The Unforgiven (The Watchers) Read online

  “If you don’t, it could be the end of the clan,” Brax said. “We need every adept we can muster. Artur knows that. You know it.”

  “He left the choice to me. He didn’t order me to do this. He could have, but he didn’t.” She swallowed. Her throat burned, but she didn’t think the coffee had anything to do with it. “That has to mean something. Maybe . . . maybe it’s a test. Maybe he wants me to refuse. So we can start over.”

  “Cybele . . .” A grimace crossed Brax’s handsome face. “I know you want to believe Artur will forget what happened between you and Cade, but—”

  “No. He won’t ever forget. I know that. But maybe . . . maybe he could get past it. Maybe he could forgive me.”

  “This is Artur we’re talking about, remember? Forgive? He’d rather enter Oblivion.”

  “I hurt him,” Cybele said.

  Brax shook his head. “Artur, hurt? I’m not sure that’s even possible. His heart—if he has one—is hard as a diamond. And just as cold.”

  Cybele stared at her hands. Not true, she wanted to shout. Except that, after this year, she was very much afraid it might be.

  Brax returned his attention to his laptop. Silence ensued. Cybele sat, turning her empty mug round and round in her hands, wondering just how big a fool she was for hoping he was wrong. If only Luc were here. Luc, with his caustic wit and biting good humor, tempered—at least where his twin sister was concerned—by glimmers of honest compassion. Luc, who didn’t even know yet about the massacre, or about Vaclav Dusek’s challenge.

  The simmering anxiety that accompanied Cybele’s thoughts of her brother threatened to rise and pull her under. Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? Full siblings were rare among Watchers—a Watcher female could bring only one pregnancy to term in a lifetime. She and Luc shared a unique bond; before they’d discovered their British kin and traveled to England, they’d rarely been parted. Three months was far too long for him to be out of touch.

  Brax, eyes intent on his computer screen, gave a low whistle.

  Cybele looked up. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been doing a little investigating into the financial life of Demon Annihilators Mutual Network.” Brax shook his head. “You’ll never guess who’s funding Dr. Simon Ben-Meir’s quest to uncover the historical origins of the Watchers.”

  “DAMN? But . . . that’s impossible. Jonas Walker has denounced Ben-Meir’s expedition.”

  “True. And I don’t doubt Walker’s sincerity. But his business acumen? That’s another story. I’m willing to bet the priest doesn’t have full control of DAMN’s finances. There’s a clear trail from DAMN’s New York bank to Ben-Meir’s account in Tel-Aviv. Interestingly, the money’s taken a brief detour through Prague.”

  Cybele stared, aghast. “Vaclav Dusek’s diverting DAMN funds to Ben-Meir?”

  “Looks that way. And it makes me wonder. Who’s calling the shots on that dig in Israel? And why?”

  Cybele shot to her feet. “What if Dusek visits the dig? Cade won’t be able to compete with power like that. We have to warn him, Brax. Right now. We have to get Cade out!”

  “Relax,” Brax said. “As far as I can tell, Dusek hasn’t been anywhere near the Negev in months. As for Cade, he’s already left Israel.”

  “You’ve heard from him?”

  Brax nodded. “He texted last night. He secured the dormant female and has left the Negev with her. Her crisis is approaching.”

  Cybele drew a steadying breath. “He’s bringing her here for her transition?”

  Brax shut his laptop with a click. “If he can make it in time.”

  Luc didn’t have much to his name. Just a couple changes of clothes, a wide-brimmed hat, a cell phone and charger, a roll of cash, a gun enhanced for killing hellfiends, and a couple rounds of ammo. All were still safely stashed in a Missoula bus station locker when he went to retrieve them.

  He put the hat on his head, grabbed the phone with one hand, and slung the pack containing the rest over his other shoulder. Standing in the station parking lot, he powered up the phone. The signal was weak, and three months out of use the battery was just this side of dead. Guilt, which he’d suppressed for three months now, had finally prodded him too insistently to ignore. Cybele was going to burn his ears when she finally heard from him. He felt a twinge of guilt over that. He had no idea what she would say when he explained to her what he’d been about roaming in the wilderness all this time. If he could explain it.

  His text inbox was full; the symbol denoting unopened voice mail was flashing. The missed calls were largely from Cybele, with a few from Brax. One from Artur.

  The phone went dead before he could retrieve any of it.

  Lust and frenzy. Twin legacies of the damned. Cade would use both to his purpose.

  The black pepper-spiced scent of Maddie’s passion crackled like an unholy fire. The third wave of her crisis was peaking. She’d begged for him to take her, and he had no intention of denying her.

  She’d despise him when it was done, when she realized he had no intention of relinquishing the role of master. But he wouldn’t think of that now. He needed to concentrate on seeing her safely delivered into her Watcher power. Afterward, when she was securely enslaved, there would be time enough to face her hatred.

  He stood motionless at the foot of the bed, letting her fevered entreaties wash over him. He didn’t trouble himself to listen. Her passion had nothing to do with him, not really. She’d have begged any Watcher male with the same words. Cade remembered well enough how he’d pleaded with Cybele. And yet, the sweetness of Maddie’s plea entranced him. He clung to the illusion that her passion was for him alone.

  Exhausted, she fell back limp and panting, ceased her struggle against her bonds. Her scent softened into violets. She uttered a low moan.

  He hardened unbearably. Reaching down, he stroked her foot. He started at the heel and drew his thumb along her instep, and her eyes opened in a flutter of inky black lashes. Their gazes clashed. His hand continued its path up her calf and lingered on the delicate flesh behind her knee. Her eyelids drooped. She drew a shuddering breath.

  He watched her chest rise and fall. Her breasts swayed with the motion. Her nipples, dark and hard, resembled round, perfect pebbles. Between her legs, moisture glistened like dew. The musk of her surrender made his knees weak.

  He removed his hand from her leg. Abruptly, her eyelids flew open and her gaze shot to a point behind his head. Raw fear flashed through her eyes.

  “No—” she choked out. Hands fisted, she jerked against her bonds.

  He wondered what, exactly, she saw. Something similar to the horrors he’d witnessed during his own crisis? Or were Maddie’s private horrors entirely different?

  Leaning forward, he closed his hand around her calf. “Maddie. Look at me.”

  She did not listen. “It’s coming.”

  He rounded the bed and sat beside her right hip. The mattress depressed and her bound body shifted toward him. He laid his open palm on her belly.

  “Look at me,” he said again.

  She dragged her eyes from whatever apparition it was that she watched. Her gaze met his and clung. She licked dry lips.

  “Cade.”

  She remembered his name, at least.

  “It . . . it wants me. It’s coming. I can’t stop it. I—”

  He leaned close. “Don’t try to stop it, Maddie.”

  “But—”

  “I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

  “You won’t leave me?” she whispered. The desperate hope in her eyes wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

  “I won’t leave you. Ever. You’re mine.”

  A shudder racked her body. “I want you. I need—”

  He climbed fully onto the bed, sheltering her with his body. He knelt between her spread legs, his hands braced on either side of her shoulders, and he looked down at her. “I know, caraid. I know.”

  He slid himself into her. It was so easy, so natural, that the j
oining almost took him unaware, though it had been entirely deliberate. They were one.

  Holding himself deep inside her body, he slipped into her mind. And pitched headlong into screaming, clawing chaos.

  Vaclav Dusek leaned back in his leather desk chair. Fingers steepled beneath his chin, he listened. A hoarse female voice, thick with worry, spilled from the telephone speaker.

  “Two nights ago, Professor,” the woman was saying in Israeli-accented English. “That is the last any of us saw Dr. Ben-Meir or Maddie Durant. We didn’t realize they were gone until the following morning. Yesterday. Ari noticed Dr. Ben-Meir’s jeep was missing. We thought perhaps he’d driven into Mitzpe Ramon for supplies. But Maddie and I share a hut. Why would she leave in the middle of the night without waking me?”

  “Neither left a note?” Dusek asked.

  “Not that we’ve found. There have not been any calls, either.”

  Dusek tapped his lips with his joined fingertips. “Have you notified the police?”

  “No, sir. I thought . . . I thought I should speak with you first.”

  “A wise notion, Ms. Stern.”

  There was a brief pause. Then: “A temporary laborer went missing the same night. A British national.”

  Dusek frowned. “Does this man have a name?”

  “Yes, sir. Cade. Cade Leucetius.”

  Dusek lurched forward in his seat. What was this? He spoke slowly and said, “I did not see that name on the latest roster.”

  “No, sir. He’d only just arrived. A few days before—”

  “I should have been notified before Dr. Ben-Meir took him on.”

  “Yes, sir. I know that is what the contract states. But the man was not an archeologist. Just a laborer. He was to be here less than a week, clearing the east site. Dr. Ben-Meir did not think it necessary to bother you.”

  “Whose money is financing this dig, Ms. Stern?”

  A sharp inhalation. “The largest share of it is yours, of course, Professor. Without your support we would have closed down months ago.”

  “You may close down yet, if Dr. Ben-Meir does not return to his post.”

  “I am sure he will return. That is . . . if he is able. This dig is his life. He wouldn’t leave it. Not voluntarily.”

  “Is anything missing? Any artifact from the dig?”

  “No, sir. Not as far as I can tell. Every item in the log is accounted for.” The woman paused, and he heard her swallow. “There’s just one odd thing . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “The ancient well we uncovered last month. Someone’s been digging in it. But nothing was noted in any of the logs.”

  “I see.”

  Long moments passed before: “Professor Dusek? Are you still on the line?”

  “I am.” He stood. “Do not notify the police, Ms. Stern. Not yet. Carry on with your duties and await my arrival.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Prague, Czech Republic

  Prague was a city of layers. At ground level lay the bustle of its streetscape. Next, the gray bulk of its residences and businesses. Higher still, medieval church spires reached skyward, and the great castle brooded atop its hill. A thick blanket of smog hovered above it all.

  Artur was concerned with none of it. The strata he sought lay underfoot, in a twisting catacomb accessed from the cellars of Vaclav Dusek’s gilded Baroque mansion. A lair on a level with the city’s sewers, and just as filthy. All the gold in the universe couldn’t disguise the evil that lurked within that sordid maze.

  The doors of Dusek’s palace—twin slabs of shining black teak—faced the Vltava River. Mist rose from the water, blurring the lines of a wide, cobble-paved bridge. The stone saints lining the span seemed to float atop the fog. Turning his back on the scene, Artur studied the portal of Dusek’s mansion. He’d never before attempted access to Clan Azazel’s stronghold. He didn’t even know if it was possible, but at the moment he was in the mood for an impossible task. The more dangerous, the better. Anything to keep his mind from Cybele and the choice he’d flung at her feet.

  The late afternoon sky was gray. Monochromatic. After brief reflection, Artur climbed the stairs to the palace doors. A gold knocker in the shape of a skull greeted him. He lifted it and let it fall. After several moments, muffled footsteps approached. The lock scraped.

  The door opened a scant two inches. Artur met the stare of a young man—one of Vaclav Dusek’s sons, certainly; his hooked nose and bright, malicious eyes proclaimed the relationship. As did the black collar around his neck and the gleaming white stone set in the smooth metal. At a guess, the lad had no more than seventeen years. A dormant.

  “I’ve come to see Dusek,” Artur said.

  “The professor is from home,” the youth replied in heavily accented English.

  Artur considered the possible truth of this statement. He decided not to challenge it. “Who is in charge in his absence?”

  “That would be Miklos.” The dormant’s eyes were disturbingly blank.

  “I will speak with Miklos, then.”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “Artur Camulus, chieftain of Clan Samyaza.”

  The youth’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t, as Artur half expected, slam the door. Instead, he opened it wider and stepped to one side. “As you wish. Come.”

  Artur followed his guide down a hallway bedecked with gilded plasterwork and hung with crystal chandeliers. It took very little effort to see the stains of Dusek’s blood magic dripping down the walls or to taste the residue of black malice seeping up through the floorboards. The specter of the crimes committed in this place turned even Artur’s stomach.

  He was ushered into a small receiving room filled with delicate furnishings. Artur took up a spot in front of the porcelain mantelpiece and clasped his hand behind his back. Dusek’s son withdrew, shutting the door behind him, and Artur wondered if the dormant had any sense of shame for who had spawned him. Or for what his sire had done to him. To be enslaved by one’s own kin would be hell. To be enslaved by one’s own father? Oblivion was preferable.

  The door swung open. A second son entered. This one was a full adept, his dark eyes older and far shrewder. He wore a dark business suit, a red tie knotted in a precise Windsor. That neckwear didn’t entirely hide the black collar and white stone.

  “Miklos, I presume?” Artur said.

  The Watcher inclined his head. “Artur Camulus. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “I am here to speak with Vaclav Dusek.”

  “Indeed.” Miklos clasped his hands behind his back. “I imagine you are anxious to discuss the missive recently delivered to your door. Unfortunately, I cannot help you. The professor is from home.”

  Artur strode across the Persian carpet, halting an arm’s length from a dark Caravaggio. Sweeping aside the fall of his duster, he drew his Glock from its holster and trained the barrel on Miklos’s chest. “I wonder,” he said, “what the professor would say if I killed you.”

  Miklos shrugged. “It is no longer possible for you to do so. The point is moot.”

  Artur pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. His adversary smiled.

  “Samyaza magic has its uses. A fine addition to our arsenal, I am sure you would agree.”

  Artur replaced the gun in its holster and braced himself for the counterattack that was surely coming. It did not. He frowned.

  Miklos’s smile grew. “I thank you for your visit. I am only sorry your trip has been made in vain. When the professor returns, I will be sure to tell him you called.”

  As if on cue, the dormant reentered the room.

  “Ah, Petr. You will see our guest out, if you please.”

  There was not much Artur could do but retrace his steps into the street. Oh, he might have fought, might have done some damage, perhaps even wounded one of Dusek’s sons, but to what purpose? Clan Azazel’s master was a ruthless bastard. The alchemist would hardly miss even the most favored of his slave sons.

>   He crossed the street to the stone rail fronting the river. Leaning against it, he stared broodingly back at Dusek’s palace. After a time, his gaze dropped to the sewer grate in the street before the front doors. Coming to a realization, he straightened. Here was a possibility.

  Trapped. Bound. Cade’s arms were stretched and immobile, his ankles bound with rope. His body was naked. Exposed. Vulnerable. No protection.

  Chaos. His sanity slipping away. Rage, fear, hatred, in his heart, in his mind. Madness like acid, dripping, pooling, eating away at his sanity. He dared not open his eyes; the thought of what he might see was far too terrifying. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

  A touch. Cool on his hot skin. She’d told him her name. Cybele. She’d come to save him. She was his anchor, his salvation—His love.

  Cade’s memory snapped like a rubber band stretched past its limit. Terror. Chaos. But not his terror. Not his chaos. Maddie’s. Her mind boiled like a sea of horror. And this time Cade was the anchor, the dormant’s only hope of surviving transition. If he didn’t slam the lid on his own memories and fears, he’d lose her.

  Her body was rigid beneath his, her face set with lines of terror. Her eyes were open and staring, but she wasn’t looking at him. What she experienced was solely in her mind; he’d caught a glimpse of it. The sight had unnerved him so profoundly that it had thrown him into the memory of his own transition.

  He couldn’t afford this weakness. He wrestled his fear, transformed it into steely determination. His need to protect Maddie came first. His need to . . . to cherish her, as odd as that sentiment was, given the harshness of her situation. He was bound to her now, by Artur’s order and by his own choice. He would not fail her. Neither insanity nor Oblivion would claim her. Not while he lived.

  Neither of them had moved for long moments. His body was still buried deep inside hers. Levering himself up on shaky arms, his gaze intent on her face, he withdrew, but not so far as to leave her completely. Her muscles clenched, urging his return. He plunged back into her carnal invitation.