Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply (18 page)

“Huh,” I said. Then, in order to keep ahead of Mr. Stubborn, I marched on through the arched doorway. I grinned at him over my shoulder. “This is
eeeeeeeeee
—”

I
was falling.

Because I had thrown all my caution and archaeological experience out the window, I’d stepped right into the yawning blackness of a pit.

My descent stopped as suddenly as it had started, and I found myself dangling in the dark. I yanked my feet up because I didn’t know what terrible things were below me . . . snakes, spikes, broken bones of other archaeologists. Then I realized that Drake’s hand was clamped over my wrist.

I looked up and found him staring at me, his expression etched with shock and worry. “Are you all right?

“Not particularly.”

He hoisted me up, easily, with just that one hand, and then set me on my feet next to the rectangular pit.

“Do not do that again,” he admonished.

“No problem.” I gently slipped my arm from his grip, and turned to consider how we were going to cross the pit. There was enough of an edge for us to turn sideways, press against the wall, and scoot.

“I will go first,” he said. “I insist.”

I figured if he stayed stubborn, I could get around him once we got to the other side, and then get to the next door/trap/blood sacrifice before he did. I might have to push him down and hop over his prone body, but that was okay. I was determined to see this thing through.

Also, there was no going back.

Drake slipped around me, pressed his back against the stone wall, and began shuffling across the narrow strip of stone. I did the same, and we spent an eon or so slowly, carefully inching our way along the ledge. When we reached the other side, I heaved a sigh of relief.

“Onward,” I said. I caught his gaze, leaned toward him, saw his eyes go expectant . . . and then I wiggled past him and headed down the narrow hall. I know. Mean, right?

Drake grabbed my arm, spun me around, and said, “No, Moira.” Then he pulled me back and moved toward the door, practically towing me behind him. When he reached the stone door, he hesitated.

“Did you miss your Hieroglyphs 101 class?” I asked sweetly.

“I was too busy taking advanced Kick Your Ass courses,” he replied. He spent useless seconds staring at the images he could not possibly interpret, and then sighed. He stepped aside and gestured eloquently. “My lady.”

“Thanks.” I moved past him and studied the hieroglyphs, which were the same as the others—prayers and threats. There wasn’t a circular opening like the one in the other door, but there was a particular glyph in the middle. I stared at it. “Shit.”

“What?” asked Drake. He looked over my shoulder. “What does it say?”

“Basically? It’s a closed exit sign. This is a false door.” I turned, and found myself practically nose to nose with him. He stayed put, his gaze on mine, hushed expectation falling between us, stretching into a moment so fine and thin it cut like a blade. And then he stepped back. The spell was broken, but my body hummed.
Him, him, him
, it seemed to chant.
Now, now, now
.

“We have to go into the pit,” I said.

“It says that?”

“Not exactly. But it’s our only option.” I walked to the pit, and Drake followed. I pulled the small flashlight out of my pocket and aimed the beam into the darkness below.

As far as I could tell, there weren’t any spikes or skulls or snakes. It was too far down for me to just leap, but when I glanced at Drake, I could see him contemplating the distance.

“I’ll jump down there,” he said in all seriousness.

“That’s a terrible idea! What if you land on a sharpened stake?”

“It will hurt.”

“Or kill you. Werewolves aren’t immune to death, are they?”

“Most aren’t,” he conceded. “There is nothing down there.” He tapped the side of his temple. “Werewolf vision. I’ll jump and then you follow. I’ll catch you.”

“You’ll catch me?” I asked. “Um . . . no.”

“I cannot lower you down first,” he said reasonably. “Even if I did so, the distance would still be too great for you to land safely.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Trust me.”

I considered the pit, then him, then the pit. I didn’t really have a choice. I’d entered the pyramid with sparse equipment, not that there was exactly a place to put in a pulley system. I was all about trying to control situations, and I was used to considering all the angles and making quick decisions. In archaeology, you didn’t always have the luxury of time. So, my initial blood sacrifice got us inside the pyramid. After that, I had no idea what else awaited us, or how much blood I would be giving in the name of saving the Ancients. Getting through this mess as quickly as possible suited me just fine. I was hopeful, but not exactly confident, that I would leave this pyramid alive.

“Okay.” I kept the beam aimed at the dirt floor below, and Drake stood, then jumped.

He landed on his feet.

In the narrow light, I saw him curve his arms. “C’mon,” he said. “Jump.”

“Yeah. Sure. No problem.” I considered how long the drop was, the equivalent probably of jumping out a second-story window of a house, and felt my heart skip a beat. I wasn’t usually afraid, but this was big leap . . . of faith. It wasn’t like there was another option, though.

“Catch,” I said, and threw the flashlight down.

He caught it one-handed and set it upright, so the beam shined upward.

“I will catch you, Moira.”

I took a big breath, and then . . . jumped.

The three seconds of free fall made my stomach roil, my lungs heave, and my heart pound.

Then he caught me.

He didn’t even “oof” or stumble backward. He just caught me like I was a pillow that had been lightly tossed at him. He cradled me to his chest, and then said, “What I catch, I keep.”

“Interesting philosophy.”

He chuckled and then swung me down. When my feet touched solid ground, he let me go. I picked up the flashlight and aimed it around the four walls. The nearest wall was the only one with any glyphs
—
a narrow series of brightly painted hieroglyphs. We stood and walked to it. I studied the glyphs.

“They’re in a random order,” I said. “If you try to read them, it makes no sense, not even for ancient Egyptians.” I paused. I thought about my vision of Patrick and Jessica, and the clues offered by that experience. Damn. None of the glyphs was the equivalent of “ring” or “chains.” But there was one for “mate.” Was that the clue I was supposed to get from the first vision? I studied the other glyphs. Different words, but none that made sense when put together . . . and I couldn’t puzzle out a particular phrase or meaning. I kept returning to the word for “mate.” Love will lead me, right?

I pressed the glyph.

The gold-rimmed circular hole appeared instantly, and I knew it was time for another round of blood sacrifice.

“Moira,” warned Drake, “do not—”

I stuck my hand inside, and felt something sharp, like teeth, clamp onto my wrist. Pain flared, but I resisted the urge to cry out. This was no mere prick of a needle to release a drop or two of blood. Whatever had my hand was ensuring that I couldn’t move while the blood flowed.

•   •   •

I don’t remember passing out.

But I did recognize the floating.

What? Again?

This time, I hovered above a small brick building. From my vantage point, I could see a trailer in the back, tucked near a copse of trees.

Then I descended into the building, melting through the ceiling, and there I saw Patsy, puttering around a beauty shop.

I had no choice but to sink into her skin, and I became Patsy Donahue, the vampire she’d been before she became queen of the undead . . .

•   •   •

Someone pounded on the back door. She yelled, “Who is it?”

“Gabriel. Please, let me in!”

My fingers, her fingers, clenched the bolt, but didn’t turn it.

“Do we have to talk through this blasted door? Please, Patsy. Trust me.”

She unbolted the door and swung it open. Gabriel nearly fell into our arms, but managed to stagger inside on his own. He looked a mess. He wore only a pair of jeans. His chest had been clawed. Blood dripped onto the floor.

We slammed the door shut and locked it again.

Gabriel sank to his knees, swaying. His face was tight with pain.

Patsy knelt down, and I felt her confusion, her terror. Her hands hovered over his shoulders, but she was afraid to touch him. “What can I do?”

One corner of his mouth hitched. “Ask me that again later, okay?”

His gaze dipped to Patsy’s breasts, leaving no doubt what he meant by the question. She shook her head, amused. “Get into the chair and I’ll clean your wounds.”

He stood up and Patsy, or me as Patsy, gently guided him to the nearest styling chair. His moon white hair needed a good brushing. Patsy got paper towels and soaked them with warm water. As I, or she (this was goddamn confusing), leaned over to wipe the blood off his ribs, Gabriel’s hand snaked around her neck and pulled us close.

“I need blood.”

“Lycans don’t drink blood.”

“I do.” He opened his mouth and needle-point fangs descended. He licked his lips as he leaned forward, aiming those sharp babies right at my neck.

Panic erupted inside Patsy. We jerked out of his grip and lurched back. “What the hell are you?”

“Patricia.”

Her full given name held a world of hurt. He reached one arm beseechingly toward us. “Why do you fear me? I am no different than Lorcan or Eva or any of the other vampires who share my abilities.”

“Lorcan was cured, so he’s not a beast anymore. And Eva isn’t a werewolf.”

“The cure for the Taint comes from the blood of royal lycanthropes,” he said quietly. “But there is side effect. The vampires who survive the cure retain the ability to shape-shift.”

Patsy believed he was full of . . . malarkey. But she couldn’t help but think the werewolf side effect would explain why the Consortium hadn’t released the cure to all vampires seeking it.

“Is that what happened to you?”

“No.” He grimaced. “I was born with this . . . anomaly.”

A lycanthrope born with vampire tendencies? How in the world had such a thing happened? Patsy was insanely attracted to Gabriel, which upset her. Even though she was scared of him, she wanted to touch him. Wanted to make him feel better. His wounds had not closed. Blood flowed onto the chair and pooled around its base.

“Why haven’t you healed?” I asked.

“Demon scratches are poisonous, even to mutants such as I.” His words held bitterness. He sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Why did you risk coming here?”

His eyes flickered open. “To claim you.”

“I’m not checked baggage.” Patsy put her hands on her hips and looked him over. All Gabriel needed was a little blood to help him heal. She wanted to get closer to him—and that uncontrollable urge to be near him confused her. Terrified her. I recognized these feelings . . . because I felt the same way about Drake.

Patsy approached Gabriel. He watched her, his expression solemn. She gripped the armrests of the barber chair, leaned down, and offered her neck. His lips brushed her skin. She, and of course I, felt electrified by that single, soft touch. Then his fangs sank into her neck and he drank.

•   •   •

When I came to, I was wrapped around Drake like a stripper hugging the brass pole. My lips were pressed against the hollow of his throat. He smelled so good, like man and cologne and . . . something else. Something dark and sexy and . . . oh, I was tingling.

“Moira.”

His voice was hoarse, and given the vision I had just had, I could only imagine what sorts of things I’d done to him in the throes of another couple’s passion. Also, it was damned weird to be forced into the body of someone else so I could relive certain memories. To what end? I had no clue how to piece it all together. And what would be the next one? Would there even be another one?

Poor Drake.

I unwound myself from him, feeling shaky and strange. He seemed reluctant to let me go, and I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to leave his embrace, either. He found the wherewithal first to release me, and I stepped back. I offered him a trembling smile. “Sorry. I have no control over this shit.”

“I know.” He sucked in a breath. Then his gaze met mine, and I saw the raw lust sparkling in his gaze. My knees nearly buckled.

“I want you,” he said.