Assassin's Honor (15 page)

           
ARES grimaced as the needle bit into his skin for another suture. With his side pressed against the rounded edge of the kitchen's brown marble countertop, one of the ceiling lights spotlighted his arm. Doc had seen to his chest wound first, and now the physician was intent on closing his other wound. Arching his white eyebrows, Doc shook his head as he knotted a suture.

           
"What were you thinking, boy?"

           
"I haven't been a boy for a long time, Doc," Ares ground out between clenched teeth as the needle slipped through his skin once more. Even with the numbing agent, a swarm of angry wasps had taken up residence in the shoulder. "As for why I brought Emma here, I didn't have a choice."

           
"But she's working with the Praetorians."

           
"I don't think so. The Oriental Institute might be one of the biggest backers of the Ptolemy dig, but Charlie Russwin led the expedition. Emma just worked for the man."

           
"You must give credence to the idea, Ares. The Praetorians control the Institute, which means she works for them, whether she realizes it or not." Doc shook his head as he knotted the last suture in Ares's shoulder.

           
"She doesn't work for them," he said in a firm, cold voice.

           
"How can you be so sure?" Phae's soft question drifted over his shoulder, and he turned his head to meet his sister's sober gaze.

           
"Instinct," he growled.
"The same instinct that earned me the right to lead this guild my way and without my directives being questioned at every turn."

           
Phae sat on a bar stool close to him, her expression reflecting sisterly concern. "I'm not questioning your orders. I'm suggesting you might be trying to make amends for the past. Punishing yourself for things you had no control over."

           
Ignoring her quiet observation, he watched Doc bandage the cut on his shoulder. It didn't matter what his sister believed. Clarissa had been his responsibility, and he'd failed her. He'd left her unprotected and she was dead because of it. The memory of walking into that apartment and finding her body tightened his torso. The involuntary movement exacerbated the cut running horizontal across his chest and he suppressed a grunt of pain. Clarissa had been an aliena, too. He'd met her while buying specialty chocolates for Phae's birthday. They'd struck up a conversation, and he hadn't had the common sense to end it right there. Instead, he'd come to care for her. He started as he realized his sister had asked him a question.

           
"What?"

           
"I asked how long she's going to be here. She can't remain indefinitely. The guild won't like it. Not to mention what the Prima Consul or the Order will have to say."

           
"I don't give a damn what the guild or the Order likes or doesn't like. Emma's life is in danger. The man I fought in the alley tonight wasn't a Praetorian, he was a Sicari."

           
"A Sicari."
Phae sent him a skeptical look. "Are you sure?"

           
"Yes. And he would have killed me tonight if you hadn't shown up when you did."

           
"That I seriously doubt." His sister snorted her disbelief.

           
Shaking his head, he recalled the man's fist driving into his injured shoulder. It had been a Praetorian move, but everything else about the warrior's skills reflected Sicari training. And he still couldn't figure out what was so familiar about the fighter. Whoever the man was, he'd been the better fighter.

           
If Phae hadn't arrived when she had, he wouldn't be sitting here right now with a body that hurt like fire and damnation. The real question he wanted answered was what had prompted the man to target Emma. And why would the warrior warn him off?

           
He didn't like it when he had more questions than answers.
Especially when his people were at risk.
The chime of the elevator made his muscles tense. Seconds later, Lysander entered the large gourmet kitchen. Tall and muscular, he always turned women's heads with his handsome profile until they saw the rest of him. Where one side of his face could have belonged to a cover model, the other was brutally scarred. The black patch he wore over his missing eye further enhanced his menacing appearance.

           
Phae jumped to her feet the moment his Primus Pilus entered the kitchen. A grim resignation slid over him as he studied his friend's expression. Just the way the scarred man avoided looking at Phae told him the news wasn't good.

           
"Where is he?" she snapped. The tension in her was almost tangible, and something flickered in Lysander's green eye but his expression remained impassive.

           
"He's dead."

           
Phae didn't make a sound at the flatly spoken words, and Ares quickly shifted his gaze to his sister. It didn't surprise him to see her looking coolly composed. She'd learned over the years to hide her feelings behind anger, sarcasm, or icy silence. The only indication of her grief was her pale features.

           
"Did
he
. . ." Phae took a quick breath and swallowed hard. "Did he suffer?"

           
Again, Lysander hesitated and a muscle twitched beneath his marred flesh. "They skinned him."

           
"Merda."
Ares rasped as he briefly glanced at his friend's hideous scars before meeting the man's unreadable gaze. His second-in-command knew firsthand the horror of the Praetorians' torture methods. "We'll need to make preparations."

           
"Everything's being seen to. I contacted the New York guild and they're sending someone out to Julian's parents' house."

           
"And the Rogalis?"
Ares shot a quick glance in Phae's direction, but her expression rivaled Lysander's emotionless countenance.

           
"Provided his parents can catch a morning flight, the ritual will take place tomorrow night." His Primus Pilus cleared his throat softly. "I thought you might like to choose the orator."

           
"I'll do it." Her voice devoid of emotion, Phae's quiet words made Lysander jerk his head in her direction.

           
The two fighters stared at each other for a long moment before his second-in-command sent her an abrupt nod and looked away. Surprised by the silent exchange, he narrowed his eyes at the two. They'd never gotten along well, but some unspoken agreement had passed between his sister and the other Sicari just now.

           
A truce perhaps?
Probably just until Julian's body joined his spirit.
He frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. He'd let his sister and Lysander sort out the details of the Rogalis. What he needed was sleep. Wearily getting to his feet, he waved off Doc's offering of white pills. He'd sleep well enough without the pain medication. At the kitchen doorway, he stopped at the stainless steel trashcan tucked against the Ground Zero refrigerator.

           
He wadded up the torn and bloodied turtleneck sweater he'd been wearing and dropped it into the container.

           
"Lysander, send someone to collect Emma's clothes. I want them here bright and early." He looked back at the three of them. "I'm going to bed. I suggest the rest of you do the same. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

           
Moving out into the living room, he ignored the low buzz of conversation that started the moment he left the kitchen. Let them talk. He'd done the right thing. It hadn't been possible to save Julian's life tonight, but he'd saved Emma. The comment about her father knowing about the Tyet of Isis was enough to tell him that she was a crucial part of the puzzle he'd been piecing together for the last two years. Even if she didn't have any idea where to find the artifact, she knew something.

           
Although the evidence seemed to point toward Emma's parents being involved with the Praetorians, his instincts said it wasn't true. He'd read their file dozens of times, and the evidence was sketchy at best. Somehow, the idea of David and Katherine Zale working for the Praetorians just didn't make sense. Ewan Redmurre struck him as someone who would look the other way for the right price, but not the Zales. They hadn't been the type of scholars to ignore questions of any kind, and the Praetorians made it difficult not to ask questions. Then there was David Zale's reputation in academia.

           
His theory that the Sicari Order still existed in modern-day society had earned him ridicule from his colleagues, and it quite possibly had been one of the reasons for the man's murder. By all accounts, even his tenure had been difficult to achieve. Only his unusual archeological contributions to the university had enabled him to cement his position.

           
Contributions that, in all likelihood, the man had achieved with the help of his daughter.
Then there was the murder of the man and his wife. If the Praetorians had killed the couple, then they'd worked hard to make it look like someone else had done the deed. The manner of their death had been quick and clean, and Charles Russwin's death had been just the same.

           
The Praetorians liked to stretch out their killings. Julian's death was a prime example. And that mark. Caesar and Octavia had been unable to find any symbol like it in the database. The closest thing they'd found to the mark was the Chi-Rho, a sign used during the persecution of Christians under the Caesars. He had nothing else to go on except his instincts, and his gut told him Emma had been an innocent bystander until he blundered into her office.

           
His jaw clenched as he rolled his head to the left in an effort to ease the tension careening through his shoulders. The move tugged at the stitches in his injured shoulder. He winced. Passing the foyer, he walked down the hall. When he reached Emma's door, he came to a halt.

           
He should check in on her--reassure her. A mocking laugh sounded in the back of his head. It was easy to ignore the taunting sound. He knocked quietly. When she didn't answer, he knocked again.
Still no response.
A sliver of concern made him waver. If she'd slipped out of the apartment, he'd have to find her. He turned the knob, half hoping to find the door locked. It opened with a muted click of the latch.

           
The empty bed caught his attention first and he stiffened, ready to sound the alarm. A second later, the sound of the shower made him relax, but only for a brief moment. Almost instantly, his tension returned as he visualized Emma standing naked under a stream of water. The image twisted his gut with sharp desire. Christus, he needed to get the hell out of here before he did something really stupid. She hadn't tried to leave, and he could reassure her in the morning.

           
As he turned back toward the door, his gaze fell on several crumpled pieces of paper lying on the table near the window. Curiosity got the best of him, and the cream carpet deadened his footsteps as he strode to the table. Several pieces contained blurred writing from where the rain had made the ink run on the page.

           
Hands braced against the tabletop, he studied the hieroglyphics on the one piece of paper that had survived with minimal damage. Puzzled, he shook his head. The markings didn't make any sense. One glyph described the moon, and in the next word the text moved on to a field in need of sowing. There wasn't any rhyme or reason to the writing. Pulling one of the damaged pages closer, he frowned as he tried to make out the words streaked with rivulets of ink. A moment later, he grew rigid when he was able to make out the remainder of a single word.
Tyet.

           
"What are you doing in here?" Emma's sharp tone made him jerk upright.

           
Framed in the bathroom doorway, she wore one of the bulky white robes they always kept on hand for impromptu guests. He'd never realized how tempting they could make a woman look. And she looked delicious, if the belt around her waist suddenly--Damnation. He quickly suppressed the dangerous urge to reach out and touch her by any means.

           
"I knocked." He nodded toward the door with an abrupt jerk of his head. "When you didn't answer, I thought you might be in trouble."

           
"In trouble?" she scoffed, arching her eyebrows at him. "Don't you mean you thought I'd flown the coop?"

           
"The thought crossed my mind." He rested his hands on his hips and shrugged.

           
Tension vibrated off her. He could see it in the way she held herself stiff and straight. It wouldn't take much to startle her. Kittens weren't even this skittish. She jerked her head in the direction of his chest.

           
"I'm sorry you got hurt." Her gaze focused on his chest only to drift downward before sweeping back up to his face. It was like a hot wind blowing across his skin. Color flushed high in her cheeks as their eyes met. Once more, the urge to touch her slid through him, but he crushed the desire before he could act on it