Had competing in the Hie been a shaking her raised fist, I'll show you attempt at redemption? Well... yes.
Now she was paying for it. The incubi could never free her - not when they themselves were prisoners for eternity. If her coven hadn't scryed her by now, they never would. The jungles around the tomb were teeming with humans, guerilla armies, but they fought and shot all around the temple without ever attempting to enter. How ironic. They had no idea what battle erupted inside each night.
And Mari knew the werewolf would never return. How could she have desired someone so cruel that he would leave them all to wither away here? Some in the Lore whispered that, at heart, the Lykae were nothing more than ravening beasts from nightmares.
Bowen MacRieve must be. Why else wouldn't he come? Or at least send someone?
Perhaps he was already dead from her spell. If he somehow still lived by the time she got out of this, she was going to kill him. She didn't know how she'd do it, just that it would be slow.
When the incubi began to rise all around her, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to lose herself in dreams of making the Lykae pay.
Bowe sat propped against the scalding wall of the cavern, cradling his arm. Though barely able to remain upright, he was determined not to give in to the temptation to lie down.
Through the haze of agonizing heat, he stared at the Fyre Dragán slithering back and forth through the lava, waiting for him.
When sweat dripped into Bowe's remaining eye, he moved to wipe it away, but his hand was gone. He knew it was, endured the pain constantly, and still he tried to use it.
The beast that lived inside him desperately wanted to live, but as for Bowe himself, he could take a bloody hint. For over two weeks, he'd been trapped, unable to discover a way out or a way across the pit. He'd never anticipated that this cavern would end without another exit.
If he couldn't escape, as an immortal he could waste away here, never dying, becoming a shadow of himself. And Bowe knew no one was coming for him. Not even resourceful Lachlain, his cousin and king, could find this place. The coordinates here were known only in esoteric corners of the Lore - or by the vampire, and Sebastian Wroth would probably relish knowing Bowe suffered.
His body was wracked, his will gone. He should step down into the fire. Struggling to live on under these circumstances seemed even more cowardly than ending it.
Hell, for nearly two centuries, his clan had been expecting him to step down in some way.
I'd wanted oblivion. This would be the way to get it.
But he'd vowed revenge against that vampire. And he longed to make the witch pay for his unbearable defeat. As far as he was concerned, she'd ensured he lost the competition. The Valkyrie and vampire had only capitalized on weaknesses Mariketa had provided.
Bowe suspected she and the other five had long since escaped the tomb; now he was the one trapped. He consoled himself by recalling the nasty surprise they'd been in for. Before he'd left he'd destroyed not only their vehicles but their CBs and sat-phones as well.
Yet stranding the witch in the jungle wasn't nearly enough retribution for what she'd done. He'd failed. Because of her.
He felt like he'd lost Mariah all over again. He'd allowed himself to have a glimmer of hope, to envision his mate back by his side. And he'd been smug about winning.
Until Mariketa had cast her spells over him...
The bloody witch invaded his thoughts. He would try to remember Mariah and instead would see glimpses of stormy gray eyes and red lips. He hated the witch for that, hated that he couldn't picture his mate's face. When he slept, he dreamed only of Mariketa.
Bowe had been untrue to his mate in thought - and deed.
The fire serpent roared, as if impatient for Bowe to make up his mind. After several attempts, Bowe managed to rise, swaying at the precipice of the pit.
End it now. It was cowardly to live on.
He felt an unexpected flare of guilt. Mariketa lives still...
Why in the hell would he be concerned about his enemy?
Recognition hammered home. When he'd been gazing into her eyes, he'd known she was enthralling him. But he hadn't known how deeply she'd done it or how permanently.
He wasn't suffering the effects of only one spell.
Bowe worried for her as if she was his mate. He dreamed of her as if she was. He thought of her as his - because she'd forced him to with one of her disgusting hexes.
Perhaps that bloody witch should learn to be careful what she wished for.
He knew his expression was pure evil when he took a step back from the edge.
7
The lack of sunlight and real food had begun to take its toll. Mari was getting sicker, was even now beset with fever.
Rydstrom and the others continued to encourage her to jump. Maybe if the five were asking her to swim across a crocodile-infested river or walk a low tightrope over a bed of swords, she could make herself do it, but not heights.
Ignoring them was becoming easier as each day she grew more delirious. Sometimes she would find herself smiling or crying blindly in the dark as she thought of her friends or her home.
In a feverish haze, she pictured Andoain, her coven's estate just outside of New Orleans. She'd never thought she'd miss the creepy place so badly, but now she'd give anything to go back.
To most, Andoain looked like a millionaire's stately fortress, adorned with colorful landscaping that attracted butterflies. The wrought-iron fencing surrounding the entire property was painted glossy black, perfectly matching the shutters. Apple trees - either laden with fruit or dotted with blossoms - grew in profusion.
Without the estate's glamour, however, the structure was a decrepit old manor complete with snakes coiling along the rotting railings. The apple trees remained, but for every one butterfly in the glamour, multiple spiders and frogs lived in bliss. Reed-filled puddles dotted the property, bubbling up odorous fumes.