Tempting Danger (15 page)

For a moment the knowledge simply wasn’t there. The spurt of panic pushed him the rest of the way to the surface. He opened his eyes.

Raw wood overhead. Wood beneath him, too. The cabin.
Yes,
he thought, relieved.
That’s right
. He was at the cabin. He’d come here to . . . the thought slid away.

His ribs hurt. He sat up carefully, letting the blanket that had covered him slide to his lap. He blinked. He’d been lying on the floor, fully clothed. And there was a large hole in the north wall.

Oh, yeah. He’d gone sailing through it when he got into a little disagreement with Molly’s friend. He touched his side, grimaced. Hadn’t won that argument, had he?

The memory was oddly fuzzy. He must have been slightly concussed, though his head didn’t hurt. Healed it while he was out, he supposed, and pushed to his feet. He’d had time for that. The light streaming in through the damaged wall told him it was early morning. He’d come to the cabin with Molly and her sorcerer friend yesterday about noon. They’d talked about exchanging spells, and then . . .

Had it been yesterday? He frowned. Must have been, he decided. If he’d been out for more than a night, his ribs wouldn’t still be this sore. And he’d be a lot hungrier.

Not that he wasn’t hungry. First things first, though. He touched his wards mentally, found everything secure, then went to check the damage to his ramshackle
pied-à-terre
.

He wasn’t much of a carpenter, but the repair seemed to lie within his skills. He’d have to get to it pretty quickly, though—the roof was sagging. Someone had wedged a couple of the broken two-by-fours across the top beam, temporarily reinforcing it, but a good wind could take it down.

Considerate of them,
he thought, ambling over to the ice chest he’d brought. They’d knocked him out, cracked a rib or two, but at least they’d kept the roof from falling in on him while he was unconscious. They’d tossed a blanket over him, too, before departing.

That had probably been Molly’s idea. She had a soft heart. But he didn’t think she was strong enough to have made the temporary repairs to his roof. That must have been . . . what was the man’s name?

Frowning, he took out the carton of eggs, then paused, trying to identify the mechanical
whup-whup
sound his ears picked up. A helicopter, he decided. Off to the south. Not a common sound up here—he was pretty remote. But not alarming, either.

He headed for the little propane-powered stove. He’d have to give Rule a call. There was some serious stuff going on, weird energies moving between the realms that he didn’t understand. Though he had an idea, from something the other man had said . . . something to do with the realms shifting?

Dammit, he really needed to remember. He turned on the burner and poured oil into the cast-iron skillet, scowling. What was his last clear memory?

The encounter with that pretty little detective at Club Hell was clear enough. Cullen grinned. Rule had a definite interest there. Should he tell his friend that his newest inamorata was a sensitive?

Maybe, but never mind for now. That memory was clear enough. So was the next morning, when Molly’s phone call had dragged him out of sleep far too early—and seriously aroused his curiosity. A few hours later, he’d gone to the airport to pick up Molly and her current lover, who was a sorcerer, like him.

Only not like him. Cullen frowned. That’s where things got fuzzy. He couldn’t call up the man’s face or much about what happened after Molly and what’s his name arrived. They’d argued, him and the other sorcerer. He remembered that much. He’d wanted more than the other man . . . Michael. Yes, he thought, relieved to have retrieved that much. The man’s name was Michael.

The one he’d used, anyway. Sorcerers were a secretive bunch, so it probably wasn’t his real name. Normally Cullen wouldn’t have invited another student of the
sorcéri
to his retreat. There was a small, untapped node beside the cabin, one he didn’t intend to share. But Molly had vouched for the man.

And Cullen had ended up unconscious for about twenty-four hours. Well, he thought, absently rubbing his side, maybe he’d deserved that. He and Michael had swapped a couple of basic spells—nice stuff, but nothing really new. When they started talking theory, though, it had been obvious the man was holding back. Cullen couldn’t recall exactly what had happened, but he had the notion he’d pulled something a bit underhanded.

It had worked, too. He grinned, elated, the two eggs in his hand forgotten as at last one memory kicked in, clear and sharp.

What was a cracked rib or an unplanned nap on the floor? He had a dandy new illusion spell, elegant and powerful. Far more sophisticated than anything he’d run across or dreamed up on his own. The setting sequence alone suggested all sorts of possibilities. . . .

Grease spat on his hand. He started to rub it, noticed the eggs he was holding, and cracked them into the pan, then added a third. Food first, and then—oh, then he’d settle into some serious study of his new acquisition.

He’d better not get too deep into it, though, or he’d forget to call Rule. Cullen sighed. Pity, but he couldn’t just drop out of sight and work on this, not now. Who else could tease out the truth? In this benighted age, so few grasped even the basics about magic. They didn’t burn to understand, the way he did. No, just as children afraid of the dark pull the covers over their heads, they burrowed into their ignorance—and cast out those who didn’t want to live trapped beneath their stifling restrictions.

As the clan that should have been his had cast him out.

Cullen drew a shaky breath. Enough. Rule had never shunned him for doing what he had to do. For that, Cullen owed him friendship. And a phone call.

When the eggs were done, he lifted them onto a plate, carrying it and the loaf of bread over to the table. He got a can of Coke from the ice chest and refueled quickly, hardly noticing what he ate, his mind teeming with symbols, structures, and relationships that had no direct physical analogue.

Thirty minutes later, the plate with its bits of congealed egg sat forgotten on the floor, where he’d moved it when he noticed it was in his way. The table was littered with scraps of paper, and he was frowning at a row of glowing symbols that hung in midair. After a moment, two of the symbols slid to the right, and another sequence took their place.

Yes, that was it. That’s what he’d been missing. If the congruence between the object and the illusion was to hold, he had to—

A red energy ribbon snapped across his field of vision. He jolted. One of his wards had been breached. Not tampered with, not finessed. Something had powered right through as if the ward wasn’t there.

Which should not have been possible.

Cullen lacked the usual lupus aversion for guns. With a quick wave of his hand, the glowing symbols vanished, even as he dashed for the corner where his shotgun waited, loaded and ready. He grabbed it, paused. A second’s concentration, and the scraps of paper burst into flame. And he headed for the exit, moving fast.

Not the front door or the impromptu exit he’d added when he went through the wall yesterday. A trapdoor at the back of the shack. It opened on a cramped tunnel that led to a cave—one he’d long ago explored thoroughly. Cullen didn’t like small, enclosed spaces any better than the next wolf, but he liked even the less the prospect of meeting whoever or whatever could brush through his wards that way.

Call him paranoid. Friendly visitors knocked, dammit.

He tossed back the throw rug, grabbed the edge of the trapdoor, and yanked. It was heavier than it looked, being made of solid steel.

And was hit by pure, burning agony. His back arched as his fingers released the shotgun. His knees buckled. He fell to the floor.

Cullen had a high tolerance for pain. Most lupi did. But this was like nothing he’d ever experienced, as if he were being burned alive from the inside out. He heard himself screaming and tried to clamp his jaws together, but his body twitched and spasmed and wouldn’t obey. Instinctively, he tried to Change. And couldn’t. Terror, as primitive and consuming as the physical agony, seized him.

Like flipping a switch, it ended.

As sex leaves an afterglow, so does intense pain. He lay there twitching and panting, his mind dimmed, his entire body aching like a bad tooth.

The gun
.

It lay inches from his out-flung hand. He reached for it—or tried to. His arm didn’t move. Frantic, he gathered his focus and tried again. His muscles gave a single obedient twitch—and sent a wave of fresh pain rolling through him.

He gritted his teeth, riding that wave.
Okay, so the attack was physical, not psychic
.
It did some damage. I can heal it. Lady, grant me time to
—

Several black-clad forms burst through the door. Three—four—and another two erupted from the hole in his wall. They wore what looked like black
gi
s belted by long strips of red cloth tied with deliberate intricacy. Black scarves wrapped, Bedouin-like, around their heads hid the lower parts of their faces.

And they had rifles. Every damned one of them.

Ninja wanna-bes with guns?

“You,” barked one of them—short guy, pale skin, smelled of seru—excited and aggressive. “Where are the others?”

“He can’t answer, Second.” Whisper-soft, that voice came from behind the knot of black-clad bodies near the hole in his wall. It sounded childish . . . if you could imagine a computer having a childhood, for there was no life, no feeling in that voice. “I’m surprised he’s conscious. Speech will be beyond him for several hours.”

The black-clad forms parted. A woman in a long red robe picked her way daintily through the bits of broken boards.

She was small, not much over five feet, and looked barely adolescent. Her hair was long, jet black, and hanging loose. A narrow silver band circled her head. The opal it held was large and black, and covered the brow chakra. She carried a staff of black wood banded in silver that was as tall as she was. It reeked of magic.

He wanted to find her ridiculous, a child dressed up like a B-movie extra. Instead, the hair on the back of his neck lifted. A wave of hatred—instinctive, unreasoning—curled his lips back from his teeth.

The tiny movement hurt like blazes. Damn, damn, damn, there were tears in his eyes as she sauntered over to him. “Look for them,” she said crisply, a queen addressing her minions.

Them? Michael and Molly,
he realized. These escapees from a costume drama wanted the other sorcerer, not him.
All this, and they aren’t even after me. That’s a pisser.

“Madonna,” the man who’d spoken before said hesitantly. “Stay back, please. Let us protect you.”

“Fool,” she said in that baby-computer voice. “He can’t move. See where that—” she gestured with her staff at the tunnel—“leads. And who might be in it.”

The short ninja barked out orders. Three of them hurried to obey, lowering themselves one at a time into Cullen’s escape route. Shortie moved closer to Cullen, watching him suspiciously.

She paid him no attention, her gaze fixed on Cullen. Her eyes were uncannily dark, so black he couldn’t separate pupils from irises. There was something odd about her scent, too, but the smell of magic from her staff was so strong he couldn’t tease out much else.

“I wonder why you’re conscious,” she said.

The staff. That’s where his hatred focused. The need to destroy it rose fiercely in him. He wanted to Change, to take it in his teeth and splinter it, but—wait a minute. He hadn’t been able to Change earlier, but the assault had ended. He’d been damaged, but maybe—

“All right,” she whispered, “let’s see what you’re thinking. Where are they?”

He met her eyes—and crossed his own as her probe slid harmlessly off. He’d have stuck out his tongue if his jaws had cooperated.

“You’re shielded!” she cried, high and astonished. Her face puckered, and she jabbed him in the ribs with her staff.

I will not be touched by that abomination
. The power of hatred sent him surging to his feet, aware of pain but consumed by the need to crush the unclean thing.

But pain disregarded isn’t pain defeated. He was slow, clumsy. He staggered and missed when he grabbed for the staff. And when the rifle butt descended, he caught a glimpse of it—too late to keep it from slamming into his skull.

TWENTY
minutes outside the city and climbing, Lily looked out the window at chaparral, scrub oak, and rock. The road was steep, the sky overhead so clear and intense it seemed she had only to put the window down to be able to breathe in the blue as well as see it. Compared to the Rockies to the northeast, they were runts, these mountains, but she loved them. They made her think of old cowboys, worn down to spit and sinew by hard living.