Pleasure of a Dark Prince (16 page)

“The Amazon? That’s thousands of miles from where I am. Besides, I’m a hunter—not an explorer.
Find someone else
,” she grated as she maneuvered another dozen feet higher. Her fingertips were on fire.

“Ah, but would anyone be as qualified as you? You see, the source of this apocalypse is… Cruach.”

Lucia felt like her stomach dropped the four thousand feet to the ground.

“Yes, I thought you’d want to take care of this one,” Nïx said in a thoughtful tone. “
Since he’s your husband.”

EIGHTEEN

Iquitos, Amazonia
Fifteen hours later…

Lucia sprinted from the heli pad through the remote river-port town, her senses bombarded by scents and sounds: the smell of hot peppers and green bananas in the market stands; the incessant horns from motorcycle rickshaws; street vendors hawking their wares, unaffected by the on-and-off drizzle of rain.

Though already exhausted from the last few weeks and wiped out from the constant travel over the last day, Lucia adjusted her backpack and travel bowcase to run even faster.

The time was a quarter after three.

Breakneck flights had gotten her out of the North-lands, then even more connections had followed to get to South America and into Iquitos.

She’d logged seven thousand miles in the last day.

Weary to her bones, she again cursed the instigator of this disaster—Nucking Futs Nïx.

She couldn’t have seen a freaking
apocalypse
sooner? To give Lucia time to buy a damned mosquito net, and maybe an Amazon river guidebook!

Lucia was almost to the water—not difficult, since Iquitos was encircled by the Amazon and two other tributaries. The sun peeked through lowering clouds, spawning a vibrant rainbow that seemed to end on the far banks of the Amazon.

Soon, a red clay shore came into view. Just at the water’s edge, a neighborhood of thatch-roofed houses floated on balsa platforms. A few large riverboats were lined up beside them, beached on the muddy banks.

As she ran headlong, she recalled the rest of that fateful conversation with the soothsayer:

“Nïx, how can Cruach bring about an apocalypse?”

“Apparently, he’s no longer your personal domestic problem. It’s foretold that he’ll start a plague of human sacrifices.”

Cruach’s other name was To Him We Sacrifice. He had the power to infect beings, engendering a mad need to kill whomever the victim loved most. “A plague?”

“Before, he could only afflict one with his madness by direct contact and only once he escaped his lair. But soon his influence could potentially be spread like a disease, passed from one person to another.”

“How? Black magic, the help of another god—”

“The countdown has begun. Ticktock, ticktock.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go to the docks. I’ve got you booked on a ship called the
Contessa.
For weeks, you’ll travel into the jungle, to the deepest, darkest part of the Amazon where no other boats dare to go. Find the Rio Labyrinto—a mystically hidden tributary. Have you heard of it?”

Lucia had exhaled a stunned breath. “Yeah. No one comes back when they go looking for it. Not even immortals.”

“Are ya feelin’ lucky, punk?”

“What’s there to help me fight Cruach? A weapon? An ally? Don’t suppose I’ll find a dieumort there.”

“Now what’s a dieumort?”

“Never mind! Nïx, what’s down there?”

“Call me when you arrive on time—otherwise all this could be moot—then I’ll reveal the rest to you. Unless, of course, I forget.” Which was entirely likely.

Lucia had known Nïx wouldn’t divulge more logistics. She divvied information like a miser parting with gold coins. Lucia had learned, like all other Valkyrie, to go on a little faith—and forbearance—with Nïx. “At least tell me what the stakes are,” Lucia had demanded impatiently. “What happens if I fail?”

“The end of life as we know it.”

“Nothing else you’d like to impart?”

“Everything you’ll need will be aboard the
Contessa”.
A blare of static-like noise crackled. “Oh, and beware of the
barão da borracha
and the
guardião.”

Lucia knew some Portuguese. “Beware of the rubber baron and the guardian?”

More static sounds. “Can’t hear… call back… good luck…”

“Nïx, I know you’re faking the static.” She could picture her sister blowing into her fist directly at the receiver. The static abruptly stopped. “Why?”

“It seemed less rude than the alternative.”

“What’s that?”

Click.

Lucia slowed, her eyes widening when she spied a wave of riverboats leaving. Was she too late?

She asked fishermen returning from the day’s runs to direct her to the
Contessa
. They all laughed in answer. Once she finally happened upon it, beached on a section of trash-ridden shore, she realized why.

The
Contessa
—such a bold and noble name—was a relic. With its three stories and latticed railings, it looked like an old river cruiser from the rubber-boom days. But it was in no way preserved—rotting holes dappled the wood just above the waterline, and the windshield in the pilothouse was fractured from one edge to the other. Any visible metal was corroded, oozing rust down the faded hull like runnels of blood.

The roof on the third-story observation deck was… thatched.

She scrunched her face. Departure at three sharp? Nothing concerning this vessel could be classified as sharp.
Nïx, you little rotter.
Why would her sister have booked her on this ship?

No, Lucia didn’t have to accept this—she could get another ride. She stepped back to survey the only other boats still beached. Any that remained looked to have been abandoned in haste. The closest one still had tablecloths and utensils on its soaked outdoor tables.

Aboard the
Contessa
, voices sounded dimly from indoors, and one—maybe two—males stomped around on deck.

At least it had people on it.

Beggars can’t be choosers.
She checked the braids she’d plaited to cover her ears, then called, “Is anyone up there? I need to board this”—
tub, wreck, joke of a—
“boat.”

A crusty boot slammed on the gunwale, and a big, bleary-eyed man leaned over it to peer down. “Ship, lady. This here’s a
ship
,” he said defensively, as if she’d told him, “Your penis: I find it minuscule.” The man’s accent was American Southern, his voice raspy.

With blood-shot gray eyes, he gave her a once-over, then drawled, “Dr. MacRieve, I presume?”

Dr.
MacRieve?
Nïx had just gotten elevated from ass-kicking to certain death.

When dealing with humans, Lucia had always used Archer as her last name. Since she would never own up to her real one.

“From LSU?” he asked, snagging a hip flask from his jeans pocket for a generous gulp.

Wondering what else Nïx would have told this man, she answered, “Yes, that’s me. And you’re the… captain?”

“That I am. Captain Wyatt Travis.” He wore a white button-down, mostly unbuttoned, and when the wind blew off the river, the material billowed, displaying a surprisingly rock-solid torso.

Lucia supposed he wasn’t
un
fortunate looking, with his carelessly ruffled blond hair and stubble, but he was noticeably inebriated—even if she couldn’t have smelled liquor wafting from his pores. She conjectured what Travis would blow on a BAC meter, wagering a healthy two-point-oh.

Why would Nïx book her on a rotted tub with a drunken captain? She could just see Nïx clapping merrily and crying
“For fun!”
“And my
assistant
booked a room, right?”

“We’ve held a cabin for you. Last one left.”

“Air conditioner?”

“One. And it ain’t in your room, darling.” His accent wasn’t just Southern. She realized the captain was a Texan.

“Wait, the
last
cabin?” She scanned the decks. The ship looked to have at least half a dozen of them, spaced equally on the first two floors.

He shoved down a rickety gangplank. “You don’t have to sound so shocked that we’re booked up.”
Ruffled feathers.
The only thing worse than a perpetual drunk was a sensitive one. “There’re three docs like you aboard and my cook and deckhand as well.”

Including the captain that would make six humans. This wouldn’t do. Unlike some Valkyrie, Lucia shunned mortals whenever possible. To reveal secrets of the Lore to one of them would draw punishment from the gods, and Lucia was already in a tenuous position with one.
Or two.
“How much for the entire boat?”

“You ain’t the brightest bulb in the marquee, are you? I already got these passengers aboard—they’re unpacking their scientifical crap in the lab as we speak. We’ve just been waiting on you.”

Weeks on board with mortals? And clearly, she would have to hijack the boat to get to the deepest Amazon, where nobody dared to go. The humans would have to be dealt with then.

Perhaps Lucia could find a Lorean to captain another ship. A river city like Iquitos would be home to countless immortals.

But as she debated her options, that awareness returned, the sense of being watched. She rubbed the back of her neck and glanced over her shoulder, thought she saw a tall male, a
too-tall
male. Was MacRieve closing in on her even now? She knew he couldn’t be far behind—because he hadn’t been for the entire year.

Or maybe she was overreacting. Exhaustion weighed on her until she felt like falling down, and in the past, she’d imagined him in shadows, over a rise, or on a balcony overhead peering down at her.

For as many times as she’d seen golden eyes glowing with hunger from some nearby shadow, she’d imagined she had.

Her ears twitched.
Awareness.
No, he was near. “I’ll take the cabin!”
I can dump the mortals later.
She chucked her pack over the railing, holding her graphite bowcase under her arm as she acted like a human female, teetering up the gangplank.

He frowned. “Uh, don’t you have equipment you need to have loaded?”

“Nope. We’re all good.”

“Orientation and meet-and-greet is required.”

“Yes, of course.” She could play along, be sociable, or act like she was. “But we need to leave immediately.”

“We’re on river time here.” He offered her a hand she didn’t need as she stepped aboard. “Now, you’re in the seventh cabin, first level, all the way fore in the bow. Here’s the key—”

She snatched it from him. “I’ll double—
triple
—your fare if we leave this instant.”

He narrowed those gray eyes. “Quadruple it, and you’ll see a big-ass boat go fast.”

“Agreed.” This heartened her. Mortals who were motivated by money were controllable.

As the captain hastened to the pilothouse, calling out for someone named Chuck to “kick her in the guts!” Lucia climbed to the observation deck. She shaded her eyes with her hand, scanning for MacRieve. Iquitos was the most populous city in the world that couldn’t be reached by road. Only boat and air traffic in or out, difficult to get to in the best of circumstances. Maybe she’d lost him.

The ship’s diesel engines fired up, coughing black smoke as they sputtered, but they stayed running. Travis began reversing from the shore, narrowly missing a floating gas station, then he increased the speed. The ship surged backward, water swamping the back platform that stretched the width of the boat.

The entire hull groaned, the motion sending Lucia tilting toward the railing. As she balanced herself, she craned her head around, eyes wary.

Nothing.
After several heartbeats, Travis shifted gears, and the
Contessa
ground forward. Finally, Lucia breathed a sigh of relief. They were under way. She was on a boat heading out on the Amazon after flying all the way from across the world, in record time.

Really, how could the Lykae have headed her off here? There was no way he could catch her.

And her trail would grow colder in the days to come. She climbed down to the first level for her bag, then headed for cabin seven to stow her stuff. Just as she got to the door, her sat-phone chimed with a new text message. She peered at the screen, saw it was from Regin. Gods, she missed her sister and best friend like an ache—

RegRad: We’re not BFFs anymore, Luce. So SUCK IT!

Lucia sighed. At times she understood why others could only take Regin in short doses.

Suddenly, her ears twitched again, which meant someone aboard was possibly about to attack her or that MacRieve was near. She hoped it was the former as she plunked her case down on the deck. Dropping to her knees beside it, she unfastened the titanium latches and yanked free her bow and quiver from their foam padding.