Ellora's Cavemen: Tales from the Temple II (5 page)

When Law reached the shadows outside the home, his eyes focused on a huge, slovenly dressed man who bellowed, “Get on out of here,” to the two men before him.

Law recognized the bastards Dyrke and Jove.

Jove clenched his fists. “The bitch ran off and we cain’t find her nowheres. I’m a bettin’ she’s in there, locked up with the rest of your whore daughters.”

The large man was surely Analeen’s father.

He hitched up his breeches over his fat gut. “I sold the bitch to you fair ‘n square. If she got away it’s your business, not mine.”

Law’s hackles rose and he heard Analeen gasp behind him.

“You sold me?” Before he could stop her, she marched out of the shadows to stand in front of the huge man, ignoring Dyrke and Jove. “My own father sold me?”

“Grab the bitch!” Jove shouted.

Rage flooded Law, clouding his vision red. He bolted out of the darkness and clamped his jaws around one of Jove’s wrists. The man screamed as bones crunched, flesh tore. The wolf bit clean through his wrist, severing his hand completely.

“My hand!” Jove screamed again as blood spurt across the ground. “The godsdamn wolf bit off my hand!”

But Law’s attention had turned to Dyrke who had his dagger out.

“Law!” Analeen screamed as the dagger flipped through the air and straight at the wolf.

He easily dodged the dagger and charged the bastard. He knocked Dyrke to the ground, flat on his back. The one who had called Analeen ugly.

The man screeched and tried to fight the wolf off. With a snap of his powerful jaws, Law ripped out a chunk of the man’s cheek and spit it out, then tore off the end of the bastard’s nose.

Dyrke scrambled to his feet and ran. He kept screaming, holding his hand to his face, blood pouring everywhere.

Law sensed movement and Jove’s dark thoughts as he cradled his mutilated hand to his chest. The wolf whirled to dodge another attack with a dagger. Analeen had a chunk of firewood in her hands and was behind Jove. Before the bastard could charge 29

Cheyenne McCray

Law with the knife, she swung the log at the back of Jove’s head. He dropped like a rock.

Analeen’s breath came in harsh, angry gasps. She knew Law was okay, and turned her attention to her father, who had been staring transfixed at the carnage.

Law’s hackles rose and a fierce growl rose up from his throat.

“Get that wolf away.” Her father backed up toward the door of the cottage. “You know what one of those bastards did to your mother.”

The change had already started within Analeen and she caught a fraction of her father’s thoughts.

“You’re the bastard.” Still wielding the hunk of wood, Analeen slowly walked up to her father. “Mother didn’t die from a wolf’s bite. You sold her, just like you sold me.”

Her father’s face blanched. “Like I told you, she’s dead.”

“Yeah.” Analeen fought back the tears. “She was murdered when she tried to get back to us.”

She wiped one hand across her eyes and then said, “You are going to leave my sisters and never, ever come back.”

The man she used to think of as her father took a step toward her. “Listen you little bitch. I’ll do with them what I please.”

Law growled, his fangs glimmering in the moonlight, his hackles rising and a menacing rumble rising up from him. He slowly stalked her father, who stumbled back in his haste to get away and fell.

“I mean it.” Analeen took a step toward him. “You don’t take anything from the house. You never see my sisters, or me, ever again. If you don’t leave now, I’ll let Law tear into you like he did those two.”

When her father hesitated, Law rushed him. The man scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could, his fat jiggling over his belt. He stumbled and fell a couple of times, but soon he was completely out of sight.

Analeen knelt beside her wolf and hugged him tight.

She could see in his mind how they would guard and help her sisters—and how if her father dared to return, he would learn the true ways of the wolves—how the pack protects its own.

And this wolf was hers. Hers alone. He always would be.

30

About the author:

Cheyenne McCray is a thirty-something wild thing at heart, with a passion for sensual romance and a happily-ever-after...but always with a twist. A University of Arizona alumnus, Chey has been writing ever since she can remember, back to her kindergarten days when she penned her first poem. She always knew that one day she would write novels, and with her love of fantasy and romance, combined with her passionate nature, erotic romance is a perfect genre for her. In addition to her adult work, Chey is also published in young adult literary fiction under another name. Chey enjoys spending time with her husband and three sons, traveling, working out at the health club, playing racquetball, and of course writing, writing, writing.

Cheyenne welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1337 Commerce Drive, Suite 13, Stow, OH 44224.

Also by Cheyenne McCray:

Erotic Invitation

Blackstar: Future Knight

Seraphine Chronicles 1: Forbidden

Seraphine Chronicles 2: Bewitched

Seraphine Chronicles 3: Spellbound

Seraphine Chronicles 4: Untamed

Things That Go Bump In the Night 3 – with Mlyn Hurn & Stephanie Burke Vampire Dreams – with Annie Windsor

Wild 1: Wildfire

Wild 2: Wildcat

Wild 3: Wildcard

Wild 4: Wild Borders

Wonderland 1: King of Hearts

Wonderland 2: King of Spades

Wonderland 3: King of Diamonds

Wonderland 4: King of Clubs

SCARLET SWEET

Anya Bast

Anya Bast

“He’s a drunk,” Cerian said under her breath. “The only hope for our people is
that
, down there.” She gestured toward the dark-haired, broad-shouldered man sitting in the tavern below them. “A star-cursed, drunken, outlander Vampir.” She swung her head to gaze at Lympia with disbelief shining in her eyes.

“You don’t know for certain he’s drunk,” said Lympia. She batted her blue eyes there were fringed with light pink lashes.

A loud crash jerked Cerian’s focus back to Rhys ap Griffyn. He’d toppled the table over in front of him, sending his tankard rolling across the wooden floor and sloshing the potent spirit it formerly contained all over his neighbor—a very large Ystani warrior. Now the cursed Vampir roared at everyone around him, yelling in some foreign language at the top of his very powerful lungs.

Cerian gripped the edge of the window set into the tavern’s slanted roof and stared down in disbelief. They’d crawled up here so they wouldn’t have to enter the packed tavern to get a clear preview of the man sent to save their people. She squeezed her eyes shut on the spectacle below. The knot in her stomach grew tighter by the moment.

“Well, at least he’s a
good-looking
, star-cursed, drunken, outlander Vampir,” offered Lympia with a weak smile.

Low, angry voices had Cerian staring below again. The Ystani warrior had taken issue with the spirit now soaking her mottled leather tunic. She rose to her full seven feet of finely honed muscle and hissed at the Vampir, baring dark red teeth. Cerian could almost smell the warrior’s fetid breath. Rhys ap Griffyn was getting a whole face full.

Rain began to fall and Cerian shifted uncomfortably on the straw-thatched roof.

Cold drops plopped onto her head and back, soaked her hair and clothing.

Could this get any worse?

Several other warriors stood from a small table in the corner and pushed through the crowded tavern toward the Vampir. For the most part, they looked primate evolved, like a human or a Tuatha Dé Danaan, but Cerian knew better. Their abnormally well-developed musculature and the three indentations in their jutting chins gave them away.

As they crossed the floor, they unsheathed their short blades. They did it discreetly, as though they planned a quick, unobtrusive, and deadly attack. Cerian realized then that things
could
get worse.

Much worse
.

“Sarthes,” breathed Lympia.

34

Scarlet Sweet

“Sweet goddess,” Cerian cursed. “How could they know?” She glanced nervously at Lympia. “Do you think they know? Maybe they’re here by chance,” she finished hopefully.

Lympia pursed her lips and frowned. “Whatever the reason, the Vampir is vulnerable in his condition.”

Cerian watched as the Vampir whirled. His broadsword was strapped crosswise from shoulder to hip against his back. He drew it, as though sensing the danger approaching from behind. With the firelight from the tavern’s hearth glinting off the blade’s edge, he didn’t look vulnerable. Then he tottered unsteadily to one side.

Cerian sighed and glanced at Lympia, who nodded. They flipped themselves over the edge of the windowsill and dropped down silently into the throng, drawing several half-interested looks from the jaded clientele.

The acrid smoke from the cook fire and the sweat and oily skin of the tavern’s occupants caught and held in her nostrils and throat. Grimacing, Cerian ignored it and opened her mind, sensing the pulsing waves of thought energy around her. Weaving, prodding, and molding that energy, she made a way through for herself and Lympia.

Short swords drawn, they stalked past the hulking bodies of the tribal aliens around them, prompting them to step aside.

When they reached the Vampir, he’d engaged the three Sarthes already. The tavern’s inhabitants backed away, all except for the Ystani who stood in the shadows, likely waiting for her chance to take a bite of the Vampir.

Rhys ap Griffyn stood with both large hands wrapped around the grip of his broadsword. The three Sarthes circled him warily, their short swords in hand. They also had disruptors, Cerian was sure, even though they’d been outlawed on Gaman since the Thirty Year War had come to a tenuous end. They wouldn’t work on the Vampir, though. His brain didn’t follow the patterns the weapons were designed to fracture.

She had an outlawed disruptor of her own strapped to her waist, though she wouldn’t use it unless it was very necessary. The last thing she needed was the Union to come down on her people for her misuse of weaponry.

Cerian frowned. Despite his totter to the side and his loud show earlier, the Vampir didn’t look drunk. His dark brown gaze was steady and alert. The solid muscles of his body were tensed and ready for action. His gaze didn’t waver. His steps didn’t falter now.

Whether he was drunk or not, Cerian needed to put an end to this before it became a full-blown battle. The Vampir couldn’t handle three Sarthian warriors and an affronted Ystani all by himself.

She stepped forward, catching the eye of the Sarthes, and held up a hand. “
Karslan y
butif Scarlet ti Tuatha Dé Danaan gar les. Gar! Butif!
”

The Sarthes stilled for a moment, considering her. Then the blond Sarthe fired back an answer in his guttural language. They wouldn’t hurt her, the intended consort of 35

Anya Bast

their leader, but the Vampir had to die before he completed what he’d been sent here to do.

Something inside Cerian withered. Ta’bat, leader of the Sarthes, knew what she intended. Somehow he knew, and wanted to stop it.

One of the Sarthes stepped toward the Vampir with a battle cry and all the fury of the Underworlds broke loose. Metal met metal. Blades soared through the air like dangerous birds.

Cerian and Lympia charged into the fray, forming a back-to-back circle with the Vampir. Rhys ap Griffyn quickly understood they were there to help him, though he growled at Cerian once, the low, hair-raising sound coming from between his shapely lips. His message was clear. He knew they were there to help, but didn’t necessarily welcome it.

One of the Sarthes met Cerian’s blade and the thrum of the contact echoed down her arm and into her shoulder.

The Sarthes were doomed from the beginning. After all, they couldn’t hurt her.

Ta’bat would likely subject them to a fate worse than death for that. They had to take her slashes and cuts, though it wasn’t she, in the end, who felled them.

The Vampir fought like a man possessed. In a shower of ringing clashes of blade and brawn he hardly let either Lympia or herself get a poke in sideways. He cast a territorial glance in her direction as he made short work of the last one. Then he smiled triumphantly, standing over the three. Cerian watched his nostrils flare, probably at the scent of the fresh blood all around them.

Cerian rolled her eyes. “Not bad for a drunk.”

“I wasn’t drun—” He whirled to the side, his sword at the ready, as the Ystani warrior rose behind him, red teeth bared.

Cerian was faster. She grabbed a hurling pick from her pocket and threw it, catching the Ystani in the neck. The warrior looked stricken, grasped her throat, and fell with a loud thump to the floor of the tavern.

The tavern’s inhabitants had retreated to the bar and the edges of the room. Not unfamiliar with such brawls, they simply looked on with average interest, though the three Sarthes and the Ystani lay bleeding on the floor by their feet.

“Come on,” said Cerian. “Where there are three Sarthes, there are bound to be twenty. They want you dead, Rhys ap Griffyn.” She shuddered. “And what the Sarthes want, they usually get. Let’s move.”

He ignored her and pulled his bloody shirt away from where it clung to his skin, swore low in some language she didn’t understand and yanked it and his scabbard over his head.

Cerian tried not to look at his wide shoulders, hard chest and rippling abdominal muscles. Tried not to trace the thin line of dark hair that trailed down his stomach and below the line of his leather trews.

36

Scarlet Sweet

Lympia was right. He was a good-looking, star-cursed, drunken, outlander Vampir.

His musculature was sculpted and strong—the body of a warrior. His hair was short and dark, and he had a face that would make any woman’s heart beat faster.

She shook it off. Not hers, though. She had no time for such indulgences.