"Big mistake, dragons," a woman shouted.
"Your last mistake," another called.
What a bright day this was turning out to be. Layel would not have to search for the Amazons, after all.
Blades were anchored to their muscular arms and legs, and death radiated from their fierce expressions. Most were as tall as the dragons, but a few were petite, almost...fragile looking.
In the span of a single heartbeat, a battle was raging between the two races.
Weapons were twirling, men and women grunting and blood splattering. The metallic scent wafted to Layel's nostrils, sweet and tangy. He breathed it in deeply, felt it sweep through his entire body, fuse with sinew and bone and ignite a guttural hunger.
"Now!" Layel shouted to his men.
Together, they rushed forward. How he would have loved to simply materialize in the midst of battle, but he could not. None of them could. Well, not if they hoped to survive. A vampire could materialize anywhere he wanted with only a thought, but there were consequences. Once they reached their destination, they were drained. Exhausted. Unable to move for hours. Escape was the only time the ability proved useful, and he didn't want to escape this.
As he reached the dragon masses, sword swinging, slicing, light from the upper dome warmed his sensitive skin, all the hotter as it blended with the dragons' kiss of fire. He did not allow either to slow him, however. Sweat streaked down his chest and back. His wrist flicked left and right in constant motion, giving his blade a fluidity that cut through dragon flesh as smoothly as if it were cutting through water.
He reveled in every drop of crimson that he spilled, rejoiced with every body that fell. Every pain-entrenched shout brought a new smile to his lips. More than anything, he loved seeing his opponents' golden eyes as their minds registered his blow. They always widened; horror always filled them. The light inside always died right along with them.
Later, when the fighting was done, he would have to stalk through the masses and remove their heads. Dragons, like vampires, healed quickly. He liked to eliminate any possibility of regeneration. But right now, with fire dancing in every direction, he could only cut their decayed hearts in half.
Two dragons rushed him from different angles.
Ducking low, he arced his sword forward with one hand, slashing through one warrior's stomach while withdrawing a dagger from his waist with his other hand, then reaching out, leaning...stretching...and stabbing the second warrior in the groin. There was an unholy scream.
Both warriors collapsed.
Grinning, he leapt back into motion. Someone swept in front of him and managed to nick his side. He hissed, saw that one of his men, Zane, was already chopping his way forward to aid him. Layel didn't go in for the kill himself but kicked the dragon in the stomach, sending him flying in Zane's direction. Seeing this, the battle-hungry vampire spun, sword singing with lethal menace.
Seconds before the dragon's head rolled, he unleashed a blistering stream of flames. As the body dropped, those flames found a target on Layel's cheek. He wiped at the charred, sizzling skin. Felt a warm trail of dragon blood drip down his arm. Grinned again. He still held the dagger and the blade gleamed a vivid crimson.
"You are well, yes?" Zane asked him, breath sawing in and out.
He nodded. More. Need more. Needed to inflict more injury, more carnage. His focus landed on a nearby dragon already engaged in a fierce fight with a vampire. Layel stalked forward and swung, gutting the creature without warning. There was a grunt, a jerk. The body toppled. Did Layel mind striking from behind? Never. Fighting fairly would ensure nothing but failure.
Another dragon railed at him. Moving faster than the eye could see, he stabbed the bastard in the belly, pulled out, stabbed in the heart, pulled out again and stabbed in the neck. Only three seconds had passed. Too quick, too easy, he thought.
More.
Brand, ripping an Amazon off his chest and tossing her to the ground, came into view. Yes, Layel thought, tracing his tongue over his sharpened teeth in anticipation. That one. That one would die today. No more waiting. He would not simply incapacitate the bastard; he would kill.
Layel kicked and bit his way through the ranks, gaze locked on the dragon captain. Halfway there, he heard a growl behind him, pivoted to dispatch the threat swiftly and return his attention to Brand. But his sword slashed and clanged against another sword, jarring him. No easy, unprepared kill this time, apparently.
He blinked as an Amazon swirled in front of him, swinging at him a second time. Clink. Scowling, he blocked her third thrust. Clang.
"I do not wish to hurt you," he gritted out.
"How admirable," she replied drily--before swinging at him again.
He twisted to the side, barely escaping the sharp tip. Had she just mocked him?
Wind gusted past them, lifting her cerulean-colored hair off her face. Suddenly Layel was granted a full view of breathtaking, incomparable beauty. Beauty even the war paint couldn't hide. Beauty that nearly felled him. Definitely rendered him dumb, for he ceased moving. Brand who?
Layel hadn't taken the time to appreciate the beauty of a woman in two hundred years, yet he was helpless to do anything but drink this one in, this fantasy come to life. It was as though she exuded something...magical? Something that forced the eye to her. Something that would not release its hold. But Amazons weren't able to weave spells. Only dragons could.
He continued his scrutiny of her, searching for signs of a dragon relative. Her eyes were so bright a violet they sparkled like freshly polished amethysts. Long black lashes. Slightly rounded cheeks. Flawless, bronzed skin where the paint had washed away. Unlike most of her hulking sisters, she was of the petite variety, barely reaching his shoulders. No, no dragon.
From her fluid grace to her perfect curves, she was sensual and exotic, ready for a bedding rather than a battle.
"You should not be here. I could have killed you, woman." He didn't mind killing females, had done so on many occasions, but it would have been a shame to destroy something so lovely. His jaw clenched as he realized exactly what he was thinking. Damn her. He did not regard women with any kind of desire. Not anymore.
One corner of her lush, red mouth kicked up, causing his stomach to tighten. "Please," she said, voice sultry, like a dream. "You'll need a few centuries' more sword practice before you have the skill to eliminate me, vampire." She swung at him yet again, this time aiming for his neck.
There were no creatures faster than the vampires, and he managed to arch backward with swift precision as the blade soared just over his nose. "And you fancy yourself my tutor? I think not." But he admired her confidence.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. Another swing.
Another block. "Helping you."
A tinkling laugh escaped her, floating over his skin with the surety of a lover's caress. His stomach tightened again. He scowled, mouth thinning over razor-sharp teeth. How was she affecting him like this?
He had not experienced even a single wisp of need since--do not think of Susan. You will lose focus.
Growling, he swung at the Amazon. She blocked the harder blow and frowned. Better. A frown was better than a laugh. And so he did it again. Slashed at her, using all of his might. When their swords next met, both of their bodies vibrated from the impact.
Her delicate nose twitched. In irritation? Amusement? Delight?
Surely not the latter two.
"This is how you help me?" she demanded.
"No. That was me, helping myself. Now this is me, helping you." With a swift jerk of his arm, he tossed his dagger. The tip embedded in the neck of the dragon racing toward her from behind. "See the difference?"
She spun, surveyed the fallen, dying warrior. When she faced Layel again, there was no longer any question about what emotion she experienced. Irritation. "Well, we don't need your help and will not grant you any type of boon for offering it."
"Your gratitude is humbling. Fortunately, cutting out the hea
rts of my enemies is boon enough for me."
The pink tip of her tongue emerged and traced over those lush lips, smearing war paint. All the while she eyed his lips. Had his words...excited her? Shock rooted him in place, staying his sword. Such depravity should have disgusted her. And her excitement should have disgusted him.
Should have.
He hissed at her, suddenly as desperate to get away from her as he was to dispatch the dragon army. "Get in my way again, Amazon, and I will take you down." Perhaps he would not need to, he thought, before he could turn from her. Already another dragon closed in behind her.
Layel's vehemence seemed to shake her out of her inactivity. She returned his hiss with one of her own. "Try, and you'll die like the dragons." As she spoke, she stabbed behind her, sinking the apex of her sword into the very dragon that had been sneaking up on her. She gave a twist of her wrist, digging her weapon deeper, causing even more pain for the injured man.
Her gaze never left Layel.
The warrior fell to the ground, a final gasp echoing from him.
Layel didn't waste another moment. He moved around and behind the woman and her lethal beauty, knowing he was nothing more than a blur to her. She didn't have time to turn when he kicked out his leg. Contact. Her ankles knocked together. She grunted and toppled to her knees. But she was back on her feet in the next instant, spinning around and glaring at him.
Except there was no anger in that glare. Only vulnerability. Raw vulnerability. It was the kind of look a woman gave a man she was considering taking to her bed--but knew she should resist. A look he had resisted from others, without hesitation, for what seemed an eternity. She's dangerous.
Layel backed away from her, a spark of panic igniting.
"You knocked me down," she said, breathless.
For years he'd assumed his heart was withered, dead. And yet, hearing the excitement in her voice, the foolish organ sped to life, nearly beating through his ribs. Keep moving away, damn you. "Yes," he said, his legs suddenly heavy. "I did."
"But...you knocked me down."
And he would do more if she approached him again. He'd have to. Something about her...
He should not have to remind himself that desire was not something he wanted in his life. He would avenge Susan's death, and then he would join her. Nothing and no one else mattered.
"Play nice with my vampires, little girl, and I might save a few dragons for you. If not, I'll come for you. And when I find you, I will take your head and hang it beside my throne with all the others I have collected in my long life. Doubt me not." With that, he flashed her a dark grin and pushed his way into the thick of battle, through the raging fires, Brand once more in his sights.
CHAPTER TWO
THAT BASTARD! Delilah thought. That bloodsucking fiend. That black-hearted warrior. That...man! He had no conscience, no sense of fairness. And she...liked it. A sigh slipped from her, and she nearly melted to the ground in a boneless heap of feminine delight.
The warrior had dropped her to her knees. No one had ever dropped her before. No one. She was too strong, too fast, too menacing and too eager to exact revenge. And if she could not, her sisters were more than willing to see the task done, which every species in Atlantis knew.
But the vampire had acted against her without reservation or remorse. What was worse--better?--was that he could have done so much more. One moment he'd been in front of her, the next he'd been behind her. He could have sliced her throat as he'd done to so many of the dragons, and there would have been nothing she could've done about it.
Well, she could have died. But where was the fun in that?
She should have been wary of such skill. She wasn't; she was excited. Which was foolish! Number eight of the ten Amazon commandments: never fight an opponent face-to-face if you couldn't defeat him. Wait and stab him in the back later. The vampire could have defeated her. Utterly. Would have. Yet she'd practically begged for more.
The thought of his cunning made her pulse leap and her blood heat as if dragon fire had somehow seeped through the war paint, past her skin and straight into her veins. He'd tripped her, and she had wanted to kiss him for it.
Yes, all right, fine. She had spent many nights lying awake, wishing for what she couldn't have and shouldn't want: a man strong enough to risk her sisters' ire and claim her. A man who didn't think of her as too violent to enjoy for more than a few nights. A man who gave as intensely as she did, who would fight for her with the same ferocity she brought to every battle she joined. A man who would topple any barrier to reach her.
A man who would view her as the most important thing in his life. A prize to be won and cherished.
All of those desires embarrassed her, however, and were not something she would--or could--ever mention aloud. Not if she wanted the respect of her tribe. She was a warrior; they all were. Battle came first. Love, never.
Besides, she'd tried love. Or at least, had given herself to a man. He hadn't been forced to accept her. Hadn't been picked during the Ceremony of the Chosen, where Amazons decided which slaves to bed. No, she'd met him on the battlefield. She'd gone to stab him and he'd kissed her. Intrigued, flattered, she'd let him live, had even snuck out of camp later that night to see him. You're the one for me, he'd told her. I knew it the first moment I saw you. But after the loving had finished, he'd walked away and had never looked back. She'd been nothing more than a passing fancy, an enemy to use, a woman to sate himself on and, later, a bad memory to bury.
Her fault, though. If she hadn't secretly watched other races over the years, melting at the sight of men fighting for their women, doing anything and everything to protect them, the need for a love of her own wouldn't have sprouted. A need that was a clear violation of the third commandment: if you begin to desire more than a bedding from a man, kill him or he'll take you from your sisters, betray you.
A rage-drenched snarl resounded through the forest, claiming her attention. She thrust her sword forward, twisted the hilt, then slammed it backward. Both in front of and behind her, a dragon warrior dropped at her feet.
Another dragon sprinted toward her. Silly men. They were strong soldiers. She knew that, had fought a few of them before, but she was stronger. Despite her delicate appearance.
Delilah raised her dagger, ready to meet this new opponent. One of her sisters stepped in his path, however, and the two became locked in a fierce battle of clanging, sparking metal. All too soon, the weaker, still-in-training Nola fell against the brute's powerful sword thrusts. The man threw his sword aside, ready to use his meaty hands.
The first commandment: always aid a sister in need.
Steps sure and quick, Delilah reached her sister's side--only to realize proudly that she needn't have bothered. The Amazon shot to her feet and met the dragon warrior's fists with a high kick. He grunted, stumbled.
Nola is fine, and you have a mission. Delilah turned, eyeing the macabre scene before her. Blood, grunting, collapsing bodies. All necessary. She had come here for a specific reason: to find and rescue her sister by race, Lily.
Where are you now, sweet Lily? Before attacking the dragons, Delilah had seen her in the cage. Since then, there had been no sign of the girl. Come on. Show yourself. Lily had disappeared a week ago, and they'd tracked her to the dragon palace and followed the warriors into this forest. Better to ambush them there. Whether the dragons had taken her or she'd gone willingly was not important. They had bound her hands and mouth. They had imprisoned her.
For the first, they would suffer. For the second, they would die.
Lily was a child, an innocent, and their future queen. Delilah--and all Amazons--doted on the girl. At thirteen, she was charming, precious, amusing. Everything the rest of the Amazons were not.
Bring my baby home, the queen had instructed Delilah, her chin trembling. Seeing the usually staid Kreja near tears had been a torture all its own. You know what to do with those who harm her even in the slightest way.
Every warrioress fi
ghting this battle would do anything, everything, to preserve Lily's sweet innocence--if the dragons had not destroyed it already. If they had...Fury clouded Delilah's vision, winking red and black.
Concentrate. Several warriors had already morphed into their animal form, flesh replaced with scales, serrated tails whipping back and forth, wings flapping and claws slashing. They would be harder to kill that way, but she relished the challenge.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of white hair and glowing crystalline eyes framed by long black lashes. Features almost too pretty to be male. Sensual, exotic. Her heart gave a strange leap. The vampire who'd knocked her to the ground. He could have been the god of wickedness and temptation, and she would not have been surprised.
What was his name? The question whispered through her mind before she could stop it. He doesn't matter, remember? Why, then, could she not tear her gaze from him?
He disappeared in the midst of the crowd. Two enemy warriors clomped toward him, their bodies monstrous and scaled, faces elongated and teeth like sabers. Would the vampire be strong enough to fight them both?
As excited as she was by the thought of his success, a part of her was...scared? Her brow furrowed. No. That wasn't possible. Nothing scared her. Not battle, not pain, not death. Yet she couldn't deny the unsteady rhythm of her heart just then. What if the vampire was struck down? There were so many around him, all going for his neck.
Delilah's attention again snagged on Nola, who still fought a few inches away and was not faring as well as Delilah had hoped. Nola was not one of her closest friends, was too solitary to have any friends, but the tribe came first. Always.
Shoving the vampire from her mind once and for all, Delilah leapt at the dragon engaging her sister, propelling him to the ground and allowing Nola to finally sink her blade into his chest.
He roared. "Damn it, woman!" He lay there, panting, intermittingly staring at his chest and Nola with fury, but he didn't get up again. "That hurt."
"Good." Ninth commandment: never leave a fight without first injuring your opponent in some way. Delilah whipped around, ready to fell another. But once again, she found herself searching for the vampire. Not forgotten, after all. Surrounded by countless adversaries as he was, he would surely be cut down. Despite the prowess he'd demonstrated, he was only a man. A breathtaking, commanding man, but as fallible as all his brethren.