Alterant (12 page)

Black? Not bright green?

A terrifying creature for anything or anyone to fight.

But Tristan hadn’t let the jaguars rip her to pieces.

Could that mean he would give her a chance to talk before he killed her himself?

She had little time and a tiny hope that she could convince him to listen to her. “Hi, Tristan. I know we parted under less than ideal circumstances.”

He pulled his lips back in what she thought might be his version of a smile or a grin. Maybe he was glad to have company. She would be.

For lack of a better response, Evalle smiled, too. “Speaking of that—”

He lifted his head and released a more terrifying roar than the last one.

The entire jungle fell silent as a tomb.

Bad analogy.

When Tristan looked at her this time his eyes bulged with the need for retribution. He growled and his fangs dripped saliva.

Her empathic senses picked up energy coming from him that dispelled her previous ideas. She’d completely misread his expression. He had been smiling all right, but not because of the chance to entertain unexpected company.

He wanted blood. Hers.

She spun around and took off the way she’d come, running in one direction, then another.

Pounding stomped the ground behind her with amazing speed.

He could use his power within this cage, which meant he could kill her with a strike. Why hadn’t he?

Because a quick kill clearly wouldn’t appease his need for revenge.

Evalle had covered a mile of running and fighting her way through areas strangled with dense growth when she caught the toe of her boot and fell to her knees. Mud splashed her face and arms. The palms of her hands burned raw from scrapes.

The steady pounding of footsteps gained on her.

She shoved up and shot forward again, breathing hard without the benefit of her Belador endurance.

But she was far from beaten.

She battled her way through the undergrowth. The
jungle’s teeth scratched her arms and dragged at her clothes. After stumbling into another clearing wider than the last one, she bent over to catch her breath. Human weakness sucked.

The thud of footsteps slowed, then stopped.

She heard him breathing close by, waiting for some reason.

He wanted something . . .

Lust washed over her skin.

There was one thing worse than death, and she would risk supernatural power backlashing in this domain before she’d submit to that.

She turned to face him and leaned to pull the dagger from her boot. If using the power ricocheted back at her, she’d just have to end up cut. She would not give up without drawing blood, too.

Tristan pushed his monster-shaped hands together in front of him then opened his arms, parting the overgrown jungle to accommodate his girth as he stepped into the clearing with a thump, thump, thump.

“I may not be able stop you from killing me to get your pound of flesh, Tristan, but touch me—” She let her gaze drop to the bulge in his pants and spun the dagger in her hands. “And I’ll get my own pound of flesh with one swipe.”

The only part of him that retained any human quality was his black eyes as they studied her quietly.

His eyes were . . . sad.

Had she misread his lust?

She wished she had a better grasp on her empathic abilities, but they were constanly developing.

Besides, how could anyone tell what an Alterant was thinking or feeling in beast state when no one had observed them in a natural setting?

Wait a minute. She was standing here talking to a shifted Alterant.

She tried again. “I want to help you, Tristan—”

Her dagger flew up out of her hands and landed halfway between them, stuck in the ground.

He crossed beefy arms and angled his head. His mouth pulled tight on one side in what she supposed could be considered a smug look.

This might be her best, her only, chance to plead her case to him. “Hey, I’m only here because you turned loose the other three Alterants and the Tribunal thinks I told you to, which we both know isn’t true. I just want to help—”

His snarl clawed her nerves.

That might have been the wrong tactic.

He growled and stomped his foot. The ground vibrated with his fury. Teeth bared and claws extended, he lunged for her.

Evalle backpedaled ten fast steps and lost her footing.

All her attempts to regain her balance and race away ended with her feet coming out from under her. She fell, but she arched to land as far away from him as she could.

When the beast rushed her, he slammed to a stop two steps away, his body plastered against an invisible wall.

His cage.

He rammed the wall over and over again, pummeling the boundary of his prison. He beat the enclosure so hard
with his fists that she felt the concussion like multiple blasts of a bomb.

She covered her ears against his howls that were equal parts mournful and furious.

The desperate sound struck her heart sharp as an ice pick.

She’d put Tristan back in there when all the reasons had weighed in favor of that decision. He’d sided with the Kujoo who had helped him escape. He’d helped the Medb priestess capture Evalle. He’d tried to keep the Ngak Stone to use for his own benefit.

But seeing him now in this pain, her heart argued that anyone stuck here for years would have accepted the Kujoo’s help. That Tristan had intervened, or tried to, when the Medb witch had started torturing Evalle. That he’d only wanted the Ngak Stone’s power to guarantee freedom for himself and other Alterants.

How could she fault him when he’d offered that same freedom to her and she’d turned her back on him to stand with the Beladors?

And she couldn’t leave now.

Even if she managed to find her way out of this jungle alive, she had no one but Tristan to point her toward the escaped Alterants.

With every minute she lost, Brina’s safety hung in the balance and with it the fate of every Belador on earth.

And her only weapon was stuck in the ground on the wrong side of that wall.

NINE

I
f Macha finds out what I agreed to at the Tribunal meeting, she may finally grant my wish to leave here . . . in a casket.

Brina paced the stone floors of the castle her ancestors had built thousands of years ago as a haven for the Treoir family.

She’d once loved life in this castle.

That had been before she’d lost her entire family and become the sole guardian of the Beladors. Supernatural power of all Beladors existed only as long as a Treoir remained physically inside this castle on this island.

As the only Treoir left alive after Medb warlocks had murdered her da and brothers four years ago, she was, for practical purposes, imprisoned here forever.

Really. She was immortal.

And Macha wouldn’t kill her.

Not until Brina bore an heir to the dynasty.

She didn’t particularly want to end her life at twenty-four, but living meant more than breathing, and that’s all she’d been doing for a long time.

A warrior queen should be out on the front lines with her tribe, especially with Alterants now shifting faster than Macha changed her hair color.

Something had triggered these changes. Who or what?

The Medb topped her list of suspects.

Belador warriors were battling the beasts while Brina sat in this hollow castle.

No more.

She’d avoided discussion of the Treoir heir for four long years here, but she couldn’t put it off any longer. Every time she left the castle, even in holographic form, she put the Belador powers at risk if the Medb figured out how to capture her holographic image.

She shuddered at the mere possibility.

The time had come for an heir.

And it was
high
time that Macha listened to her if the goddess wanted that heir in the near future.

Brina flopped down on a sofa carved from the trunk of a tree. It had Celtic designs scrolled along the edges and was padded with down-filled cushions. Her favorite place to strategize.

Her da had been a brilliant strategic planner.

Now she needed her own battle plan.

One that provided for a husband who could pass through the castle warding. Not just any man but—

The ward protecting Treoir Castle shivered with the introduction of power. Massive power.

“Must you always sulk?”

Brina sighed at Macha’s husky voice. Had she called up the goddess by thinking about her? Unfortunately, when Brina’s father had warded the castle against any other immortals, he’d made an allowance for the Celtic goddess to pass through unharmed.

He’d believed Macha would watch over his only daughter.

He’d never considered how a goddess could turn eternity into a living nightmare.

Brina lifted her gaze to where Macha now lounged above the giant stone mantel that spanned a fireplace two brawny warriors could stand inside. Waves of tawny hair spun with sunlight floated past Macha’s bare shoulders and covered the arm she was using to prop herself up. Today she wore a dazzling white gown created with thousands of perfect pearls. She turned her luminous hazel green gaze downward toward the fireplace grate and logs appeared. Flames blazed to life.

Macha’s attempt at being hospitable.

Or she was in one of her decorating moods.

Brina appreciated the gesture, but she would not accept being reduced to the level of a child. “Wee ones sulk. I am contemplative.”

“Ah, yes, semantics, as mortals like to say.” Macha waved long fingers glittering with jewels and rare metals carved in intricate designs.

“I’m glad you’ve come by,” Brina replied. The only reaction she received was a glint of curiosity in Macha’s eyes.

Brina went on. “I feel it’s time we discussed an heir.”

Macha brightened at what had to be an unexpected topic. “I have been so patient, allowing you to adjust to this life.”

Is that what Macha thinks I’ve been doing for the past four years in this place? Adjusting?

Brina forced her hands to remain at ease and not flinch with anger. She’d learned long ago that showing any emotion
handed the goddess ammunition to use at a later time. Not that Macha was a cruel or unfair goddess, but like all deities she used everything within her power to get her way.

“Why must you keep this place so gloomy?” Macha glanced around the room.

Candles flickered to life, dancing soft light against the stone walls. A wicker basket filled with dried flowers and spices appeared on the smooth wooden table her father had crafted with his own hands, right down to the inlaid Belador Triquetra emblem. Her father had sat on that stout table facing her the last night they’d spoken.

Six nights later, Macha had informed Brina that her father and brothers were dead and that Brina could not leave the castle. Some memories were best left unbidden.

The goddess kept dabbling until the room changed from dark and lonely to toasty and . . . suspicious.

Watching Macha decorate picked at Brina’s limited patience.

When Macha spoke, her vibrant voice smoked through the room with purpose. “I’m pleased to find you ready to do your duty to secure the future of the Beladors.”

As if I have ever shirked my duty to the tribe.
“Do allow me to point out their future is why I’m here. Every. Day. Forever.”

And alone, because Macha professed she could not remove the cursed warding.

Macha made a clicking sound of reprimand. “Insolence is unattractive, unproductive and . . . unwise.”

Not like she’s going to kill me, but she could make life
more miserable than it is, though that would be hard to imagine.
“My apologies.”

The goddess stared up as if studying the cathedral-high ceilings, then lowered an unreadable gaze. “I know you’re lonely here and we must continue your family dynasty.” She smiled. “Marriage would be good for you.”

Brina couldn’t prevent the sudden joy that flooded her face. Had she gotten lucky enough to catch the goddess on one of her more benevolent days? Macha knew who Brina wanted, the man she craved every waking hour. “I completely agree and—”

“You will choose a mortal Belador to wed, one who can enter the castle.”

Stunned, Brina lowered her bare feet to the rug-covered floor and stood, all ability to shield her emotions gone in the face of what Macha was suggesting.

Not suggesting. Ordering.

Brina said softly, “You
know
Tzader and I have been practically betrothed since childhood. He is the
only
man I want.”

The only man she’d ever loved.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot deliver you Tzader,” Macha said with such heartfelt sadness that Brina was tempted to believe her.

But facing the loss of the only person she wanted, the one person she lived for, caused her to speak without guarding her words. “Who can? Is there one more powerful than you?”

The air crackled with sparks of electricity, a prelude to real anger from Macha that could make the heavens plead
for peace. “Stop longing for what you cannot have and act as an adult! As an immortal, Tzader can never pass through this warding.”