Table Of ContentARIES: RIDDLE ME WICKED
…“Please don’t tell me you’ve put both of our lives on the line for
a Google search.”
At least Lucas had the grace to look sheepish. “Well, when you put
it like that…”
Ian blinked. He didn’t even know what to say to the man. This
entire nightmare was due to some madman’s belief in a myth that
every respectable archaeologist would dismiss in a heartbeat and a
thrill-seeking photographer who relied on the Internet for actual facts?
It was ludicrous. Beyond ludicrous. It was…for all his education, he
didn’t think a word existed that could encompass just how absurd it
really was.
“You asked,” Lucas said. “And I told you what it was about.
Whether you choose to believe me or not is another matter.”
“How could you possibly think that I would even entertain such a
fantasy?” Ian spluttered. “If you’re so aware of my education, you
should have known exactly how I would view this.”
“Which might be why I didn’t come right out and tell you.” He
shoved his hands into his pockets and jerked his head toward the
unknown in front of them. “Let’s argue about this when we don’t have
to worry about Sultis breathing down our necks. Or it’s all going to be
a moot point anyway.”
Ian could have stood there and debated the danger in lending
credence to mythology when there were so many real world artifacts
to be had and appreciated. But Lucas was right about one thing. Their
well-being was in peril, especially since they’d deliberately chosen to
try and escape Sultis’s clutches. Their only choice at this junction was
to set aside personal differences and find a way to freedom…
ALSO BY VIVIEN DEAN
Blood Of Souls
Born To Be Wild
Bridge Over Troubled Water
Crave
Interlude
Ruby Red Rebels
Still, Life
What We May Be
Wranglers (The Collection)
Wranglers: Discovery
Wranglers: Judgment
Wranglers: Voir Dire
Wranglers: The Defense Rests
ARIES:
RIDDLE ME WICKED
BY
VIVIEN DEAN
AMBER QUILL PRESS, LLC
http://www.AmberQuill.com
ARIES: RIDDLE ME WICKED
AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK
This book is a work of fiction.
All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,
or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.AmberQuill.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or
reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in
writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief
excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2010 by Vivien Dean
ISBN 978-1-60272-664-2
Cover Art © 2010 Trace Edward Zaber
Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy
PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Aries: The risk taker, fiery and passionate.
What an Aries wants, an Aries gets.
ARIES: RIDDLE ME WICKED
CHAPTER 1
Running for your life did wonders for coloring vocabulary. If
his father could have caught even a few syllables of Ian
Tunbridge’s current language, he would have had a coronary.
The expletives tore more easily from his throat than wrenching
his foot free from the muddy earth, but eventually, Ian succeeded.
The sudden freedom jerked him off-balance, and his arms flew out
instinctively to stop himself from falling flat on his face. As he
scrambled back to his feet, blood oozed from the fresh scrapes on
his palms, while his ankle now sported an unmistakable twinge.
All that pain, however, was inconsequential compared to the
greater problem currently at hand.
The men chasing after him.
He wished, not for the first time, he’d had time to grab his coat
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before he’d been forced to run. His thin cotton jumper did little to
protect him, and already, sweat glued it to his back. He was lucky
he’d thought to grab shoes, though lucky was not the word he’d
use to characterize his current situation. Mad. Horrific. Terrifying.
Those were all perfectly good words, and unfortunately, far more
accurate. At least, they had only shot at him once. And how ironic
he considered a single gunshot in any way a good thing.
Someone shouted, and the crash of his pursuers split into two.
One group stayed behind him, while another of indeterminate size
began to swell around to his right. He had no idea how many men
chased him through the thick trees. When the gunfire within the
camp had woken him just minutes earlier, Ian had only risked a
single glance out of his tent before scrambling to get dressed, get
out, and get away as fast as he possibly could. It didn’t even make
sense that they’d been attacked. It was a routine dig, without real
historical significance beyond gathering some additional Native
American artifacts for the main display back in London. Only a
handful of people had even known they were there.
He blinked against the angry tears that burned in his eyes. As
far as he could tell, none of his colleagues were left. What a bloody
waste.
His chest began to burn from his frantic pace. He was hardly
out of shape, but an adrenaline-fueled dash through the northern
California wilds was not the same as his carefully controlled
sessions at the gym or the occasional trek in order to get to a dig
site. The muscles in his legs screamed in protest, like someone was
dragging hot pokers through the sinew, and his feet grew heavier
with every step. His boots were made for rough terrain, not for
swift running, and they weighed him down almost as much as his
tiring body. If he didn’t do something about it soon, his escape
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would have been for naught.
A break in the trees thrust him out into the open. Out of the
corner of his eye, he saw two men flanking him to his right, the
smaller of the pair gaining proximity more quickly than his mate.
Both carried guns. Both lifted them as soon as he came into view.
That was all Ian wanted to see.
He dove to the ground the second before the gun’s retort made
the air reverberate. Though it was loud, it didn’t sound near, but he
didn’t have time to contemplate why, rolling toward a nearby tree
in a vain attempt for cover. A sharp rock dug into his back, the
sting of blood mingling with the sweat, and his fingers curled
around it, picking it up and throwing it as hard as he could in the
direction of his pursuers.
It didn’t matter if it hit or not. The point was to let them know
he would not go silently into the night.
Another shot rang out, this one closer.
Ian reached the foot of the tree and scrambled to his knees to
get to its other side. He was brought up short by a pair of black
boots and khaki-covered legs.
“There is nowhere to go, Mr. Tunbridge,” said a soft, accented
voice. A foot lashed out and slammed into Ian’s stomach, driving
him back against the tree trunk.
The force knocked the wind out of his lungs. Gulping for air,
Ian squinted up at the unsmiling face of a burly, dark-haired man,
sleek hair pulled into a ponytail, a corduroy coat unable to cover
his paunch. The sound of dry branches cracking tried to drag his
attention away, but he kept his gaze steady, knowing that it would
be the others who had been shooting who approached.
“My apologies if my survival instincts got in your way,” Ian
said as soon as his breathing had calmed enough for him to speak.
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“I have a rather averse reaction to guns, you see. They tend to
make me do irrational things. Such as run for my life.”
“Who ever said your life was in danger?”
Ian stiffened. There was no way he had imagined the attack on
the camp. “Perhaps it was the random gunfire around my head,
and, oh yes, the fact that you killed my team.”
“A necessary cost.”
Strong hands scooped beneath his arms on either side, dragging
him up and away from the tree trunk. Ian reacted without thought,
slamming his right elbow into the jaw of the man on that side,
shifting his weight so that it threw the one on his left off-balance. It
worked for a moment, loosening the grips, but the swift cock of
multiple guns made him freeze before he could work free.
“I do not want you dead, Mr. Tunbridge.” The voice was still
even, still soft, and the more he spoke, the more convinced Ian
became the accent was Slavic in origin. “But I have no qualms
ensuring you never walk again.”
It was enough time for the men to resume their bruising holds
on his arms, pulling Ian upright, though he stood a solid four or
five inches taller than both of them. Now that he could assess his
pursuers, he counted seven of varying ethnicities and sizes, all but
their apparent leader carrying guns. One had blood stains on his
coat. Another had a hole in his worn jeans with a cut oozing
beneath it. Otherwise, everyone appeared unscathed from their
earlier encounter.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He had no idea what this
was about, why his insignificant archaeological team had been
attacked or what they could possibly want with him. He was
nobody, a scholar from Oxford in love with history and culture. He
knew nothing about guns, or men who carried guns, or men who
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