Hunted Warrior Page 8

  Full sunshine made her blink. She shielded her eyes, then set off to the north of the town. She angled a glance toward the hostel. “We’ll stay there tonight.”

  “A prediction?”

  “Sometimes it just is, like now. That’s the only public place to sleep in town.”

  Avyi began to cross the barren street between the small whitewashed buildings. They must’ve looked like rats having crawled from a sewer, but perhaps the grime would cover the obvious—that, to humans, they may as well have been gods walking the earth.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Malnefoley stood in front of the small, age-clouded mirror in his room in the hostel. He angled his upper body to get a better look at the damage done to his shoulder. The light was poor because of the oncoming dusk and the claustrophobically tight walls. The close heat of the hostel room, with its window that opened but a scant few inches, and his injury meant he left his new shirt off.

  He liked being able to inhale fresh early-evening air, rather than the lingering damp-dusty stench of a room that needed a fierce cleaning. He would’ve preferred sleeping out in the open once again, except for the temptation of the mattress. It lay on a hardwood floor that pierced splinters into his soles. He’d donned his shoes and a new pair of jeans just after bathing.

  Jeans, too, were a compromise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dressed so simply. All of the supplies he’d acquired for him and Avyi were of the barest necessity. She had stayed in the hostel—and kept their weapons out of sight—while he traded with locals for additional supplies. He hadn’t asked her to accompany him, not after the out-of-character fear he’d seen in her eyes and in her, like an animal readying to flee. What was he to make of her story? Just another clever ruse from a woman who spoke in riddles and insinuations?

  But no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape one fact. She had predicted that with his dying breath, he would whisper the name of his long-dead mistress. The future was not to be trusted. That she knew Pollakioh’s name at all was beyond belief … but very, very real.

  He gingerly touched the skin forming over his injury, his mind re-creating a host of sensations. The initial slice. The throbbing gush of blood. Avyi’s fingers holding his in place. And finally, the electrical strike he’d managed despite his slip toward unconsciousness.

  It could have been far worse.

  He had every reason to be more cautious than before, but that was a matter of physical and mental alertness, which he could supply in abundance. His foreboding now was different and inexplicable, with Avyi at its heart.

  He’d been called the Usurper for his entire reign as Giva. They whispered the moniker in his trailing wake and thought he couldn’t hear, or didn’t know. He knew. But he’d never thought the resulting suspicion and resentment might boil over toward thoughts of rebellion—let alone an actual attempt on his life. Somehow, he had to make contact with Nynn and the underground rebel faction. Maybe they could shed light on the reasons behind violence that would mean far more than his death.

  He kicked off his shoes and flopped wearily onto the mattress, which offered so little padding that his skull sank through to the hardwood. Grousing, he tried to find a comfortable position for sleep. He had food in his belly, and had swallowed bottle after bottle of water. A sponge bath and a fresh change of clothes should’ve been enough. Just sleep. He needed it, although he couldn’t afford to let down his guard for long. Neither could he let fatigue cloud is judgment.

  In the end, he had no choice in the matter. Sleep refused.

  With a frustrated sigh, he turned onto his back once again. The ceiling was covered with dingy paint that might’ve once been white, where condensation had bubbled its texture. A large crack exposed wires that dangled across one corner. He refrained from lighting the room, even as darkness settled inside its walls. He didn’t need another brush with the temptation of electricity in his veins. It was a drug unlike any other. Ecstasy was in its release.

  The unapologetic knock at his door could only be one person. She was a demon stalking him as surely as a shadow.

  The room was so small that he could kneel at the foot of the mattress and flip the lock. Why he had locked it … beyond him. Humans wouldn’t last long if they intruded. Dragon Kings would bust through. He had his sword at the ready to deal with them.

  Avyi opened the door and entered as if he’d invited her to an official Council meeting. Her posture was no-nonsense. She sat on a rickety wooden chair, the room’s only furniture other than a small wooden sink cabinet with a faucet that leaked.

  “Who tried to kill you?” she asked.

  Her lack of preamble was as surprising as it was refreshing, but it was no longer so off-putting. Politicians and even human beings could spend minutes, even hours, building up to the point. Mal was ready to keep up, if only because he knew her bluntness was a limited engagement. He doubted he would ever meet her like again.

  The thought left a hollow in his chest he couldn’t explain. Didn’t want to explore.

  “Apparently you should’ve been able to glean that from their severed heads.”

  “You killed them too quickly.”

  “I was trying not to die.”

  She edged the chair toward a wall so she could lean back. She wore the same heavy boots. The sole of one was pierced. New pants made from tanned leather clung to her slim legs as if they’d been tailored to her petite frame. A simple black tank top did its part to accentuate her rough femininity by clinging to small breasts and revealing arms that were slender, gracefully shaped, and barely tinted by the Mediterranean sun.

  She looked down at where he sat cross-legged on the mattress. He wanted to find his new shirt, but that would admit that her blatant appraisal of his body made him very aware of their contrasts. Man and woman. He was reacting to this strange, incredible woman in ways that made him edgy and … more. Needy. Eager. Perhaps it was simply intimacy. His sexual encounters were limited to brief affairs and the occasional lover, with whom he shared little but carnal exploration.

  The Honorable Giva could share nothing more.

  “So. Your enemies. Name them.”

  Mal laughed. The sound was warped and painful to let loose, but he laughed anyway. “Who isn’t my enemy? Name a Dragon King, and he or she has a reason to want me dead.”

  “Avyi.”

  “What?”

  “A Dragon King who doesn’t want you dead.”

  Blinking against the gathering gloom, Mal lost track of the finer points of her features. Unacceptable. If he was going to have a conversation with Dr. Aster’s Pet—a fact that didn’t change because he’d given her a name—he would do so while being able to see each reaction and cue.

  He snapped his fingers. Sparks of light appeared before the sound of the snap even registered. He tossed the sparks between his hands like a ball until the motion created a continuous arc of light. He threw the arc toward the ceiling, where it cast its glow throughout the room.

  Avyi nodded toward a lamp on the floor in the far corner. “Why?”

  “I wanted to show off.”

  He kept saying things to her that were dangerous. Not because of the words themselves, but because he hadn’t checked his thoughts before uttering them. They shot from his mouth without reservation. Was that due to fatigue or just … her?

  “I’m impressed.” Her lips were curled into a smile as old as time. It was tempting and teasing, and frankly, he’d underestimated her ability to conjure such magic. “Now … think this through.”

  “Avyi, this is pointless. There’s no sense in racking our brains to identify which of hundreds of people, human and Dragon King, would benefit from my death, if only for their personal satisfaction. The trick is finding out how best to counter the next move.” He stood and stretched, his back already stiff from the few hours he’d spent trying fruitlessly to sleep. “I’ll call on my bodyguards and espionage experts to increase security at the stronghold before we arrive.” />
  “The bodyguards who didn’t notice my escape?”

  Mal flinched.

  “And the espionage experts who told you where to find me? Did I present a challenge for them?”

  Fatigue was a nasty rat in his brain. He didn’t have the patience to deal with Avyi, even when he was fully rested—although the last time he’d been fully rested, he’d impaled her with a bolt of lightning. “No, you didn’t. So if not my men, what do you suggest?”

  “We don’t hide, at least not from Dragon Kings. We wait for the next people who try to kill you. And we ask them. Unless you kill them first.” She slanted her eyes in an expression of unmistakable humor. She was teasing him. He hadn’t been teased so playfully, so innocently, in longer than he could remember. The Council didn’t tease; they jabbed knives.

  “I’ll refrain if at all possible,” he said, smirking.

  “Plain sight will draw them out, and will have the advantage of showing the Council you’re not afraid.” She pulled her boots up to the seat of the chair and wrapped her arms around her shins. Mal hadn’t thought her able to assume a tighter, more defensive position than her signature crouch, but she managed. This new pose struck him as so defensive as to border on vulnerable, as though she were a child crouched in the corner of a train station.

  “And unpredictable.”

  “You’re catching on.”

  “Miracles never cease.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you one to believe in miracles.”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  She tipped her head. “Born of a kernel of truth.”

  He closed the scant distance between them and, on impulse, touched her black-on-black hair. The light he’d created still glowed overhead. He needed to feel the texture of such a wondrous feature. She was scrubbed clean, smelling of soap, water, and woman. Her hair remained in untamed spikes, pinned back from her face without care. Mal traced his fingers over a lock that brushed her cheek. It was far softer than he’d imagined, much like the woman herself.

  She looked away.

  “You deserve to be admired,” he said, surprising himself. “I can’t trust you, but you’re one of the most resilient people I’ve ever met.”

  “Stop. Please.”

  “No. Uncurl for me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not asking you to take your clothes off.” His temper shot to life for reasons that he couldn’t deny or ignore any longer. He wanted this woman to feel comfortable enough around him to quit behaving as if he’d beat her at any moment.

  Hypocrite.

  He’d just about leveled her with the blast of his gift. He had kissed her with so much force that she’d practically jumped clear of him. She had every reason to believe he could still do her harm. What she couldn’t know was that his thoughts, his emotions, were beginning to change. Dragon Kings knew it would be simpler if they didn’t, but he was feeling. A Giva didn’t feel. He remained impartial and made impartial judgments. He recruited soldiers of good repute to infiltrate the cartels and work toward bringing them down from the inside. He fought the Council’s recalcitrance and stubborn negativity, their petty infighting.

  He certainly didn’t feel … except when he was with Avyi.

  “Here.” He clasped her calves and slowly, with aching slowness, he pulled. At first she wove her fingers together and held her arms even tighter around her knees. But he was patient. He stroked her fingers, her knuckles, until they loosened. Her eyes held such a blend of yearning and fear. How often had she suffered that torturous combination?

  Her entire life.

  “Let go, Avyi. Let go.”

  She released her fingers, focusing that vise-tight grip on the armrests of the chair. The gold and green and wariness in her stare never wavered. She hardly blinked. Mal returned his slow touch to her calves. He pulled. The soles of her boots scraped the wooden edge of the chair with a sound that made her jump. But then her legs were free. Her knees eased. Her legs stretched. Finally, the soles of those wicked combat boots were flat on the floor.

  She sat in the chair like a woman unafraid, although fear still burned bright fires in her eyes. Her mouth was pinched to a tight white line that was even paler than her unusual skin. Could growing up in the labs have changed her complexion to such a degree? She should’ve been as robustly tan as the rest of the Dragon Kings, who practically glowed with the color of health and vitality.

  “There,” he said softly. “Now breathe. Deeply. Use the chair to support you, not that rigid spine.”

  “Only if you do the same.” She nodded to the floor. “There, by the bed.”

  Mal sucked in air, then nodded in return. He was reluctant to let go of the firm muscle of her legs, but he had cultured far more discipline than the selfishness it would’ve taken to linger. He stood. For a moment, he simply stared down at her. He wasn’t wearing his bandages. Although the gash on his shoulder remained deeply red, he was proud of his body. Some might call it conceited, but he didn’t give a Dragon damn. Especially when Avyi looked up at him with an expression of pure appreciation. Her gaze traveled over every inch of his skin.

  It should’ve been enough. But he wanted her touch to replace her perusal.

  He returned to the plain mattress and pushed it halfway up the wall. The thing smelled of must and other scents he refused to catalog, but he did as she’d asked. No, she hadn’t asked. She’d struck a bargain. He looked back at where she sat with her wrists still draped over the ends of the armrests. She had relaxed into the pose as if born to sit on a throne.

  Mal sat, half on the mattress, half leaning against what padding it provided. He stretched his legs. She took in the angles of his body with quick flicks of her magnetic eyes.

  “Why did you touch my hair?”

  “Because I wanted to.”

  “And you always do what you want?”

  He laid his head back against the mattress. “Yes.”

  She shrugged, then examined the nails of one hand. The look she arched him from over her upturned knuckles was pure challenge. “One day, you’ll put that stubbornness aside and you’ll assume your place as the head of our people.”

  “I am the head of our people.” His voice boomed through the small space. He forgot to keep his unconscious mind spinning that ball of energy. It flickered out, leaving them in darkness.

  Avyi was on her feet in a flash, gripping the doorknob. She paused only long enough to toss a quick “Good night” over her shoulder.

  Mal made a fist and stared at the closed door. He was left with the useless mattress, the tiny room, the memory of a grown foundling’s silky hair … and her infuriating words.

  He wouldn’t feel this defensive if they didn’t hold—what had she called it?—a kernel of truth.

  All he’d wanted was rest. To heal up. Regain perspective. Yet sleep never came.

  *

  Avyi sat next to Malnefoley on the step behind the hostel, watching a trio of children running after a stray dog. The dog looked terrified. The children looked far too malicious for her liking. Perhaps that’s why she’d been drawn to Dr. Aster. He was a cruel man, but she’d always found welcome in his expressions. She’d been at such an age and in such a desperate state as to take whatever apparent kindness was thrown her way.

  The heat from the Giva’s arm next to hers reminded her that she was in a similar situation now. The way he’d touched her hair … It had been even more intimate than kisses shaded by the fervor of aggression.

  But that wasn’t kindness, and neither was how he’d behaved upon their initial meeting. Trying to electrocute her after keeping her captive for six months wouldn’t be considered gentle by any standard.

  The sun had come up. They remained under a slight awning that kept them hidden from the morning glare. Malnefoley wore a simple white T-shirt that stretched across his wide chest and defined the undeniable masculinity of his body. A white linen overshirt was unbuttoned and hung open, sleeves rolled to the elbows. In profile
, watching the same children, he was breathtaking. The slopes and ridges that comprised his brow, his nose, his upper lip, his strong chin—perfection. Hair a little too long had been combed back, still damp. Locks fell carelessly across his forehead, easing the stark beauty of his sharply masculine features.

  “Florence,” he said out of nowhere.

  “Good.”

  “Just like that?”

  “I saw it last night, after I went to bed. You must’ve made some decision. The image of you beneath the dome of the cathedral was as clear as glass. No variables now.”

  He grimaced, but she didn’t know why. “Probably based on the idea that Florence couldn’t possibly have worse accommodations.”

  She smiled. “It wasn’t the most restful night for me either.”

  “That’s an assumption. Maybe I slept like a baby.”

  “Babies thrash and cry. So yes, maybe you slept like a baby. Was your bed as bad as mine?”

  His smile was radiant, changing his face by shaping his mouth and cheeks with a new pattern of lines. She wanted to take a mental picture, so she could study this new version of the normally stoic Giva who harbored so much anger and frustration under his cultured surface.

  “I can only hazard a guess,” he said. “Yes.”

  She grinned. “Just terrible.”

  “Do you see a five-star hotel in our future?”

  “Our future?”

  “If word gets back that you were witness to the attempt on my life, you’ll be at risk of retaliation, too. I’m not through with you yet. The question of procreation is still of vital importance to our people, and I know you’re not telling me everything you know. I don’t appreciate drips and dribbles of information. I expect that from the Council.”

  “Not from me?”

  He looked at her dead-on. Eyes like the wind-tossed sea met hers, holding her as surely as he’d held her legs the night before. He’d stripped her of a defense she hadn’t realized she resorted to so often. Curling into herself. Hiding by crouching and slinking. She envied the way Malnefoley strode into town, appearing for all the world like a dust-and blood-covered god, and carrying a Dragon-forged sword, no less. She had escaped Dr. Aster, but she hadn’t escaped decades of being treated as less than nothing or, a step up, as a plaything.