Darkness Bound (9 page)

Jack didn’t have time to linger on those terrible memories, however, because again the image on the screen was changing shape. The panther changed back to mist, the mist changed back to man—naked, glorious—and the man came close to the camera, so close she saw the stubble shadowing his jaw.

Those cat eyes still burning lucent green, Hawk said into the camera, “I have a proposition for you, Jacqueline Dolan.”

He continued to speak in a low, cold monotone, as the bottom fell out of Jack’s world.

Aside from the sand that insinuates itself into every crack and crevice, the main problem with living in a desert is the heat.

Suffocating, relentless, palpable as a hand pressing on the crown of your head, the heat of the northern Sahara is particularly trying. Especially for a group of predators who originated from the lush, tropical heart of the African rainforest, a place where it rains at least once a day.

“If someone doesn’t figure out how to get me some ice,” muttered Caesar Cardinalis, sprawled in a high-backed rattan chair with one long leg flung over the wooden arm and a tepid glass of water in hand, “someone is going to die.” He stared around the arid, dusty room, eyeing each of his guards in turn. All of them had their hands clasped behind their backs, their gazes trained on some invisible point in the distance, a solid row of weapon-heavy soldiers as unnecessary to their lord and master’s continued health as snowshoes in the tropics.

Caesar added with languid ill humor, “And when I say someone, I mean
everyone
.”

The guards—knowing all too well this wasn’t an idle threat—shifted their weight from foot to foot, and sent each another quick, anxious glances.

One of them stepped forward. Larger than the rest, he was a cool, efficient killer with a withering stare and the impressive musculature of an elite athlete. Like the others, born and bred in darkness in the catacombs below Rome, he had eyes the color of polished obsidian, but unlike the others, he didn’t tremble when he addressed their leader.

He was, however, smart enough to keep his gaze lowered deferentially to Caesar’s bare, tanned feet. Before speaking, he bowed.

“I took the liberty of ordering a diesel-powered generator, Sire, the day we arrived. It’s being delivered soon to the market at Jamaa el Fna. With your permission, I’ll take Nico with me to pick it up when it arrives.”

Marcell waited patiently for Caesar to assess this and pass judgment. This kind of independent thinking was not something Caesar normally appreciated, but knowing their luxury-loving leader as Marcell did, he’d taken the risk with full confidence of reward.

A reward that was ensured when Caesar replied, “Thank Horus
one
of you has a brain.”

Careful to keep the self-satisfied smirk from his face, Marcell bowed a little lower, then returned to his place at the wall.

The kasbah in Morocco that Caesar and his followers had settled in after their abrupt departure from Spain was vast and crumbling and echoing empty, one of the hundreds of abandoned sandcastle palaces left to bake in the sun by a clan of long-ago Berber warriors. Situated in an unexpected oasis along the former route of the caravans over the Atlas mountains to Marrakech, the stronghold built of earth was isolated from any human settlements, and steadily collapsing.

In spite of its decay, it was spectacular.

An austere, sprawling maze of red clay and stone, it still held the echoes of its former glory and conspicuous wealth. Elaborate stucco pillars, brilliant mosaics, soaring Moorish doorways, and intricately carved woodwork had survived the harsh desert climate, as had a store of handwoven wool rugs, stashed in rolls of dust-covered canvas in the dungeon below. Along with a few pieces of mismatched furniture bought from a local bazaar, the rugs were now scattered about Caesar’s rooms on the uppermost floor of the palace.

The view from Caesar’s bed chamber revealed an abandoned cobweb village below, surrounded by multilevel towers and a series of crooked, interlinked alleyways. When he had looked down on the deserted dwellings for the first time, Caesar had felt a thrill of delight as he imagined all the generations of humans who had died within those walls.

Because the only good human was a dead one.

The kasbah’s dusty beauty was matched by its eerie stillness. An incessant hot breeze was the only thing that stirred in the smothering heat of the day. The only thing that broke the yawning silence was the occasional flapping of a vulture’s wings as it peered from the tower ramparts with avid black eyes for anything freshly dead.

More often than not, the vulture found what it was looking for. Caesar tired quickly of the playthings he kept chained to the dark dungeon wall.

“All right.” Caesar pulled himself to an upright position in the chair. “What’s the current count?”

Again it was Marcell who spoke. “Eight hundred sixty-two, Sire.”

Caesar was pleased. Their little colony was growing quickly.

After a brief pause, Marcell added, “Not including the females, of course.”

Caesar waved a hand dismissively. Naturally the females wouldn’t be counted—unless they were pregnant, that is. Then they actually had value. Speaking of which—

“How many females are near whelping?”

Marcell didn’t have to consult a written ledger or any notes to correctly answer Caesar’s inquiry. He knew all the important details of his master’s plan by heart. He was intelligent, ambitious, and knew that pleasing Caesar was the only way he’d ever get the things he wanted for himself, so he made it his business to anticipate his master’s needs.

“Ninety-two. Another two dozen have been recently confirmed pregnant.”

When Caesar blinked in surprise, Marcell allowed himself to smile. “You’ve been quite prolific, Sire.”

Caesar chuckled, a sound as dry and humorless as the striking of a match.

Ikati
females only went into heat—called the Fever—once per year, and many times did not get pregnant, a fact which aggravated the
Ikati
’s already dwindling numbers. Human females, on the other hand, bred like rabbits. A single female could potentially birth upward of a dozen children during her fertile years. More if assisted with drugs.

As the son of a king who regularly mated with human women to increase his own half-Blood army, Caesar had no qualms about following in his father’s footsteps. Like his father, he’d rid himself of the human mothers when they were no longer useful.

The vultures around here are going to be getting very, very fat
, he thought, smiling.

He rose from the chair and stretched. “Well, we’re going to have to finish the addition to the nursery much sooner than we thought, aren’t we?”

Marcell inclined his head. “It’s near completion, Sire. I’ve been overseeing the construction myself. If you like, I can take you on a tour today.”

In an uncharacteristic display of camaraderie, Caesar walked over to Marcell and clapped him on the shoulder, beaming. “You, my friend, are worth your weight in gold.” He studied Marcell’s face for a moment. “Why don’t you choose from the stock in the dungeon and take the rest of the day off. Enjoy yourself. You deserve it. You can show me the nursery tomorrow.”

Marcell bowed. It was deep and respectful, and not at all ironic.

The “stock” in the dungeon was of the highest quality, chosen carefully from cities near and far to satisfy Caesar’s highly refined aesthetics. The females were young, busty, and universally pretty, a veritable smorgasbord of pleasure from which to choose. Marcell had his eye on one particularly lovely specimen who’d been snatched from a public market not three days ago, whom not even Caesar had had the chance to sample. A dusky, delicious brunette by all appearances not yet out of her teens.

“Sire,” said Marcell, gratitude ringing in his tone.

Caesar’s gaze, cooler, swept over the other guards. “As for the rest of you, get back to digging the trenches for the aqueduct. I want running water within the week. Do I make myself clear?”

Judging by the chorus of “Yes, Sire!” that rang out, he had.

Caesar left the room, whistling, on his way to make an important call on his satellite phone.

Time for stage two in his plan for world domination to be set into play.

The moment the black hood was pulled over her head from behind and the line of bobbing boats moored at Pier 61 at the Chelsea docks vanished from sight, Jack experienced a terror so bone deep and incapacitating she wasn’t able to move her legs when a hand placed at the small of her back gave her a firm push forward.

She’d tried to mentally prepare herself for death, but that’s like trying to mentally prepare yourself for childbirth, or being cheated on by the love of your life. No matter how well you think you can handle it, reality is a bitch with a twisted sense of humor.

In such situations, dignity is the first thing that flies out the window.

Jack’s frozen legs refused to bend. She pitched forward with a strangled gasp, sucking cold night air into her mouth through the scratchy cloth of her new headwear.

The hand that had pushed her grabbed her arm before she could hit the ground face first. It was joined by another hand—big, with a vice-like grip—and Jack was pulled back to her feet and steadied.

“Better get your legs working, Red,” said a gruff male voice into her ear. He was so close she felt his warm breath slide down her neck. “You’re gonna need ’em where we’re going.”

Beyond the thundering of her heart and the roar of the blood rushing through her veins, Jack recognized that silk/sandpaper voice, though she hadn’t yet glimpsed its owner. Terror morphed instantly to rage, an emotion she was far more comfortable with.

She hissed, “If I were you I’d be more worried about how well my hands are working. Because the minute they get the chance, they’re going to claw out your eyes, asshole!”

A low chuckle. The musical
chink
of metal sliding against metal. Then his voice, now amused. “Glad to see we’re still on the same page.”

“We were
never
on the same page, you lying, scheming, underhanded, son of a—”

The cold bite of metal encircled her left wrist, then her right. A snap and a tug, and both her hands had been pulled behind her back. It happened so quickly it was over before she could react, before she could even draw in a breath.

Handcuffs.

The rage grew. Burning hot, engulfing, it felt as if she were standing on the surface of the sun. Her entire body vibrated with the urge to kick and hit and scream and claw and hurt him, hurt him,
hurt him
.

Beside her, Hawk exhaled a slow, ragged breath. “Yeah. The feeling’s mutual, believe me.”

Trying to regain a shred of her lost dignity, though her emotions were evident from the way her voice shook, Jack said, “This cloak-and-dagger routine is unnecessary. Just kill me now. Just get it over with.”

Jack felt Hawk’s surprise. There was a beat of silence as he processed that. He answered ominously, “If I wanted you dead, woman, you already would be.” Then his big hand curled around her bicep, and he propelled her forward.

He walked quickly, with purpose, his strides even and long. She had to hurry to keep up, but it was difficult, due to his pace, her blindness, and the way he kept her so close beside him, dragging her along. She muttered a curse as she lost her footing on an uneven patch of ground.

Hawk’s fingers tightened around her arm. “What did I tell you about that mouth?”

Judging by his tone, she’d found a sore spot . . . which she intended to ruthlessly leverage. In the darkness behind the hood, her lips formed a bitter smile.

If I’m going to die, I’m going to piss you off as much as possible before I do.

She didn’t believe for one moment that Hawk wasn’t going to kill her, probably in the most gruesome of ways. She’d seen the violence his kind was capable of. She knew the nature of these Shifters who called themselves
Ikati
was bloodthirsty, and utterly merciless
.
Their leader, Caesar, had slaughtered the Pope on live television during his Christmas Day speech, for God’s sake! Then on Easter, he’d murdered every important religious and political leader across the globe. The US, French, and Russian presidents; the UK, Israeli, Canadian, Japanese, and Italian prime ministers; the chancellor of Germany; the chairman of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff; the Supreme Leaders of Iran and North Korea; the two Chief Rabbis of Israel; archbishops and cardinals from various countries; Grand Imams . . . it had been a highly coordinated, perfectly planned, chillingly effective declaration of war that screamed in big, bold letters: WE HATE HUMANS.

The entire massacre illustrated with chilling clarity the
Ikati
’s ability to bypass with ease even the most sophisticated of human security measures.

So Jack had no illusions she would be treated well, or would be alive when the sun rose tomorrow morning. This was her final night on Earth, of that she was sure.

What she wasn’t so sure of was the reason he’d wanted to meet at the docks.

The “proposition” he’d offered in his emailed video had been ambiguous at best. In return for not releasing the photos of the two of them in
flagrante delicto
, she would be required to come to the docks at midnight three days’ hence, with nothing other than the clothes on her back. No handbag, no cell phone, no camera, no questions asked. She was to tell no one about him or their agreement, and he assured her all her communications were being carefully monitored, including her cell phone, email, work phone, and house phone, so he’d know if she talked.

That was all bad, but what finally cinched the deal was the threat to her father.

Hawk was oblique about it. The casual mention of “your father will suffer if you don’t comply,” was enough. He didn’t need to catalogue in detail what would happen if she didn’t show. She imagined her father’s body eviscerated as those others had been, the unfortunate twenty-six who had met their maker with their entrails arranged in a gruesome, glistening pink tangle on the floor around their heads.

So she’d put her mail on a vacation hold. She’d paid her mortgage and bills in advance for three months. She’d run her daily route through Central Park six times in three days, trying to clear her mind and steel herself for the worst. Finally she’d taken a taxi in the middle of the night to the marina on the Hudson River.

And now she was here, stumbling along blindly beside the man—creature—who had been the best sex of her life and would unfortunately also be the one to gut her like a fish.

Hawk stopped. She bumped against him, sucking in a breath of surprise at the full body contact. He flinched away as if he’d been burned. “Step up,” he said curtly.

“How high?” was her arctic response.

There was a beat of what she imagined furious silence, then he put his hands under her armpits and lifted her from behind—easily, as if she weighed no more than a child—and deposited her unceremoniously to a surface that was, just slightly, rocking.

A boat. They were on a boat. Dear God, he was going to dump her body out at sea.

Would she still be alive when she went in the water? The thought of drowning, handcuffed, in a hood, made her shudder.

She hoped he killed her before he threw her overboard.

“Do us both a favor and stop thinking,” Hawk snapped, taking her firmly by the arm. He guided her around a few turns, down three steps, then pressed her down into a soft seat with his hands on her shoulders. Jack sat there rigid as a plank, hands clammy, sightless and helpless and hating the scared-dog trembling that wracked her body in spite of the long, slow breaths she pulled into her lungs in an effort to calm herself.

Hawk stood too near. She imagined he was, at that very moment, withdrawing a knife from his boot.

“The hood will come off as soon as we’re far enough away from land. The handcuffs . . . well, that’s going to depend entirely on how you behave.” His voice lowered. “And you should know, before you go trying anything stupid, you can’t get away from me. You can’t overpower me. And you can’t hide anything from me. I’ll know what you’re thinking of doing before you do it, so again—don’t try anything stupid. I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will if you make it necessary. Submit yourself to this, and in a few weeks you’ll be back home, no worse for wear.”

Submit? A few weeks?
I’ll know what you’re thinking?
She needed answers.

“You’re taking me somewhere.”

She knew she’d guessed correctly when he remained silent. Relief flooded her body, a flower of hope blossoming in the hardpan of her terror. “Where? Why?”

He made a small sound, quieter than a chuckle, and she wished she could see the expression on his face. Was he laughing at her?

“Because there’s a story you need to write, that’s why. And it requires a little . . . research.”

A story? Was this a ruse? Some kind of sick game to give her hope before he slit her throat and tossed her into the ocean?

“How do I know you’re not just going to release those pictures, even if I do ‘submit,’ or write this story? How do I know my father—”

“One thing you’ll very quickly learn about me,” he interrupted, his voice like granite, “is that I keep my word. Remember that. And remember what I’ve told you.”

I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will if you make it necessary.

She remembered with cheek-burning shame how he’d spanked her in the hotel room, how badly it had hurt, and knew without doubt he was entirely capable of hurting her. She guessed the bastard would probably enjoy it.

Swallowing around the tightness in her throat, Jack remained silent.

“Surprise, surprise,” Hawk said, moving away. “The viper
can
keep her venomous mouth shut.”

His footsteps moved out of hearing range, and Jack was left alone in a room she couldn’t see, breathing in her own recycled breath beneath the uncomfortable hood, listening to the sound of big engines shudder to life as a foghorn sang a mournful bass note somewhere far off in the night.

She wasn’t a whiner, he’d give her that much.

Jacqueline Dolan was where he’d left her over an hour ago, sitting soldier straight and silent on the small beige leather sofa along the starboard wall in the quiet comfort of the cabin. The Pegasus was a beautifully restored forty-six-foot motorsailer he kept in the marina in Santarem for the monthly procurement trips he made for supplies, and she purred at a swift nine knots through the black Atlantic waters. He was seated astern at the helm, feeling the sea breeze sting his cheeks and snap through his hair, watching Jack through the small windows near his feet that provided an excellent view into the main cabin and galley.

He glanced behind him. As far as the eye could see, there was only starlight reflecting off dark water. They’d left New York far behind.

Time to remove her hood.

He set the boat to autopilot, stepped out from behind the wheel, and ducked into the cabin.

And Jacqueline stiffened and inhaled sharply as if someone had lanced her with a pin.

She was afraid of him. Even if she hadn’t moved an inch, Hawk smelled it all over her. He knew her fear was justified—he’d told her he’d hurt her if he had to—but the knowledge irritated him nonetheless. He’d never intentionally hurt a woman before. He hoped that remained the case.

Though if anyone deserves it, it’s her.

Pushing aside his disjointed thoughts, he stepped in front of Jacqueline, and pulled the hood from her head.

Blinking, she squinted into the light and turned her face away, but not before giving him a murderous glare. She breathed deeply, nostrils flared, lips flattened, and he simply stood and watched her, waiting for her to speak.

As he’d instructed, she was dressed in sturdy, lightweight clothing: jeans, black T-shirt, long-sleeved cotton jacket that matched the tee, hiking boots.
Looks a lot better naked
, he thought, unable to press the smile from his mouth.

“I have to use the toilet,” she said, looking away.

“Be my guest.”

She glanced up at him. Twisting slightly to the side to show him her handcuffed wrists, she said with barely repressed fury, “And how exactly am I supposed to manage that?”

“Would you like me to take off your pants for you?” He smirked. “It’s not like I haven’t already seen everything you’ve got.”

Jacqueline turned away, biting her lip. Crimson crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks. She whispered, “You’re despicable.”

“And you, Red, are a bigot.”

Her head whipped around. She stared at him open-mouthed, horrified. “I’m not a
bigot
!”

Hawk crouched down on the glossy teak floor directly in front of her so they were eye level. She leaned back a few inches, caught herself, then lifted her chin and stared back at him in defiance.

“You’re prejudiced, intolerant, and full of hate. You despise things you don’t understand, simply because you don’t understand them, and they’re different from you. That’s a textbook definition of a bigot.”

She had the audacity to look outraged. “I understand you and your kind perfectly well!
You’re
the ones who are full of hate! You slaughtered dozens of people, just for sport, just to terrorize us—”