Born of Fire (The League #2)(19)
Author: Sherrilyn Kenyon

She took a deep breath in relief. “What did you say to them?”

That wicked grin returned, flashing his dimple. “I’m not about to repeat it to you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Careful, convict, I might finish what the Rits started.”

He just laughed and threw his right arm over her shoulders. Her alarm bells ringing, she stiffened at his touch.

“Relax,” he whispered, his breath tickling her neck. “I need a crutch and I can’t very well be seen on the street here with one. If one of the natives detects any weakness, we’re both roadkill. So just look mean and don’t make eye contact with anyone.”

She smiled seductively. “Gee, hon, you take me to the most wonderful places.”

“Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much. Now quit talking and start for the door.”

As they started walking, she couldn’t help noticing the muscles flexing beneath her hands, against her side. Hard and strong, they made their presence known in a way that disturbed her breathing. Her hunger for his body begging for appeasement, she did her best to think of something disgusting—like Caillen’s dirty underwear.

It didn’t help.

And it only served to remind her that Syn didn’t wear any . . .

Once outside, she almost stopped as dread consumed her. Only Syn’s constant pull on her kept her in motion.

Filth lined the street and an odor that smelled way too much like human waste, garbage, and alcohol assaulted every olfactory gland she possessed. Bile rose in her throat, effectively distracting her from the tantalizing form next to her.

“Relax.” He tightened his arm around her shoulders. “Breathe through your mouth.”

“My God, what is that stench?”

“Hell.”

As he continued to lead her down the street, a funny feeling settled deep inside her stomach. She was putting a lot of trust into a man she barely knew. He could take her to some remote location and dump her.

For all she knew, he might even be taking her to a slaver so that he could get enough money to hide. My God, Shahara, what are you doing? This wasn’t her. Shahara Dagan trusted no one.

Ever.

The last time she’d made that mistake, she’d been robbed and raped. And if Syn ever learned the truth about why she was here with him, she was sure that was mild compared to what he would do to her.

“Where are we going?”

He gave her a puzzled look. “To an old friend.”

“What kind of old friend?”

With a weary sigh, he shook his head. “I’m not going to dump you here with no money and no way home if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not half the bastard your bounty sheets say I am. I wouldn’t leave a rabid dog at the mercy of the vermin who inhabit this place. So relax. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

She still couldn’t stifle her nagging doubts. “Why are you helping me?”

“Ah hell, I don’t know. Stupidity, I guess.” He glanced at her and must have seen the worry in her face. “You’re Caillen’s revered big sister. Remember?” His voice was suddenly void of aggravation. “I’m not about to face him after I let something happen to you. It would kill him and I think too much of him for that.”

His explanation brought an unexpected wave of disappointment to her.

She tensed. What were you expecting? Gee Shahara, I’m helping you because I care about you?

Wake up. You know better than that. People only help when they have to.

With a sigh of her own, she readjusted her grip on his lean h*ps and directed her gaze away from him.

The buildings that surrounded them were the strangest hodgepodge of glass, steel, brick, and wood. It looked as if the architects had used spare parts and designs they’d thrown out. And every person they passed eyed them with an interest that made sweat bead on her forehead.

Footsteps approached from ahead. Remembering Syn’s warning, she focused her gaze on the sidewalk before them.

“Hey, how much for the woman?”

Syn pulled her to a stop.

Shahara couldn’t resist a quick glance to see the tall, bald man who stood in front of them to the right. Beefy and intense, he put the scare in scary. He had a shorter, gray-haired companion about a foot behind him.

She looked up at Syn and watched the almost imperceptible way his eyes narrowed underneath his shades. “Your life would be about right.” He raked him with a sneer. “You still interested?”

The stranger looked to his friend. An arrogant, amused smile passed between them before the man turned back to face Syn. “C’mon, friend. It’s two on one. You sure don’t look like you’re up to those odds.”

With a casualness that astounded her, Syn removed his shades and put them in his pocket. The only inkling she had to his deadly mood was the subtle shift of his jacket with his left hand to expose her blaster for his grip. He rested his hand casually against his tight bu**ocks. “You can’t be talking to me. I don’t have prokas for friends. And I assure you I could gut you both before your stench had time to catch up to your fall.”

Rage contorted the man’s features. He took a step forward.

Syn didn’t move. He didn’t even tense. He just stood there, taunting them with his eyes and deadly silence.

Waiting.

Like a vicious, lethal viper who knew it could take down its enemy with a single bite.

The man behind him paled. “Wait a sec, Chronus. That’s Syn. I saw his face on Blade’s scan.”

A flicker of fear dispelled the rage an instant before doubt wavered in his gray eyes. “I thought he was dead.”

Syn gave him a menacing grin. “Not as dead as you’ll be if you don’t walk on . . . friend.”

His buddy grabbed him by the shoulder. “C’mon. Don’t mess with him. Remember what he did to Durrin and Blade. The Partini still can’t walk right.”

Syn gave an evil laugh. “I sure would like to get an eye’s view of your kneecap, too. What say we play doctor for a bit?” He checked his chronometer. “I got time . . .”

With that, the two men took off at a dead run.

Shahara was impressed by their quick flight. Most of all, she was impressed that Syn had inspired that kind of panic in them without having to draw a weapon. “Just what did you do to a Partini?”

He draped his arm over her again. “It’s a long story. And there’s nothing in the universe more boring than an old war tale.”

She was amazed by that. Any other man, her brother included, wouldn’t have hesitated to bore her with a tale of his masculine bravado. But Syn didn’t seem to need to prove himself. She smiled at his confidence. It was such a nice change from the people she’d known.

As they walked on, she looked up at him and watched how well he managed to keep the pain from showing on his face.

How did he do that?

If not for the bruises and slight limp, she’d never be able to tell that he was hurt, and she wondered what internal scars he must hide with the same predatorial grace.

Syn was like hardened steel. And it must have taken the very fires of hell to forge a man this strong. Which left only one question. What was his weakness? Surely he had one.

Without any more confrontations, they approached the apartment building. Twin bright yellow towers stretched up toward the liquid blue sky.

From a distance the place had looked habitable but, with every step that drew them closer, it became less and less attractive. Broken bottles and litter lined the sidewalk. Several bodies lay stretched out in front of the doors.

Tempted to check them for a pulse, Shahara reminded herself that many thieves used that type of ploy. Once someone bent over, they pounced.

Just like Syn in prison.

Syn took her by the hand and led her toward glass doors that were covered with red graffiti. He pushed the control to open them.

As the doors pulsed open, she thought about an old story she’d once read that described the entrance to hell. This place certainly looked the part. If not for Syn, she’d probably be running in the opposite direction.

For some reason, she took a great deal of comfort in his presence. Much more comfort than she ought to.

He led her across a dirty, dank, empty lobby where even more graffiti was painted, some of it highly vulgar and obscene. It even had pictures of lewd acts and body parts.

As they approached the lift, a huge reptilian thing appeared and cut them off. It had the body of an upright lizard and the face that was half human, half snake. Its shiny blue and green scales gleamed in the dim light.

A scream lodged in her throat as she forgot Syn’s words and looked into the yellow eyes that were broken only by the black slit of its pupils.

He leveled a blaster at them. “Put your hands up, humans. Now.”

CHAPTER 8

Syn let go of her as he faced the reptilian creature. “Stand down or I’m going to shove that weapon some place real uncomfortable for you and I know enough about your anatomy to know exactly where that is.”

It didn’t look convinced. “What do you want here?” it asked in a lethal raspy whisper.

“I’m here to see Digger.”

“And you are?”

“Syn, as in the original.”

It gave a rumbling sound she assumed was a laugh. “You don’t look like Syn to me. And even if you were, what would you want with that old piece of dried-up mud?”

Syn’s gaze turned deadly. “Why don’t you ask him?” The lizard being took out a comlink and pressed a number sequence. After several seconds a gruff voice answered.

“I hate to disturb you, Frion. But I have a human here who says he’s Syn, as in the original.”

“Syn, huh?” It was obvious the man was older by his shaking voice. “Then ask him what his birth name is.”

The lizard looked at Syn.

Shahara also turned a questioning brow. Now she would find out what C.I. stood for.

“Sheridan Wade,” he said with an odd note in his voice.

Sheridan Wade? Just how many names did he have? But that one made sense given who his father had been.

“That’s my boy!” the voice said excitedly. “Send him up.”

The lizard turned back to them. “My pardon, Frion Syn,” it said before pushing the control for the lift. He stepped back to clear the door. “Digger is in flat 554.”

Syn said nothing, but Shahara could sense a strong, indecipherable emotion from him.

They stepped inside and the doors closed behind them. The lift cruised up the air channel with a smoothness belied by its ramshackle appearance.

Syn released her hand and went to stand in a rear corner.

“Just what is your name anyway?”

“Does it really matter? I’m a man without family, name, or country. I’ll answer to just about anything as long as it’s not degrading or insulting.”

“That’s not what I asked. I want to know what the C.I. stands for.”

He looked up with a smart aleck grin. “Created In.”

“Created In Syn,” she repeated. “Cute name. Your mother must have really hated you.”

His smile died. “With a passion,” he said with such sincerity that it gave her pause.

Before she could say anything more, the lift stopped and he left her without so much as a backward glance.

Promising herself that she’d force him to tell her, she went after him.

The rundown hallway was deserted except for the lines of graffiti that were scribbled everywhere. At least the apartment was close by.

This was not encouraging.

As Syn reached up to knock, the door swung open.

Tall and extremely lean, the man was probably around sixty-five. Though wrinkles obscured his features, which were also covered my a full beard, something about his demeanor told her that he’d probably been quite handsome in his youth. He had a thick head of white hair and eyes so blue they practically glowed.

And when he looked at Syn, it was like a father greeting his long-missing son. “Well I’ll be crimped and shanked, it really is you. I thought someone else was screwing with me.” He pulled Syn into a tight hug.

Syn cursed. “Careful, old man.” He quickly extracted himself. “Don’t break my ribs . . . any worse.”

“Break your ribs?” He looked Syn up and down. “Good Lord, boy. What happened to you?”

“I went drinking and fell off the stool . . . what do you think happened?”

Digger snorted. “Still the same sarcastic ass**le you ever were. But you’re here, so that tells me just how bad it is. God knows you wouldn’t come here by choice and I damn sure don’t blame you for that. You running from the pinches?” Pinches was an old slang term used for the enforcers.

“I’m a Wade. What do you think?”

He nodded. “You know you’re always welcome here.” He opened the door wider and finally took notice of Shahara. “And who might you be, beautiful?”

“Someone who’s allergic to archaic playboys and who’s young enough to be your granddaughter,” Syn answered. “Call her Shahara, but watch out. She’s responsible for about half of my injuries.”