Captive Moon (4 page)

Another roar and a powerful leap against the rear grate as the officer returned to his car made him drop the clipboard and scramble to pick it up. Antoine rolled up the window. “His reaction alone tells his guilt. That one is all muscle, with an intellect rivaled only by garden tools. His Kommissar wouldn’t have been so easily distracted.”

A dark chuckle that ended with an animal snarl came from deep within his chest. Tahira regarded him with a sideways glance. “Don’t worry. I have few ideas to thank him for his treatment of you.” Antoine stepped on the gas and quickly increased the distance between the two cars. “And now I think it’s time for you to turn human again.”

He threw a wave of power and waited for the change to occur.

But it didn’t. Instead, the heat began to increase so quickly that his head began to pound. He started breathing painfully and noticed that Tahira was as well.

“Why aren’t I changing?” Her speaking voice in animal form was nearly an octave deeper than when human. There was a delicious dark snarl at the end of each word.

“I don’t know. Something is wrong. But just a few more miles—”

By the time the tunnel loomed in front of them, Antoine was having a hard time keeping the car on the road. Just a few more minutes. But why can’t I stop my magic? Sweat was pouring freely down his face, stinging his eyes with salt. He heard Tahira collapse to the carpet and begin to pant heavily from exhaustion.

He leaned forward on the steering wheel to keep himself upright. His magic, his very life force, was being sucked away, and he didn’t know why. Already spots of gray and white were edging his vision.

The darkness ahead seemed to stretch out, the light at the end narrowing to a pinpoint that disappeared into an inky blackness the headlights couldn’t pierce. What in the name of—?

Twin red slits appeared above him and a gasp choked his throat as the eyes blinked and became the red irises of a giant snake. They were driving right into its maw!

Antoine turned the wheel frantically and slammed on the brake. He heard a distant scream and tearing metal, as though he was underwater.

Bone-jarring pain now in his shoulder, his leg, the side of his head.

More images passed in front of his eyes. He fought, as he always did, but the shimmering reflections entered him, filled him, and he couldn’t turn away: A veiled woman dressed in black and gold moved in a slow, sultry dance to music he couldn’t hear; men and women, chained to rocks screamed and shriveled into husks of paper-thin flesh that stretched thin over twisted animal bones; lips pressed against his that tasted of cherry jam and sandalwood. A hole appeared in a stone cliff covered with brush; water, and a need to breathe so strong it seared his lungs. Blinding pain in his chest seemed to flay the skin from his bones from the inside out; and through it all, the eyes—those fiery eyes that his heart knew would burn his world to ash if he didn’t intervene.

The images rushed forward, enveloping him in sparkling power before everything disappeared into blackness.

CHAPTER Two

“Are you certain that you wish to meet with these men, my lord? I can complete the transaction without your involvement.”

The steady drip of water from the mineral stalactite against the cave floor punctuated the seconds while Nasil waited for a reply. The quiet murmur of chanting from the next chamber seemed to take on the beat of the droplets.

A deep chuckle made Nasil shiver in the cool dampness. The measured voice when his master replied held a note of amusement that didn’t bode well for the interaction. “No, Nasil. I believe that I would like to meet these men. I always prefer to personally deal with those who fail me.”

The words became a whip and Nasil flinched as though struck. He dropped to his knees on the smooth stone and bowed low at the feet of his seated master. “Their failure is mine, my lord. I did not think it necessary to be specific as to the tiger we sought. I didn’t realize that there was another tig—”

Nasil heard movement but held his place. He was born to serve this man—trained to take whatever punishment was determined. He would honor his calling regardless of his fate. His heart quickened when the rustle of cloth stopped next to his head, but he didn’t move.

The voice was pleased, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. “The scent of your fear, and your quiet acceptance of my judgment move me, Nasil. You have served me well for many centuries. This small defeat will not reverse your lifetime of service in my eyes. You did exactly as I instructed, so the fault is mine—”

A clatter of rocks in the distant tunnel stopped them both. The baritone lowered to a whisper. “Stand at my side once more, Nasil. We will greet these… poachers as one, as we always have.”

“As you command, my lord Sargon.” He rose to his feet after the other man had seated himself. Nasil stepped behind the rock where Sargon reclined on a cushion.

The ammonia scent of panic was almost visible as the chanting grew louder beyond the curve of the cave but wasn’t enough to cover the rattling of the chains as the subject struggled to free herself. The press of magic seemed to fill the room in a wave and then flow back out in a rush with the power of a tsunami. Nasil struggled to keep his feet as the tide rushed past him, pulling his own magic through his very pores. His skin began to ache then burn as more power was drained. Even Sargon was affected by the magic drain, but Nasil noted that a slow smile was curling his master’s lip.

Perhaps they had finally succeeded. Perhaps—

A piercing scream filled Nasil’s ears and made him flinch involuntarily. Sargon stood and turned his attention to the flickering torch light that illuminated the other chamber. The scent of his anticipation, his joy, brought pleasure to Nasil’s heart. But then the scream abruptly cut off and his master frowned in the silence.

“What was that?” came a male voice from the darkness ahead to their left. “Was that a scream?”

“So what if it was?” another man replied in a bass rumble. “None of our concern. Hey, there’s a light ahead. Maybe we’ve finally reached the end of this stinkin’ cave.”

The first voice, a thready alto, quavered a bit. “Let’s just get our money and get out of here, Alan. Getting tigers is one thing, but I don’t like this. It feels like a setup.”

Nasil saw the men first, and stepped toward them. Sargon didn’t turn to the arrival of the poachers. He continued to watch the torch, waiting for any sign. A woman appeared from the lit chamber, followed by a huge black man with long dreadlocks and a bare chest. Nasil stepped back so Sargon could approach them.

When the poachers rounded the final bend, Nasil held up a hand to stop them where they stood. The tall, stocky poacher who had been identified as Alan started to open his mouth to say something but stopped when Nasil moved forward like lightning and flexed a hand around the man’s throat tight enough to silence him.

“Be quiet or die!” He let some of his remaining power flow toward the men and hissed the words into the poachers’ faces so his master would not be interrupted. The men glanced at each other nervously but obeyed. Nasil took a few moments to check the men for weapons with his free hand. The fools had honored their bargain. Each was unarmed save for a small knife.

Sargon stepped forward until he was within inches from the woman. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air. “Dr. Portes? What went wrong this time?”

The tiny Guatemalan woman shook her head and wiped the smear of red covering her hands off on the front of her smock. Nasil noted that the thin poacher paled a bit at the look of annoyance on the woman’s face.

“The same as happened last time, my lord. She was not the one. We had hoped to expand her abilities through the ritual, but the power consumed her.”

Sargon’s voice was calm and soft, which Nasil knew was when he was at his most dangerous. “Is she still alive?”

The harsh laugh from the black man was quickly eaten by the cave, just as the scream had been. It was as though the cave itself fed on their presence. No echoes would reach the outside world.

“She is not,” he replied harshly. “She was torn apart before the ritual completed. I told yo—”

Sargon had the African pinned high against the wall, his neck held at a painful angle before he could complete the word. The flow of magic was stifling and it was all Nasil could do to keep the poachers from bolting from sheer terror. The scent of their fear was powerful enough to bring a disturbing gleam to Rachel Portes’s eyes.

“You do not tell me anything, Zuberi. You are here only at my sufferance, and you will hold your tongue or I will turn you over to the doctor for an appetizer. Do you understand?”

Nasil was pleased to see the nearly living fear in Zuberi’s eyes. He should be very afraid. He nodded with what little movement Sargon allowed him.

Sargon released his hand and his magic, and Zuberi dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Were it not for the human poachers present, Nasil knew that Sargon would have used only his magic to punish the man, so as not to soil his royal hands with the likes of a cat.

Dr. Portes stepped forward quietly. “The room should be cleaned before the next attempt, my lord.”

Sargon held up his hand and she fell silent. “In a moment, Doctor. Let me first greet my guests. Nasil, release them and bring them before me.”

Nasil led Alan and his friend to where Sargon once again rested on his pillows.

Alan rubbed the red marks on his throat and pointed a long, black metal flashlight menacingly at Nasil.

“You and me, buddy. When this is done, we’re going to go rounds for that little stunt.”

Nasil doubted that he would be given that honor, but smiled the tiniest bit and nodded to the fool.

“So,” the man strutted forward toward the master. “You’re Sargon, huh? Well, you got your tiger. Now we get our money.”

Sargon’s face lit up with a broad smile. “I’m afraid that you’re very confused. I do not have my tiger, so you get no money.”

The thin man with the ferret-like face finally got over his fear enough to smell angry. “Whoa! You wanted a tiger, and we got you three tigers. Don’t jack us around, asshole.”

He started to step forward aggressively, but stopped when Nasil was suddenly in front of them, blocking the path to his master.

Alan stared him down, despite the scent of fear and twitching of his eye muscles. “Me and Mickey worked our butts off to get those tigers and we’re taking our money, even if we have to take it off your dead bodies.”

When Sargon stood and put a hand on Nasil’s shoulder, he stepped back with a bow. The master’s voice began light. “There’s no need to argue, gentlemen. While I can assure you that you did not deliver my tiger, I’m certain we can work something out. The error was mine. I did not tell you the specific tiger we wished you to deliver. You did actually capture her, but then left her to be discovered by the authorities. I was not pleased.‘’

His voice had dropped nearly an octave during the speech and ended with enough scorn to cut through the anger of the men. They watched the tall, olive-skinned man with nervous eyes as he stepped closer and closer.

Sargon let his angry magic leak out until it was a suffocating cloud that the men wanted to run screaming from.

But just when they were ready to bolt back into the blackness of the cave in terror, Nasil was surprised to see Sargon stop and smile.

“But, as I said, gentlemen—we can work this out.” He reached into the pocket of his tailored slacks and removed a leather bag tied with a strip of rawhide. He held it up for the men to see and shook it. The richly toned clinking inside made the men’s eyes light up greedily. “In this bag are gold coins equal to half the money you negotiated with Nasil.”

The pair looked at each other. “Hey!” Alan nearly shouted.

Sargon raised his hand in a seemingly placating manner. “Never fear, gentlemen. The gold coins inside this bag are very old and very rare. While the actual value as a metal is indeed half, the value as antiquities might be double what you anticipated—with a little work on your part to find the right buyer.”

Alan gave a knowing smile. “So, for leaving the fourth tiger for the Germans to find, we have to pad shoe leather to get all of our money, huh?”

Sargon raised one brow. “Precisely.”

The ferret-faced man named Mickey looked suspicious. “I want to see the coins first. I know a little bit about gold.”

“As you wish.” Sargon tossed the bag to the ferret-faced man. “But I would be very cautious not to get your finger oil on the coins.”

The poacher waved away the comment. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He loosened the leather thong carefully and eased one of the coins into view, using the leather top of the bag to hold it. He stepped closer to the torch and squinted as he turned the captured coin to see the reverse.

“So, whatcha think, Mickey?” Alan asked as Sargon returned to his cushions with a small smile.

Mickey let out a slow whistle and looked excitedly at Alan. “Man! Either this is the best damn forgery I’ve ever seen, or this coin is an honest to fucking God Spanish doubloon. This freaking bag might be worth a fortune.”

Sargon raised his hands and leaned back. “As I said.”

Sargon took the moment to stand and walk over to Mickey. He licked his palm slightly while the other man wasn’t looking. “Do we, as you say, have a deal?” He held out his palm to Mickey, who was almost too busy staring at the coins in the bag to notice. But when Sargon cleared his throat, he looked up and the dry heat scent of embarrassment found Nasil’s nose.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” He shook Sargon’s hand and then returned his attention to the coins.

“And you, Mister, er—Alan?” The tall man was shaking his head, little movements that betrayed the fact that his instinct was telling him something completely different from what he was hearing. But he finally shook Sargon’s hand.

“Then our business is at an end. You may go.” The look on Sargon’s face made Alan turn back more than once as they stepped into the cave.

Nasil smiled quietly as Sargon released Rachel and Zuberi before the poachers had reached the end of the torchlight.