Elijah, Page 2

  Too little, too late, he thought, with genuine sadness for the path the Demon females were choosing. Both were now spoiled, rotting beneath the breathless guise of their outer beauty. He didn’t need his genetically enhanced sense of smell to catch the vile odor of corruption eddying off their tanned flesh.

  Elijah fell forward, putting out a hand to try and brace himself and keep his face out of the dirt. Hopeless situation or not, he would not be remembered as being too easy a kill. His pride would not let him make that kind of an end. There were slain opponents sprawled in the dirt behind the considerably lessened circle that attested to his ferocity as he had tried to save his own life. Women or no, anyone who sought to murder him deserved what they got.

  He was aware of the others closing in around him. The stench of the dark magic that clung to the human sorceresses was overwhelming and unbearable. Energy crackled all around him as they played with their power. Blue arcs of electricity wriggled between them, almost like a macabre game of monkey in the middle. Elijah’s mouth pressed into a grim line as he understood what it meant to be the monkey in this particular case.

  The first bolt that leapt from the ring of women struck him in his spine, jolting him into a hard backward arch, his arms jerking to his sides, stretching the muscles of his broad chest and forcing blood to pour out of his wound. The flow came so heavy, so fast, that he felt the gushing heat of it drenching him right down the front of his clothing, the denim of his jeans saturating completely in all of an instant.

  He felt light-headed, dizzy, and strangely distant as the next bolt forced him to contort in another direction. He could smell the burning of his own flesh, amazed that it overpowered the reek of the magic-users. He tried to change, to find solace in the form of the wind he was so much a part of. If only he had the strength to metamorphose into even the littlest of breezes, they would no longer be able to harm him. But the time had passed for that. He had misjudged his situation and was now too wounded and too weak to concentrate on even the simplest of transformations.

  He cursed himself for being such a fool, for walking into this feminine trap. He had been the one warning all others that no one was safe so long as the defectors, Ruth and Mary, were at large and stirring up unrest in the underbelly of the human populace. Had he not been telling them for the past half year, since they had first realized the traitors’ betrayal, that anyone could be a victim of the duo’s intimate knowledge of the Demons, their individual importance, their power? Ruth, her dementia disguised as maternal love for a wounded daughter, knew so many names, so many facts. Indeed, she could lead these murderesses to each and every member of the Great Council.

  He would be but the first, Elijah realized, frustrated rage burning a second hole in his chest. Next would come the Enforcers, Gideon the Ancient medic, or perhaps Noah, the Demon King himself. And he would not be there to do his duty and protect them. Elijah thought about Jacob and Isabella, the Enforcers, who were the brand-new parents of a beautiful daughter who had her mother’s silky black hair and her father’s serious dark eyes.

  The Warrior Captain had been chosen to be one of the two who, besides her parents, would attend her naming ceremony. To be one of only two Demons in all this world to be given the honor of standing up as the angelic babe’s Siddah. It was the most precious distinction one friend could give to another. Near her sixteenth year, he would have begun the Fostering of the child, taking her into his home as if she were his own. He would have taught her the ways and morals of their people, guiding her as she learned how to use and control whatever great power she would be gifted with. This responsibility would be shared with only one other person, the child’s female Siddah. In this case, Magdelegna, the King’s own sister.

  Thinking of Legna brought him an even deeper pain. She was with child herself, about five months into term, and safe under the watchful eyes of her mate, Gideon. But what future would there be for both these innocents? Being hunted down? Destroyed? Treated like nothing more significant than the stray fly that needs a good, hard killing swat? Elijah grieved for the babes, blaming himself for not doing a better job of keeping himself safe and strong so that he could be their protector.

  The warrior felt blackness creeping across him, but it was as much from understanding that he had failed his people and his monarch as it was from the deadly loss of blood. He heard feminine laughter, contorted into an ugliness of killer joy, a sound no woman should ever make in her natural state, be she Nightwalker or human.

  Elijah finally collapsed, rolling onto his back in the grass until he was trying to focus on the stars above him. He was distantly aware of the wicked women toying with him, sending sadistically playful bolts of power through him. The black sky blurred into streaks of light and dark. The warmth of his blood seeped into the dried leaves and grasses beneath him. He had been calling the weather to him since he had been but thirteen years old. What he would not give in that moment for the simplicity of a rain shower. A final act of defiance, soaking the ground so any electricity sent into him would lash back onto his murderers.

  But he would not be able to have that last act of retribution. He had known infants stronger than he was in that moment. All he had left were his thoughts. He did not care if Ruth could read his emotions, possibly even his thoughts at her Elder age, though that was usually a talent found only in the males of her type. She was corrupted by her fractured mind and all the evil magic poisoning those she had decided to associate with. Usually, unexpected power came with such malignant associations.

  No. All Elijah cared about was the nature of the world he was going to leave behind him. To never again blow over miles and miles of untouched mountains and virgin beaches as the wind. To never wash himself and the world anew as the rain. To never drift slowly from heaven to earth with the random meanderings of snowflakes. To forever be deprived of the joy of these things made his heart rebel with despair and outrage. He opened his mouth to roar with the rage striking through him, but was beyond creating any sound. He forced himself to be satisfied with the screaming of his soul.

  To his wonder, Elijah heard the scream echo in the distance.

  It was a wild, savage thing. Unbelievably beautiful, and making him shiver as it vibrated across his nerves. He was succumbing to his own internal night, but the scream was repeated and he found himself fighting to hear it, to understand what it meant. The cold of his body was replaced with an inexplicable flush of heat and he felt his senses trying to return to him, to work for him, trying with every last available cell to hold on to that primal and stunning sound.

  But he was too close to his death. With frustration clawing through him, he succumbed.

  CHAPTER 1

  The catamount screamed across the expanse of the forest meadow, making the circle of women forget their dying prey as inexplicable fear coursed through them. Humans were born with instincts like any other species, and they knew as surely as they knew their names that it was not wise for them to remain in the path of the beast that made such a sound. It did not matter that they were a power unto themselves. Nothing could circumvent that inbred terror of prey fearing a predator.

  The necromancers backed away, eyes wide and magic blossoming forth as they began to levitate from the ground, hoping height would provide a sense of safety they simply could not feel with both feet on the ground. When it was still not enough, they could only ease their panicking hearts with a full retreat, flying away and above the trees, fleeing for home or any place they associated as being one of true safety.

  Some of the female hunters were lucky enough to be remembered by the fleeing necromancers and were levitated into retreat with them. Those who were not so lucky took to heel and bolted wildly into the tree line, taking only a minute before they were nothing but an amusing, distancing sound of crashing underbrush.

  The Demon females were not so easily affected. The younger one was a Demon of the Earth. The creatures of nature were hers to empathize with and control. Though she was just a fledg
ling, weak compared to the great Elders of her kind, charming animals was a rudimentary skill. She reached out with her mind, trying to touch the thoughts of the approaching predator. Her fair brow furrowed in confusion, though, when the puma proved unusually unreceptive to her coaxing thoughts. The great golden cat broke through the tree line, stalking through the deep grasses in a hunting circle, the rotation of her shoulder blades as she walked both mesmerizing and frightening, her golden eyes fixed on the two females who yet remained in the clearing.

  The cat could scent the massive amounts of blood spilled upon the ground. The scent called deeply to the animal’s basest instincts. It attracted the catamount with an almost singular lure. Usually she would have avoided approaching other predators, but that blood scent was too powerful to resist. She stalked closer and closer, making the young blond Demon break a sweat as she struggled to touch the animal mind so thoroughly hazed over with the delights of blood scent.

  “Mama, I cannot reach it. It will not listen to me.”

  “Never mind. We are done here.”

  Ruth tightened her hold on her child, and with a snap of displaced air, the two Demon females teleported to safety.

  The great golden cat raised her head, stopping mid-step, testing the air as the stench of the invading women faded. The bloodied body lying in the center of the clearing was the only remaining scent of any strength, and the cat began to advance on the hapless victim.

  She was so close to the unconscious creature, she could touch her muzzle to him. She did so, testing his scent. Under the blood was the unmistakable musk of maleness. It was a rich, heady thing, eliciting a speculative purr from the beautiful cat. She lowered her head to the largest of wounds, her tongue lapping roughly over the sweet tang of his blood. Her purr deepened, and the lioness opened her powerful jaws, closing them over the male’s throat. All it would take was a single snap and she would finish him.

  Suddenly the cat retreated, shaking her golden head as if coming out of a spell. She shook again, like a dog trying to shed water. As she shook, her fur began to peel away, stripping off in long coils until, with a final shudder, the beast became a woman, dressed only in a gold and moonstone collar and foot upon foot of long, golden hair.

  Siena, marked by that richly appointed collar as the Queen of the Lycanthropes, took in a deep, calming breath, trying to ignore the urgent craving that tasting the male’s blood had inspired in her. She knew this Demon, knew his name and his import to the Demon King. But she also knew that Demon blood was like nothing else in the world. It was rich and full of the power they possessed. However, though she was sometimes more beast than woman, she did not need blood to survive as the Vampires did. She was the most powerful of all her people, and this was a craving she could overcome.

  If only there were not so much of it invading her senses.

  But she needed to think more clearly, needed to act. As she knelt in the deep grasses trying to control her baser nature, the Demon warrior known to her as Elijah lay dying—nearly dead, in fact. It was a startling sight. She had battled beside this warrior a mere six months ago, knew his skill and power and undeniable strength. How had one such as he come to this?

  Siena reached out with a tentative hand, her fingers threading through long golden locks not too unlike her own, though his were a whiter blond than her more purely filigree-colored hair, and only shoulder length where hers covered her entire torso. It was her hair that she reached for next, pulling one long tress between her teeth, her canines rending through the inch-thick coil of silken gold. The lock curled around her wrist and forearm, as if unwilling to leave the body it had been cleaved from. She tossed back her head, ignoring the droplets of blood that sprinkled from the torn ends of the severed strands that yet remained attached to her scalp. She leaned over the Demon, pushing open the once-fine silk shirt he wore, licking her full lips slowly as she took the coil of golden hair and let it curl like a braided carpet, around and around, until it covered the wound in its entirety.

  Blood immediately seeped into the gold filaments, blending with the droplets already welling out of their severed ends. The wound instantly began to coagulate, the hair turning into a red and gold bandage that stayed fast to the gaping hole, plugging it quite effectively.

  She could do nothing about his blood loss at the moment and could not leave him where he was lest his attackers decide to return and finish him off. His breathing was so shallow, so weak, that if not for her keen hearing she would not have been able to mark it. Luckily, she knew these woods well and could find some excellent shelter. Then she would see what she could do to aid him.

  What the Demon was doing in Lycanthrope territory would be something to discover at a later date. Right now, she had to get him away from the approaching dawn. Though sunlight did not char either of their species with the agonizing pain and the promise of death in the way it did Vampires, it was no friend to any Nightwalker race. For Demons, its effect was like that on the nocturnal cat, making them feel fat, lazy, and lethargic. Many Demons actually loved the invading warmth of the sun, finding the daylight to be the best time to succumb to comfort and sleep. Unfortunately, this reaction was often an involuntary one, making them desire nothing but sleep to the point of distinct vulnerability. In this case, any further weakness caused by the light could depress the warrior’s autonomic systems completely, finishing the task his attackers had begun.

  For the Lycanthrope, it was a little bit more hostile. A changeling became ill in the bright light of day, a literal version of sun poisoning. Since they were a species inherently guided by moon phases, it seemed to make sense that the sun would feel unnatural to them. Being part cat herself, Siena was doubly inclined to remain active in the dark of night when she was most powerful, and to find rest and shelter out of the reach of daylight when she was susceptible to its effects. She did enjoy a higher resistance to the sun than most if she kept mostly to the shade, but it was not something she enjoyed doing.

  Siena needed to decide the best and shortest route to reach where she would be able to care for him, and the best way to get them both to that place of concealment. Her people were too far to travel to, and she sensed none but herself in the area. It would be a good choice to find aid, a place where she would find a little assistance in his care, but it was not a logical option given the clear urgency of the situation. The ideal alternative of taking him to his own people, well, that was an even farther-fetched possibility considering they were even farther away than her people were. Besides, the most renowned Demon healer in all of the world was at her court at the moment.

  The warrior was not a slim man. He was built in every way a warrior needed to be built to maintain his strength and prowess. The Captain of such warriors…well, he was of a most impressive stature, to say the least. Though Siena was tall and quite strong in her own right, his biceps could very well be larger than her muscular thighs.

  The distance from help worried her most because the warrior needed medical aid and she doubted she would be able to give him anything near what he would require. He was an entirely different species and probably not as receptive to Lycanthropic ways of healing. It could very well be the equivalent of giving a human patient to the care of a veterinarian. The veterinarian medic could be at the height of his expertise, but even his best care could do more harm than good.

  Her people had been at war with the warrior’s race far longer than they had been at peace with them. Their knowledge of Demon anatomy was fairly limited, and even that information was restricted to which vital organ would make for the quickest death. With peace only fourteen years old between their races, who would have thought to trade medical knowledge? As it was, they had only recently traded ambassadors.

  The Queen rose to her feet, her form lengthening into a proud and Amazonian stature. Nude, as she was at present, or fully clothed, there would never be a doubt as to her sex. She was golden skinned and lushly curved in spite of the obvious cut of her muscular, fit body. She was a hun
tress and warrior in her own right, a proud and pure Diana, and it radiated from every inch of her. However, the contradiction of a head full of thick, golden, spiraling curls that tumbled down to the middle of her thigh, and the bold curves of her sex made her appear no less feminine than Aphrodite herself. Her enigmatic way of smiling and the natural flirtation in her stride only added to the imagery.

  The Lycanthrope goddess seemed to make a decisive choice on her next course of action as her sharp, golden gaze took in all of her surroundings one last time. Soon after, she shook her head again, the long coils of her hair coming to life as she did so. They began to slip silkily over her skin, wrapping her almost lovingly in their soft length. The spreading coat of hair became fur once more, only this time the form she became was half cat, half woman.

  This was the shape of the Werecat, Siena’s third and final form. Tall and beautifully shaped as the woman she was, but with the fur and claws, ears and face, and whiskers and tail of the mountain lion. Half woman, half cat, with the best of both worlds at her disposal. And that included the strength that would be required for her to lift the warrior into her arms.

  The warrior, she noted to herself as she began to gather up his dead weight into her cradling grasp, was brawny and well muscled, weighing in significantly for his height of over six feet, even if he had not been completely unconscious. He had remarkably broad shoulders, almost too wide for her to encompass with her arm. There wasn’t an ounce of lighter fat marring his trim waist and thighs. It was all the heavy thickness of a finely honed physique, muscled from head to toe, no part wasted, nothing of his structure resembling softness.