, an entire tribe of Bantu wiped out near the coast. All the bodies were drained dry.”

  “I’ll put Barron on the research. What about the civil conflict?”

  “I met a militia member at breakfast. His name’s Innocent Balewa. He seems legit, but it wouldn’t hurt to have Barron check him out too.”

  A nearby elevator dinged and Drake exited, striding purposefully toward the café. Shit. Chago sank low into a nearby chair to avoid detection and whispered into the phone. “Hold on.”

  Drake’s bandages were gone, leaving only a faint yellowish discoloration on his jawline. Bastard. He’d have to punch him harder next time. His scheming turned to disgust as Drake shook hands with Adrienne then bent and kissed her on the mouth. Instead of protest, the stupid woman fawned all over him like a besotted groupie.

  His fist clenched and the tiny mobile device creaked.

  As if his morning hadn’t taken a long enough trip down FUBAR lane, Irena emerged from another elevator and headed toward the dining room. Goddammit. Chago sprang to his feet ready to storm the café.

  She froze just inside the entrance, ignored the maître d, and approached the table, pulling a small canister from her purse and wielding it like a weapon in Drake’s face. Whatever was in the can had her boss backing off faster than germs from penicillin.

  Chago forced himself to remain calm as he concluded his conversation with Xander, his focus never leaving Irena. “Anything else?”