Bound By Darkness (Guardians of Eternity #8)(38)
Author: Alexandra Ivy

At last he unclenched his hand and stepped back. “Fine. Show me.”

The wizard rose to his feet, his fingers twitching as if he was barely restraining the urge to launch a spell in Tearloch’s direction. Instead he wisely smoothed his rumpled robes and with rigid composure moved back to the shallow pool of water.

He waved his hand, murmuring soft words. Then, lifting his head, he gestured for Tearloch to join him.

“Our allies, as you commanded, Master.”

Tearloch moved to peer in the water, not at all comforted by the vision of a tall, slender man with short black hair slicked from his lean face. Dressed in a designer suit and glossy wingtip shoes, he might have been a banker.

But Tearloch didn’t miss the pale, too-perfect features and the dull, emptiness in the black eyes.

Dead eyes.

“A vampire?” he hissed.

“Not only a vampire, but one that possesses skills beyond most,” Rafael corrected, as if the leech’s extra mojo would make him less offensive to Tearloch.

“What does that mean?”

“He is an Immortal One.”

“I thought they were all immortal?”

“There are a few vampires who left this world to form their own clan,” the wizard explained in overly patient tones. “They developed very unique talents that I believe will be of use to you.”

“The talent to create zombies?”

“No, he has two curs as companions, as well as a witch,” Rafael grudgingly confessed. “One of the curs is a magic-user.”

A vampire with juiced powers, two curs (one of them a magic-user), and an extra witch tossed into the bargain?

That was enough firepower to easily overwhelm his handful of Sylvermyst.

“Damn you, this is a trap.”

Rafael held up a soothing hand. “No, I swear.”

“As if I would trust you.”

“They were sent by our beloved master.”

“I only have your word for that.” Tearloch gave a shake of his head, wishing the painful fog would clear. “I should have listened to Sergei.”

Rafael cautiously moved forward, waving his hand as if casting a spell.

“There is no need to upset yourself.”

Tearloch swayed, the fog briefly clouding his mind to the point he could barely remember why he was standing in the cavern.

Then, with a curse, he forced back the numbing cloud of confusion.

“Can you communicate with the leech?” he rasped.

Rafael’s thin lips nearly disappeared, but he gave a ready nod of his head.

“I can.”

“Then you warn him that if he or his trio of misfits attempts to enter these caves I will not only allow my Sylvermysts to slice and dice them into pieces so small their mothers won’t be able to recognize them, but you will be returned to the underworld and your name cursed so that you will never again be allowed to pass beyond the boundaries of Hell.”

Tiny flames smoldered in the depths of the spirit’s eyes. “The master will not be pleased.”

“Perhaps for now you should concern yourself with making certain I’m pleased,” Tearloch warned, turning to head for the entrance to the cavern.

Gods. He needed air.

Fresh air.

“Yes … for now,” whispered Rafael behind him.

Chapter 11

Ariyal stumbled backward in revulsion as the zombies began to literally drop like flies around him.

Not that he objected to their stop, drop, and return-to-dead routine.

A pile of rotting corpses was considerably better than a ravaging horde of rotting corpses. And more importantly, the sight of them assured him that Jaelyn had managed to overcome whoever was responsible for calling the abominations from their grave.

Relief surged through him, along with a wry flare of humor.

He didn’t know why he worried.

Jaelyn was a female who could take care of herself. Hell, he’d bet good money that the powerful Hunter was in better shape than he was.

Leaning against a tree, Ariyal glanced down at the numerous wounds that continued to seep blood. The zombies had been relentless in their single-minded devotion in ripping him to shreds and it had taken all his skill just to keep the damage to a minimum.

Thankfully, none of the injuries were life threatening, but still they were sapping his energy. And worse, they hurt like a bitch.

Cursing zombies and witches and every other minion of the Dark Lord who was probably lurking in the shadows, Ariyal lifted his head as the cool wash of power filled the air, watching as Jaelyn flowed toward him with a mesmerizing beauty.

A slender, enticing female who was as gloriously lethal as she was beautiful.

His entire body clenched in … what?

Recognition, he at last decided.

There was simply no other word for it.

But recognition of what?

Desire? Need?

Fate?

The question went unanswered as she halted at his side, her hand reaching out to touch his bare chest before she was yanking it back as if she thought he might contaminate her.

“How badly are you injured?” she asked, her voice cold.

His lips twisted. No one could claim the female was at the mercy of her emotions. But then, what had he expected?

Horrified dismay that he’d been hurt? A tender need to nurture him back to health?

Yeah, she was more likely to sprout wings and fly.

“Nothing that won’t heal.”

“How long?”

He frowned, sensing there was more to her question than mere impatience.

“Two, maybe three hours.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “We don’t have that long.”

“Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?”

“It’s too exposed out here.”

Absolutely more than impatience. Biting back his groan of pain, Ariyal pushed away from the tree and scanned the seemingly empty meadow.

“Exposed to what?”

“The mage escaped.”

“The one controlling the zombies?” He reached down to grasp the sword he’d dropped at his feet.

“Yes.” She grimaced. “And it gets worse.”

There was something worse than zombies?

Fantastic.

“I’m listening.”

“The magic-user was a cur.”

Ariyal abruptly recalled the scent of cur that he’d noticed earlier. Obviously he should have paid more attention.

But then again, who had ever heard of a cur/mage?

Or was it mage/cur?

“I didn’t know that was possible,” he muttered.

“Not only possible, but a pain in the ass.”

He hid his smile at her peeved tone. Jaelyn was accustomed to being the winner. No matter who or what her opponent might be.