New Title 1 (6 page)

Chapter Eight

“Come on, cub, stand up,” Rafe ordered. The kid had potential but he needed to toughen up if he were to survive one minute in the cage. “Tell me what you did wrong.”

“I kept my elbows too open?” the cub replied.

“Exactly,” Rafe replied. “And if you do it again, I won’t be as forgiving.”

“Then be ready to face his mother’s wrath, boss,” Archie, his longtime friend and partner chuckled from the outside of the fighting ring.

Despite owning equal amounts of shares in the gym, Rafe had never managed to convince Archie to stop calling him “boss.” They had opened the training center together more than ten years ago. It hadn’t been a walk in the park, but with Archie’s exquisite knack for finance and Rafe’s leadership, they had managed to run a successful and quite profitable business.

“Come on, cub,” Rafe called out, as he lifted his gloved hands up. “Prove to me I’m not wasting my time here.”

As the boy pushed off the floor and prepared for another round, Rafe gave a quick glance around. The gym was packed. All his machines and training spots were busy.
Good
, he thought. He
needed
this month to be a profitable one. His debt collectors weren’t as merciful as he was with his clients.

“Nice new ring you got there, champion.”

Speaking of the devil ...
Rafe stiffened at the sound of Phillip’s sneering voice. Seldom would a dragon be found at a wolf’s joint like his, but the S.O.B. refused to take the hint and kept on showing up unannounced.

“Take five, cub,” Rafe ordered, then turned to face Phillip. “What do you want, draco?” Rafe asked, taking out his gloves.

Phillip perched himself on the elevated fighting ring. The entire gym stopped and glared at the draco. Not good. He wanted his club members to train and win fights
outside
his facility, not inside.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Phillip replied with that overly-posh British accent of his. “Thought of dropping by and checking up on your progress, mate.”

“Don’t know if you’re blind, deaf, or just plain stupid,
mate
, but dracos are not welcome here,” Archie growled.

Several other fighters gathered around. Murder in their eyes. Rafe could smell the bitter coat of hatred in the air.

“Archie,” Rafe called, “carry on with the training. I’ll take care of our visitor.”

“Yeah, Archie, go play with the others,” Phillip sneered, waving his hand as if dismissing him of his duties.

Ouch.

His friend didn’t take the condescending gesture lightly, of course. He lunged forward, claws fully elongated and aimed at Phillip’s jugular. Rafe jumped over the ring ropes and landed in front of his partner just before he reached his target.

“Archie!” he shouted, then locked eyes with his best friend, silently yet clearly stating
not worth it
. Rafe didn’t like Phillip’s presence at his gym any more than his friend, but antagonizing a creature who could burn his entire investment to ashes was not advisable.

Archie cursed but complied, and after a few tense seconds, he backed off.

Rafe turned around to face his unwanted visitor. “Follow me.”

He crossed the training area in four strides, opened the door to his office and waited for Phillip to enter, then closed it firmly behind him.

“Hmm,
cozy
,” the punk scoffed.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Rafe snarled. “I told you not to come here.”

“What do
I
think I’m doing?” Phillip arched his eyebrow. “I should ask you the same question, wolf. What made you think you could just walk away from our agreement?”

Damned the Soartas! Rafe knew his decision to back away from his assignment in London was going to bite him in the ass. Balaur had hired him to kill the vampire king, but when he saw Yara
–
beautiful, powerful and ripe for the taking
–
everything changed.

He clenched his jaw so to try and not to lose his temper. “Whatever happened in London is none of your business, message boy. I made a new deal with your boss.”

“I’m well aware of your new deal,” Phillip replied. “I’m here to ensure you honor the new deadline and pay the seven figures you owe Balaur in 30 days.”

Rafe cursed the day he accepted the dragon lord’s offer to clear his balance with his previous “sponsors.” However, as far as he knew, Phillip didn’t work for anyone but himself. It was a bit out of character for him to have become Balaur’s lackey. There must be something in it for him, Rafe was sure.

He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his dark mane. “Just cut to the chase, Phillip, and stop wasting my time.”

“You should have finished the mission in London, wolf. You let the vampire king get away.”

“And now they are after you, is that right?”

Phillip didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“I told
your lord
, it was too risky,” Rafe replied through clenched teeth. “Tardieh was too protected, surrounded by his guards.”

“Are you telling me that three mere vampires stopped you from striking? You disappoint me,
champion
.”

That draco was pushing it. Rafe’s wolf roared inside, wanting to come out and rip his head off. “I told you to cut to the chase, draco. You have one minute to state your affairs before I kick your ass all the way to Alaska.”

“Do that and you’ll see your little gym vanish into ashes in less than ten minutes,” Phillip replied, his sarcasm vanishing into open hatred.

Fucking Soartas! Rafe saw red. His grip on his wolf shattered and he lunged himself across the small office, pinning Phillip against the wall. The draco tried to fight back, throwing a weak cross punch that connected to Rafe’s chin, but it felt like a feather brush on Rafe’s seasoned jaw. He stepped back, opening the space between them – a crucial detail in ultimate fighting – then he grabbed Phillip’s hand and twisted it anti-clockwise. The simple yet very effective wrist-lock worked like a charm. Rafe knew Phillip wouldn’t be ready to withstand the pain. He watched with a small grin of triumph as the draco plummeted on his knees, then lower still until his cheeks were plastered on the cold concrete floor.

“Don’t you threaten me, message boy,” Rafe growled.

“You owe us, wolf,” Phillip choked out. “You owe Balaur and now he wants you to finish what you started.”

“He wants me to kill the vampire king in his own territory? Is he insane?”

“No,” Phillip managed to gargle out. “He wants you to follow the witch to Brazil.”

Ice settled in Rafe’s stomach.

Yara. The object of his torment for the past months.

Ever since he had laid his eyes on her in London, Rafe’s mind had been haunted by her. It had been several months ago, but every once in while he would pass by a forest, and the smell of fresh rain on leaves would jolt his memory back to that precise moment where the tall, stunning woman stepped out of the rehab center. The sun broke through the clouds and rays of light illuminated her striking features. Her flawless olive skin glistened almost in invitation; her short spiky hair was still wet probably from a recent bath. Her dark eyes showed pure determination; her thick, naturally red lips were pursed into a thin line. She was clearly pissed off at something or someone. Rafe felt sorry for the poor receiver of her wrath, whoever that was. It had been just one moment, not even minutes, but it had stayed with him since then.

After the debacle at the manufacture in Broxbourne, where he had secretly helped Yara in the fight against the razbians, missing his opportunity to kill the vampire king, Rafe returned to New Jersey and tried not to think about her. He had been tempted to make contact, like faking a casual encounter or something, but it was too dangerous. So he was resigned to only feel her, taste her, make love to her in his dreams. Very frequent dreams.

“What do you want with the witch?” Rafe’s voice came out a few octaves lower than usual.

“Not your concern,” Phillip answered. He must have sensed Rafe’s reticence because his usual cockiness had returned to his tone.

That was it. The fucker needed to learn that no one came to his gym and treated him and his peers with disrespect. No one.

Keeping his grip on Phillip’s twisted hand, Rafe swung around and landed heavily on the S.O.B.’s back. Knee first. Phillip let out a painful grunt.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, draco, but I’m inches from crushing your spine. I’d be very careful right now.” And just to make it clear, Rafe put extra weight on his leg.

“All right, all right!” Phillip cried out. “Your assignment is to follow the witch and report back.”

Atta boy
. “Why is she going to Brazil? Better yet, how do you know she’s going?”

“None of your bus…” Phillip’s last word was eaten by another groan as Rafe jerked the twisted hand a few inches higher, increasing the pressure even more.

“Try again,” he growled in Phillip’s ear.

“Just do it and you’ll see half of your debts vanish,” Phillip choked out. It sounded more like a desperate plea.

Rafe’s mind raced in search for a plausible justification not to take the new assignment, but nothing came up. He had to agree, to play along until he had enough time to pay off his debts.

At his last encounter with Yara, he came out with a winning ticket – a box full of a strange type of bullet that Rafe had never seen before. But from the degree of destruction the vampires left behind and the amount of C4s invested in destroying the factory in London, Rafe would bet his left hand that the bullets were worth millions. He was close to his freedom, he could almost taste it. But for now, he needed to pretend it all was “business as usual”.

“When is she leaving?”

Phillip’s lips curved up in a smirk. “Her plane leaves tonight.”

Chapter Nine

After 15 hours of travelling and a stressful stop at Miami Airport, Yara landed in Manaus, Brazil. Unfortunately, she would still have a couple of more hours before she could actually take a breath and rest her feet properly.

She pulled her large backpack off the luggage belt and went through customs. It always astounded her how Brazilians were so relaxed, even when it came to airport security. The customs’ guards were strict when questioning but were not even a whiff of the Americans.

As soon as she crossed through the sliding doors leading to the street, a wave of hot, stuffy air hit her. Ai, Mighty Soartas! She had forgotten how stinking warm it was in this part of the world. It felt like she had just gone into a sauna.

Opening a few buttons of her blouse, she made her way to the taxi stand. Manaus was the closest international airport to the Amazon, and one of the busiest in Brazil, but nonetheless, it was quite nondescript. The standing area was packed with tourists and businessmen coming and going. The sign “Taxis
–
Queue Here” was obscenely ignored by the mob for whom the cabs stopped anywhere they felt like it
–
off the walkway, in the middle of the tarmac, in front of a moving bus.
Yep
,
I’ve arrived home,
Yara thought. Her home, once upon a time; and like the human saying commands
–
when in Rome, do as Romans do, right? She pushed her way through the mob of waiting visitors, put both index fingers strategically on the sides of her lips, and blew. In less than a second, a yellow cab parked in front of her on a ridiculous 45-degree angle, blocking two lanes of traffic, all because of her un-ignorable whistle. Hehehe.

Ignoring the incredibly creative curses from the other clients waiting on the curb, the driver rushed out, grabbed Yara’s backpack off her hands, opened the trunk of his old Chevrolet Cruze and placed it carefully inside.

“Where to, miss?” the man asked with a wide grin.

“Are you ready for a long drive?” Yara asked.

“Osh! Always!” he answered, as he opened the passenger door for her.

“Good, take me to…”

A chill whooshed down her spine making her stop mid-sentence, halfway between getting into the car and out. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted, her panther snarled inside.

Something was wrong. She was being followed.

Yara paused by the open car door and looked around, searching for…
what?
She perused the thick crowd for a familiar face but found none. She didn’t know how or who it was, but she was definitely being followed; her instincts had never let her down. Damn the Soartas.

She jumped in and slammed the door. “Take me to the edge of the Amazon, as fast as you can.”

The driver followed her order to the tee. In no time they had left the main city and merged onto the highway.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Indian,” the cabbie answered.

“Nice name.”

He looked at her through the rear mirror and smiled. His chocolate skin creased all the way to his temple. “It’s my nickname because of my close connection to the Indians in the jungle.”

Close connection, huh?
“Do you know them well?”

“Osh!” he exclaimed in the typical northerner accent. “Of course, miss. My nickname isn’t for nothing!”

“OK, Indian, here’s the deal,” Yara said, “I need a guide.”

“To where?”

“Deep into jungle, out of the beaten path.”

Indian paused. “Is miss going to watch the birds?”

“You can say that,” she replied.

Indian glanced at her through the rear mirror. She stared back.

Yara hadn’t been to that part of Brazil in decades. Once upon a time, the Amazon jungle had been her back yard. But not anymore. A good part of the forest had been taken over by clandestine operations, and as a result the remaining tribes had become hostile and overly protective. The last thing she wanted was to bump into a mob of angry natives and be shot at for trespassing into their territory.

“Don’t worry, miss. I know a guy,” Indian replied, after a long moment of scrutiny via the rearview mirror.

As soon as they approached the small roundabout indicating the entrance and end of the small village, Indian spotted
his guy
sitting on a low wall by a bar. Yara stepped out to go with him, but Indian said he’d bring him to her.

“Fine”, she agreed. She’d know if they were planning on double-crossing her anyway. The stench of deceit was unmistakable.

So, off Indian went, while she stayed by the cab. Her eyes roamed around, idly taking in the scenery that was so familiar yet so foreign to her at the same time. By Apa Dobrý, people had gotten poorer since she left. She remembered how pretty a village it had once been, ages ago, before technology swept over social solidarity. Being just a one-hour drive from Manaus, it had everything to offer – it was close to one of the most popular natural wonders of the world, it was at the mouth of a beautiful river, and it was virtually the last place one could find electricity and a roof before one adventured into the jungle. So many reasons to succeed, so many more reasons to fail. It was clear that the village got stuck in a promised future that never came. The roundabout was halfway finished, the store fronts hadn’t seen a new splash of paint in years, the asphalt road ended four miles outside town. Yara’s eyes landed on a group of kids nearby. They were probably supposed to be at school but there they were, playing in the dirt, completely oblivious to the mid-afternoon sun burning their necks. They were there because the closest school was miles away, or maybe it had shut down for lack of government funds and support.

Her mind was taken back to a time where she, too, had wanted to skip school and go play in the river the way human kids did. She used to think that they had it easy. They didn’t have to learn the use of thousands of herbs, to memorize hundreds of ancient recipes and charms, to endure endless hours of spell practice. But little did she know that their future was much less certain than hers. Or was it? Yara snorted at herself. “Certain” was the last word she would ever use to describe her story of life. Broken, betrayed and hardened were much better ones in her case.

“Miss, this is my guy, Quickfeet.” Indian’s voice brought Yara’s back from her thoughts. “Quickfeet is the best guide in the entire country. He’s gone more times into the deep jungle than all the others combined.”

Yara glanced at the short man in front of her. He had the body structure of a twelve-year-old boy, but his deep wrinkles told another story.

“Good, so here’s your first test, Quickfeet,” Yara said pushing off the car hood. “Where’s the nearest bathroom?”

Quickfeet opened a huge smile, quickly getting her joke. “In there,” he said, pointing at the tavern.

Yara grabbed her backpack and crossed the dirt street.

The old bar was empty save for one lonely man sitting at one of the wooden tables. The walls were decorated with washed out poster-ads that had been pinned up with cellar tape. The smell of mould and dust flooded her nose, making her choke and gag at the same time. Yara spotted a hand written sign saying “Lavatório, R$5”. She walked to the bar and slid a R$5 bill on the counter.

“Banheiro?”
Bathroom?
she asked in Portuguese.

The old lady on the other side of the bench, sucked on her orange one last time before she stood up. She reached around and pulled a long chain, holding a small key on its end.

“Through there, toward the back,” she explained in the native language, pointing out a passageway that had a cascade of beads for a door.

Yara thanked the woman, took the key and crossed the threshold. The short corridor led to the bathroom, located right next to the back exit. Perfect. Yara ignored the first door, and opened the one that led to the back of the tavern. After ensuring the coast was clear, she knelt by a tall nut tree, opened her backpack and pulled out a mini-pack, which carried just the essentials – water, cereal bars, a light blanket and her hunting knife. She hid the large backpack behind the tree. First rule of jungle survival: travel light. Her thick jean pants would provide enough protection against mosquitoes and other unwanted crawlers, while her blouse made of pure linen was light enough to keep her fresh during the long hike ahead.

By the time she arrived back at the car, Indian was halfway through a card game with his friend and other locals, and by the grim look on his face, he was losing big time.

“Ready?” little Quickfeet asked, as he jumped off the hood of the old Chevrolet with the lightness of a feather.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied, more to herself than to him, then bid farewell to Indian.

Indian pushed off the car, whispered a few words that sounded awfully like “don’t you dare touch my cards” and strolled toward her.

“Thank you, Indian, for all your help,” Yara said, offering her hand.

“No, miss,” he replied, and instead of shaking her hand he bowed low. “I thank you for giving me the honor of serving you.”

Yara was taken aback by the sudden reverence. Humans in Brazil were known for being friendly and welcoming but this was a bit too much. “Err … see you around, then,” she replied and still feeling a bit awkward, turned around to start her journey.

“Miss,” Indian called her back.

“Yes?”

“Welcome home.”