Evgeni (Siberian Ambush Book 1) Page 2

  No, she would have to do this the old-fashioned way. The plan was to get in and get out as quickly as possible, hopefully without having to use the sidearm strapped to her thigh or any of the pouches and vials of potions and dusts she carried with her.

  With graceful agility, she easily vaulted over the twenty-foot iron gates, landed safely on the snow and rapidly moved to the tree line. Taking advantage of her crisp night vision, she darted from trunk to trunk, moving closer to the left wing of the estate. Subzero gusts pelted her body but the nanotech fibers of her tactical catsuit maintained her core body temperature while wicking moisture away from her skin. The numerous pockets lining the matching tactical vest were also incredibly handy for storing all her necessary gear.

  She’d have to remember to thank Perry for coming through splendidly. It was amazing what the man could acquire with a little cajoling and cash.

  Finally, she reached the house. Her back against the stone, she listened intently for any strange sounds before extending her radar and scanning for any nearby heartbeats. The coast was clear. She checked her watch and set the vibrating timer for six minutes. Surveying the closest window, Celia decided that as a point of entry, this old casement window was as good as any.

  Very quickly and quietly, she removed the circular glass cutter from a vest pocket, dried a patch of window and applied the suction. With great care, she cut a circle the size of a dinner plate and discarded the glass in the nearby snow. Cautiously, she slipped her arm through the freshly cut hole, rotating her elbow so she could unlock the latch. She lifted the window and, inevitably, it squealed with resistance. Reassured by the fact that this wing of the house was empty, Celia climbed through the window and gently closed it. To avoid rousing suspicions, she left the curtains drawn exactly as they had been before her entrance.

  On tiptoes, she slipped into the hallway and began navigating the labyrinth of corridors in her search for the vault. Childhood memories of playing within the walls of this museum of antiquities and rarities allowed Celia to scurry without pause along her preplanned route. As she rounded a corner, Celia’s cerulean eyes landed on the surprisingly well-preserved mille fleur tapestry running the length of the right wall. She slowed her pace, her eyes searching the weaving for the lone red rose among the green and white.

  Aha!

  Lifting the musty tapestry in that section, Celia slipped between the fabric and the wall—and there it was! A rather generic wooden door that Celia knew was the entrance to the Leshnikov family vault.

  She retrieved a plastic baggie from another vest pocket and shook the contents onto her palm. Without wasting a second, she placed the sliver of lotus root under her tongue, shivering at the bitter taste even as she pressed the wad of chicory to the door with her left hand.

  “Sign argis!” She clearly spoke the ancient unlocking spell that had been drilled into her mind from preschool. Instantly, the locks disengaged. There was no lock, magical or conventional, that could withstand her family’s oldest incantation.

  She slipped the lotus root and chicory back into the vest pocket and entered the vault. It was a stone room lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves that held both supernatural and culturally significant objects, from enchanted amulets to some of the only surviving Albrecht Dürer woodcuts and prints. Inarguably, the vault was a treasure trove of priceless objects.

  For the briefest of moments, Celia felt guilty about stealing the Leshnikov family’s most prized heirloom, but the consequences of failure were unthinkable. Come hell or high water, she would save her sister’s life.

  Celia visually sorted the containers lining the shelves, excluding those that were too small or too large to contain the blade. Bewildered by the lack of locks on any of the containers, Celia nervously searched the dozen or so remaining boxes and chests, cautiously checking the bottoms and sides for trip wires before touching them.

  This is too simple, she anxiously thought. Surely Evgeni didn’t expect the vault door lock to keep all of this safe?

  Lifting the lid of a simple pine chest, Celia discovered what she sought. Resting on a bed of crushed green velvet, the sheathed Blade of Amrita hid in relative obscurity.

  After ensuring there were no booby traps, Celia gently took the blade from the chest, surprised that it felt lighter than when she had held it some twelve years ago. Her fingers, however, trembled just as they had when Evi had allowed her to hold the blade on her twelfth birthday. He’d brought her into the vault to choose a birthday present, and of course she had wanted the blade. She remembered his good-natured laugh, how he had offered to let her hold it for a moment while he procured a different item, a leather scapular imbued with the power to prevent fire damage.

  She still had the scapular but rarely wore it. It was too difficult to separate her happy memories of Evi from the bad.

  Like most people in her trade, Celia considered the Blade of Amrita the Holy Grail of magical artifacts. The provenance surrounding the blade was sketchy at best, but the bare facts were known. It had been forged in Ancient Sumer as a ritual implement and had migrated to the Hindu Kush during the campaigns of Alexander the Great. A Bactrian bladesmith had created the scabbard for the then-naked blade, and after a turbulent and murky history, the blade had somehow found its way into the possession of a traveling Leshnikov during the Dark Ages.

  Very slowly, she examined the brass scabbard embedded with polished blue and white topaz cabochons. Assured that it was the original, Celia unsheathed the blade. Sharp as a razor, the double-edged dagger had been finely honed from honey-colored imperial topaz but was tipped with a finely shaved garnet stone. A magnificent specimen of craftsmanship, the blade had been stamped with a cuneiform phrase, the symbols undecipherable to her. Supposedly the combination of topaz with garnet enhanced the blade’s magical properties.

  An unexpected vibration along her wrist made Celia jump. Heart pounding, she remembered that it was only her watch timer. With the blade in hand, she hurriedly closed the chest and slipped out of the vault. She retraced her steps, climbed through the window and began the short sprint to the gates. Above her, the moon threatened to slide free of the cloud cover and she quickened her pace to avoid being caught without cover. No more than fifty yards from the gate, Celia felt the first sensations of success tingling along her spine.

  Unfortunately, it was short-lived.

  From the tree line on her right, Celia heard the unmistakable warning growl of a large cat. She glanced in the direction of the noise. Strike that. Not a cat. A tiger.

  A really fucking huge Siberian tiger.

  “Shit!” Celia cursed and kicked her sprint into overdrive as the colossal creature bounded from the woods. Although her first instinct was to lift her gun and pop off a few rounds, she stymied the thought. As a personal policy, lethal methods were always used as a last resort. Normally she tried to stun her enemy first.

  And she couldn’t kill this tiger. Memories from her childhood, memories long repressed, surfaced. That smile. That Russian accent. The kindness and friendship. The easy familial relationship.

  Celia pulled energy into the fingertips of her left hand and hurled a swirling violet energy ball at the sprinting feline. It impacted the creature’s side, making the tiger yowl in pain, but did little to slow its progress.

  “Fuck!”

  If she could just make it over the fence and onto neutral ground, she could teleport to safety. Massive paws pounded the snow behind her. The tiger was gaining on her. She judged the distance between her feet and the fence and realized that she was at least twenty yards from it. There was no way she could vault over from this distance. She had plenty of supernatural gifts, but flying wasn’t among them.

  As she reached for her gun, a bone-rattling roar split the night, the infrasound waves penetrating her body, vibrating her organs and momentarily paralyzing her muscles. Feet stuttering, Celia tumbled to the packed powder with such force that snow slid underneath her glasses and found its way into her nostrils, shocki
ng the sensitive passages. She scrambled to her feet, throwing the glasses aside and roughly wiping the snow from her face.

  Within four steps, the beast tackled her. Head swimming, Celia tried to breathe, to regain control of her limbs. Balling up her left fist, she punched the tiger on its nose before landing a right hook against its neck, the scabbard of the blade clamped between her fingers slicing the tiger slightly. A paw swatted at her face but the nanotech fibers of her mask prevented the claws from doing any damage.

  Mustering her full strength, Celia jammed her knee into the beast’s stomach, causing it to lift away just long enough for her to place the heels of both feet against its chest, forcing it off her.

  She took advantage of the miniscule window of freedom and rolled onto her hands and knees, crawling a short span before finally scuttling to her feet. Making a run for it, Celia prepared to vault, close enough or not. Hoping she could make it at least halfway up the fence. She could climb the rest of the way.

  Just as Celia lunged, the tiger swiped at her thigh, throwing her off balance. Unable to stop the inertia behind her jump, she slammed into the fence, the impact jarring her jaw and neck. With a thud, Celia landed flat on her back in the snow. She fought to hold onto consciousness, but it was impossible.

  “Bianca…” she whispered helplessly.

  The moonlight slipped away, and darkness ensued.

  Chapter Three

  Still in tiger form, Evgeni pushed the sheathed blade between the thief’s vest and chest. He gingerly bit the collar of the vest so as not to pierce the tender flesh beneath and dragged the limp body through the snow and back to the mansion. From its size and shape, he could tell that it was a woman. Even so, he afforded her the same treatment he would have a male intruder, showing little concern for the small bumps along their path.

  When were they going to learn?

  How many thieves who had attempted to steal the blade throughout the ages had escaped with their lives?

  None.

  Over the centuries, the blade had become an entity within the family, with each generation inexplicably connected to it. Whenever it was in danger, Evi, as the last Leshnikov scion, experienced an overpowering sense of urgency. If he failed to protect it, one of his many male cousins would have come after it and the thief. Without mates and families, the entire Leshnikov line had little else to do…

  Because there was no chance of a thief succeeding, he left the vault relatively unprotected but ensured that escaping the grounds was most difficult. Like his shapeshifting ancestors, Evi, more than anything, enjoyed the chase. He rarely permitted himself to unleash his feral side, but when he did, the bloodlust to hunt and subdue his prey was intoxicating.

  Sheltered by the marble pillars forming the portico, Evi finally caught a whiff of the thief’s scent. It seemed familiar. His heightened senses separated the hints of vampire and werewolf blood mingled with the overwhelming earthy perfume that all hereditary witches perspired. Her ability to hurl energy balls had been the obvious clue that she was a witch, a fact that infuriated him. As a member of the underworld, she, of all people, should have realized how foolish it would be to attempt to burglarize his house.

  A mortal’s stupidity was excusable, but as a sister of their close-knit society, hers was unforgivable.

  As they approached the front entrance, the gilded front doors opened wide. Evi hauled her body across the threshold, releasing her momentarily to toss his head in the direction of the butler, who nodded understandingly and locked the doors behind them. Once more gripping the woman’s vest, he pulled her up the black granite staircase. Her tactical boots knocked on each step, but her head was protected from further injury by the angle of his jaw.

  At the second-floor landing he turned left, dragging her to the office attached to his master suite. Evi dropped her body onto the gold and cream carpet in front of the roaring fireplace before padding away a few feet to transform back into his human form. He’d long ago mastered the act of morphing from human to tiger, and although he still experienced a twinge of discomfort along his spine and jaw, it was nothing compared to the excruciating agony he had endured as a teenage boy trying to improve his technique.

  Completely naked and glistening with sweat, he pulled the blade free from behind the woman’s vest and stalked to his desk. Flicking on a lamp, he placed the blade on the desk and yanked open a drawer to retrieve his father’s old set of handcuffs and an ampoule of ammonia inhalant from a small stash of interrogation supplies.

  From the corner, he grabbed a simple wooden chair without armrests and plunked it down next to the unconscious woman. Rather gruffly, he hefted her from the floor and plopped her onto the seat. Holding her head with his elbow, he unzipped the vest and threw it aside. The moment he removed his elbow, her body slumped forward, her masked chin bouncing between her delicately outlined breasts.

  Smiling mischievously, Evi considered what he would do with her now that she was his. It was a terrible hunger that the tiger blood within him awakened. He couldn’t help himself. He liked to play with his prey. A little pain, a nip, a bite and then pleasure. So much pleasure.

  An erection stirred between his legs. This was one interrogation that he would enjoy immensely.

  Tearing the gloves from her hands, he wrenched her wrists behind the chair and fastened them close together by feeding the cuffs around one of the chair slats. Tethered to the chair’s back, she wouldn’t be able to move.

  Curious, Evi reached out to touch the strange black fabric of the suit, allowing his lecherous fingers to follow the curve of an ample breast, feeling its full weight through the silky cloth. He lightly pinched the fabric where he judged her nipple was located and smirked when a firm point pressed against the cloth. His fingers rode the flat expanse of her stomach and as they turned down her left thigh, he felt the faint outline of her panties beneath the suit.

  When he removed the gun holster from her left thigh, the sound of ripping Velcro echoed in the room. He studied the gun for a moment. It was a SWAT-grade weapon and disproportionately large for so small a woman.

  With the gun holster dangling from his hand, Evi stepped back and scrutinized his catch. In that position, with a skintight outfit and face mask obscuring her dangling head, her hands bound, her body helpless, she was a provocative vision of fetish art, almost as if she were his personal tableaux vivant.

  He guessed her height to be somewhere in the neighborhood of five and a half feet. Hardly a waif, this one had the well-defined body of a person who depended on agility and endurance to earn a living. He tried to imagine what was hidden beneath the catsuit. Flushed skin, a wet mouth and a nubile body, no doubt. Enticed, he watched her swollen breasts rise and fall beneath the restrictive material.

  Intrigued, Evi snatched the hood from her head, revealing wavy jaw-length blonde hair. He tipped her chin for a better look at her face—and dropped his jaw in shock.

  Despite the haggard look to her olive-toned face, the resemblance to a child he had once known was unmistakable. But it was her scent—the smell of woman and witch and that hint of shifter blood—that confirmed it for him. Her smell had matured and changed slightly, but he would recognize it anywhere.

  His captive was none other than Celia Ladrón, the younger sister of his long-deceased best friend.

  Jesus, what had happened to her? Where was the spunky adolescent who had tortured him and Homer—who were then just floundering college boys—with hours of incessant pestering? Where were the long blond curls and the messy little braids? The brightly colored dresses and the fancy little shoes her mother always insisted she wear? How had Celia ended up here? Stealing from him? Chained to a chair? His prey? His captive?

  Guilt turned his shocked expression grim as he considered how he had largely abandoned the Ladrón family after Homer’s death. Mutual friends had kept him apprised of Celia’s father’s spiral into depression and gambling, his eventual loss of a nine-billion-dollar business empire that had thrived for centu
ries, the subsequent bankruptcy and later, his messy suicide.

  Like any self-absorbed twenty-seven-year-old, he had convinced himself that a relative would step in to care for Celia, only seventeen at the time, and the youngest daughter whose name escaped him. Apparently, he’d been very wrong. It appeared that Celia had resorted to the career that had always been reserved for the male members of the Ladrón family, that of a professional thief.

  Burned by her skin, he yanked his hand away and strode into his bedroom, his path lit by a low fire. As the idea of her waking and finding him nude was suddenly less appealing, he hopped into a pair of jeans. Remembering her as that sweet, curious child, Evi felt almost dirty and ever so guilty for lusting after her.

  But Celia wasn’t that little girl anymore. She was a woman grown now, but still young. Certainly, he’d fucked younger women, but never the little sister of a man he had once considered his brother.

  Even so, his erection refused to disappear. Visions of her bound form, those pink lips and heaving breasts, flashed in his mind. His stomach burned with desire and he adjusted himself in his jeans to minimize chafing. And her smell? God, he could smell her even in here. It was a tantalizing scent, something earthen and delicious that made him want to taste her, to fuck her, to mark her.

  To keep her…

  Shaking his head, he strode back into the office and stared at her unconscious form. Seeing Celia unearthed long-dormant feelings of guilt, but even so, he didn’t experience the tiniest desire to free her from the restraints. A strong sense of betrayal riled him. Whatever his faults, Evi couldn’t fathom how Celia could have rationalized stealing from him—and the Blade of Amrita, no less!

  Incensed by her treachery, Evi crushed the ampoule of ammonia and waved it beneath her nose. “Wake up!”