The phantom, p.17
The Phantom, page 17
“Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven,” Penelope counted, reminding him of their ongoing negotiation.
Concentrate! “How many wraiths serve you?” he asked as another combatant swooped in to finish off the manticore.
The royal court twittered with disappointment.
“Oh, only twenty-two.”
Only.
“Like me,” she continued with the most annoying calm, “they dine exclusively on hatred. That’s why we were sent here. Too many immortals hold grudges. We weakened them, so they found a way to dispose of us. But I digress. I sense you hold enough hatred to feed my lot of wraiths for years to come.”
She sensed correctly. “During the tournament, I will feed you and your wraiths. But only once a day. And I will not wear a jewel.” As much as he would detest having their mouths on his skin, he preferred temporary contact to a permanent connection. “In return, you cannot drain Blythe during heats. Or at all.”
“I’m considering thinking about it... No deal. I can’t help it if she opens the link herself. There are moments I will feed on her, despite the timing.”
He nodded stiffly. “I agree. Do you?”
“No, not yet. I want to know why you’re doing this. The harpy still hates you. Otherwise, I couldn’t drain her at all. Besides that, you’re required to kill her if she wins the tournament.”
Yes. The very reasons he required time to think this through. “I owe you no explanation for my actions.”
“Fair enough. But what happens if your female dies without my interference?”
Feeling like an injured animal backed into a corner, he grated, “Our bargain will stand. Do. You. Agree?”
“Yes. I accept the terms, Astra. For the next ten days, you’ll flash to the island at sundown. No exceptions. If you fail to appear, even once, I’ll drain Blythe the Undoing to death before the next battle commences.”
* * *
Fresh energy poured through Blythe, her wings flapping with new life. Not as much as energy and life as when she was fully charged on souls, but enough to get her through the death match.
Why had Penelope ceased feeding? Because her point had been made? Figure it out later. Blythe popped the bones in her neck and her shoulders, then cracked her knuckles. Let’s finish this.
She raced into the worst of the fray. Dodging blows, clawing when appropriate, claiming a plethora of fallen weapons as necessary. At some point, the internal tempest she’d experienced since her consort’s death faded. Old battle instincts overtook her, and oh, it felt good. Fighting as she was born to do. Taking down one enemy after another.
Sand flung from her boots, grains sticking to damp skin. Warm blood coated her hands. Tissue collected under her nails. Did a certain Astra watch her with his customary smolder? Or did he worry, as Laban would have done?
Anger accompanied her next strike, sending a witch to the ground, minus her intestines. Comparing Roux to her consort needed to stop. So did relaxing in his presence and seeking his embrace.
Two more combatants fell by her powerful strikes. Approaching her next target, she scanned the arena. Wow. The masses had thinned by almost half. Only six hundred or so remained. How much time was left on the clock? She’d lost track.
Eager to take out more competition, she picked up the pace and two short swords. One. Three. Five. Eight others went down. Man, she kind of adored the swords. Lightweight, with scale-like blades over the metal. Organs shredded at record-breaking speed. Maybe she’d keep the pair after the hostility ended.
She didn’t mean to do it, but she shot a glance up—and nearly ground to a halt as shock stole her breath. Roux didn’t watch her with worry. Not even a trace of it. Rather, it was pride that radiated from his muscular frame.
But that couldn’t be right. She—Blythe wheeled to the side as an Amazon caught her unaware, slicing the tip of a sword through her bicep. Deserved. Allow yourself to become distracted during a scuffle, and you welcomed injury and loss.
She rallied quickly, misting as the Amazon swung a dagger. Blythe solidified behind her attacker and used her short swords like scissors. Chop. Headless Amazon.
Sensing an approach from the rear, she misted again. The siren who’d come for her tripped over the falling Amazon. While the two went down, Blythe hacked off the newcomer’s head.
Each new victory put a spring in her step. With her next set of victims, she spared a second or two to take a bite of their souls before rendering the final blow. Those small nibbles added up, charging her up. Blythe began to cut through her opponents as effortlessly as butter.
Just as she raised her swords to take out a harpy—no mercy, even for her kinswomen—the horn echoed from the cavern walls. The combatants went still. Silence reigned. Well, as much silence as possible when so many people huffed and puffed from exertion.
Blythe scanned the competition, on the hunt for true threats. Her, her, and her. Respectively, a harpy she recognized as a legend of old, the Phoenix Roux had mentioned, and a former Amazon queen, judging by the marks branded into her flesh. All three glared her way.
“Congratulations,” Tonka called from the dais. Funny, but she didn’t exude as much joy as before. “If you’re still alive, you made it to round two. Which starts bright and early tomorrow morning. Tonight, you’re invited to a celebration party. Attend at your own risk. In the next round, things aren’t gonna be so easy.”
17
THE WRENCH
Roux paced inside the bedroom, waiting for Blythe to emerge from the bathroom. He did not wish to attend the celebration. He would rather spend the rest of the day locked away with her. They had much to discuss. His appointment with the wraiths. His duty. Tomorrow’s battle. What had happened at the well during their game of “sexual chicken.”
He bit his tongue to silence a grunt. When would she exit?
Lively music started up outside the window and cheers followed. The party was to take place right outside the palace?
Irritated, he flashed over to look out. Despite a dark, stormy sky, hundreds of females congregated below. Throughout the circle of silos, blazing bonfires popped and snapped, roasting meats and vegetables.
Cries of “Bring out Mr. Sausage Man!” rose over the music.
He worked his jaw. When the bathroom door swung open behind him, he forgot everything but Blythe. Roux’s gaze whipped to her. An automatic reaction. If ever she stood nearby, she held his attention captive. And no wonder. The sight of this woman.
His heart punched his ribs. Without the wraith draining her, she exhibited pure vitality. Long black hair hung loose, gleaming. Her baby blues sparkled, and her cheeks glowed. The ruby glittered. She wore a clean vest that pushed her breasts together with a single button and a short skirt. Multiple daggers were strapped to her thighs—visible through slits each time she took a step.
“I guess we need to have a conversation now,” she said, looking anywhere but at Roux.
“I’m not ready to talk.” The words slipped from him unbidden, barely more than a growl and far different from what he’d meant to say. He wanted his mouth on hers. Consequences be damned.
“Well, what you are ready to do, you don’t get to do. Not with me, anyway.” Chin up, she sauntered over to shoulder him aside and peer outside. “Pick someone from your wannabe harem.”
Her inner armor was strapped on tight tonight. Perhaps he could strip her of it. How he loved when she softened. In those moments, she couldn’t hide her desire from him.
A desire she once claimed stemmed from thoughts of Laban. But what if it didn’t?
Roux positioned himself behind her and leaned forward, flattening his hands on the window’s frame. His body all but caged her in, and he loved it. “You sound jealous.” Was she?
She humphed and slowly pivoted to face him. “Warden, I’ve never been jealous a day in my life. But if it ever happens, you’ll be the first to know. Because my dagger will be buried hilt deep in your ball sack.”
He inserted his knee between her legs. They stared at each other, searching, searching. Soon panting. His cells became kindling, sparks erupting inside him. “Are you saying you wouldn’t care if I spent the night with someone else?” he asked with a silky tone. “Perhaps even multiple someones?”
“Care?” She snorted. “I welcome such an occurrence. In fact, I’m happy to pick another for you. Yeah, I’m liking this idea. We’re going to attend the party, you and I, and find ourselves a couple of bang buddies. You choose mine, I choose yours, and the madness between us will end.”
Sharp possessiveness sliced him, nearly unleashing a roar of denial that struggled against a fraying tether. He snapped his teeth at her, then nodded. “Very well.” If she wished to go this route, they would go this route. How far would she push it? “Pick a companion for me. Perhaps I’ll make proper use of this one.”
As she sputtered for a response, Roux wrapped his arms around her and flashed to the land below. The crowd had already doubled in size, clusters of women as far as the eye could see. Many were already drunk and dancing around a bonfire.
A storm continued to brew overhead, the wind growing noticeably colder. A thousand different scents clashed. Roux burrowed his nose in Blythe’s hair, breathing in the delectable fragrance of honeysuckle and rose. Mmm. Nothing better.
“We should get started,” she rasped, clutching his biceps.
“Yes.” Let her go? He didn’t think he could. “We should.”
She didn’t back away. His ribs squeezed tight. Whatever happened between them in the coming days, she must win the tournament. He could then escort her to Harpina and lock her up while he researched ways to cut out a phantom’s heart with trinite without cutting out a phantom’s heart with trinite. Maybe he would visit Nova, his home world. There, he could traverse the Hall of Secrets. A terrible, wonderful place where secrets had collected over the ages, each whispering from the walls. Surely someone somewhere had faced a similar dilemma and found the perfect solution.
There was a way to do this and ensure Blythe lived. There must be a way. What if he could claim her metaphorical heart instead of the literal one?
Of course, hadn’t he already cut out her figurative heart when he’d murdered her consort?
“Couple of ground rules,” she said, as he wrestled to remember their current topic of conversation. Even the crowd faded to the background. “When you’re selecting my evening lady caller, try to remember I prefer those who haven’t invaded Harpina.”
Roux flinched at the harsh admonition, but he still couldn’t bring himself to let her go. Despite the barb, she hadn’t stiffened in his arms. She seemed almost...absorbed by him.
“Noted.” His gaze dipped to her lips. Lush, soft, and cherry red. He swallowed. “What else?”
“I like the usual things, I guess.” She batted her lashes at him. “Sexy and strong with a sense of humor and a total obsession with me.”
Was this how she was when happy? Vibrant and full of life? Eager to tease and flirt? To tempt and lure?
“Lyla,” he rasped, and there was no stopping the movement of his hands. He dragged his fingers up and down her sides. Anytime he grazed a patch of bare skin, new goose bumps erupted across her limbs.
“Yes, Rue?” She grinned, then frowned. The grin reappeared a second later...only to fall again. Then it snapped back and lingered.
Warring inside herself, unsure what to welcome or fight with him? He knew the feeling! “I like sexy and strong as well. If she doesn’t rip out my organs, even better. Just in case you were wondering.”
Her frown reappeared and stayed put. She said, “Good to know. But do you think you can keep the sausage factory closed to the public for an hour? I’d like to reacquaint myself with the ladies free of your interference. To better select your perfect match, of course.”
In other words, she planned to check out the competition, plot against Roux, or trash-talk. Or any combination of the three. He heaved a heavy sigh. Forcing her to remain at his side wasn’t something he wanted to do. With this harphantom, free will mattered.
“Go,” he said, sliding his hands down to enjoy a final squeeze of her backside. “The sausage factory closed for maintenance as soon as you issued your threat.”
The smile returned, and he almost regretted his sudden bout of morals. “The Warden has jokes. How unexpected.”
“The Warden does not have jokes.” Not usually.
“Dang you. How is even your denial cute?”
Cute? “Do us both a favor and pick yourself for me, she-beast.” There was no stopping the words. “I will do bad things to get your hands on me again.” Or my hands on you.
“I—you—oh!” Frowning again, she pulled from his embrace one step at a time. A slow retreat, yet a retreat all the same. But even as she walked backward, putting more and more distance between them, she held his gaze. “I’d probably be doing the other women a favor if I did. You’re terrible at first, second, and third impressions.”
“The worst,” he agreed.
She ran her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I have a sinking suspicion you’re going to be amazing in bed.”
“The best.” He would not stop until she collapsed, utterly satisfied.
Black flickered in her eyes, there and gone, leaving soft baby blues. “I think I’ll hate you more if I pick myself for you. But I still might do it.” With that, she spun and bounded off.
A shout welled in the back of his throat. Muscles hardened, his leathers threatening to burst. He opened and closed his fists, considering flashing directly behind her, gathering her close, and returning her to their room.
The ease with which this female elicited a physical reaction frightened him. “Don’t drink anything,” he called. “People are already intoxicated. The brew is potent.”
“Ahhh. Is Grandpappy Rue worried about me?” she called back. “Don’t be. This isn’t my first rodeo, cowboy.”
The grace of her movements, even as she pushed and elbowed her way through the crowds, drew a moan from deep in his chest. But all too soon, he lost sight of her.
Roux curbed the urge to give chase, planting his feet in the grass and remaining at the edge of the congestion. If anyone attempted to harm her, she would take them out without problem. In that regard, he had no worries. The way she’d fought today had more than proven her capabilities. She wielded the kind of bravery and cunning too many forsook. Any warrior worth his wage would be overjoyed to fight at her side.
A group of leering, giggling shifters approached him, their drinks sloshing over the rims of their clay mugs. Roux set an internal countdown in his mind, concealed himself with shadows, and strode off. He would not miss his visit to Wraith Island.
He skirted the party’s perimeter, listening to gossip, searching, scanning. Catching sight of Blythe again, he automatically altered his path to draw closer. She stood with a harpy. A beauty with light hair—a skilled warrior he’d noticed on the battlefield. A true competitor who’d cut through her opponents as if they were nothing but sheets of paper.
The pair engaged in a serious conversation. Serious, but not heated. Meaning, no trash talk. Did they know each other? What did they discuss?
Blythe reached up to hook a lock of silken hair behind her ear, the motion pure elegance. He would never tire of watching her.
The two females shook hands. Agreeing to some kind of deal?
Why not secretly listen to the rest of the discussion?
Guilt sparked, but he ignored it. For the success of his blessing task, there was no line he wouldn’t cross. He’d never lied about that.
A slight tendril of aggression brought him to an abrupt halt. Instincts buzzed. Someone approached, intending to inflict harm. The Phoenix, judging by the level of heat wafting from her. Roux rolled his shoulders. Let her try something.
“Hi,” she said when she reached his side, striving for a pleasant tone but failing. “My name is Carrigan.”
“So?”
“So, you had better watch yourself, Astra. That’s my best friend you’re eye-stalking.”
He cast the Phoenix the briefest glance. Tall and toned, with red hair, fair skin, and amber eyes. On the battlefield, power had sizzled over her skin, flames barely banked.
“Your best friend is the pale-haired harpy? Someone you willingly agreed to pit yourself against in a battle to the death?” He shook his head. Roux would rather die himself than harm a fellow Astra. “I highly doubt that.”
“I’m not surprised by that. You aren’t nearly as smart as I am. Like any true friend, I’m going to help that pale-haired harpy, as you call her, get to the end and kill me. I’ll revive, protect her from you, then force you to escort both of us home.” Unshakable confidence laced her every word. “What do you think of my plan?”
“I like it.” Few flaws. Phoenixes almost always came back from the dead, and when they did, they were always stronger. “I would have liked it better if you’d kept me in the dark and executed a successful ambush.”
She smiled at him, a sensual curve of her mouth that would have hardened him in an instant if he’d been another male. As usual, a lone female affected his body, and it wasn’t this one. “Do you think I’m destined to fail because you’re an Astra? Some kind of superman, right? Well guess what, Mr. Kent? Every superhero has a weakness, and you are no different.”
“Do tell.”
“Your ego will be your defeat. What your beefed-up brain cannot comprehend is that I will win any battle against you by superior intellect alone. I had the foresight to consult an oracle before purposely coming to this realm, you see. I wanted to make sure I had a way out. And I do. I happen to know something you don’t.”
“Is your ego a weakness?” he asked conversationally.
She acted as if he hadn’t spoken. “I was told I would be one of two finalists left in a tournament to the death,” she said, smirking at him. “That I and my friend would escape, and a phantom would die or not, depending on my decisions.”
