Assassin's Honor (2010) Read online

  "Provided his parents can catch a morning flight, the ritual will take place tomorrow night." His Primus Pilus cleared his throat softly. "I thought you might like to choose the orator."

  "I'll do it." Her voice devoid of emotion, Phae's quiet words made Lysander jerk his head in her direction.

  The two fighters stared at each other for a long moment before his second-in-command sent her an abrupt nod and looked away. Surprised by the silent exchange, he narrowed his eyes at the two. They'd never gotten along well, but some unspoken agreement had passed between his sister and the other Sicari just now.

  A truce perhaps? Probably just until Julian's body joined his spirit. He frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. He'd let his sister and Lysander sort out the details of the Rogalis. What he needed was sleep. Wearily getting to his feet, he waved off Doc's offering of white pills. He'd sleep well enough without the pain medication. At the kitchen doorway, he stopped at the stainless steel trashcan tucked against the Ground Zero refrigerator.

  He wadded up the torn and bloodied turtleneck sweater he'd been wearing and dropped it into the container.

  "Lysander, send someone to collect Emma's clothes. I want them here bright and early." He looked back at the three of them. "I'm going to bed. I suggest the rest of you do the same. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

  Moving out into the living room, he ignored the low buzz of conversation that started the moment he left the kitchen. Let them talk. He'd done the right thing. It hadn't been possible to save Julian's life tonight, but he'd saved Emma. The comment about her father knowing about the Tyet of Isis was enough to tell him that she was a crucial part of the puzzle he'd been piecing together for the last two years. Even if she didn't have any idea where to find the artifact, she knew something.

  Although the evidence seemed to point toward Emma's parents being involved with the Praetorians, his instincts said it wasn't true. He'd read their file dozens of times, and the evidence was sketchy at best. Somehow, the idea of David and Katherine Zale working for the Praetorians just didn't make sense. Ewan Redmurre struck him as someone who would look the other way for the right price, but not the Zales. They hadn't been the type of scholars to ignore questions of any kind, and the Praetorians made it difficult not to ask questions. Then there was David Zale's reputation in academia.

  His theory that the Sicari Order still existed in modern-day society had earned him ridicule from his colleagues, and it quite possibly had been one of the reasons for the man's murder. By all accounts, even his tenure had been difficult to achieve. Only his unusual archeological contributions to the university had enabled him to cement his position.

  Contributions that, in all likelihood, the man had achieved with the help of his daughter. Then there was the murder of the man and his wife. If the Praetorians had killed the couple, then they'd worked hard to make it look like someone else had done the deed. The manner of their death had been quick and clean, and Charles Russwin's death had been just the same.

  The Praetorians liked to stretch out their killings. Julian's death was a prime example. And that mark. Caesar and Octavia had been unable to find any symbol like it in the database. The closest thing they'd found to the mark was the Chi-Rho, a sign used during the persecution of Christians under the Caesars. He had nothing else to go on except his instincts, and his gut told him Emma had been an innocent bystander until he blundered into her office.

  His jaw clenched as he rolled his head to the left in an effort to ease the tension careening through his shoulders. The move tugged at the stitches in his injured shoulder. He winced. Passing the foyer, he walked down the hall. When he reached Emma's door, he came to a halt.

  He should check in on her--reassure her. A mocking laugh sounded in the back of his head. It was easy to ignore the taunting sound. He knocked quietly. When she didn't answer, he knocked again. Still no response. A sliver of concern made him waver. If she'd slipped out of the apartment, he'd have to find her. He turned the knob, half hoping to find the door locked. It opened with a muted click of the latch.

  The empty bed caught his attention first and he stiffened, ready to sound the alarm. A second later, the sound of the shower made him relax, but only for a brief moment. Almost instantly, his tension returned as he visualized Emma standing naked under a stream of water. The image twisted his gut with sharp desire. Christus, he needed to get the hell out of here before he did something really stupid. She hadn't tried to leave, and he could reassure her in the morning.

  As he turned back toward the door, his gaze fell on several crumpled pieces of paper lying on the table near the window. Curiosity got the best of him, and the cream carpet deadened his footsteps as he strode to the table. Several pieces contained blurred writing from where the rain had made the ink run on the page.

  Hands braced against the tabletop, he studied the hieroglyphics on the one piece of paper that had survived with minimal damage. Puzzled, he shook his head. The markings didn't make any sense. One glyph described the moon, and in the next word the text moved on to a field in need of sowing. There wasn't any rhyme or reason to the writing. Pulling one of the damaged pages closer, he frowned as he tried to make out the words streaked with rivulets of ink. A moment later, he grew rigid when he was able to make out the remainder of a single word. Tyet.

  "What are you doing in here?" Emma's sharp tone made him jerk upright.

  Framed in the bathroom doorway, she wore one of the bulky white robes they always kept on hand for impromptu guests. He'd never realized how tempting they could make a woman look. And she looked delicious, if the belt around her waist suddenly--Damnation. He quickly suppressed the dangerous urge to reach out and touch her by any means.

  "I knocked." He nodded toward the door with an abrupt jerk of his head. "When you didn't answer, I thought you might be in trouble."

  "In trouble?" she scoffed, arching her eyebrows at him. "Don't you mean you thought I'd flown the coop?"

  "The thought crossed my mind." He rested his hands on his hips and shrugged.

  Tension vibrated off her. He could see it in the way she held herself stiff and straight. It wouldn't take much to startle her. Kittens weren't even this skittish. She jerked her head in the direction of his chest.

  "I'm sorry you got hurt." Her gaze focused on his chest only to drift downward before sweeping back up to his face. It was like a hot wind blowing across his skin. Color flushed high in her cheeks as their eyes met. Once more, the urge to touch her slid through him, but he crushed the desire before he could act on it

  "Tell me where the Tyet of Isis is."

  "I've already told you I don't know. I thought it was just a symbol and nothing more."

  "You said your father knew about it, and these notes tell me you're lying." He swept his hand across the table before picking up one sheet. "Especially when the reference to Tyet on this one page is written in a feminine hand."

  "I'm not lying to you. I was just as surprised to see it as you," she snapped. Trained to read body language, he studied her for a moment. Although her stance reflected anger, it did not indicate guilt.

  "This other note." He gestured toward the note covered with hieroglyphics. "It's some type of code. Where did you get it?"

  She heaved a sigh as if realizing he wasn't about to leave without an explanation. "It's a cipher my father devised. I found it this evening in my father's desk."

  "Do you know what it says?"

  "No . . . I . . . there wasn't time." Her gaze slid away from his the moment she answered.

  She didn't verbalize the terror she'd experienced tonight, but the way her arms hugged her waist told him she was remembering her narrow escape from the rogue warrior. He'd hit a raw nerve and the forlorn air about her tugged at his senses. For the second time tonight, he wanted to let her cry on his shoulder. His jaw grew tight at the thought.

  "You were in the middle of translating the cipher when he broke into the house," he bit out more harshly than he'd
intended.

  She paled slightly and nodded her head. Although she tried to shield her fear, he saw it shadow her features for a brief instant. Had the rogue Sicari known about the cipher or had he gone after her for a different reason?

  It was no secret Emma's father was the number one expert on the history of the Sicari Order. As his daughter, she would have been privy to her father's knowledge. So why wait five years to come after her--but the rogue warrior hadn't come after her first. He'd only tried to kill her after Russwin was dead. The bastard hadn't known she was in the tomb with her friend. Once he'd realized his mistake, the rogue warrior had tried to finish what he'd failed to do the first time.

  If there had been Sicari Order artifacts in the ancient Pharaoh's burial chamber, they'd been removed. The Order had sent in two of its own experts to determine if Russwin had found something, but they'd come up empty-handed. If the man had made a discovery, it was gone. The only tangible evidence was the symbol Emma had discovered in one of the antechambers. It was the primary reason why the Order thought Emma had found the Tyet of Isis.

  While he was certain Emma didn't have the artifact, she did have a clue to its whereabouts. And he wasn't letting her go anywhere until she deciphered her father's message. The sooner, the better. He wanted to know what they were dealing with. Then there were the Sicari artifacts in the archives. Octavia had come up empty-handed researching the relics, but maybe Emma's ability would give them more information. He wasn't wild about the idea. Every piece of information he gave her served to endanger her life more. But his researchers were ending up in blind alleys, and he couldn't deny that they could use her help.

  "If you're trying to intimidate me with your silence, it won't work." Her voice sliced through his thoughts with that feisty edge he was quickly growing accustomed to. He focused his attention on her, and experienced an unwelcome rush of relief that her color had returned.

  "I don't think you're easily intimidated," he said with slight twist of his lips.

  "You owe me some answers." The abrupt switch of topic put him on guard as he met her accusatory look. He dipped his head in a sharp nod.

  "All right. Ask your questions."

  "One, what's the Tyet of Isis? Two, what's with the swords? Three, who was the son of a bitch trying to kill me and why?"

  "You're not going to like my answers." He blew out a breath of air. He needed to gain her trust, and this sure as hell wasn't the way to go about it.

  "Try me." Her belligerent response made the muscle in his cheek twitch.

  "The only thing we know about the Tyet of Isis is that it dates back to the time of Alexander the Great. Our sources thought you'd found it at Ptolemy's tomb, which is why I was at your house this evening."

  "Your sources got it wrong."

  "Not exactly. You did find the coin, or at least the one Russwin found." He frowned. He'd really like to know where the professor had found the Sicari Lord coin.

  "Okay, I'll accept that for the moment." She narrowed her eyes at him. "What about the swords?"

  He ran his hand across the top of his head and downward to cup the back of his neck. With a frown he shook his head. "There's not an easy answer for that one."

  "Try this one. Why not use a gun?"

  She folded her arms across her chest. The action parted her robe slightly, giving him a glimpse of the soft valley between her breasts. His cock stirred in his leather pants. He quickly curbed the lust pushing its way through his lower body to focus on her question.

  "Tradition, for the most part." He shrugged. "But a sword requires a lot more skill and strength compared to a firearm. A sword is also a lot less noisy."

  "Right--like steel clanging against steel won't bring out the crowds." Her sarcasm made him laugh softly.

  "True, but still not as quickly as a gun going off." He sent her a mischievous smile. "Besides, I've been told that women find men who carry swords quite romantic."

  "Aren't you funny." She sneered. "And what happens when you come up against some asshole who pulls a gun on you?"

  Her sarcastic question set him on edge as he remembered the target he'd killed almost a year ago. The man had managed to get off one shot before dying. It wasn't a pleasant memory because he'd almost gotten Phae killed.

  "It means I got sloppy," he said coldly. She flinched and regret stirred inside him. "I meant what I said, Emma. You're safe here. No one will hurt you, including me."

  He watched her swallow hard as she looked away from him. "And the man who tried to kill me?"

  "I don't know who he is." He grimaced as she shot him a look of disbelief. "I wish I did, Emma. At least I'd know what we're up against."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It's complicated." He inhaled a deep breath then blew it out in frustration.

  "Complicated?" She snagged one hand in her damp hair. "Remember I said you had a knack for understatements? We're way beyond that now."

  The note of hysteria in her voice made him take a step forward, but she raised her hands in a gesture that said not to touch her. Damnation, she was dancing on a wire and he didn't know how to keep her from falling.

  "I know you're scared, Emma." He did his best to keep his voice low and soothing. "And I know there's a lot you're trying to take in at the moment, but you've got to trust me."

  "Why?" Her gaze met his and her bleak expression made his heart ache. He didn't like the sensation.

  "Because I know what it's like to lose someone you love. I know how helpless it makes you feel," he rasped as a chill swept over him. "My parents were murdered when I was twelve. I watched my mother die knowing there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it."

  The memory slid a cold knife through him. He'd known from the moment his mother had shoved him and Phae into the Priest's Closet it would be the last time he'd see her alive. The way she'd ordered him to look after his sister, the gentle way she'd touched his cheek and kissed Phae had been her way of saying goodbye. Then she'd sealed them in the secret room.

  Moments later the Praetorians stormed the house. He never saw his father fall, but it was the only explanation for the Praetorian that burst into his parents' bedroom. Through a small eyehole he'd seen his mother endure blow after blow from the enemy's blade.

  Her screams had terrified Phae, and he'd been forced to clamp his hand over his sister's mouth to trap her cries of fear. All the while he'd watched the Praetorian slice away at his mother until her head rolled off her shoulders. Ice sluiced through him as the memories took him back to a place he seldom dared to enter. The warmth of a light touch jerked him out of the past.

  "I'm sorry." Emma's face was gentle with understanding, and he swallowed the knot of pain in his throat.

  "It was a long time ago," he said brusquely as he shook off her hand. "My point was to make you understand you can trust me."

  "Point taken," she responded in a soft voice.

  He offered her a sharp bob of his head and turned back to the table. The moment he reached for the cipher, she was at his side. In a quick movement, she pulled the note out of his hand.

  "My father left it for me to translate. No one else."

  Instinct made his hand catch her wrist and hold her in place. Tangible and electric, her silky skin singed his fingers. A freight train slamming into him couldn't have shocked him more. Frozen and unable to move, his gaze drifted downward to where her robe gaped open and revealed the side of one round, firm breast. His mouth went dry.

  Merda. He needed to get out of here before he did something he'd regret. But he didn't move. Instead, he breathed in the essence of her. The soft scent of vanilla filled his senses as he imagined his fingers stroking her. A second later he heard her draw in a quick breath in a soft hiss. The sound didn't signal her protest. His eyes met hers, and the moment the tip of her tongue flicked out to wet her lips, he knew he was lost. He tried to swallow, but couldn't. He couldn't do anything except picture her robe opening so he could see more of her.

 
Her gasp was more of a sigh as the white terry cloth garment parted of its own accord and exposed her fully. The curves he'd touched earlier hadn't lied to him. She was ripe and lush. He knew he'd regret this in the end, but at the moment all he wanted to do was touch her, and not just with his mind. With a quick tug, he pulled her into his arms and captured her mouth in a hard kiss.

  Tart. She tasted fresh and crisp. The flavor of her slid across his tongue as he probed the inner warmth of her mouth. Like the last time, she didn't pull away. Instead, her arms slid around his waist so her hands could explore his back. Nails scraped lightly over his skin as the heat of her pressed into him. He was rock hard in a split second.

  Mater Dei, he needed to regain control. Let her go.

  His brain knew what to do, but his body ignored the commands.

  Beneath his thumbs, her nipples budded into stiff peaks when he gently brushed across the tips. The caress made her breathe a sigh of pleasure into his mouth, and she thrust her hips forward until she was nestled intimately against his hard erection. He growled at the pleasurable pressure. Hot and silky, her mouth melded with his in a heated dance of enticing need.