Seal of Surrender (7 page)

“Ah. Here we are.” He held two photos out to her. “Have a look at these.”

She grabbed them. One pictured a handsome, smiling man with a small girl on his shoulders; the woman by his side had her arm looped around his waist. The second image depicted the same couple being forced into a small cell by armed guards, their heads covered with black hoods and their wrists secured with handcuffs. The date stamp at the bottom of the second picture was from a twenty years earlier. Irena's heart imploded, the air stolen from her lungs to make her voice breathy, weak. “Why are you showing me these?”

“Your parents went through a lot during the war.” Drake leaned back in his seat, his hands clasped atop his stomach. “They were a lot younger then. Not sure how they'd handle such stresses now.”

“Leave my family out of this.”

“I'm afraid it's too late. The Consortium needs to be assured of your commitment. And what better way to ensure undying devotion than a little familial threat.” He snatched the photos back and crushed them in his hands. His placid expression belied the cold threat in his tone. “Don't fuck with us or your parents will cease to exist.”

Drake dropped the crumpled ball on the floor and watched it roll away.

“What do you want from me?”

“Your job is to keep me happy.” He crowded her space while his finger traced a lazy trail down her cheek. “Whatever that may entail.”

“You insufferable bastard!”

Several nearby passengers stirred at the sound of her rising tone.

Drake shook his head and feigned remorse. “Please forgive me.”

“Go fuck yourself!” Irena spun on her heel and stomped away.

His slimy response followed her all the way back to economy class. “I'll see you soon, babe.”

• • •

Chago looked up as Irena barreled through the curtains at the front of the cabin, her face red and angry.

He stood to allow her into her seat, struck by the waves of tension radiating off her stiff form. Shit. At least the pilot's announcement said they were close to landing.

“I thought you pulled an emergency exit on me,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood while he fastened his seatbelt.

Irena ignored him and yanked the blind up with more force than necessary.

He glanced toward first class again. What the hell had she been doing up there? He studied her profile while her gaze remained focused outside. Her Slavic ancestry was undeniable in the high arch of her cheekbones and the slight tilt to the outer corner of her eyes. Her platinum spill of hair had been combed since he'd left her sleeping and now fell like a silky curtain to her mid-back. In striking contrast, her brows and lashes were dark as soot, the perfect foil for the glacial blue of her irises. A pert nose perched over the soft cushion of her mouth. Memories of those lips beneath his own and the taste of her on his tongue had him making a quick adjustment to his position.

At his movement, Irena turned, her gaze heated. “Don't stare. I hate people who stare.”

“I wasn't staring. Promise.”

“Liar. Where the hell were you?”

“Lavatory.” He tried another stab at humor. “I didn't know you cared, querida.”

Irena raised her hand and Chago ducked. Instead of the punch he expected, she hailed a passing flight attendant and ordered a bottle of water. He waited until the woman moved away then turned, ready for some answers. “Now you know my whereabouts, what about you? Something interesting going on in first class?”

She reached past him, grabbed her drink from the returning attendant, and passed her a five-dollar bill. “I needed to stretch my legs. You know, move around a bit.”

“Hmmm.” Her answer held a decided smack of bullshit. Chago took the bottle and cracked the lid open before handing it back to Irena. “If there's something bothering you, you can tell me.”

She ignored his statement and mumbled a brief thank you then downed half the water. After she finished, she shot him a perturbed glare. “What? You want some?”

“Si.” He finished what was left and returned the drained container. “Thanks.”

Irena tossed the empty bottle into the attendant's proffered trash bag and settled into her seat in preparation for landing. “You're an ass.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“You drank all my water.”

“I accepted what you offered. There's a big difference, querida.”

“Really? Do enlighten me, oh wise one.”

Chago ran a fingertip down Irena's arm, smiling at her surprised gasp. “Querida, I always make sure my woman's needs are met before I take my own fulfillment.”

Irena scanned the crowded airport shuttle for Drake, while Chago grumbled about his cramped quarters in the seat beside her. Worry over her parents made her antsy. The small bus jerked to a stop outside Terminal Four and she sprang to her feet, only to be halted by his hand on her arm.

“Wait for the others to leave. It's less crowded that way.” He didn't spare her a glance, oblivious to her agitation as he busily tapped away on his cell phone. Irena slumped against the window and clenched her jaw against a rising tide of anxiety-induced bitchiness.

Travelers soon surged in the aisle and made a quick escape impossible. Thoroughly fed up with controlling men, Irena jerked her arm free and took immeasurable pride in stomping on Chago's toes while sinking back into her seat. “Stop ordering me around.”

“Stop running away.”

“Why don't you go f — ”

Her curse was cut short by the arrival of the bus driver. “Ma'am, you can depart now.” The man smiled and extended a hand to help her up.

“Si.” Chago's tone reeked with mock exasperation as he rose to stand beside her. “Get out already.”

With a blistering smile, Irena pushed past the attendant and left Chago behind in her dust. She charged out into the damp London air of the Heathrow terminal, followed the purple signs to the security screening area, and took her place at the end of the line. The constant hurry-up-and-wait of layovers always left her nerves frayed.

“Something I said?” Chago's deep chuckle sounded behind her, but Irena rebuffed his attempt to get under her skin.

“You're a bully.” Her foot tapped cadence on the floor while she stared at the crowd ahead. “Just because you're the size of a small building does not mean you can push other people around, you know.”

“Small building, eh? Sloane and Barron would be all over that one.”

“Who the hell are Sloane and Barron?”

“My brothers. Two of them anyway.”

“Two of them?” Curiosity got the better of her and she swiveled around to peer up at him. “How many do you have?”

“Six. Two older and four younger.”

Irena had always wanted a sibling to share things with, but her parents weren't able to have more children. The sudden reminder of their situation tinged her tone with more snide than she intended. “Ah. So you're a middle child. That explains a lot.”

She stepped up to the x-ray machine and placed her bag and valuables on the belt before stepping inside a body scanner. After a few seconds she emerged out the other side and collected her stuff. He followed suit behind her.

“What do you mean that explains a lot?” Chago asked as they walked into the departure area.

Irena ignored his question.

“They aren't my biological brothers. We're more of an adopted family.”

“You still fit the middle child profile.” Irena moved to an empty row of seats, tossed her belongings on top of a chair, and plopped down into a neighboring seat.

Chago sighed and sat beside her. “I defy profiles, querida.”

“You have four younger brothers and two older. Makes you a middle in my book.”

“Si, but it's more complicated than simple family dynamics.”

“How? Your parents adopted seven children. Big deal. I hear Brad and Angelina might be doing you one better.”

“C'mon, I'm hungry. Let's eat.” He grabbed his luggage and headed toward a pub across the hall. He stopped halfway and waved at her to join him.

Irena checked her watch — still plenty of time to grab a bite to eat.
Damn. Too tired to fight an empty stomach and her nagging attraction at the same time, she picked up her stuff and trekked across the aisle.

The hostess seated them at a table for two by the concourse. They surveyed the menus, gave their orders to the waitress, then stared at anything but each other as an awkward silence descended.

“Probably the last good meal we'll have for a while,” Irena glanced his way only to find him studying a blond across the walkway.

“What?” Chago asked, turning back to face her.

“Nothing.” Her tone snipped any further conversation in the proverbial bud. Irena pulled out her phone to check her e-mail. No word from her parents. They were tough and could handle themselves in a sticky situation. War had taught her that. But Drake's underhanded tactics and covert objectives scared her. She glanced around the departure area again, but found no sign of him. Fuck. Panic wouldn't help anyone. She needed time alone to formulate a plan.

“You don't have a lot of patience, do you?”

“Sure.” She flashed Chago a saccharine-sweet smile and kicked the table leg. “For people who deserve it.”

“And you're saying I don't?”

“I haven't figured you out. You're still on my list.”

“Oh, you have a list?”

“You have no idea.”

The waitress delivered their food and Irena dug in like a starvation victim. The crunchy fish and chips slathered in malt vinegar hit the spot. “Hmm. This is really good.”

Chago nodded, a glob of ketchup from his burger running down his chin. She pointed at her jaw, indicating his need to wipe.

“Thanks,” he said, his words muffled around another mouthful of food.

“Anytime.” Irena gulped her soda and grinned, her irritation evaporating. The upcoming flight would give her plenty of opportunity to plan for her parent's safety. “So, tell me more about your mysterious blended family.”

• • •

Ravenous hunger pushed Archon to the brink of insanity.

After the evocation ceremony, the remote Bantu tribe had treated him like a venerable god. Their shaman had enshrined him within the tiny local temple with naught more than incense and a small bucket of water. Weak as he was, there'd been little he could do the stop them.

If Lucifer could see him now, the mighty Archon laid low by a bunch of mud-painted witchdoctors, he'd eradicate him on the spot for his ineptitude.

Head aching and vision blurred, he crawled from his mat and gazed around at the hut's grass-thatched ceiling and dirt floor. Flies buzzed in through the reed-covered entrance to bite his limbs and moonlight streamed between holes in the roof to highlight the festering cut on his thigh. He required sustenance in order to heal.

The unholy alliance of his parents had made him nothing more than a parasite, requiring the life force of others to survive. Over the long years of his imprisonment, he'd heard rumors of the succulence of humans, but had never been fortunate enough to sample them.

Something rustled outside the door and a tray pushed through the entrance. On top were the trappings of a Voodoo spell — a bleached human skull, several crudely made candles, and a wooden cup filled with still-warm animal blood. Snatches of memory ticked through his mind: a shaman standing over him as the drumbeat resounded; tribal dancers circling a huge fire, their movements frenzied and desperate; power and black magic heavy in the air.

Archon snatched the small cup from the tray and downed the contents in one gulp. The bitter aftertaste of narcotics coated his tongue. No matter. Human drugs had little effect on him. His stomach growled loud, eager for more.

He stood and took a few steps then halted. Dizziness sent his world twirling. His stomach lurched and he fell to his knees. Once the heaves subsided, he wiped the back of his scaled hand across his mouth and slumped to the floor. Seems he'd escaped from one prison only to face a different demise.

Again, something stirred near the entrance. Another hand fumbled through to grasp the tray. Archon sniffed the air, savoring the scent of flesh and human sweat before seizing his opportunity.

The frightened shaman didn't put up much of a struggle. Archon pinned him to the ground and sank his fangs deep into his victim's spinal cord. His powerful venom worked its sorcery, liquefying the man's bones and organs. After draining him dry, Archon rolled away and enjoyed the immediate strengthening of his limbs. As he watched, his muscles swelled and the gash on his thigh began to knit.

More. He needed more.

He stood and kicked the tribesman's carcass to the far side of the hut before peering through the doorway. A large bonfire roared from the center of the plain.

Archon slipped from the hut and skirted the sparse vegetation near the edge of the gathering. Men, women and children of all ages sat in a rough circle, about fifty in all. His gut ached, but he tamped down the urge to attack and instead settled behind a large, solitary tree to bide his time.

Soon the drummers began their familiar, hypnotic rhythm. Painted dancers, festooned with feathers and masks, joined in the mayhem. A large bowl passed amongst the tribal members. Each drank then seemed to fall into a quiet stupor. The crowd swayed in time with the ever-increasing tempo, their eyes glassy and expressions vacant.

The scent of burning wood and heated bodies threatened to push Archon beyond endurance. As before, a faint trill of melody slipped into his ear. He gazed into the vast expanse of star-filled sky and forced the face of his mother to the recesses of his mind. She was gone and he was left to fill the void. He must survive. He must win.

The furious beat reached a thunderous crescendo. His time had arrived.

Archon closed his eyes and breathed deep, allowing hunger to fill every crevice of his being. His fangs lengthened and acidic venom dripped to the dust below with a sinister hiss.