Книга - The Darkest Secret

The Darkest Secret
Gena Showalter


Amun – Immortal Keeper of SecretsHe can manipulate your darkest toughts Chained and isolated to protect those he loves from his terrifying power, death is Amun’s only hope of release – until he meets Haidee, a fellow prisoner whose beauty and vulnerability draw him in…Haidee is a demon-assassin, raised to despise Amun’s kind. Yet how can she hate the man whose touch sparks something dangerously sensual inside her? Haidee also holds the secret to Amun’s salvation. Although to release him she must give herself over – body and soul – to a powerful adversary who has sworn to destroy her.










Praise forNew York TimesandUSA Todaybestselling author GENA SHOWALTER’S

LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD

The Darkest Night

“A fascinating premise, a sexy hero and non-stop action, The Darkest Night is Showalter at her finest, and a fabulous start to an imaginative new series.” —New York Times bestselling author Karen Marie Moning

“Dark and tormented doesn’t begin to describe these cursed warriors called the Lords of the Underworld. Showalter has created characters desperately fighting to retain a semblance of humanity, which means the heroines are in for a rough ride. This is darkly satisfying and passionately thrilling stuff.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4 stars

“Amazing! Stupendous! Extraordinary!

Gena Showalter has done it again. The Darkest Night is the fabulous start of an edgy, thrilling series …” —Fallen Angels reviews

“Not to be missed … the hottest new paranormal series.”

—Night Owl Romance

The Darkest Kiss “In this new chapter the Lords of the Underworld engage in a deadly dance. Anya is a fascinating blend of spunk, arrogance and vulnerability – a perfect match for the tormented Lucien.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4½ stars

“Talk about one dark read … If there is one book you must read this year, pick up The Darkest Kiss … a Gena Showalter book is the best of the best.” —Romance Junkies

The Darkest Pleasure “Showalter’s darkly dangerous Lords of the Underworld trilogy, with its tortured characters, comes to a very satisfactory conclusion … [her] compelling universe contains the possibility of more stories to be told.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4 stars

“Of all the books in this series, this is the most moving and compelling. The concluding chapters will simply stun you with the drama of them … You will not be sorry if you add this to your collection.”

—Mists and StarsTheDarkest Whisper “If you like your paranormal dark and passionately flavoured, this is the series for you.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4 stars

The Darkest Passion “Showalter gives her fans another treat, sure to satisfy!” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews


Lords of the Underworld

In a remote fortress in Budapest, immortal warriors—each more dangerously seductive than the last—are bound by an ancient curse none has been able to break. When a powerful enemy returns, they will travel the world in search of a sacred relic of the gods—one that threatens to destroy them all.

Gena Showalter’s

LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD

continues with

THE DARKEST SECRET

Also available in this series

THE DARKEST NIGHT

THE DARKEST KISS

THE DARKEST PLEASURE

THE DARKEST WHISPER

DARK BEGINNINGS

THE DARKEST PASSION

THE DARKEST LIE




About the Author


New York Times and USA Today bestselling author GENA SHOWALTER has been praised for her “sizzling page-turners” and “utterly spellbinding stories”. She is the author of more than seventeen novels and anthologies, including breathtaking paranormal and contemporary romances, cutting-edge young adult novels and stunning urban fantasy. Readers can’t get enough of her trademark wit and singular imagination.

To learn more about Gena and her books, please visit www.genashowalter.com and www.genashowalterblog spot.com.


GENA SHOWALTER

THE DARKEST SECRET




























www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


I was writing this book when my cherished friend, Donnell Epperson, died. She was a woman of unwavering faith and deep love, who dreamed of being a published author. Tragically, she died before that dream could be realised. And that’s a shame (or a Glorious Misfortune, as she would have said with a beautiful and slightly wicked smile). She was truly gifted and utterly dedicated, and I like to think she was with me as I wrote this.

And so, this one is for you, my friend. And when Jill, Sheila and I get to heaven, I have a feeling we’ll be arguing about where our mansions are placed. I call dibs on the middle. Just sayin’. Until then, I continue to miss you with all my heart. Save me a hug, and maybe tell the Big Man I’m not so bad. Sometimes. Meanwhile, it’s no secret that I will always love you.




CHAPTER ONE


STRIDER, KEEPER OF THE DEMON of Defeat, burst through the towering front doors of the Budapest fortress he shared with a growing cast of friends—brothers and sisters by circumstance rather than blood, but all the closer for it—fighting a rush of undeniable pleasure.

He’d freaking done it, man. Done. It. After chasing his enemy cross-continent, bargaining away one of the four godly relics needed to find and destroy Pandora’s box—and yeah, he was gonna get spanked hard for that—then, after being eaten alive by insects and at one point (cough) walking into a chick’s knife (cough), he’d finally won. And damn if he wasn’t ready to celebrate.

“I’m king of the world, bitches. Come in here and bask in my glory.” His voice echoed through the foyer, expectant, eager.

No one returned the greeting.

Still. Grinning, he shifted the unconscious female draped over his shoulder into a more comfortable position. More comfortable for him. She was the enemy he’d been chasing, as well as the chick who’d oh, so impolitely introduced his pancreas to the freaking hilt of her blade. He could hardly wait to tell everyone that he’d done what they hadn’t. He’d bagged and tagged her, baby.

He called, “Daddy’s home. Somebody? Anybody?”

Again, there was no response. His grin dulled a bit.

Damn it. When he lost a single challenge, he battled crippling pain for days. When he won, though … gods, it was almost a sexual high, energy buzzing in his veins, heating him, priming him. That kind of enthusiasm called for a playmate. And, hell, twelve warriors and their menagerie of female companions lived here, yet no one had waited around to welcome him home? Even though the grounds were now gated, monitored and someone had had to punch him in, like, five minutes ago?

Didn’t that just figure.

But he deserved it, he supposed. Seven days had passed since he’d last texted or phoned. Technically, though, that wasn’t his fault. He’d been a wee bit preoccupied, what with subduing his bundle of anything but joy. And on his last update, he’d been told the danger here had passed and everyone could return, so he’d stopped the I-have-to-know-how-everyone’s-doing flurry of calls.

So, fine. No biggie. The fact that no one wanted to play actually did him a solid. Now he could take care of a little business. “Thanks, guys. You’re the best. Really.” And you can all suck it!

Strider surged forward. To console himself, he imagined his prisoner’s expression when she woke up and found herself trapped in a four-by-four cage. Now that’s the good stuff. Then his gaze snagged on his unfamiliar surroundings, and the last vestiges of his grin fell away. He stopped abruptly.

He’d been gone only a few weeks, and he’d thought most of the others had been, too, but in that time someone had managed to turn the run-down monstrosity they called home into a showpiece. Once comprised of crumbling stone and mortar, the floor was now brilliant white marble veined with amber. Equally deteriorated walls were now vividly polished rosewood.

Before, the winding staircase had been cracked; now it gleamed, not a flaw in sight, an unblemished gold railing climbing to the top. In the corner, a white velvet-lined chair was pushed against reflective paneling, and beyond that, priceless artifacts—colorful vases, bejeweled trinket boxes and aged spearheads—were perched behind glass cases.

None of which had been there before.

All these changes, in less than a month? Seemed impossible, even with Titan gods popping in and out at will. Maybe because those gods were more concerned with murder and mayhem than interior decorating. But maybe … maybe while Strider had been congratulating himself on a job well done, he’d entered the wrong house? It had happened before.

And talk about awkward. There was no way to explain the cut, bruised and soot-covered baggage he was hauling around. Not without a little jail time. Explaining the blood splatter on his clothing would be a real treat, too.

Nah, he decided a second later. This was the right place. Had to be. Along the staircase wall hung a portrait of Sabin, keeper of Doubt. Naked. Only one person had the balls to taunt badass Sabin with something like that. Anya, goddess of Anarchy and dealer of disorder, who just happened to be engaged to Lucien, keeper of Death. Odd pair, if you asked Strider, but no one had, so he’d kept the opinion to himself. Besides, better silence than the loss of a favorite appendage. Anya didn’t take kindly to anyone second-guessing her. About anything.

“Yo, Tor Tor,” he shouted now.

Torin, the keeper of the demon of Disease. Dude never left the fortress. He was always here, monitoring camera feed, ensuring the home remained invasion-free, as well as playing on his computers and making their miniature, by-invitation-only army a shitload of cha-ching.

At first, there was no reply, only another echo of his voice, and Strider began to worry. Had something catastrophic happened? A total demon wipeout? If so, why was he still here? Or had Kane, keeper of All Kinds of Bad Shit, had a crappy week and—

Footsteps pounded, closer and closer, and relief flooded him. He looked up the staircase, and there was Torin, standing on a zebra-print rug Strider also didn’t recall seeing before, his white hair shagging around his devil’s face, his green eyes bright as emeralds.

“Welcome home,” Torin said, adding, “You shithead.”

“Nice greeting.”

“You don’t call, you don’t write, and you want hearts and flowers?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Figures.”

Torin wore black from neck to toe, his hands covered by soft leather gloves. Fashion-wise, those gloves were overkill. To save mankind, though, they were kinda necessary. A single touch of Torin’s skin against another’s, and hello plague. Guy’s demon pumped some kind of disease in his veins, that single touch all that was needed to spread it. Even to Strider. But immortal as he was, Strider wouldn’t die from a little cough/fever/vomiting of blood. Not like humans, who would be ravaged, perhaps worldwide, the infection becoming nearly unstoppable. Strider would give the illness to everyone he touched in turn, though, and as he moderately enjoyed seducing humans, he relied on skin-to-skin action.

“So, everything good here?” Strider asked. “Everyone fine?”

“Now you want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“Figures. Well, for the most part, all’s well. A lot of the guys are out hiding artifacts, and looking for the last one. Those who aren’t are hunting Galen.” Torin took the stairs two at a time and stopped at the bottom, remaining out of striking distance. As always. His gaze flicked to the female, and amusement expanded his pupils, hiding whatever emotion had been banked there before. “So you’re the next of us to fall in love, huh? Sucker! I thought you’d have more sense.”

“Please. I want nothing to do with this raging bitch.” A lie. During their seemingly eternal trek, he’d found himself desiring her more and more. And hating himself more and more. She might be sex walking, but she was also death waiting.

Too-pretty-to-be-male lips curved in sheer delight. “That’s what Maddox said about Ashlyn. What Lucien said about Anya. What Reyes said about Danika. What Sabin—”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” Strider rolled his eyes. “You can shut up now.” While he would admit the girl’s punked-out style appealed to him, he’d never be dumb enough to try and tap that.

He liked his women compliant. And sane.

Liar. You like this one. Just as she is. He wished he could blame his demon for that admission, but … Even now, simply thinking about her, his body was tensing, readying.

Torin crossed his arms over his chest. “So what is she? A human with a supernatural ability? A goddess? A Harpy?”

The guys here did have a propensity for choosing females of “myth” and “legend.” Females far more powerful than their demons. Ashlyn could hear voices of the past, Anya could start fires with her mind (among other things), Danika could see into heaven and hell, and Sabin’s wife, Gwen … well, she had a dark side you saw just before you died. Painfully.

“My friend, what I’ve got here is a bona fide Hunter.” Strider slapped her ass as if a fly was perched there and he couldn’t live another second without smashing it. The action was a reminder that she meant nothing to him. Although why he didn’t tell his friend which Hunter she was, when he’d been so excited before, he didn’t know. Actually, he did know. Fatigue. Yeah, he was tired, that was all, and didn’t want to have to deal with all the praise. Tomorrow, after a nice long rest, he’d spill everything.

The girl offered no reaction to his slap, but then, he hadn’t expected her to. He’d repeatedly drugged her as he’d dragged her from one corner of the world to the other. From Rome to Greece to New York to L.A. and finally to Budapest, leading her brethren on a merry chase as they attempted to save her.

Something they would never do.

We won! his demon laughed.

Damn right we did. He shivered in delight.

“Hunter?” All amusement fled his friend’s face, the light dying in his eyes, turning those emeralds into sharp, deadly blades.

“Afraid so.” Hunters. Their greatest enemy. The fanatics who wanted to destroy them. The bastards who considered them evil, beyond redemption, and the scourge of the earth. The assholes who blamed them for all the world’s heartache. Best yet, they were the militia Strider was going to send to the hottest depths of hell, one soldier at a time. Or, with grenades, a few hundred at a time. Depended on his mood, he supposed.

“You should have offed her already,” Torin remarked. “Now Sabin will want to talk with her.”

“Talk” equaled torture in Sabin’s mind. “I know he will. That’s why she’s still alive.” She knew things about the gods pulling their strings, and could do things, impossible things, like cause weapons to materialize from thin air. Something only angel warriors could do. Or so he’d thought. Problem was, she wasn’t an angel. And not just because she lacked wings. Girl had a temper.

Strider wanted to know how much she knew and how she did what she did.

More than that, he hadn’t been able to do his job—aka dispose of Hunter trash—when he’d been alone with her. Every time he’d tried, he’d looked at her beautiful face and hesitated. The hesitation had given way to desire, and he’d started battling urges to kiss her rather than “off” her.

Sabin wouldn’t let him get away with that shit. Sabin would ride his ass until he acted. Strider would have no choice but to step up to the plate and knock the ball out of the park. Because … His hands curled into fists. Because this woman, this walking atrocity …

His teeth gritted, and his jaw clenched so tightly the ache shot through his temples and straight into his brain. He experienced the same reaction every time he considered what she’d once done. This woman had helped decapitate his friend Baden, once keeper of the demon of Distrust.

Strider could never forget or forgive that fact.

The savage beheading had taken place thousands of years ago, but the pain inside him was as fresh as if it had happened this morning. Along with his friend, a piece of his own soul had died that day, and as the girl had learned during their trek to this fortress, a good portion of his heart had withered, too.

Mercy wasn’t something he possessed. Not anymore. Most especially not for her.

He thought he’d killed her in vengeance already, all those centuries ago. Recalled the slash of his blade, the crimson tide of her blood and the metallic stench of death wafting on the air. The sound of her body slamming into rock, her last gurgle of breath. Yet here she was, alive and well and driving him flipping insane.

Maybe he had killed her. Maybe she’d been reborn. Or maybe her soul had been stuffed inside another body. Or maybe this chick was more immortal than he was and had somehow healed after the beheading. He didn’t know, didn’t care.

All that mattered was that she was Hadiee of ancient Greece. Well, she called herself Haidee now. From Hade-ay to Hay-dee. Evidently she’d changed the spelling and pronunciation for “modernization.” Not that he gave a shit. He called her Ex, short for Demon Executioner, and that was that.

The proof of her crimes rested in her eyes. Those wintry, callous gray eyes. In the pride that dripped from her voice every time she spoke of that fateful night—I just loved the way his head rolled. Didn’t you?—and the stark tattoos etched into her back. Tattoos that kept score. Haidee 1. Lords 4.

She deserved everything he and Sabin would do to her.

“I’m taking her to the dungeon,” he said, and he’d never heard such a combination of relish and regret in his own voice before. Once again he started forward, throwing over his shoulder, “If you’d be a sweetheart and let Doubty-Poo know …”

“No can do, Stridey-man. There’s, uh, something you gotta see.” A blast of fear mixed with dread and grim expectation accompanied the words.

Strider halted, one foot raised midair. He straightened, still-sleeping baggage nearly sliding to the ground. Slowly he turned, adjusting Ex, and faced Torin, his own sense of dread sprouting as he spied his friend’s now pallid skin. White dusted with tiny rivers of blue. “You said everything was fine. What’s wrong?”

Torin shook his head. “No way to explain until you’ve seen. And I said everything was fine for the most part. Now come on.”

“The girl—”

“Bring her. She’ll be guarded, you’ll see.” A wave of

Torin’s hand, and he was racing up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Dread increasing, Strider followed, Ex bouncing on his shoulder. If she’d been awake, she would have lost her breath, over and over again, grunting from the pain of having her stomach repeatedly slammed into his bone. She also would have fought him with a skill matched by few.

Too bad the drugs had been so potent. A good fight would have settled his nerves.

What was so important that Torin didn’t want him taking a few minutes to lock an abominable Hunter away?

His thoughts splintered the moment he hit the landing.

All he could do was gape. Angels. So many angels. No wonder the house had been redecorated. Divine intervention and all that. Angels did like them some pretties.

They stood along the wall, the only space between them filled by the arch of their wings. White feathers laced with gold, the wings of warriors. Their scents perfumed the air, a collage of orchids, morning dew, chocolate and champagne. They ranged in height, though none were shorter than six foot three, and though they wore girly white robes, their muscle mass rivaled Strider’s.

Most were male, but all were demon assassins trained to hunt, to destroy, and when warranted, to protect. Since they didn’t rush at him, ripping swords of fire from the air, as he knew they were very capable of doing, he assumed they were here for the latter.

He studied them, searching for answers. Twenty-three in total, but not one of them glanced in his direction. They kept their eyes straight ahead, their stances taut, their hands anchored behind their backs. Not a sound did they make. Not even the rasp of breath.

Physically, they … entranced him. And yeah, it was embarrassing as hell to admit that, even to himself. But the sheer magnetism of them was stunning. Hypnotic. A drug for his eyes.

They possessed all different shades of hair. From the darkest of midnight to the palest of snow, but his favorite was the gold. So pure, so fluid, a king’s ransom that had been melted and mixed with the dazzle of summer sun. Rich, vibrant. Almost … alive. No way he’d be teasing any of them about such prissy locks, though.

They might not be attacking him, might not even be looking at him, but death radiated from them.

Someone cleared his throat.

Strider blinked, Torin coming back into focus. His friend occupied the center of the hallway. Probably had the entire time, only Strider had lost sight of anything but the angels the moment he’d spied them. Yep. Em-bar-rass-ing.

“Why?” was all he asked.

Torin understood. “Aeron and William took Amun into hell on a rescue mission. And yeah, they got Legion out of there. She’s alive, healing, but Amun.”

Strider filled in the rest and wanted to punch a hole in the wall. The keeper of Secrets had new voices in his head.

He’d been with Amun for thousands upon thousands of years. Eons, what seemed countless millennia. He knew the warrior’s demon absorbed the darkest thoughts and deepest mysteries of anyone nearby. Things long buried, horrific, gruesome. Unwanted, humiliating. Soul-changing. And if Amun had been in hell, where demons roamed in their purest form, his head was now churning with all kinds of evil. Malevolent whispers, wicked images, both drowning the essence of who he was.

Or rather, who he’d been.

“The angels?” Strider gritted out. Yeah, he knew it was rude to discuss the beings as if they weren’t there, but he simply didn’t give a shit. He didn’t love many people, but he loved the other demon-possessed residents of this fortress. Even more than he loved himself, and that was a whole hell of a lot.

“They wanted to kill him, but—”

“Fuck no!” he roared. Anyone touched his friend, and they’d lose their hands—followed by their limbs, their organs and, when he tired of torturing them, their lives.

He hefted Ex off his shoulder and into his arms before easing her to the floor and stalking forward, already reaching for a blade.

Defeat sensed his need to destroy and laughed. Win!

“Stop.” Torin raised his arm to ward him off, even as he backtracked to maintain distance. “Let me finish, damn it! They wanted to kill him, were supposed to kill him, but they haven’t. Won’t.”

Yet hung in the air like a noose around his neck. Strider chose to ignore that noose—for the moment—and stopped, already panting and sweating with the force of his instant and white-hot rage.

Win? his demon whined.

No challenge has been issued. Therefore, he could back off without consequences.

Oh, he thought he heard, a whole lot of disappointment in the undertone.

“Why are they here, then?” he snapped, demanding an answer now. Or else.

Green eyes grew shadowed as Torin shifted from one foot to the other. His mouth opened and closed, the right explanation eluding him perhaps. “Amun didn’t just absorb new memories. He absorbed demon minions. Hundreds of them.”

“How? How the fuck is that possible? I’ve lived with him for centuries, and he’s never absorbed my demon.”

“Nor mine. But ours are High Lords who can bind themselves to humans. Those were mere underlings, and as you know, they can only bind themselves to, what? High Lords. Which they did, to his. He’s … tainted now, a danger far worse than the brush of my skin. The angels are guarding him. Limiting the contact he has with others, ensuring he doesn’t leave and … hurt. Himself, humans.”

Strider scowled. Amun rarely spoke, containing the secrets he unwittingly stole inside himself so that no one else would have to deal with them, fear them or be sickened by them. A grueling burden few could carry. Yet he did it because there was no one more concerned with the well-being of those around him. So, a danger? No. Strider refused to believe it.

“Explain better,” he commanded, offering Torin another chance to convince him.

Since they’d reunited a few months ago after centuries apart, he knew Torin was used to his smiles and jokes, but Disease didn’t flinch at Strider’s new vehemence. “Evil seeps from him. Just going into his room, you’ll feel its sticky gloom. You’ll crave things.” He shuddered. “Bad things. And you won’t be able to simply wish the disgusting desires away. They’ll cling to you for days.”

Strider still didn’t care and still wouldn’t believe it. “I want to see him.”

Only the slightest hesitation, as if the decree had been expected, then Torin nodded. “But the girl.” His words trailed off.

Behind him, there was a rustle of clothing, a feminine moan. Strider whipped around in time to see one of the angels lifting Ex into his arms and carrying her toward the unclaimed bedroom next to Amun’s.

He almost rushed forward and ripped her away from the heavenly creature. He’d dealt with an angel before—Lysander, leader of these warriors and the worst of the worst when it came to do-gooders—and knew such beings wouldn’t understand the depths of his hatred for the woman. They would see Haidee as an innocent human in need of sweet, tender care. But Amun was far more important than any Hunter’s treatment, so Strider remained in place.

“Just so you know, she’s worse than a demon,” he said, a lethal edge sharpening the truth in his tone. “So if you want to protect your charges, you’ll guard her like you’re guarding Amun. But don’t kill her,” he added before he could stop himself. Not that they would have. Still. A guy had to state his wants up front, so there would be no confusion later. “She has … information we need.”

The angel paused in his stride, head turning to Strider with unerring precision. Like Torin, his eyes were green. Unlike Torin, there were no shadows in them. Only clear, bright flames, crackling, intense … ready to strike like a bolt of lightning.

“I sense her infection.” His voice was deep, with the barest hint of smoke. “I will ensure she does not leave the fortress. And that she continues to live. For now.”

Infection? Strider knew nothing about an infection, but again, he didn’t care. “Thank you.” And hell, had he ever thought to thank a demon assassin for anything? Well, besides Aeron’s Olivia.

With a shake of his head, he wiped Ex and everything else from his thoughts and marched forward, trailing behind Torin.

At the end of the hallway, the last door on the right, Torin paused, drew in a sorrowful breath, and twisted the knob. “Be careful in there.” Then he moved aside, allowing Strider to breeze past him without a single moment of contact.

First thing Strider noticed was the air. Thick and dark, he could almost smell the brimstone … the bodies charred to ash. And the sounds … oh, gods, the sounds. Screams that scraped at his ears, muted, yet in no way forgettable. Thousands upon thousands of demons danced together, creating a dizzying chorus of agony.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, peering down. Amun writhed atop the mattress, clutching his ears, moaning and groaning. No, Strider realized a moment later. Those moans and groans weren’t coming from his friend. They were coming from him. Amun was silent, his mouth open in an endless cry he couldn’t quite release.

His dark skin was clawed to ribbons, those ribbons tattered and dried with blood both old and new. As an immortal soldier, he healed quickly. But those wounds … they looked as if they’d scabbed over, only to be ripped apart again. And again. And his butterfly tattoo, the mark of his demon, had once wrapped around his right calf. Only now, that tattoo moved. Sliding up his leg, undulating on his stomach, breaking apart to form hundreds of tiny butterflies, reconnecting into one, then disappearing behind his back.

How? Why?

Shaking, Strider studied his friend’s face. Amun’s lashes were fused together as if stitched, and the sockets underneath were so swollen he could have smuggled golf balls in there. Oh, gods. Sickness churned in Strider’s stomach, pushing bile into his throat. He knew what that swelling meant, recognized the pattern blunted nails had left behind.

Amun had tried to pluck out his own eyes.

To stop the images forming behind them?

That was the last coherent thought Strider had. The last thought he controlled.

The darkness shrouded him completely, burrowing into him, filling his mind, consuming him. There were knives strapped all over his body, he recalled. He should palm them, use them. Slice, oh, how he would slice. Himself,

Amun. The angels outside the room. Then the world. Blood would flow, an ever-thickening crimson. Flesh would peel like dried, rotted paint, and bone would snap in two, tiny shards falling to the floor, merely dust to be swept away.

He would drink the blood and eat the bones, but they wouldn’t be what sustained him. No, he would live off the shrieks and squeals his actions provoked. He would bathe in terror, exult in grief. And he would laugh, oh, how he would laugh.

He laughed now, the chilling sound like music to him.

Defeat wasn’t sure how to react. The demon cackled, then whimpered, then sank to the back of Strider’s mind. Afraid? Be afraid.

Something strong and hard banded around his forearms and jerked him backward, dragging him kicking and shouting out of the darkness and into light. Such bright light. His eyes teared, burned. But with the tears, with the burn, the images in his head washed clean and withered to cinder. Somewhat.

Strider blinked into focus. He was trembling violently, glazed with perspiration, his palms bleeding because he had grabbed his knives. Was still holding them. Only, he’d squeezed them by their blades, cutting through tendon into bone. The pain was severe but manageable as he opened his fingers and the weapons clattered to the floor.

One of the angels stood behind him, another in front of him. They were glowing from within, like twin suns just freed from a too-long eclipse; he fought to breathe, managed to suck in one mouthful of oxygen, then two. Thank the gods. No brimstone, no ash. Only the scent of beloved—and hated—morning dew. Hated because, with the fresh, clean scent, reality was brought into Technicolor focus.

That’s what Amun had to endure?

Strider had been given a taste, only a taste, yet his friend suffered with the gloom and soul-shattering urges all day, all night. No one could maintain his sanity when constantly buffeted against that kind of wickedness. Not even Amun.

“Warrior?” the angel in front of him prompted.

“I’m myself now,” he rasped. A lie. He might never be the same again.

He looked over the angel’s shoulder and saw Torin. They shared a horrified moment of understanding before he returned his attention to the angel and the situation at hand. “Why the hell are you just standing here? Someone chain him. He’s tearing himself apart.” Strider’s throat was raw, grinding the words into broken glass. “And for fuck’s sake, get him on an IV. He needs sustenance. Medicine.”

The two angels shared a look similar to the one he’d shared with Torin, only theirs was fraught with knowledge only achieved through battle and heartache, before one returned to his post at the wall and the other entered Amun’s bedroom.

The one at the wall said, “He has been on an IV before. Several times, actually. They do not last. The needles always find a way free, with or without his help. The chains, however, we can do. And before you demand we clean him and care for him, I will tell you that we have. We brush his teeth for him. We bathe him. We clean his wounds. We force-feed him. He is taken care of in every way possible.”

“What you’re doing isn’t enough,” Strider said.

“We are open to any ideas you have.”

Of course, he had no response to that. He might be in control of his thoughts again, but as Torin had promised, the need to kill, to truly hurt the innocent, hadn’t fled completely. It was there, like a film of slime on his skin.

He had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to scrub himself clean, even if he removed every layer of flesh he possessed.

How was Amun going to survive this?




CHAPTER TWO


IN BRIEF MOMENTS OF LUCIDITY, Amun knew who he was, what he used to be and the monster he’d become. He wanted to die, finally, blessedly, but no one would take mercy on him and deliver the finishing blow. And no matter how hard he tried—and oh, did he try—he couldn’t seem to inflict enough damage on his own body to do the deed himself.

So he fought, trying to expunge the black images and disgusting impulses constantly bombarding him, yet at the same time hold them inside. An impossible challenge, and one he would soon lose. He knew it. There were too many, they were too strong, and they’d already burned away his immortal soul, the last tether that had bound them to his will. Not that he’d ever had control.

He’d fight with every fiber of his being, though. Until the very end. Because when those images and impulses, those demons, were loosed on an unsuspecting public …

A shudder rippled through him. He knew what would happen, could see the destruction in his mind. Could taste the sweet flavor of devastation in his mouth.

Sweet … yes …

And like that, this newest moment of clarity evaporated like mist. So many images swam through his head, a deluge of memories, and he didn’t know which belonged to him and which belonged to the demons—or their victims. Beatings. Rapes. Murders. Rapture in the face of each. Pain. Trauma. Death. Paralyzing fear that consumed as it destroyed.

Just then, he only knew that fire smoldered around him, melting his skin, blistering his throat. That thousands of tiny, stinging bugs had managed to dig their way into his veins, and they were still feasting on him. That the smell of rot filled his nose, and had infused his every cell. That—

Dead bodies were piled around him, on top of him, smashing and burying him, he suddenly realized. He was trapped, suffocating.

Help! he screamed inside his head. Someone help me! But no one ever came. Hours passed, perhaps days. His frantic struggling waned until he could only smack his lips. He was thirsty. Oh, gods, was he thirsty. He needed something, anything, to wash away the ash caked inside his mouth.

Please! Help!

Still no one came. This was his punishment. He was to die here. Until he came back to life to suffer some more. Desperation renewed his struggle to free himself—but that only made things worse. There were too many bodies, the weight of them drowning him in a ceaseless sea of blood, rot and despair. There was no hope of escape. He truly was going to die here.

But then his surroundings changed again, and he was looking down on that mountainous, decaying pile, grinning and holding another body to toss on top.

This one had died too soon, he thought, gaze shifting to the motionless female soul he held in his scaled, gnarled arms. Souls were as real and corporal down here as humans were up there, and for seventy-two years he’d kept this one chained. She’d been helpless as he’d sliced her piece by agonizing piece. He’d laughed when she’d begged for mercy, revived her when she’d thought to find that same mercy in sleep, and forced her to watch as he did the same to her beloved family, two members he also owned. So much fun.

A female’s tears had never tantalized him so exquisitely, and he’d meant to enjoy her suffering at least another seventy years. But he’d gotten carried away this morning, his claws just a little too sharp, the tips sinking just a little too deep.

Oh, well.

He was Torment, and there were a thousand other souls awaiting his attention. Why mourn the loss of this one?

He rid himself of the body with the barest flick of his wrists. She landed, the other damned mortals clanking around her. He waited, expectant, and was soon rewarded. One of his minions, his hungry, hungry minions, crept to the body and began to feast, snapping and hissing at any other creatures who attempted to thieve the delicious meal.

Such a pretty picture they made, the scaled, crimson-eyed fiend and the naughty human who’d dared to die before he’d finished with her. Oh, well, he thought again. Her soul would soon wither, materialize, and solidify somewhere in this endless pit, and if he were the one to find her, he would have another chance to torture her.

Whistling under his breath, he turned and strolled away.

In the next instant, Amun was swept out of hell in a blinding gale of fury and sorrow, Torment no longer, but a female. Human. She huddled in a corner, no more than twelve years old, the harsh material that covered her body like something out of a historic reenactment, tears scalding her cheeks, fear a living entity inside her chest. She was dirty, pale, the straw surrounding her the only source of comfort.

“Have you forgotten how I saved you?” a hard male voice asked. In Greek. Ancient Greek.

His booted feet slapped the ground as he paced in front of her. He was on the short side, his face scarred by the pox and his body rotund. His name was Marcus, but she called him the Bad Man. Yes, he’d saved her, but he’d beaten her, too. When her words pleased him, she was given food, shelter. When they did not, she was forgotten, locked away, terrified of being sold as a slave.

She didn’t want to be terrified anymore.

He’d plucked her from the hut where she’d lived her entire life. Until he had arrived, she’d been too afraid to leave, even though there’d been no one left to care for her. Somehow, he had known about the terrors that filled her every dream, both awake and asleep—memories no little girl should have, much less replay over and over again, eyes open or closed—and he had promised to help her.

For some reason, she had hated him at first sight, just as she’d begun to hate everything—herself, her hut, the world—but in her desperation, she had believed him. Now she wished she had run.

“Have you. Forgotten how. I saved you? How the evil one wanted you dead, how I whisked you away before he could return? Don’t make me ask again.”

“N-no, I haven’t forgotten,” she replied in that same lost language, the words trembling from her throat in a panicked rush.

“Good. Nor will you forget how the evil one infected you. Or what, exactly, the evil one is.”

She didn’t understand the part about being infected, but the rest had been drilled into her head. “He is a Lord.”

“And who killed your family?”

“A Lord.” Her voice was stronger now, a flash of mutilated bodies appearing in her mind.

A memory quickly followed, the Bad Man disappearing from view. A memory only three weeks old, and yet, it seemed an eternity had passed already.

“You were promised to someone,” her parents’ murderer had said, his voice eerie, unnatural, as he’d splashed over the crimson river between their bodies. He was the evil one, and something in his voice had caused a blanket of ice to form around her soul. He’d had no face, and his feet hadn’t quite touched the floor. He was tall and thin, a black robe swathing him from head to toe, shielding every inch of him, floating around him and dancing in a wind she couldn’t feel. “They should have kept their promise.”

“Who are you?” she’d asked shakily, terrified and numb all at once. She had only stumbled upon this scene a few minutes ago and hadn’t quite processed what she was seeing.

Now, looking back, with the Bad Man’s warnings about the creature’s evilness ringing in her ears, she quaked. Despite her wonderings, the memory continued on.

“Who I am matters not. Who you are is all that matters,” the faceless being said. He scooped her up, obviously planning to leave with her, but she fought him with all her might. When he couldn’t subdue her, he stabbed her. Once, in the side, barely missing vital organs.

The pain that consumed her was devastating. And yet, with the pain, more of that aberrant cold stormed to life, seeping from her. A cold that didn’t just numb. A cold that raged liked a blizzard inside her.

And then, ice actually crystallized over her skin, seeping from her pores. What she was seeing couldn’t be real. Couldn’t possibly be real.

As the creature strode outside the hut, still holding her, she reached up and pushed at the face she still couldn’t see, skin meeting skin. He howled with an agony that matched her own.

For several seconds, neither of them could pull away. Perhaps they were locked together, frozen by the ice. Then he dropped her, and she scrambled backward, bleeding, hurting. Still howling, he disappeared, there one moment, gone the next. Leaving her reeling, uncertain of what had happened and how she’d done what she’d done.

“How are you going to repay these Lords, my darling Hadiee?” the Bad Man asked, drawing her back to the present. She didn’t like him any better than she liked the evil one.

Another answer that had been drilled into her head. One she wouldn’t forget, one that was as much a part of her as her arms and legs. Perhaps more so, because it was a shield of armor around her, keeping her safe. “Slaughter them all.” They were murderers, after all, and they deserved to die.

A pause, silence, and then soft fingers briefly ruffled her hair. “That’s a good girl. I’ll train you yet.”

A split second later, the image inside Amun’s mind changed. He realized he was no longer reliving a memory, her memory, but was now staring down at the girl. She was bathed in light, older, a woman now, and sleeping so innocently on a bed of silver silk.

There was something familiar about her name, even though he knew she had changed it. Hadiee then, but Haidee now. There was something familiar about her surroundings, too, but his mind refused to bridge the gap from questions to answers.

She had a shoulder-length crop of pale hair that she’d streaked with pink. Her face was lush in its femininity, despite the silver eyebrow ring she sported. Perhaps because her dark blond brows arched like a cupid’s bow.

Lashes thick enough to be a raven’s wing fluttered open, one moment fanning over the rise of perfectly sculpted cheekbones, the next framing eyes of pearl-gray, the next, fanning again. She fought to awaken, as if sensing his scrutiny, but failed, allowing him to continue.

Her delicate nose led to lips that reminded him of a freshly blooming rose. Her skin appeared eternally flushed, as if she were constantly lost to arousal, the undertones kissed by the sun. No, he thought next. Not just kissed by the sun, but sprinkled with its rays, as if she was lit from the inside, a thousand tiny diamonds crushed into her flesh. Not like the Harpies, whose luminous, multihued flesh rivaled the brightest rainbow. This woman, this Haidee, didn’t actually glow. She was simply beauty personified.

He could have watched her forever, he mused. She was his first glimpse of paradise in what seemed an infinite nightmare. But, of course, even this was to be taken from him.

Though he fought, the image shifted again, orange-gold flames suddenly filling his line of vision. Plumes of smoke curled upward, painting the acrid air with what looked to be a demon’s breath.

A city burned in front of him, huts crackling as timber fell and grass disintegrated. Mothers screamed for their children, and fathers lay facedown in the blood-soaked dirt, weapons protruding from their backs. All of them wore the same type of clothing little Hadiee—Haidee now, he reminded himself—had sported. Dark, threadbare linen, rough and stained.

He wasn’t the only one watching the destruction. Eleven warriors stood at his sides, their eyes glowing bright red, their skin merely a mask that concealed the hideous monsters lurking underneath. Monsters with sharp-tipped horns knifing from their skulls, poisonous fangs jutting from their mouths, and oozing scales rather than peach-tinted flesh.

Their gore-covered chests lifted and fell with the force of their breaths, their nostrils flaring. Their hands clenched around blades as their thoughts invaded his mind. More. They needed more. More flames, more screams, more death. For only when the entire world was flooded with the blood and bones of these precious mortals would they be satisfied. Fulfilled. Except.

Amun didn’t want to kill just then. He wanted to return to the little girl. He wanted to hold her close and tell her everything was going to be all right, and that he would save her from the Bad Man. He wanted to return to the woman. He wanted to curl beside her and hear her tell him everything was going to be all right, and that she would save him from the demons.

And he would. He would return.

Amun struggled to reach her. He didn’t care when skin tore and bone snapped. No, he welcomed the pain. Liked it, even. Perhaps too much. And he didn’t care when flames rushed to him, licked over him, hundreds of spiked tongues leaking acid. He welcomed the sting, because with these newest wounds, the bugs in his veins were finally freed. They raced out, crawling all over his body, the bed.

The bed. Yes, he was atop a bed, he thought hazily.

Suddenly he could feel the shredded sheets underneath him, every savage gash carved in his muscles, the pain so much greater than before, and not so welcome now. Worse, steel pressed into his wrists and ankles, preventing him from stanching the flow of blood or shooing away the bugs.

Though every instinct he possessed shouted that he continue to fight, he forced himself to stop thrashing. In and out he breathed, realizing the air was heavy and coated with decay. But underneath the rot, he smelled something else … something crisp, like the earth. Pulsing, vibrant life.

And beneath the flames, he could feel the sweetest kiss of winter ice, soothing his burns, gifting him with tendrils of strength. What—who—was responsible?

He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were sealed shut. He frowned. Why were his lids sealed shut? And the steel … chains, he thought as the haze began to fade. Binding him, holding him prisoner. Why?

A startling moment of lucidity.

He hissed in horror, even as he clung to every thought now forming in his head, praying he continued to remember. He was Amun, keeper of the demon of Secrets. He had loved, and he had lost. He had killed, but he had also saved. He was not an animal, a brutal killer, not anymore, but a man. An immortal warrior who safeguarded what was his.

He had entered hell, knowing the consequences but willingly overlooking them. Because he couldn’t bear to see his friend Aeron hurting, crazed with the knowledge that his surrogate daughter was trapped in hell’s torturous blaze. So Amun had gone, and had emerged with hundreds of other demons and souls all trapped inside him, writhing, screaming, desperate for escape.

But he was home now, and he needed to die. Had to die. He was a danger to his friends, the world. He would die.

There would be no comforting Haidee, nor taking comfort from the woman she’d become, for he could never allow himself to leave this room, his sanctuary. His coffin. And that, he found, was what he would mourn most. Whether he’d encountered her soul in hell and absorbed her memories there, or had stumbled upon her years ago, her voice lost in the dark, thorny mire of his mind until now, he would never know. This was it for him.

This was the end.

Flames.

Screams.

Evil.

Once again they battled for his attention and threatened to overwhelm him.

Amun knew he couldn’t hold them off for long. Too demanding, so demanding … He focused on the earthy perfume and cooling breeze, head automatically turning to the left, following invisible threads wafting in the air. Leading from this bedroom … into the one next to it?

Power.

Peace.

Salvation.

Perhaps he could leave this room, he thought then. Perhaps he could be saved. That small sip of salvation, the barest taste … a frosted apricot, juice so sweet his throat would forever rejoice.

He just had to—flames, screams, evil—get there. Must … fight. FLAMES. Amid the growing black thunder in his brain, Amun jerked at his bonds. SCREAMS. Already torn flesh surrendered, and already broken bone dusted to powder. EVIL. But he couldn’t pull himself free. He’d already used up his strength, he realized. He had nothing left.

FLAMES, SCREAMS, EVIL.

As he slumped onto the mattress, he laughed silently, bitterly. He’d lost, and so easily, too. He’d truly, finally lost. He couldn’t even call for his friends. A single word spoken, a single sound made, and everything inside him would spew out, his clash against the evil all for nothing.

FLAMESSCREAMSEVIL.

Closer … closer now …

A shocking burst of hope as that sense of defeat shattered.

If he couldn’t reach whoever was in that bedroom, perhaps he … she … they … could reach him.

As the evil swamped him once more, Amun shouted as soundlessly as he’d laughed. Come to me!




CHAPTER THREE


COME TO ME!

The desperate male voice invaded Haidee Alexander’s mind, a thriving fire amid a raging ice storm, dragging her from a cloying sleep and into total awareness. She jerked upright, panting, wild gaze scanning, mind cataloging her options in seconds, just as she’d trained it to do since being captured by the demon. Unfamiliar bedroom with one window, one door, offering two possible escape routes.

The door, varnished to a luxuriant shine. Scratches around the handle, meaning it was well-used. Probably locked. The window, thick glass, unstreaked by hand or bird. The pane wasn’t nailed shut, then. Couldn’t be, not to maintain that level of cleanliness.

Window, best bet.

Alone. Had to act now.

Riding a cloud of urgency, Haidee threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Her knees instantly buckled, too feeble to hold her weight. Not normal. Usually she could awaken and five seconds later be ready to run a marathon. A this-is-the-only-way-to-survive marathon.

This weakness. How long had she been out this time?

She lumbered to a shaky stand, trying to find her balance as she replayed the happenings of the last weeks through her head. She’d been overpowered by Defeat, the demon she’d been hunting. He’d carted her to what seemed a thousand different locations, trying to lose her boyfriend, Micah, and his crew of four. Hunters, all of them.

Don’t think about that right now. You’ll lose focus.

Escape. That’s what mattered.

She tripped her way to the window, but just before she tugged on the pane, she stilled. In all their days together, Defeat had never left her side. He hadn’t even trusted her to go to the bathroom or shower by herself, but here she was, on her own.

So, where was he now?

Two options. Either the demon had reached his final destination and was confident enough in the surrounding security to venture off on his own, or someone had stolen her from him.

Next thought: if someone had stolen her, they wouldn’t have abandoned her. They would have wanted her to know their intentions. Good or bad.

So. Defeat had her where he wanted her. The door and the window were probably wired, so there was a very good chance an alarm would sound the moment she touched either one.

Would an army of demons come gunning for her?

Probably. But she didn’t care. She had to try. Giving up wasn’t in her nature.

Haidee gripped the warm edge of the panel and shoved. Cursed. Nothing, no movement. Not just because her fingers were as weak as her knees, but because the pane was sealed. She’d been wrong about the cleanliness factor, but at least she’d also been wrong about the wire.

Still. She’d have to find another way out. And she would. She’d been in far worse situations than this and survived. Hell, thrived.

Steeling herself, she peered outside to note what she’d have to overcome once she left this place. The sun shone brightly, amber rays causing her eyes to tear. She wiped each drop away with the back of her wrist. No girly weaknesses allowed. Her prison rested high on a mountaintop, a barbed gate—electric?—stretching skyward and wrapping around the perimeter. She’d encountered similar gates in the past and knew this one would be impossible to climb without inflicting so much damage she’d die on the other side. If she even made it over.

Still. There were hundreds of trees, each more lush and green than the last, their limbs stretching in welcome. Those limbs would hide her, their leaves draping her and allowing her to search for a way to bypass that gate. And if there wasn’t a way to bypass it, she’d forgo cover and climb. Bottom line, death was preferable to staying here and being tortured by a demon.

Okay. So. New plan. Shatter the glass and shimmy to land. Easy.

Yeah. Right. I’ve never been that lucky. Haidee twisted and surged through the room, her steps not getting any smoother. Clearly, whatever drug Defeat had repeatedly injected into her vein still poured through her.

Concentrate, woman. The spacious chamber boasted a king-size canopied bed with a white swath overlaying the top and falling to the floor like clouds sprinkled with fairy dust. A floral print love seat and a small glass table perched in a tiny alcove, illuminated by a chandelier weeping with glittering crystal. None of which she could throw.

To the left was a freshly polished desk and matching chair. No paperweights or knickknacks rested on the surface, and the drawers were empty. To the right was a full-length mirror surrounded by an ebony frame. Both were bolted to the wall. Next she tried the door. As she’d suspected, it was locked.

Panting, fury blooming, she kicked the bench at the foot of the bed. The heavy wood didn’t move an inch. And shit, that hurt! She yelped, hopping and rubbing her stinging toe. Someone had removed her shoes, leaving her barefoot. Something she wished she’d noticed before.

Damn, damn, damn. The luxury and wealth here made a mockery of the hovel she’d scrimped and saved and finally managed to buy for herself, yet there wasn’t a damn thing she could use to aid her escape. What the hell was she going to do?

Come to me!

The tortured, pain-filled voice overwhelmed her senses, the words like licks of fire, somehow heating her up. A voice? Heating her? Could be a hallucination, yeah, but she’d seen and experienced all kinds of weirdness throughout her too-long life to simply write this off.

“Who said that?” She spun, fighting a wave of dizziness and automatically reaching for the blades she kept anchored at her thighs.

Only silence greeted her—and she sported no weapons. Defeat had taken her knives, guns and poisons, foolishly thinking he’d triumphed. But that’s what he—it—did. Broke down the opponent through any means necessary, destroying all thoughts of achieving victory, no matter the cost of surrender.

Not that he’d broken her.

He’d learn. Haidee was unbreakable.

Come to … me … Weaker now, riding a tide of despair, but no less urgent.

Not a hallucination, she thought. Couldn’t be. That heat … So, who was he? A prisoner like her? There was something oddly familiar about his voice, as if she’d heard it before and it had made an impression. Yet she couldn’t specifically place it. Was he a Hunter? Had they met during training? At one of the thousand debriefings she’d attended?

Come …

Her ears twitched, and she turned, following the sound of his voice this time, determined to help him, just in case he was a Hunter as she suspected.

Come … please …

There. She frowned. A wall. Was he on the other side? The fact that she’d heard him certainly suggested he was nearby.

Slowly she approached the wall. She padded her hands along the smooth, delicate paper, finding no hint of a doorway, and yet … Haidee dropped to her knees, gaze zeroing in on a tiny gap between crown molding and floor. A small crack of light seeped through.

No, not light. Not fully. Woven with that stream of light and dancing dust motes was a wisp of black, a writhing phantom, curling up, inching toward her.

With another yelp, she scrambled backward. The black tendril followed her, avoiding her pants and her T-shirt to reach the skin bared at her wrist. But when it touched her, a screech rent the air and the … thing was sucked back through the crack, returning to the other room.

What. The. Hell?

Had she just met one of the demons, stripped of its human cloak? Was that what tormented the man who’d called her? Probably.

Her fight-or-flight instinct screamed flight.

Haidee replied, Screw you, flight! I won’t leave a man behind.

Teeth grinding, she scraped her nails over the wallpaper until she created a groove. Then she began ripping, tossing the pieces she extracted over her shoulder. She worked feverishly and finally revealed enough of the wall to find the outline of the door.

No knob. Of course.

Through faint scrape patterns on the floor, she knew the door had once opened from the right. Which meant there would have been a knob at one point. She had only to find where the demons had spackled over the hole its removal would have left behind….

She scraped the center of the right side, cringing at the grating sound she created, until flecks of white chalk began to embed in her nails. Bingo! Clawing harder, deeper, she removed the spackle as fast as she could. Took half an hour to reach the other side, and by then, ice coated her entire body in a chilly sheen.

Her arms trembled violently, her sense of urgency increasing. She was swiftly using up her reservoir of strength and knew she wouldn’t be able to stay on her feet much longer.

When she collapsed, she wanted to be outside, the man with her.

Haidee latched her fingers around the edges of the hole and jerked. The door eked open a mere fraction of an inch. Fighting disappointment, she gave another jerk—only to be rewarded with another fraction. Get in the game, Alexander. You can do this. Deep breath in, hold, hold … As she exhaled, she tugged so hard she feared her spine would snap. Finally. Real movement. Not much, yet just enough. When the door stopped, it stopped hard. She lost her grip and fell to her ass.

Pinpricks of starlight dotted her gaze, but when the crackling orange and yellow washed away, she focused on the gap she’d created. A sweet sense of victory flooded her as she popped to her feet. Her knees rebelled with every step forward, but she didn’t pause.

She squeezed her way through the opening, shirt snagging on a sharp protrusion, then ripping as she just kind of fell into the other room. When she balanced, she quickly took stock, readying herself for anything. Another bedroom, this one a mix of light and dark. There was a thrashing man on the only bed, smoke rising from him, undulating.

Her gaze locked on the smoke, and she gasped. It was as beautiful as it was horrifying. An ocean of crumbled black diamonds, punctuated by the occasional sparkle of paired rubies—like eyes, watching, lethally intent—and damning flashes of white. Sharp, like fangs.

Come on, come on. Time’s wasting. For some reason, looking away actually hurt, shooting a pain from her temples to her belly, but she did it, refocusing on the man and closing the distance between them. The moment she reached him, bile scalded her throat, and she nearly lost her last meal. Fruit and bread that Defeat had grudgingly given her. All those injuries.

What had the demon done to him? Peeled him? Lit him on fire? He was—

Oh, God. Oh, dear God. Eyes widening, she covered her mouth with shaky hands. No. No!

Despite the savaged body, the swollen, nearly unrecognizable face, she knew who writhed before her. Micah. Her boyfriend. Same dark skin—what remained of it—and same muscled frame. Same inky hair he constantly smoothed from his brow. No wonder she’d recognized that battered voice.

Oh, God. The demon must have caught him while he’d chased after her, trying to save her.

Tears rained down her cheeks, crystallizing into ice as they fell. She almost crumpled into a sobbing heap. She’d dreamed of this man long before she’d ever met him. Had loved him long before she’d ever met him. She’d thought him a memory that hadn’t quite been wiped clean after—

Nope. Don’t go down that road, either. Those kinds of thoughts would paralyze her as nothing else could. Micah. She’d think only about Micah now. He needed her.

About seven months ago, she discovered he wasn’t simply a memory or even a figment of her imagination. He was real. She’d thought, Surely this is a sign we’re meant to be together. A point further proven when they were both assigned to the same demon-hunting mission in Rome, and then again when he’d asked her out, as attracted to her as she was to him. She’d said yes without any hesitation.

Except the real man hadn’t lived up to her imaginings.

There’d been no bone-deep connection. No earth-shattering awareness. She’d blamed herself, and rightly so, and had tried to force the bond. Because of her visions, she’d known—knew—on a level she didn’t quite understand that he would make her happy. That he was her future. That he could at last melt the unnatural ice that still swirled inside her.

So she’d stayed with him, all the while thinking the connection would soon spark. It never had. And though they were still seeing each other and were totally exclusive, she’d always held a little piece of herself back. She hadn’t even slept with him yet. But now … connection. Sizzle. And it was everything she’d expected to feel for him.

Here, now, she thought she might never again be whole without him. As if she’d finally found the last piece of a puzzle.

Guilt suddenly swarmed her. She hadn’t been the best girlfriend, holding herself back as she had, yet still he’d searched for her, still he’d challenged a Lord of the Underworld for her. And now, he might die for her.

“Oh, baby,” she managed to croak past a constricted throat. “What did he—” they? “—do to you?”

She reached out, the shadows hissing as they inched backward, away from her, away from him, as if afraid to be near her. She paid them no heed. As gently as she was able, she slid one of Micah’s pulverized hands through the steel cuff that bound him. The amount of blood and the crushed bone allowed for an easy glide and also had her swallowing bile at an astonishing rate.

Could he recover from this? Could anyone?

Thankfully, her touch seemed to calm him rather than hurt him further. The thrashing became less violent, and he eventually relaxed against the mattress. Haidee moved to the other side and freed his other wrist. By the time his ankles were unchained, the slightest hint of a smile curled his lips.

Her chest contracted at the sight of it, both an agony and a blessing. He was damaged, but he was alive. Would he be grateful for that, though? He might never be able to fight again.

Didn’t matter. She had to save him.

Biggest problem: she couldn’t carry him. He was too heavy. And he certainly couldn’t walk. She didn’t have a medical degree, but she’d bet a fortune that half the bones in his body were broken. Still. She couldn’t leave him behind, either.

She studied him more intently, praying for a solution. Instead, what she found had her gasping in outrage. Those bastards! Of all the cruel things they’d done, this was the worst. They’d branded him. Etched a jagged-winged butterfly—the mark of their demons—into his calf. Just to taunt him.

“I’ll make them pay, baby.” Her hands coiled into tight fists, ready to strike. “I swear it.”

At the sound of her voice, he shifted, angling toward her. He even tried to reach out, the muscles in his forearm bunching with the strain. The action proved to be too much for him, and the arm hung uselessly. A second later, the thrashing started up again.

Cooing, Haidee eased beside him and smoothed away the hair sticking to his brow, just as she knew he liked. The first moment of contact, she experienced a jolt of undiluted heat. The ice that was her constant companion, a part of who and what she was, cracked. Droplets melted, dripping. Instantly Micah calmed, his sweat drying as if he’d absorbed her deepest chill.

Nothing like that had ever happened before, and the sensation disconcerted her. A side effect of what had been done to him, perhaps?

Bastards, she thought again, her molars gnashing together. In this life or the next—and she was always given a “next”—she would punish them.

Spiderwebs suddenly wove in front of her eyes, gossamer threads laced with a shot of fatigue. Determined, she swept them away. She couldn’t deteriorate. Not now. Micah needed her.

Haidee?

His voice startled her, but she quickly recovered. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

A soft sigh echoed, a whisper of contentment. The breathy sound stroked her—even though his mouth had never moved and his lips had never parted. Impossible.

Right?

“Micah? How are you talking to me?” Sweet, sweet, Haidee.

Again, his mouth hadn’t moved, but again, she’d heard him. And she knew she wasn’t imagining his voice. She couldn’t be. She’d heard him before ever entering the room.

That could only mean … Her eyes widened in astonishment. He was speaking inside her mind. Had been speaking inside her mind the entire time. That was new for them, too, and far more disconcerting than the heat.

How was he doing it? How could the Lords have caused this?

Reason it out later. “I’m going to look for weapons, okay? Something, anything.” Could she even stand? Her muscles were vibrating, her veins filling with sludge. “And then I’m going to find a way—”

No! Don’t leave. There was a panicked pause. Need you. Please.

“I won’t leave the room, I swear, not without you, but I have to—”

No! No, no, no! Babbling now, his body tensing. You have to stay.

“Okay, baby, okay. I’m here. I’ll stay.” Soft, gentle, the promise left her before she could consider the consequences. Not that they would matter. She would rather hand herself over to Defeat, gift wrapped on a silver platter, than cause this man any more grief. “I won’t budge from this spot. Promise.”

Need you, he said again, barely audible this time.

“You’ve got me. You’ve always got me.” She stretched out, mindful of his injuries, and curled herself around his fragile frame, offering what comfort she could. She knew what it was like to suffer alone. She didn’t want that for him. Ever.

Perhaps this was even a blessing in disguise. Micah probably wouldn’t survive his wounds if he left the bed anytime soon. And this way, when the demons returned—and they would return, they wouldn’t leave her for long—she would be here to fight them, to keep them from hurting him even more.

Yeah, they’d strike back and probably kill her. And yeah, she gagged, thinking of what would happen to her after that death, a fate so much worse than being stabbed, shot, or even burned alive. All of which she’d endured before.

She’d told herself she wouldn’t consider what happened after she died, but she didn’t stop herself this time. Not even when fear swept through her, consuming her, chilling her.

If she managed to kill any of the Lords, they would be eternally lost, but she would be reformed, returned to the age she was now, minus any good memories she’d built of this lifetime, consumed only with the bad, with the hate. It was an agonizing process that made her scream and beg and pray for an eternal death of her own.

A process that had taught her to avoid death at all costs. But this time … she would die willingly, eagerly, taking as many Lords as she could with her. And then, then she could return for the rest of them.

Then she could avenge Micah.




CHAPTER FOUR


AMUN BLINKED OPEN HIS EYES. Or tried to. The action proved difficult, since his lashes felt as if they’d been glued together. And maybe they had been. If one of his friends had punked him, he was going to retaliate. With scissors. He kept tugging and finally managed to separate top from bottom. Immediately his eyeballs burned and watered, everything around him seemingly smeared with Vaseline.

Worse, the light seeping in from the only window still managed to lance his retinas like blade-tipped lasers. He turned his head away from the reflective glass and studied his surroundings as best he could.

He frowned—and damn, that hurt, tugging and splitting multiple cuts on his lips. He was in his own bedroom, but … there was a hole in the wall. A hole that led into the chamber next door. A hole he hadn’t made, and to his knowledge, his friends hadn’t, either. He liked to think they would have asked his permission before redesigning his room like that.

How was he here, anyway?

Last thing he remembered, he’d been deep inside hell, fire crackling all around him as he fought evil spirits and basically got the shit kicked out of both his body and his mind. Demon thoughts and human memories had bombarded him, like bombs going off inside his head, and they—

Were still there, he realized, frown deepening. The dark thoughts and memories were still there, but though they were churning, agitated, they remained at a distance, as if afraid to gain his attention. Why?

A feminine moan stroked his ears, shocking him into concentrating.

Amun stiffened, his attention shifting again, this time landing on his mattress. Or what should have been mattress. Beside him was a woman. A very beautiful woman who was curled on her side, facing him, her warm breath caressing him. One of her arms was bent over his stomach, as if she couldn’t bear to let him go, with her hand resting over his heart. Monitoring the beat?

That arm was tattooed from wrist to shoulder, completely sleeving her. He saw faces—human—each one glowing with life and love. Numbers, too. And dates, maybe? Though, if so, some of those dates were from way back. There were also names: Micah, Viola, Skye. And phrases: Darkness always loses to light and You have loved and been loved.

He knew her. Somehow he knew her. How—

The answer slid into place. Haidee, the one from his visions, or whatever they’d been. The little girl he’d yearned to comfort, and the woman he’d longed to touch. She was here.

How was she here?

He lifted his hand to smooth the pale hair plastered on her cheeks, and his muscle went death match on his bone, both aching in protest. Damn. What the hell was wrong with him?

As carefully as he was able, he moved his arm closer to his face, every inch an unsteady milestone, but not stopping until he had a clear look. Seeing the ruined flesh, the knotted muscle, he wanted to curse.

He’d been chained, maybe tortured. By Hunters?

Had they tortured the girl, and his friends had rescued her, too?

As rage sparked inside him at the thought of her mistreatment, his gaze returned to her. She hadn’t moved, was still sleeping so peacefully. Dark circles marred the delicate tissue under her eyes. There were a few smudges of dirt lining her cheeks and a bruise on the underside of her jaw. Signs of wear and tear, but not torture. The rage muted to a low simmer.

She’s fine. And you’ll defend her. Or rather, he would defend her until she healed and he had to send her on her way. He wasn’t safe to be around anymore. Not for long.

For now, though, she’s yours.

Suddenly she jolted upright, her gaze swinging left and right. “Who said that?” Without waiting for a reply, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood. She raced to the window.

What was she doing? Haidee, he mentally tsked, you shouldn’t be running around like that. You need time to mend.

As if she’d heard the thought, she spun around and faced him. Eyes of the sweetest pearl-gray widened as they studied him from top to bottom. “Oh, baby. You’re getting better. Thank God!”

Baby. She’d called him baby. The first endearment ever to be directed at him, and his ears soaked it up like nectar from the heavens.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m so sorry.” She tripped back to his side. “We have to get out of here. Can you walk?”

I don’t think so. Both of his femurs were cracked, if not broken entirely. He recognized the heavy ache underneath the muscle. Besides that, he was home. He didn’t want to leave.

“Okay, okay. We’ll think of another way, then.” Even as she spoke, she scanned the room a second time. “I thought I’d have to fight them from the bed, but they must not have come back.” She offered him a fleeting smile. Fleeting, but like a ray of sunshine all the same. “Their mistake.”

He blinked. That was the second time she’d—correctly—responded to something he hadn’t spoken aloud. You … hear me?

“Yes. I know, I know. It’s weird.” That gaze never stopped scanning. For weapons? An escape route? “I was surprised, too. I don’t know how it’s happening, but I’m grateful. If I hadn’t heard you from next door, I would have left without you.”

No one had ever heard him like that. No one. He’d always been the one to know what others were thinking, and he found he was … uncomfortable with this new development.

How was she doing it? Could she hear everything? All the secrets floating through his head? Could she even hear his whimpering demon? What about the others, the new ones who liked to scream? Or could she only hear what he projected at her?

“Can you still not speak?” she asked gently.

Test time. He allowed the answer to form in his mind, but he kept a firm mental hold on it.

“Can you?” she insisted. She reached out and traced a fingertip along the seam of his lips, careful, so careful not to hurt him. The you’ve-just-reached-the-freezer-section coolness of her skin delighted him.

She hadn’t heard, he realized, even as he shivered at her silken touch. Such a surreal moment. She acted as if she knew him … liked him. Baby, he thought, dazed all over again.

No. I still can’t talk. He pushed the words at her, watching for the minutest reaction.

An angry sigh escaped her, and the corner of her lip curled in disgust. “Those bastards. Did they do something to your voice box? “

Bastards? No. She’d heard that time. Which meant there were limits. Thank the gods. No one, especially such an innocent human, should have to listen to the evil inside his head. No one, especially such a fragile female, could survive its gloom. Even now, Amun wasn’t sure he could.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asked. “How you got here?”

He shook his head, slow, measured, trying not to open up any more wounds. Problem was, he was utterly covered in abrasions. The smallest action tugged too-tight skin and split scabs.

“Okay, then.” Her next sigh was sorrowful. Her hand remained on him, as if she couldn’t bear to sever contact. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

He nodded to encourage her, winced.

“Be still, baby,” she said, all concerned mother hen and determined commando. “Just listen, okay, and try not to panic.” She drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. “The Lords of the Underworld have us. We’re in a structure on top of a hill. Their fortress in Buda, maybe? I didn’t see any landmarks to verify my suspicions. Though why they’d risk bringing us here, I don’t know. Last I heard, this was where they were keeping two of the artifacts. You think they’d want us as far away from those as possible.”

The artifacts. There were four, and each was needed to locate, and thereby destroy, Pandora’s box, saving him and his friends from certain death. Besides decapitation and other violent demises, that box was the only thing that could separate man from demon, wiping man from existence and unleashing the then-crazed demons on an unsuspecting world. This woman knew two of the artifacts were here—the All-Seeing Eye and the Cage of

Compulsion—yet she expected the Lords to be upset that Amun, a Lord himself, was near them.

She didn’t know he was a Lord, he realized. She thought he was a … Hunter?

Like … her? All that disgust, all that anger directed at the Lords … the notion seemed likely. But, if she knew him, why didn’t she know who—what—he was? And if she was a Hunter, why would his friends have placed her inside his room?

His gaze skidded to the hole in the wall. Maybe his friends didn’t know she was here. But.

She thought she knew him, and he definitely recognized her. At least somewhat. He knew her name. Haidee. Could picture her face softened by sleep, so lovely. He knew they’d met somewhere, interacted in some way, but not where or when.

For once, his demon wasn’t spewing out answers.

This was so damn confusing, and his weakened condition wasn’t helping. Maybe she had tricked him into thinking they’d met, so he’d be more inclined to help her. But again, how? Why? The artifacts? Would anyone except a Hunter be after them?

His stomach twisted into little knots. There was only one way to find out the truth about this beautiful woman whose presence alone both muddled and cleared his brain. That way was dangerous, the possible consequences severe.

He didn’t want to go that route, but he didn’t feel he had any other choice. Normally he could read the thoughts of those around him; so far, he’d heard none of hers, despite the fact that she could hear his. Therefore, he needed to deepen the connection between them, push past any mental shields she might possess and peek into her mind, glimpse her memories.

Amun would be careful. He wouldn’t let his demon wipe her brain clean—the biggest complication of all. Secrets liked to play, to steal memories and leave the victims with nothing but static. Amun would pull away the moment the fiend tried to do so. Unless she proved to be a Hunter, of course; then all bets were off.

Gritting his teeth against the pain he knew he’d feel, Amun lifted his arms. Gods, the sharp lance, the burn, worse than he’d expected. When he’d reached high enough, he allowed his hands to fall onto Haidee’s shoulders.

“Stop whatever you’re doing,” she admonished. “You’re hurting yourself.”

Just that small action caused him to moan and groan inside his head. Need … a moment. Must …

“Must? What do you need, baby? Tell me, and I’ll take care of it.”

Baby, again. She’d “take care” of it, of him, as if she cared. Truly cared. He couldn’t soften, no matter how much he liked the way she treated him. Touch your … temples, he said, guilt suddenly flooding him. He’d just requested her aid for her possible downfall.

Did she have any idea what he could do?

“You getting kinky on me?” she asked with a chuckle. She probably meant to distract him from his pain. She did, just not the way she’d intended. Her jest had his gaze fastening on her lips, imagining the thrust of her tongue inside his mouth.

His body reacted, blood heating, pooling between his legs. Damn it! Just … need … temples.

“Okay, okay. I’ll help you.”

No, she didn’t know. Her fingers wrapped around his wrists, so cool, so welcome—so steady—and lifted without any hesitation. No questions about his motives, his intentions. She trusted him absolutely. When his hands reached her temples, she flattened her palms, pushing his closer, providing skin-to-skin contact.

“Like this?”

Yes. Such faith. Too much. He told himself he was disgusted by that, not delighted. It was a trick to distract him, surely.

Her lashes fluttered closed, and she nibbled on her lush bottom lip. Such straight, white teeth. Once again his body reacted. He wanted those teeth on him … lower … moving up and down on his shaft. He wanted her hands reaching out, tugging at his balls. He wanted her tongue flicking over the slit of his erection, tasting.

I need to get laid, he told himself darkly.

The corner of Haidee’s lips quirked. “Do you now? I’m invited, I hope,” she said with husky entreaty.

Shit. She’d heard. And she wanted to join him. Wanted him deep inside her, rocking them both to satisfaction. Don’t think about that now. He’d forget he needed to learn about her and simply drag her on top of him. Besides, she could be lying, purposely distracting him as he’d suspected.

“I won’t if you won’t,” she said with a warm chuckle.

What?

“Think about having sex.”

Damn it. He had to stop talking to himself. She heard every unshielded thought.

How did his friends stand him? He constantly read their minds, knew their every private—and mostly pornographic—contemplation. They rarely chastised him, however, and never made him feel like a nuisance. He’d always figured they didn’t care. They must have found a way to hide their true feelings from his demon, though. No way they liked his ability.

He owed everyone in this house an apology.

Amun forced his mind to quiet and his own lashes to close. He’d done this a thousand times before, the process as ingrained as breathing. He’d done it for Sabin, his leader. For their cause. He blanked his mind and darkness enveloped him, then he concentrated on his senses. Her skin, cool and soft. Her scent, so earthy. He could hear the rasp of her next exhalation … focused on the chilly breath wafting over him … allowed his demon to reach out.

Colors exploded, chasing away the black. Suddenly images began to take shape. He saw a sky of the brightest azure, a lush green meadow, untouched by time. A scattering of silver stones. Trees missing their leaves, but with sleek, twisted branches. Two little girls running and laughing, playing chase, both wearing lovely pink linen robes, flaxen curls streaming behind them. Sisters. Both possessed hearts practically bursting with love.

Secrets purred in delight.

The reaction struck Amun as odd. Such an innocent memory, and not what the demon usually favored. Why did the fiend even care about this?

The image suddenly shifted, day replaced by night in an instant, leaving only one of the girls. Older now, her gray eyes sparking with tentative joy, as if she was afraid to hope but couldn’t help herself.

Her skin was sun-kissed and glowing with health, her cheeks rosy with vitality. She wore a linen robe of lavender this time, flowers of the same color pinned through her hair. Those curls … like ribbons of the very moonlight surrounding her.

This was a past version of Haidee, Amun realized as a gentle, spice-laden breeze caressed her. She stood at the edge of a veranda, looking down into a dappled, crystalline pond. She bore no tattoos, no streaks of pink in her hair, no piercings; she was innocence and optimism wrapped in an utterly stunning package.

“Are you nervous, my sweet?” a female voice asked from behind her.

Haidee turned, startled from her reverie. “I love when you call me that,” she replied sincerely. “Especially since you did not like me at first.”

“No. But that soon changed, did it not?”

“It did. And yes, yes. I’m nervous, but excited, too.”

They spoke in Greek.

Ancient Greek.

He’d heard the language before, Amun thought, and recently. When? Where?

The scene continued to play on, and Secrets continued to rifle through Haidee’s memories, dabbling here and there, the girl completely unaware. Then there was a purr, and Amun knew. Answers. His demon had found the answers.

No new images sprang up, not yet, but what the demon learned, Amun learned, too. Always. So, between one heartbeat and the next, he knew that Little Haidee and Sleeping Beauty Haidee were one and the same. They were this woman. And this woman was—

Responsible for Baden’s murder, he realized.

In a flash that lasted no more than a second, Amun saw Baden, hair soaked with blood and plastered to his scalp. Bodiless. He saw Haidee—Hadiee—as she’d once been, golden hair streaming down her back, naked, tanned skin luminous in the moonlight despite the hate radiating from her and the crimson-splatter all over her. He saw her friends, Hunters, swarming, battling his friends.

Horror blanketed him. The woman he’d lusted after had helped kill his best friend. The woman he’d thought to defend had helped snuff out the kindest soul he’d ever known. The woman he’d cradled at his side had destroyed the one man who’d stood between easily broken mortals and feral, foaming-at-the-mouth immortals still consumed by the evil of their new demons. The man who’d said, “Save the humans, do not hurt them.”

Baden had been the first to find himself in the darkness.

Baden had been the one to help the others do the same. Baden. Baden. Amun’s chest constricted so painfully, the barest hint of a gasp left him. He hadn’t made a single noise as the new demons had ravaged him, over and over again, but now he was helpless to hold the sound inside. Baden. Gone forever, because of this woman.

Each warrior had loved Baden like a brother, and each had felt as if they were his greatest confidant. That’s where the true beauty of the man had lain. His ability to captivate everyone around him. Which had been a miracle, considering the nature of his demon, Distrust.

Now, Amun held one of Baden’s killers in his hands. Cupped her temples as he’d once cupped Baden’s.

“Are you okay?” Haidee asked him, all concern and sweetness. Her grip on him tightened.

His horror was followed by a quick burst of confusion. How was this possible? She’d died. Hadn’t she? Yes. Yes. She. Had. Died. Hunters had used her as Bait—dressed her up like a pretty, helpless doll, sent her knocking on Baden’s door, begging for help. She had lured him straight into slaughter. The rest of the Lords had arrived just before he’d lost his head; they’d attacked. But even if they had arrived a few minutes sooner, they would have been too late. All the pieces of the game had been set.

Amun remembered the blood, the screams. Remembered Strider victoriously lifting Haidee’s head when the battle had finally ended, and like Baden, she’d been without a body. Not even an immortal could recover from that. Otherwise Baden, more alive than anyone he’d ever known, would have risen from the grave long ago. Instead, the man’s soul was trapped somewhere in the heavens.

The horror intensified to a shattering level. Amun couldn’t bear to remember. Not this. Because the longer he wallowed in the past, the more likely he was to lose his tether on the other deep, dark emotion buried inside him.

Rage. He would destroy the fortress in a way Maddox, keeper of Violence, never had, ruining their home stone by precious stone.

His hands fell away from Haidee and flopped to his sides. Her past faded, as did his own, and he could only stare at her, this present version, hate blending with his horror—then completely overshadowing it. Yet even with that earth-shattering hatred flooding him, the lust remained undiminished.

His body simply didn’t care what she’d done.

The pink tip of her tongue swiped over her mouth, leaving a sheen of moisture. Dust motes sparkled around her, and with the pink streaks in her hair and the haze of his vision, she looked like an X-rated fairy-tale fantasy come to dazzling life. Her shirt hugged her breasts, and her nipples were pearled into decadent peaks.

“What was that?” she breathed, unaware of the change in him.

What do you mean? The question snapped like a whip, lashing out before he could reason what to do, how to proceed.

“The … memories. Of me as a child, then as me as an adult, on the veranda.”

She’d seen what he’d seen, then. That had never happened before, either. And yet, she made no mention of Baden—but then, Amun hadn’t truly pictured his friend, had he? No, not true. He had. There’d been a split-second glimpse. She just hadn’t noticed, then, the other memories holding her attention captive.

Therefore, she would have no warning, no way to prepare herself for his retaliation. And he would. Retaliate. He needed to punish her, needed to hurt her. So very badly.

Still she didn’t seem to notice the darkness of his emotions. Gray eyes wide, she shook her head. “I’ve never remembered the good parts of my lives. Those memories are always taken from me.”

Lives. As in, more than one. Had she been reborn more than once? Was she here to finish the job she’d started all those centuries ago? To cause the destruction of everyone he loved?

How had she gotten here? Why hadn’t she tried to kill him already? Why did she treat him with such affection? He’d never had to wonder about someone’s motivation before. He knew the truth, always. Knew what those around him most wanted to hide. This uncertainty was maddening, increasing the depths of his rage.

Answers first, he decided. Except, he had no idea how to urge her in that direction.

“Whatever you did … however you did it …” Wonder consumed her expression, lighting her up. “Thank you.” With a shaky hand, she brushed a budding tear from the corner of her eye. “Thank you. I knew I’d once had a sister, but I hadn’t known what she looked like.”

And the other vision? Could he trust a single word out of her deceitful mouth?

“I have an idea, but I’m not sure.” Slowly she smiled, a vibrant smile of white teeth and untamed joy. “Maybe … maybe when we’re safe we can do this again? I can find out if I’m right.”

The smile he’d seen before, that barest hint of delight, should have warned him of the devastating impact a full-on smile would cause. It hadn’t. He sucked in a breath, lost in her—and never wanting to be found. The gray of her eyes lightened so much he could see tiny flecks of blue. The rose in her cheeks deepened, his fingers itching to discover if the color warmed her flesh, or if those cheeks were as deliciously chilled as the rest of her.

He couldn’t soften, he reminded himself darkly. Couldn’t crave her in any way.

“What?” she asked, suddenly unsure. She’d finally noticed the change in him. “You’ve never looked at me like that before.”

How am I looking at you? Like he wanted to stab her? He would. Soon. For Baden. For the others who still mourned the loss of their friend.

“Like I’m … edible.” She leaned down, her breasts rubbing his chest, her breath fanning over his ear. “I like it,” she whispered.

He could only sit there, wanting desperately to grab her, hold her there—to choke her, he assured himself—but unable to make his useless body cooperate. Then, as if she hadn’t just sent a thousand bolts of white-hot need—to choke her—through him, she straightened, returning them to the business at hand.

“Okay. So. We can’t leave yet, which means we have to prepare. Maybe … maybe we can blockade ourselves in here. That might buy us some time.”

Leave? She meant to leave with him? Without the artifacts she’d mentioned? Without trying to pry information out of him? That made no sense. Unless …

Prepare for what? His execution?

“The Lords.” She popped to her feet and slowly spun. “I’ll have to shut the door between the rooms.” As she spoke, she rushed to the wall. She hooked her fingers around the edge of the “door,” and pulled.

Scraaape.

Gradually, the hole closed. Haidee then shoved the dresser against the exit he hadn’t known about, preventing anyone from opening it from the other side. Well, anyone of normal strength. She did the same to the front door, using his vanity.

Amun watched her, no closer to answers now than he’d been before traipsing through her head. Perhaps even further away. She was serious about protecting him. Despite who and what he was.

“If you continue to heal so rapidly, and they continue to stay away, we might be able to fight them when they finally bust inside. We can escape. And I know, I know. Our motto is ‘die if you must, but take as many Lords as you can with you.’ And I was totally prepared to do that when I thought you couldn’t be moved. But sometimes it’s better to get out and come back later, you know?”

You hate the Lords? he asked, just to discover what she’d say.

“Hate is a mild word, don’t you think?” She never ceased her efforts to blockade them.

She had told the truth. Shocking. Why?

“I have my reasons, and you have yours.” She attempted to wrench the mirror from the vanity. Hoping to shatter the glass and use the shards as blades? “We don’t talk about them, remember?”

No. I don’t remember. Now, what would she say to that?

Finally she paused, her sharp gaze whipping to him. “You don’t remember our past?”

She thought they had a past. No. Should I? Carefully, he had to tread carefully.

Her eyelids slitted, evidence of the predator that lurked inside. “I swear to God, baby. I’ll make them pay for every injury they inflicted on you.”

Baby again. And she meant to seek revenge on his behalf? He still couldn’t, wouldn’t, soften, but something was wrong here. The knowledge changed the direction of his rage. She wasn’t pretending to like him; she actually liked him. And when Amun looked past his own emotions, he realized Secrets sensed no malice in her. Not directed at him, at least. And even as unreliable as the demon had been since Amun had woken up, he found he couldn’t refute that.

Haidee’s fingers curled over the mirror’s frame so tightly her knuckles leached of color. After a few seconds of deep breathing, she released the wood and straightened.

What are you doing? he asked.

“We need weapons.” Her gaze circled the room—she did that a lot, he realized, and thought it was a defensive instinct—before landing on his closet.

She strode forward, disappeared inside. He had multiple weapons stashed inside, but he knew she wouldn’t find them. No one could hide things quite like Amun. What he wanted to remain unseen, remained unseen. Soon she exited with one of his shirts wrapped around her fist, and that was all. Still, satisfaction radiated from her. Barely a second passed before she reached the mirror and punched, punched again, a hard jab, jab.

“They have a whole wardrobe in there,” she said. “This room must belong to one of them.” The glass shattered against that second thrust, and she released the material from her grip, letting it float to the floor.

One of them, she’d said. As he’d suspected, she hefted several shards, tested their weight, turned them in the light. With a nod, she sheathed several in her pockets.

Haidee.

She jolted as if startled. “I’m sorry. Yes?” Who … am I?

“You don’t know your name, either?” A frown darkened her expression. “Your name is Micah. We’ve been dating for about seven months.”

Micah, like the tattoo on her arm. Micah, her “baby.” That’s who she thought he was? And I’m a Hunter?

“Yes.”

Like you?

“Yes.” So easily admitted, without a care. Unless she was a grade A actress capable of fooling a demon, she truly believed what she said, that he was Micah, a Hunter.

Knots formed in Amun’s stomach, then sharpened into daggers, cutting at him. So there it was. Proof, by her own admission, that she was his enemy. He needed to kill her before she discovered the truth about him. Before she thought to fight him, to hurt him when he couldn’t really defend himself.

And as she’d just locked them inside this room, effectively trapping herself in his presence, all he had to do was summon her over, wrap his hands around her pretty neck, choke as he’d already wanted, and twist. He might be weak, the action might pain him, but he wouldn’t back down. He couldn’t.

Haidee, he projected to her, the word a croak, even in his mind.

“Yes?”

Don’t do it, part of him cried. She was sweet and lovely and utterly luscious.

Secrets might even have whimpered, eager to return to her mind and play rather than destroy.

The other part of Amun recalled her past deeds, her current motto. “Die if you must, but take as many Lords as you can with you.” The moment she realized he wasn’t this Micah—Amun’s hands fisted, how he despised the bastard … for no other reason than he was a Hunter—she would attack. There would be no stopping her if he failed to act. And fast.

Determined, he lifted his chin. Come here.




CHAPTER FIVE


PANTING FROM EXERTION, those drugs still playing havoc with her body, Haidee strode to the bed. She placed a sharp glass shard on the nightstand, within Micah’s reach, then stuffed one under his pillow. Never hurt to have two weapons at your disposal, rather than one.

Then she searched the nightstand, surprised she hadn’t thought to do so before. She found all kinds of goodies inside. Toothpaste, a toothbrush, mouthwash, antibiotic ointment, bandages and wet wipes. None of which made sense. Or had the Lords wished to torment Micah with what he couldn’t have or use?

Well, she would show them! She made use of the wash and wet wipes and helped Micah do the same, cleaning them from top to bottom, even intimately, which left her blushing—hello, big boy—then applied the ointment to his wrists as gently as she was able.

He watched her, silent, his dark eyes intent but unreadable. She hated that he didn’t remember her or their relationship. Not that there was a lot to remember, but months ago they’d reached an understanding. They’d get to know each other before they had sex, but they’d get to know each other without discussing their pasts; they’d also vowed that no matter what, they wouldn’t see other people.

Why had he agreed to that? she wondered now. At the time, she’d thought he respected her, hoped to ease her skittish nature. But had she not had those visions, she wouldn’t have agreed to such an arrangement. Because with the restrictions laid bare like that, she realized they hadn’t had a relationship. They’d had a tolerance.

That would change, she vowed. He’d come after her, fought to get to her and endured horrendous torture on her behalf. He deserved everything she had to give. So, she would give.

When she finished, she put everything back inside the drawer. “Now. The shards will cut your hand if you use them,” she said, easing beside him, “and with as much blood as you’ve already lost.” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t want to remind him of his frailty. He was a warrior to his soul and might think to prove his strength if she pressed too forcefully. “What I’m saying is, only use them if absolutely necessary. Okay?”

He might be healing physically, and at an astonishing rate she couldn’t explain, but her worry for him hadn’t faded. He’d been savaged and mind-fucked in the most terrible way. He would be a different man now. Was already showing signs of change.

He’d always been an intense man, and that intensity had deepened and darkened over the past few months, frightening everyone around him. Moods had blackened around him before he’d ever spoken a word. Even hers. Now, he was just as intense, but the darkness had faded. He actually lightened her mood.

Before, the thought of sleeping with him had disturbed her. She’d felt as if she would be cheating herself of … something. The sizzle, she supposed.

And maybe if she’d felt that sizzle she would have felt comfortable discussing her past with him. She’d never told him that she’d lived before, that she’d died before. She’d never told him what happened to her after she died. That she’d lived far longer than her seemingly twenty-odd years. That she’d had hundreds of lives but couldn’t recall any detail that didn’t involve blood, pain and death. That she’d tattooed herself so that she would have some link to the good things that had happened to her.

To her knowledge, she’d never told anyone.

One, she didn’t trust people. Ever. Not even Micah, not fully. Two, when your business involved killing anyone with a supernatural ability—because that ability could mean possible demon contamination—you didn’t admit to having a supernatural ability of your own. And three, the less people knew about her, the easier it was to return from the dead as someone else.

Yet, she thought she might like confessing all her secrets to this man. Even though he was more distant than ever—such clipped responses to her every word. Even though he was harder than she’d ever seen him—he’d endured so much, yet he barely seemed to notice his pain. They were connected in a way they’d never been before, and he’d been so gentle with her. More than that, she felt safe with him. And desired.

Yes, he’d desired her before. But that desire had been tempered with a bit of hesitation. Now, nothing would stop this man from getting what he wanted. If she rebuffed him, she thought he might help her see the silliness of that. In a good way, of course. His protective instincts were too honed for anything else. Look how tenderly he had caressed her cheeks.

And there were physical differences, too, she realized. His lips seemed fuller, but of course, that could be from the swelling. His lashes were definitely longer, his eyes now so black you couldn’t distinguish pupil from iris. His shoulders were wider, the ropes of muscle in his stomach more numerous.

She knew the Lords had branded him with their butterfly, but what if they’d done more than that? What if they’d somehow possessed him with a demon and that’s why he carried the mark? The moisture in her mouth dried as she recognized the possibility for what it was: likely.

Galen, leader of the Hunters, had found a way to pair a human with a demon. Maybe the Lords had, too.

Haidee.

She blinked as that husky voice penetrated her thoughts, then forced her suspicions to the back of her mind. Scaring a man in this condition wouldn’t be wise. Or maybe he already knew, but didn’t know how to tell her. Did he fear she would turn away from him if she learned of his possession?

Haidee, he repeated.

“Sorry. My mind wandered. Twice.” She slid closer to him, not stopping until her hip met his.

He grimaced as he pulled himself into a sitting position. This close, she could feel the heat of his skin. So much heat she’d never encountered its like. Another difference. He’d never been this warm before. Otherwise, she would have finally given in and slept with him, even without the sizzle; she wouldn’t have been able to help herself. Nothing was more delicious than the sweet burn of him.

Haidee, he snapped again.

Again she blinked into focus. She had to stop traveling these unwanted mental paths. “Sorry. What do you need, baby?”

To touch you. He managed to raise his hands on his own this time and cup her temples.

More of his heat enveloped her, his skin like a live wire against hers. She shivered and leaned into his grip, practically purring. Surprise flashed through his eyes—eyes now flickering with sparks of red. Oh, yes, she thought, hopes plummeting completely. He had been possessed. He knew. And he hadn’t expected her to desire him.

Poor darling. As if she would ever betray him. He couldn’t help what had happened, and she wouldn’t reject him for it. Besides, her war with the Lords had never been about their demons, but about their actions.

Micah hadn’t infected her. He hadn’t killed her family.

Blood, a river between her mother and her father. Both helpless … dead.

She shook off the memory before it could tug her into a pit of despair.

“If they did something to you, something … evil, I’ll help you through it,” she told him gently, flattening her hands over his. Touching him was definitely a need. “I won’t turn you in to Galen or Stefano. I won’t betray you. No matter what. And if you start to … do things, bad things—” like lashing out, killing indiscriminately “—well, I’ll take care of you myself.” Mercifully. And only after she’d done everything in her power to purge him of the demon.

She’d loathe herself, would probably replay the act again and again with every new lifetime she experienced, but she would do whatever was necessary to save innocent families from the blood-fate hers had received. Even destroy herself and the only source of her happiness.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” she asked gently.

Again surprise flashed in his eyes, adding tiny pinpricks of amber light to the dark irises. Thankfully, the red was gone. Something evil. Like.?

Another shiver danced through her. She was coming to love the times his voice drifted through her mind, as warm as his body. “A … demon possession.”

He tensed. Tell me everything. How you got here. What your purpose is.

At least he hadn’t flung her away for guessing the truth. Nor did he seem afraid of her. Good. “Okay.” She lowered his hands to her lap, clutching them tightly. He didn’t protest. “The demon of Defeat, the one hosted by the Lord named Strider—I don’t know if you remember him from the pictures we’ve seen?” Micah merely blinked at her.

She continued. “He was in Rome. He had the Cloak of Invisibility. We spotted him, chased him. He managed to capture me.” Bitterness seeped into her tone. She’d been such an easy mark. “I think he meant to kill me, but for whatever reason, changed his mind. A few times, I even caught him looking at me like … you know, like he wanted me, but that can’t be right. He detests me. Anyway, he brought me here. Put me in the room next door to you. I heard you calling and basically clawed my way through the wall to reach you.”

He offered no reply, but his expression was tense.

How long had he been here? she wondered as guilt torched her insides. She should have fought Strider harder. Should have escaped and found Micah before he’d been beaten. He suffered now because of her.

She’d never be able to make it up to him, but God, did she want to try. “Micah?” Gaze never leaving his beautiful, savaged face, she scooted even closer to him. She placed their twined hands on his waist as she leaned in … closer still … and softly, gently, pressed their lips together. “I’m so sorry you’re here. I’m so sorry for everything that was done to you.”

At first, he gave no reaction. Not to her words and not to her kiss. He still didn’t reply. Didn’t flinch from pain or encourage her to deepen the contact, either. Then he stiffened, his fingers squeezing at hers. Then he inhaled deeply, as if he couldn’t get enough of her scent. Then he canted his head and opened his mouth. Not just welcoming her, but encouraging her.

Moaning, she slipped her tongue past his lips, past his teeth, and jerked at the sudden bolt of arousal that speared her. His taste was minty from the wash, but spiced with a dark drug, luring, tempting … demanding a response. A response she couldn’t deny. Her breath grew shallow, her nipples pearled and every cell in her body smoldered with the sweetest kind of fire. More, she thought.

His tongue met hers, rolled and coiled, danced and sparred, the heat spreading, intensifying. And then he was moaning, pressing more fully, thrusting his tongue as if their mouths were having sex.

She’d kissed him a few times before and had been disappointed in each of the experiences. This time, there was no disappointment. There was shattering excitement, sultry danger and heady bliss. Her fingers moved of their own accord, up, up, tangling in his hair. Soft, silky hair, the strands baby fine.

More, he said this time, the single word a growl inside her head.

“Oh, yes.” More. She never wanted this to end. She had a mind filled with bad memories, yet as she swallowed his exotic flavor, she was swept away by him, the past forgotten, the present a thrill and the future something to anticipate. So good. “I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t let me hurt you.”

Stopping’s the only thing that will hurt me. The kiss must have caused an adrenaline reaction in him, something, because the next thing she knew, he had enough strength to heft her up, forcing her to straddle his lap.

His erection pressed against her needy core, hard and thick, and she gasped. Good? No longer an adequate word. The earth freaking moved. Unable to help herself, she rubbed against him, arching forward and back. Each time she hit him, each time they connected, she released a groan of need. Nerve endings did the sizzling thing, pleasure rushing through her in heated waves.

More.

“Please.” Her voice was little more than a needy whimper.

One of his hands dove past the waist of her pants and cupped her ass. Skin-to-skin, a white-hot brand of possession. His other hand rode up her spine and latched onto the back of her neck. In the next instant, he spun her, basically tossing her on top of the mattress and looming over her, his weight smashing into her.

The kiss never even paused. Over and over his tongue worked hers, feeding her the ecstasy she needed but also making her ache. Didn’t help when his hips began a slow grind against her clitoris, that hand on her ass forcing her to rise up and meet him, to slide up and down his shaft. The friction burned, burned so damned sweetly. She’d never experienced anything like this.

We shouldn’t be doing this.

For her, it was too late to care about their surroundings, the danger. “I need you.”

Yes.

She would have laughed at how easily he’d been convinced to continue, but at the moment she cared about only one thing. Climax. Her nails scoured his back, probably drawing blood. She tried to temper her reaction, to calm before she erupted, went wild and injured him further, but couldn’t. The ache … was consuming her, driving her, fogging her brain.

“I need …” Haidee wound her legs around his waist and locked her ankles. He palmed her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers. Even through her shirt and bra, she could feel the heat of him. The fiery brand. “I need …”

Me. You need me.

AMUN WAS LOST.

He’d placed his hands around Haidee’s neck ready to snap the bone in two. She’d looked over at him with those eyes of pearl-gray, lashes long and sweeping, lips soft and pouty, pink locks of hair falling over her forehead. She’d talked of saving him … then a dark emotion had claimed her expression. One he hadn’t been able to read, but one he’d hated.

She had leaned into him, somehow innocent in a way he’d never been, apologized to him as if his pain were somehow her fault, and he’d forgotten his body’s wounds. His forgotten everything. He’d been helpless to do anything but accept her lips against his. Then he’d breathed her in and accepting hadn’t been an option, either. He’d needed to possess her. Own her. Taking everything. Giving everything.

He hadn’t understood the desires, still didn’t understand them, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The moment their tongues intertwined, his body had become a storm, and this woman had become his only anchor.

Now, all the demons inside him—so many voices, so many thoughts and urges—lurched frantically, unable to remain at the back of his mind. They did not like her, had tried to hide from her, but now they were desperate to stay away from her. He sensed their agitation, their fear, but they were being pulled toward her unbidden, as he had been. They resisted.

He hadn’t resisted. He’d simply given in.

Now he struggled to tether the demons, to keep them in place as Haidee writhed in his arms, the decadent chill of her skin teasing his palms. Soon he had trouble even remembering to do that. She was undiluted pleasure in his arms. A demon in her own right, consuming him, driving him.

Just then, he realized he didn’t care that she was a Hunter. Didn’t care that she meant to harm his friends. That she had harmed his best friend. This was … necessary. She tasted like the Water of Life found only in the heavens. Pure, fresh, crisp. And when she bit at his lips, no longer concerned with being gentle with him, too passion-crazed to care, like him, his thoughts derailed, realigning to his first goal: possessing her. Totally, completely.

He pried his fingers from her ass and slid his hand to the front of her. Panties. Cotton. Damp. Nice.

Mine, he thought next and still didn’t care about the consequences. He would care later. Tomorrow, maybe. Here, now, she was his. Desperate to feel her most feminine core, he shoved those panties aside. More than damp. Slick, ready. Gods, the way she wanted him.

A groan rose from low in his throat and rumbled out. He stiffened for a moment, fearing what might follow even so slight a sound, but his mouth remained focused on Haidee and her thrusting tongue, no words forming.

Relaxing, he tunneled through her folds, found her clitoris and pressed with the heel of his hand. She cried out, hips shooting off the bed, nails scoring his back.

This is good. You like this. They should have been questions; they emerged as statements of fact.

“Yes, please. More.”

Hearing her beg was a climax all its own. What do you want? What do you need? What else did she like?

“You. Just you.” Her eyes were closed, her tongue swiping at her lips to find his taste. Oh, yes. She was as lost as he was.

Has it ever been this way before? Between us? The moment he asked, he stiffened. He didn’t want to know.

He didn’t—

“God, no. We were terrible before.”

He fed her another kiss to show his approval, and that surprised him. Amun wasn’t like Strider, possessive to the extreme. He’d never minded sharing anything. Had never gone caveman on a woman before. Had never claimed one as his very own. Actually, he hadn’t had a lover in hundreds of years. To always know what they were thinking, what they truly thought of him, truly wanted from him … It had gotten old fast. So he’d concentrated on the war with the Hunters and what he was good at: killing. But Haidee …

He wanted to be her best. Her only. Didn’t want her thinking the old “Micah” was better. Didn’t want her thinking about any man but Amun.

“You are … this is … amazing.”

Gonna make you so happy you said that.

Amun worked his way down her throat, nipping, licking, sucking. Until he reached her nipple. Tenderness was abandoned. He bit through the fabric of her shirt, tugging the little bud into the fiery heat of his mouth, even as he shoved a finger deep, deep into her sex.

Another cry left her, renting the air. Every muscle in his body clenched, savoring the sensation. Holy hell, but she clasped him tight. Seed leaked from the slit in his cock; he was hungry for her, for this, for more, so hungry. He added a second finger, moving in and out, in and out. She writhed, she begged some more.

The demons grunted hysterically as they gripped the tether he’d created, trying desperately to stay inside him as she pulled at his hair—as though she was pulling on them again. And yet, agitated as they were, they still could not overtake his mind.

Haidee’s head thrashed left and right. “So close … just a little more … and I’ll … I have to … I need … Please!”

He couldn’t let the beasts near her. Not that they wanted near her; they were still fighting. He should stop this, stop the madness, but he had to taste her. He needed to taste her. Life wouldn’t be worth living if he didn’t.

She was panting, little beads of ice crystallizing over her skin as he worked his way down. An oddity he barely registered. Sweating ice? Her T-shirt was rucked up to the middle of her bra—cotton, white, pretty—the flat plane of her stomach and the dip of her navel revealed. Gorgeous. Had a woman ever been so gorgeous?

As he ripped the crotch of her panties, paving the way for his mouth, he licked into her navel. Her belly quivered. Her knees pressed into his sides, squeezing. Had he been human, she would have cracked bone.

He kissed his way to her zipper. Barrier. He couldn’t allow a barrier. Another rip, and the pants were gaping open just like the panties. Then he was peering down at her, at a tiny triangle of pale curls, the rest of her pink and glistening. His. Ready.

Liiick. Holy hell, he thought again. Nothing had ever tasted this good.

Another cry left her, this one hoarse and broken. She released him to reach behind her and grip the headboard, her back bowing. Surprisingly the demons calmed, but only slightly, the pull on them somewhat eased, allowing them to go back into hiding.

The door handle rattled.

Amun was dimly aware of the possible intrusion but unconcerned. Liiick. Heaven and hell wrapped in temptation, leading him straight to his downfall. Addicting him. Consuming him. Owning him.

The door handle rattled again.

This time, there was a flicker of rational thought in his head. Someone meant to enter his bedroom. Friend? Foe? Didn’t matter. He had to wait to finish tasting her.

The intruder would pay for that. Painfully.

Haidee must have sensed his growing disquiet, because she opened her eyes and said, “What are you—” Her mouth floundered open and closed as she gasped in horror. “Your eyes. They’re completely red. Glowing.”

What she didn’t say: demon. She’d known he was possessed, no matter what she thought his name was, and had claimed she would shield him from Hunters. But this must be her first true confirmation.

There was no time to placate her. Someone comes. He swiped the glass shard from the nightstand and whipped around. Haidee jolted upright, the spike of glass under the pillow already palmed. She tried to right her ruined clothing as another rattle sounded.

An instant later, the person on the other side decided to take things to the next level. Wood split from the hinges as the door was savagely kicked, the vanity in front of it skidding to the middle of the room.

A scowling Strider strode inside, knives in both hands. All the demons inside of Amun danced into a sudden frenzy, Haidee forgotten, rushing back to the surface. Torment … punish … pain … blood … suffering … must have. Needed.

Something else struck him. Something that had nothing to do with the demons, but everything to do with a long-buried instinct. Safeguard. He would safeguard the girl. Her taste was still in his mouth, and he needed more. Still had to have more. If she were hurt, he couldn’t have more.

Wrong, that thought was wrong, but he couldn’t banish it. Instinct demanded; he heeded. Go! he mentally screamed at the warrior, but Strider didn’t hear him. Or didn’t care.

When Strider spotted Amun and Haidee on the bed, lower bodies still twined around each other, he blinked. His jaw even dropped. And if Amun wasn’t mistaken, there was a flicker of fury over his expression.

Will safeguard, Amun thought, scowling at his friend. No matter what.

“You bitch,” the warrior growled to Haidee. “What the hell did you do to him?”




CHAPTER SIX


HAIDEE JUMPED TO SHAKY LEGS, breath sawing in and out of her mouth. As she’d predicted, the glass shard she held had already sliced through skin, blood dripping to the floor. She barely noticed the sting or the loss.

Without her there to cushion him, Micah hit the mattress face-first and grunted, but she paid him no heed. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to get him out of this fortress alive.

And shit! This showdown couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Desire still pumped through her veins, thick and heavy, dulling her reactions and making her limbs feel weighted with rocks. Her chest felt hollowed out, and her muscles ached. Perhaps she could have dealt with those things, but her mind was as clouded as if she’d popped a dozen different pills, a mix of sedatives, stimulants and aphrodisiacs.

She could only blame Micah. His kisses had been CPR to her soul. He’d made her come alive. Split apart. Forget everything and every one. Common sense had abandoned her. So had survival instinct. She’d never ignored her survival instinct before. All she’d been able to think about was him. His touch, his taste. His tongue lapping between her legs. God, she could fly apart simply thinking about that heady caress. In seconds, he’d reduced her to an animal state, where nothing had mattered but sensation.

Now isn’t the time, remember? The doorway was open, offering a straight shot into the hallway. Either she or Micah could run, but not both. One of them had to deal with the demon.

Hopefully Micah would understand what she wanted him to do.

“Not smart, coming in here on your own,” she said to taunt the Lord into an emotional response. What she’d learned about him during their time together? He was always quick to anger, and that anger made him easily distractible. “You ready to die?”

For once, he didn’t react. His gaze darted from her to Micah, Micah to her. He radiated a mix of rage, concern and disbelief.

Micah didn’t move.

Why wasn’t Micah moving? Damn it. If he would move, she could attack. Defeat would have to fight her. Micah was simply too weak to see to the battle himself.

She opened her mouth to challenge Defeat but closed it with a snap. She’d challenged him a few times during their trek. Bet you can’t catch me if you let me go. He’d let her go. And he’d caught her, pissed beyond imagination. Bet you can’t just stand there while I stab you. He’d let her stab him. And rather than pass out from blood loss, as she’d hoped, he had then returned the favor. He’d stabbed her thigh to keep her from bolting while he healed.

He’d then stitched her up, shocking her. Still. His determination to win every challenge gave him strength, more so than usual, and she couldn’t have him stronger than usual right now. Not while she battled the fog. So, as they stood there facing each other, both deliberating how to handle the coming fight—and there would be a fight—she was very careful not to issue another challenge. Not even a challenge to lose the fight.

She’d made that mistake only once.

Bet you can’t lose a fistfight to a girl.

He had allowed her to punch him, and he hadn’t fought back. Therefore in his mind, he had just lost a fistfight with a girl. She’d run off while he’d struggled to breathe—’cause yeah, she’d gone for his trachea—and he’d had to track her down. When he finally caught her, he’d trussed her up like a Thanksgiving turkey, gagged her and started drugging her.

And if she had tried to speak past her gag, he would have removed her voice box. No question.

“What the hell did you do to him?” Defeat repeated, dark, deadly.

“What did I do to him?” She assumed attack position: legs apart, knees slightly bent and ready for her leap. The cold, already so much a part of her, seeped out, sheened her skin. With every exhalation, mist created a cloud in front of her face. All the while, she mourned the loss of Micah’s heat.

She still didn’t know why she froze like this. Still didn’t know how. All she knew was that the ability manifested with her emotions, sometimes strengthening her, something weakening her. Today, she felt empowered.

“Me?” she went on. “What the fuck did you do to him?”

“If you hurt him …” A muscle ticked below his dark blue eyes, and he finally kicked into motion.

If she hurt him? What a joke! “This is gonna be fun. I’ve been craving a go at you.” One step, two, she moved toward him, determined to meet him in the middle.

No!

In a sudden blur of motion, Micah sprang from the bed and flew past her, tackling the demon-possessed warrior and sending both men toppling to the floor. Grunts and groans soon echoed. Slashing arms and vicious kicks ensued. They rolled, they struggled, they assaulted each other ferociously.

She’d never seen Micah fight so dirty. He went for the eyes, the throat and the groin, biting and ripping flesh, fists hammering. Defeat, though, merely deflected each of her man’s blows. He never tried to cause harm. Why? Something else she’d never seen—a Lord of the Underworld backing down. And this one, Defeat … Something was wrong. Had to be.

Haidee stood there, numb, watching the bloodbath, sick to her stomach and unsure what to do. Apparently, he’s not too weak after all. Like him, she didn’t run from the room. God help her, she wasn’t leaving without him.

What should she do? If she threw herself into the fray, she might cut Micah instead of the Lord. They were moving so quickly … twisting and turning, flying apart, springing back together. And if she accidentally delivered Micah’s death-blow.

Damn it. What the hell should she do? she wondered again, no closer to an answer.

“What the fuck is going on?” Defeat demanded between punches. “Stop. Amun, you have to stop.”

Amun?

She’d heard the name before, knew it belonged to one of the Lords, but she couldn’t connect the name with a face. And because she had memorized all the names and faces of her enemy, she knew that could only mean one thing.

There was one immortal warrior the Hunters had never been able to photograph or even sketch throughout the years. Not that they hadn’t tried. They’d snapped pictures, but those pictures had never turned out, had always been blurry. And when they’d drawn what they’d thought was his face, they’d later realized they’d done nothing but scribble on the page.

Amun was also the Lord most people forgot the moment they walked away from him. He was the immortal the Hunters knew the least about. Maybe because Amun was possessed by the demon of Secrets.

All the Hunters really knew about him? He had dark hair and dark eyes, and he was tall and muscled. That little bit of information had been acquired through centuries of observation.

Had this Amun died, his demon given to Micah? Did Micah now carry Secrets inside him? Was that why the Lords had chosen Micah? And he was demon-possessed. She no longer had any doubts about that. Those red eyes … peering down at her … hungry … craving … raging … She shuddered, then scowled.

This was another sin to heap on an already mountainous pile. Another crime to hate the Lords for.

Had they wanted someone with the same physical characteristics as their friend Amun? Probably. How amused they must have been, using a Hunter to house one of their disgusting demons.

Don’t think about that, either. Get yourself in the game, woman.

Haidee shook her head, clearing her mind, thankfully thinning the fog. The two men were on their feet now, throwing punches, falling backward into the walls, causing dust and plaster to waft through the air, then reconnecting and tossing each other into furniture. They were a blur of motion, brutal, like wild animals fighting over the only snack in the jungle. Wood chips were scattered across the floor, some even swimming in little pools of blood.

Blood, a river between her mother and her father. Both helpless … dead.

Again she had to shake her head, dislodging the memory.

“Amun,” Defeat snarled. “For gods’ sake! I’m your goddamn friend. What the hell are you doing?”

In the next instant, Micah’s thoughts hit her. Must kill. Must safeguard.

The words were sluggish, lower in volume than the ones that had come before them, and she realized he was weakening. His wounds were opening, seeping, dripping all over the room.

“She’s a Hunter,” the demon continued in that outraged tone, “and she’s my prisoner.”

Mine! blasted through her head. Not yours. Never yours. Mine to safeguard.

Could Defeat hear him? Probably not. Otherwise, he would have been backing out of the bedroom and running for his life. There had been barbwire in Micah’s tone, the tips laced with poison.

But then, Micah’s thoughts switched direction. I have to stop this. Why am I doing this? I love this man. Confusing, wrong, but again, those thoughts switched direction. Must kill. Must safeguard.

Micah snarled low in his throat, the sound rumbling through her mind as he punted Defeat into the already crushed vanity. More wood chips scattered. Red sparked in Defeat’s eyes, a gnarled mask of bone and scales falling over his features.

He was turning, she thought with dread. From immortal to demon.

“Win,” he growled now, and there was another voice fused to his. One that was guttural, raw. Determined.

Shit. She knew that determination. No longer would he pull his punches or deflect Micah’s. Now he would fight to win.

He closed the distance and threw his meaty clubs around, a jackhammer of lethal purpose. Not once did he miss. Micah weakened further, wobbling on his feet, his eyes beginning to swell shut as his head whipped left then right, alternating as Defeat switched fists.

The fact that Micah had lasted this long was astonishing, proof of his own determination, but he wouldn’t last much longer. He couldn’t. Not at the rate Defeat was delivering blows, and not with the already ravaged condition of his body.

She had to risk hurting Micah, she decided. There was no other way. Which meant she had to put herself in front of him, probably take a few blows before she was able to strike. No problem there.

Better she die than him, even though he was now tainted. He was tainted, yes, but he wasn’t evil. That kiss … no, he wasn’t evil. And if she was killed this day, she would come back; she would remember him. Not the kiss, that had been too good, and all her favorite things were always wiped, but this fight. She would recall the blood, her fear … her despair. But if Micah died, he would be gone forever.

Haidee stiffened, preparing to jump, waiting for the perfect moment. A thought suddenly hit her and she hesitated. If Micah turned his sights on her or even struck her accidentally … Oh, God. If she died, she wouldn’t remember why he’d done so when she awakened, only that he had—and she would come back to kill him just as she planned to come back and kill the others. If he survived this, they would be enemies.

Defeat landed a particularly vicious blow to Micah’s side, causing him to wheeze.

Worth the risk, she decided in the next instant. He was teetering … falling …

At last Haidee jumped forward, hooked her arm around Micah’s waist and threw him with all her might. I’m sorry, baby. As he stumbled to his knees—away from the action—she used her momentum to spin and duck, swinging her right fist at Defeat’s groin. Contact. He doubled over, oxygen bursting from his bleeding lips. She used her other hand, the one clutching the fragment of glass, to slice across his stomach. No mercy.

As she straightened, she landed a hard right to his chin. His head jerked backward, and he grunted, blood and teeth spewing. She aimed the glass at his throat, but only managed to slash his shoulder as he pivoted.

His narrowed gaze landed on her. He could have hit her just then. He didn’t.

Firm hands suddenly gripped her waist from behind and tossed her. Through the air she soared, flailing for an anchor, wondering what the hell had just happened. The makeshift weapon flew from her clasp, then she was bouncing on the bed, realization setting in. Micah was aware enough to know who she was, aware enough to want her out of harm’s way. Sweet of him, but that wasn’t going to stop her. He’d done his part. Now she would do hers.

Before the bouncing stopped, she was throwing her legs over the side of the bed and straightening, once again intending to knock Micah out of way. Only, she saw that he had somehow tackled Defeat and now straddled the warrior’s prone body, punching … punching …

Between whaling fists, Defeat groaned and babbled.

“Lost … lost … no, gods, no … lost …”

For several moments, she could only blink, watch. Micah had done it. Despite his injuries, he’d won. Against an immortal. That’s my man.

Seriously? You’re going to victory lap now? Haidee forced herself into motion and rushed to Micah. She latched onto his surging elbow. He could have shrugged her away, batted her off, could have swung at her with his other arm, but he didn’t. He faced her. What she could see of his glowing red eyes locked on her, tormented, agonized.

Didn’t want to hurt him … couldn’t stop … couldn’t let him hurt you…. Why couldn’t I let him hurt you?

The words echoed in her mind. Didn’t want to hurt him. Why couldn’t I let him hurt you? Courtesy of the demon? Was the demon trying to convince him that he liked the Lords? Didn’t matter, she supposed. They’d deal with it. Later. Along with everything else.

“Come on. We don’t want to free his demon right now.” She tugged him to his feet, and God, he was heavy. “We have to leave before the others come.” They’d be pissed when they saw what had been done to their friend. She didn’t want Micah punished for that. And they would punish him. She had no doubt. Even though he was currently part of their group.

She ushered him to the doorway but had to pause there to wind her arm around his waist. He was stumbling, barely able to remain standing on his own.

“You can do this, baby. Come on.”

Where are … we … going?

“If we’re lucky, no one will be around and we’ll find a way outside.” Dragging him through the doorway left her shaking and ice-sweating. He was bleeding all over her, giving her more and more of his massive weight. How she maintained her grip, she didn’t know. What she did know after taking two steps to the right?

They weren’t lucky.

Her eyes widened as she stumbled to a halt, Micah moaning, nearly falling. She held tight. They were surrounded—but not by the demons she’d expected. Robed warriors filled the entire enclosure, wings of white and gold outstretched. Scowls lined every single one of their faces, but even still those faces were glorious, radiant. So beautiful … so majestic … dazzling her. She couldn’t look away. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t look away. Exquisite.

Angels. These men were angels.

Maybe she and Micah were lucky. Maybe Galen had sent reinforcements to rescue them.

“Help us,” she beseeched. “The demons captured us, and we’re trying to escape.”

A lovely dark-haired male stepped forward, hard gaze pinning her in place more forcefully than any of the others.

“We were told to wait out here.” His voice was just as thrilling as his face. A sensual breeze, an exotic caress. “We did so. We were told not to interfere with what happened inside the room. We did not. But now you have come to us. Now we interfere.”

Realization cut like a knife. The angels hadn’t been sent by Galen. They were helping the demons. Horror barely registered before Micah was ripped from her grip. She’d never seen the angels move, had been too riveted by the one in front of her, but losing her man snapped her from that lost, dreamy haze.

With a scream of outrage, she kicked the angel in the chest. He stumbled backward only a few steps. She spun, reaching for Micah. Her voice must have snapped him out of his pained, weakened stupor, because, as two angels dragged him down the hall, farther and farther away from her, he blinked open his swollen eyes.

When he spied the distance between them, he roared. Loud and long and ragged, but only she seemed to hear him. No one else paid him any attention, no one else cringed. As she elbowed her way to him, the angels attempted to grab her. She twisted and squirmed for freedom.

All the while, Micah fought his captors. Soon, the two holding him weren’t enough. Soon, she wasn’t pegged as the biggest threat. The angels turned their attention to the warrior, all but one needed to subdue him.

Haidee! Haidee!

Before she could reach him, the one that had remained behind caught her, strong arms banding around her and squeezing tight. Breathing became a thing of the past. Still. Her struggles never ceased.

Micah’s didn’t either, she noted as she was at last carted out of the hall. “I’ll come back for you,” she screamed. “I swear I’ll come back.”




CHAPTER SEVEN


STRIDER FUCKING hurt.

He hurt everywhere but especially his gut. Maybe because Ex had sliced him open from hip to hip, spine to navel. The angels had had to stuff his insides back, well, inside. They’d even stitched him up and tended his feverish, sweat-drenched body for three solid days.

He would have healed sooner if he’d won the fight with Amun and Ex like a big boy. But he hadn’t. He’d lost. And so his pain had been magnified a thousandfold, and he’d been too weak to do a damn thing about it. Talk about humiliating!

Now he was still bed-bound and propped against pillows, but at least he was awake and aware. His demon was silent, too afraid to poke his head from the shadows of Strider’s mind and lose another challenge until they’d recuperated sufficiently.

Torin sat in a chair in the far corner, and Zacharel, the black-haired angel Lysander had left in charge, leaned against one of the metal posters of Strider’s bed. Both were watching him, waiting. Clearly impatient.

Could a guy not suffer in peace?

This room was supposed to be his sanctuary, his private escape, but he’d opened his eyes a little while ago to find Torin pacing beside him—and not out of concern, the curious bastard. Zacharel had been exactly as he was now. Unmoving, gaze penetrating.

“What happened?” Zacharel asked. His voice mesmerized even as it repelled. The undertones were lilting, almost melting—and yeah, it was still embarrassing as shit the way Strider reacted to these angelic beings—but everything else about that voice was cold, uncaring, detached.

Like his eyes. A vivid jade-green, they should have been welcoming, should have reminded Strider of summer. Or hell, even of Torin’s wicked sense of humor. Instead, those eyes were green ice. There was nothing inside them. No emotion of any kind. Not good, not bad, just a spiraling abyss of emptiness.

Strider had met some freaky immortals over the centuries, had thought he’d seen everything, but this one … no. There were none like him. Nothing fazed him. Strider had a feeling he could stab the angel in the heart and Zacharel would merely glance down before continuing on with whatever he’d been doing.

“Demon. Concentrate. What happened?” Zacharel again, and he didn’t raise his voice in the slightest. See? Emotionless.

“For gods’ sake, Strider,” Torin snapped. “Open your damn mouth and form some words. While you’re at it, stop staring at the angel like he’s a tasty treat.” Not so emotionless.

Strider’s cheeks warmed with a flush. He’d leave the tasty treat comment alone since he was too foggy to come up with a decent response. And no, Zacharel didn’t react to it.

“I went to the girl’s room. She wasn’t there, but I saw where she’d peeled back the wallpaper and found an old doorway that led into Amun’s bedroom. She barred it. So I went to his door, but she’d barred it, too. That one I kicked in.” And he’d expected to find Amun headless. Or, at the very least, Haidee under the dark influence of Amun’s new demons.

The rage he’d felt at the prospect … the despair. And yet, neither had compared to the jealousy he’d experienced when he’d discovered the truth. A jealousy that had shamed him. One, he couldn’t be attracted to Ex. Two, Amun was his friend. He should have sheltered him from the temptress’s wiles.

“And?” Torin prompted, exasperated.

“And he was awake, lucid.” At least for a little while. Until Strider had approached the girl. Then Amun the Demonically Insane had returned. “Surprisingly, the black phantoms were gone and stayed gone.” He didn’t mention that Amun had been on top of Ex, with his hand down her pants, his face aflame with pleasure.

Hers had been, too. So much pleasure.

She hadn’t fought the warrior. She had encouraged him, begged for more. A trick, Strider had thought. Surely she had planned to lure Amun into a false sense of security and then strike.

But when Strider had approached her, determined to stop her from hurting his friend, Amun had attacked him. And when Strider had tried to defend himself, Ex had attacked him. To aid Amun.

What the fuck, man? He hadn’t understood at the time; he’d been too busy trying not to die. Now he thought he got it. Ex had wanted to leave with Amun. Which meant she’d planned to take him to her Hunters so they could kill him.

Still. That didn’t explain why Amun had defended her. Why the warrior had touched her so intimately.

Strider had known the dude a long, long time. They’d fought together, hung out and partied together. And by “partied together” Strider meant that Amun had watched him party and guarded his back. Amun didn’t sleep around, was usually the most reserved of the warriors, and was sometimes as boring as shit. The good kind of boring, though. You knew you could rely on him for anything. He was solid, a rock, and you always knew where you stood with him.

He wasn’t prone to angry fits, was the most levelheaded guy Strider knew. He would rather take a bullet himself than watch his friends take one. Yet, to protect a murderous bitch, he’d attempted to splatter Strider’s brains all over his bedroom floor.

Amun must not have recognized her. Hell, would anyone? Centuries had passed, she no longer looked like an innocent maiden in need of a strong warrior’s aid, and as many freaky places as they’d been, they’d met other women named Haidee. The fact that she’d somehow re-grown her head maybe mighta kinda sorta have also prevented his friends from realizing who she was.

Part of Strider was glad she hadn’t been recognized. The stupid part of him that didn’t like the thought of anyone hurting the woman.

You planned to sic Sabin on her. Remember?

Yes. And maybe he would have done it. Maybe not.

Strider hadn’t even told Torin her true identity yet. He didn’t know why. He’d only said she was a Hunter and had left it at that.

And, okay, yeah. Maybe that had been a halfway decent decision. Maybe Ex’s efforts on Amun’s behalf were real rather than faked. The day Strider had captured her, he’d gotten a glimpse of her boyfriend and had been floored to note the similarities between the Hunter and Amun. Was still floored. As swollen and disfigured as Amun’s face currently was, she probably thought the men were one and the same. If that was the case, she wouldn’t have been taking Amun to Hunters to torture him but to save him.

Had she realized the truth yet, since he’d called Amun by name? Or had she been too preoccupied?

“For gods’ sake!” Torin tossed up his arms, dragging him from the thorny pit of his thoughts. “What’s wrong with you, Strider?”

He leveled a brutal scowl on his friend. “I’m healing. Can’t you see the gaping hole in my stomach?”

“You are fine. Now, as you were saying. Amun looked into your eyes during your conflict, yet you felt no evil urges?” Zacharel asked, returning them to the only subject that mattered.

Conflict. Such a mild word for the handing-of-the-ass Strider had received. “Right. No urges.” Then or now.

Torin scrubbed both of his gloved hands down his tired face. “Well, the shadows are back. Came back that very day, in fact, the moment the angels got him back in bed. And now he’s worse. He worsens every hour. Silently moaning, always thrashing.”

“But he was fine when you walked into his bedroom?” Zacharel insisted.

Did he seriously need to repeat himself? “Yes.”

“With the girl?”

Shit! “Yes, damn it. With the girl.”

Zacharel gave no reaction to Strider’s outburst, of course. “While you were absent from the fortress, we tried exorcism, burning him as close to death as possible, hoping the spirits would unbind themselves and leave. They didn’t. We even tried a cloud cleansing, a—”

“A what?”

“Don’t ask,” Torin said dryly.

“But,” Zacharel continued, “none of those things made a difference. Yet if you looked at him and felt no evil, the girl did the impossible. She forced the demons into submission. That means she is the key.”

Confusion caused Strider’s brows to knit together. “The key? The key to what?”

“Amun’s sanity. He needs her. He must be with her.” Both Strider and Torin gaped at the angel.

Torin was the first to recover. “She’s a Hunter.” Disbelief and fury coated his tone.

“Yet that mattered not to Amun or the demons,” Zacharel pointed out. “Where is your joy? Your friend now has a chance of surviving.”

A chance. Grim words when they should have been hopeful.

The day Strider had busted into Amun’s room, the angels had been talking of finally killing the insane warrior. They’d given the Lords enough time to fix him, they’d said, and the Lords hadn’t fixed him. The phantoms had begun to seep into the hallway, trying to escape the angels, the fortress, and enter the world.

Strider wouldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t allow Amun to be harmed, either. But he really wouldn’t allow Ex near him. “The day I arrived, you said the female was infected. What did you mean by that?” He would have asked before, but after visiting Amun that first time, he’d been kind of busy sandpapering his skin off in an effort to expunge the evil.

“I have not been given permission to share those details,” the angel said, his frostiness not thawing a single degree.

Zacharel cared about permission? Shocker. “Who do you need permission from?”

“Lysander.”

Of course. The head honcho. “Well, where is he?”

“With his Bianka. They were arguing, and he gave her possession of their cloud. No one is to disturb them for any reason. There are neon signs all around the palace saying so.”

Okay. Strider didn’t really understand a word of that. A cloud palace? Why would Bianka’s possession of it matter? There was no one bigger or stronger than Lysander—except Strider. And unless Bianka went total Harpy on Lysander, which she wouldn’t do because Harpies were supposedly physically incapable of harming their consorts, there was no way the petite stunner could overpower the angel.

Unless, of course, Lysander wanted her to overpower him. Aha. Now Strider understood what Zacharel had meant. The two were engaged in a sexual marathon, and Lysander had given control to Bianka. They may not see him for several years. One thing Strider had learned about the Harpy when she’d visited the fortress was that she enjoyed power and didn’t relinquish it easily.

Lucky Lysander.

Strider could have tasted a Harpy of his own, he supposed, since Bianka had two single sisters. Taliyah and Kaia. Taliyah was the ice princess, as seemingly emotionless as Zacharel, but Strider had never been interested in her. Now, Kaia on the other hand, well, she was the wildfire. He’d been interested. Really interested—until she’d slept with Paris, keeper of Promiscuity. Strider had decided then not to bother with her. Who could compete with a freaking god of sex?

To be honest, Strider was sick of competing in the bedroom all the damn time. Sick of having to be the best lover his partner had ever had. It had gotten old. There was nothing wrong with a guy wanting to lie back and let the woman do all the work for once.

If Defeat had been awake, the demon would have said, “Win.” Strider almost wished the little shit would speak up. Woulda been nice to trample on his feelings by shouting, “Shut the hell up!” The bastard had gotten Strider into this mess, after all.

“And … he’s off again,” Torin muttered wryly.

“Am not.” Strider flipped him off. “Tell me this at least,” he said to the angel. “Can the girl, being infected as she is with something you stupidly won’t tell me about, contaminate Amun? Make him worse?”

A moment passed in silence as the angel considered the question. And wouldn’t you know it? He gave no reaction to the word stupidly. “No.”

All right, then. Strider would forget about Ex’s “infection.” For now.

“So what are we going to do about Amun and the girl?” Torin asked, getting them back on track. Again. He leaned back in his chair, resting his ankle against his knee, hands twined over his middle. A casual pose, if not for the lines of tension branching from his mouth.

Zacharel eyed the keeper of Disease as if he’d lost his brain when he’d gained his demon. “We will test our theory, of course. We will put her back inside Amun’s room.”

“Hell, no!” Strider snarled. And not because those sparks of jealousy had instantly lit back up and now poured through his veins like streams of acid. “He’s defenseless, and she’ll hurt him.”

“She didn’t before.”

“That doesn’t mean she’ll be a tame house cat next time!”

“If things continue as they are, I will kill him.” The words were so simply stated, Strider had no doubt Zacharel meant what he said. “Your choice. I will be satisfied one way or the other.”

Not really a choice at all, the bastard. He had to know that. “I’ll have to clear out Amun’s room and remove …” Shit. “Everything except the bed.” Anything could be used as a weapon. As he’d already learned. “The window will need iron bars.” Hunters were notoriously adept and wily. Look what Ex had done with a simple piece of glass.

His stomach ached in remembrance, the scab pulling tight.

“Maybe we should break her hands, too,” Torin suggested, shocking the sweet loving hell out of Strider.

He was usually the voice of semi-reason. “I don’t want her able to snap his neck or pluck his eyes while he’s defenseless.”

Zacharel shrugged, drawing attention to the breadth of his shoulders—and making Strider grit his teeth in annoyance that he’d noticed. What was wrong with him? Men were not his personal preference. “She didn’t before,” the angel remarked.

“That doesn’t mean she’ll be a tame house cat next time,” Torin repeated, mimicking Strider’s earlier you’re-a-moron tone.

“That’s when she thought she could escape with him,” Strider forced himself to say. Because deep down, he still didn’t like the thought of hurting her. He lost more IQ points every day, he decided. “This time, she’ll know there’s no way she can free herself. She’ll know she’s helpless and needs to curry our favor.”

Torin’s eyes widened. “You’re actually voting to leave her be? A Hunter? What’d she stab you with? A magic wand laced with Prozac?”

“No, I’m not voting to leave her be.” Damn it! He had. “Fine. We’ll break her hands.” He wasn’t going to argue about her treatment. She deserved what she got, and he would just have to pacify himself with that knowledge.

“One other thing to consider,” Zacharel said. “Amun fought to reach her, and all of my warriors were needed to subdue him. If you hurt her, I think he will object. And if he objects, I think many in this household will be injured. But again, I give the choice to you.”

How magnanimous of him, Strider thought dryly. Zacharel had a gift for ripping your rationale apart with only a few words. But … Torin couldn’t force the issue now.

Still. Prick that he was, Strider wasn’t exactly ready to back down yet, no matter that he was getting what he’d originally wanted. Zacharel irritated him, and part of him hoped to irritate the guy right back. At least garner some kind of reaction.

“If we decided we wanted it done, would you be the one to do the breaking? “

“Of course,” Zacharel said easily.

Strider blinked at him. Not the answer he’d expected. Feet shuffling, maybe. A little waffling, for sure. “But you’re an angel. Aren’t you supposed to be defenders of humanity or something?”

“She is not exactly human.”

“Then what is she?” The question whipped from him, his eagerness to know unparalleled.

“I do not have permission to tell you.”

The eagerness deflated like a balloon, and Strider gnawed the inside of his cheek to keep himself from snarling. When Lysander finally crawled his way out of wild Bianka’s bed, Strider was going to have a long chat with him. He suspected daggers would be used between every word.

“We won’t damage her,” Strider finally said. “And I have a few conditions. I have to be the one to escort her to Amun.” Just as soon as he could walk. He didn’t like the thought of anyone else putting their hands on her. She was—not his. “Also, I want a camera in the room.” The words emerged harder, harsher. “We’ll monitor what goes on twenty-five, eight.”

Torin nodded, his expression half satisfied, half steeped in guilt. “I’ll have them placed and recording within the hour.”

There were cameras strategically hidden throughout the entire fortress just in case Hunters snuck past their gate and traps, but not in any of the bedrooms. They’d all agreed. If the enemy could bypass everything else and enter one of the rooms, the Lords deserved to die. Privacy was that important.

If Amun ever regained his senses completely, he’d be pissed as hell about the new cameras. But better his fury than his murder.

Zacharel straightened from the post. “I’ll inform my men of what is to transpire.” With that, he turned with the fluid grace of a dancer and strode from the room.





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