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An Excerpt From: ALPHA ROMEOS
Copyright © RHYANNON BYRD and MADISON
HAYES, 2006
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing,
Inc.
Colin had had enough. Stumbling to his feet, he braced one
hand against the wall and stared at the two intruders, trying to look more
menacing than sick. At least he was as tall as the blond—and had several
inches on the redhead—though they were certainly at an advantage when it
came to his current pathetic state. What the hell had he been thinking,
drinking all three bottles in one sitting? If it weren’t for the Life
Assurances—special spells which made it impossible for a prisoner to
take his own life—he knew the alcohol would have poisoned his blood.
As it was, it’d simply poisoned his miserable stomach.
Doing his best to deliver an effective glare, he curled
his lip and snarled, “I’m no’ worried about my damn hair, man. But if ya want me to be of any use in this quest of yours, I’m
goin’ to need to be able to see without these
fucking curls falling in my face.” Feeling more in control of the feet
beneath his legs—although they still didn’t completely feel his own—he
raked another handful of black locks off his forehead and growled, “And I’m
no’ a mere human, you ass.”
This time, it was the redhead’s turn to lift his brow.
“And if not human, what are you then?”
Colin tried to hold it back, to keep it together, but
some things—like the tides—were just inevitable.
Clutching his liquor-poisoned stomach, he managed to choke out, “I’m a
fucking Warlock.” And then he promptly lost the contents of his stomach,
after all.
In an obvious bid to protect his footwear, the blond
took a quick step backward. “Talks funny, doesn’t he?”
His companion grunted. “Can’t hold his liquor, either.”
“Never mind. We’ll soon have him whipped into shape.
Don’t know about that accent though.” The two men watched the Warlock wipe
his mouth with the back of his wrist.
“Bet it drives the women crazy,” a muffled voice
volunteered.
All three men stopped to stare at the sword belted on
the blond man’s hip.
Slowly, the warrior drew the blade. “And what would you
know about it?” he challenged in a sardonic voice.
“He’s a Scot,” was the sword’s defensive reply, its tone
cool and metallic. “And women love a man with a Scots accent.”
A small, taunting grin of male superiority curled
Colin’s lips as the blond growled impatiently, “When I need your input,
Bash—”
“Bash!” Colin exclaimed.
“Short for Bashful,” the sword followed up immediately.
Colin rolled his eyes, weaving a bit as he did so. “Oh,
aye, I can see that.” He returned his attention to the golden-haired
warrior. “You named your sword—”
“I didn’t name it anything,” the man shot back. “It came
to me already named. I just improved the name a bit. I mean, who’s going to
take a man seriously when he calls his steel Bashful?”
Colin looked from the blond, to the blade, to the
redhead.
“Well, he’s got a point,” the redhead said supportively.
“So you’ve got a sword that knows how to talk.” Colin
reached down to heft up his new backpack—a gift from the meddling goddess.
She’d left it with him last night. As yet, he’d been too pissed to
investigate Andarta’s gift, but the heavy weight
made him suddenly wonder just what in hell the lady had actually left him.
“And does it know, as well, when to shut up?” he asked distractedly,
beginning to swing the backpack to his side, where he could reach the top.
He’d only just touched the fastening, when the sword
shot forward to stroke his chin upward. “Yeah,” it said in a voice like the
whisper of chain mail. “I know when to put it away, McKendrick.
What about you?”
The backpack forgotten, Colin’s wrist shot upward in an
arc to slam against the blade’s threatening edge, but the shimmering length
of metal never moved. Instead, the steel riffed through the thick leather
of his jacket sleeve and nipped at his wrist. His violent green gaze
narrowed on the blond at the other end of the sword. “Get your bloody
weapon out o’ my face before I blast you on your ass,” he warned with fire.
Calmly, the blond shook his head. “It’s not me. It’s
Bash.” Slowly he opened his fingers. The sword hovered on the air an
instant before it dropped to clang on the stone floor. On its way there, it
shouted a long, virulent volley of abuse.
Grinning down at the steel on the ground, the giant
stuck out his hand and grasped Colin’s arm. “Warrik,”
he announced strongly. “Late of the Khallic Kingdom.”
“Very late,” the other man added agreeably.
Colin frowned at the redhead then at the man who grasped
his forearm.
“The skinny redhead, here, is Dye.”
“Die?”
“That’s right,” Dye supplied, holding forward his hand.
“And while I may not be built like the thick end of a barrel plug, at least
I’m not dead.”
Colin lifted one eyebrow.
“I’m Dye,” the man told him then nodded sideways at Warrik. “And he’s dead.”
Colin opened his mouth, the demand for an explanation on
the tip of his tongue, but the door to the cell was suddenly absent and Andarta stood in the room. “We must hurry,” she
announced.
At the goddess’ words, Warrik
stooped to sweep Bash off the ground. Deftly, he slotted the steel back
into its sheath as their surroundings faded and were replaced by those of Andarta’s brightly lit, glossily finished bedroom.
“You’ve met Colin,” she stated brusquely, then rushed on
with her instructions. “I’ve opened a door that will take you to my
sisters. Half-sisters,” she corrected herself quickly. “I can’t tell you
how important this mission is. My sisters’ release is vital to both your
worlds’ futures since your planets exist in parallel realities.”
Colin nodded. His two companions stared at him an
instant. Then, quickly adopting intelligent expressions, they followed his
lead and nodded too.
“Who’s holding them captive?” Colin asked.
“I can’t tell you that. I don’t know. It’s an outside
power I’m not familiar with. I can only tell you that my sisters must be
under some incredibly powerful curses, and that each of them must be
different. The same enchantment couldn’t possibly hold all of my sisters,
as each of them has varying abilities and powers.
I will tell you this. My sisters couldn’t have been cursed without
hearing the spell with their own ears, so each of them should be able to
tell you about the curse that binds her.
“But let me give you some history. My half-sisters are
the product of a union between my father and a little Kelty
hussy named Branwen. If you ask her, she’ll tell
you she’s the goddess of love and beauty.” Andarta
snorted. “In fact, Branwen is the goddess of
lust. I’ve no doubt that my sisters’ captor will use this against them.”
“Meaning?” Dye prompted.
“Most like, the women will have to be satisfied before
their curses are lifted.”
“Satisfied?” the three men echoed together.
She nodded. “Sexually
satisfied.” The weighty words charged the room with a heavy expectancy.
Colin’s green gaze narrowed on the goddess. “Why us?” He
glanced at his companions. “Why’d you pick us for this little rescue
effort?”
Andarta’s expression was wry.
“I needed some…Romeos. Some Alpha Romeos. Men who are fighters as
well as lovers. Men who are quick, sharp, strong and have a lot going for
them under the hood.”
CLOSE WINDOW
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