DeliveredIntoHisHands (24 page)

“Is it all right if I watch?” Marc asked.

“If you like,” the healer said.

Marc looked at Oran. “Would you take
Tonia…?”

“I’m staying,” she told him, chin raised.
“I don’t want to see what you do or have any desire to see him Convert, but I
want to be near him.” She looked past the healer. “He will know I am here and
that is all that matters.”

The healer nodded. “As you wish, milady.”
He looked around. “Find a chair for her ladyship,” he ordered one of the
technicians.

Marc entered the cell to stand at the head
of the bunk. He laid his hand on Garrick’s head to stroke back a lock of hair.
“You know,” he said. “I can’t help but wonder if you’re going to howl like a
wolf once that critter is inside you, my friend.” He smiled. “Better a howl than
a bark, huh?”

The healer removed the bottle of
disinfectant from the tray, removed the top, picked up a gauze pad and placed
it over the opening. Tilting the bottle to the side, he saturated the gauze
with the liquid then handed the bottle to one of the technicians.

From the doorway, Antonia watched the
healer swab the orange liquid onto a large area of Garrick’s naked lower back.
When he reached for the scalpel, she turned away. Oran met her eye and smiled
at her as she made her way to the chair that had been provided for her. She sat
down, threaded her fingers together, lowered her head and squeezed her eyes
shut.

“Ugh! That’s what’s inside me?” she heard
Marc ask and winced.

“Aye, except yours is green,” the healer
replied. “I’ve never seen a dead hellion but it seems it begins to decompose.
All right. Now for the new fledgling.”

“Look at that bitch wiggle,” Marc
commented. “Fuck me! Are those teeth?”

“Indeed they are,” the healer answered.
“Here we go.”

“Shit!” Marc exclaimed then Antonia heard retching
sounds and knew the hellion had been placed inside her husband. She glanced up
as Marc came out of the cell to plaster himself to the wall beside her. He was
white, his eyes wide. “That was fucking gross.”

The healer and technicians hurried out of
the cell and the door was shut and locked. Even as the bolt was engaged there
came a tremendous roar of fury from the cell then the door vibrated as it was
hit brutally. The sound of claws dragging down the titanium surface made
everyone on the outside of the cell cringe.

“Guess that answered that,” Marc said,
scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not a panther wail.”

Fury resounded from the con cell. Ferocious
growls. Frustrated howls. Manic scratching. Vicious thumps against the door. It
was a cacophony of rage battering the ears of those outside the protective
room.

“I’ve never heard him react this way
before,” Oran said, visibly shaken.

“He’s never had a Lupine hellion riding
him,” the healer said. “By all accounts a Panthera hellion is as aloof as its
canine kin. There is nothing more violent than a pissed-off wolf.” He raked a
trembling hand through his sparse ginger hair. “He’ll calm down after a bit.”

“By the goddess I hope so,” Marc said.
“He’s going to have bruises galore when he Converts back.” He slid down the
wall, spiked his hands along his cheeks and rested his elbows on his knees. He
directed his query to the healer. “Any idea how long this will last?”

“Anywhere from a couple of hours to a
couple of days. My guess is somewhere in the middle. He’s still working the
poison out of his system but that hellion was a full-grown queen so it won’t
take her long to heal him.”

“Ugly bitch,” Marc mumbled. He looked up at
the healer with horror dawning on his handsome face. “And it will lay eggs
inside him, won’t it?”

“Aye,” the healer acknowledged. “It will.”

“Argh,” Marc said and his cheeks bulged as
though he might get sick.

“Leave,” Antonia said. She didn’t want to
hear anything more from Marc or the healer. “I’ll keep vigil.”

“Tonia—” Marc began.

“Go,” she ordered, her eyes stern. “I don’t
need you here and he wouldn’t want you here so go.”

Marc and Oran exchanged a look. The younger
man shrugged then walked over to Marc, reached out a hand to help him up. Palms
slapped, fingers clenched and Marc was drawn to his feet. He opened his mouth
to say something to Antonia but she gave him an unyielding squint and he
nodded.

“Call if you need us,” he muttered.

After Garrick’s friends, the healer and the
technicians left, Antonia drew in a long, steadying breath then slowly exhaled.
Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap and with every enraged growl, every
violent hit against the door, she tensed. It wasn’t that she was afraid her
husband would break through the portal. She was concerned for the savage battering
his body was taking. Though she could sense the human intelligence behind the
furious howls, she could not picture in her mind what he must look like at that
moment.

Slowly, she got to her feet with her hands
still clasped together. She took a step toward the door but an ungodly yowl
stopped her.

“No!”

The word came at her like the rush of an
arrow. It was garbled, gruff, lower pitched than Garrick’s normal voice but it
was loud and brooked no disobedience. She stilled with her gaze locked on the plexigon
panel behind which she could see light.

“All right,” she said and stepped backward
until her calves met the resistance of the chair. She sank down with her heart
beating hard and fast, the blood pounding in her ears.

Another yowl of frustration rent the air. A
heavy thud rattled the door then everything went as silent as the grave.

“I love you,” she whispered.

She heard a soft mewl from behind the door.
It was a lost, lonely sound that made her soul ache but she smiled. He had
heard her. He knew she was there for him. That was all that mattered.

* * * * *

Alyx looked around him at the men who were
working on the breach in the wall. No one was paying any attention to a fat,
greasy-haired laborer whose clothing was filthy and stank of pig shit. The
others gave him a wide berth as he carried fieldstone from the cart to the
wall. He was roasting inside the heavily padded clothing and the uniform he had
stuffed inside the tattered tunic for safe keeping gave the illusion he weighed
a good fifty pounds more than he actually did. When he’d looked at himself in
the mirror, he had laughed though he nearly choked on the horrendous stench
wafting up from the dirty clothing. Dragging his hands through mud, streaking
his face with the cloying slickness, he looked no different than the other men
toiling on the breach. His shoulders were slouched as theirs were and keep his
head down like the good, sullen worker he was pretending to be.

He’d been carting the heavy stones for
about an hour when he finally saw a chance to sneak unseen into the hole in the
wall. The moment he was inside, he disappeared into the shadows—keeping his
back to the wall and his eyes open as he slipped deeper into the keep.
Listening for any guards who might be lurking about, he wound his way to a steep
stairwell black as pitch and began to climb, hoping the door at the top was not
locked. When he gained the top, reached for the handle and pulled downward, he
had to sink his teeth into his lip to keep from shouting with the victory of an
open door and the possibilities that lay beyond the threshold.

* * * * *

Lying curled behind the door, Garrick drew
the scent of his woman deep into his lungs. He could hear her heart beating and
was concerned that the rhythm was too fast. Much too fast. He chuffed from
worry then closed his eyes. Using the vast psychic powers with which he had
been born and those that were leaching now into his blood from the new hellion,
he willed her heart to slow, willed it to be in perfect synchronization with
his own.

Be at ease,
he sent to her.
I am well. All will be well, dearling.

The hard thump of that precious organ began
to slow until it was beating only marginally faster than his own. Beat-counter
beat. Beat-counter beat. Another few beats and it was in harmony with the aching
heart inside his own chest.

He breathed a sigh of relief and his muzzle
twitched, the whiskers vibrating. One big black paw flexed, flexed again then
lay still. He curled his tail and then struck the floor with it before settling
down. He needed to sleep off the Conversion—knowing when he woke he would be
humanoid again.

The poison had done a number on him, he
thought as he lay in that half-awake, half-asleep state. He drew his lips back
from his fangs, angered that he had allowed Clay’s vengeance to strike out at
him. Never had he wanted a man dead as much as he wanted to see Alyxdair Clay
moldering in his casket.

And it wasn’t just because the man had
taken Antonia, made her his for a time.

It wasn’t because the bastard had tried to
kill him.

What offended Garrick most, what made him
despise the man so vehemently were the atrocities he had perpetrated against
the Modarthan troops. For that, alone, the man deserved a fate worse than death
but short of personally dragging him into the Abyss—which was impossible—Garrick
saw no way to condemn Clay to such an evil destiny.

But oh for the chance to have the prick in
his hands for just ten minutes!

He growled low in his throat and then
growled again. The sound he made wasn’t entirely wolf-like but neither was it
purely feline. It was a combination of the two aggressive warnings that rather
pleased him so he made it once more for the hell of it.

“Ricky?”

Her soft voice was right at the door. He
raised his head—knowing she couldn’t see him where he lay—but froze in place
even so.

“I love you,” she told him.

His throat clogged with emotion.

“Sleep well, my love,” she said and there
was a soft scratch on the door.

Sitting up on his haunches yet keeping well
away from any view she might get through the plexigon panel, he sent strong
psychic thoughts to Marc, ordering him to provide comfort for his woman.

It was the only thing he could do until the
Conversion had run its course.

* * * * *

Upon finding the door into the keep proper
unlocked, Alyx Clay was humming with anticipation. He propped the door open
just a little so he could see well enough in the darkened stairwell to strip
off the offensive clothing of a menial laborer. Quickly, he replaced that
offal-reeking apparel with the Modarthan uniform of a lowly private. Though the
uniform was clean, the stench of the clothes he had been wearing for the past
two hours clung to him like iron filings to a magnet. Between the pig shit and
his own sweaty body odor, the stink made his eyes water. There was nothing he
could do about the streaks of mud on his face and packed beneath his
fingernails. He only hoped anyone he encountered before he could find a
washroom would believe him to be one of the soldiers helping to patch the
breach in the wall.

Easing his head around the edge of the
door, he surreptitiously surveyed the room beyond. He strained to hear even the
faintest of noises but all was quiet. Satisfied he was alone, he quietly
entered the room and flattened himself against the wall. Carefully he made his
way toward a door he was fairly sure would lead him to the upper floors of the
keep.

“I’m coming for you, sweeting,” he said
through clenched teeth. His eyes turned as cold as marble tombstones. “And I’m
coming for you Garrick Warwyck!”

Relieved Marc had brought a cot and bedding
for Antonia, Garrick settled down, arching his body around until he could rest
his chin on his back paws. A deep huff came from his massive chest. His muzzle
twitched then he brought his tail around to curl it over his eyes to block out
some of the harsh light. It was at that moment he remembered there were
concealed vid cams embedded in the ceiling for the lights were dimmed to an
acceptable level. He sighed with relief. He was comfortable on the floor.
Hopefully his woman was comfortable on the cot and could rest. Everyone for
whom he cared was safe within the walls of the keep.

Yet why, he wondered, were his nerves
strung taut? Why did his brain refuse to shut down so he could sleep?

He opened his eyes and stared at the bottom
of the door.

Something felt wrong. Something was off.

He pushed up from the floor and began to
pace, his tail whipping from side to side. He rotated his ears—listening for
sounds that did not belong. Stopping with one paw raised, he sent his mental
powers beyond the cell.

Something wasn’t right.

Danger walked the corridors of Warwyck
Castle. It slithered along the walls.

Marcus!
he
sent across the psychic pathway that only he and his friend shared.

Aye,
came
the immediate reply.

There is an intruder in the keep.

I’m on it!

Find him quietly. Bring him to me!

Copy that!

Ricky?

He whipped his head to the door. Horror
filled his soul for she was staring at him through the plexigon view port. He
had not wanted her to see him in his animal form.

I could hear you pacing. Are you all
right?
Her eyes were filled with concern.

And deep love even a blind man could see.

I am fine, dearling,
he sent to her.
Lie back down. I’m just too keyed up to sleep
right now.

She gave him a look that said she wasn’t
buying his excuse but she put her palm against the view port.

He didn’t hesitate. He padded to the door,
stood up on his hind legs and put a paw to the plexigon.

Try to rest,
she told him.

Aye,
he
returned.
Now go back to bed.

One moment she was standing there at the
door and the next she was gone. Her surprised gasp and then a scuffling sound
was all he needed to know she was in the hands of an enemy.

“Antonia!” he roared.

* * * * *

“Is that the bastard in there?” Alyx
snarled in her ear as he clamped her struggling body to his. He dragged her
back from the door.

His arm was like a steel band around her
waist as he pinned her arms against her, his free hand plastered tightly to her
mouth to keep her from screaming. She tried kicking back at him but he ignored
her, pulling her along with him as he moved down the corridor between the
cells.

“Is it Warwyck?” he demanded. He flexed his
hand until he could pinch her nostrils closed between his thumb and index
finger.

Antonia couldn’t breathe. Lights were
beginning to dance in her head. She thrashed against him, fought his rigid
possession of her limbs but the lack of oxygen was shutting down her world and
she was rapidly losing strength.

“Aye, it’s Warwyck, all right,” she heard
him say as though from far away though his lips were touching her ear, his
spittle running down the side of her face. “Well, having him confined just
makes it easier to dispatch the prick!”

As light faded and darkness reached in to
pluck away her consciousness, the last thing Antonia heard was the enraged roar
of the
great black wolf that was clawing furiously at the con
cell door.

* * * * *

Once Antonia was in Clay’s clutches—and it
could be none other’s—the call for stealth was out of the question. Screaming
his orders into his friend’s head was all Garrick could do.

“He’s down here! He has my woman!” he
bellowed. “Set the entire keep on his fucking ass!”

Marc gathered five stalwart warriors and
headed at an all-out run for the con cells. Oran had been dispatched to rally
all the guards for a room-by-room search of the structure in case Clay had
managed to escape the dispensary wing or had accomplices. Around them a klaxon
blared to warn the inhabitants there was a dangerous trespasser among them. The
alarm meant every loyal member of the household would begin looking for that
trespasser to detain him.

Inside the con cell Garrick was going
berserk. He clawed savagely at the door in an attempt to get free, to get to
Antonia. A dim part of his brain reminded him he had designed this room. He had
made it impregnable, impossible to escape. Fury lashed at him like a barbed
whip as he dragged his claws down the titanium surface—scoring it deeply but
not doing the damage he wanted. Frustration brought hisses and growls and a
roar of rage that shattered the plexigon view port.

He’s not down here,
Marc sent to him.
We’re beginning a sweep of the ground floor.

Find him!

We will.

Fear that Clay would escape the keep with
Antonia slashed at his heart. He had a vision of a ship standing ready to take
her off-world. Space was vast. There were hundreds of planets in their galaxy
alone, thousands in the Megaverse. Any direction from which to choose to take a
fleeing ship. Battleships standing ready to blast any ship trying to intercept
Clay’s into space dust.

Don’t let him get out of this keep!
he roared.

We won’t,
Marc vowed.

He had no idea how long this cycle of
Conversion would last. No notion whatsoever of when he would be able to shift
back to human form. What did the Lupes and Hounds call their cycles? Transition?
Aye, Transition. Was that longer than a Panthera Conversion? Shorter? Did
it—like his Conversions of old—leave a Reaper exhausted? Weak? Drained?
Depleted of energy and strength? Unable to aid those who needed his help?

“Bastet, help me!” he pleaded with his
goddess. “Please don’t let me lose her again!”

He had not expected the goddess to answer
and wasn’t surprised when She didn’t.

* * * * *

Antonia lay unconscious, draped over Alyx’s
shoulder as he carried her down the dark stairwell. He had realized he couldn’t
risk a light for that would only lead his pursuers straight to them. He went
slowly—testing the edge of each step with the toe of his boot—so he would not
lose his balance and plunge them down the stone risers. Tapping the edge
firmly, he stepped down carefully, making sure his heel was pressed tightly to
the base of the step he’d just left. He kept one arm secured around her upper
thighs and the other pushed to the cold fieldstone beside him. In his mind he
kept running a litany as he prayed that Antonia remain unconscious until he’d
taken them to the bottom of the stairwell. Her struggling could pitch them to
their deaths. Unable to see, he had no idea how close or far he was from the
bottom step. A fine film of sweat wetted his upper lip and ran down his temple.
He blinked away the salt that dripped into the corner of his eye as it
continued down his cheek.

The sound of the door at the top of the
stairwell opening made him go as still as a statue. He held his breath as the
light from a phosphor lamp chased away the ebon shadows and threw his shadow
down the last six or so steps.

“There he is!” someone shouted and the
tramp of boot heels descending was like an icepick to his brain.

Hurrying down the last few steps, he came
to a skittering stop when he found his way blocked by laborers and an armed
guard with a laser pistol.

“Halt!” the guard said uselessly and lifted
the pistol. “Or I’ll shoot.”

Steps were thundering behind him.

Antonia took that moment to groan.

“No, no, no, no, no!” he hissed.

“Stop!” The command was sharp and filled
with lethality.

Clay turned, looked behind him at the men
double-timing it toward him down the stairs. He turned again to face the
laborers and the laser pistol-wielding guard. Panic reached out to grip him
with sharp talons. His eyes bulged with terror for as he whipped around once
more, the man he saw striding toward him was Capt. Marcus Zoltán, Warwyck’s
second-in-command and a man who hated him as much as Warwyck did.

“Put her down,” Zoltán ordered. The men
behind him also carried laser pistols and the barrels were all pointing at
Alyx, the red dots playing over his face.

“She is my wife,” Alyx snarled, his grip on
Antonia’s legs tightening.

Zoltán shook his head. “You know fucking
well she isn’t. Put her down before she gets hurt. I know you don’t want that.”

“I won’t let him have her!” Alyx shouted at
the top of his lungs. “Better she be dead than in his hands again!”

Private Justin Murphy—the young guard
standing with the laborers—was a smart man. He longed to advance up the ranks
of the Modarthan Army. One day he wanted to be where Marcus Zoltán was now—second-in-command
to a noble leader. Not having been born to a member of the upper class, that
was the highest rank to which he could aspire but he meant to reach that level.
Realizing how dangerous the situation was for General Warwyck’s lady-wife, he
knew he was the only one among them who had the wherewithal to stop a tragedy
before it happened. With the trespasser’s back to him as he shouted at Capt.
Zoltán, Murphy took aim at Clay’s right thigh and pulled the trigger of his
pistol.

Pain ripped through Alyx’s thigh and his
leg buckled beneath him. He cried out, stumbled and as he began to crumple,
Marc leapt forward and took hold of Antonia, wrenching her away from him. Alyx
went down, fell to his side and doubled up with a shrill shriek of agony as he
wrapped his fingers around the burning torment in his thigh.

Marc eased Antonia to the stone
floor—draping her upper body over his right arm. In the low light he could see
her eyelids fluttering as she struggled to gain consciousness. Shoving his
other arm under her knees, he got to his feet, lifted her high against his
chest.

“Bring that son of a bitch,” he ordered the
men flanking him as he turned and headed for the stairs. “Let him escape at
your peril.”

“Aye, Captain!” the men said in unison.

With one of his men leading the way with
the phosphor light, Marc carried Antonia up the stairs. She had awakened and
stiffened for just a moment before she realized whose arms held her. She put
her own arm around his neck.

“Did you catch him?”

“Aye,” Marc said. He shifted her against
him to make it more comfortable for her.

“Is he alive?”

“Unfortunately so.”

She laid her head on his shoulder.

“Take him to Garrick,” she ordered in a
tight voice.

“That was my intention,” he replied.

“Thank you for rescuing me, Marcus,” she
said.

“It was my honor, milady.”

* * * * *

Alyxdair Clay struggled violently as he was
held before the door behind which his mortal enemy lurked. His shouts, his
pleading, his screams—and eventually his incoherent babbling—had no effect on
the men who held him. As the door opened, urine flowed freely down his trouser
leg when he saw the black wolf perched in the corner of the room.

“Compliments of every Modarthan man you
sent to a torturous death,” Marc said as he and Oran flung the resisting
prisoner into the room then slammed the door shut.

The last thing Clay saw were the sharp
white fangs that revealed themselves when the wolf grinned.