Taken (Many Lives Book 2) Page 2

  Jai’s footsteps pound the ground, mud and dirt splashing in his wake. Then he’s upon the first of the wolves, which howls and leaps at him.

  Gripping his sword with both hands he jumps at it and slams the blade right into its heart. Blood fountains out, bathing him in crimson. But already Jai’s yanked out the blade and dived to the side to avoid the falling body.

  Following Jai’s example, Gilbert too pulls out his sword, thrusting it at the animal that’s come at them from the side.

  But the shifter is too fast, shadow-swift, almost one with the darkness. Off the mark, Gilbert thrusts-misses again, swears.

  When the animal leaps, Jai sees his chance. In a final act of desperation, grips the sword with both hands, putting everything he has into pushing the blade up. The sword cuts through the breeze with a screeching sound before finding its target. The shifter crashes to the ground.

  Jai doesn't pause. Intent only on felling the next one, he leaps, slashing out with his sword. Right-left-right again, opening the belly of the next. Guttural cries in his wake as he slides low, low below the falling carcass. Kicking the legs out of the next shifter, he screams as he plunges the blade into the next. Heaving the sword out, he jumps, thrusts and bends low, slamming the blade in. And then he’s through to the other side of the pack.

  Behind him, Gilbert puts out a hand, motioning the others who have reached him to stop.

  Silence.

  Chest heaving, blood dripping from the sword, Jai snaps his eyes on the last remaining shifter.

  This one is smaller than the others. Silence clings to it like armor. It’s waiting, not moving and he braces himself, echoing its stillness. It takes a step forward and he still doesn’t look away.

  Another step forward and his neck muscles tense.

  A trickle of sweat runs down his forehead and into his eyes, stinging them, but he doesn’t blink.

  The shifter stops right in front of him.

  Its golden eyes stare unblinking, as if it can see right through to his soul. A breeze blows in from the sea, rippling its fur, bringing with it a whiff of sea-salt and a curious musty smell like that of the first rains mixed with the smell of heavy vegetation.

  It leans close, so close. Its warm breath rushes over his neck, and his hair stands on end. Don’t. Move. A. Muscle. Don’t. Don’t. Jai freezes and it prances around him, so near its hair brushes Jai’s trousers. Stopping in front of him, it stares into his eyes, its warm brown eyes blinking. This one will not attack him.

  Even as he realizes this, he knows he’s too far gone now, the blood of battle is in his veins. Without giving himself time to think, he slices down with his sword, removing its head in a single stroke.

  The shifter's torso stays standing for a second, then topples over. Jai moves aside as it crashes to the ground, its severed head coming to rest at his feet.

  Footsteps behind him, and then Gilbert’s standing next to him, his hand still gripping the empty gun. The breath he’s been holding wheezes out, and his knees threaten to buckle from under him.

  "We did it!" Gilbert throws his free arm around his friend, circling his neck in that half-awkward way of boys who’ve grown up together.

  The blood and guts on their clothes mingle and stick, making a sucking noise when Jai pulls away. Turning, he slips the bloodied sword back into its scabbard.

  He should be elated at their victory, but all that’s left is a deep sadness. It drags him down, threatening to engulf him in its greasy embrace.

  Will it always be like this? This darkness that follows the high of battle, the adrenaline wearing off to reveal the despair just below. And through it all the face of the girl.

  He may well be dead if not for her.

  He walks past the fallen corpses, past his team who are picking themselves up, up the road and towards his vehicle when a child darts out from behind one of the structures.

  Skidding to a stop in front of him, the little girl asks, "So did you kill them?"

  Jai hesitates. Then, a half-smile on his lips, he drops down to eye level with her, "Yes. You’re safe now," he says.

  Just then a woman runs to her and picks her up. She twists her lips, her eyes darting away, refusing to meet his.

  She's afraid of him.

  The woman drags the girl away from him, back towards the shadows. "It’s not safe to speak to men like him, they’re out to kill us," she scolds her daughter.

  Anger spurts through him at her words but he swallows his response. She’s right. He is a killer.

  He’s doing what it takes to protect his city and his people. And keep his promise to his dying mother.

  Springing to his feet, he heads back to his vehicle.

  As Jai drives off, the weight of a hundred eyes tear into him. Their silent voices scream; asking him to take them back into the city. To safety.

  Screeching to a halt in front of his bungalow on Bandra Hill, he walks into the house and straight to his bedroom, pausing to drop his mobile on the table. In this post-tsunami world, mobiles are restricted to a chosen few – Heads of State, those providing essential services, and Guardians like him.

  The depletion of rare metals needed in everything, from electronics to communication, is one of the most serious shortages facing the world. So Jai’s aware that it’s a privilege to have a mobile phone.

  Yet, he’s never been comfortable with these trappings of power. For they mark him, as different. All his life he’s tried to fit in, to belong. But it’s only after he joined the army and became a Guardian that he found his space.

  Jai hates his job for what it demands of him. And yet, it’s because he’s forced to push himself all the time, mentally, physically, emotionally – it’s precisely this which has brought some meaning to his life.

  But he’s not thinking of all this as he slams the sword on the table near the door with such force it almost bounces off. He swears aloud. He’s got to be more careful with this weapon too. Hell, if the stories are right it once belonged to Queen Catherine of Braganza, in whose dowry the seven islands of Bombay were given to Charles II.

  And yeah, so he is a direct, if illegitimate, descendent of the Queen, which means the blood running through him is the key for triggering the power of the sword.

  Right now he doesn’t care about that either.

  Swearing to himself, he strips off his bloody clothes, kicking them into a corner before heading straight to the shower.

  "Jets on, full, hot."

  He steps into the middle of the eight water streams so the water beats at his shoulders. It flows over his chest, running red as it washes away the blood. Just like the tsunami had cleaned the city of all its dirt and pollution, paving the way for the world they live in today. Many think this a better world. Yet, the survivors haven’t forgiven his mother for unleashing the killer wave on them, for the lives lost that day. So she had made him promise that he’d stay and protect the city and its survivors. To make up for her one impulsive mistake which had changed the city’s future. The world’s future. That’s him all right. Duty bound, honor driven.

  That’s a good thing, right? Right? The shower turns off and he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Walking past his bed, he stands by the open window, letting the sea-breeze dry off the remaining water drops on his chest.

  Nothing can beat the feel of the sea air on freshly showered skin. Just then, a movement he spots from the corner of his eyes makes him turn. He has a fleeting impression of indigo eyes before he sees the gun pointed at him.

  4

  It’s her. The girl who’d killed the shifter. She’s standing by the bed in her muddy, blood-splattered clothes. Her sword, still in its scabbard, balances against the nearby chair, hilt up, ready to be drawn. And she’s pointing his gun straight at him.

  Jai’s training kicks in and his body tenses, ready to spring. Grunting a little, he forces himself to relax. The towel around his waist threatens to slip, and he lowers his hand to firm up the knot.

  Her e
yes dart down to his waist before sliding back up. Up his waist. His chest. His neck. Snaking along his skin as if she’s branded him, before locking her eyes with his. As if she doesn’t dare look anywhere else. As if she can’t help it, as if she wants to look right back to the evidence of his arousal. Where it’s clear that her presence is affecting him as much he’s affecting her. To his satisfaction her cheeks flush.

  But her voice is calm when she speaks.

  "Nothing I haven’t already seen," she says, a clipped British accent giving away her origins.

  Nevertheless, she jerks her head to his wardrobe door.

  He walks towards it, pulling out a pair of jeans. Then he deliberately drops the towel before slipping into them, and is rewarded by a quick indrawn breath from her. By the time he turns around, buttoning his shirt, her features are schooled into straight lines.

  Her eyes stare at him, wide, unblinking.

  Those same indigo eyes.

  A startling contrast to the dark honey of her skin. It’s as if the sun has burnt right through her, turning a shade of brown, bringing out a golden glow to her skin. She couldn’t have been very light-skinned to begin with. High cheekbones, a firm jaw, slashing features which indicate a mixed-race, perhaps half Asian background.

  The overall mix of features is exotic. And very attractive.

  She’s thin, almost scrawny, and yet he senses the curves below that oversized shirt.

  A gust of breeze blows through the open window, bringing with it the scent of the sea and a smell of vanilla and something earthy, mysterious. Like black coffee on an early morning. It’s her smell. Light yet dark.

  Contrasts.

  She’s all about contrasts.

  He wants to find out more about her. Disregarding the weapon in her hand he asks, "From New Britain…aren’t you?"

  "Yes, genius," she bites out. "Clever of you to figure that out."

  He ignores the sarcasm and asks, "London?"

  She nods, a quick jerk of the head. As if she doesn’t want to think about her home country.

  "How’d you get here?" he asks, then swears inwardly.

  Stupid question. She’s a refugee. She has to be, the way she’s dressed in clothes which are little too large for her, worn down in places.

  And there’s only one way for them to cross to the subcontinent from New Britain.

  "How do you think?" she asks, her voice dripping sarcasm. "I flew in an aircraft."

  A reluctant smile tugs his lips and he half-tilts his head, conceding his mistake.

  Air travel has been extinct for over a decade, ever since oil reserves began to run out and jet fuel became too expensive for airline companies. The use of land vehicles is now restricted for law and order purposes, or for the army.

  When he doesn’t say anything more, the silence drags on.

  She is still pointing the gun at him and she hasn’t moved from her earlier spot. Her eyes are wary and she bounces a little on the balls of her feet as if trying to contain the pent-up energy inside.

  "You need to change out of those clothes," is all he says, his voice mild, conversational.

  "Sure, and I need a bed to sleep in, and a roof over my head and clothes that have seen better days. But we can"t have everything we want, can we? Not unless you are the son of the Mayor of the city," she adds.

  There it is, the resentment at his so-called high status. Jai’s lived with that kind of jealousy all his life, so much so, he doesn’t pay any attention to it. But coming from her, someone not from this city, a refugee, brings home the extreme difference of their situations.

  He, the son of the founder of a city, one soaring in economic prosperity, while she has nothing. Literally, nothing.

  She’s left everything behind to travel for weeks, maybe months by ship and road to make it here. Only to end up in limbo. Here in the Jungle, where the refugees await their turn to be handpicked based on their skill set.

  The only catch is that if they don’t get chosen for a job, they have to leave or volunteer for one of the missions to kill the shifters. No one has come back from one of those alive, so no, that wasn’t an option. You’d have to be stupid or, have a death wish, or be desperate to go on one of those missions.

  The kind of gut-wrenching desperation that’s vibrating off her in waves. That makes her dangerous and unpredictable.

  And sexy.

  Something about the way she stands.

  Legs apart, feet planted on the ground. Gun in hand, she looks down its barrel at him. Her eyes narrow in concentration. Her gaze sweeps down his chest, down his stomach muscles, and lower still, and a tug of desire tightens his groin. It surprises him too. Makes him want to go up to her. Brush his lips against hers. Taste her. Run his hand over the curve of her waist, over the flare of her hips, squeeze it…

  He pushes that thought away and his eyes dart over her shoulder, to where he’s dropped his sword on the living room floor.

  At which she takes a step forward, waving the gun at him.

  "If you were going to shoot me, you’ll have done it already." His voice cuts through her thoughts.

  She starts a little, "You’re right," she says. "I’m not here to kill you but you can understand I feel safer with the gun pointed at you."

  She lowers the gun, still clutching it, but lets her hand fall to her side.

  The breath he’s not aware he’s been holding whistles out. Still he doesn’t relax his muscles nor stop watching her as she runs her free hand through her hair messing up her shoulder-length dark brown locks further.

  Then she begins to pace the room. Towards the window, then back to the end of the bed. Back to where she’d been standing earlier.

  He can sense the coiled tension in her, arms stiff by her side. She finally drops back into the chair, keeping the length of the bed between them. Her right hand brushes against her sword, propped against the chair as if to reassure herself.

  He just stands there, watching her squirm in the too-wide-for-her seat as if she’s stalling for time.

  She looks half-starved, a hunted look in her eyes, one which makes him break the silence, But he resists. Satisfying himself with watching her.

  She’s here for something, but what?

  He resists looking at his sword again. She isn’t going to hurt him, but yeah, he’d have been a lot more reassured if he had some kind of weapon in hand.

  "You like to read?" She looks at the wall opposite the bed covered with books, floor to ceiling.

  After the tsunamis wiped out many of the forests on the planet, physical paperbacks had become too expensive for most of the world.

  But Jai can still afford them.

  Now when he sees it through her eyes, she who’s lost everything…he realizes what an indulgence it must seem.

  "A man without words is like a woman without a secret," It slips out before he can stop myself.

  "Ha! A poet too? Who’d have thought, Jai Iyeroy, dedicated soldier, the only son of the Mayor of the city actually has a heart?" She crows but he barely hears her.

  Only son? He hadn’t always been an only child. If she only knew the cross he’d had to bear for becoming one.

  If she only knew what being cursed to carry the weight of that sword has done to him. To his family, to his long dead mother and his father…his father!

  He must call in his report of the mission too. Though by now Gilbert has doubtless already updated the Mayor about their victory.

  Springing to her feet, the girl begins to pace again. The barely leashed energy bounces off her, reaching out to him. It tugs at him. He wants to go to her, and grab her and fling her on the bed and—

  "Stop!" he says, talking as much to himself as to her.

  She halts at the foot of his bed, the gun still gripped in her right hand. The shirt she’s wearing slips to reveal the curve of her shoulder and his eyes are drawn to the strip of skin showing there again.

  "Sit," he commands, using the same tone that gets errant soldiers in his team to
behave.

  She hesitates, then to his relief drops back in the chair.

  "What do you want? Why are you here?" he asks.

  The silence lengthens and he continues looking at her, taking in her hair now curling in long winding strands that fall to the middle of her back. The pale skin on the back of her palms hints at the creamier flesh below. She holds his gaze for a beat, then finally her eyes slink away towards the gun in her hand, now pointed downwards.

  Away from him.

  "Will you sleep with me?" she asks.

  5

  I should have just fired at him, wounded him when I’d had the chance. That was the plan. Not this. Not propositioning him.

  I swear to myself, I hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. As if I’m offering myself up, whoring myself out to him.

  Which you are.

  Sometimes there’s no mincing words.

  Besides, when your family’s life depends on it, you just have to say it as it is, right?

  Jai looks as taken aback as I feel.

  "Excuse me?" His amber eyes snap at me. In them I see the shifting sands of time, burnt sienna and russet. Like autumn leaves from my hometown. Golden sparks shimmering off a lake. And for a second I can see right through him, to his soul. It’s as if he’s reached out to me and tugged at me and pulled me to him. I get the full effect of that glare and the breath whooshes out of me.

  My hand slips into my pocket and I look for the familiar feel of the coin, but of course it’s not there.

  I swear inwardly.

  His eyebrows shoot up towards that thick hair falling over his forehead. Sculpted high cheekbones, a firm jaw that hints at determination. Strength. It’s more than just physical strength – though there’s plenty of that too – it also hints at an inner resilience. A toughness that says he’ll be there. That he’s not going anywhere. That he’s not one to run away when things gets difficult. No, he likes to face life head-on. Like he’s facing me now. Firm. Legs spread slightly. Powerful thighs clad in trousers that cling to chorded muscles.