Rysk held his breath as the werewolf behind Ronan took a menacing step toward them, followed by a deadly growl at his back. The three approaching from the sides hovered as if waiting for a sign to attack.
Damn it. He’d come here to get Ronan to safety, not put them both in danger. He should have knocked Ronan out when he had the chance and hauled his rebellious ass out of there. But he’d hoped to have enough time to convince his grandson to come on his own.
Looked like he’d made a terrible miscalculation.
“Don’t let them bite you,” he murmured to Ronan, barely moving his lips as he eyed the predators.
He could get them out of this, but he needed Ronan to follow his lead. Something he wasn’t sure Ronan would do given how well their conversation had gone before the werewolves made an appearance.
“And how the hell do you suggest I do that?” Ronan hissed back, remaining still as his gaze skipped from left to right before jumping over Rysk’s shoulder.
“Just . . . don’t let it happen.”
A werewolf bite wasn’t fatal to a vampire, but it was hell to heal from. And Rysk knew that from firsthand experience. The most painful wound he’d ever endured had been a werewolf bite. They were nasty creatures with even nastier bacteria in their saliva and venom that made healing from a werewolf bite a long, uncomfortable process.
But Rysk hadn’t kept himself alive for over four millennia without learning how to defend himself against all manner of beings, both human and paranormal. He had Argon to thank for that.
Argon had taken him all over the world so they could train with the best fighters from all cultures and disciplines, surviving by any means necessary so that one day they could rise up and take back what belonged to them. Their birthright.
After four thousand years of mastering one fighting discipline after another . . . after another, Rysk was probably one of the deadliest entities on the planet. He could slice clean through an adversary’s torso with a longsword or gut them with a four-inch boot knife. He was an expert with all manner of blades, as well as with his body. He was a master in Krav Maga, kung fu, muay thai, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and about a million other fighting styles. He could fight with a staff, a stick, a mace . . . you name it, he’d fought with it.
But he’d only fought werewolves once, a long time ago. That’s when he’d been bitten. He’d fallen into a coma for days. To hear Argon tell the story, he’d almost died. But the vampire half of his genes had saved him. If he’d been a full-blooded dreck, he’d be six feet under right now.
Ronan’s blood was purer, so he wouldn’t grow as sick, but that didn’t mean the wound wouldn’t be a cakewalk.
Werewolf venom was one of the few things on earth that could knock a vampire on his ass and make him want to die, and Rysk had spent decades learning how to defend against another such attack if it ever occurred.
Too bad Ronan hadn’t received that training, yet. His grandson would have to rely on his honed instincts.
He had what it took. He and Micah both did. The Black name carried some of the best fighters in the vampire race, and those inbred skills were what had kept Micah alive when, by all accounts, he should have died a long time ago.
Those same skills had kept Drake alive, too, albeit it in a more subtle way. Now, he prayed the talents passed from one generation to the next would give Ronan enough of an edge to make it out of this situation in one piece, because the only escape was through their fists, their legs, and their wits.
The double whammy where werewolves were concerned was that werewolves interfered with a vampire’s ability to—
“I can’t dematerialize,” Ronan whispered, stealing the words from Rysk’s thoughts.
Rysk’s jaw clenched. “I know.”
“Then how are we going to get out of this?”
Rysk stared hard into Ronan’s eyes. “You’ve trained for this. What do you think Grudge Match has been doing all this time?”
Ronan blinked as his eyebrows crinkled. The lightbulb flickered to life in his eyes.
“That’s right, Ronan. We’ve been training you. Grudge Match isn’t just a way to pass time. It never was. We’ve been building an army. One dedicated to peace but not afraid to use force to obtain it. An army skilled to fight any opponent, whether human, vampire, dreck, mutant . . . or werewolf.” He tried to convey all the confidence and devotion in his heart. Ronan was his family. His blood. The pride he felt for Ronan overshadowed all else in that moment. “You’re good enough to beat them, Ro. Use their movements against them. Anticipate their attack then counter it.”
For the first time in the last ten minutes, Ronan looked at him like he trusted him. “What do they want?”
Before he could answer, the werewolf behind him growled. He must have risen to his hind feet, because Ronan’s gaze traveled upward as if tracking the beast’s head. Rysk slowly glanced over his shoulder. The werewolf was over six feet tall, but couldn’t stand straight. It remained bent forward, its front paws hanging in front of it for balance.
“The ankh,” the werewolf said. “Give it to me.” He voiced the words on a series of growls and took a crooked step forward as his pack mates did the same.
Rysk pressed his lips together, dropped his gaze to the pocket Ronan had stuffed the ankh in, and then met his gaze again. “When you used the ankh the other night, you sent out a beacon they were able to track to Chicago. To the ankh. To you.”
“Then maybe I should give it to them if it means getting us out of here alive.”
“No!” Rysk kept his voice to a whisper, but he couldn’t prevent the urgency from adding bite to his rejection. “Whatever you do, you can’t let them have it.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’ll use it to unleash hell on earth.”
No doubt the werewolves were more aware of how to use the ankh than Ronan was. They would open a gate and bring in more of their kind. Criminals and murderers the lycans had relegated to slave status and exiled on some faraway prison planet to atone for their crimes.
Werewolves had once been lycans, but their crimes had been so heinous the lycans had cursed them, changing them into lesser beings through the magical powers they’d brought with them to this world. Werewolves were smaller than lycans, more aggressive, and traveled mostly on all fours, making it easy to differentiate them from their lycan keepers, who preferred to ambulate on two legs instead of four and were larger and more beautiful in every way.
As a physical comparison, werewolves were to lycans what coyotes were to wolves. Both were impressive, but there was something more majestic and awe-inspiring about wolves. Same with lycans. And they were more civilized.
Wait a second. Rysk glanced into the night sky. Something wasn’t right.
There wasn’t a full moon tonight. Instead, the sliver of a waxing crescent shone back at him.
Lycans could transition whenever they wanted, but werewolves couldn’t. They required the full moon to catalyze the change. That was how the metaphysical laws of the supernatural worked.
Unless these weren’t normal werewolves.
In which case, everything Rysk thought he knew about werewolves and lycans would do him about a shit’s worth of good.
Any way Rysk sliced it, they were backed into a corner. One they would have to fight their way out of if it meant protecting not just themselves but the ankh.
“I’m going to give it to them,” Ronan said, slipping his hand into his pocket.
“Ronan, no. You can’t.” Rysk gave a subtle shake of his head as his heart skipped then began pumping furiously. “You have no idea what will happen or the hell they’ll rain down on earth.” What was Ronan thinking? “Besides, they’ll try to kill us, anyway. Whether you give them the ankh or not, we’ll still have to fight our way out of this.”
“Trust me.” His grandson took a step back, his hand still in his pocket. He called to the werewolf behind Rysk, “I’ve got the ankh.”
“Give it to me,” the beast snarled.
“I want something in return.”
“You’re in no position to bargain, vampire.”
Ronan shrugged cavalierly and exchanged glances with Rysk, his hand working inside his pocket. Then he glanced at the werewolf again. “We might not be able to kill all of you before you kill us, but we could take out at least three of you. Why risk it?”
The beast made a disgruntled but contemplative sound then fell silent as if thinking about Ronan’s offer. It was a long moment before he spoke again. “Tell me your bargain.”
“Let us go. That’s it. I give you the ankh. You let us go. Everyone walks away.”
Rysk had to give Ronan credit. Whatever game he was playing, he was doing so fearlessly, and with a level head, buying them time. Or maybe this was just dumb luck favored by rash stupidity, because Ronan’s propensity was to act first and think later.
Rysk cautiously swept his gaze around the scene, seeking an escape route and marking the approaching werewolves as they stopped and deferred to who he assumed was their leader. When he turned his gaze back to Ronan, his hand was still working furiously in his pocket. What was he doing?
One of the other werewolves interjected. “Or we could just kill you, vampire, and take the ankh from your cold, dead fingers.”
Ronan’s hand suddenly froze, and a smirk twisted his lips. “Wrong answer.” He yanked his hand from his pocket and shot it toward the werewolf behind Rysk. A pulse of energy bolted from the oscillator strapped to his palm.
Rysk whirled to see the werewolf behind him go airborne, flying feet over head.
That was his cue.
Springing to action, he engaged one of the other werewolves before it could swipe Ronan’s head off, meeting it in a blur of movement. His booted foot connected with the wolf’s throat, knocking it to the ground as Ronan’s oscillator split the air and torpedoed two more of their attackers.
“Ro! Look out!”
Ronan ducked and fell into a body roll just in time to miss getting julienned by a paw full of daggerlike claws. He was on his feet in a flash, using his oscillator and a blade he’d pulled from one of the holsters hidden by his dark clothing, keeping three of the wolves at bay.
But Rysk had his own problems to worry about as the other two came for him.
Digging deep into his skill set, he countered their every move, his fists and feet flying with graceful speed, landing on his targets with deadly precision.
Fur flew, blood sprayed, and in short order, he and Ronan had gained the upper hand. Crimson trails dribbled from the beasts’ fangs and fur, and it looked like the worst of the fight was over.
“Ronan! Go!” Rysk turned, grabbed Ronan’s forearm, and jerked him away from the fight. “Run!”
Thank God Ronan didn’t try to be a hero. He spun and, together, they sprinted for the fence. Three of the werewolves recovered immediately and gave chase, followed quickly by the other two.
“If we can get far enough away from them, we can dematerialize,” he shouted to Ronan.
Ro nodded, pumping his arms and legs hard to put distance between him and their enemy.
But the werebeasts were too fast. They caught up to them at a massive gargoyle tombstone marked by the name Grimm. How was that for irony?
Looked like they were going to have to fight their way free, because trying to get away on foot wasn’t going to happen.
Just as he and Ronan spun and reengaged the five werewolves, a blue-green light shimmered from the area around the pyramid-shaped mausoleum they’d left behind, warping the air. A bright light flashed as Rysk fell to his back, overwhelmed by his adversary, his hands buried in a mass of dark, bristly fur as he strained and tried to kick off his attacker. Venom dripped from its fangs and splattered on his cheek.
Heavy footfalls echoed on the ground, and then the werewolf was lifted off him as if the creature had been plucked like a weed from a flower garden. The wolf whined then yelped. Once, twice. The third yip cut off with the sound of snapping bone.
Rysk jumped to his feet in time to see a white-kilted lycan toss the dead werewolf to the side as if it were nothing more than dirty clothes. The carcass crashed into a marble headstone, cracking it. More bones snapped, and the werewolf landed on the grass in a heap of twisted flesh before transforming back into its human form.
The lycan towered over him at nearly ten feet tall on his hind legs, straighter than his werewolf counterpart. His physique rippled powerfully beneath a layer of black fur, his shoulders wide, waist tapered, abdominals like stacked bricks under a sparse smattering of coarse hair. A cartouche hung from a heavy gold chain around his thick neck.
For a prolonged moment, the lycan stared down at him, its eyes like black holes. Then it turned away to monitor the fight as another tombstone broke in half and toppled to the ground with the force of another werewolf’s skull being cracked against it.
Two more linen-kilted lycans—one with sandy-brown coloring and a long mane down the back of its neck, and the other as black as pitch—dispatched the remaining four werewolves easily enough, snapping their necks or ripping out their hearts. In less than twenty seconds, five lifeless human forms lay on the ground, covered in blood.
Where was Ronan?
Rysk searched the darkness for his grandson. “Ronan?” He limped around the headstones. “Ronan!”
“I’m here. I’m okay.” Ronan pushed himself to his feet from behind a gravestone and rested his hands on top of it as he caught his breath. “I’m goo—” His voice cut off when he saw the three enormous lycans advancing toward them. “There’s more?” He straightened and stared. “Shit, these three are huge.” He inhaled deeply as if preparing to fight then exhaled as he lifted his arms and waved his fingers in a come-on motion. “Okay then, bring it.”
But Ronan looked like he was in no shape to take on anything but a bowl of cereal. His grandson’s shoulders slumped forward, and his skin had taken on a greyish pallor. The fight had depleted him more than he seemed ready to admit.
The air shimmered as the lycans shifted into their human forms. Even dropping their beastly personas, each was over six and a half feet tall.
The linen kilts covered them from waist to midthigh, and each wore a gold cartouche, no doubt their version of military dog tags. No pun intended. Cartouches were simply their way of identifying themselves. It had always been so, all the way back to Ancient Egyptian times, when humans had worshipped them as gods.
“Rameses,” Rysk said, immediately recognizing the male in the lead as the brother of the lycan imeut, or leader, Memnon.
Rameses regarded him through the same inky-black eyes that had studied him a moment ago in his lycan state. He stood proudly, shoulders squared, chest out, but not like he was trying to appear intimidating. He just was. Rameses’s posture seemed as effortless as his demeanor, as if the air held him upright because he willed it to do so. In this moment, the world belonged to Rameses, and all who resided there existed because he allowed them to.
He and Memnon always carried themselves this way. They suffered no one, and all suffered them. But of the two, Rameses was the more forgiving. Rysk didn’t want to think about how differently this encounter could have gone had Memnon shown up instead.
Without a word, Rameses turned away from Rysk, his gaze landing almost indifferently on Ronan. “The ankh.” His voice was so deep it was almost an echo. “It belongs to us.”
His expression gave nothing away. No anger, no benevolence. No malice nor amnesty. The placid facade could have been hiding caged fury he could unleash so swiftly you would never see your death coming, or it could have been a veil for immeasurable gratitude for keeping the ankh safe all this time. After all, the ankh’s rightful place was with the lycans. They had created the portals, and, consequently, the keys to open them.
Which was something Micah nor Ronan could have known since Memnon and Rameses had decided eons ago to withdraw from vampire lands and take their secrets with them. The only place anyone could find record of the ankhs now was in the king’s archives.
Or from Argon and Rysk. Argon had told him all about the ankhs and how they opened gateways between worlds and dimensions.
Which was how Drake had learned about the ankh’s power.
And, of course, Drake then relayed the information to Ronan during one of his night terrors and subsequent waking outbursts, also revealing the ankh’s whereabouts. That he’d given it to Micah.
Which was why Ronan had stolen the damn thing then tried to use it like a damn bloody fool.
And now, here they were, all their secrets spilling like coins from a broken piggy bank.
He met his grandson’s eyes. God, Ronan looked exhausted. “It’s okay, Ro. You can give it to him. It belongs to them.”
Rysk didn’t fear much in this world, and he had no reason to fear Rameses or his two companions, because vampires and lycans had never been enemies. Strained allies, perhaps. Uneasy cohabitants on the same continent, yes. But never enemies. Still, Rysk feared them. The lycan race could make the staunchest, most revered ally if they chose to align their cause with yours, or they could spell certain doom if they decided your existence endangered the planet or the human race. After all, that was why they were here. To protect the planet and humanity from the dark forces lurking in the shadowy places of the universe.
The question was, which Rameses had he and Ronan crossed tonight? The benevolent one? Or the unforgiving one?
Ronan hesitated, warily eyeing the lycans. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. The evening had taken too much out of his grandson. He needed to get Ronan home, and after a much-needed rest, Rysk could formally introduce him to Argon, the dreck Ronan had come to know only as Digon, the founder of Grudge Match, and explain the truth he had yet to reveal about their bloodline.
But first, he needed Ronan to give up the ankh. Ronan needed to let go of whatever reason had motivated him to take it in the first place.
Rysk nodded tightly. “Go ahead, Ro, give it to them.”
Weaving forward and back on his feet, Ronan slid his hand in his pocket. “I don’t . . . I’m not feeling so goo. . .”
Then shit went south. Way south.
As Ronan weakly pulled the ankh from his pocket, blood trickled from under his sleeve and down his hand.
“He’s been bitten.” The other black-haired lycan rushed forward, catching Ronan under his arms as he went bobblehead and nosedived into unconsciousness.
“Ronan!” Rysk rushed toward his grandson.
Rameses’s hand shot out, and the ankh flew from Ronan’s hand to his as if pulled by a magnet. “Priest, our clothes. Get them.” His commands snapped out of him like staccato notes as he secured the ankh in his fist. “Dain, give the boy to Rysk.”
The blond male with hair from here to Sunday nodded curtly and disappeared in a shimmer of light as the black-haired lycan hoisted Ronan into Rysk’s arms.
Ronan was out cold, the color rapidly draining from his face. Blood coated the sleeve of his black hoodie. So much blood.
Rysk shoved up the sleeve and gasped. A dozen festering puncture marks marred Ronan’s forearm. Shit. This was bad. Ronan-could-die bad, being that he had no idea what kind of werewolves they’d come up against that could transition without a full moon. The fact that Ronan was bottoming out faster than a draining barrel didn’t reassure him.
The puncture marks were already swelling with infection, oozing and bright red. He’d never seen a worse werewolf bite, or one that grew so ugly so quickly, but Ro probably hadn’t even felt it with the adrenaline blasting through his veins.
The air shimmered again and the lycan Rameses had referred to as Priest reappeared holding a large leather duffel. Rameses’s expression gave nothing away. Was Rameses going to order Ronan’s death? Save him? Abandon him?
Rameses took a step toward Rysk. “Take the boy to AKM.” He reached behind him as if waiting for Priest to hand him his dinner jacket.
Priest placed a silver-grey pullover in his hand. Rameses flicked it so it unfolded, and then held it in front of him as if getting dressed in a cemetery was as normal as wearing a cowboy hat in Texas. “We’ll clean this mess up and meet you there. Go.” No critical rush invaded his voice. No sense of excitement. Just straightforward matter-of-fact calmness.
But Rysk sensed the urgency coming from the trio even if he couldn’t see or hear it.
Dain shifted back into his lycan form and began gathering the bodies as Rameses and Priest got dressed.
Speechless, Rysk could only watch, feeling as though he were in a parallel reality. How could Rameses, Dain, and Priest be so calm when his grandson’s life was hanging in the balance?
Rameses placed his hand on Rysk’s shoulder.
Rysk lifted his gaze and looked into irises so dark they seemed like pits.
“You must hurry to your healers. We will meet you there and do what we can to help.” For the first time since he appeared in the cemetery, Rameses allowed a hint of emotion to pass over his face. A shadow of compassion displayed in the microscopic lift of the corners of his mouth. That was probably as much of a smile as anyone would ever get out of Rameses. “You must go now. We’ll be right behind you.” Rameses squeezed his shoulder, lowered his chin, and then turned away, grabbed one of the fallen werewolves by its head of human hair, and dragged it back to the pyramid mausoleum without another word. Dain and Priest were already there waiting for him.
Rysk shifted his hold on Ronan, stared after Rameses for a moment, and then connected with his grandson’s aura. As he dematerialized, he saw the blue-green light shimmer around the pyramid.
Cleaning up the mess. That’s what Rameses had said. In other words, they were disposing of the bodies. Probably sending them back to the prison planet they’d come from. Either that, or they were dumping them into the middle of empty space.
One mess down. A shitload more to go.
Starting with making sure Ronan made it through the night alive.