Mercenaries

Both guards looked uncomfortable, probably not sure how to handle their sweet little Domina in what appeared to be a homicidal rage.

One of them stuttered, “But . . . but, Domina, the Domina Marcelle left orders she is not to be disturbed.”

It was time for a little strategic intervention. Putting on his best expression of diffident concern, Sebastian shouldered between them and Zaria. “Now, mistress,” he began, “these men are only doing their . . .” Spinning, he slammed his fist into the first guard’s jaw. The man went down like a sack of meal, knocked cold by nanotech-enhanced strength.

Before the second could bring his weapon into play, Sebastian grabbed his sword hand and twisted. Something snapped wetly, and the guard howled in astonished agony. The cry cut off as another hard punch put him down on top of his partner.

He turned to see Zaria staring at him with startled respect. “Well,” she said finally, “I don’t suppose you did need a weapon.”

Before he could reply, a male voice screamed beyond the double doors, the sound raw with suffering.

ZARIA spun and jerked at the double doors, but they didn’t budge. “She’s got them bolted,” she said, wincing as another savage swish and crack sliced the air.

“Let me worry about that.” Sebastian lifted one muscled leg. She opened her mouth to warn him about the door’s steel-reinforced core and frame; there was no way he could kick it open.

Then his bare foot hit the portal with a thunderous boom. Wood splintered, steel hinges and bolts shrieked, and the door toppled in with a crash. She heard Marcelle’s started yelp.

Reminded of her fury, Zaria ducked around Sebastian and plunged inside to find Marcelle gaping at her, a bloody whip hanging forgotten in one hand.

Arnoux was chained to one of the room’s marble pillars. Her stomach twisted at the condition of his back. If anything, he was in even worse shape than the Thrall she’d rescued a couple of days before. They had to get him to the Outworlders or he wouldn’t live out the night.

“What are you doing here, Zaria?” Marcelle demanded, lifting the whip threateningly. If she’d noticed her sister was armed, it didn’t seem to worry her.

Zaria fell into guard, sword held at a threatening angle. “Give me the key to those shackles, Marcelle.”

The Domina gaped at her demand. “I will not!” she spat. “I told Mother I would break Arnoux to the collar, and I won’t stop until I have.”

“Think, you vicious little fool,” Zaria snapped, out of patience with her family’s blind indifference to reality. “If you kill him, his father will raze this palace to the ground and murder every last one of us!”

Marcelle’s eyes flickered, but she quickly recovered enough to sneer. “When I’ve broken him to the collar, he’ll say he enjoyed it.”

“No!” Arnoux’s voice was weak with pain and blood loss, but there was hate in the look he cast them over one bloody shoulder. “I will never yield to you, bitch. Never. Never. Never!” The last word was a hoarse bellow.

“All right, I’ve had enough of this.” Sebastian stalked over to the other man, wrapped a big hand in one of the shackles, and jerked. Its chain snapped with a musical clink. Arnoux’s eyes widened.

“What?” The word was a shriek as Marcelle whirled toward the two men. “You dare!” She lifted the cat to strike.

Zaria lunged to grab the lash, jerking the whip from her sister’s hand. “You will not touch him!”

Marcelle spun, her face twisted with the wild rage Zaria had always found so terrifying. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that!”

“I don’t think so.” She brought up her sword, the point inches from her sister’s chest.

That got the little bitch’s attention. “What do you think you’re doing?” The Domina backpedaled, her gaze flicking down to the menacing blade.

Before Zaria could reply, Marcelle whirled and lunged, sweeping up her own scabbarded sword, left lying in a chair. Jerking the weapon out of the scabbard, she threw the sheath aside and fell into guard. “I repeat,” she hissed, “you’re going to pay.”

A prick of fear pierced Zaria’s righteous rage. Her sister was taller and heavier than she was, with a longer reach and a stronger build.

Her gaze flicked to Sebastian. He’d freed Arnoux of his chains, and now he supported the smaller man with an arm around his chest to spare his bloody back. He looked from Zaria to Marcelle, and his mouth tightened as he started to lower the Domince to the floor. He intended to intervene.

BEFORE Sebastian could step in to put Bitch Sister down for the count, a male voice bellowed from down the hall. “Ten Hells, what’s this? Guards! The Domina has been attacked!” Running footsteps sounded, pounding in their direction.

“Shit!” The men he’d knocked cold had been discovered. Urgently he looked at Ferrau’s haggard face as he let the man’s feet take his weight. “Can you stand?”

The man’s dazed, swollen eyes met his. “I can . . . run to . . . get out of here!”

Sebastian doubted it. Judging by the Domince’s pallor, he wasn’t even sure how much longer Ferrau could remain on his feet.

But before he could say anything more, two guards plunged through the door. Releasing Ferrau, Sebastian whirled to intercept them. In one nanotech-enhanced move, he slammed his fist into the first’s jaw and grabbed the sword out of his hand as he toppled.

Metal flashed toward his head. He brought his own blade up and around barely in time to block the vicious sword stroke. Bat-ting his opponent’s weapon aside with sheer muscle, he drove an elbow into the guard’s head.

Unfortunately, three more guards thundered in, with more on the way as shouts of warning went up.

It was a damned good thing the doorway formed a natural bottleneck. Sebastian went to work defending it with a combination of nanotech-enhanced sword work and gutter fighting. Blades thrust at him, only to be knocked away as he ran their owners through. But for every guard he put down, another appeared.

At the same time he was intensely aware of Zaria’s furious battle with her sister. His sensors told him that though she was fighting hard, she was tiring as Marcelle’s greater strength and longer reach began to tell. It was past time to call for reinforcements.

“FOOL!” Marcelle hissed as they circled one another, looking for an opening. “You’ve finally given me the excuse I’ve needed to kill you! Not even Mother will question it, when she sees you fell in an act of treason!”

“The treason,” Zaria gasped, “is plunging . . . our people into war!”

“A war we’ll win!” Marcelle brought her sword down in a two-handed blow intended to cleave her head in two.

Desperately Zaria brought up her weapon. She felt the jarring impact all the way to her shoulders, and her sweating hands slipped on the sword hilt. Somehow she held on to it and forced the blade away.

Unfortunately, she knew too well her strength was failing. Sooner or later Marcelle would overpower her and take her down. And then the bitch would cut her to pieces like the sadist she was.

Over her sister’s shoulder, Zaria spotted a flash of motion: Sebastian, his big body dripping with sweat and blood, golden hair flying as he fought savagely to keep the guards from the room. Another glance found Arnoux, lying in a heap on the floor. His eyes met hers before they slid closed. Silently she prayed to all Ten Gods to spare him.

“Surrender, Zaria. I’ll make it quick!” Marcelle panted. Her mouth curled into an ugly smirk. “Besides, you know you want to. You’ve always had a taste for submission!”

Staring into that smug gaze, Zaria realized her sister had no doubt at all she’d win. She really did think it was Zaria’s nature to surrender.

At that realization, welcome fury surged into her blood, hot and strengthening. “Not to you, bitch!” She brought her sword up and around in a savage swing.

Her sister blocked it, but she felt the satisfying ring of the blow all the way to her bones. For an instant she saw surprise in Marcelle’s eyes.

And then Zaria went after her with everything she had. She pounded her sword against Marcelle’s in a frenzy of rage as years of remembered torment boiled up from her soul. All the times her sister had belittled, shamed, insulted, and beaten her. The times her mother had turned a blind eye. The day the Dominess and Marcelle had driven her brother Brys away.

Most of all, she remembered all the good men Marcelle had flogged half to death out of her lust for the suffering of others.

Dimly she realized her sister was in full retreat, barely parrying the blows Zaria rained on her in her fury.

Then Marcelle took one more step—and her foot slipped in a pool of blood on the floor where she’d beaten Ferrau so mercilessly. With a cry of shocked fear, she fell to one knee.

Zaria pounced, sweeping her sword down and around to hook her sister’s blade with her own. She jerked upward. The weapon flew from Marcelle’s hand and hit the opposite wall with a clatter that rang loud even over the howls of the men fighting in the doorway.

A savage grin stretched Zaria’s mouth as she brought her blade around again to hover over her sister’s bare head. “Now . . .” she breathed as hot victory stormed through her blood.

Marcelle stared up at her with terror in her eyes. “No! Sister, you can’t!”

“Oh, don’t you dare beg, when we both know you’d have killed me without a second thought!” She set her feet apart in preparation for the blow.

“Zaria, don’t! Mercy!” Marcelle threw her hands up, cringing back. “I beg quarter!”

For one searing moment their eyes met. Temptation and blood lust sang in Zaria’s heart. It would be so easy. . . .

Zaria reversed her swing to slam the hilt into her sister’s head with both hands. Marcelle slumped into unconsciousness.

Panting as sweat streamed down face, Zaria eyed her slumped form with satisfaction. “On second thought I’ve decided I want you to live. A long, long time.” She wiped the sweat from her face and spat at her sister’s feet. “And every day that goes by, I hope you remember what it was like to beg me for your life.”

Startled faces turned toward her. The fighting paused. Taking advantage of the opening, Zaria shouldered in front of Sebastian, raising her blade with a roar. “I gave you an order! Stand down!”

Searle, at the head of the pack, lowered his blade. Blood dripped from a cut down one cheek. “It’s the Domina!”

A confused mutter rose as the guards quickly dropped their weapons and stepped back, frowning at the cuts that scored her body in a half-dozen places. “Domina, are you hurt?” Searle asked, concerned.

“I’m fine.” They had to move fast before the Dominess arrived to countermand her orders. Over her shoulder Zaria snapped, “Sebastian, get Ferrau.”

He nodded, went to the Domince, and hauled him across his shoulder. Ferrau’s head hung limp.

“Ten Gods,” Zaria muttered, wincing at the sight of his savaged back, “let him live!”