Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (7 page)

Bowe surveyed the area and saw the coiled remains of a thin cable hanging loose from the opposite wall. He had rope in his truck but couldn't spy a single place in the sheer rock face to lash it to. Besides, the truck was aboveground several miles away, and with every minute that passed, the curse was siphoning off more of his strength.

He knew the vampire could trace them across with a blink of his eye, but to free him would be a great risk. Yet, though Bowe was weak, Wroth looked much more so. And Wroth didn't want the prize as badly as Bowe—he used this contest only to win over Kaderin.

The vampire was pale as death, blood pooling all around him. If Bowe left him to gear up to cross the pit on his own and failed, would Wroth even be conscious when he returned?

Decided. “I could free you to trace me across. Then, an open contest to take it.”

“I could double-cross you.”

Bowe narrowed his one eye. “No' if I've got ahold of your good arm.”

After a hesitation, the vampire said, “Do it.”

Bowe crossed to the boulder and shoved at it. Though he was constantly reminded of how weak he'd grown, he was still confounded to be unable to move a single boulder. He muttered, “
Bloody, goddamned witches.
” Putting his back into it, he asked, “Where exactly are you tracing us?”

“Below the cable, there's a lava tube, another cavern.”

“I doona see anything,” Bowe gritted out.

“It's there. You want the prize? Then you're just going to have to trust a vampire—”

The boulder toppled over. Before Wroth could trace, Bowe lunged to grab Wroth's left arm, then whistled low at what remained of the vampire's right—pulverized bone and severed sinews of muscle. “That's
got
tae hurt,” he said with a sneer.

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Wroth snapped.

“Aye.” Bowe hauled him up. “And I plan to kill you for that. After this competition. Right now, I doona have all day.”

The vampire seemed to just prevent himself from rocking on his feet. He blinked as though struggling to focus.

Bowe jostled him. “Are you even going to be able to do this—”

Without warning, the vampire traced.

Instantly, they were in a new tunnel. Though Wroth looked disoriented, somehow he'd done it. The smoke and steam were thicker here and flames seemed to sprout from barren rock.

Bowe caught sight of a reflection on the ceiling of the cave. He spied the source deeper within—a shining blade
on a waist-high column of rock at the very end of the cavern. Bowe shot forward, sprinting for it. Wroth traced and got there first. He snatched the blade with his good hand and tensed to disappear.

But Bowe had already freed his whip. With a crack, he had the length coiled around Wroth's wrist and yanked down, preventing the vampire from tracing. “I'll be takin' that now.”

Wroth transferred the blade to his right hand to raise it and claim the victory. But that ruined arm hung lifeless.

“Canna quite make it to your heart, then?”

The vampire bared his fangs. “I'll gut you before you get this.”

“That equals the life of my mate.”

“I've the same on my mind,” Wroth bit out.

“The Valkyrie died?” That was why Wroth was here instead of Kaderin?

“Not for long.”

The look in his eyes gave Bowe pause. He'd seen that level of unyielding determination in his own gaze in the mirror. “We could share it, vampire,” he said, disbelieving what he was offering—especially when he had the advantage. “The key works twice.”

“I need both of those times . . . for her.” Suddenly, the vampire's wasted arm shot up. Impossible— The blade rose as if by its own accord and struck viciously.

Blood spurted from Bowe's wrist; searing pain erupted as his severed hand dropped. Freed from the whip, the vampire traced the distance across the pit, decisively out of Bowe's reach.

Bowe sank to his knees, staring dumbly at the blood streaming from his body.
How?
He gaped at his lost hand,
still clenching the whip handle. How had that blade risen?

I've . . . lost
? His body shuddered violently at the realization. “I will fucking kill you for this, vampire!” he roared.

Bowe had lost. He wouldn't be able to go back and save Mariah—
save her from himself
.

He'd lost her. Again.

“
I will eat your goddamned heart!
” But the vampire was already gone, leaving Bowe trapped in a cavern of fire where immortals went to die.

J
ump, Mariketa! I'll catch you.”

Mari crawled on her belly inch by inch among the rancid corpses of the incubi slumbering all around her. In the last two weeks, this was the closest that she'd made it to the edge of their lair without waking them.

The night of the first attack, one had dragged her into the shadows, then lifted her into the air by her ankles, feet over her head, though she'd kicked and thrashed to be free. As the incubus had flown ever upward, her body had swung loosely like a rag doll. When her head had knocked against a shelf of carved stone, blackness dotted her vision. She'd awakened here on this ledge, somewhere high in the tomb.

Almost there.
When she raised herself up on her elbows, she shook so wildly her head bobbed.
You can do this, Mari.
One elbow in front of the other. Finally . . . finally, she reached the edge—and barely stifled a gasp. She'd known she was high up, but didn't realize it was this bad. They were at least a hundred feet in the air.

Heights. Just ducky.

When Tera saw Mari peeking over the side, she politely turned up her lantern. Though the other immortals could
see in the dark to varying degrees, Mari couldn't, not yet. “Mariketa, are you okay?”

Mari nodded weakly.

“Come, then. I promise I'll catch you,” Rydstrom said once more in his deep baritone voice.

During the days, Mari had heard the five of them debating plans of defense or arguing about their escape, and she'd learned their voices and personalities. She liked Rydstrom the best, and not just because he was so stalwart and handsome. For the most part, he was coolheaded, especially for a rage demon, and remained rational even as hour upon hour lagged by.

Yet Cade seemed to be able to provoke him as no other, and the brothers sometimes fought in the heat of the day. “Still acting like a king!” Cade had snapped. “But you're not. No longer.”

Rydstrom had answered, “And whose fault is that,
brother
?”

The two had, in fact, entered the Hie for the means to reclaim their kingdom—lost because of some act by Cade.

As for the archers, Tera was indeed sister to the hotheaded Tierney. And Mari suspected the pretty, brunette elf was also an object of great interest to the second male archer, Hild. Hild was normally silent, but when he spoke the others listened. Mari hadn't discovered if those three had had a specific agenda in entering.

“Come on, Mari! Rydstrom won't let you fall,” Cade said, and the others nodded with encouragement. “Just jump!”

Yeah, I'll get right on that. Ge-fucking-ronimo, bitches.

Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts
because Tera asked, “If you can't jump, then can you work any magick?”

Over the last two weeks on this ledge, each failed attempt had angered the incubi and drained her even more. She couldn't even produce illumination to break up the inky blackness surrounding her.

Mari shook her head. She was simply too weak. She drew away, collapsing onto her back. She wasn't a puss in most circumstances, but she'd been born and raised in an area situated below sea level. She'd never even seen a mountain in person until she'd flown in white-knuckled awe over the Guatemalan countryside with its volcano silhouettes and jungle-covered peaks.

Kiddie Ferris wheels could wig her out—diving from the height of nearly half a football field wasn't forthcoming.

Oddly enough, she had gotten past her other great phobia—the very unwitchly one of large insects. Once she'd become too weary to continue swatting them away, they'd crawled over her in abandon, and she'd simply grown accustomed to them with repeated exposure. If they didn't bite her, she wouldn't bite them. . . .

As she lay there, staring up blankly into the dark, the incubi began to stir once more.

Starved for centuries but unable to die, these beings truly were the living dead. They were maddened from their never-ending captivity and deprivation, yet they retained their brutal strength.

Soon they would rise and continue their nightly attacks on the five below—striving to stamp out the immortals as if they were foreign, thieving trespassers who'd broken into the incubi's home, intending to steal their precious sacrificial headdresses.

And what of her? She'd feared they would try more “unnatural crimes,” but so far, other than sinking their teeth or claws into her legs to drag her out of their way, or forcing her to eat and drink things she couldn't even contemplate without retching, the incubi had kept their hands off her.

It wasn't time for a swan dive just yet.

Though she couldn't communicate with them—if they opened the yawning blackness of their mouths, nothing came out but screams or worms—Mari somehow comprehended things about them, like what they expected from her.

They kept her alive, because they wanted to die.

Once beautiful demons, born to seduce sexual energy from females, they'd been rendered into monsters.

And Mari had realized that they
knew
they were.

On that ledge in the blackness, she'd truly recognized for the first time in her life that some creatures who went bump in the night might hate that they did.

The incubi had sensed great power in her, and believed she could destroy them, but if she could speak their language, she'd tell them they had the wrong girl. Mari was what was known as an
underachiever,
which even an underachiever knew was sociology code for “overfailer.”

She was famous in the Lore for the simple fact that one day she might be worth being famous. All hype—no substance. That was Mari.

Everyone in the covens expected her to do something epic and always kept an eye on her. They wanted her to be worth “awaiting.” Even other factions in the Lore monitored her with anticipation because, while most witches possessed the strengths of one, two, or very rarely, three of
the five castes of witches, Mari was the only witch ever to possess the strengths of
all of them
.

In theory, Mari was a witch warrior, healer, conjurer, seeress,
and
an enchantress.

A potential perfect storm of badassness.

In reality, Mari had lost her college scholarship, couldn't manage even the simplest spells, and kept blowing things up. She couldn't even balance her checkbook.

Had competing in the Hie been a
shaking her raised fist, I'll show you
attempt at redemption? Well . . . yes.

Now she was paying for it. The incubi could never free her—not when they themselves were prisoners for eternity. If her coven hadn't scryed her by now, they never would. The jungles around the tomb were teeming with humans, guerilla armies, but they fought and shot all around the temple without ever attempting to enter. How ironic. They had no idea what battle erupted inside each night.

And Mari knew the werewolf would never return. How could she have desired someone so cruel that he would leave them all to wither away here? Some in the Lore whispered that, at heart, the Lykae were nothing more than ravening beasts from nightmares.

Bowen MacRieve must be. Why else wouldn't he come? Or at least send someone?

Perhaps he was already dead from her spell. If he somehow still lived by the time she got out of this, she was going to kill him. She didn't know how she'd do it, just that it would be
slow
.

When the incubi began to rise all around her, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to lose herself in dreams of making the Lykae pay.

*  *  *

Bowe sat propped against the scalding wall of the cavern, cradling his arm. Though barely able to remain upright, he was determined not to give in to the temptation to lie down.

Through the haze of agonizing heat, he stared at the Fyre Dragán slithering back and forth through the lava, waiting for him.

When sweat dripped into Bowe's remaining eye, he moved to wipe it away, but his hand was gone. He knew it was, endured the pain constantly, and still he tried to use it.

The beast that lived inside him desperately wanted to live, but as for Bowe himself, he could take a bloody hint. For over two weeks, he'd been trapped, unable to discover a way out or a way across the pit. He'd never anticipated that this cavern would end without another exit.