Bethany's Rite (15 page)

He had asked her what she wanted, his heart shining in his
eyes. At that moment, she saw a deep need, a desperate hope he had never shown
her before. The flash of relief when she said she wanted him. The almost
instant doubt, and then the feral victory that shimmered around a core of love
when she repeated herself. A sigh of contentment slipped past her lips. Wyc
might not realize it yet, but he was falling in love with her.

She covered his heart with her hand. Kissed his chest and
rested her head against him. She’d be happy sleeping next to this man for the
rest of her life. It might have taken two Predators and a Slayer attack to
bring her here, but this was where she belonged. She was more certain of that
than of the sun coming up tomorrow morning.

“I love you, Wyc Kilth,” she whispered.

Wyc twisted away from her with a curse and sat up. Her eyes
flew open to find him staring down at her in horrified shock. Before she could
say anything, he rolled off the bed, picked her clothes off the floor and
tossed them to her.

“Get dressed. We need to get back.”

Bethany stared at her clothes. Hurt. Angry. And completely
mortified that she had just told the world’s biggest jerk she was in love with
him. Whatever the emotion had been in his eyes earlier, she had obviously and
grossly misunderstood it.

Damn him. Couldn’t he give her even ten minutes to bask in
all the good feelings that were supposed to accompany earth-moving,
soul-shattering sex?

She reached for her clothes and yanked them on. Maybe she
should have her own eyes checked. Maybe she was going crazy. Seeing things that
weren’t there. Or maybe she was simply delusional. Hell, maybe insanity was a
hallmark of the Mystic bloodline.

She looked around for her other shoe. She hadn’t seen it
since it had been ripped off her foot by the Slayer. Scanning the room, she
found it in Wyc’s hand. She reached for it, but he shook his head and knelt
down in front of her to slide it on her foot. Once it was on, he held her foot
and the shoe in his hand for a long moment, just staring at them. Like he was
memorizing her shoe size or something.

Abruptly he stood and headed out the door. She followed,
stopping to pick up her pocketknife, fold the blade down and stuff it into her
jeans’ pocket. Wyc was on the porch, putting on the clothes that someone had
left in a neatly folded pile outside the door.

When he was finished, he gestured for her to move out ahead
of him. The severe lines and planes of his face weren’t softened in the
moonlight. His expression could have been cut from marble.

As she clambered down the steps, she paused only long enough
to throw him an angry glare. “You really,
really
suck at the whole
afterglow thing. I’m beginning to have serious doubts you even know what the
damn word means.”

A long line of virulent curses streamed through Wyc’s mind.
There were more important things than afterglow, and the foremost was keeping
his mate safe no matter how she interpreted his motives.

When Bethany told him that Myrra had given her instructions
to leave the safety of the house, razor-sharp rage sliced through his gut, the
frozen shards of betrayal cutting deep. Demons from his past rose up to crush
him with their arsenal of hate, grief and blind rage.

His first reaction had been instant denial. He wanted
Bethany to be lying. Some part of him hoped she was. Because if she wasn’t,
Myrra had betrayed him and sent Bethany into danger.

If Myrra had turned on them, a lot of the recent
“coincidences” would make sense. His captain moved within the inner circles of
Ilyrian nobility easily enough to meet Rordyc’s suspicions of a highly placed
traitor.

He needed to confront his captain, but first, he needed to
catch up with his mate.

Bethany was pissed. Really,
really
pissed. He didn’t
need to touch her mind to know she was working up a mad of hurricane force.
Each step away from the cabin seemed to fuel her anger. She was literally
stomping along the lakeshore back toward the house with her back stiff,
shoulders thrown back, and her hands swinging in tight fists by her side. And
all because he hadn’t held her long enough after fucking her to near oblivion.

He knew what afterglow was, damn it. Knew it was important
to a woman, and he’d like nothing more than to lay with her for hours after
making love, whisper things against her skin that made her sigh. Stroke her
body until she was soothed to sleep…or demanding to be made love to again.

His eyes dropped to her ass. Even her mad-as-hell walk
didn’t detract from the sexy way she moved. She hadn’t even asked him for an
explanation of why he had pulled away so abruptly. Not that he would have told
her anything—yet. But it bothered him that she might think he was the kind of asshole
who used women for sex without another thought. He’d never do that to her.

Yes, he’d done that in the past to other women. But he’d
always been up front with them. They all knew he was matched and with everyone
but his mate, sex was sex, nothing more. No expectations other than mutual
pleasure—and he’d always made damn sure it was mutual—no commitments and no
emotional attachments. The only one who hadn’t taken what he said at face value
was Myrra’s sister. As soon as he realized that, he’d broken things off
immediately. And still it had been too late.

In front of him, Bethany stumbled over a rock. His hand shot
out to steady her, but she had already jerked herself up and was moving on. She
was too tired to be making the trek back to the house. It wasn’t far, less than
three miles, but she was exhausted.

He would offer to carry her, but had a feeling that would
only get him another scathing remark. Her anger was hot enough to get her the
rest of the way back under her own steam. And if she kept up this pace, they’d
arrive sooner than anyone would expect.

That was good. He needed to catch his team unaware.
Especially his captain.

Bethany cursed as her foot caught on a root. They had turned
away from the lake now and were following the path deep through the woods that
ended close to the garage.

She yanked her foot back, but the shoelace tangled on the
root and she lost her balance. She went down, landing on one arm and her hip.
With another vicious curse, she tried to kick her foot free.

Wyc bent down and unhooked her shoelace. He reached for her
hand to help her up. She ignored him and pushed herself up.

Brushing at her jeans and her arm, she kept her eyes
averted. “If you really want to help me,” she said, “you can keep your damn
hands to yourself.”

Turning her back on him, she continued down the path at a
near run.

“Bethany, slow down.” At least by the lake the moonlight had
shed some illumination to see by. But here under the trees, it was too dark to
move quickly without taking a chance on getting hurt.

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she broke into a flat-out
run. He took off after her, getting whacked up the side of his head by a
low-lying limb for his trouble.

“Damn it, Bethany. You’re going to fall and break your
neck.”

“Good. Then I won’t have to deal with you anymore, and you
can go back to wherever you came from and find someone else to fuck over.”

She didn’t slow, even when the sleeve of her sweatshirt
snagged on a bush. With a fierce tug, her shirt ripped but she pulled free.

He had been within an arm’s length of reaching her when he
heard the fabric tear. The bush that had caught Bethany snapped back and hit
him in the face and chest, its thorns digging into his own shirt and skin. With
a growl, he yanked the branch away, too mad to care about the barbs biting into
his hands.

Bethany had just broken into the clearing when he was
finally able to put his hands on her. He grabbed her by the arm and roughly
swung her around to face him. She glared up at him, fury snapping in her eyes
even as she frantically blinked back tears. Heated words died in his throat,
and his anger left in a whoosh. His shoulders sagged and his grip eased.

“Well, shit,” he sighed in disgust. He couldn’t argue
against her tears. Couldn’t even remember what he was about to yell at her for.
His only thought was how to keep those tears from falling. If even one tracked
down her cheek, it would kill him. He already felt guilty as hell for the way
he had treated her earlier when he had believed that she had tried to escape
him. If she started to cry, she’d totally undo him.

The only warning he got was a sudden narrowing of her eyes.
He was able to turn just enough to keep her knee from connecting with his
groin, though it hit high and hard on the inside of his thigh.

“I told you to keep your damn hands to yourself,” she hissed
and twisted out of his hold. She turned and fled around the garage and into the
house.

He started to go after her, but was stopped when Amdyn
stepped into his path.

“Get out of my fucking way,” Wyc said, not waiting for him
to move before attempting to go around him.

“That can wait,” Amdyn replied. He adjusted his position to
block Wyc’s advance.

“The hell it can.” Wyc felt fury build in him again and
welcomed its rise. His muscles tensed and his shoulders hunched aggressively,
ready to beat the shit out of his oldest cousin. He sure as hell needed to beat
the shit out of someone.

Rordyc stepped from the shadows and stood beside Amdyn. “We
have a problem,” he said.

“Take a number.”

“Jordyn found his missing man,” Amdyn said. “He’s dead.”

Wyc let his aggression cool slightly. “When?”

“He was found less than an hour ago,” Amdyn said. “We were
on our way to get you. Evidence suggests he was the one who disabled the alarm
and then was killed by a Slayer.”

“Evidence suggests?” Wyc kept his voice low enough to float
no further than the distance between him and his cousins.

“That’s what I said.” Amdyn’s voice was flat. Serious.

Wyc looked from Amdyn to Rordyc. Both wore the distant and
hard expression of a soldier in full warrior mode. Giving away nothing except
the willing intensity to fight to the death and making damn sure that death was
the death of their enemy.

He knew his cousins well. The simple absence of emotion
revealed all he needed to understand that his problems with Bethany would have
to wait.

Rordyc and Amdyn knew the importance of a mate. Of finding
and keeping your mate. Of getting her to the place of willingly completing the
Matching Ritual. The only thing that would trump that was ensuring your mate’s
safety.

For whatever reason, neither one of them believed the
evidence regarding Jordyn’s team member. This wasn’t the place to discuss it.
Not here in the open, where they might be overheard. He had some evidence
himself he wanted to put on the table.

“Where’s Myrra?” he asked.

“Perimeter patrol,” Rordyc answered.

Wyc gave a curt nod and headed inside. “Contact her. I want
her here. Now.”

“You don’t think a Slayer killed him. Why?” Wyc asked. After
making sure Bethany was safe in their room­—showering and still grumbling—and
charging Shy with keeping an eye on her, he joined Rordyc and Amdyn.

They had taken seats in what would have been termed the
library if a realtor had been giving prospective buyers a tour. But since
Rordyc had furnished the room, there wasn’t a book in sight. Leather couches,
leather chairs, leather ottomans and a miniature refrigerator holding bottles
of his favorite beer and several types of cola took up most of the space in the
large room. A big screen, wall-mounted plasma TV, DVD player, stereo, several
game systems and built-in shelves stocked with movies and video games filled
one entire wall. Rordyc got bored easily.

“You’ve seen a Slayer attack before?” Amdyn asked.

Wyc nodded. Slayer attacks were brutal, vicious. The carnage
left behind was sickening and, once seen, could not be forgotten.

Cirryc and Shy had found the missing man a half mile from
his post, his flesh torn and slashed into a nearly unrecognizable mass.

“Have you ever known a Slayer to stay with a body after it’s
killed it just to mangle it? Especially when that body’s not the prime target?”

Wyc raised his eyebrows. Rordyc picked up where Amdyn left
off.

“It’s impossible to tell exactly which injury was the
killing blow, but one thing is certain, whatever—or whoever—killed him
continued tearing him to shreds long after Tunyn was dead.”

“And,” Amdyn said, “he was half buried.”

“What?” Wyc sat forward, rested his elbows on his knees. If
he stretched what he knew about Slayers, there might be a small chance, a very
small chance, he could believe that the animal had torn the man to pieces in a
blood frenzy after delivering the killing blow. But to stay and bury its
victim? No.

A Slayer was given a scent and pursued that scent to the
death. It would destroy anything that got in its way, but it wouldn’t stay and
try to bury the evidence of the attack when the hunt was still on.

“Are you sure?”

Amdyn nodded. Rordyc looked insulted that he had even asked.

“Who else suspects it wasn’t a Slayer killing?”

“No one.” Rordyc leaned back and spread his arms over the
back of the couch he was sitting in the middle of. “Shy and Cirryc brought
Tunyn back. The condition of his body and the timing of the attack left no
doubt in anyone else’s mind. Except perhaps Myrra’s,” he added as an
afterthought.

Electricity skittered over Wyc’s skin. “Why Myrra?”

Rordyc shrugged, but the intensity in his eyes told Wyc he
wasn’t taking anything for granted. “Nothing she said. Actually, probably more
of what wasn’t said.”

“Explain.”

His sharp command increased the already nerve-snapping
tension in the room. Amdyn crossed his arms over his chest and focused a
hostile glare on him.

“Is there something you need to tell us?” Amdyn asked.

Wyc ignored him, kept his gaze on Rordyc. “Why do you think
Myrra knew Tunyn wasn’t killed by a Slayer?”

“She didn’t ask any questions when Cirryc and Shy brought
him in. Just stood in the background and listened. Watched.”

“It was Jordyn’s man. His job to deal with the details of
the death,” Wyc said.

“True. But she wasn’t listening as a friend to the deceased
or as a fellow soldier. She was listening as Captain Lansyr. Watching
everyone’s reaction. And she traded out with Cirryc to run the patrol tonight.”

A sharp knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Wyc answered before Amdyn could ask his question
again. Both his cousins knew more was up than he was telling them. But there
were things even they didn’t come between.

Myrra stepped into the room, but stopped when she saw all
three men. Then her gaze settled on Wyc. Her clear blue eyes bleak, but
determined.

Without a word, she walked into the room and stopped at the
coffee table before him. Pushing her right sleeve up, she unclipped the thin
gold dagger bound to the underside of her forearm. She placed it on the table
and took a step back, body rigid and head held high.

Neither one of his two cousins could stop the shock her
actions gave them from momentarily showing on their faces.

“Amdyn, Rordyc, I’d like you to leave us.”

Though clearly unhappy with his request, both left without
protest.

Once the door had closed behind his cousins, Wyc said,
“You’re resigning your command?”

“I sent her away.” Emotion flashed in her eyes. “But I
swear, Wyc, on my blood as a Keeper, it was only after the report had come in
that every Slayer had been killed.”

Wyc’s fingers dug into the leather arms of the chair. Apart
from a very few individuals, Myrra was closer to him than anyone. Closer even
than most of his family.

“Why?”

“Your Guardian is nearly expired. She didn’t want what you
offered her. Nor does she understand our country, care about our people or the
importance of our mission. She didn’t deserve you.” She drew in a long,
deliberate breath, before releasing it with her next statement. “She still
doesn’t.”

Anger roiled in Wyc’s gut. Never in a thousand years would
he have thought his captain would betray him. If he hadn’t been here to witness
her confession, he would never have believed it.

“Your life has been your duty to your country,” she said. “I
have always respected that. Understood it.

“When Bethany was finally found, you were so close to being
released from the Matching obligation placed on you by the Elders and Prophets.
I wanted you to have a chance at real happiness with a mate of your choosing,
and I knew you wouldn’t if she stayed.”

Though Myrra’s stiff posture had held through her
declaration of guilt, she had stared straight ahead at an indeterminate spot
over his left shoulder. Had not once met his gaze after resigning her
commission. An automatic admission when an officer voluntarily relinquished his
qauntar
, the traditional—and deadly—dagger presented by a royal at the
formal recognition ceremony. He had presented Myrra’s to her seven years ago.

He let the silence stand between them for a long moment
before he asked, “Is that all?”

She inclined her head. Looked him in the eyes. Did not
attempt to hide the regret there. “I would never have intentionally put Bethany
in harm’s way. I made a mistake out my devotion to you. But, it was a mistake.
One I will never forgive myself for.”

His eyes narrowed to mere slits. Hours ago, he would have
trusted this woman with his life. Now he didn’t know what to believe. “Did you
attempt to get rid of Bethany because I rejected your sister?” That the
question even had to be asked cut through him like a knife.

Myrra’s eyes widened. “No. After everything…” she let her
words trail off. Shook her head. “I only wanted to see you happy. For once. But
when you went after her, I realized how wrong I had been.” Pain etched deep
furrows between her eyes. “The one person you have a chance of loving, I had
sent away.

“Bethany is your choice. As a soldier or civilian, I will
defend her with my life. I would have protected her against the Sleht
regardless.”

The remorse she felt at her actions was evident in her
voice, her expression. He almost believed she was sincere. “Tell me about the
Slayer attack.”

Immediately, Myrra snapped into Captain Lansyr and full
military mode. With clipped, authoritative words, she said, “I don’t believe it
was a Slayer that killed Tunyn. Nor do I believe Tunyn disabled the perimeter
alarm, though I can’t prove it at the present time. I was investigating a hunch
when I was called in.”

“What is it that you believe then?”

Myrra’s eyes held a wary edge. She had a long, hard history
with him, but her actions had nearly cost him his mate’s life. She had lied and
gone against orders. She was probably wondering why he was even bothering to
ask her opinion of the attack. Suspecting that he held her guilty of far more
than misguided loyalty.

“I believe Tunyn’s killer is Ilyrian.”

Wyc was impressed. Not many men would have the balls to make
such a declaration after having made a career-altering error. Especially when
that declaration would have moved them to the top of the suspect list.

“Go on.”

“I also believe that the killer is someone close to you.”

Something he had considered, but when spoken aloud, the
possibility cut deeper than he would have guessed. His next question would be
cruel, but he needed to see her reaction.

“How long have you been working for the Sleht, Myrra?”

Myrra’s face went white. She grabbed the knife off the low
table, and in one smooth motion, flipped it in her palm to point toward
herself. The blade sliced through the air on its way her heart.

“No.” Wyc’s sharp command forbade her from finishing the
ritual suicide that, to his knowledge, hadn’t been performed for hundreds of
years. When an officer stood accused of treason, he had the opportunity to
refute the indictment by plunging the
quantar
into his heart. From the
moment the dagger was picked up, the Royal making the accusation had the option
of stopping the act’s execution. If he did, the Royal was legally abrogating
the indictment. If not, the charge stood, but the officer was allowed an
honorable burial.

Myrra reacted without hesitation. Goddamn, her response had
been so swift, he’d barely had time to get out the word to stop her. If the
table hadn’t been low enough to extend her action, his captain would be dead.

Even now, her movement had been halted, but her
white-knuckled grip on the handle hadn’t lessened, the tip snagging the front
of her shirt. She stood frozen as she stared down at the dagger.

Wyc leaned over the table, wrapped his hand around hers and
pulled the knife away from her chest. “No.”

The
quantar
clattered to the tabletop. He released
her hand and she took a step back.

“Bethany is more important to me than my own life, Myrra.”

She held his gaze, accepting the truth.

“Treat her as such.”

She nodded, the vow unspoken but absolute.

Wyc nodded. “That’s all. You may leave.”

Myrra took several steps toward the door before he said her
name. She turned, waiting.

“You forgot something.”

She frowned. He tilted his head toward the dagger on the
table.

“It was surrendered.”

“It was not accepted.” When she didn’t make a move to pick
it up, he crossed his arms over his chest and growled. “Don’t waste my time.
I’m not in the mood to argue. Find Amdyn and Rordyc and send them back in.”

Her internal struggle still raging in her eyes, Myrra
retrieved her dagger and, with several deft movements, secured it once again to
the underside of her arm.

Her hand had grasped the doorknob before he asked, “Do you
know who the traitor is?”

The pause before her negative answer spoke volumes. She had
strong suspicions, but would not reveal them without proof. That meant her
suspicions lay not only with an Ilyrian, but one connected to a royal house.
She would not bring accusations against nobility without irrefutable evidence.

Myrra was a good soldier. He was relieved that, even without
being in Rordyc’s information loop, she had surmised the same threat. Relieved,
but angry that the suspicions were being confirmed rather than denied at every
turn.

Rordyc and Amdyn hadn’t gone far. Rordyc was propped against
the opposite wall in the lazy, careless posture of the class troublemaker
waiting outside the principal’s office. He raised his eyebrows at Myrra’s exit
and indolently rolled his shoulders off the wall. Amdyn stood like a bull ready
to charge, the stormy expression on his face clearly indicating his legendary
patience was nearing its end.

Myrra nodded deferentially to them and moved out of the way.

Wyc caught the look on her face as she turned to move down
the hall. Yesterday, she would have been included in the discussion with Amdyn
and Rordyc. She understood what had not been said during their conversation.
Her position remained, but his personal trust in her had been damaged. Perhaps
irrevocably.

Amdyn closed the door behind them. “Now is there something
you need to tell us?” His anger set as sharply on his face as his cheekbones.

“Myrra’s suspicions center on a traitor as well, but as of
yet, she has been unable to obtain proof.”

His answer wasn’t to the true question Amdyn had asked, and
all three knew it. Wyc’s unspoken message was received and they moved to the
next topic.

“We have some possibilities to look into,” Amdyn said,
“including Shyrana’s recent headaches. She’s been unable to connect to either
one of her normal contacts in Ilyria for two days.” He looked at Rordyc. “Has
she said anything to you tonight?”

Rordyc shook his head.

“Why wasn’t I informed of Shy’s problems?” Wyc couldn’t help
his older brother syndrome. Shy hated it, but had no choice but to live with
it.

He didn’t want her here. For all its problems, life was
still safer and more easily protected in Ilyria. But intra-world telepaths were
rare, and an intra-world telepath he’d trust with the lives of his team and now
his mate’s? Shy hadn’t been his best choice; she’d been his only choice.
Without her, they’d have no communication to their homeworld during the long
months between portal openings.

“She asked us not to tell you until she was sure it wasn’t
just the flu or something. And you’ve had other concerns,” Rordyc remarked
dryly. “One, especially, that is becoming increasingly difficult to keep safe.”

Amdyn leaned forward. “You need to get her out of here, Wyc.
We don’t know where the danger is coming from, but two Predators and a Slayer
attack in less than five days? Slayers are released by twos, not in packs of
eight.”