by Kresley Cole
He asked Mariketa, "Did you find out what happened to the others?"
Without facing him, she said, "They're safe."
"Are they coming?"
She shrugged. "I don't know--just learned that they're not in immediate danger."
When he remained silent, she murmured, "If you think I don't know what I look like, I do. No butterflies, fauns, and songbirds for me." She finally faced him. "It must be hard for you, going from a real fairy princess to the wicked witch who kills for money." She frowned to herself. "I think I'm supposed to be the villain in this piece."
"Maybe that's why we would fit so well." How in the hell could he expect her to tolerate the beast within him when he couldn't accept the power intrinsic in her? "If you're the villain, doona forget that I'm the monster."
*
Mari planted her hands on her knees as she sucked in air, her braids swinging forward with each inhalation. "You're doing this . . . to retaliate for last night." That morning, he'd pushed her for what had to be leagues, using his machete and his claws to thrash through the jungle at a breakneck pace. "Fine. Take the patch . . . knock me up with a litter . . . but just let me stop!"
"No' to retaliate." His mood, not exactly jubilant after having slept in the rain last night, had grown steadily worse as the day progressed.
"Then why are you pushing so hard?"
"I'd hoped Rydstrom and the others would have caught up with us by now."
She rolled her eyes. "A clue? You slow down when you want people to catch up."
"Their pace would be twice as fast as ours. They should've been able to rejoin us." He handed her the canteen. "Listen, Mariketa, I want you to know that I'm sorry for last night. Though I've long wanted bairns, I'd give up the chance forever if the alternative was your suffering. I doona know how to convince you of this, but it's true."
He appeared so earnest, and yet she wasn't sold. "I don't know how you can convince me either."
"Here." He held out his hand. "I'll carry you on my back, but we have to move. There might be a highway in reach. You could hitch a ride into Belize and get to the coast, maybe to an airport."
"Why am I the only one hitching a ride?" When he ran his fingers through his hair, she said, "What? Tell me."
"The moon is full this eve."
"Oh." Of course she'd noticed, but she hadn't thought the ramifications could be this dire until she'd seen his expression just now. Oh, hell.
"I've been debating the best way to get you out of my reach. If I run from you, I leave you vulnerable. If I stay with you . . ." He trailed off.
"You look like the apocalypse has arrived. Is it really so dangerous?"
Instead of reassuring her, he nodded. "Aye. I lose control over myself, and the difference between us in strength is just too vast. If given free leave to take you, I'd rend you in two."
She swallowed. "What exactly do you turn into, MacRieve? Describe it to me."
He answered, "The Lykae call it saorachadh ainmhidh bho a cliabhan--letting the beast out of its cage. My face will change, becoming a cross between lupine and human. My body grows larger, taller. My strength increases exponentially."
"I've seen the fangs and claws."
"Sharper and longer. And flickering over me will be an image of the beast inside me. It is . . . harrowing to those not of my kind."
"What would you do to me?"
He looked away. "I'd take you in the dirt like an animal. I'd mark your body with my fangs, and even after the bite healed, Lykae could still see it forever and know you'd been claimed." He rubbed his hand over his mouth, as if imagining it even then. "What does your gut feeling tell you to do with me?" he asked, facing her again. "Take away everything else--what do you sense?"
She thought for a moment, trying to digest what he'd just told her. She'd known Lykae bit and scratched each other during sex. But she'd never imagined that Bowen would want to sink his fangs in her skin, marking her forever--or that he'd lose control over himself so totally. "Honestly, I have no idea. But I could ask the mirror what to do."
He clenched his jaw, clearly struggling with the idea. "What can it tell you?" he finally said.
"I usually only get cursory answers. Classic oracular."
He hesitated for long moments, the conflict within him clear on his face. "Ask it, then. Would it be more dangerous to escape me--or to remain within my reach?"
38
Mari was out of breath, griping to herself, and pissed that because Bowen was going to get moon-ass-crazy, she had to do the jungle by herself, basically running for her life and all that.
And he was sprinting in the opposite direction. But if she didn't find civilization and some manner of vehicle for speedy travel, it wouldn't matter. He'd told her he could cover hundreds upon hundreds of miles to get to her on a night like this.
At a small stream, she knelt down to catch her breath and splash her face with water, careful not to drink any of it. As she unwound her canteen to knead her neck, she thought that if she could just get to a town, she could escape him and enjoy a hot shower for the first time in a month. Breakfast in the morning would be hot and waffly.
She froze when she thought she heard movement in a nearby copse of trees, then scanned the area. Probably just an animal. They tended to be in jungles. She turned back to the stream--
"Put your hands on your head."
Not an animal. As she slowly stood and turned, she recognized that these weren't locals. These were bad guys, three of them with machine guns aimed at her face.
In her present mood that equaled: Why, I believe I'll turn them into frogs! Just as she reached for the mirror in her pocket, they cocked their weapons.
The oldest man was clearly the leader, and his tone was deadly when he said, "Your hands on your head--or I'll put a bullet into it." He didn't have a thick accent. These must be the international narco-terrorists, the ones who made the cartel look mild. So much for the mirror's judgment.
Unless this was still better than Bowen.
Before she could even get close to working a spell, one soldier had a gun barrel shoved against her temple. She'd thought it would be cold, but it was uncomfortably warm.
Fear shivered through her, and she raised her hands. As the soldier bound them behind her with plastic ties like the ones the NOPD used, she said, "You have no idea what a mistake you're making--there are people who will be a shade irate about this abduction."
"We have never heard that from a hostage," the second soldier said as they started away. With a rough grip on her upper arm, he hauled her from the water, yanking her uphill and then down the next rise. She struggled against him, trying to think of some way to convince them to free her.
"For all you know, I could be CIA or DEA," she said when she heard an engine idling. Their vehicle was near--which meant the road had been close.
"Too young," the first lackey said. "You look like a lost environmentalist."
When they arrived at their army green truck, she resisted getting in the back. "Why haven't you asked me about my information?" she demanded. The man simply shoved her up into the truck bed, banging her knee so hard her eyes watered.
"Why would we?" the leader asked in an unctuous tone.
Her brows drew together as everything became clear. They weren't going to ransom her--at least, not at first. They were going to keep her. The thought made her retch into her mouth. She had to get her hands free.
Once the truck started down rutted roads, she determined that they were taking her right back in MacRieve's direction. "Listen to me, the only way you are going to live through the night is to release me this instant." She could already see the moon faint but full in the daytime sky. A portentous reminder. "You can't even conceive of what you're bringing down on yourself." They ignored her, having no idea that they were basically dragging bait back to their base.
She knew MacRieve would come for her, but that was the other half of the problem. She didn't want to be a sitting duck tonight.
When they reached a camouflaged outpost, the three hauled her from the truck though she fought them. After dragging her inside, they forced her down deep into a bunker, leading her into tunnels in the earth. Cold and dark. Fancy that.
One tunnel had a line of cells, all with solid steel doors, as if bomb-proofed. In fact, everything in this place seemed to be so. One of the men punched a code into a keypad, and an adjoining door slid open. The other soldier shoved her into a barren cell, with only a cot and a toilet within. She inanely remembered Carrow calling jail two hots and a cot.
"You have to untie me."
"You're in no position to make demands," the leader said. "Best accept your lot and prepare yourself for tonight."
"What's my lot?"
"It's very simple. We were out provisioning," he explained, raking her with his gaze, "and you are a provision." He turned to the doorway.
"Then there's nothing I can do for you," she murmured. "I vow you won't survive past midnight. And your last sight before you die will make you relieved to go."
One soldier laughed nervously. The second lackey scowled. The leader turned in a flash and backhanded her, his heavy ring catching her temple when she tried to duck. The force sent her spinning to the ground. Hands still bound behind her, she landed on her face.
Struggling to her knees, she wiped her temple on her shoulder. When she saw the blood, she cast him an evil smile. "You're going to die extra bad for that."
*
At dusk, Bowe couldn't resist the pull of his female any longer. Her scent was still in the jungle--she hadn't made it to the city and a flight out. Though he fought with everything he was, he felt himself changing direction, retracing his earlier footfalls to her.
He'd never run so fast . . . no, there'd been one other time. . . .
He shook off that memory. Mariketa's tantalizing scent called to him and nothing else mattered. Acres of treacherous terrain passed effortlessly beneath his feet. Just a mile or so more till he found her. Closer. He could tell she was near . . . yards away now, directly up the stream bank.
He jerked to a stop when he reached her scent.
She wasn't here.
He'd locked onto her bag, her clothes. So where in the hell was she? Her canteen lay off to the side--she'd never leave her boiled water. Other odors came to him--human males laden with aggression, gun oil, cigarettes. He sighted boot prints in the mud. Over the next rise were tire tracks. Soldiers had abducted her.
And Bowe knew why. His claws sank into his palms.
He barely detected another scent. Her fear.
--Punish them.--
They'd taken his female, frightened his vulnerable mate. Turning . . . already.
He would slaughter them, every one.
With a roar of fury, he let the beast free.
39
He'd come.
Mari knew when gunfire began to echo in the tunnels of the bunker. Men barked orders with authority, and machine guns popped in concentrated waves.
Yet soon the organized defense became erratic. The commands devolved into . . . screams.
These humans--along with herself--were trapped down in the earth with a monster. He'd begun to kill, and she could do nothing but wait with dread. With her hands still bound behind her, she rocked forward and back on the cot.
His onslaught of violence seemed to keep beat with the heavy drum of her heart. She heard hardened men yell out in terror before the sound gurgled from their slashed throats.
Had MacRieve used his teeth or claws?
Would she scream at the sight of him?
"Dios mio!" one soldier gritted out. Chills coursed through her when she heard another weeping--before being instantly silenced.
A split second after a wild clap of machine gun fire, an explosion sounded and the electricity flared. When the overhead light sparked and burst into fragments, she shrieked in the sudden blackness.
From somewhere out in the tunnels came his answering bellow of rage.
She swallowed with fear. Moments later red emergency lights hummed on. When she saw that chunks of glass had fallen out of the light cage above, she backed to the biggest piece, crouching down to collect it with her bound hands. Then she began clumsily sawing at the tie.
Just as she thought she was close to slicing free, she heard the keypad at her cell entrance. She didn't breathe as the door whirred open.
The leader slipped in, softly closing and locking it behind him. In a low voice, he hissed, "You'll tell me who's behind this incursion! Who's--"
He abruptly whirled around and jerked his gun up.
Harsh breaths sounded just outside her door.
MacRieve was here. And she couldn't imagine what he would do once he got past that barrier. Would he butcher the soldier, then shove her face into the cot? Take you in the dirt like an animal, he'd said.
Why was he hesitating? She heard the tips of his claws meet the steel of the cell door. He'd raised his palms to the door?
Yes, and then he rested his forehead against it, his claws beginning to sink in, in frustration. Her heart twisted.
Bowen didn't want her to see him like this.
Because sometimes monsters know what they are. She felt her eyes water with sympathy for him, experienced a sudden ache to comfort him--
With a deafening grinding sound, he wrenched the door from its groove.
The soldier turned his attention from her long enough for her to finish cutting through the ties at her wrists. When she glanced up, she could distinguish only MacRieve's outline in the shadows. His breathing was so loud it sounded more like snarls. His massive shoulders rose and fell with the heaving exhalations.
The man weakly raised his rifle and fired. Claws shot out from the dark to slice through the gun barrel as though it were paper.
Then MacRieve crossed the threshold. The red backup light finally caught him.
The soldier took one look at MacRieve and released his bladder; she swayed on her feet.
So much blood . . . MacRieve was covered in it.
Mari's thoughts began to register slowly, hazily. Am I going into shock? Look at his face, his body. Had I thought I could handle this? Or comfort him?
At once, his pale blue eyes narrowed on the mark at her temple, then flared with an unimaginable rage. He truly is a beast, a monster from Lore.
Panic bubbled up inside her, and she shook as much as the soldier begging for his life in broken Spanish.
MacRieve's harrowing gaze swung to the man then returned to her face. "Struck . . . you?" His voice was deep and raspy, his vocal cords altered.
She stared dumbly, unable to answer. MacRieve raised his hand above the man for the killing blow, his black claws glinting in the red light. A whoosh of air. She squeezed her eyes shut as jugular blood sprayed across her face, hot and thick.
What came next was a blur. The scream was hers. Light flooded from her eyes and hands. MacRieve flew across the room. As she darted for the entrance, she used magick to lift the onerous cell door, then slammed it behind her, sealing it like a plug.
His roar boomed off the solid walls.
The sound of a monster.
In pure terror, she ran through the smoky tunnels, absently working circulation back into her wrists. Everywhere dead soldiers lay mauled, their sightless eyes still wide with shock. Blood had splashed against the walls and pooled on the ground, looking like tar in the glow of the backup lights. She clenched her jaw against vomiting from the sickening odor, but she would spare no pity for killers like them.
She locked and sealed the next tunnel door, and the next, aware that she was only delaying MacRieve. Her only hope was to get a vehicle. . . .
Tripping up the last set of stairs to the surface, she used her hands to push herself up again and again. At last, she reached the outside. Running free into the rainy night, she sloshed in puddles, mud splashing up to her thighs. Need a truck, need a truck . . . with keys.
She stumbled, raised her gaze. Th
ere . . . truck.
Stolen truck. It didn't have doors or a roof and the rain continued to pound, but could there be . . . yes, keys!
She darted inside to the slick vinyl seat, pinched the ignition key, and twisted it hard. The engine rumbled and died. Once more, turning over, then dying. "Come on . . . come on . . . start, you bitch!"
Ignition! She stomped on the gas pedal--not too light on the clutch either--and the truck lurched into motion. Glad for once of the smell of burning clutch.
The roads were soupy. The rain was falling on and off, but in thunderous bouts. She fishtailed, attempting to get the wipers to work, but rain continued to pelt her eyes from above. She skidded along, driving too fast . . . too fast. Have to or he'll catch me. . . .
When she hit a dip and was almost bounced from the truck, she fastened her seat belt. Squinting, she recognized the area, remembered the sheer drop-offs lining these roads. Way too fast.
She shook her head. No, she'd risk a damn drop-off before she'd let him take her. She shuddered again at the image of him--the crazed look in his uncanny eyes, the blood spilling from the corners of his mouth and dripping from his fangs, his size.
And it wanted to . . . mate with her like that. To sink those bloody fangs into her skin.
No. Concentrate! She could do this, could get away. She swiped the back of her arm over her drenched face--
Eyes reflected back at her in the headlights. His.
She stomped the brake and yanked the wheel right, sending the truck reeling. The wheel spun wildly . . . until the back end lurched off the road's edge and jerked to a stop, the chassis sunk into a mud bank.
Have to run! With shaking hands, she fought to unlatch her seat belt.
The entire road began to creep away.
As she screamed, the truck slid sideways down a sharp embankment until it hit a stump and reared into the air. It slammed back to the ground with the front heading down at an almost ninety-degree angle.
She locked the brakes, and hardwood limbs stabbed at the front bumper, but the truck wouldn't be stopped. Broad leaves slapped the windshield as the speed increased. She screamed again when the glass finally broke.
Oh, gods, no . . . The edge would be close. Just as she raised her arms in front of her face, her body was catapulted forward, then snatched in place by her seat belt. Gasping, she lowered her arms and cracked open her eyes.
