Taken by the South Wind Read online

  Taken by the South Wind

  Anna Hackett

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter One

  The hunt had begun.

  Dante Venti stood at the top of the Spanish Steps, Rome spread out before him. The wind swirled around his body, carrying the noises and scents of the Eternal City.

  He lifted one hand and waved toward the night-shrouded buildings. The wind hurried to obey his order, searching for any sign of the prey he hunted.

  The wind was his to command. Like his father and grandfather before him, he was a WindKeeper, one of four brothers gifted with the power of the wind. Since the day he’d reached manhood and inherited his power, he’d been Keeper of the South Wind.

  His warm breeze brought back the blaring horns of the frantic Rome traffic, the laughter of late night diners, the exclamations of wandering tourists and the whispers of lovers.

  It also brought him the taint of his foe.

  You’re better than them. The sly, nasty voice slid inside Dante’s soul. Why do you waste your time protecting them? Succumb and accept your true power.

  Dante pulled in a deep breath. “He’s here.”

  “Find him. We don’t have much time.”

  Dante turned to look at his brother. They could have been twins with their big muscled builds and dark curly hair. But Luca was a year older and Keeper of the North Wind.

  “I’ll find him.” Dante looked back at the city. Luca was right. There wasn’t much time. He felt it inside him, each beat of his heart like the ticking of a clock.

  Three days ago, the Venti Tempesta had escaped their warden, Livia Cavalli. For three endless nights, Dante and his brothers had searched for the evil Tempest Winds. They’d gone without sleep and rest in order to find the Winds before they wreaked their havoc.

  Now Dante was close to finding his adversary. Somewhere in the twists and turns of the city’s streets lurked Africus—holder of the Southwest Wind and its dark vice of pride.

  He would waste no time infecting as many humans as possible. Dante eyed the group of tourists gathered at the bottom of the steps, eating gelato and snapping photos, unaware of the danger bearing down on them.

  But humans weren’t the only ones susceptible. Dante already felt the pull of pride, a vice he’d struggled with his entire life.

  “Caecius has gone north.” Luca turned, his blue eyes ice cold. “I must follow him.” Caecius was holder of the Northeast Wind and keeper of anger.

  Dante studied his brother. Luca looked calm and controlled, until you noticed his hands. They were clenched into fists, his knuckles white.

  Luca would never succumb to the anger. Dante knew his brother was as stubborn as he was strong. Still, Dante wouldn’t burden Luca with the knowledge that pride was already seducing him, whispering to him like a deadly siren song.

  Dante clasped his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll find Africus. How are Antonio and Soren going with the hunt?”

  “Antonio knows his quarry, Corus, is in Florence. He’s trying to flush him out.” A muscle in Luca’s jaw clenched. “Soren’s gone north to Como on the trail of Apeliotus.”

  “The Tempest Winds have never split up like this before.” Worry nipped at Dante with sharp teeth. He carried the memories of his WindKeeper ancestors. He remembered all the times over the centuries their foe had escaped and what evil they’d spawned.

  “Usually they like to hunt in a pack.” Luca’s frown deepened. “Brute force didn’t work for them in the past. I think this time they’ll be more cunning. Be careful, Dante.”

  “You, too, mio fratello.” He clasped Luca’s arm. “Good hunting.”

  With a nod, Luca turned away and summoned his power. Dante felt the icy prickle of the cold North Wind. He watched his brother’s big body dissolve, turning into the wind itself. Then Luca was gone.

  Starting down the steps, Dante turned his focus to his prey. He would scour Rome until he found Africus and destroyed his human body. Once all four Venti Tempesta were released from their corporeal bodies, the WindKeepers could entrap them again.

  Dante pushed through the throng of tourists. So many people with nothing better to do than eat, gawk and take photographs. They knew nothing of holding power, of keeping others safe.

  Dio. He cut off the thoughts. It was pride speaking, not him. His hands flexed. The power of the winds carried terrible vices: anger, lust, pride and greed. The wind itself was neither good nor evil; it was the Keeper who decided what to do with that power.

  Dante and his brothers had warred all their lives to control the darkness. The Venti Tempesta however, embraced the vices, and when they were loose, the WindKeepers’ control grew very thin.

  He slipped into an empty alleyway and pressed his back against the terra cotta wall of a building. He would remain in control. Scraping a hand over his face, he closed his eyes.

  Tiredness rode him hard. He hadn’t slept in three days and it made the struggle against pride even more difficult.

  He had to stop Africus before pride drove him to madness.

  Stalking down the darkened street, he moved farther from the crowds. The quiet helped soothe his ragged nerves. He wished for the peace of his office in the shipyard at Naples. He much preferred the challenge of his job at Venti Shipping to the bustle of Rome.

  His wind came back to him, whispering of Africus’s stench. Dante’s shoulders tensed and he followed, turning through the maze of city streets. It wasn’t long before he realized his wind had led him to the Forum.

  Once the heart of the Roman Empire, the Forum was now an amazing collection of ruined temples and buildings. In his mind, he recalled the memory of a previous Keeper, saw what it had looked like in its heyday. Exquisite temples with rows of columns, travertine paving and crowds jostling to greet their emperor.

  In modern times it still bustled with crowds, but tour groups, rather than Roman citizens. At this time of night it was empty and dark, the shadows hiding many secrets and sins.

  He moved with silent steps, not wanting to alert his target. His warm southern wind brushed over him, warned him that someone lurked in the shadows.

  But not the Tempest Wind. Someone else.

  He tensed and waited. Seconds turned to minutes. Nothing.

  The sense of danger melted away. With a frown, Dante moved forward. His wind was never wrong. But who would be stalking him other than his enemy?

  He continued deeper into the Forum.

  Afraid of the shadows, Keeper? Why should you, someone so powerful, be afraid?

  Dante gritted his teeth and ignored the voice drifting on the wind. Ahead, he saw a flicker of movement in the darkness. For a second, a lithe figure moved in the shadows. When he looked again he saw nothing.

  But the sense of danger returned.

  He called the wind. It grew up around him, hot and scorching, disheveling his hair and catching at his clothes.

  Then a body came out of nowhere and barreled into him. The momentum took him down. He smacked into the dirt, a slim figure kneeling on his chest.

  Dante felt the sting of cool metal against his throat.

  “Your life is mine, dark one.” Samia Hassan pressed her blade harder against her mark’s throat.

  She couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but before she killed him, she would look him in the eye. It was a habit she’d formed over the years. Not out of respect for her victims, but for herself.

  To force herself to confront what she was—a killer. Born and bred to hunt supernatural beings. The brotherhood’s best assassin
.

  Her stomach churned. Or she had been the best. Until a cold night three months before, when she’d made a horrible mistake.

  The hand holding the knife wavered. Yanking the man’s head back, she looked into his face. Everything in her froze.

  The mouthwatering features belonged in a Renaissance painting. There was no mistaking his Italian heritage—olive skin, patrician nose, dark hair curling over his forehead. The face of a dark angel. His eyes were stunning—the color of expensive cognac.

  He watched her, his unblinking gaze skimming over her face. A strange feeling welled up in Samia, like a warm breeze rushing over her skin and through every cell of her body. He seemed familiar, as if she’d met him before. But she knew for a fact she’d never seen this man before tonight.

  His big body bunched beneath her. “Uh-uh.” She moved the knife, nicking his skin.

  She wouldn’t lose her nerve. She’d kill this man, this evil creature, because this was her last chance to prove herself and she had nothing else in her life but death.

  He stilled. “Who are you?”

  His voice was deep, sensual, and wrapped around her like strong arms. His English was perfect; its barest hint of an accent stroked her senses.

  She shook her head to break the odd spell. “I am your death.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “How about a name?”

  Samia frowned down at him. He showed no fear of her. When she held a knife to a man’s throat, she expected terror.

  She felt the power in him, pulsing under his skin, twirling in the air around them. He probably thought he could best her. But she had her own powers, and not just her skill with a knife.

  “You don’t need to know my name.”

  In a flash of movement, he pushed her off him, surprising her with his strength and speed. She possessed far more strength than an ordinary human, even more than most of the beings she hunted. But this man was strong.

  He tried to pin her, but she kicked at him. Her foot connected with a rock-hard stomach. She heard her father’s voice in her head, intoning her training. If he were here, he’d berate her for playing with her target.

  Get the job done, assassin. Fast and clean.

  Her knife flashed in the darkness. She aimed for the man’s throat, but at the last minute he dodged. The blade sank deep into his shoulder.

  Chapter Two

  Samia heard the man grunt. A strong wind swirled around them and his body faded, as if the wind was taking him away.

  Damn. He’d escaped. She was left holding nothing but her bloody knife.

  She watched the blood drip down the hilt and over her fingers. Bile rose in her throat and another scene shot through her head.

  A young face, lifeless. Innocent blood on her hands.

  Strong arms clamped around her from behind. She was tugged back into the hard planes of a big body.

  “That wasn’t very nice.”

  She didn’t buck against him, she stilled. Patience was an assassin’s most valuable skill. “I wasn’t trying to be nice.”

  His breath brushed over her ear. “My name’s Dante.”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Venti.” She had an inch-thick file on Dante Auster Venti, Keeper of the South Wind. He and his brothers were Italy’s most eligible bachelors—rich, good-looking. But few knew what hid beneath their wealthy-playboy personas.

  “I’d like to know why you’re trying to kill me,” he said in a silky voice.

  “Because you’re dangerous.” She needed to remind herself that the job she did was important. Someone had to take down the strong beings that hurt those less powerful.

  His lips brushed her temple. “No argument there, but the same could be said about you.”

  His words were like a slashing knife to her chest. “I don’t hurt innocents.” She closed her eyes. Except for one terrible mistake.

  “I don’t, either.”

  His voice sounded sincere and she detected no lies. Her heart kicked against her ribs. He was trying to trick her. When her victims saw their death in her eyes, they tried anything to escape.

  But at this moment, this man had the upper hand. Why try to convince her of his innocence?

  The elders had told her he had killed, used his powers against humans. From the brotherhood enclave in Morocco, they always researched a case beyond reasonable doubt before assigning it to an assassin. They were never wrong. “That’s not what I’ve been told.”

  “Who do you work for?” he asked.

  She remained silent. The brotherhood was so secret little was known about it in the outside world. It was the way they liked it.

  One big hand slid over her belly, fingers splaying over the inch of bare skin between her black T-shirt and dark pants.

  “Who do you work for?” he repeated.

  She couldn’t have answered if she’d wanted to. The feel of his warm skin against hers shattered her concentration. Heat, strong and intense, burned in her belly.

  What was wrong with her? She jerked against him. Not once had she allowed herself to be distracted on a mission. Especially not by a man.

  And not by someone she’d been sent to kill.

  He spun her and forced her to her knees. She tried to move, but a heavy gust of wind held her in place. She felt the strength of his power wrap around her.

  His gold-brown eyes were cool, yet somehow burned with an inner fire. Like something very dangerous lurked inside him.

  Then, with the sharp instincts that made her an excellent assassin and kept her alive, Samia noted something else.

  This man didn’t have the eyes of a killer.

  Oh, he looked like a man capable of killing, but not one who’d take the life of an innocent for pleasure.

  No. That couldn’t be.

  “Fine. I’ll find my own answers.” His hand gripped the neckline of her shirt and with a twist of his wrist, he tore it open.

  She gasped. The neckline ripped a few inches, gaping. He flicked the black fabric away and exposed her tattoo.

  The black stylized writing was Arabic calligraphy and sat above her left breast. It spelled the word death and was the symbol of the brotherhood.

  He gripped her shirt tighter and dragged her closer. His fingers were warm against her skin. “You’re Hashshashin.”

  Shock tore through Samia’s system, her pulse increased. Few knew their name. She fought to keep her face impassive.

  “I know your people pride themselves on being shadows.” He released her, but the wind held her body in place. “But an organization can’t exist for a thousand years and think no one’s going to learn about them.”

  He paced away, then turned to face her. He was a magnificent example of manhood—broad-shouldered, his dark trousers outlining lean hips and long legs. Again Samia felt heat wash over her. She was incredibly aware of him, in a way she’d never been before with any man.

  “So, Signorina Assassin, are you going to tell me why I have a price on my head?”

  She lifted her chin. “You control the wind.”

  He put a hand out, palm up, then lifted his arm. The wind around her lifted her to her feet. Like a damned puppet on a string. She shot him a fierce scowl.

  He titled his head. “That’s hardly a killing offense.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You infect humans with the darkness the wind carries.”

  He strode up to her, leaned his face close to hers. “I fight the darkness of the wind every hour of every day. You aren’t describing me—, you’re describing the evil I hunt.”

  Her stomach did a quick tumble. The elders never made mistakes. “I don’t believe you.”

  “And yet, I’m telling you the truth.”

  Something in that deep voice, in those cognac eyes, made her want to believe him. Impossible. There was no way the elders had sent her after an innocent.

  The young boy’s face came back to her. Ruthlessly she pushed it away.

  “Who hired you?” Dante demanded.

  She remained silent.<
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  He reached out, stroked a finger down her face. The touch was shocking, electric.

  “Assassin’s code, right? Don’t give up the client’s name.”

  His finger ran along her cheekbone, across her lips, down to the fluttering pulse in her throat. She tried to ignore the heat that followed the touch.

  He leaned closer, his lips a breath from hers. “Give me his name.”

  She locked her jaw and fought against the power holding her. Dante’s presence enveloped her—his sensual cologne, his smooth voice, the swell of his power. She felt her body strain toward him, as if it had a mind of its own, as if it wanted his touch.

  Oh, God, something was horribly wrong with her.

  Dante’s lips brushed hers, a feather-light caress. She sucked in a startled breath, her eyes locked with his. Inside, something shifted and wanted closer. She had a crazy urge to press her lips to his.

  He pulled back. “I am more powerful than you can imagine.” His face took on a stark edge and his eyes darkened. “You were stupid to pit yourself against me.”

  Samia watched something ripple over his face. Something scary.

  “The Hashshashin have always been arrogant,” he said. His hands gripped her upper arms, digging into her skin with such force she knew she’d have bruises.

  Then he shook his head and muttered under his breath. A muscle jumped beneath his eye and he appeared to be struggling for control.

  His fingers loosened and he smoothed his hand over her skin, almost like an apology. “Just tell me who hired you and I’ll let you go.”

  Samia knew when to cut her losses. If she had any chance of completing her mission, she needed to get away from him and regroup. “A man named Africus.”

  Dante cursed. Suddenly the wind holding Samia captive dropped away. She braced her legs to avoid falling.

  He faced her. “I know you’re a killing machine, but Africus is a danger to you. He is one of the Tempest Winds.”

  Killing machine. She ignored the ache his words generated. He was right. She was nothing but a weapon. Instead, she focused on what he’d said.