No, he’d felt her power when she’d gotten angry. It was there, waiting for her to tap into it. Maybe she was bait, living away from the protective circle of witches in order to trap the Sons of Anubis. His hand lifted, fingers wrapping around the gold Anubis-head talisman all adult jackals wore. Let the witches try. He and his jackals had survived and would continue to do so. No sacrifice would be too great.
He stared at the witch. If would be a shame if she was part of a trap. Women like her had always been a weakness to him—long-legged, thick in the thighs and full in the chest; eyes sloe, dark, fathomless and large in her copper-skinned face. Just the sort of woman he would pursue if he had the time or the inclination.
He had neither. Not with Lost Ones walking the night. Certainly not with someone targeting the Sons of Anubis. Not with two of his clan brothers so close to death just down the hall.
Markus fisted his hands. This Isis witch was a tool, a means to an end, nothing more. He couldn’t think about his need, how long it had been since he’d enjoyed a woman. He had to think about his clan, their survival and their eternal fight against the undead. Not the need that spiked through him every time he felt her magic.
Angry with himself for being distracted, he bared his teeth at her. “For both our sakes, I hope you aren’t weak. If you’re weak, then you’re of no use to me. And if you’re no use to me...”
“Jackal, please.” She rolled her eyes at him. “You know, threats tend to make people not inclined to help you. Just saying.”
“You’re right,” he told her. Surprise lit her face, and he clenched his jaw against the sensual punch to the gut. “But what you don’t seem to understand is that I’m not threatening you. I’m just letting you know what will happen if you don’t do what I want. Just saying.”
Her chin lifted. “What exactly do you want?”
He pulled a blade from the sheath strapped to his thigh.
She recoiled, hands coming up defensively.
“Relax. I’m not going to kill you.”
He didn’t say “yet,” but she flinched as if he had.
Good. She didn’t need to know that he’d only killed in defense of himself or his clan, or in his sacred duty to Anubis. What she did need to know was just how serious he was about keeping his clan safe.
Reaching over, he grabbed her wrists and slid the blade beneath the nylon tie that bound her. His fingertips tingled against her skin. She trembled as his thumb stroked over her pulse, but he didn’t know if the reaction was due to his touch or the dagger. “Hold still.”
A sharp jerk and he freed her. She immediately rubbed her wrists, staring up at him. “What now?”
“Come with me.” He held a hand out to her just to see what she would do.
Continuing to chafe sensation back into her hands, she ignored his and stood on her own. “This way, I assume?” she asked, reaching for the knob.
Impressed despite himself, Markus rapped on the door. The witch stumbled back a step as a guard opened the door onto a long hallway decorated with depictions of Lord Anubis in his various funerary roles and the journey through Duat, the Underworld.
The witch stopped short. Her gaze roamed the walls, taking in each scene, every minute detail. “Amazing,” she whispered as her hand came up to trace the closest brightly rendered image. “The details, the colors—it’s beautiful!”
Markus allowed a swell of pride. “We tried to recreate the images as accurately as possible, even sourcing as many of the original pigments as we could.” His fingers traced the graceful lines of a lotus flower. “We wanted a remembrance of what we’d lost. Luckily, our clan has never forgotten our past or our purpose.”
He looked down at her, anger surging again. “Why don’t I introduce you to the artist?”
Without waiting for an answer, he wrapped a hand around her bicep and dragged her down the hall. Four other doors flanked the hall, but only two had guards stationed outside—the one they’d left and the one they approached, second from the end. The hall then veered sharply right, opening onto a large open room holding a pool table, a massive flat-panel TV, bar and other entertainments before ending at the stairs leading to the upper level.
He stopped at the second-to-last door, nodding to the jackal standing guard at the end of the hall. The guard opened the door, allowing Markus to shove Tia inside. She stiffened at his treatment, then gasped as she took in the contents of the room. Three strides in, she could see several cells. Jackals occupied two of them. One lay curled on a futon, his upper half human and the lower half misshapen jackal. The other, fully human, lay on his side, eyes wide and unblinking, minute twitches jerking his body. Markus could smell the sour notes of sickness choking the air and the acidic-ash burn of dark magic.
Tia cried out, rushing toward the closest cage. Markus snagged an arm around her waist, preventing her from reaching the bars. She frowned up at him, moisture shimmering on her lashes. “What’s wrong with them? I know you can’t take them to a hospital, but to keep them like this is beyond cruel—it’s inhumane! Where is your healer?”
Her outraged horror pleased him as much as her tears surprised him. This particular Isis witch, at least, hadn’t cast the spell that had felled his men. “They’ve been cursed, somehow,” he told her, deliberately harsh. He didn’t try to release her, and she didn’t try to pull away. “If we knew how exactly, we’d know how to treat them. As for our healer, we no longer have one. She was one of the first to die.”
“Die? You have to do something!” she exclaimed, tugging free of his hold to grip the bars of the closest cage. “They’re suffering!”
“I did do something. I brought you here.”
A myriad of emotions flew across her expressive face, shock prevalent. Her lips twisted as she turned away from the cage and looked up at him. “You’ve just doomed your brothers, jackal. I can’t heal them.”
A cold, hard knot formed deep in his gut. “You can’t, or you won’t?”
If she heard the menace in his tone, she paid it no mind. “I can’t. I don’t know how.” She lowered her head, not enough to disguise the bitterness that filled her words. “Even if I knew how, I’m not strong enough. You should have shanghaied another Daughter.”
Something turned over deep inside him. It took a moment for him to recognize it as compassion. He almost reached out to her—to pat her shoulder, to stroke her hair—he didn’t know. Instead he forced his hand down, fisted it. He didn’t want to feel compassion for the witch, his enemy. He didn’t want to feel anything at all for her.
“You are a Daughter of Isis,” he barked, bringing his military training to bear. “There was a time when your kind served with the Sons of Anubis, worked to drive the dead back into Duat. You gave us spells to protect us, spells to arm us and spells to heal us. It is—or was—the duty of every Isis witch. Though we are enemies now, it is still part of you, part of your nature. Part of your magic. You can do this!”
Chapter Three
Tia took the verbal kick in the ass for what it was, rediscovering her backbone with every word the jackal barked out. Straightening her shoulders, firming her chin, she wanted to believe as he believed, that she could reach down deep past the centuries of betrayal and hatred, and find the power that bound jackals and witches together.
You’re out of your mind, a horrified voice inside her head said. They’re jackals. Jackals! You can’t help them!
It didn’t matter that they were jackals. It didn’t matter that their kind had killed and hunted her kind for centuries. It didn’t even matter that