Rise of the Gryphon (Belador #4)(13)
Author: Sherrilyn Kenyon

Her eyes were red-rimmed, not glowing like they’d always been before. Beautiful, sad eyes stared at him, damp and pained, as though she’d been crying. Her lips moved.

No sound came through.

She tried talking again. Her face erupted with panic, then she squeezed her eyes shut. Veins on her forehead stuck out as if she was concentrating all her energy on one thing.

He sat forward, studying the strange vision, and spoke out loud. “What are you doing?”

Slowly, her neck and shoulders came into focus. She opened her eyes and took a couple of panting breaths. “Trying . . . to communicate.”

“Why aren’t you teleporting in?”

“I . . . can’t.”

“Why?” he asked with a load of suspicion.

“Locked . . . in dungeon.”

Truth or trick? He suffered a moment of ambivalence over the misery pulsing from her. Was she projecting her body from inside TÅμr Medb and really in a dungeon? “Who locked you up?”

“Flaevynn.”

The Medb queen. But could he believe her? “For how long?”

“Don’t . . . know.” Her words came out in spurts, and sweat streamed down her face. The bulk of her body still hadn’t taken shape. “Sorry about trolls. Don’t . . . hate me.”

There was one way to determine if she was jerking him around or not. Reaching out to her mind, he lowered his control until he could enter hers without giving her warning, something he never did unless the safety of others was at stake. Right now, the safety of all Beladors was on the line.

The minute he entered her mind, sharp stabs shot back through the connection. He could feel the ward preventing her physical body from teleporting. She shivered in a cold room of stone. He hissed at the blades of pain streaking through her. “What . . .”

Her eyes widened. She shouted, “Stop!”

He snapped his control back in place, shutting down to the minimum access he’d allow to stay in contact with her. He’d planned for anything but this. Kizira really was locked away somewhere, and logic said the one person powerful enough to bind a Medb priestess would be the Medb queen.

His heart thumped with worry. What were they doing to her? Who other than Quinn would go up against Flaevynn to help Kizira?

What the bloody hell are you thinking?

He couldn’t cross that line again with her, could he?

Evidently so, because he asked, “How can I help you?”

“You. Can’t.”

She’d very likely ended up in this situation by allowing him to access her memory and pilfer intel on the Medb, but Flaevynn still controlled Kizira, and Quinn still needed information. He swallowed a lump of regret, forcing himself to stick to his duty. His vow to the Beladors came first, so he’d retrieve what he needed for the Beladors, then he would find some way to free her.

But would she answer his questions?

She must have seen the dilemma in his face. “Ask. I’ll answer . . . if I can. Little time.”

She probably couldn’t hold this out-of-body projection for long. He shoved aside his conscience, which would only get in the way of his interrogation. “How did Svart trolls find their way to Treoir?”

“Teleported.”

“By whom?”

Her face fell. “Me.”

The truth crashed hard between them. “You used me.”

“No. Flaevynn . . .” Her neck muscles clenched and she struggled to breathe. Then she said, “. . . compelled me.”

He knew that, but it didn’t alleviate how deep the betrayal had cut. The last time he’d seen Kizira she’d warned him, “I can’t promise that we won’t meet on a battlefield or that I won’t be compelled to do something that will make you hate me, but I don’t want to do it, and I don’t want to be your enemy.”

Was he just supposed to overlook the invasion at Treoir? Dismiss the deaths of the warriors and the threat to the Belador race? He clamped his hand on the arm of the sofa, fighting against the frustration building in his chest. “Did Flaevynn compel you to steal the location of Treoir from my mind?”

“Not . . . intentional.” Kizira’s shoulders moved with the battle she fought to maintain her image.

Every time that happened, Quinn forced his hands not to reach out to drag her away from whatever was holding her prisoner. Stay in the game. “You may not have intentionally skimmed the information from my mind, but you intentionally used it.”

“Yes. No choice.”

Always the same answer. He surged to his feet. “How am I supposed to believe you when your catchall answer is ‘I was compelled’?”

Tears pooled in her eyes, but not one broke loose. “Came to help. Can’t hold long. Ask. Now.”

She wanted to give him information in spite of being locked away? If he believed her, believed that she was imprisoned, then he had to let go of what had happened. Accept that some things were out of her control. “Okay, what can you tell me?”

That got him a cranky eye roll and one-word command. “Think.”

He nodded. “Let’s try this. You want to stop Flaevynn.”

“You understand.”

It took a moment for him to realize that she couldn’t say yes or no to that because it had been too close to a question. How could he find out what Flaevynn was after? He asked, “What would be a good gift for Flaevynn?”

Kizira’s eyes sparked with relief. “Alterants.”

Plural. How many was Flaevynn looking for and why? While he tried to figure out another question, Kizira added, “Evalle.”

“You can’t have her.”

“Number. One.”

Did Kizira mean Evalle was the most important one to Flaevynn? Why? Just to be clear, Quinn added, “Would Flaevynn be unhappy if someone harmed Evalle?”

“Maybe.”

“If Flaevynn tries to take Evalle, Tzader and I will come for her.”

“No. You lose.”

What did that mean? Quinn paced away, then back and said, “I don’t give a damn who loses.”

“I. Do.”

How could two words twist their way inside his heart? Was he really going to buy this act? He didn’t know, but his gut said to keep pushing. Back to the clever questions that sounded stupid to him. “Would Flaevynn be happy to receive a group of Alterants?”

“Very much.”

“What would a group of Alterants be called?”

“Army.”

“What would an army of Alterants be capable of accomplishing?”

She shook her head. “Beladors . . . dead.”

He stared at her in disbelief and argued, “Flaevynn can’t kill all the Beladors without facing massive retaliation from VIPER across the world. There are millions of us, many who work among humans in everyday jobs. Even if Flaevynn could destroy all the Beladors currently with VIPER, she’d face an army of our own that would step forward to take the places of those who fell.”

“Not. Necessarily.” Kizira whimpered and her image flickered.

Quinn moved toward her as if he could do something, then clenched his fists. Kizira would lash out before she’d cry. He thought he’d closed his heart against her, but no matter how much he fought it, he wanted to protect her. Wanted to believe she was just a pawn being tossed from one side of the Medb chessboard to the other, sacrificed for their queen.

That was the problem with love.

It constantly wanted to overrule logic.

Weary from an internal battle that showed no end, he finally asked, “How can I trust you?”

“Because . . .” Her form shuddered. She worked for her next breath and on the exhale said, “I. Love. You. Always have . . . always will.”

Quinn had offered to turn himself in to Macha when he’d realized his mind had been breached by Kizira. To do so would have meant Quinn’s death, a sanction he would accept for his failure, but Tzader was convinced that the Beladors needed Quinn’s powerful mind to protect Brina and to defend Treoir. Once Quinn had accomplished all he could to help Tzader ensure the future of the Beladors, he would leave. Go far away where he couldn’t be the weak link, because he’d never stopped loving this woman either.

But he’d broken enough vows today. He wouldn’t add admitting to that love when there was no way for them to be together. “What can I do for you, Kizira?”

She stared at him, the love in her eyes fading. “Nothing.”

The words gutted him. He ran his hand through his hair, pacing to and fro, but never more than two steps from her image. He stopped in front of her, torn between doing his job and caring for her. “What do you want me to do then?”

Her face altered into fierce determination, but her shoulders trembled, starting to lose shape. “Leave North America. Now.”

That wouldn’t bloody happen. “Why?”

Sweating, she implored him with her eyes. “Think, Quinn.”

Right. He’d asked a direct question. How was he supposed to know what to ask? He searched his mind, going back over Kizira’s last statement to leave this country. “Does Flaevynn value North America?”

“Sometimes.”

“Would she value it over Treoir?”

The weary arch of her eyebrow said that was a stupid question. Her form wavered again, jamming Quinn’s pulse into overdrive.

Her next words seeped out weary and strained. “Too slow.”

He’d heard about a game once where one person had a hidden word and tried to get another team player to guess the word by giving suggestions. “I’ve got an idea. I’ll say something and you say the first thing that comes to mind. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Beladors.”

“Enemy.”

He had to fine-tune this better or they’d need two days to share information. “Treoir.”

Her eyes stared off for a moment as she thought, then her gaze returned to him. “Immortality.”

Now he was getting somewhere. Flaevynn must be after immortality, which would make sense. But what made her think she could gain it by capturing Treoir? He thought she couldn’t leave TÅμr Medb. He wouldn’t get the answer he needed this way, but Tzader might know, so Quinn moved to specifics. When would Flaevynn make her next move? “Deadline.”

“Three days.”

“For what?” he snapped.

She just sighed.

“Sorry,” he muttered and concentrated. So she was talking about . . . “Tuesday?”

“Funeral.”

Who was going to die? He countered with, “Funeral.”

“Flaevynn.”

The Medb queen would die in three days for some reason? Now all the attacks made sense. She had a deadline for gaining immortality and couldn’t afford to lose.

What happened if Flaevynn lost? “Missed deadline.”

“Retribution.”

What type of vengeance would the crazy queen seek? He tossed back, “Retribution.”

“Annihilation.”

“Location.”

“North America.”

How would a dead queen accomplish that? She’d need an army, which meant . . . “Warriors.”

“Alterants.”

He had the next word before the question fully formed in his mind. “Leader.”

“Evalle.”

Quinn couldn’t accept that. The Medb queen really thought she could send Evalle and other Alterants to destroy North America if she died? Impossible.

Kizira gasped. “More.”

He couldn’t watch this any longer. “Tell me how I can bloody get to you, Kizira.”

She wrenched her neck, struggling as if she was being dragged backward. “Should have told you . . .” Gasping, she said, “Save . . .”

“Who?”

Kizira vanished, a whip of smoky image sucked out of the room.

Dropping his shield, he reached out to touch her mind.

And slammed into a wall. Had Kizira thrown up a barrier powerful enough to keep him out? Or had someone else entered her mind and caught her talking to him?

His hands shook. What should she have told him?

Who had she been telling him to save?

Kizira, Evalle . . . or someone else?

TEN

Don’t attack Macha. Evalle kept repeating that in her head, hoping she’d survive this meeting with the goddess.

Storm had good reason to question whether she could do this.

She’d lost patience while brushing her hair. A tangle had caught in the bristles.

She’d yanked.

The tangle hadn’t loosened.

Note to self: buy new brush.

Showered and dressed, she rode the elevator from her underground apartment back up to ground level the minute sundown was official. Food and sleep had gone a long way toward rejuvenating her. She’d even had an hour to play with Feenix, her pet gargoyle.

Glancing at the freaky armband on her wrist, she muttered, “Mess with me while I’m meeting with Macha and we’ll both end up in the spare parts yard.”

Great. Now she was talking to inanimate objects.