Rise of the Gryphon (Belador #4)(29)

Storm drew on his healing powers again, and his muscles quivered with the effort. What was wrong with his jaguar? Poison had never stayed long in his body or debilitated him this badly.

Why hadn’t the witch doctor stuck around? She could have taken advantage of his weakened state.

But she’d tried that once before and it hadn’t gone well for her.

She feared him, which she should, considering they shared blood. He hated her more every time he thought about how she’d tricked his father into breeding her a Skinwalker she could turn into a future demon.

Storm’s eyes drifted closed.

All he wanted to do was sleep, but he had to wake up in time. Reaching over to his clock, his hand flopped on the nightstand, knocking the small digital unit to the floor. He had no control over his arms.

Poison had never made his limbs rubbery.

His body started shaking with tremors hard enough to rock the bed.

Not a poison . . . an infection.

He fought the sleep dragging him under. And lost.





NINE





That bloody woman is going to wish she’d never crossed me.

Vladimir Quinn shoved the hotel security card into the slot to activate the elevator that would take him to the penthouse floor of his hotel in downtown Atlanta.

Alone, thankfully.

He wasn’t ready to go down to the suite he was actually staying in and deal with his teenage cousin Lanna, yet another problem he had to handle. Dark was coming on soon. Perhaps she’d be asleep if he gave it a couple of hours.

Self-loathing should be done in private.

He was a trusted Belador in a high-level position, and for him to give a Medb priestess, sworn enemy of the Beladors, access to any Belador information deserved brutal punishment.

Especially for bloody classified information.

And that’s exactly what he’d done.

The fact that he’d done so unintentionally didn’t matter. The information had been his to protect. But now Kizira would find out what it meant to double-cross a Belador as powerful as he was.

Quinn would willingly accept his due from Macha for opening his arms to Kizira.

But he hadn’t just opened his arms to her. He’d made love to the woman four days ago, and only hours later she’d launched an attack on Treoir Island, putting their warrior queen’s life in danger and threatening the seat of Belador power.

He’d done the kind of damage expected of the traitor everyone was hunting.

All because he’d believed Kizira when she’d claimed she wanted to end the conflict between the Beladors and the Medb so they could be together. That she cared for him.

So damned convincing. What else was he supposed to think when she’d given him permission to breach the barriers to her mind and withdraw what he could find about the Medb plans?

She took a hell of a risk to come to you. That was what his heart had said four days ago. But his heart would no longer call the shots where Kizira was concerned.

She’d made it clear that being compelled by the Medb queen prevented her from giving him anything voluntarily, but she’d given permission for him to retrieve whatever he could on his own. Hell, she’d practically begged him to try even though she’d doubted he could actually get past her shields.

He’d jumped at the chance.

And when he’d broken through, he discovered the Medb had sent Svart trolls, deadly black ops mercenaries, to quietly invade Atlanta.

On the surface, that had appeared to be a win-win, since he wouldn’t deny that he enjoyed having Kizira back in his arms, but he’d been a fool to think he’d been the only one fishing for intel.

Love did that to a man.

Turned a highly respected warrior into an idiot.

Couldn’t even blame his actions on thinking with the wrong head. No, his heart had convinced him that Kizira had told the truth, and he’d trusted the traitorous organ.

Not again.

The intel he’d gained that day had saved many human lives, he’d give Kizira that.

But she’d teleported away with a far greater treasure, withdrawing vital classified information from his mind on how to locate Treoir. Only a handful of chosen Beladors had known the location of the island hidden in a mystical fog above the Irish Sea.

Now Kizira knew. A powerful Medb priestess.

While he’d worried over her fate if the Medb figured out she’d clued the Beladors to the Svart troll invasion, she’d been sending another army of Svarts to kill Brina.

That his people had managed to shut down both groups of Svarts didn’t matter. Beladors had been lost in the battle to protect Treoir. And the Medb now possessed the route for teleporting to an island that had been successfully hidden for two thousand years.

Kizira hadn’t made a peep since then. Not a single attempt to contact Quinn telepathically, and he’d been too busy to deal with her. Until now.

Time to turn the tables and make the witch pay.

When Quinn reached the suite he’d booked just for meeting with Kizira, he wanted to slam the door after entering, but he closed it quietly. Why should anyone else suffer just because his chest felt caved in where his heart used to be?

Jerking off his wool overcoat still damp from the drizzle he’d walked through on his way to the hotel, he tossed it on the sofa and stalked to the bar to pour Boodles and water over ice.

A stiff one. Just what he needed for this showdown.