Chiana moaned; the sound sent a chill down Creed’s spine and resonated through the cave, like the death throes of a trapped animal. He approached her with cautious moves, prepared to jump and run if her eyes looked feral when she raised her head.
“He’s inside her.” The words came as a hiss from between Chiana’s clenched teeth. “Don’t let him trick you. Don’t let him use her. You can’t save us both, so choose her.”
“Who?” Creed dropped to his knees and cupped her chin with his fingers. “Who is he using, Chiana?”
She shoved his hand away with an angry strength and turned toward the rock beside her. Creed rose to his feet, his nerves singing as he took a deep breath and began to prepare for the hell he expected to come busting in at any minute. He grabbed his pack and rifled through it, trying to find something, anything, that would slow down an invisible enemy.
His fingers closed on the small packet Lillian had given him. He flipped on his flashlight and studied it. The crushed leaves looked like catnip. Or oregano. Or marijuana. He heard they grew that in the Appalachian Mountains.
Looked like, but wasn’t. He wasn’t quite sure what Lillian meant when she called it a metaphysical pharmaceutical, but he suspected he was about to find out. If Chiana was right, and their enemy found a body that had a connection to her, they were screwed. The bastard had gotten into her head somehow, using it like a beacon to bring him right to their doorstep.
“Hey, you.”
He switched off the flashlight and turned, expecting her to be in the seductress side effect of the shot. Her booted feet were wide apart on the floor, and her fists were on her hips. This was Chiana the street warrior, the woman most of the agency saw, eyes narrowed and mouth tight. Some drugs caused mood swings; the good doctor’s secret serum seemed to cause violent personality swings instead.
“Yes?” he said, slipping the packet into his pocket.
“You’re not going to fight my battle.”
“First, it’s not your battle precisely, it’s more like all of mankind’s, and second, yeah, I am.”
“I can do anything a man can.”
“Except pee standing up.”
She ignored his retort, choosing instead to pace back and forth in the confined space. Her hard steps brought a dull echo that had the same irritating effect on Creed as water dripping against a porcelain sink.
“You wanna stay still for a minute?”
“No,” Chiana snapped, “I want to kick some freaky butt. I want to slam dunk Odin and his puppet and go to Disneyland for a victory lap. In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I’m not good at waiting.”
No shit.
Creed stopped the words before they slipped out. Getting into a snarkfest with her wasn’t going to do anything but become a distraction he couldn’t afford.
“Oh, crap.” Chiana sank to the floor, arms wrapped around herself. Creed’s heart sank. If she fainted again, they could be in deep shit.
Her face contorted, and her breathing changed to shallow and rapid. Creed resisted an impulse to go to her, wondering if the thing connected to her hoped to catch him with his guard down and his back to the cave entrance. His hand slipped into his pocket and touched the packet of crushed leaves. He had a lot of respect for Lillian; he sure as hell hoped she knew what she was doing with this stuff.
“Creed?”
A woman’s voice, calm and oh, so familiar. He stood still, hands clenching, and pushed back the protective feelings welling up in him.
“Hey, partner, you down there?”
He swiped his sweaty hand across his chest, wiping the dampness onto his shirt. His heart began to race as he prepared for the coming battle.
“Back here,” he said, his fingers working the twisty band on the small plastic bag. “I’m waiting for you.”
Even though he knew it was Caroline’s voice, he desperately wanted it to be a creature that mimicked and not Caroline herself heading for the small alcove. She was supposed to be in a new life where shit like this didn’t happen. She wasn’t supposed to be the carrying case for a nut job from another plane.
“This is stupid, hanging down here.” More words, confrontational now. “Let’s go outside where there’s fresh air.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? This place sapping your strength a little?”
Caroline’s eyes rolled. “Oh, please. You’re acting like I’m a stranger.”
He stepped forward until he was only inches from the familiar face.
“Because you are.”
He raised his arm and opened his fist releasing Lillian’s secret weapon. Creed blew some leaves toward his former partner’s face and then breathed deeply of what was left. In a blink, he was no longer in the cave but on a plain of brown grass, facing what could only be Odin’s warrior.
The man was huge. His body bore the marks of battle; a scar ran across one eye, forcing the lid to stay half-closed. He held a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. A momentary panic ran through Creed when he realized he had no weapons.
Or did he?
He imagined himself in chain mail, a well-honed blade in his hand. And as if by magic—or perhaps truly by magic—he was fitted to fight.
“Are you ready to die?” the big man asked, his voice booming across the windless plain. He slapped his chest with his open hand. “I am Rhori, the mighty, slayer of many. I fight for glory and my master Odin. Would you forfeit your life for a woman?”
“Not for a woman.” Creed swung the blade, testing its heft. “I fight to protect all I know and hold dear.”
“Surrender her now and you will join me in Valhalla,” Rhori suggested. “Your battles will be immortalized in song, and your eternity will be in the company of the brave.”
Creed squared his shoulders and braced his legs.
“I’m tone deaf, and I’ll be happy to end up in a retirement home playing bingo for bananas,” he said. “May not sound like hot stuff to you, but hey, that’s why we’re all different.”
“You talk too much for a warrior.” Rhori moved sideways and back with small steps, as if testing the ground where he stood.
“So let’s fight. You win, Chiana becomes a serving wench. I win, my world stays as it’s always been and you go away forever.”
Rhori’s response was a sword thrust so quick he would have drawn blood had Creed not twirled away, cutting back immediately to meet Rhori’s blade with his own.
The clank and cries of battle soon filled the quiet that had covered the plain. Rhori was quick and skilled; Creed knew a second’s hesitation or one small wrong move would make his life forfeit.
The steel of his blade sang as he met every parry and thrust with an equal movement. He cleared his mind of everything but the moment, visualizing his sword as a part of his body, as easily controlled as a finger. He became bolder as his familiarity with the ground beneath him grew. Soon the rocks that dotted the field were easily avoided rather than pitfalls under his feet.
“You will weary,” Rhori predicted. “Your world has made you soft. When you fall, the woman will be mine.”
Creed ignored the jibe. He inhaled deeply as he spun, letting out the breath as he rushed toward Rhori. Swooping low as the other blade tilted toward his chest, he lashed out and nicked Rhori above the knee, cutting through his leggings to bring a stream of blood on his thigh.
“First blood is mine,” he shouted, the small victory giving him new strength.
“But how will you do if you fight like a man and not a child with a plaything?”
Rhori’s sword swished, sending Creed’s blade arcing through the air. He tossed his own after it, gesturing with his hands for Creed to fight him one on one, no weapons. With a roar, Creed rushed him, slamming into the warrior’s chest and sending him to the ground.
“All-star defensive back, senior year of high school,” he growled, his hands wrapping around Rhori’s neck, losing purchase as the other man shoved back and Creed was pushed off.
Dust swirled in clouds around them as the two men rolled, punched and kicked. Creed’s chain mail had disappeared with his sword; his jacket gave little protection against the rocks or his foe. He allowed anger to take over, let his rage power him despite the bruising slam of Rhori’s fist and his vicious kicks.
As the warrior’s foot slammed against his back, Creed felt the slightest beginning of doubt slip in. What if he couldn’t win? What if his best wasn’t good enough?
* * * *
The cloud that had been Caroline’s consciousness cleared. Why, she wondered as she tried to gain her bearings, was she here? She should be taking orders and refilling glasses. And where exactly was
here
?
She blinked her eyes and shook her head, attempting to dispel the last vestiges of Rhori’s possession.
More importantly, who was with her?
On her hands and knees, she crawled to where a young woman lay motionless. Steeling herself to feel dead flesh when she touched her, Caroline reached with a shaking arm and felt the woman’s neck for a pulse. Relief flooded through her when she felt a steady beat. Slow, yes. Weak, yes. But steady.
She sat back on her heels, trying to decide her next step. The first aid class she took to earn her Girl Scout badge a million years ago had taught her how to treat frostbite and what to do if someone she was with had the unfortunate luck of being bitten by a poisonous snake. Nowhere in the manual had there been a section on treating victims of supernatural beings.
She scrubbed her forehead with her fingers, trying to make her brain work better. Whatever had been inside her had no manners. Instead of leaving her ready to go on with her business, that thing had left her feeling weak and confused. Harking back to a yoga class she’d taken during her years with the agency, she closed her eyes and breathed in and out, searching for the calm center the instructor said everyone could find.
She wasn’t sure whether it was the deep breathing or simply a matter of time, but she felt the whatever’s psychic imprint begin to fade like handwriting on a fogged mirror. Opening her eyes again, she realized she—they—were in a cave. Bending over the still figure beside her, she whispered, “Wake up now. You’re not alone. It will be all right.”
Instead of the dark nothingness enveloping her, Chiana heard a whisper in an unknown voice. A female voice, with a deep underlay of concern. She wanted to respond. She wanted to get out of the prison that held her body immobile. More than anything she wanted to be with Creed.
A tear slid from the corner of her eye, tracing its way down her face and jaw to drop on the stone cave floor. The hiss as the salty tear made contact startled whoever was talking, for she heard footsteps.
She was being left behind. First Mick had turned against her, and then Creed disappeared when she needed him most.
“Don’t give up.”
The voice again. Chiana tried to find her voice, to tell the intruder to leave, but she stayed mute.
“If you were going to die, I’d know it.”
The certainty in the voice pulled at Chiana, tugged her back as she floated through the dark nothingness. Maybe the words were coming from an angel. She’d heard lots of people swear that every person on earth had a guardian angel.
Or maybe the voice belonged to a creature sent from hell to bring her back. One of her mother’s favorite sayings was, “the devil wears a pretty face,” and maybe he had a pretty voice, too. She wanted to give in, to fall away into unconsciousness and let whatever was destined happen.
“Come on, open your eyes.”
Chiana heard the woman or angelic creature or demon’s right hand, whatever she might be, draw a shuddering breath. The hands that touched her next were soft and warm, like a mother’s. Calling on all her strength, she forced her arm to move and placed a trembling hand on top of the one clasping her shoulder.
“That’s right. Hold on to me. My strength is your strength.”
Chiana lifted her other arm through air that seemed to drag like quicksand and felt it taken by the woman beside her. The effort was all consuming; weariness crept across her.
“Stay with me, okay?”
A sharp gasp escaped Chiana as a burning sensation filled her, spilled out of her to wrap itself around her like a shroud. She clung to the hands that connected her to this place, vertigo attacking as she felt her essence rise from her body. Light now with the physical restraints of flesh and blood, muscle and bone, she opened her eyes to find herself in a wasteland of brown grass, gray skies and two men battling.
“Creed!” she screamed before she realized he couldn’t hear her. She looked around, seeking the guide that brought her here, but she stood alone.
In shock, she realized she was seeing the thing that had come to take her, the fearsome warrior Creed believed to be Odin’s tool to take over their world. Deep blue tattoos covered his neck and body, intricate knots and greenery impressive in their detail. He was taller than Creed, with broad shoulders and a muscled body. She slapped her hands across her eyes as he picked Creed up and held him above his head; she couldn’t bear to see Creed’s body slammed against the rough terrain.
“Give him your power,” commanded the voice she’d heard, the woman who had sent her here.
But how? She was ephemeral, translucent even to herself. Then she remembered the strange words he’d chanted to bind him to her, the spell that wouldn’t allow her to hurt him nor permit that tattooed warrior to enter his body. Calling on the sensation that had engulfed her when Creed cast the spell, she pictured herself slipping under his skin, thickening the barrier that protected his veins and organs. She saw them as one, his knowledge enhanced by her strength. Swaying in a trance-like state, Chiana felt the power of Rhori’s fist, absorbed into herself the fierce pain of his kicks.