Blood Warrior

CHAPTER ONE

She was called the Pet, but she didn’t think of herself as a creature in need of protection, care, or condescension. She’d left that life behind. Neither was she a captive, as she picked her away through the ruins of a crumbling rock labyrinth on the island of Crete. How she’d come to be there was a story she didn’t dare contemplate for fear of madness. There was no rhyme, no reason, no guide other than the future she saw in bits and patches.

The sun was fierce and gorgeously freeing on the back of her neck. She was a Dragon King, and Dragon Kings loved fire. Most wouldn’t admit how much the cold sank under their skin and sapped their sense of godlike invincibility. Maybe that was for the best. Too many of the would-be gods romancing the planet believed themselves immortal, no matter the press of extinction. They didn’t realize that all empires ended, even those blessed with access to what humans would consider the supernatural.

Turning to stare into the blinding white-yellow glare, she didn’t bother to shade her eyes. Her second sight—the gift from the Dragon that gave her the ability to see the future—was always with her, no matter its unpredictability. A man sought her. A violent man who hid his violence behind titles and lineage.

Time was slippery like moss on a riverbank or slime on the carcass of a dead fish. Time was viscous on her fingertips. Time was running out.

With no further hesitation, she continued her cautious journey through the abandoned ruins of ancient kings. The walls had been reduced by countless rains and droughts, days and nights, until all that remained were bleached waist-high spikes and jagged edges. The stubborn ground was strewn with pieces of the crumbled labyrinth. There was nothing to grab should she fall—not without impaling her hand. Dragon Kings healed rapidly, but some damage was too much for even their extraordinary physiology to repair.

Archaeologists had dubbed the site of little historic worth, with its condition so degenerated that they could gather scant new information about the Minoans of long-ago Crete. How wrong. How blinded by the hubris of a society that believed itself the most advanced of its animal counterparts. Any thought as to the Dragon Kings’ existence was disregarded. Fairy tales of Valkyries and Olympians and messiahs. The woman called the Pet knew differently. All the myths were true. What was once would be again.

And the Chasm wasn’t fixed.

The Dragon Kings were dying. Why her predictions of the future had led her to Crete as a means of stopping that slow extinction was beyond her. She had to trust. She’d always needed to trust, when little in her life stood as examples of why that must be so. Maybe her real gift from the Great Dragon wasn’t the ability to see the future, but to have faith in what she couldn’t explain.

The labyrinth was waist-high, yes, but it was still a tangle of dead ends, wrong turns, and twenty-foot-deep pits that barred any attempt to pass. When she realized she’d made a mistake, she couldn’t simply climb over the wall and continue on. Her hands would be shredded. So, as with all mazes, she doubled back and kept the details firmly in mind. The conventional wisdom was that if one picked a direction and stuck with it—all left turns, always, no matter what—the heart of the geometric puzzle would be revealed.

Those occasional pits were too deep to escape. And time . . . Yes, time was slippery.

She needed to hurry, because the man was coming for her. Yet she couldn’t even describe what she sought.

A gift for Cadmin. That’s all she knew. She drew on powers as both soothsayer and true believer to remind herself of her journey’s importance. Cadmin, the closest she’d ever known to having a baby of her own, although the fetal child had developed in another woman’s womb—that of Cadmin’s true mother.

“It took some time to find you,” came a voice at her back. “But you couldn’t expect that I’d give up trying.”

The Pet turned and met the steady glare of Malnefoley of Tigony, the Honorable Giva. With that title, he should’ve been the unquestioned leader of their people. With the derisive nickname of the Usurper, however, his leadership was a listing ship, barely righting itself in time to escape the swallowing swell of a wave.

“I escaped,” she said. “I didn’t attempt to hide.”

“I’m taking you back to Greece.” He flicked dark blue eyes across the irregular half walls. Although he couldn’t climb across three lanes to apprehend her physically, he had a gift far more crippling and violent than hers. Electricity was his plaything.

“I don’t want to go back to Greece.” She rolled up one sleeve of her thin purple blouse, which contrasted with her militaristic cargo pants and heavy boots. She was a lover of contrast. In revealing bare skin, she also revealed five parallel incisions across her left biceps that had healed to papery scars. “There’s work to be done. For all five clans.”

“You were Dr. Aster’s companion for countless years. You commit blasphemy when speaking of the five clans.”

“Was his companion. Now I’m not. These are the reminders I gave myself as proof of my freedom and my loyalty to our kind.”

The intensity of Malnefoley’s expression increased a hundredfold when he narrowed his eyes. His lips tightened. He looked like an emperor whose displeasure would result in countless deaths. Did others see him as she did? Were they so awed or angry that they missed the signs?

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe a brainwashed servant.”

“I didn’t serve him.”

You wouldn’t understand. No one would.

In some warped way, her relationship with Dr. Heath Aster, heir to the human Aster cartel, was that of a torture victim coming to love her torturer. He had hurt her. He’d also left her in isolation for months at a time. She’d been twelve years old. After a while she’d craved his attention, no matter how painful, because being alone was far more devastating. Love was a strange emotion to feel for the man her logical mind knew was her abuser, her dismantler, her maker.

“You simply aided in the perpetuation of his crimes,” the Giva said.

“Your mind won’t be changed by anything I say.”

Without looking at him again, she resumed her slow, careful push through the ruins, searching, not knowing what her eyes needed to find.

“You can’t walk away from me.” His voice was louder now, more commanding.

“I can if you don’t know the way to follow.”

The hair on the backs of her arms and neck lifted—such susceptible little pores, frightened by the smallest wash of fear. The Giva, however, was no slight threat. On a par with the Pendray berserkers with regard to the violence of their gifts, the Tigony were like turbine engines. They pulled bits of electricity out of the air, down to the barest hint of static, then whirled and intensified them into storms worthy of the mighty Zeus throwing lightning bolts. The Pet briefly wondered if Malnefoley was descended from the Tigony man who must’ve inspired those timeless Greek myths.

“You’ll come back with me,” he said, his voice darkly ominous. “Now.”

She turned a corner, then another, looking back only briefly.

He was the revered, hated, distrusted, undeniable Malnefoley of Tigony.

He should’ve looked ridiculous wearing Armani in the midst of an abandoned archaeological site, yet, tall and imposing, his body was built for the well-tailored suit. Electricity snapped from his fingers and arced like a heavenly rainbow across his well-bred features. The sun was merciless, but it cast shadows as it dipped toward the west. The Giva had banished the shadows. He was completely illuminated. Blue eyes were bluer. Cheekbones were more dramatic. Blond hair was transformed into filaments of gold.

He was a powerful man and bore that power as if it were featherlight.

Surrounded by the proof of his clan’s magnificence, he adopted a grim, humorless smile. “Don’t make me repeat myself. And don’t give me reason to lose my temper.”

“You won’t hurt me. I spent enough months detained in the Tigony fortress to know that. You’re too convinced of my worth—the information you seek.”

Her heartbeat was a metronome that kept time using a sledgehammer, pounding a frightened tempo in her chest. She had survived so much. She would survive the Giva in all his tempestuous conceit. But the process of surviving was wearisome. Rest was a word from another language.

Cadmin was waiting for her, perhaps, maybe, somewhere. The Pet could only pick her way through the rubble and wait for the worst to happen, let it pass through her, and move on. That had been her life. That would always be her life. The Tigony absorbed electricity and magnified it exponentially. She absorbed sadness and pain, then reduced it down and down and down until she could breathe.

The bolt of electricity, when it came, stole her vision, obliterated her ability to hear, and seemed to peel back layer after layer of skin. In the moment between strike and agony, she was glad she couldn’t see her half-bared arms, for fear of finding exposed bone rather than whole, sound flesh.

But the agony would not be denied. Her heart’s metronome stopped its clicking smash. She blinked three times and fell to the rough, rocky ground.

—

Malnefoley was used to restraint, no matter the generalized bitterness that simmered deep in his bones. He was a politician. He was the head of the Council that served and oversaw the governments of the Five Clans.

He was not a man used to giving in to the urge to solve disputes with force rather than words. That weakness had been abandoned to a younger, impetuous version of himself.

Dr. Aster’s Pet, however, was an exception.

Five days ago, she’d escaped from the stronghold of Clan Tigony high in the mountains of Greece. He didn’t know how. None of his guards—loyal and tested—knew how. It was as if she’d transformed into air, swished through ventilation shafts, and caught the first breeze south to Crete. And she’d told the truth. A woman who feared getting caught would’ve made a better point of hiding. She must’ve known he would come for her. For Mal, finding her had been simple. Ask about an unusual, plain-speaking, coltish young woman with wild raven-black hair, and the answers were quick and sure.

He wasn’t through with her. She had served Dr. Aster as his devoted companion—so devoted that no one referred to her as anything other than the Pet. She must know the madman’s secrets, including how he had been able to solve the riddle of Dragon King conception. One so connected to the highest echelon of the Aster cartel was invaluable, and Mal wouldn’t see her gone.

So he’d used his gift. Unlike members of Clan Pendray with their berserker furies, the Tigony were a refined people. Mal knew his gift’s potential down to the slightest variable. To deliver his electric punch, he’d taken into account an estimation of the Pet’s weight, her physical condition, and even the ambient temperature. The result was a strike strong enough to knock her out for no more than two minutes, without lasting damage.

Then he breathed. He put his fleeting, petulant anger away. For two decades, he’d been the Honorable Giva, even in times when behaving like a calm, neutral leader had felt like a full-body straightjacket. That meant rational thought, smooth negotiation, and measured discussion—the training he’d received from his parents, the heads of the Tigony royal house. For years, he’d kept his powers close like a gambler holding a straight flush. The result of pairing anger and the true extent of his gift was destruction. Unchecked destruction.

The village of Bakkhos remained a scar in a distant Grecian valley. Because of him.

The Pet was too canny for Mal’s peace of mind. He needed her back in the Tigony stronghold. And he needed her to start talking.

That meant finding her.

She’d dropped to the ground following the force of the blast. She’d disappeared behind the rugged half walls of the ruins. Why here? What scheme was she enacting? Something on behalf of the Asters?

That didn’t ring right in his mind. Had she wanted to remain with the insane doctor, she would’ve escaped with the man when Mal had helped liberate his niece from the Asters’ laboratories in the Canadian tundra. Instead, the Pet had stayed behind. She’d surrendered to Mal without protest, which stood as the full extent of her cooperation. Every moment since had been a study in silence and frustration—silence from her and frustration strong enough eat away at Mal’s patience.

He didn’t have time to find her by navigating the labyrinth. After removing his suit coat, he wadded it into a ball. The expensive fabric served as protection as he climbed a jagged half wall. Navigating one at a time, he hoisted himself up using the coat as padding for his hands and knees. The ancient, crumbling rock was flaked and chipped like shale honed to razors.

He had just topped the last wall when a jerk behind his knees sent him sprawling onto the unforgiving ground. The Pet. She’d been pressed flat against the wall, waiting for him.

His head connected with a boulder the size of a large melon.

“Bathatéi,” he shouted, using the worst curse in the shared language of the Dragon Kings.

The sun overhead stole his vision, which meant he jerked his head to the side by instinct alone. Metal scraped against rock and shot sparks against his cheek. Those sparks might not have been visible to the naked eye, but he reveled in their minute flashes of power.

Only, he didn’t have time to collect his thoughts, his gift, and those tiny bursts of electrical ammunition. The Pet landed another blow in the form of brass knuckles against his breastbone. Thudding pain shot out from the center of his chest and infected the rest of his body with paralyzing quivers. She landed two more strikes, one against his temple and, as he rolled—again by instinct, away from his attacker—one to the base of his spine. He couldn’t see, and he couldn’t move.

She landed atop him, squatting. Her boots were heavy. They fortified her slight weight. Beneath his dress shirt, the skin of his back was stretched by the industrial treads of their soles.

The Pet grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked his head off the ground. “You’re bleeding.”

“That would be your fault.”

“The rock’s fault. I take credit for making you fall.” She shoved his head back down, then smeared her palm across the back of his shirt. He caught the distinctly coppery smell of blood.

His blood.

Anger wasn’t a strong enough word for the fire gathering in his hands. That’s where his gift started, and where it found its full manifestation. His palms felt as if beetles and maggots wiggled across his skin. The only way to make that feeling go away was to let the electricity build and burn—then hurl it away.

He flipped over. She didn’t lose her balance, but needed to jump away. She was agile, petite, and canny. The way she’d recovered from his initial blast was impressive. She stood in a loose fighting stance. Only, now she held a switchblade.

“You don’t experience pain,” he said, standing and squaring off against her.

“I experience pain. You’d rather think that I don’t.”

He called on deep muscle memory to fight her hand to hand. Another concentrated, precise strike took time to build, but his power was already prepped and ready to burst. At that moment he could’ve blown up a mountain, but he didn’t want to lobotomize her. Martial training was the only alternative.

He swept his leg to try to catch behind her calves, but she jumped straight up like a leaping frog—then landed with the ease of a cat. That cat attacked again, twirling to one side and stabbing him twice in the shoulder. Her control of the blade was faster than he would’ve thought possible, which meant she was a deadly combatant. Only after that thought registered did the sharp, burning spike of her assault make his nerves scream. He grunted.

Mal snatched out and caught her trailing wrist. He yanked her against his body, spun, and used that momentum to slam her against one of the half walls. She caught her balance with both hands gripping the razor-sharp shale. Her scream was as wild as it was anguished. She dropped the switchblade. Mal tried to pin her, but the attempt wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t sure enough. When was the last time he’d used his body to fight? His muscles were unfamiliar weapons, but they were weapons he relished rediscovering.

She twirled and launched off the wall, throwing that propelled power into a punch. Brass knuckles connected with his jaw.

He reeled. His lip was split.

They squared off again, circling each other like two starving wolves whose only option was cannibalism.

“I’m walking away now,” she said simply.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Then we keep fighting until one of us is a cripple. How long until you lose your temper and do too much damage?”

Mal breathed heavily through his nose. He would’ve rather been dangling over a volcano than have his options so limited. Let her walk away or risk debilitating her. She might as well have been carrying a bag of butterflies that would be crushed by too much force or would fly away forever if he let her escape.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “You didn’t bother to cover your tracks. You could’ve bribed any bus driver or boat captain who helped you escape the mainland.”

“I have nothing to use as a bribe.”

“Women always do.”

Her eyes became slits, her expression murderous. “I’ve had enough of that life.”

Mal chose to put that eerie comment aside. “Why are you here?”

“I’m looking for something.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t play games with me,” he said. “Nothing good will come from testing me. Because you’re right. I might lose my temper. I might destroy the only link I have to the Aster cartel and the answer to Dragon King conception.”

“A tempest in a suit. Does the Council know who sits at the head of their table?”

“Probably not.” He stepped forward. “Do you think I need you in particular? You’re convenient. You’re valuable. Yet other Dragon Kings are connected with the cartels. I’ll find them, one by one, just like I found you, until I get the answers our people need.”

She tsked as if patronizing a child or a simpleton. “Altruism propels you, I’m sure.”

“What do you mean?”

Standing at her full height for the first time, which wasn’t very tall at all, she smirked. She packed so much disdain into the single lift of a midnight brow. “Our people? No. In your heart, Honorable Giva, you only want to win. At any price.”