Читать книгу Seducing the Jackal - Seressia Glass - Страница 7

Chapter Two

Consciousness rushed back with the subtlety of a freight train. The first thing Tia noticed was that her wrists were bound in front of her. Second, she wore only her thin cotton nightgown. Third, while she lay on a comfortable, richly appointed bed, the unadorned concrete walls and lack of windows made the room nothing more than a cell.

Kidnapped.

Tia fought to quell her panic, forcing the grogginess away so that she could think. She’d been taken from her home. Someone had to have had strong magic to break through her wards. She’d checked them thoroughly before going to bed. Not even another Daughter of Isis should have been able to unravel her protections without her knowledge. She hadn’t even felt a warning until after the wards had been breached. By the time she’d roused from sleep, it had been too late.

“I know you’re awake, witch.”

The voice, cold and harsh, stabbed at any lingering hope. Did he call her a witch because he knew she was one, or was it an epithet of some sort? If he knew she was an Isis witch, he would have gagged her. Since he hadn’t, it was a strong possibility her kidnapper had no idea who he’d taken.

A smile bent her lips. She’d make him regret that.

Tia struggled to an upright position on the mattress, twisting around until she could see the face of her captor. She could have tried using her Voice without facing him, but staring into another’s eyes always strengthened the compulsion. Besides, her power reserves were low since she hadn’t had time to replenish her magical energy. She didn’t know if she had enough strength to put him under her control long enough to break free, but she’d try.

She expected her captor to be sitting but he stood instead, blocking the door. He was a slab of a man; dressed in old work boots and black jeans so well-worn they had a charcoal sheen to them and showed every bit of the muscles in his long legs. A gray T-shirt stretched across his wide chest, made even tighter by the defined copper-skinned arms folded across it. A close-cropped goatee called attention to a soft mouth, probably the only soft part of him. It balanced the dark cap of tight waves, and the amber-whiskey-colored eyes that glared at her from beneath strong brows and above an even stronger nose. Despite his size, his build wasn’t that of a bodybuilder, more like that of an Olympic gymnast.

Presented with such a visual feast, her base magic stirred, but not enough to quell the renewed fear that stalked up her spine. She didn’t need to see the sigil on his T-shirt or the gold Anubis-head pendant that hung on a thick chain around his neck to know who—or rather, what—her kidnapper was. She also knew that if she couldn’t control him with her Voice, she had no other options.

Locking her gaze to his, she summoned her power. “Release me, dog.”

The block of a man dropped his arms, his expression blank. He took a step forward, leaned over her...then burst out laughing. “You thought you could enslave and insult me in the same breath? I removed your gag just to see—or rather, hear—what you can do. Try again, witch.”

Dammit! Like “witch” was an endearment, coming from one of the Sons of Anubis. She knew her freedom hinged on her ability to use her power. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the time or the inclination to recharge her base magic.

Regret soured her stomach. What would her coven sisters think if they could see her now, as defenseless as they’d always thought? What about her grandmother?

Thinking about Aya, the high priestess of the coven, had Tia reaching deep inside to her magical core. She stared up at the jackal and put every bit of compulsion she could into her Voice. “Help me escape to safety.”

Power filled the room. It rolled over the man. His eyes widened as the power of her Voice hit him. Again, he swayed toward her. Then he stepped back, shaking himself hard the way a dog dashed water from its coat. “You have magic, I’ll give you that. But if you think you can control me, think again.”

Tia cursed under her breath. If the jackal was immune to her compulsion, that meant he had magical strength in his own right. Still, he had kidnapped her, not killed her. Obviously, he wanted something from her. Something only a Daughter of Isis could provide. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“I am Markus Grant, and I lead the Sons of Anubis who have chosen to call this town home,” he told her, his eyes glinting. “Those who still hold to our sacred duty to keep the Lost Ones where they belong, away from the land of the living.”

Tia refrained from rolling her eyes. Pretty speech, even if it was a lie. She knew the Sons of Anubis had abandoned their “sacred duty” centuries ago, leaving a bloody trail of broken Daughters of Isis in their wake. Without the jackals’ help, they hadn’t been able to protect the funerary temples or much of anything else, and had to abandon their home, their land.

The news that a jackal clan not only lived in Atlanta, but also thrived enough to take on the Lost Ones, disturbed her. Her grandmother’s warning slithered through her mind. Aya had told her to be extra vigilant when she left the protection of the coven, with good reason. Jackals tended to kill first and ask questions never. She’d thought she’d taken every precaution. Now she knew better. How long had the Sons of Anubis been in Atlanta? Had they somehow tracked her circle, followed them here?

She mustered what little defiance she had. “If you think I’m going to tell you where my sisters are, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t care where the Daughters of Isis are holed up,” he retorted. “At least, not at the moment. What I care about right now is you, Tia Jensen.”

Air seized in her lungs, causing her voice to squeak past her lips. “How do you know my name?”

“I know more than your name. I know that you’re a physical therapist with an exclusive client list. I know that you are affiliated with the Golden Lotus Circle of the Daughters of Isis, but you’ve been a solitary practitioner for the last four years.”

Tia stared at the man before her, fighting to suppress her fear. It flooded her nerves, pushing her magic, the power of Voice, further away. He’d stalked her. This jackal had hunted her like a wolf chasing down a rabbit. “What do you want with me?”

“Your powers.” His gaze raked the length of her, making her aware of the thin excuse for a nightgown that she wore. Her ears burned with embarrassment. The burn scalded her body in impotent rage as he half turned his back to her, as if implying that she wasn’t much of a threat to him. Considering how easily he’d breached her wards and taken her from her own bed, he was right, and it made her even angrier. She tamped it down. Getting angry wouldn’t help her escape, only hamper it. She needed to remain calm to keep her magic at the ready.

He gave her a sidelong glance. “I had hoped you’d be powerful enough to be of use to me, but if you’re not...”

He didn’t finish his statement, but he didn’t have to. Tia knew exactly what the jackals did to those they found useless.

Shame stung her eyes. Her coven sisters had thought her useless when she’d failed to manifest greater power at the onset of puberty as the seventh Daughter of a seventh Daughter was supposed to do. Hurt by the rejection, she’d distanced herself from the other Daughters by going to college, staying in on-campus housing until she completed her studies, then putting a down payment on a modest house. She’d been making a solitary life for herself, but home was still in the circle with the other Daughters of Isis, even if they didn’t think so.

“You say that you hunt the Lost Ones.” She wasn’t sure if she believed that, but she’d play along if it garnered her freedom. “Do you want my help fighting them?”

Again the laugh. “I’ve seen your defensive spells—or lack of them. I doubt your fighting skills are much better.”

Anger flooded her. “Your pack of dogs broke through my wards and into my house in the dead of night like a navy SEAL team storming an enemy hideout. You drugged me, bound me and brought me here before I could blink. What can one Daughter of Isis do against a pack of jackals?”

“For one thing, not rely on magic to save her,” he shot back. “Which you should have known, given how weak your magic is.”

“I. Am. Not. Weak!”

* * *

Markus’s eyes widened as the witch’s power punched him, causing him to rock back on his heels. Not so weak after all. Obviously she needed her passions provoked in order to fully tap into her power. Something told him provoking her passions wouldn’t be a problem.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when weeks of reconnaissance had finally come to fruition, but this woman wasn’t it. She appeared young, though that was hardly an indication of age for their long-lived races. He knew she still had a healthy student loan balance, and her driver’s license stated she was mid-twenties. It was unusual for a witch so young to live outside of the safety of a coven, which was why he’d expected someone older, wiser, more of a challenge. Had she been thrown out of the Lotus Circle because she wasn’t powerful enough?

No, he’d felt her power when she’d gotten angry. It was there, waiting for her to tap into it. Maybe she was bait, living away from the protective circle of witches in order to trap the Sons of Anubis. His hand lifted, fingers wrapping around the gold Anubis-head talisman all adult jackals wore. Let the witches try. He and his jackals had survived and would continue to do so. No sacrifice would be too great.

He stared at the witch. If would be a shame if she was part of a trap. Women like her had always been a weakness to him—long-legged, thick in the thighs and full in the chest; eyes sloe, dark, fathomless and large in her copper-skinned face. Just the sort of woman he would pursue if he had the time or the inclination.

He had neither. Not with Lost Ones walking the night. Certainly not with someone targeting the Sons of Anubis. Not with two of his clan brothers so close to death just down the hall.

Markus fisted his hands. This Isis witch was a tool, a means to an end, nothing more. He couldn’t think about his need, how long it had been since he’d enjoyed a woman. He had to think about his clan, their survival and their eternal fight against the undead. Not the need that spiked through him every time he felt her magic.

Angry with himself for being distracted, he bared his teeth at her. “For both our sakes, I hope you aren’t weak. If you’re weak, then you’re of no use to me. And if you’re no use to me...”

“Jackal, please.” She rolled her eyes at him. “You know, threats tend to make people not inclined to help you. Just saying.”

“You’re right,” he told her. Surprise lit her face, and he clenched his jaw against the sensual punch to the gut. “But what you don’t seem to understand is that I’m not threatening you. I’m just letting you know what will happen if you don’t do what I want. Just saying.”

Her chin lifted. “What exactly do you want?”

He pulled a blade from the sheath strapped to his thigh.

She recoiled, hands coming up defensively.

“Relax. I’m not going to kill you.”

He didn’t say “yet,” but she flinched as if he had.

Good. She didn’t need to know that he’d only killed in defense of himself or his clan, or in his sacred duty to Anubis. What she did need to know was just how serious he was about keeping his clan safe.

Reaching over, he grabbed her wrists and slid the blade beneath the nylon tie that bound her. His fingertips tingled against her skin. She trembled as his thumb stroked over her pulse, but he didn’t know if the reaction was due to his touch or the dagger. “Hold still.”

A sharp jerk and he freed her. She immediately rubbed her wrists, staring up at him. “What now?”

“Come with me.” He held a hand out to her just to see what she would do.

Continuing to chafe sensation back into her hands, she ignored his and stood on her own. “This way, I assume?” she asked, reaching for the knob.

Impressed despite himself, Markus rapped on the door. The witch stumbled back a step as a guard opened the door onto a long hallway decorated with depictions of Lord Anubis in his various funerary roles and the journey through Duat, the Underworld.

The witch stopped short. Her gaze roamed the walls, taking in each scene, every minute detail. “Amazing,” she whispered as her hand came up to trace the closest brightly rendered image. “The details, the colors—it’s beautiful!”

Markus allowed a swell of pride. “We tried to recreate the images as accurately as possible, even sourcing as many of the original pigments as we could.” His fingers traced the graceful lines of a lotus flower. “We wanted a remembrance of what we’d lost. Luckily, our clan has never forgotten our past or our purpose.”

He looked down at her, anger surging again. “Why don’t I introduce you to the artist?”

Without waiting for an answer, he wrapped a hand around her bicep and dragged her down the hall. Four other doors flanked the hall, but only two had guards stationed outside—the one they’d left and the one they approached, second from the end. The hall then veered sharply right, opening onto a large open room holding a pool table, a massive flat-panel TV, bar and other entertainments before ending at the stairs leading to the upper level.

He stopped at the second-to-last door, nodding to the jackal standing guard at the end of the hall. The guard opened the door, allowing Markus to shove Tia inside. She stiffened at his treatment, then gasped as she took in the contents of the room. Three strides in, she could see several cells. Jackals occupied two of them. One lay curled on a futon, his upper half human and the lower half misshapen jackal. The other, fully human, lay on his side, eyes wide and unblinking, minute twitches jerking his body. Markus could smell the sour notes of sickness choking the air and the acidic-ash burn of dark magic.

Tia cried out, rushing toward the closest cage. Markus snagged an arm around her waist, preventing her from reaching the bars. She frowned up at him, moisture shimmering on her lashes. “What’s wrong with them? I know you can’t take them to a hospital, but to keep them like this is beyond cruel—it’s inhumane! Where is your healer?”

Her outraged horror pleased him as much as her tears surprised him. This particular Isis witch, at least, hadn’t cast the spell that had felled his men. “They’ve been cursed, somehow,” he told her, deliberately harsh. He didn’t try to release her, and she didn’t try to pull away. “If we knew how exactly, we’d know how to treat them. As for our healer, we no longer have one. She was one of the first to die.”

“Die? You have to do something!” she exclaimed, tugging free of his hold to grip the bars of the closest cage. “They’re suffering!”

“I did do something. I brought you here.”

A myriad of emotions flew across her expressive face, shock prevalent. Her lips twisted as she turned away from the cage and looked up at him. “You’ve just doomed your brothers, jackal. I can’t heal them.”

A cold, hard knot formed deep in his gut. “You can’t, or you won’t?”

If she heard the menace in his tone, she paid it no mind. “I can’t. I don’t know how.” She lowered her head, not enough to disguise the bitterness that filled her words. “Even if I knew how, I’m not strong enough. You should have shanghaied another Daughter.”

Something turned over deep inside him. It took a moment for him to recognize it as compassion. He almost reached out to her—to pat her shoulder, to stroke her hair—he didn’t know. Instead he forced his hand down, fisted it. He didn’t want to feel compassion for the witch, his enemy. He didn’t want to feel anything at all for her.

“You are a Daughter of Isis,” he barked, bringing his military training to bear. “There was a time when your kind served with the Sons of Anubis, worked to drive the dead back into Duat. You gave us spells to protect us, spells to arm us and spells to heal us. It is—or was—the duty of every Isis witch. Though we are enemies now, it is still part of you, part of your nature. Part of your magic. You can do this!”