Micah didn’t move.
Why wasn’t Micah moving? Damn it. If he would move, she could attack. Defeat would have to fight her. Micah was simply too weak to see to the battle himself.
She opened her mouth to challenge Defeat but closed it with a snap. She’d challenged him a few times during their trek. Bet you can’t catch me if you let me go. He’d let her go. And he’d caught her, pissed beyond imagination. Bet you can’t just stand there while I stab you. He’d let her stab him. And rather than pass out from blood loss, as she’d hoped, he had then returned the favor. He’d stabbed her thigh to keep her from bolting while he healed.
He’d then stitched her up, shocking her. Still. His determination to win every challenge gave him strength, more so than usual, and she couldn’t have him stronger than usual right now. Not while she battled the fog. So, as they stood there facing each other, both deliberating how to handle the coming fight—and there would be a fight—she was very careful not to issue another challenge. Not even a challenge to lose the fight.
She’d made that mistake only once.
Bet you can’t lose a fistfight to a girl.
He had allowed her to punch him, and he hadn’t fought back. Therefore in his mind, he had just lost a fistfight with a girl. She’d run off while he’d struggled to breathe—’cause yeah, she’d gone for his trachea—and he’d had to track her down. When he finally caught her, he’d trussed her up like a Thanksgiving turkey, gagged her and started drugging her.
And if she had tried to speak past her gag, he would have removed her voice box. No question.
“What the hell did you do to him?” Defeat repeated, dark, deadly.
“What did I do to him?” She assumed attack position: legs apart, knees slightly bent and ready for her leap. The cold, already so much a part of her, seeped out, sheened her skin. With every exhalation, mist created a cloud in front of her face. All the while, she mourned the loss of Micah’s heat.
She still didn’t know why she froze like this. Still didn’t know how. All she knew was that the ability manifested with her emotions, sometimes strengthening her, something weakening her. Today, she felt empowered.
“Me?” she went on. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
“If you hurt him…” A muscle ticked below his dark blue eyes, and he finally kicked into motion. If she hurt him? What a joke! “This is gonna be fun. I’ve been craving a go at you.” One step, two, she moved toward him, determined to meet him in the middle.
No!
In a sudden blur of motion, Micah sprang from the bed and flew past her, tackling the demon-possessed warrior and sending both men toppling to the floor. Grunts and groans soon echoed. Slashing arms and vicious kicks ensued. They rolled, they struggled, they assaulted each other ferociously.
She’d never seen Micah fight so dirty. He went for the eyes, the throat and the groin, biting and ripping flesh, fists hammering. Defeat, though, merely deflected each of her man’s blows. He never tried to cause harm. Why? Something else she’d never seen—a Lord of the Underworld backing down. And this one, Defeat… Something was wrong. Had to be.
Haidee stood there, numb, watching the bloodbath, sick to her stomach and unsure what to do. Apparently, he’s not too weak after all. Like him, she didn’t run from the room. God help her, she wasn’t leaving without him.
What should she do? If she threw herself into the fray, she might cut Micah instead of the Lord. They were moving so quickly…twisting and turning, flying apart, springing back together. And if she accidentally delivered Micah’s death-blow…
Damn it. What the hell should she do? she wondered again, no closer to an answer.
“What the fuck is going on?” Defeat demanded between punches. “Stop. Amun, you have to stop.”
Amun?
She’d heard the name before, knew it belonged to one of the Lords, but she couldn’t connect the name with a face. And because she had memorized all the names and faces of her enemy, she knew that could only mean one thing.
There was one immortal warrior the Hunters had never been able to photograph or even sketch throughout the years. Not that they hadn’t tried. They’d snapped pictures, but those pictures had never turned out, had always been blurry. And when they’d drawn what they’d thought was his face, they’d later realized they’d done nothing but scribble on the page.
Amun was also the Lord most people forgot the moment they walked away from him. He was the immortal the Hunters knew the least about. Maybe because Amun was possessed by the demon of Secrets.
All the Hunters really knew about him? He had dark hair and dark eyes, and he was tall and muscled. That little bit of information had been acquired through centuries of observation.
Had this Amun died, his demon given to Micah? Did Micah now carry Secrets inside him? Was that why the Lords had chosen Micah? And he was demon-possessed. She no longer had any doubts about that. Those red eyes…peering down at her…hungry…craving…raging… She shuddered, then scowled.
This was another sin to heap on an already mountainous pile. Another crime to hate the Lords for.
Had they wanted someone with the same physical characteristics as their friend Amun? Probably. How amused they must have been, using a Hunter to house one of their disgusting demons.
Don’t think about that, either. Get yourself in the game, woman.
Haidee shook her head, clearing her mind, thankfully thinning the fog. The two men were on their feet now, throwing punches, falling backward into the walls, causing dust and plaster to waft through the air, then reconnecting and tossing each other into furniture. They were a blur of motion, brutal, like wild animals fighting over the only snack in the jungle. Wood chips were scattered across the floor, some even swimming in little pools of blood.
Blood, a river between her mother and her father. Both helpless…dead.
Again she had to shake her head, dislodging the memory.
“Amun,” Defeat snarled. “For gods’ sake! I’m your goddamn friend. What the hell are you doing?”
In the next instant, Micah’s thoughts hit her. Must kill. Must safeguard.
The words were sluggish, lower in volume than the ones that had come before them, and she realized he was weakening. His wounds were opening, seeping, dripping all over the room.
“She’s a Hunter,” the demon continued in that outraged tone, “and she’s my prisoner.”
Mine! blasted through her head. Not yours. Never yours. Mine to safeguard.
Could Defeat hear him? Probably not. Otherwise, he would have been backing out of the bedroom and running for his life. There had been barbwire in Micah’s tone, the tips laced with poison.
But then, Micah’s thoughts switched direction. I have to stop this. Why am I doing this? I love this man. Confusing, wrong, but again, those thoughts switched direction. Must kill. Must safeguard.
Micah snarled low in his throat, the sound rumbling through her mind as he punted Defeat into the already crushed vanity. More wood chips scattered. Red sparked in Defeat’s eyes, a gnarled mask of bone and scales falling over his features.
He was turning, she thought with dread. From immortal to demon.
“Win,” he growled now, and there was another voice fused to his. One that was guttural, raw. Determined.
Shit. She knew that determination. No longer would he pull his punches or deflect Micah’s. Now he would fight to win.
He closed the distance and threw his meaty clubs around, a jackhammer of lethal purpose. Not once did he miss. Micah weakened further, wobbling on his feet, his eyes beginning to swell shut as his head whipped left then right, alternating as Defeat switched fists.