Page 9 of My Guardian Gryphon

I leaned forward in my chair. The tangy, metallic scent of blood permeated the room. I drank in the pain of Cal’s victim, reveling in the fear and horror vibrating from the rest of the waiting, watching prisoners. My pulse spiked, and I held my breath, waiting for my slave to end the human.

The human choked, coughing up blood. Cal drove his sword deeper, nearly running him completely through. Then my slave straightened, wrenching his sword upward through the man’s chest cavity and slicing through rib bones like they were made of twigs. The steel and stones in the hilt of his scimitar glowed red. Cal drank in the man’s life-force through his hands—the sword merely acting as a means of transference. For Djinn, blood was the ultimate high, but even pheromones—especially those released during periods of fear—were as satisfying to most Djinn as a phenomenal glass of wine was to me.

Everyone in the room was silent, even the Lycan guards watched with a still reverence. Death had a way of reminding even the hardest men they weren’t invincible. Lycans lived several hundred years and could recover from wounds that would be fatal to humans, but they were far from possessing power like most other supernaturals who could live for eons—immortals in a way. Even I would eventually die, but it would be thousands of years before that happened naturally.

The gutted soldier’s body fell forward with a thud. Blood ran freely, covering the gray concrete floor with a wide burgundy stain. Cal flitted through the room, appearing and disappearing through the lines of men still standing in formation…waiting, their destinies hanging more in their hands than they probably realized. Their lives depended on how much life they were willing and capable of extinguishing.

Cal appeared again at my side with his head bowed low. “Thank you, Master.”

I nodded and then turned to Martin, mouthing the permission he’d been waiting for. His guards moved between the prisoners, unchaining fifty of the men. The remaining prisoners were secured to steel rings bolted to the floor. The fifty men who’d been freed rubbed their wrists and kept their gazes darting between the Lycan soldiers, Cal, and myself.

“You men are the next lucky group who have the honor of being given a chance to join General Xerxes’ forces. If you feel that chance is wasted on you, please step forward now and kneel before your master.”

“So you can murder us the way you did our—”

One nod from Martin and the man fell forward to the ground, his neck snapped before he’d been able to finish his sentence. The Lycan soldier who’d carried out the unspoken order stepped back from the body with a wry grin on his face.

Cold.

Calculating.

Cutthroat.

Perfection wrapped in six feet and two hundred and fifty pounds of angry Lycan muscle. Martin had trained his men well.

“Anyone else feel the same way?” Martin stepped forward with a thin silver briefcase.

None of the remaining men moved or breathed a word.

“Excellent. Let the games begin. The ten of you standing at the end will join Jasper’s squad.” Martin gestured toward the large Lycan male who’d killed the mouthy prisoner. The soldier opened the silver case and placed it on the floor. Gleaming black knives lined both sides of the case. Some of the unchained humans made a mad dash for the weapons, and the others simply fell to their knees, waiting for death to take them away from the nightmare.

A couple of the men immediately turned on each other, slashing and dodging and cursing. The prisoners completed the task set before them, murdering each other for a place among us. A chance to survive the hell that had swiftly surrounded and ruined their perfect lives.

When the shouts faded and the groans died away, ten men stood quietly in the center of the room, each holding one of the knives. Blood and sweat coated them like a shroud. They were the ones willing to shift loyalties. The ones who would die to protect their families no matter what. The ones who didn’t care who they fought for. The ones content to kill for the sake of killing.

Those were the ones Martin wanted.

The ones I wanted.

I flicked my wrist, paralyzing everything and everyone in the room. A knife was frozen in the air a mere four feet from my face. The man who’d thrown it was one of the standing ten.

Walking forward, I pulled the knife from its place and continued to approach him, feeling the focus of every paralyzed individual trained on me. I loosened my grip on the room, releasing all the men from the bonds of my magick.

No one spoke and no one moved. The man who’d attempted to assassinate me widened his eyes, but did not flee.

Fearless.

I could appreciate that, but trying to kill me was a debt I never failed to repay.

“What are you?”

“The god you tried to kill.”

“You’re no god, just another fucking Other.”

“I am so much more than you could possibly comprehend, human. I’ve seen more history than your world can even fathom. Lived through more wars. Seen empires rise and fall.” Dropping the knife, I raised my hands, letting my magick curl around him, enveloping him from head to foot. My vision tinted blue, and I knew by the reflection in his eyes that my eyes had turned white. I opened up my voice, allowing it to grow and fill the room. “I am your god. And I am sending you to hell.”

The other nine men backed away, fear for their lives lighting a fire under their feet.

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