Книга - The Darkest Seduction

The Darkest Seduction
Gena Showalter


Paris – Darkest Lord of the Underworld Immortal warrior Paris is irresistible – yet this comes at a terrible price.Possessed by a depraved demon, he must seduce someone new every night, or die. But the one woman he craves has never truly been his. Sienna, possessed by the demon of Wrath, is compelled to punish everyone around her.Yet in Paris’s arms she finds peace and insatiable desire.As Paris and Sienna’s bond grows it reignites a blood feud between ancient enemies. With battle raging between gods, angels and demons, Paris and Sienna must fight a supernatural war that could destroy their love.










Dear Readers,

At long last, I’m pleased to bring you the story of Paris, keeper of the demon of Promiscuity. Yes, I finally feel like I’ve tortured him enough. After all, since the LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD were first introduced, Paris has:

1) Lost the only woman he was able to bed more than once

2) Given up his chance to find her by choosing to save one of his friends instead

3) Formed an addiction to an illicit substance

4) Choked out any light of goodness inside himself

5) Turned into a war/fighting machine.

His road to happily-ever-after has been paved with blood, sweat and tears. Mostly mine. Fine. Mostly his. Whatever. Semantics. Anyway, I knew he deserved something—and someone—special. In fact, I had an idea for him and sat down to write it. Four tries later—with three hundred pages in the trash—he showed me exactly what he wanted. OK, fine (again). I finally gave in and did things his way. And you know what? He got the “special” I wanted for him.

The characters had so much more depth than I expected, and as they interacted the puzzle pieces began to fall into place—I saw why he wanted what he wanted, and for the first time in a very long time I heard Paris laugh. (I heard this in my head, of course, but laughter is laughter.) He’d found his “mine,” and she was and is exactly what he’s needed all along.

Will I ever stand in my characters’ way again? Well, yeah. (Hey, at least I’m honest.) But this one time, giving in proved to be the best thing I could have done.

I hope you are as satisfied with Paris’s story as he is.

All my best!

Gena Showalter


Praise forNew York TimesandUSA Todaybestselling authorGENA 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.”

—RT Book Reviews, 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.”

—RT Book Reviews, 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.”

—RT Book Reviews, 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 Stars

The Darkest Whisper

“If you like your paranormal dark and passionately

flavoured, this is the series for you.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4 stars

The Darkest Passion

“Showalter gives her fans another treat, sure to satisfy!”

—RT Book Reviews


Throughout the years I’ve learned that family matters. I’ve been blessed with one of the most amazing families EVER. They love me, support me, and they are always there when I need them. The bond you see between the Lords, as well as the bond between the Harpy sisters? That’s what I have with my family, and I am beyond grateful. So this one is to my husband and children, my mom and dad, sisters and brothers, in-laws (who are so much more than that), nieces and nephews, and crazy aunts and uncles. I love and adore you all!


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 SEDUCTION


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

THE DARKEST SECRET

THE DARKEST SURRENDER


The Darkest Seduction

Gena

Showalter
























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




ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


From family to friends, I am blessed. To Jill Monroe, Kresley Cole and PC Cast. I love you, ladies!


I speak, and the humans tremble in fear. I speak, and my people rush to obey—and yet still they seek to destroy me. My salvation rides the wings of midnight, and my burden she carries. My rage she unleashes, delivering damnation to all with a single swing of her sword. I speak.

—A passage found in the private journals of Cronus, king of the Titans



Speak all the hell you want. I’m taking what’s mine.

—Paris, Lord of the Underworld




PROLOGUE


“HIS RAGE …”

“I know.”

High in the heavens, Zacharel watched the world below him. Watched as the once genial Paris murdered yet another of his enemy, the Hunters. How many victims that made in the past hour alone, the angel could not say. He’d long since lost count. And even if he paused to do the tally, the answer would have changed a second later as yet another body fell to the slick, blood-coated blades the warrior wielded.

Of course, the panting, sweat-soaked Paris spun to engage two others, his motions fluid, lethally graceful … as unstoppable as an avalanche. At first, he played. A punch, cracking bone. A kick, smashing lungs. Laughing, spouting the worst of curses. Soon none of that was enough for the demon-possessed soldier, and he danced his blades over the tendons in their ankles, hobbling his prey for easier elimination.

Paris had made himself Bait to purposely draw these Hunters to him. They’d come eagerly, happily, intending to steal the vile demon tethered inside him and finally end him. So Zacharel could not fault the warrior for what he did to defend himself, even as several new bodies joined the already mountainous pile enveloped by a sea of crimson and black. And yet, he could not commend the warrior, either.

These were not mercy slayings or even carried out in the name of a cold and calculated vengeance birthed in the bowels of an equally cold rage. No, these were a spew of fire, hate and desperation hotter than anything hell had ever created.

“He is like a poisoned apple,” Zacharel said to the angel beside him. And because Paris was bonded to the demon of Promiscuity, his pruning belonged not to the humans he lived amongst but to the Deity’s angels, who policed different realms of evil. “Poison of this nature spreads slowly but corrupts absolutely.”

Beads of ice fell around Zacharel, as they always fell around him these days, his breath misting in front of his face. Every crystal was to be a reminder of his own crimes, so recently brought to his attention. But unlike Paris, he did not wear misery like a winter coat, hugging it close to his body, relying on it, feeding it, helping it grow. Zacharel cared for nothing, not anymore.

In his quest to destroy the demons that had ruined his life, he had slain “innocent” humans, and this was to be his punishment—to carry his Deity’s displeasure with him always.

“As succulent as others consider this particular apple,” Lysander proclaimed, “they will be willing to taste anything he offers.”

Zacharel moved his gaze to the man who had taught him how to survive on the battlefield. The elite warrior was a muscled tower of unwavering strength. He wore a long white robe, his majestic wings like rivers of molten gold. Zacharel’s ice raged around him, too, though not a single flake dared land on the man. Perhaps, like myriad other creatures, the crystals feared him—and rightly so. In their world, he was judge and jury, his word law.

“Do we remove temptation?” Zacharel asked. For centuries he had acted as Lysander’s executioner.

“I will not order his assassination, no,” Lysander said, resolute. “At the moment, Paris is redeemable.”

Unexpected. Even with the great distance between the heavens and the earth, Zacharel could hear the grunts and groans Paris elicited, the screams of his enemies. The pleas for mercy that would echo into eternity, forever unheeded. And as determined as this Lord of the Underworld was, this was only the beginning.

“What will you have me do, then?”

“Paris searches for his woman, intending to free her from the Titan king’s enslavement. You will aid him, protect him and protect the girl. The moment her ties to Cronus are cut, however, you will bring her here, where she will live out the rest of eternity.”

Even more unexpected. The command smacked of leniency, something Lysander had shown to only one other demon-possessed immortal in all the millennia of his life: Amun, Paris’s friend. And only because Bianka, Lysander’s Harpy mate, had asked.

She must have requested this second favor, as well, for it was widely known that Lysander was powerless against her wiles. But even a besotted groom, tasked as he was with governing the heavens, responsible for all that transpired there, should not have asked another angel to do this deed. Aid a demon? Bring another here to live? Horrifying.

Zacharel offered no objection. And despite the fact that he had never experienced desire himself, he would do his best to cure Paris of his so that, when the inevitable break with the female came, the warrior would not return to his rage.

“Paris will protest her loss.” After everything the warrior had done to find and save her already, everything he would soon do … oh, yes, he would protest—using those dripping blades to make his case.

“You must convince him that he will be better off without her,” Lysander said.

“Will he be?”

“Of course.” There was no hesitation in the pronouncement, lending it an edge of fiery truth. An unnecessary edge, for Zacharel knew Lysander would not, could not, lie.

“And if I fail to convince him?” He had to ask, needed the penalty riding heavy on his shoulders, driving him to succeed.

Eyes of pitiless navy frosted over, revealing the iron depths of Lysander’s warrior core. “We are lost, for the greatest war the world has ever known now brews. The girl will lead us to our victory—or our enemy to theirs. It’s as simple as that.”

Very well, then. When the time came, Zacharel would take her. No matter how Paris was affected.

Paris would hate him, and would, perhaps, do more than rage. There was no stopping that, not when so much darkness swirled inside him, a rot in his soul, far worse than any spiritual poison. But that wouldn’t stop Zacharel from fulfilling his duty.

Nothing would.




CHAPTER ONE


PARIS TOSSED BACK THREE fingers of Glenlivet and signaled the bartender. He wanted an entire hand and by right or might, he’d have it. Except soon after the single malt was poured, he realized an entire hand wasn’t going to cut it, either. Fury and frustration were living entities inside him, frothing and bubbling despite his recent fighting.

“Leave the bottle,” he said when the bartender made a move to help someone else. Hell, suddenly Paris doubted every drop of alcohol in a ten-mile radius would do the trick, but hey. Desperate times.

“Sure, sure. Anything you say.” Shirtless Boy Wonder released the bottle and beat feet.

What? He looked that dangerous? Please. He’d washed off the blood, hadn’t he? Wait. Hadn’t he? He looked down. Shit. He hadn’t. Crimson streaked him from head to toe.

Whatever. He wasn’t in a human bar, so no “authorities” would have a beef with him. He was in Olympus, though the heavenly kingdom had recently been renamed Titania. Once only gods and goddesses had been allowed here, but when Cronus reclaimed the realm, he’d changed things, allowing vampires, fallen angels and other creatures of the dark to come and play. A nice little screw you to the previous king, Zeus.

Call the bartender back, Promiscuity said. I want him.

Promiscuity—the demon trapped inside him, driving him. Irritating him. Remember when I wanted fidelity? Monogamy? Paris replied in his mind. Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?

A familiar growl sounded in his head.

Whaa, whaa, pout, pout. He downed the second alcoholic offering and quickly chased it with a third. Both scorched so good he enjoyed a fourth. The potent alcohol razed his chest, burned holes in his abdomen, and flooded his veins. Nice.

And yet, his emotions remained as dark as ever, the edges of that bone-deep fury and frustration un-smoothed. His inability to save a not-so-innocent woman he should hate—did hate, at least a little—but also hungered for, body and soul, drove him, a constant whip against his flank.

“If I asked you to leave, would you?” a monotone voice said from beside him. A voice accompanied by a blast of arctic air.

He didn’t have to look to know that Zacharel, warrior angel extraordinaire and infamous demon-assassin, had just joined him. They’d met not long ago, when the feathered axman had come to Buda to off Paris’s friend Amun. Had old Zach actually succeeded, two crystal blades would have been drilling into his spine at that very moment.

I want him, the demon said.

Screw you.

Finally. We’re on the same page.

Really hate you right now.

Once upon a time, the demon had spoken to Paris with annoying frequency. Then the stupid sex fiend had stopped, merely urging Paris to bed this person or that person, no matter their gender or Paris’s own feelings toward them. Now, the talking had started up again and it was worse than before, because he wanted everyone, especially the ones Paris felt no desire for.

“Well?” the angel prompted.

“Leave, when I had to beg Lucien to bring me here and I know he won’t be so accommodating next time? No, but I’d damn sure want to know why you gave a crap about my location.”

“I do not care about your location.”

True story. Zacharel didn’t care about anything, a fact you learned real fast in your dealings with him. “That’s my point, so get lost.”

As Paris nursed a fifth whiskey, he studied the smoke-stained mirror in front of him, covertly panning the area behind him. Bejeweled chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The walls were rose-colored marble, veined with glittering ebony, the floor a sparkling stretch of crushed diamonds.

Throughout the room, men and women talked and laughed. From minor gods and goddesses to fallen angels trying to work their way back into their saintly fold. Good luck with that in a bar. Morons. Anyway. There was probably a demon or two sprinkled among the masses, but Paris couldn’t tell for sure.

Demons were as sneaky as they were evil. They could skulk around in their own scales, proudly showcasing their horns, claws, wings and tails—and getting decapitated by warrior angels like Zach. Or they could possess someone else’s body and skulk around in their skin.

Paris had thousands of years of experience with the latter.

“I will leave, as you so succinctly suggested,” Zacharel said, “after you answer another question for me.”

“All right.” Something else Paris knew from experience: angels were freakishly stubborn. Better to hear the guy out, otherwise he’d find himself with a new shadow. He turned, facing the dark-haired stunner with eyes the color of jade, and sucked in a breath. Never ceased to amaze him, how magnetic these celestial beings were. No matter their gender—or how mind-numbingly dull their personalities—they drew and held your attention, every damn time. For some reason, Zacharel did so with more intensity than most.

But the magnetism wasn’t what caught Paris’s attention this time. Majestic wings arced over the angel’s broad shoulders, a turbulent fall of winter clouds with streams of gold winding and curling throughout, snowflakes raining from the tips like glitter in a globe.

“You’re snowing.” Captain Obvious, that’s me.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can answer you, or I can ask my question and leave.” Dressed in the long white robe that was customary for his kind, Zacharel should have looked innocent and prissy. Instead, he looked like the Grim Reaper’s evil twin: emotionless, as frigid as the snow he shed and ready to kill. “Your choice.”

No thought necessary. “Ask.”

“Do you wish to die?” Zacharel said it as simply as he’d said everything else, mist crystallizing in front of his mouth, creating a dreamlike haze and reminding Paris of the breath of life. Or death.

Definitely ready to kill, Paris mused. “What do you think?” he asked, because honestly? He didn’t know the answer anymore.

For centuries he’d fought to live, but now, now he constantly threw himself into the fire and waited to be burned. Liked being burned. What kind of sick prick had he become?

Unflinching, the angel held his gaze. “I think you want one particular woman more than you want anyone—or anything—else. Even death … even life.”

Paris pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. One woman in particular: the not-so-innocent one.

Her name was Sienna Blackstone. Once a Hunter and always his enemy, for Hunters were an irritating army of humans who hoped to rid the world of Pandora’s demons. Then fleetingly, she’d been his lover. Then dead, gone. Then she’d been brought back from the grave, her soul merged with the demon of Wrath. Now, she was out there. Somewhere. And she was suffering. Cronus had enslaved her, thinking to use her demon to punish his adversaries, and now that he’d lost control of her, he thought to torture her into submission.

Paris might dislike the things Sienna had done to him, and yeah, as he’d already admitted, part of him might even hate the woman herself, but even she did not deserve the cruel, vicious—eternal—punishment being meted out.

I will find her, and I will save her. From Cronus … from himself. Right now, Paris simply couldn’t get past the fact that she was suffering. Once that part of the equation was dealt with, he would stop thinking about her. He had to stop thinking about her.

“So I want her,” he ended up saying to the angel. Sienna was not up for discussion. “BFD.”

“I will pretend I know what that means.” Zacharel shook his wings, more of that pure, glistening snow raining down. “As for you, I think that, despite your own desires, your demon wants anything with a pulse.”

“Sometimes even a pulse isn’t a requirement,” he muttered, and damn if that wasn’t the truth. Sex, as he’d taken to calling his dark companion, wanted anyone and everyone—but only ever once. With the exception of Sienna, Sex would not allow Paris to harden for the same person twice.

Why could he have Sienna again? No damn clue. “But again, so?”

“I think, even though you crave this particular woman, you slept with your friend Strider’s future wife. He is the demon of Defeat, and your actions made his courtship of the Harpy very difficult.”

“Hey. You’re entering dangerous territory here.” Not that Paris had anything to apologize for.

The one-nighter had happened weeks before Strider and Kaia hooked up. Or had even thought about hooking up. Therefore, Paris had done nothing wrong. Technically. And yet, he now knew what Kaia looked like naked, and Strider knew that he knew, and that meant all three of them knew Sex tossed out naked images of the girl every time they were together. A consequence Paris loathed, but couldn’t stop.

Zacharel’s dark head tilted to the side in a reflective pose, all the more mysterious because of the mist that continued to form with his every exhalation. “I meant only to point out that you have clearly moved on to other conquests and that you are hardly discriminating in your choices, which makes me wonder why you still pursue your Sienna.”

Because Sienna had been Paris’s one and only shot at monogamy. Because he’d inadvertently brought about her death. Because he’d felt like he lost everything when she died.

“You’re annoying,” he snapped. “And I’m done talking to you.”

Still the angel persisted. “I think you feel guilty about every heart you break, every dream of happily-ever-after you crush, and every bit of self-loathing you encourage when your partners realize how effortlessly you overcame their reservations. I also think you are overindulged and pathetic, and that you have no business crying about your problems.”

“Hey! I’ve never cried.” Paris slammed his glass on the counter with so much force the bar split down the center and the cup shattered. Blood welled from the slices in his palm, but the sting was minimal. “And you know what? I think you are seconds away from finding pieces of your body scattered in all the corners of this bar.”

Then, while he’s down, we can have him!

Zip it, Sex.

“Uh, here you go,” the bartender said, Johnny-on-the-spot with a clean rag he thrust in Paris’s direction. His arm shook. He was still afraid of Paris.

I want—

I said zip it! “Thanks, man.” Paris fisted the material, applying pressure to the slivers of torn tissue before anyone could scent him and the oh-so-special pheromones his demon excreted.

One whiff of the intoxicating aroma, and everyone around him would become unforgivably aroused, uncaring about where they were or who they were with. Mostly their hunger would be for Paris, and though that would have been an especially craptastic outcome tonight considering he was operating under a time crunch, he would have enjoyed rebuffing the males with his fists.

Except … the pheromones never enveloped him. He frowned. Sex wanted everyone he’d spotted tonight. Why not take advantage of his ability and force the patrons to want him back?

Paris returned his focus to Zacharel, wondering if the angel was somehow responsible.

Those eyes of the rarest jade narrowed to tiny slits. “I think you hope to save your Sienna, and that is a good thing. I think you mean to keep her, and that is not. No matter how intensely you crave her, no matter that she might be your only chance at forever, your demon will eventually ruin her, for humans were never meant to battle demons, and at heart, she is still a human.”

“What about her own demon?” he snapped.

“If one is bad, two is surely worse.”

“Enough!” If they continued on this path, his fury and frustration would rise up and consume him. He would lose sight of tonight’s goal. “I’m not going to keep her.” He would. He so would if given a chance, and if she would have him, of course, but hell, she wouldn’t have him.

“Good. Because this particular woman would not like the man you have become.”

Snorting, Paris shoved his free hand through his hair. “She didn’t like who I was.” And now, after he’d irrevocably stepped over the line between right and wrong? Please.

He’d known his actions were reprehensible, and he’d stepped over anyway. He’d killed, callously. Seduced, methodically. Lied, cheated and betrayed. All of which he would do again and again.

“Yet you still rush to save her,” Zacharel said.

Yeah. He was as big a moron as the fallen who frequented this place. Whatever. He knew. Didn’t care. “Look, I don’t answer to you. I don’t have to explain myself. And what’s with all the questions? You said you only had one more.”

“I have asked only the one. The rest have been observations, and I have one more of those to offer.” Zacharel leaned into him and whispered, “I think, if you continue on this destructive path, you will lose everything you have come to love.”

“Is that a threat?” Paris fisted the collar of the angel’s robe. “Go ahead and try something, winger. See what—”

Air. He was fisting and yelling at air.

Little growls sprang from his throat as he lowered his arm to his side. The only reason he knew Zacharel had been here was the temperature of his hands. They were practically frostbitten.

“Uh, who were you talking to?” the bartender asked, faux casual as he cleaned an already clean counter.

If an angel didn’t want to be seen, an angel wouldn’t be seen. Not even by his brethren, fallen or otherwise. So only Paris had seen Zacharel this go-round. Great. “Myself apparently, and we prefer to chat without an audience.”

Was Zacharel still here? Paris wondered. Or had he materialized somewhere else? And what was the purpose of all that talk of Paris needing to stay away from Sienna? The angel shouldn’t care.

Paris dropped the rag and turned the rest of the way to face the crowd. Several warriors were scowling in his direction—why?—dangerously close to ruining the room’s elegance with the blood they were tempting Paris to spatter. He massaged the back of his neck, forcing thoughts of Zacharel and his threat into hiding. He had bigger and badder to deal with. He was here for Viola, the minor goddess of the Afterlife and keeper of the demon of Narcissism. She should have popped in already.

Maybe she’d heard he was coming and bailed, and if that was the case he couldn’t blame her. He and his friends had once stolen and opened Pandora’s box, unleashing the evil from inside. As punishment, they were cursed to host the demons they’d released within themselves. Unfortunately, there’d been more demons than naughty boys and girls to contain them, and when the box had disappeared in the chaos, the leftover evil spirits had needed homes. What better recipients for the Greeks to select than the unlucky, unable-to-run inmates of Olympus’s—Titania’s—immortal prison, Tartarus?

So, yeah, Paris was partly responsible for Viola’s dark side. She’d been one of those unlucky prisoners. He wasn’t entirely responsible, though, considering the girl was a criminal once considered dangerous enough to be forcibly kept away from the very gods and goddesses who were often praised in mythology books for their most vicious deeds.

What crime Viola had committed, he didn’t know and didn’t care. She could slash him to ribbons, as long as she gave up the information he craved. The final puzzle piece needed to at last save Sienna.

According to the Hunters he’d slain just this morning, Viola came here every Friday night to hustle immortals at pool and rave about her awesomeness over a few beers. Apparently, said Hunters had been watching her, intent on nabbing her and “persuading” her to join their ranks. So, in a way, she kinda owed him.

Where the hell is she? he wondered again, searching for the telltale long blond hair, eyes the color of cinnamon and a killer body that could—

Appear in a puff of white smoke.

There, in front of the bar’s only entrance, stood a luscious woman with long blond hair and eyes the color of cinnamon. Paris straightened, his nerve endings zinging with anticipation. Just like that. Prey located. Target acquired.




CHAPTER TWO


I WANT HER, SEX SAID as Paris studied Viola.

Of course you do, he replied dryly.

The tendrils of smoke that had marked Viola’s appearance now curled away from her, thinning out to reveal a slinky black dress. The thick straps on her shoulders veed to frame heavy cleavage before dipping past her pierced navel. The micromini skirt stopped just below the hem of her panties.

Was she even wearing panties?

Paris yawned. He’d been with gorgeous women, ugly women, and everything in between. One lesson he’d quickly learned: beauty could hide a beast, and a beast could hide a beauty.

Sienna belonged to the beauty-hiding-a-beast category—at least to him. While he’d been crazed with desire for her, she’d been plotting his downfall. And maybe he was as bad as his demon because part of him found even that side of her sexy. A reed-thin female had bested a battle-hardened warrior, and he thought that was hot as hell.

And okay, yeah, she considered herself plain and maybe once he would have agreed, but from the beginning, there’d been something tantalizing about her. Something that drew him, held him captive. Now, anytime he pictured her, he saw a flawless gem with no equal.

Concentrate. A command from the demon, who still wanted the minor goddess, and a reprimand from himself.

Viola flipped the length of her silky hair over one sun-kissed shoulder and scouted her surroundings. Men openly gaped. Women tried to hide their jealousy with (unconvincing) blank masks. She paused on Paris, looked him up and down, her lids narrowing, and then, shockingly, she dismissed him and continued her visual sweep.

The last time his demon had failed to attract a potential bedmate, he’d met Sienna shortly thereafter. Could that mean … what if … His anticipation intensified until his bones vibrated. He would get his answers—tonight—no matter what was required of him.

He closed in on Viola, schooling his features to reveal only admiration as he went over his plan. Charm first, if he could actually remember how to be charming. Force second, and yeah, he definitely remembered how to go that route.

Ignoring his approach, Viola bent down and slid a glittery pink phone from inside her black leather boot. Moans of approval erupted behind her, and men high-fived each other, as if they’d just received a glimpse of heaven. Even immortals could be childish. Never me. Unaware or unconcerned, she danced her nimble fingers over the phone’s tiny keyboard.

Paris frowned. “What are you doing?”

As an opener, the question totally blew, as did his accusing tone. But if she thought to summon help, someone to fight him, or even a Hunter to kill him, she’d soon find herself his hostage, as well as his informant.

“I’m Screeching. That’s the immortal version of twittering or tweeting or whatever you lower beings want to call it,” she said without glancing up. “I’ve got over seven bazillion followers.”

O-kay. Not what he’d expected. He’d spent a lot of time with humans, and knew they enjoyed sharing their every inane thought with the world. But a Titan who did so—that was new.

“What are you telling them?” Was Cronus among the seven bazillion? Was Galen, the head honcho of the Hunters? And how many was a bazillion?

“I maybe might be kinda sorta telling them all about you.” A grin lifted the corners of her plump red lips as she continued type, type, typing. “‘Lord of Sex is filthy and looking to score. I’m not interested, but should I help him rack up points with someone else?’ Send.” She focused those haunting auburn eyes on him. “I’ll let you know when the results come in. Until then, is there anything else you want to know about me before I walk away and ignore you?”

Lord of Sex, she’d said. Sooo. She knew who he was, what he was, but she wasn’t running from him, wasn’t tossing insults at him and wasn’t screaming for his execution. A great start. “Yes, there is, and it’s a private matter very important to me.” Subtext: don’t you dare Screech about it!

“Ohhh. I love private, important matters that I’m not supposed to talk about but do, because I’m such a giver. I’m listening.”

Despite her convoluted confession that she meant to tattle, there was no more typing. Good. He proceeded. “I want to see the dead. How do I make that happen?” Sienna was a soul without a body—a soul he couldn’t sense in any way. Only those who communed with the dead could see, hear and touch her. But rumor was, Viola knew a trick that rendered the ability unnecessary.

She blinked, and he noticed that her lashes were painted a glittery pink to match her phone. “Let me tell you what I just heard. Talk, talk, talk, I. Talk, talk, talk, I. Well, what about me?”

His jaw clenched. There was being charming, and there was being a sucker. He wasn’t a sucker. Well, not all the time. “I’ll tell you about you. You can see the dead. Now you’re going to teach me how to see them.” An order she would do well to heed.

Her nose wrinkled. “Why do you care about seeing souls? If they’re still here, they’re causing trouble and—oh, oh, wait.” Clap, clap, jump, jump, twirl. “I’ve already figured this little mystery out because I’m highly intelligent. You want to see your slain human lover.”

Instantly his fury flashed to the surface, hot enough to blister. He didn’t like anyone speaking of Sienna in any fashion. Not Zacharel, and certainly not this strange minor goddess with a penchant for gossiping. Sienna was his to protect, even in that capacity. “I—”

“Tsk, tsk. No need to confirm my genius assumption.” Viola patted his cheek, all syrupy sweetness for his mental handicap. “Especially since I can’t help you.”

She tried to walk away.

He caught her wrist. “Can’t or won’t?” There was a big difference. The first he could do nothing about. The second he could change, and if she pushed him, she would discover the lengths he was willing to go to, to do just that.

“Won’t. See ya.” Oblivious to the rage she threatened to unleash, she jerked from his hold and practically skipped to the back of the bar, her perfect ass swaying, the heels of her boots clicking.

Incensed, he followed her, shoving aside anyone who got in his way. Grunts, groans and growls abounded, the predators in the crowd taking exception to his brute-force tactics. No one attempted to stop him, however. They sensed a far greater predator in their midst.

“How do you know who I am?” he demanded the moment he reached Viola. They’d start there and work their way to the mind changing, just in case one was dependent on the other.

She performed another twirl, making a production of it, as if she were a model at the end of a runway. He was a tall man used to towering over women, but Viola was a tiny fluff of five feet nothing and he dwarfed her.

Sienna, on the other hand, was just the right height. Standing, or on his knees, or lying down, he’d reach all the best parts of her, no problem.

“I know everything there is to know about the Lords of the Underworld,” Viola said. “I made the entire horde of you my business when I escaped Tartarus and learned you were responsible for my condition.”

She did blame him for the demon she’d been stuck with, then. And she smelled of roses, he realized with a jolt, the gentle scent suddenly clinging to his sinuses, very nearly drowning him in a warm sense of peace.

Lucien, the keeper of the demon of Death, could do the same thing to his enemies, calming them just before he struck a life-ending blow.

Paris’s fury and frustration quickly chased that peacefulness away. “Stop that.”

“Wow, that’s a dark scowl. And not a very good look for you, I must say,” she added, then caught a glimpse of her coral-painted fingernails and studied them in the light. “So pretty.”

Touch her.

He tuned out his demon and decided he’d give the charm/sucker thing one more shot. Because, honestly? He had yet to intimidate this female in any way. If this next attempt failed, he would let loose his beast in full force—and he wasn’t talking about Sex. There was darkness inside him now, so much darkness, and that darkness would drive him to do what was necessary, no matter how vile.

He had no one but himself to blame, for he’d opened himself up to it. Just a fraction at first, like a crack in a window. But the funny thing was, once you welcomed in a breeze, there was no stopping what came next. A wind, a storm, thunder and lightning, until you could no longer reach the window to close it—and didn’t really want to anyway. That’s what this new darkness was. Evil in its purest form, an entity very much like Sex, urging him on.

Lie, cheat, betray, Paris thought. Here, now, like all the other times before.

He leaned down, softening his expression, forcing his demon’s desires to seep through his pores. Forcing his blood to heat and the musky scent of arousal to drift from him, as sultry as champagne, as heady as chocolate. If Sex wouldn’t use those pheromones, Paris would. He hated doing this, because, like everyone else, both he and Sex became mindless, flesh-hungry beings at the first whiff. Worse, the memories of what he forced people to do … to crave …

“Viola, sweetness. Talk to me. Tell me what I wish to know.” His tone was a sensual caress, blissful and sure, and yet, even with the pheromones affecting Paris, he wanted only one woman and Viola wasn’t her.

“I meant to thank you for my demon,” she went on, as if he’d never spoken. As if he did not currently smell like pleasure walking. “He’s the best! But then halfway to Budapest to track down your fortress, I forgot all about you. I’m sure you understand.” She fluffed her hair, looking away from him as she waved to someone at her right. “So, anyway, now that you’re here, thanks. Feel free to relay that to the others. Now you’ll have to— Argh! Who put a mirror there?” she ended in a screech.

Undiluted rage blazed from her expression for a single heartbeat, followed by rapturous ecstasy as she studied her reflection.

“Look at me.” She angled one way, posed, then angled another and posed again. “I’m gorgeous.”

“Viola.” Seconds passed, but she never stopped admiring herself. She even blew herself a kiss. Fine. They’d do this the other way. “I can make you beg for my touch, Viola. In front of everyone. And believe me, you will beg. You will cry, but relief will never be yours. I’ll make sure of it. But do you know what else? That’s not even the worst of what I’ll do to you.”

Several seconds ticked by, but she never offered a reply.

Fury …

Frustration …

Darkness … rising … He wanted to strike, to hurt, to kill.

He inhaled, held, held … smelled an infusion of roses … released the breath. Okay. Good. This time he was able to allow both emotion bombs to fizzle before detonation, calming him.

Perhaps Viola couldn’t help herself, he realized suddenly. As he knew very well, all of Pandora’s demons came with a major flaw. This could be hers. She was Narcissism, after all, a lover of self.

Testing his theory, he stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the mirror. Her entire body stiffened. Her gaze darted left and right, as if searching for interlopers who might have tried to harm her while she’d been incapacitated. No one had approached, and the tension drained from her. She breathed easier.

“I will gut the culprit!” she whispered fiercely.

Bingo. Her flaw, and one she clearly reviled.

“Concentrate on me, Viola.” He gripped her by the shoulders, squeezing harder than he’d intended and shaking her until those cinnamon eyes rose to meet his. “Tell me what I want to know and you’ll walk away from this unscathed.”

Still not the least bit intimidated, she shrugged off his hold. “So impatient. I should be used to it by now, but alas. Men falling all over me … still a burden.”

“Viola!”

“Fine. Let’s see what my worshippers have to say sooner rather than later, shall we?” She lifted her phone and read the screen. “Four hundred and eighty-five votes for Help him by giving him my number. Two hundred and seven votes for Are you stupid, climb him like a mountain, and one hundred and twenty-three votes for He’s mine, bitch, walk away.” She looked up at him, another smile taking root. “The little people have spoken. Yes, I will tell you about the souls.”

Urgency overrode his relief. “Tell me, then. Now.”

“Hey, you. Demon scum.” The harsh voice rang out from behind him.

Annnd one of the guys Paris had bumped into earlier was finally acting out. Paris ground his molars. His hands returned to the female’s shoulders. “Viola. Tell me.” She would tell him, and he would leave, finally beginning his search in truth.

“Get your hands off my female!”

Or not. Unleashed aggression dripped from the male’s tone, and the need for violence quickly resurfaced inside Paris.

Restrain yourself, common sense counseled. Victory is within reach. “A friend of yours?”

“I have no friends.” Graceful fingers reached up and hooked several tendrils of hair behind her ear. “Only admirers.”

“I’m talking to you, demon.” The male again.

Need rising … higher and higher … a thick black cloud that would not dissipate until blood ran in rivers at his feet. “If you want this admirer to survive, flash us out of here.” Popping from one location to another with only a thought always made him sick, but sick was better than distracted.

“I don’t,” she said. “Want him to survive, that is.”

“Are you listening to me, demon?” The tone was harsher, and far more determined. “Move away from her and face me. Or are you a coward?”

The cloud enveloped his mind, a single thought suddenly consuming him. The male was an obstacle in his path, blocking him from Sienna, and obstacles were to be eliminated. Always.

Another small voice of reason whispered through him, a beacon of gold amid an endless stretch of midnight. Zacharel … Current path … Destruction …

“Look at yourself in the mirror, goddess,” the male commanded. “I don’t want you to see what I do to the demon.”

Even as a curse tore from her mouth, Viola obeyed, angling around Paris as if she couldn’t help herself and hated herself for it. Just like that, she was once again enraptured by her own image, pinkie-waving and blowing kisses.

The golden whisper was destroyed. Death became inevitable. Paris pivoted on his heels to glare at his opponent.

Soon, blood would flow.




CHAPTER THREE


PARIS HAD GOTTEN ONE FACT wrong. He didn’t have an opponent. He had opponents. The knowledge caused a heady rush of eagerness to flood him. The day just kept getting better. Earlier he’d slain a handful of Hunters, and this hour’s selection—aka dessert—was a trio of fallen angels, each one bigger than the last. They were without shirts—the new fashion?—their scarred backs visible in the mirror at the top of the wall.

The frothing trio formed a solid wall of muscle on the other side of the bar, their arms crossed over their chests, their legs braced apart to evenly distribute their weight. A classic I’m-about-to-hurt-someone stance.

I want them, Sex said, as if that were some big surprise.

“You will not walk away,” he warned the men. Lately, he couldn’t afford to leave survivors. They had a nasty habit of returning for revenge.

“I’ve seen you around,” the one on the left said. “You smile and women fall at your feet, but I’m gonna change that when I rip your spine out of your mouth. Then I’m gonna tell your enemies where you are. Yeah, I know who you are, Lord of Sex. I also know the Hunters want the privilege of killing you.”

The one on the right flashed a grin, total I’ve-lost-my wings-and-I’m-glad evil. “Yeah. I like that idea. Maybe I’ll sign up with them, just to watch what they do to you when we’re finished, you dirty—”

The one in the middle, the biggest one, placed a hand on Rightie’s shoulder, silencing him. He had a bright white halo tattooed around his neck. That could mean he was only recently fallen, that he still had ties with the angels or that he liked to reminisce. Whatever. He would experience the same fate as his friends. “Less words, more pain.”

“Yes, more pain,” Paris agreed. He unsheathed his two favorite daggers, the clear, crystal blades glinting like rainbows in the light.

“Hey, no arsenals allowed inside,” the bartender bellowed. “Only fists.”

The entire bar stopped and quieted, clearly intent on watching.

“Feel free to try and pry mine from my grip.” That would mean more opponents, more bloodshed. More satisfaction.

“Unfair advantage,” someone else called.

Exactly. If you weren’t cheating, you weren’t trying. But, all right. Even lost to the decadent taste of violence as he was, Paris knew how to pretend to play nice. He commanded the blades to vanish from view while still remaining in his hands. Magical as they were, they obeyed.

“I don’t care what weapons you use,” Halo said.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Leftie unfolded his arms. “This is our territory, and we’re taking it back.”

“Now, we’ll make sure you never return.” Rightie fisted his hands, cracking his knuckles. “This is gonna be fun.”

“Fun. Yes. For me.” Paris approached.

The trio approached.

All four met in the middle. The moment Paris was within reach, he kicked Leftie while punching Rightie. Leftie hunched over, gasping for breath. Rightie died. Paris had punched with his invisible blade, sinking hilt-deep into the bastard’s carotid.

One down. Two to go.

Halo swung a meaty fist, but the low, straight line Paris had made with his body caused the former winger to encounter only air, the momentum spinning him around. By the time Paris jerked upright, Leftie had regained his stamina and jumped on him, attempting to rip out his trachea with claws that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Through dumb luck or talent, Leftie managed to angle his wrist when he realized Paris was shifting position, hitting the tendon that ran from neck to shoulder instead. There was a brutal rending before Paris shoved him off, the bastard taking hunks of skin and muscle with him.

Paris didn’t release him, though. He held on tight, even as Halo got back in the game and hammered at his face. He stabbed Leftie with a quick jab, jab. Kidneys first, to shock and disable. Heart second, to kill. Leftie died just like his friend.

Two down. One to go.

Paris released the now-lifeless body, heard the thump as it landed. Grinned. All the while, Halo continued to whale on him. Crack, crack. Pain in his eye, pain in his lip. Blood cascaded down his chin, stars winked through his vision, and Sex retreated to a hidden corner in his mind. Each new point of contact threw him backward into tables, knocking down glasses, chairs and people.

Finally he managed to dodge one of those fists. He regained his balance and spun low, intending to slash Halo in the back of the knee and hobble him. But the once heavenly being was used to dirty demon tricks and spun as well, darting out of the way just before contact.

An arm’s length away from each other now, they straightened and glared. Paris had yet to land a single blow on the man. He wanted to land a blow. Would land a blow. Then, when Halo was immobilized, Paris would slice him from navel to neck.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of alabaster, a ripple of molten gold amid the feathers of an angelic warrior, and the snow that had become Zacharel’s closest companion.

The man desires his woman as you desire yours. You would punish him for that?

The words drifted through Paris’s mind, rays of light scented with hope. To his shock, the darkness thinned and he thought, No, I don’t want to punish a man for going after the woman he craves. Even if I’m the obstacle he faces.

“I’ll probably regret this,” Paris said, gripping the invisible blade hilts tighter, just in case, “but I’m willing to let you leave. This is a one-time offer. Leave and live. That’s it. No negotiation.”

Halo scowled, his chin lifting, dark gaze narrowing. Whatever his name, there was no denying his punk-rocker appeal. His hair had been dyed the same pink as Viola’s phone and lashes. Tears of blood were inked at the corners of his eyes. A ring of steel protruded from the center of his lower lip. “I’m not leaving. She’s mine, and I will not allow you to have her, to use and discard her when you finish with her.”

Everything always came back to that, Paris thought, disgusted with himself and his demon’s need for sex. But then, the guy had said the one thing guaranteed to demolish his no-negotiation boast, so they’d try this a different way. “Does Viola want you in return?”

A hiss of fury. “She will.”

Same thing Paris had once thought about Sienna. Still did, if he were being honest. He hoped that there was something he could do or say that would change her mind about him and she would come around, want him the way he wanted her.

Did the fallen angel have a chance at success? Did he? Females were the most stubborn creatures ever created.

“Just so you know, I don’t want Viola.” He stepped to the left, again and again until they were circling each other, every second bringing Paris back to the man he used to be: honorable, concerned, valiant. This wouldn’t last, he knew, but he ran with it while he could.

“You lie!” Halo’s nostrils flared with the force of his inhalation. “I, who never before craved a woman, could not resist her. Everyone wants her.”

“Again, not me. I’m here for info that will help me save my woman. That’s it.”

A heavy pause as Halo flexed and unflexed his fingers, debating the truth of Paris’s claim.

Circle, circle. “Information only,” Paris reiterated. “I swear.”

“No.” He gave an abrupt shake of that pink head, his stubbornness a rival to that of a female. “I do not believe you. You carry the evil nature of a demon. You won’t be able to help yourself. You will lust after her, take advantage of her. Bed her.”

No, he wouldn’t. He was too close to Sienna, and he would wait for her as long as he could and survive. Fine. So maybe the truth was—he might. Survival had caused him to do terrible things. Maybe he should point out that Viola carried a demon, too. But then, Halo was past the point of thinking logically.

Paris sighed, the darkness rising again. “We finish this, then.”

Paris …

“No!” he gritted, blocking Zacharel’s voice from his head. “I tried your way. It didn’t work.”

He and Halo leapt at each other, meeting in the middle. Just as before, those meaty fists hammered at Paris. While the beating felt like stampeding demon hooves on his face, Halo’s midsection was left wide-open. But rather than take the kill stabs as Paris had done with the others—some of Zacharel’s light must have stuck around after all—he swept his arm low and sliced into Halo’s thigh, barely nicking his femoral.

Still the beating continued to rain, the fallen never registering the fact that he was going to bleed out if he didn’t leave and stitch himself up. Arms swinging, legs kicking, they fell into a table, toppled to the ground, rolled. Broken glass cut at Paris’s arms, his back. He landed several searing blows, accidentally slicing with his blades, until finally he sent Halo stumbling backward, out of range.

Halo stood, gasping for breath as he stepped forward once, twice. Then he stopped and frowned with confusion. At last his knees gave out. He dropped like a stone in the ocean. His once-tanned skin blanched to an unnatural chalk-white, his tattoos dimming. His eyes were suddenly fever-bright.

Fallen angels did not heal like immortals. They healed like humans: slowly. Or not at all.

“You … you …”

“Won.” Done, done and done. All three were felled. “Get some help, and you should recover just fine.”

“But you …” Incredulity bathed Halo’s punk-rocker features. “You won through cheating. That was a blade I felt. Multiple times!”

“Hate to break it to you, big boy, but cheating happens a lot. You might want to try it yourself. Besides, you said you didn’t care what weapons I used.”

There was muttering behind him.

Paris raised his arms and spun in slow motion. The crowd had yet to disperse, more concerned with collecting bets than escaping notice. “Who’s next?” Blood dripped from his still-invisible daggers, pooling on the floor.

Suddenly they all had somewhere else to be. The sea of faces parted, giving him a direct view of Zacharel. The angel had his arms crossed over the wide expanse of his chest. His expression was troubled.

“Still here?” Paris arched a brow in challenge. “You want a piece of me, too?”

Frowning, silent, Zacharel vanished.

Seriously. Why the interest?

Does it matter? Urgency shooting through him, Paris stomped to Viola, who still studied herself in the mirror. He sheathed his weapons and jerked her toward the door. “Come on.”

It was definitely time to go. One, he didn’t want to risk anyone else deciding to fight him. Two, seeing him talking to her might be more than Halo could handle. And three, she might have changed her mind about telling him what he wanted to know. He’d have to get physical.

Halo watched her with longing in his eyes—and just before the door closed behind Paris, hatred. Yeah. The dude would be back for revenge. Shoulda killed him. He still could. But Paris opted not to return to finish the job. If Zacharel reappeared and kicked up a stink, his game plan would be screwed.

“Hey,” Viola said, at last snapping out of her trance. She tugged at his hold. A cool wind blew past them, caressing the silky length of her hair along his arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I want her, Sex said, peeking from the shadows of his mind.

On a mission here. “I’m getting you to safety,” he lied. “You don’t want your admirers to swarm you, do you?”

She tugged harder. “Of course I do. Here’s a lesson about women. We like to be admired from afar, and then complimented up close.”

He seriously did not need lessons. “I meant your admirers weren’t paying you the proper homage. They don’t deserve your exalted presence.”

And wouldn’t you know it. Her resistance ended there. “You make an excellent point.”

Of course, she’d missed his sarcasm.

He arrived at an abandoned alley and stopped. Perfect. The moon was so close he had only to reach out to trace the soft, orange-yellow edges. Clouds were closer still, enveloping him in a fine, dew-scented mist. Though the area was well-lit, no one passing by would see what transpired within the narrow space.

He rounded on Viola, pressing her against the solid gold bricks of the building, invading her personal space to gain her full attention. Except, her attention had already moved to her phone, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

I want, I want, I want!

I hope you rot and die.

“‘Lord of Sex is bloodier than before and … ick … swollen. My eyes are not amused.’ Send.”

He claimed her phone and, rather than smashing it as instinct demanded, returned it to the inside of her boot. “You can Screech about this later. As for right now, you’re going to talk to me. What can I do to see the dead? Remember, your worshippers insisted you tell me.”

A pout of those lush lips, but she said, “Burn the body of the soul you wish to see and save the ashes. Speaking of, did I ever tell you about how I once saved the ashes of a—”

On and on she droned about what she’d done, then about herself, her life, and Paris tuned her out, a curtain of hope forming around his mind. He’d already burned Sienna’s body and saved the ashes. At the time, he hadn’t known why he’d done so; he’d only known he couldn’t part with what remained of her. And ever since, he’d secretly carried a small vial of those ashes in his pocket.

Somehow, he must have suspected he would need them.

When Viola at last quieted, he said, “There’s more to seeing a soul than saving the ashes.” There had to be. A few weeks ago, Sienna had escaped Cronus, had hunted Paris down, yet Paris hadn’t seen her.

He never would have known about her arrival if William the Ever Randy, another being who could commune with the dead, had not been with him and casually mentioned the dead girl at his feet. Of course, Cronus had swiftly tracked her down and dragged her back to her prison.

An act the Titan king would pay for.

“Duh, of course there is. Mix the ashes with ambrosia and tattoo the rim of your eyes,” Viola said. “You’ll see her, I promise. If you want to touch her, tattoo the tips of your fingers. If you want to hear her, tattoo the flesh behind your ears, blah blah blah. I remember a time when I—”

Once again he tuned her out. This he could, would do. Tattooing one’s self with the ashes of the dead might be disgusting to most people, but Paris would have done a lot worse. “Will I smell her? Taste her?” he asked, interrupting Viola’s monologue.

“Only if you tattoo the inside of your nose, lips and top of your tongue. One time, in Tartarus, I—”

“Wait.”

Enough! I don’t want her, Sex suddenly piped up. Find someone else.

Well, well. For once they were in agreement. “Is there anything else I should know? Any consequences I should be aware of—”

“Paris.”

The familiar voice came from behind him. Paris whipped around, sickness already churning inside his stomach. Whenever Lucien visited him, bad news was quick on his heels. “What’s wrong?”




CHAPTER FOUR


LUCIEN, KEEPER OF DEATH, stood tall and strong, a powerful presence even through the haze of mist that enveloped him. Like Viola, the warrior could flash from one location to another with only a thought. His dark hair was a mop of tangles sticking out in spikes. His eyes—one blue, one brown—were bright with concern. Dirt smudged his scarred cheeks, and there were rips in his wrinkled shirt and pants.

“Since I told you not to come back for me until I texted you, I take it that’s not why you’re here.” Out of habit, Paris palmed his blades. “You better start talking.”

Lucien’s gaze strayed to Viola. “Get rid of her first.”

The “her” in question straightened her spine with a jolt. “Oh, no, he didn’t. I’m not some pretty a man can just toss aside whenever—oh, hey. You’re Anya’s man.” The indignation left her, and she waved happily. “Hi! I’m Viola. As if you couldn’t guess. My reputation for awesomeness precedes me, and I’m sure Anya has mentioned me countless times.”

She knew Anya, the minor goddess of Anarchy? A woman who had more balls than most men—because she’d cut them off the guys stupid enough to get in her way and kept them as souvenirs. Well, of course Viola knew Anya. They might have “minor” in their respective titles, but they were both major pains in the ass.

Lucien’s dark brows drew low. “No, she never—”

“Stops talking about you,” Paris rushed out, halting his friend before he insulted the egomaniac. He ran his hand along the front of his neck, his fingers taut as a blade, the universal sign for cut that out or die.

“Yes,” Lucien lied, frowning. “She mentions you all the time.”

Viola laughed, a tinkling sound of amusement. “No need to state the obvious, you darling boy. As if I’m not aware of how often I come up in conversation.”

“You should probably Screech about seeing Anya’s man,” Paris said. “Maybe describe him. Post a picture.

Whatever.”

Expression serious, she said, “Ixnay on the picture. Those are reserved for my image, otherwise my fans get twitchy. But the other thing … totally. Description is one of the many areas I shine in, since I shine in everything.” She grabbed her phone and typed away. “Hair of indigo and eyes of crystal and chocolate, he stands before me …”

Paris met Lucien’s confused stare. “She’s the keeper of Narcissism, and she only registers conversations about herself.” Clearly. “You can talk freely with me.”

Lucien’s eyes widened, and he studied Viola anew. “Another keeper? How did you find … Why isn’t she …? Never mind. Doesn’t matter right now.” His focus whipped back to Paris. “I’m here because Kane’s missing.”

The sickness returned to burn a path up Paris’s chest, stopping to play a game of tonsil hockey in his throat. “How long?”

“Just a few days. He and William were together. Someone captured them, took them into hell to execute them. Maybe Hunters, maybe not. Another group attacked the first. William says the cavern they were in collapsed and knocked him out before the men could do anything to him. When he woke up, he was in a motel room in Budapest. Without Kane.”

Paris rubbed a hand down his face. “Is Kane still … alive?” He had trouble speaking that last word, much less thinking it. If his friend had been slain while he’d been chasing tail, he would never forgive himself.

“Yeah. He is. He has to be.”

Because they couldn’t stand the thought of living without him. “You putting together a posse to search for him?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Who do you have so far?”

“Amun, Aeron, Sabin and Gideon.”

Nasty fighters, all of them. If Paris were missing, he’d want the same guys looking for him. Seriously, the only team capable of getting better results would be Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers and Hannibal Lecter.

Amun was the keeper of Secrets, and there was no greater warrior to have on your side. The man was like a worm in your brain, able to ferret out in seconds information you’d buried for years. In fact, there was nothing anyone could hide from him. So Kane’s location? No prob.

Aeron was the former keeper of Wrath. He’d recently been beheaded and given a new body, and that’s when his demon had merged with Sienna. But even without his darker half, Aeron liked to make his prey squeal before he moved in for the kill. Anyone who’d hurt Kane would pay. Repeatedly.

Sabin was the keeper of Doubt, a warrior of unparalleled strength and determination, and he had a vicious streak that caused hardened criminals to soil their pants in fear. He got into your head, reminded you of your weaknesses, and basically turned you into a slobbering bag of self-recrimination before he savagely murdered you—with a grin on his face.

And Gideon, well, he was the keeper of Lies. He dyed his hair blue, was tattooed and pierced, and had a warped sense of humor very few others got. His new favorite game involved casting his demon from his body and into his enemy’s, then sitting back and watching the human destroy himself as the evil consumed him.

Paris almost felt sorry for whoever had taken Kane.

Almost.

“So, you in?” Lucien asked.

“I—” Hate this. He wanted to say yes. He did. He loved his friends. More than he loved himself, even more than Viola probably loved herself. (Speaking of, the damn woman was still typing, and from her mutterings, she was telling the world how the Lord of Death found her far more attractive than the goddess of Anarchy.) His friends had fought beside him, bled for him and always had his back.

They’d do more than take a bullet for him. They’d take a life—even their own. But … “I can’t,” he said, whether he’d be able to forgive himself or not. “Not right now. There’s something I have to do first.” His resolve, that cloud of darkness, still swirled inside him, driving him. He’d come this far; he couldn’t back out now.

Lucien nodded without hesitation. “Understood.” There was no trying to change Paris’s mind, no making him feel guilty, which meant there was no better friend. “You want help with your mission?” he added, and damn if Paris didn’t start to feel guilty anyway. “If you’re headed into something dangerous, I’m happy to volunteer William.”

William, Anya’s best friend and someone Lucien would love to see stabbed in the back. And heart. And groin. Willy wasn’t possessed by a demon, but according to gossip he was the devil’s blood-brother, as well as related to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Gossip was probably right. Nothing scared William. Nothing bothered him. And the cherry on top? If Willy ever opened a closet door and the boogeyman jumped out, it was only the boogeyman who’d be scared.

“Bring him to me,” Paris said. “He owes me.” William had let Cronus take Sienna without a fight. As far as Paris was concerned, the guy was now his slave for life.

“Done.” Lucien’s gaze shifted to Viola, who was still typing. “What about her? We can’t let her run around on her own. Cronus and the Hunters would doubtless love to snatch her.”

Cronus hated the Hunters, and the Hunters hated Cronus. Both sides were searching for the remaining demon-possessed immortals, each hoping to recruit more than the other, and neither would shy away from using brute force to get what they wanted. Paris enjoyed the idea of screwing both parties over.

“Take her,” he said, placing his hand on Viola’s shoulder, meaning to shake her and gain her attention.

The action, innocent though it was, startled her, and between one heartbeat and the next, she went from gorgeously angelic to looking like the demon inside her. Two horns extended from her scalp. Red scales replaced her skin, and her eyes glowed like radioactive rubies. Sharp, deadly fangs protruded over her lips. Her nails grew into claws. The scent of sulfur overpowered the scent of roses, a scarlet mist wafting from her, stinging his nostrils, making his demon whimper like a newborn baby.

With a roar of white-hot rage, she sank those claws into Paris’s wrist and tossed him so hard he smacked into the building next door, its solid gold bricks cracking and plumping filigree into the air.

Oxygen abandoned his lungs. Stars returned to his line of vision. What. The. Hell? When he was able to focus clearly, he saw that Viola was Viola again, exquisite, blonde and innocent.

“Oops. My bad.” With a tinkling chuckle, she stuffed her phone into her boot. “Touching the merchandise isn’t allowed. Ever. Now, did you need something from me?”

Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is gonna be fun. I can tell.”

“Do you mind going with Lucien?” Paris asked her as he lumbered to his feet. Every new breath scraped his lungs against his ribs. Worse, the wound in his neck had opened. With one toss, she’d done far more damage to his body than the three amigos inside the bar had. “He’ll take you to Anya and you two girls can, uh, catch up.” He’d thought to force her to go. Now? He’d beg if necessary.

“Seriously?” Viola clapped, twirled and threw herself into Lucien’s arms. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! I’m going with you, but only if you promise to stop and pick up my pet, Princess Fluffikans, on the way. Small word of warning, though. You’re about to fall madly, passionately in love with me, and Anya will be utterly heartbroken.”

It was far more likely that one of the other—single—warriors would fall madly, passionately in bed with her, but now wasn’t the time to point that out.

Lucien fought off her octopus-like arms, scowled at Paris, and vanished with Viola jabbering about her majorly awesome awesomeness. Paris didn’t bother staying where he was. Death could follow the spiritual trail he left behind, easy, and meet him somewhere else.

Time to do a little tattooing.

The mortal and immortal worlds were scarily alike. Titania was a thriving metropolis of shopping centers and restaurants, brimming with entertainment of any and every kind. Didn’t take Paris long to gather the necessary tattooing equipment and a spare set of clothes, and settle into one of the motels he’d been amused to discover existed here. Apparently even immortals liked to have secret assignations.

As he waited for Lucien, he ate because it was de rigueur. A sandwich, and he had no idea what was strapped between the bread. He got himself off because that was necessary for his demon. He hadn’t had sex today, and the orgasm was like an injection of strength. Strength that wouldn’t last, not like the adrenaline rush that accompanied intercourse, but whatever. He’d take what he could get.

He showered, cleaned off the blood and the wealth of other things clinging to his skin. A lot of humans had died under his blade today. Hunters, his enemy. Mostly males. More and more, they were recruiting females. Paris wondered what would have happened if he’d met Sienna on the battlefield, or if he’d ever attempted to interrogate her.

If she’d lived long enough, that’s what he had planned to do to her. After he’d bedded her again. Would he have hurt her? He liked to think no, but … damn. He couldn’t be sure. She’d known things she shouldn’t. Where he was, why he was there. How to distract him, what to use to drug him, an immortal unaffected by human toxins. Now he knew she’d gotten her info from Rhea, Cronus’s wife and the true leader of the Hunters. Not directly, he didn’t think, but filtered down through the ranks. But even if he hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have concerned himself with questioning her this time around. He just wanted her.

Safe, right? You just want her safe? A sneer from Sex.

Whatever. Paris toweled off and looked himself over in the steam-fogged mirror. He’d lost a little weight, had bruises under his eyes, a few scratches on his cheeks and neck. His hair wasn’t exactly even. He’d trimmed the strands himself, just kind of chopping anytime a piece fell into his eyes. What would Sienna think of him now? Despite everything, she’d been attracted to him before. Would she still be attracted to him? Right now, he might be a little too feral for any woman. Very mountain-man meets post-traumatic stress survivor.

But what if the impossible happened and she did, in fact, want him again? For real, with no hidden agenda. What if she simply craved his body inside of hers? After all, she’d fought her way free of Cronus’s prison and come looking for him.

Lowering his guard would be stupid. He couldn’t trust her. Not really. He could take her, yeah, that was still on the menu. If he could still get hard for her while he was around her. Only time would tell. And if he could—and he thought he could, considering he was hard merely from thinking about her—maybe he could even stay with her a few days. If so, would his hunger for her finally wane? Or would it continue to intensify? Would he be able to let her go when the time came?

What if she wanted to stay with him?

He yearned for that. So damn badly he yearned for that. But like Zacharel had said, Paris would ruin her if he kept her. Not for the reasons the angel had given, but because if he and Sienna were ever separated and he couldn’t get to her, he would cheat on her. He would have to. His other choice would be death, and on the scales of life-versus-death, cheating—surviving—won every time.

He knew that firsthand, had once tried to sustain a relationship with a woman. Susan. He’d had her, knew he couldn’t have her again, but had craved something more and had pleased her in other ways. He’d genuinely liked her, had enjoyed her company—but had ultimately cheated on her, hurting her worse than anyone else ever had.

And here was another slap of truth: if he cheated on Sienna, he would destroy everything they had managed to build, as well as her heart, her sense of trust and any hint of innocence. He would be worthy of every dark deed she then committed against him—yet still he wanted her.

The situation was so messed up.

Scowling, he slammed his fist into the mirror. Jagged pieces of glass fell, shattering further when they hit the floor, surrounding his discarded weapons and glistening like diamonds in a sea of destruction. Blood dripped from his knuckles as he palmed and sheathed the blades at his wrists and ankles and holstered the guns under his arms. At this rate, he’d soon be carving himself up like Reyes, the keeper of Pain. Anything for release, for a moment when he didn’t have to wonder or worry about anything but his injuries.

Whatever. He’d gotten used to wondering and worrying. They were his constant companions now, and without them, he’d be utterly alone. Paris dressed in the new clothes he’d bought, a black shirt and black pants. Where he was going, night reigned no matter the time of day. He needed to blend.

Not long ago, he’d snuck into Cronus’s secret harem and seduced one of the concubines, trading sex for information. Paris now knew Sienna was being held in the Realm of Blood and Shadows, part of Titania but … not. The realm was a kingdom within this heavenly kingdom, invisible to most and protected by evil. To enter was to die, blah, blah, blah.

Paris could find the realm on his own, no problem. He’d gotten very good at bribing his way through the heavens, even the hidden areas. Finger-combing his wet hair, he padded to the desk in the living-room-slash-bedroom. He sat down and spread out his new tattoo equipment. Part of him wished he was out there, killing Hunters or already making his way into the Realm of Blood and Shadows. These delays sucked.

To his immense relief, Lucien found him a short while later, appearing in the center of the room. “I felt bad for stiffing you with Willy, so I brought you a prize.”

Death shoved the drenched, protesting William in Paris’s direction, then motioned to Zacharel, who stood at his other side. The “prize,” as though he was something out of a Cracker Jack box.

“Actually,” Zacharel said in that cold voice of his. “I brought myself. Lucien was hunting you, and I saved him the time and trouble.”

Paris popped his jaw. “Thanks tons,” he said to Lucien, ignoring the angel. “Mean that.”

William, my sweet William! I want him, Sex said, practically spraying drool through Paris’s mind. Sex always wanted a piece of the guy. Not that Paris had ever admitted that aloud. Not that he ever would.

“So sad I can’t remain,” Lucien said with mock pity. “By the way, Viola’s pet, Princess Fluffycakes or whatever, is a Tasmanian devil and a vampire. You’re lucky I’m leaving without slitting your throat.” Once again, the warrior vanished.

As tiny snowflakes swirled around him, Zacharel eyed the room with distaste. “What are you doing here?”

“Seriously man, it’s a dump,” William added. “When I’m in the heavens, I only ever stay at the West Godlywood. Can we at least request a suite?”

No, they wouldn’t be playing either man’s version of the Q-and-A game. They would be playing Paris’s. “Why is it always snowing around you lately?” he demanded of Zach.

“There is a reason.”

So not helpful on any level. “Will you share it?”

“No.”

“Are you following me?”

“Yes.”

At least he didn’t try to deny it. Not that he could have. Angels spoke the truth, and only ever the truth, which made Zacharel’s earlier threat to kill him all the more real. “Why?”

“You are not yet ready to hear the answer.”

Paris loved that kind of cryptic crap, he really did. “If you’re going to stick around, make yourself useful and tattoo the rest of me.” For the lines around his eyes, he needed a steady hand. “Then you can help me kick ass and not bother with names.”

Zacharel leveled him with a frown as fierce as the flurry of snowflakes storming from the ends of his wings. “I have never tattooed anyone before. I’m likely to mar you.”

And yet, he would still do a better job than William, no question. “The worst you can do is poke out my eyes, but that’s hardly a concern since they’ll grow back. Eventually.”

That frown deepened, minutes ticking by. “Very well. I will do this for you.”

“Yes, you make yourself useful, angel boy. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the bathroom.” William’s jet-black hair was dripping wet and plastered to his face. There was a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist, displaying muscles that rivaled Paris’s own, and a tattooed treasure map that led to his man junk. Looking at him, you could see the makings of a temper so savage anyone who miraculously survived an encounter with him would end up needing therapy. And diapers. “I’ve got to finish deep conditioning my hair.”

Or maybe not so savage.

No matter. Paris had never been closer to finding and saving Sienna. With these two warriors at his side, he’d succeed. Guaranteed.




CHAPTER FIVE


SIENNA BLACKSTONE, newly crowned Queen of the Beasts, Princess of Blood and Shadows, and Duchess of Horror, stood with her back pressed into the crumbling stone wall of the castle she unwillingly called home. Her wings were heavy, constantly pulling at recently formed tendons and bones, making her ache, cringe and, humiliatingly enough, sometimes cry.

The wings arched over her shoulders and draped down her sides in a cascade of midnight, their spiky tips now reaching the floor. She remembered seeing these very wings on Aeron, the previous host for the demon of Wrath. On his muscled, grimly tattooed body, they had appeared soft, gossamer, as weightless and beautiful as storm clouds. On her slight frame, they overpowered and overwhelmed and she had trouble finding her balance.

Sadly, that wasn’t the worst of her problems. Cronus, god of gods (according to him) and all around asshat (according to her), paced in front of her, ranting and raving. Saying he was “upset” would be the equivalent of saying the Atlantic was a rain puddle.

When she’d first met him, he’d looked like a codger of an old man, complete with gray hair, wrinkled skin and stooped shoulders. Now he was GQ flawless and barbarian tough. Dark chestnut hair hung to strong, wide shoulders. Skin of the smoothest texture was tanned to the perfect shade of bronze. He’d also ditched his prissy toga in favor of a black mesh shirt and black leather pants.

The change was gargantuan—and creepy. She wanted to ask why he’d gone this route, then offer to punish his stylist free of charge. Did she dare? Heck, no. The ranting and raving would morph into a straight-up savage beating. At least, that’s the impression he gave.

“I saved you,” he snapped, death in his timbre as he stomped one foot in front of the other, back and forth, back and forth. “I strengthened you. Gifted you with your demon. And how do you repay me? By constantly refusing to obey me. It’s unconscionable!”

Gifted? Really? If the new definition of gifted was cursed forever and ever with misery and pain, then yeah, he had. “I obeyed you,” she reminded him. At first.

“At first,” he said, parroting her thoughts. His was an accusation that lashed like the sharpest of whips. “And only because you were compelled. You’ve since learned to block me.”

True. And that she had was a testament to the iron-hard rigidity of her stubborn core. With only a thought, this huffing, puffing being could render unending pain. With a wave of his hand, he could vaporize entire cities. Something she would do well to remember.

Sienna chose her next words carefully. “To be fair, you tricked me.” Okay, so maybe she hadn’t chosen carefully. At least her tone had been as flat and unaccusatory as possible.

A narrowed flick of his gaze nearly buckled her knees. “How so?”

She pressed more of her weight into the wall. “You promised I would see my younger sister.”

You look so pretty, Enna.

Really?

Really. You’re the prettiest girl in the whole wide world!

Skye, her only sibling, a little girl she’d adored with her whole heart, had been abducted years ago, never to be seen or heard from again. Sienna missed her terribly, prayed she was healthy, whole and that she hadn’t suffered incomparable cruelties.

“Yet you merely teased me with a glimpse of her,” she added, rubbing her stomach as she always did when she thought of her sister, reminded of yet another girl, someone else she’d loved and lost, the— She cut that thought off before it could form. I won’t break down in front of this creature.

Cronus ground his molars. “That glimpse … I should have known it would come back to haunt me.” He paused, a low growl bubbling from his throat. “I guess I should at last admit the truth, then. I showed you an illusion of your sister, nothing more.”

Wait, wait, wait. An illusion? Sienna bit her tongue. Why would he … How could he …? No matter the question, the answer was simple. To play her like a piano, as Paris had once said to her about her. Bastard wasn’t a vile enough word for this beast.

Steady, calm. “Is she even alive?” Sienna gritted out.

“Of course.”

There was no of course with Cronus. He lived by his own set of rules, and he didn’t always abide by those.

Every time he appeared before her, her demon showed her the despicable things he’d done throughout his life. The lives he’d taken, striking down not just his enemies, but his own people, humans, anyone who dared defy him. And he’d stolen, oh, had he stolen. Ancient artifacts, powers that belonged to others, women. He had no shame. No limits.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth now?”

“You won’t. Your demon will.”

A suspended moment as she searched inside herself. Wrath was calm, not worked into a frenzied need to punish him for lying. That glimpse of Skye had indeed been an illusion, but Cronus did believe she was still alive. Sienna gritted her teeth, saying, “Bring her to me, the real Skye, and let me keep her, then I’ll do anything you ask.”

“No.”

“Why?” She stamped her foot. It was childish, sure, but she had no other way to express her displeasure with this man. “Do you, a supposedly all-knowing being, not know where she is?”

In a blink, he was a mere whisper away, scowling down at her, his breath fanning over her. “Enough about your sister! Aren’t you curious why I gifted you with Wrath? You, a fragile, dearly departed female who had upset one of my strongest warriors? Aren’t you curious about my desire for your willing participation in my war?”

Do not suggest the king of the Titans needs a breath mint. She gulped. And don’t you dare think about the warrior you upset. Don’t you dare think about Paris. Oh, no, no, no. “Y-yes.” And now she was stuttering? Grow some lady balls, Blackstone!

Red flashed in Cronus’s eyes. Demon-red. A fiendish crimson that made her think of blood mixed with nuclear toxins. Not only was he the king of the Titans, but he was also possessed by Greed—and right now, his demon was at the wheel, driving his actions, his words. Around her, the castle shook, his anger rattling its very foundation.

“You know the Hunters. You know how they operate. You were once a part of their cause.”

“I know.” As if she could ever forget or absolve herself. Once she’d even borne the symbol of infinity on her wrist, their mark. A permanent reminder of their “goals.” In this spirit form, she had no tattoos but the butterfly around her wings, and for that, she was immensely grateful. “The same is true for thousands of others.”

Except those thousands of others actually had no idea they were fools, or that they were expendable, nothing more than puppets on strings. Like she had been—until she’d gotten a bitch slap of truth and clipped those strings with brutal proficiency.

Soon after Wrath’s possession of her, Cronus had whisked her to a Hunter compound. Because Cronus could shield himself from prying eyes and humans could not see her, no one had noticed them. Just as she’d seen the king’s sins play through her mind, she’d seen the transgressions of the Hunters. Thefts, rapes, murders, all in the name of “good.” That she had once been a (supposedly vital) part of their cause, that she had once aided them …

Punish them … Steal, rape, murder …

There he was. Wrath. Her dark companion. Even remembering what he’d seen, and being worlds apart from those responsible, he urged her to seek vengeance against the Hunters. To show no mercy, no forgiveness for even the innocent among them, for all the harm they had caused, to hurt them far worse than they had hurt others.

Punish …

Cringing, she covered her ears with her hands. “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” she chanted. Sometimes she could resist him; sometimes she could not. That’s when he would overtake her, and her world would go black. For a little while, at least.

Though she was cursed to remain inside this deteriorating monstrosity of a castle, somehow Wrath was not. When he was in control of her mind, they could leave. He would use her body to castigate others however he wished.

Days later, she would wake up with blood on her hands, coating her skin. Of course, memories of what the demon had done would then deluge her. Sadistic, stomach-curdling things. And yet, nothing—nothing!—he had forced her to do was more disgusting than what the Hunters were doing to innocent humans.

Humans. How odd her new vernacular was to her. Once she’d been a human. Such a foolish human. How could I ever have thought the goal of the Hunters was the elimination of evil?

Well, okay, that was easy. As a teenager, she’d seen a vile demon in action—or what she’d thought was a demon—and the experience had freaked her out, convinced her that such evil was the reason her sister had been taken. Combine that with the shock of learning that humans were not alone, that there was an entire world of creatures at work around them …

The whole other-world thing had proven to be true, at least. But the rest, the demon she’d seen? While they did in fact exist, she hadn’t encountered one that night. Her Hunter boyfriend had drugged her—his preferred method of recruiting—created the perfect atmosphere to elicit fear, and her hallucinating brain had filled in the rest. Afterward, he’d fed her fear with stories of the evil they could fight and the good they could do, saying she might even be able to find and save her sister.

What he’d failed to tell her: humans made their own decisions, influenced by demons or not. They decided to embrace the dark or run into the light.

Not all Hunters cloaked their malevolence with righteous determination; she knew that, she did. Some were genuinely sincere in their desire to rid the world of evil, and wouldn’t create their own to do so. But the fact that she had once willingly contributed to such a warped cause, well, she would never get over that fact. Worse, she had hurt Paris, a warrior who would give his life to protect the ones he loved.

There was no stopping the next flood of thoughts, each revolving around the man she had once harmed beyond repair. She had struck at Paris when he was at his weakest. Worse, she would have aided in his cold-blooded murder if he hadn’t escaped with her.

During that escape, she was shot down and she’d even blamed him for that, thinking he had used her body to shield his own. Oh, how she had despised him. Now, she despised only herself.

No, that wasn’t exactly true. She also hated the Hunters and everything they represented.

Cronus wanted her to punish them. Her demon wanted to punish them. She wanted to punish them. But Cronus refused to simply unleash her. Instead he demanded she return to their midst and spy on Galen, the leader’s right-hand man, as well as the keeper of Hope. Yep, a demon was second-in-command of the demon slayers, and none of them knew it. They thought he was an angel.

“As devoted as you were to the Hunter cause in life, Galen will believe you wish to rejoin him in your death,” Cronus said, as though reading her thoughts. Maybe he had. “He will welcome you with open arms.”

“He won’t be able to see me.”

“He will. Leave that to me.”

“He won’t wonder why I’m demon-possessed? How I’m demon-possessed?”

“He knows. My wife, his leader, told him. But he is overly confident of his appeal and his strength, and he will think he is watching you.”

“In that case, he’ll never tell me anything.”

“No, he’ll feed you false information, and the truth can be garnered from that.”

“What if he asks me to prove my loyalty to him?”

“He will.”

And she would be forced to comply to continue her ruse. Would he ask her to hurt the warriors she now wished to aid? To hurt innocent humans? Well, the answer to both was the same. Never!

Look at me. Once a human who didn’t know about the supernatural, then a Hunter in the midst of it all, hating the demons I chased, and now I’m one of those demons—and hoping to aid the others. “Sorry, but I’m gonna have to stick with my first answer.”

Another flash of red streaked through Cronus’s eyes, brighter than before. If she was intelligent, she would view that red as a stoplight for her resistance.

Why start acting like a smartie now? “That’s a big-time no, in case you forgot,” she said more firmly.

“Your human superior ordered you to sleep with Paris,” he growled, “and you did. Do not try and act self-righteous with me.”

Yes, but her attraction to Paris had been immediate and overwhelming. She had yearned for him.

Yearned for him, even though she believed his demon was responsible for infidelity, the breakup of marriages, teen pregnancies, rapes and the rampant spread of STDs. Even though Paris had been, and would always be, at the head of a never-ending parade of lovers. A fact driven home by a coworker who had watched him for days, snapping pictures of all the women he bedded, then showing those pictures to Sienna after she’d brought him in. And yet she’d still had to fight a wave of jealousy, an emotion she never should have felt in the line of duty.

Had she mentioned her mental incompetence?

“If he asks you to kill for him, seduce him into bed instead,” Cronus said. “That will save you from having to do something unpleasant.”

They certainly had different definitions for unpleasant! “You’d be better served demanding I bring you Galen’s head in a magical box of starlight while riding on the back of a Pegasus through a rainbow, because he won’t want me sexually. I’ve never been the type to attract a man’s attention.”

She knew what she looked like. Hazel eyes too big for her face—ordinary. Lips also too big for her face—unappealing. Freckled skin—unfashionable. And wavy brown hair that was neither silky-straight nor perkily curly—ordinary, unappealing and unfashionable.

Cronus remained undeterred. “You’re right. You haven’t.”

The truth can’t hurt you, she told herself—while hurting.

“But then,” he went on, “your looks will not matter. Galen will be attracted to your demonic power. He’ll want to control you, to feed you all that false information, to use you. Yes, the more I think on this, the more I like it. You will sleep with him.”

She ran her tongue over her teeth. “Killing Galen will destroy the heart and soul of the Hunters far more effectively than pleasuring him.”

“Yes, but dying is not his fate.”

“What’s his fate, then? What is it, exactly, you think he can do for you?”

Silence.

Deep breath in … out … “Okay, there are two problems with your plan. Galen’s a douche bag, and I suck in bed.” Wait. That hadn’t come out right. “I mean, even if he only wants me for my demonic power—” just saying the words grated “—or because he thinks he can feed me false info, or control me or whatever other reason you think up, he’ll never come back for seconds because we’ll both be embarrassed by our performances, and the entire plan will be moot.”

The only reason she’d garnered Paris’s interest was because he’d been desperate to get laid—by anyone!—in order to survive. “Galen is more likely to laugh at me than tell me his secrets.”

Perfectly trimmed brows arched, fixing the king’s features in a patronizing expression. “You can be trained.”

“So can dogs, but they’ll only bite you.” She would do far worse.

A beat of silence as he absorbed her taunt. “Woman, you frustrate me! I’m not asking you to willingly submit to torture. I’m merely asking you to allow a man to have you in the name of duty—as you have allowed before.”

“That’s too big a commitment for me. I kill him, or I do nothing to him.”

“Galen is an immortal warrior who has spent thousands of years on a battlefield. How do you propose you kill him, hmm?”

“Just leave that to me,” she said, mimicking his earlier words. “And, hey, here’s another idea. Why can’t you kill him? I thought you were all-powerful.”

“Enough!” With a scowl as dark as a moonless night, Cronus slammed his fists on either side of her temples, creating holes in the wall and causing bricks to fall and dust to plume in the air.

Rattle … rattle …

Great. The entire castle was shaking again.

“How dare you, a slave, question me? I am your master, your owner. The arbiter of your fate. I answer to no one.”

Except to your wife. With the royal sovereigns, hurting one always hurt the other, pain slithering across the bond between them. But Sienna wasn’t going to remind him of that little gem. “I don’t care who you are. I will not align myself with Galen.”

Before she could so much as blink, Cronus fit his hands around her neck and squeezed until she could no longer breathe, until her lungs burned and her throat felt scaled by acid. Rattle, rattle, went the walls, as if the entire structure might collapse from within. “I can be the executioner of your soul, and you will cease to exist in every way, or I can be your savior, granting you a measure of peace at long last.” Tighter … tighter … then, abruptly, the pressure eased. “Remember that, for you are the one who will decide your ultimate fate.”

She barely curbed the urge to feed him both of her knuckles. “Whatever I decide,” she snapped, uncaring of the consequences, “you’re still an asshole.”

Surprising her, he gave a grin full of teeth. “Aren’t I, though?”

At one time, Sienna had been mild mannered, afraid of hurting anyone’s feelings, desperate to smooth any and all ruffled feathers. Maybe the demon’s bad mood had bled into her. Or maybe the waspishness came courtesy of knowing just how worthless her entire life had been. Either way, she had never had more to lose—or cared so little.

“You should have picked someone else to host Wrath. Because … wait for it … my answer is still no.”

Rather than adding fuel to the seething cauldron of his temper, her words seemed to make him back down. His features softened, the murderous rage draining from his gaze, his taut lips sliding back over his teeth. He lowered his arms.

Shocking.

“No,” he said, gentle, so gentle now. “There was no better choice than you.”

Her heart drummed fitfully in her chest. Though she was dead, her spirit self had developed a heartbeat, a need to breathe, the moment the demon had entered her soul-body. Unfortunately, this meant she could feel pain and if cut she would bleed.

“Why me?” she finally asked. “You have to tell me something.”

“Do I?” He turned, offering his profile and ignoring her question. “In this realm hidden from the rest of the heavens, where no one will ever find you, I don’t have to do anything.”

A muscle drummed rapidly in his jaw, and before she could reply he added, “Do you enjoy living here, Sienna?”

“No.” Not because she was magically compelled to remain inside this castle, but because he’d done what he could to make her time here a misery. Including digging deep inside her mind and yanking out the worst of her memories. Those memories played out like movies in every room, a never-ending stream of persecution, guilt and shame.

Every day she relived Skye’s abduction. How she’d failed to save her sister from the man dragging her away. Every day she witnessed the loss of the baby she’d been unable to bring to term, something she hated remembering, would never willingly dwell on. Every day she saw her foolish betrayal of the beautiful Paris. How she’d hurt the first man to ever make her crave more. How she’d condemned him simply because of his race.

“That’s too bad. Because you will remain here until you agree to return to your flock and become my spy.”

Back in the air went her nose. “If those are my choices, I’ll stay here forever.”

Cronus tossed her another grin, a cruel twist of his lips that lacked any hint of amusement. “Is that so? What if I told you that I picked you because of your sister?”

“I would demand to know why.” Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits, the king of Titans in their crosshairs. He was tricky, without morals and utterly devious. She had to be careful. “I would also point out that you could have played that particular card sooner.”

“Not if I feared you would obsess over her and forget my purpose. Now, however, you have left me no choice.”

She feigned nonchalance and buffed her nails.

He hissed at her. “What if your precious Skye once lived with Galen? What if she bore him a child?”

Take me swimming, Enna. Please, please, please. I’ll never ask for anything ever again.

“I don’t believe you.” The denial gasped from her, a croak of dismay. He’s lying. He has to be lying. “Show her to me.” She forced herself to add, “Please,” though the word was gritted.

He wasn’t done. “What if Galen is the only one who knows where they are? What if he tortures them? What if becoming his whore is the only way for you to learn the truth? The only way to save them?”

“I—I—” Had no answer. He’s lying! The scream of desperation echoed through her mind—her own, not her demon’s. She had to stay strong. Had to insist he present at least a modicum of proof before she reacted.

“Think about all I have told you, my darling Sienna. I will return soon and we will discuss any new duties you might wish to take on.” With that, he disappeared, there one moment, gone the next.

Sienna sank to her knees, her strength leaving with the king. Her eyes burned, her chin trembled. Her wings pulled and folded in ways they shouldn’t, and a sharp cry escaped her. Every damned day was a new lesson in horror for her.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, scalding her skin. How much more could she take? How much longer until she broke?

For Skye, she’d do just about anything, and Cronus knew that. Skye was all she had left, having somehow become both sister and daughter in her mind. Made sense, though. She’d only known her sister as a little girl, and the baby she’d lost, a girl as well, had never gotten the chance to grow out of infancy. And the possibility of a niece or nephew? Yeah, she’d do anything.

Cronus knew that. No wonder he’d reined in his temper. He didn’t have to hurt her physically to get what he wanted. No wonder he’d chosen Sienna for his games. She was still a puppet, the strings she thought she’d cut anchored to another master’s hand.

Worse, there was no way to fight this one.




CHAPTER SIX


PARIS SPRAWLED IN an unfamiliar bed, one hand at his side and gripping a crystal blade, the other draped over his forehead, shielding his eyes. After a few days of traveling, closer than ever to his goal, he was in another motel in Titania, with Zacharel … somewhere, and William snoozing peacefully on the bed beside his.

In quiet moments like this, Paris’s mind always hopped the Memory Train, taking him back to when he’d first met Sienna, and tonight was no different. He remembered walking the streets of Rome, in desperate need of a lover, every woman he encountered shooing him away as if he were repugnant. Then someone had rammed into him from behind, and weak as he’d been from the lack of sex, he’d nearly fallen flat on his face before he’d managed to right himself.

“I’m so sorry,” he’d heard her say, the sensual rasp of her voice thrilling him on every level.

He turned slowly, afraid that if he moved too quickly he would frighten her and she would run away like the others. Papers were scattered around her feet, and she crouched, trying to gather them. First thing to register was dark hair curtaining a face hidden by shadows.

“That’ll teach me to read and walk at the same time,” she muttered.

“I’m glad you were reading,” he said, bending down to help her. “I’m glad we ran into each other.” More than she would ever know.

Her heavily lashed lids lifted, and her gaze met his. She gasped. He reeled. She was on the plain side, with eyes and lips too big for her face and skin dotted with uncountable freckles, but she possessed a grace and presence so few mortals could ever hope to attain.

“Your name doesn’t start with an A, does it?” he asked her, suddenly suspicious of fate and master plans. Maddox had recently become a sap for a woman named Ashlyn. Lucien had abandoned his manhood for Anya. Paris refused to do the same for anyone.

Her brow puckered in confusion, and she shook her head, that fall of dark hair waving around her delicate shoulders. “No. My name is Sienna. Not that you care and not that you really asked. Sorry. I didn’t mean to just blurt it out.”

“I care,” he replied huskily, thinking he would have the best time stripping her. One, her clothes bagged on her, hiding the secrets of her femininity. Two, she was skittish, her babbling charming, and he expected a similar reaction in bed. “You’re … American?”

“Yes. Vacationing here to work on my manuscript. Again, not that you asked. I can’t place your accent, though.”

“Hungarian,” he said, giving her the simplest answer. The Lords had been living in Budapest for a while, and there was no way to explain—without sounding crazy—that he spoke languages she’d never even heard of. “So you are a writer?”

“Yes. Well, I hope to be. Wait, that’s not right, either. I am a writer, but I’m not published yet.”

Now, of course, he knew the truth. She wasn’t a writer. The pages of her romance novel had merely served as a launch pad for their sensual conversation, nothing more.

When she’d next asked him to grab a coffee with her, he’d said yes, already throbbing with need for her. They’d talked and laughed the entire time, and he’d enjoyed every moment of it. He’d relaxed with her, something he hadn’t been able to do with very many others. But she had a contagious smile, a keen wit, and that grace of motion that matched her demeanor.

Meanwhile, his demon shot out wafts of his pheromones, so there’d been no great difficulty in convincing her to rent a hotel room with him. Or so he’d thought at the time. Along the way, she had pretended to change her mind. Or hell, maybe she had changed her mind. Maybe she’d fallen in like with him, too, and had decided not to hand him over to her Hunter brethren. But sex fiend that Paris was, he’d pressed her for more, dragging her into an abandoned alley and kissing the breath out of her.

That’s when she drugged him, using a needle hidden in one of her rings. He’d woken up strapped to a gurney, naked and groggy. She had crouched in front of him, and he’d assumed the Hunters had taken her prisoner, too. Until she’d said four little words that changed the nature of their relationship.

“I locked you up.”

His brilliant reply? “Why would you do something like that?” He still hadn’t wanted to believe this woman he so craved had something to do with his current circumstances.

“Can’t you guess?” she asked. She angled his head to the side, and, studying his neck, traced a fingertip over a sore spot. Puncture wound, he’d realized, the answer to her question slipping into place, taking root.

“You’re my enemy.”

“Yes.” Then she’d added with a frown, “The wound isn’t healing. I didn’t mean to jab you with the needle quite so forcefully. For that, I’m sorry.”

His eyes narrowed on her, feelings of betrayal and disbelief whisking through him. “You tricked me. Played me like a piano.”

Again, “Yes.”

“Why? And don’t tell me you’re Bait. You’re not pretty enough.” He’d said it to be cruel, but now, remembering, he cringed. No wonder she had later done what she’d done, said what she’d said.

A blush stained her cheeks. “No, I’m not Bait. Or rather, I wouldn’t have been to any warrior but you. But then, you don’t care who you screw, do you, Promiscuity?” Every word had dripped with disgust, his charming, babbling romance writer long gone. But the grace … oh, that she couldn’t banish.

“Obviously not.” When her blush deepened, he added silkily, just to taunt her further, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt you?”

“No. You haven’t the strength. I made sure of that.”

Her newfound resistance to him, no matter how poorly he acted, irked. Females adored him, always. Well, almost always. “You enjoyed yourself while you were in my arms. Admit it. I know women, and I know passion. You were on fire for me.”

“Shut up,” she snapped.

Good. He was getting to her. “Want to give me a go before your friends show up?”

After that particular jab, she had stomped away from him, but she hadn’t left the room. Remaining a safe distance away, she admitted her status—Hunter—and detailed exactly what her friends planned to do to him.

“We’re going to experiment on you. Observe you. Use you as Bait to capture more demons. And then, when we find Pandora’s box, we’re going to draw out your demon, killing you and trapping the monster inside.”

Warrior that he was, and as many battles as he’d fought, he’d known to show her only indifference. “That it?”

“For now.”

“You might as well kill me then, sweetheart. My friends won’t surrender themselves to save little old me.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

When he realized antagonizing her wasn’t helping his cause, he switched to seduction, his default setting. He projected sexual images into her head, something he hated to do. Didn’t do anymore. He couldn’t live with himself afterward. And as she had pictured what he wanted her to picture—the two of them together, naked and straining toward climax—her breathing became choppy, her nipples hard underneath her shirt. A white shirt that did nothing to hide the lace of her bra, proving she had a secret sensual side.

He’d almost had her, but in the end, she’d wised up. He’d made the mistake of continuing to call her sweetheart, an endearment he’d used on countless others, and she’d known it. After that, it hadn’t taken her long to figure out he used the term because he couldn’t remember her name—or anyone else’s.

Finally she’d left him for real, only returning a few days later when he was a few breaths away from death. That’s when she at last stripped for him, at last pleasured him.

That’s when he killed her.




CHAPTER SEVEN


THE NEXT MORNING, Paris stood at the highest edge of a cliff overlooking the Realm of Blood and Shadows, his body poised for war. Finally, he’d found his destination, hidden in a far corner of Titania, its portal invisible to everyone but William. What do you know? The guy had his uses.

Now Paris would find Sienna.

His blood boiled with the fury he’d suppressed for far too long. His muscles burned with startling ferocity, and his bones vibrated with the need to act, to hurt someone. Multiple someones.

Soon.

Sharp gusts of wind blustered, doing nothing to scatter the shroud of thick, black mist surrounding him, seeping inside of him. The scent of aged copper filled the air, leaving a moist film in his nose. Muted shrieks echoed from every direction, so many shrieks of pain. Above, the moon formed a sallow hook, its ends frayed, hemorrhaging into an endless expanse of unforgiving night. Below, an ocean of crimson tears frothed and hissed, creating a second symphony of anguish.

And there, in the center of it all, perched a nightmare of a castle. Dark stone crumbled. Withered ivy with dagger-sharp tips climbed the walls, every leaf reminding him of a spider. The roof knifed into several points, a body staked through the heart and hanging from each, dripping blood onto the glass panes of every window. There were several balconies guarded by multiple gargoyles of every size.

Gargoyles that would, apparently, come to life.

Writhing shadows, slick and oily in appearance, hovered around the entire structure, but they didn’t touch a single stone. They maintained a generous distance, as if a rod of iron held them in place. The moment they heard the starting bell, whatever that was, Paris suspected they would burst free and attack whoever happened to be nearby.

“She’s inside,” he told his companions. “I know it.” He wanted to go in, guns blazing. Was desperate to go in, guns blazing and knives slashing, but he couldn’t. Not yet, not yet. Information had to come first.

Death was in the details.

“That’s great, wonderful, but why am I here again?” William asked, scratching his head. He consumed the space at Paris’s left, dressed for the runway rather than the front lines. Silk suit, no weapons. A bottle of conditioner in his pocket. Yeah. Conditioner. Again. For split ends. A little jaunt into hell had “damaged some of the precious strands,” so he now carried his “necessary daily treatment” everywhere.

Annnd hearing his voice caused Sex to purr like a kitten. It was disgusting.

“I’m still recovering from agonizing physical and mental trauma,” William added. The warrior had barely escaped from his encounter in hell, true, but being crushed by boulders and clawed by flesh-hungry fiends was hardly agonizing.

“Just, I don’t know, consider this your punishment for abandoning Kane,” Paris said. How many gargoyles would he have to battle? He did a quick head count. Fifty-nine from the front. Probably a similar number waited in back. Half of them were as big as dragons, but some were as small as rats.

As William could probably tell him, size didn’t always matter. Which of the creatures would cause the most damage?

“I didn’t abandon him. Per se.” William brushed a piece of lint from his shoulder. “I was pummeled by falling rock and woke up in a motel in Budapest. In my compromised mental state, I thought some demon damsel in heat had taken one look at my amazing body and rescued us, but then Kane thought to remove her from my rugged animal appeal, and so he dragged her out to get coffee, not yet realizing he was simply energizing her for the mattress marathon to come. A marathon with me, in case I wasn’t clear on that point.”

Paris didn’t bother rolling his eyes. Clearly William was Viola’s male counterpart. Wasn’t that a nice little bouquet of roses?

“Actually, you’re here because you owe Paris a favor.” Zacharel flanked Paris’s other side, the snowstorm now brewing above him. The change had happened the moment he’d stepped into this realm. He still wore his robe, but blades were now strapped all over his muscled body. He was definitely warrior-appropriate. “More than that, you are avoiding your girlfriend.”

William gasped with outrage. “First, I don’t owe anyone a favor. Second, I don’t have a girlfriend, you pansy-ass winged piece of shit.”

“Don’t you?” A blink, all innocence. Zacharel didn’t seem to care about the name-calling. “What is young Gilly to you, then?”

Gilly. A human with a crush on William. The warrior claimed they were just friends and nothing more, but if anyone could see secret longing in someone’s gaze, it was Paris. And William definitely had a lot of secret longing going on for that girl. Shockingly, though, he hadn’t done anything about it. Had only coddled and babied her, which was why Paris hadn’t gutted him. Gilly had been through enough in her short life without William turning his lethal charm on her.

Dangerous as a lightning strike, as lethal as a pair of crisscrossing short swords, William whispered, “You’re about to find out how your liver tastes, my friend.”

“I have tasted it already,” Zacharel said, his voice its usual monotone. The snowflakes began to fall in earnest, tiny at first, but growing in diameter. An arctic wind blustered around him. “It was a bit salty.”

How the hell was a guy supposed to respond to that?

Apparently William didn’t know, either, because he gaped at the angel. Then, “Maybe if you added a little pepper?”

O-kay. It was official. William had an answer for every thing.

“Enough,” Paris said. Just then, he had his inner darkness on a leash. That could change at any moment. This was the closest he’d ever come to saving Sienna. To seeing her again, to touching her, and urgency had him in a vise grip. Which was stupid. He knew it was stupid.

He didn’t know her, not really, had only interacted with her those two times, and yet, looking back, he was certain he’d never felt so connected to anyone in his life. He could still remember the delicate rasp of her voice. Soft and lyrical, washing over him, entrancing him. Could still smell her sweet wildflower scent. Could still feel her soft body pressed against his harder one.

Now he wondered if he would even like her on any level but a sexual one. Would he find her annoying? And what about her—would she still view him as evil, even though she herself now carried a demon?

“Let’s focus, ladies.” That includes you, he added for his own benefit. If he could bypass the outside line of the fortress’s defense completely, he’d be in perfect condition when he got inside. “Zacharel, you will flash me inside the castle.”

“No, I will not.”

He scowled but didn’t bother asking why. As always, his ears picked up the web of truth woven through the angel’s tone. Zacharel couldn’t or wouldn’t flash him; the reason didn’t matter. “William?”

“I’ve only recently begun to flash myself, and yeah, I’m damn good for a beginner—not that I need to tell you that since anyone with eyes would have noticed—but I’m still honing my amazing skills. There’s no way I can cart your carcass anywhere.”

Paris stifled a sigh. No flashing with William, either. “Is the water swimmable?”

“Nope. Not only is the water poisonous, but the fiends inside it have a hankering for flesh.” William motioned to the dilapidated bridge leading to the front entrance, thick, arched double doors covered in spikes with a clear liquid dripping from their tips. “You have to use the drawbridge, and you have to let the guards carry you. There’s no other way.”

“I have never battled a gargoyle before.” Zacharel shook his head, a dark lock of hair tumbling into one emerald eye. Damp from the melting snow, the hair stuck to his skin. He didn’t seem to notice. “But I am certain these will murder Paris before willingly carrying him inside.”

As if he were the only intelligent life form left in existence, William splayed his arms. “And the problem with that? He’ll still be inside, exactly where he wants to be. And by the way,” he added, blinking at Paris with lashes so long they should have belonged to a girl. “Your new permanent eyeliner is very pretty. You’ll make a good-looking corpse.”

Do not react. He did, and the teasing about his ash/ambrosia tattoos would never end. “Thanks.”

“I prefer the lip liner, though. A nice little feminine touch that really makes your eyes pop.”

“Again, thanks,” he gritted.

He wants us!

Stupid demon.

William grinned. “Maybe we can make out later. I know you want me.”

Tell him yes!

Not another word out of you, or—

“Paris? Warrior?” Zacharel said. “Are you listening to me?”

“No.”

Zach nodded, apparently not the least offended. “I enjoy your honesty, though I believe you suffer from what the humans call ADD.”

“Oh, yeah. I definitely have attention deficient demon.”

“Now, changing subjects, since I’m not listening to the angel, either,” William said. “Since we’re going with my diabolically genius plan, you’re gonna have to scale down the cliff and step onto the drawbridge.” He tented his hands and drummed his fingers, contemplating the bridge from every angle. “The moment you do, the gargoyles will come to life. They’ll attack you. Oh, and the more you fight them, the harder they’ll bite and claw you. So, if you remain relaxed, they’ll only hurt you a wee bit before they cart you inside to chain to a wall. In theory.”

Wonderful. But this was what his woman had to deal with every day. He could do no less. And if the gargoyles had broken her …

Broken … In, out, in, out, he breathed, oxygen scalding his throat, blistering his lungs. He twisted his head left then right to pop the bones in his neck. His fury bubbled to the surface, riding the waves in his veins. He would save Sienna and torch the castle to the ground—along with every living creature inside it.

Zacharel folded his arms over his massive chest, the snow so thick now that none of the flakes had a chance to melt. His hair now boasted strands of glistening white. “How do you know so much about this place and its protectors, William of the Dark?”

William of the Dark? That was new, yet fitting. “Yeah. How do you?” Paris studied the gargoyles in question. They were hideous. The big ones were winged, with ram-like horns, fangs as long as sabers and probably just as sharp, and daggers for nails—on both their hands and their feet. The small ones just looked hungry. Oh, and infected with rabies.

Another piece of invisible lint was brushed from William’s shoulder. “Maybe I was once co-ruler of the underworld and sought out all the hideaways of Cronus and his followers, intending to blackmail them, and discovered this little love shack. Or maybe I see the future and knew we’d come here one day. Or maybe the gargoyles once served me, calling me Master Hotness.”

Paris read between the lines. “Maybe you once nailed a gargoyle, and she had a big mouth.” If there was a bigger he-slut than Paris, it was William.

William gave another shrug. “Or that.”

White wings threaded in gold lifted, shook and returned to their place of rest against Zacharel’s back. “And what makes you so sure your Sienna is in there, demon?”

Do not react. “I just am.” Arca, the goddess he had seduced in Cronus’s harem, the one he’d vowed to rescue after ensuring Sienna’s safety, had told him there were only two possible locations for her. If Sienna had been taken to the other, her soul would have withered within days. Therefore, she was here. End of story.

“I’ll provoke the guards,” he said, thinking out loud, “but I won’t enrage them. They’ll cart me inside, planning to lock me up. I’ll free myself before they can, search for Sienna, find her and escape with her. Simple, easy.”

Yeah. Right.

“I’ll stay here and act as lookout.” William nodded, clearly satisfied with the idea. “If you don’t return in, say, the amount of time it takes my conditioner to penetrate my scalp, I’ll go for help.” He snickered. “I said penetrate.”

For freakin’ real. “Knowing you, you’ll forget all about me and head to a salon for a mani-pedi.” More than that, Paris wasn’t sure Zach would have his back—or stab it. “So, guess what? You’re going in with me. Zach will act as lookout.”

“Perhaps you’ve been living in Hungary for so long you’ve forgotten English and didn’t understand what I was saying.” First in French, then in Spanish, then in Russian, he said, “I’m staying here, and that’s final.” William tangled a hand through his indigo mane, frowned when he encountered a snag. Scowling, he whipped out his conditioner, squeezed a few drops onto his fingers and combed the creamy mixture through until he achieved the desired smoothness. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“Guaranteed you stabbed your mother seconds after she birthed you. So do me a solid and strap on your big-girl panties because here’s the deal. If you walk away now, I will follow you for the rest of your days, seducing every woman you desire away from you.”

A heavy pause, rife with fury as cold as the angel’s snow. “Fine,” William eventually muttered. “I’ll go with you, but only because I’m in need of a decent cardio workout.”

Good. Paris had meant every word. He hadn’t come this far to welcome defeat. He would lie, cheat, destroy, whatever it took. Now, and until Sienna was safe.

He did a quick pat down. All of his blades were in their sheaths. A visual check on his guns ensured the safeties were off.

“Bullets won’t kill them, you know,” William said. “They’ll only cause hissy fits.”

“Don’t care.” Bullets would buy him a few seconds, surely, and sometimes that’s all a guy needed to bring home the victory.

William slapped him on the shoulder, sending Sex into rapturous convulsions. “Before we do this, I’ve got one question for you. And you can’t lie. This is too important.”

A bit sick to his stomach at what such a debaucher could want to know, Paris cast his attention to the black-haired, blue-eyed he-devil. “Ask.”

“Are you going to suggest I kiss you for good luck or strength or whatever it is your sex demon needs?”

That earned the warrior a two-fingered salute.

“So that’s a no?” William asked.

Paris worked his jaw. “Here, let me help you off the cliff to the drawbridge.” With no more warning, he shoved William over the ledge. He thought he heard a fading, “So not cool,” from the bastard as he fell … fell …

Splat.

Sex gasped in outrage.

“Not exactly a nice thing to do,” Zacharel said, but there was a gleam in his eyes, one Paris had never seen before. Something akin to amusement.

“What’s your plan?” Paris asked him.

“Only time will tell.”

“You’ll wait here, right?”

“Perhaps.”

All righty, then. With the angel’s cryptic nonanswer ringing in his head, Paris snapped a blade between his teeth and scaled the jagged rocks, down, down, his hands rapidly torn to ribbons. Vines slithered from cracks, stroking over him, attempting to shackle his wrists and ankles. Dangling by one hand, he stopped long enough to slice through the nearest green stalk.

Another soon came at him, and he sliced through it, too. But damn, they were everywhere. One wound around the arm he was using for balance. His heart tripped over itself with dread—and anticipation. He glanced down at the bridge. No other way.

Paris carved into the vine holding him, kicked the rocks with his legs and fell. When he hit bottom, he really hit bottom, jarring the air from his lungs.

Suddenly William loomed over him, scowling, snarling and bloody, his suit dirt-stained and ripped. “Do you know. How many strands. Of hair I lost. On my way down?”

Whatever. “Math was never my thing, but I’m gonna say you lost … a lot.”

Electric-blues glittered with menace. “You are a cruel, sadistic bastard. My hair needs TLC and you … you … Damn you! I’ve gutted men for less.”

“I know. I’ve watched you.” Paris lumbered to his feet and scanned the rocky bank they stood upon, the crimson ocean lapping and bubbling in every direction. The drawbridge was only a fifty-yard dash away. “Don’t kill the messenger, but I’m thinking you should change your dating profile to balding.”

Masculine cheeks went scarlet as the big bad warrior struggled for a comeback.

No more playing. It’s D-Day. Soon, I’ll rescue Sienna, Paris thought. Maybe she would stay with him for a few days. If so, they could make love, over and over again, and for just a little while, he could pretend they had forever.

Or maybe she would leave him immediately. They wouldn’t make love even once, and he would be forced to take someone else just as soon as the door shut behind her.

Who was he kidding? She would definitely leave him. There were too many obstacles between them. His demon. Her demon. The fact that he’d slept with her and then countless others. The fact that he’d inadvertently used her body as a shield, saving himself. Her former occupation. The fact that she’d tricked him into lowering his guard so that she could drug him and allow the Hunters to capture him. The fact that she had watched as he was tortured. The fact that she hated him.

And maybe, once he’d saved her, he would realize she was not the one for him. Maybe he would be the one to leave her. Maybe he would find that he truly couldn’t sleep with her again. That he’d made a mistake.

Maybe. But he was still doing this.

“One of these days you’re going to wake up,” William finally said, “and I will have shaved you. Everywhere.”

“Won’t make a difference. Women will still want me. But you know what else? What I did to you wasn’t cruel, Willy.” He offered the warrior a white-flag grin. A trick. A lie. “This, however, is.”

He grabbed William by the wrist, swung the man around and around before at last releasing him and hurling his body directly onto the bridge. Frayed rope whined, and boards broke beneath his muscled weight.

William lay there, trying to catch his breath and glaring daggers at Paris. On the castle parapets, the gargoyles unleashed a chorus of battle cries.




CHAPTER EIGHT


SHOULD SHE OR SHOULDN’T SHE? Hours had passed since Cronus’s ultimatum and departure, but the same question still rolled through Sienna’s mind. Should she give herself to Galen, perhaps saving her sister, perhaps succumbing to her captor’s deception, or should she continue to resist, possibly causing her sister’s continued torture?

Another question, one far more important: If there was a chance she could save Skye, even the most minute chance, shouldn’t she take it? She’d vowed to do anything, everything, and Galen fell into the category of anything, didn’t he.

Well, hell. There it was, laid bare, with no sugar-coating. The answer was a resounding yes. She’d spent her life searching for Skye. If necessary, she would spend her death searching, too. At least now the blinders were off, and she knew the monster she was to seduce.

In bed. With Galen. She tried not to vomit.

She wished she were stronger, more capable, the outcome assured. She wished the battle for Skye could be waged on her terms, without Cronus there to pull her puppet strings.

And maybe … maybe she could arrange that. If she escaped this hellhole before the king’s return, she could go to the keeper of Hope, torture him for the information she wanted and then kill him, without screwing him.

In theory, that was easy. In reality, it was probably impossible. A bitter laugh—the only kind she had stored inside her lately—escaped, mimicking the sudden chill in the air. She shivered. She’d tried to escape this castle time and time again. While she could open doors and windows that led outside, she couldn’t step or crawl beyond them. Her entire body would shake, pain would lance through her, a thousand needles pricking at her, and she would collapse, pass out.

The pain she didn’t care about. She could endure. But the passing-out thing? There was no way to combat that.

She was curious to know whether or not someone else could pass through. And the good news was, there were three candidates upstairs who could put that question to the test. All she had to do was free them.

Time to pay them another visit, she thought with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. And what had caused such a huge drop in the temperature?

Her wings scraped the scarred marble floor as she lumbered down a hall, around a corner and into the wide, spacious ballroom. Her heart sank when the walls fell away and the memories Cronus had plucked from her mind began to play out. At her left, a young Skye began screaming for help. At her right, a horde of Gargl, as she’d heard Cronus call the gargoyles that served as sentries here, dragged a slumped-over but very much awake Paris.

Sienna stopped, a sudden lump growing in her throat. Paris. Her body went hot and cold at the same time, goose bumps spreading over her skin, embers igniting in her veins. Cronus certainly knew how to torment her, didn’t he? He knew exactly what images would drive her mad.

And this one … whoever created him had outdone himself. How hauntingly lovely Paris was. No mortal could ever hope to compare to him. No other immortal or mythical god could ever measure up. He possessed a face designed for the luxuries of the bedroom as well as the savagery of the battlefield. Eyes of vivid blue seductively lined with kohl she’d never before seen him wear, and hair a concerto of colors. Black, brown, even a few strands of flax. A tall body, muscled in the most delicious way.

He was perfection personified, and he was nothing more than a mirage. Still, she wanted to run to him so badly, to smother him with kisses as she begged for his forgiveness.

Forgiveness she did not deserve.

At least he wasn’t injured in this memory. A small comfort, but she had to take them where she could find them.

Another vision unfolded behind Paris, a second horde of Gargl carrying a second dark-haired warrior. This man was just as tall as Paris, just as muscled and, miracle of miracles, almost as lovely, but he was definitely injured. Bite marks covered his arms, and horn punctures created a canvas of pain on his chest. Odd. She’d never had a vision of him before. Didn’t even recall meeting him.

Her gaze returned to Paris. Two of the Gargl were … humping him? Yes. Their tongues were hanging out, their lower bodies gyrating against him. Why would Cronus show her something like that? To make her jealous? Of the Gargl?

Something was … off about this, she thought.

Before she could puzzle it out, Wrath slammed against her skull, again and again, distracting her. Her temples throbbed in tune with his motions even as the heat cranked up inside her, defeating the cold, leaving her sweating and flushed. Any time a memory of Paris materialized, both the demon and her body reacted this way.

Heaven … hell … Always when they saw flashes of Paris, Wrath uttered those two words. He can help us.

“I know he can,” she whispered, no longer surprised when she found herself talking to the beast. “And he is certainly our heaven, isn’t he?” Her only ray of hope.

Well, well. Look how far she’d come. From hate to … love? Did she love him? Surely not. She hardly knew him. But if he were more than a cruel, heartless trick meant to bring her to heel, she could have learned about him, she thought wistfully.

“Sienna?” Paris’s voice, deep, harsh, rasping, uniting them once again.

Another shiver raked her as her gaze locked with his. Her entire body jolted with awareness. Enough, she almost shouted. You’ve tortured me enough. I concede.

“Sienna!” It was a hoarse cry layered with desperation and expectation. “Sienna!”

“Enough!” There was no holding the command inside this time. Tears burned her eyes. Her chin trembled, knocking her teeth together. She fisted the edges of her shirt lest she reach out to touch him as the Gargl carried him past her.

In the beginning, she had believed the illusions to be real. She had thrown herself into them, her failure to connect destroying pieces of her—the only pieces she still liked.

Heavenhell. Help. Help!

“Sienna!” Paris fought so fervently against his captors, twisting, turning, kicking, hitting, that one of his shoulders popped from its socket. “I’m here for you. I won’t leave without you. Sienna!”

HEAVENHELL. HELP!

She felt as if iron balls churned in her stomach, their swift motions tossing bile up her throat. She released her shirt to dig her nails into her thighs, cutting skin, trying to reach bone. Steady. Though she wanted to do something, anything to calm Paris, she knew the more she did, the more he would fight. This isn’t real. He isn’t real.

“Sienna!”

Finally the group disappeared around the corner, and if they had been real, they would have been headed for the dungeon. Paris continued to rage, and she very nearly chased after him, mirage or not.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped. “So sorry.”

Wrath whimpered.

Though she wanted to collapse, curl into the fetal position and sob, she forced her mind to clear and her feet to move in the opposite direction. Just like that, another memory flickered to life, playing beside her as she walked. Her long-deceased mother sat in the dark, nursing a glass of vodka.

I wish you had been the one taken! Great, gut-wrenching sobs. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, honey. I’m so sorry. Slap. I hate you! Get away from me. More sobs. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hurt you.

Other families had suffered similar grief, similar fights, and Sienna tried not to let this recollection affect her. And anyway, it was safer than the vision of Paris. Still, she did her best to tune it out and concentrate on her task. Freeing the demon-possessed immortals upstairs, learning from them.

Cronus might have commanded the Lords to find and capture the other hosts of Pandora’s evil, but the Titan king had never stopped searching himself. Now, three were chained in the bedrooms above. Obsession, Indifference and Selfishness. And not a one of them knew she was here.

Because she hadn’t yet learned to fly and wasn’t sure she’d ever develop the strength to do so, Sienna climbed the winding staircase. The tips of her wings caught in the frayed carpet at least a thousand times, razing her already sore muscles. Her thighs burned from the exertion necessary to propel herself upward. Twice she had to pause to hunch over and catch her breath.

When she reached the landing, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. The warriors up here sensed weakness of any kind, even if they couldn’t see its source. And when they sensed weakness, they beat at the clear, invisible doors that contained them, tossed out the vilest of obscenities and vowed all kinds of retribution, as if she were responsible for their confinement.

Come on, come on, you can do this, you can make it. Look what you’ve survived already. The pep talk worked. There you go. Good girl. The first bedroom she passed was Cameron’s. Hadn’t taken Sienna long to figure out he was host to Obsession. He was a creature of habit and because it was twilight, he was stretched out on his floor, doing push-ups. Up. Down. Up. Down.

As always, seeing him caused Wrath to erupt in a frenzy of movement. Pain exploded through her head, a precursor to images the demon would next throw into her mind. Violent images from Cameron’s past. Bloody battles, a woman in his arms, limp, dead, then one of himself, cursing at the heavens, screaming … screaming … vowing revenge …

Sienna hurried past, but not before the very real image of his bronzed, glistening skin, sweat dripping along the sexy ridges of his muscles, was seared into her brain. His hair was a richer, deeper shade of bronze and plastered to his head. His eyes were downcast, but she knew they were a startling lavender rimmed with silver.

In the room next to his was Púkinn. Indifference. Upon seeing him, Wrath went lethally quiet. A reaction Sienna didn’t understand, and the demon wouldn’t explain.

Púkinn’s Egyptian heritage shone through the sharpness of his bone structure and the sensuality of his dark eyes. His hair was long, black and straight as a pen. The rest of him, however, was more beast than man. Horns stretched from his scalp. His hands were permanently clawed, his legs muscled and furred.

Cameron called him Irish, because, despite his looks and ancestry, his voice dripped with the seductive accent of the isles. Sienna thought of him that way, too.

Finally, she reached Winter’s room. Selfishness. Wrath was ambivalent about her, neither tossing out images nor shooting out lances of menace, something else Sienna didn’t understand.

Winter had her hip cocked against the jamb and her arms crossed over her middle. Her coral-painted nails drummed a steady song of impatience. She looked so much like Cameron they had to be blood-related. Bronzed skin, bronzed hair and lavender eyes rimmed with silver. Mile-long legs, curves that weren’t just dangerous but fatal.

The lushness of her femininity would have been a perfect contrast to Paris’s exquisite masculinity.

Sienna tensed, the thought alone causing thrums of jealousy to wrap around her chest and squeeze. He’s mine.

No, he wasn’t, she forced herself to think, and he would never be. She’d tried to reach him, but he’d been unable to see her. And that was probably for the best. After everything she’d done to him, all the ways she’d hurt him, he would never be able to trust her.

“Who the hell is out there?” Cameron growled. He’d become obsessed—naturally—with ferreting her out. And perhaps she shouldn’t have visited so many times, but even before today, she’d planned to free them. Somehow, some way. “I know someone’s out there. Reveal yourself. Now.”

“We’re dealing with one of Cronus’s spies, I’m sure,” Winter said, her voice as smooth and sultry as a caress. Her gaze almost, but not quite, met Sienna’s. “I heard him talking earlier.”

“I … will … gut … you,” Cameron seethed. He wasn’t talking to Winter, but to Sienna. He might grouse at Winter, snap at her and sometimes even scream at her, but he never threatened her. And if anyone could find a way to slay a ghost … thing—or whatever she was—Sienna was willing to bet it was Cameron. Because, and here was a shocker, he wouldn’t stop until he had what he wanted.

“Do your tirades never end?” Irish asked, that accent giving her a case of the oh-mys.

“Actually, Irish, you mythological douche,” Winter fired back, “they don’t, and he’s going to tirade all over your ass if you don’t shut your mouth.”

“Someone should have spanked you a long time ago, little girl.” Irish.

“Touch her and you’ll soon be eating your own balls. And they’ll just be the snack pack. Main course will follow.” Cameron.

Sienna didn’t mind their bantering. This was mild in comparison to what they’d thrown at her. Besides, they only had each other. And while they loved to snipe and snark at each other, they united the moment Cronus appeared, their mutual hatred bonding them.

She held out her hand, reaching for the clear shield that blocked her from Winter’s room. Contact. She sighed when the barrier refused to yield. Yesterday she had palpated the top half, searching for any vulnerable pockets. She’d found none. Today she would tackle the bottom half.

“Sienna!” Paris’s voice echoed off the walls. “Sienna! Where the hell did you go?”

Something lurched in her chest, and she was once again fighting tears. Damn you, Cronus. Of all his torments, this was the worst. Her hands continued to move along the shield, quaking now.

“Sienna!”

Those scalding tears flooded her eyes and splashed down her cheeks, leaving burning tracks. The memories had never followed her before. When she moved to a new room a new one would appear, one horror exchanged for another. This was the first ever to dog her.

And … she stilled, frowned. This couldn’t be a memory, she realized, the answer to her earlier concern finally slipping into place. As far as she knew, Paris had never been to this castle, and she’d never seen the Gargl anywhere else. So, the two had never fought in her presence.

Could he … Was he …

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Sienna!”

Another beat.

“Who is that?” Winter demanded.

“Another prisoner?” Cameron.

“And who’s this Sienna?” Irish.

They heard Paris’s voice. They had never seen or heard the memories before. This wasn’t … This couldn’t be … Her heart stopped altogether.

“Sienna! Damn it.” Grunt, bang. “Get off me, you perverted bag of stone.” Bang. “Sienna!”

This wasn’t a memory, wasn’t a vision. This was real and happening right now. Paris was here. He’d come for her. Was searching for her, trying to get to her. A second later, her heart kicked back into gear, slamming into a too-fast rhythm, making her pant. The Gargl might have hurt him, might be hurting him even now.

“Paris!” Panicked, she straightened and raced down the hall, down the steps. Just as before, her wings caught on the carpet. Her momentum propelled her forward, onto her face. She cringed, moaned, but two seconds after she landed, she was back on her feet and sprinting. “Paris, I’m here!”

If he continued to fight the Gargl, they would have his organs as snacks. She’d seen it happen too many times to count. And once they tasted a man’s insides, nothing and no one could stop the ensuing feast.

She quickened her step and prayed she wasn’t too late.




CHAPTER NINE


CRONUS FLASHED TO HIS private bedchamber in his favorite secret palace, gripping a puny, wretched Hunter by the scruff of his neck. The moment the wall murals appeared at his sides, a large bed crafted from the darkest ebony materializing in front of him, he shoved the Hunter to his knees, maintaining that hard grip. A thick crimson carpet kept the action from fracturing the human’s kneecaps, the only mercy the man would receive this day.

Atop the bed, chains rattled. The naked female bound to the posts spotted him and struggled to free herself. Of course, she failed. The chains were not just reinforced steel; they were mystically enhanced. And really, she only had herself to blame for her confinement. Cronus never would have captured her if she hadn’t come here with the intention of seducing and chaining him.

Had he not been in possession of the All-Key, she would have succeeded. Now, nothing could restrain him.

Grinning, he studied her. Dark hair tangled around bruised shoulders, evidence she had struggled long before his arrival. Skin usually the color of flawless cream was now amusingly sallow. When eyes a mix of crystal and crimson flashed absolute hatred at him, his grin widened.

“I will massacre you for this,” she snarled. Before he had time to respond, she calmed, returned his grin with a wicked, wanton one of her own, and purred, “But only after I play with you a bit.”

“Now, now, darling.” Cronus tsked under his tongue. If any female were capable of harming him, it was this one, but he would never admit it. “Is that any way to greet your husband of countless centuries?”

Rhea, queen of the Titans, eyed him as if he were an animal—and she wanted to wear his pelt as a victory coat. “A better way to greet you would be with a sword swinging at your neck.”

He waved his hand through the air as if he hadn’t a care, the action so patronizing it was sure to reignite the fuse of her temper. “Careful, my dearest. You’re in danger of protesting too much.”

“Argh!” With her demon, Strife, flashing ruby-colored scales and gnarled bone under the surface of her skin, she intensified her struggles. “You will pay for this.”

“So you’ve said innumerable times. Alas.” He let out a mocking sigh, barely audible over her raspy panting. “How you humiliate yourself, my heart of hearts, but do go on. My favorite part comes when you realize nothing you do, nothing you say, will aid you, and you sag in defeat.”

Despite his taunt, she did indeed continue to fight. And as his own wrists and ankles throbbed in protest, he lost his amusement. He was connected to this horrid creature. Connected in a way he could not escape.

When someone injured her, he was injured also. No matter where he was or what he was doing. Likewise, when she experienced pleasure, so did he. Yes, he always knew when she bedded another man. But then, she always knew when he bedded another woman.

Perhaps that was why they despised each other so passionately, and why they had chosen opposite sides of the war that raged between immortals and their human enemy. Cronus had aligned himself with the Lords of the Underworld, and Rhea the Hunters.

“Death is too kind for you!” she spat just before sagging against the mattress as he’d predicted, perspiration dotting every inch of her body and making her glow.

He enjoyed seeing her this way. Helpless, naked and utterly unable to protect or cover herself. She had lush breasts with lovely tawny tips. A soft belly, and even softer thighs. And once upon a time, he truly had loved her. He would have given her anything, would have given everything, to make her happy. Actually, he had given everything.

Though he’d known better, he had shared his throne with her. Had even shared his godly abilities. He’d hungered for her so absolutely, he hadn’t wished to exist if she could not be by his side, ruling with equal power.

As the centuries passed, however, she began to change. From sultry to grasping, from kind to cruel, her thirst for power surpassing his own. Ultimately, she betrayed him in an attempt to usurp him. She was the reason he’d been incarcerated inside Tartarus. She was the reason the Titans had fallen to the Greeks. At least the ones she’d aided in rising up against him had betrayed her in kind.

Now, nothing would save her from his eternal wrath.

“It’s that time again, my pet,” he said, all hint of his softer emotions gone.

During one of their many altercations in prison, after he had killed her lover and she had killed his, they had vowed to never again harm those closest to the other, and a vow given was unbreakable. Therefore, Cronus could not touch her precious Galen or any of Galen’s top advisers—though Cronus had finally found the bastard’s lair, as well as his first in command, the new keeper of Distrust, Fox. In turn, Rhea could not touch any of his Lords.

They could, however, harm the minor foot soldiers. As he would soon prove.

“Your choice, Rhea. I beat you, or I kill one of your Hunters.”

The human kneeling at Cronus’s side jerked at the threat, mewling sounds seeping from his bloody lips, but he never spoke a word. Just a guess, but that could be because Cronus had already cut out his tongue.

Cronus wanted Rhea to choose her punishment, and he didn’t care that he would, essentially, be punishing himself. Causing her to suffer overrode all other concerns. “Which is it to be?” Every day he offered her the same choice, and every day she gave the same answer.

“You think I care about a fragile, useless human?” She lifted her chin, her narrowed gaze remaining on Cronus, completely lacking in fear or mercy. “Kill him.”

A whimper escaped the Hunter.

No, her answer had not changed. Cronus could have beaten her anyway, and perhaps one day he would. For the time being, he liked giving her what she asked for. Liked thinking she would be haunted by her selfishness for decades to come.

“Very well.” Cronus stretched out his free arm, summoned a sword from nothing but air, and struck. The Hunter’s head fell to the floor with a thump. His body quickly followed.

The scent of copper coated the air.

Rhea’s thunderous expression remained the same, untouched by remorse. “Do you feel better now, my stallion? Do you feel like a big, strong male?”

Bitch. He would not allow her to gain the upper hand. “Do you care nothing for your ever-dwindling army? The very men fighting for your cause.”

One bare shoulder lifted in a casual shrug. “I feel the same for my army as you feel for yours, I’m sure. Nothing.”

No, he did not care for his Lords, but he respected their strength and determination. Or rather, he had. Lately the warriors were too busy falling in love, too concerned with their own petty squabbles, and now too busy rescuing Kane, the keeper of Disaster, to heed Cronus’s orders. Still, they were a buffer between Cronus and eternal death, so he needed them.

He frowned at the thought of all that had transpired to bring him to this moment. Long ago, the first All-Seeing Eye under his command—a being capable of seeing into heaven, hell, past and future—had prophesied that a man filled with hope would fly to him on wings of white and behead him. At the time, Galen had not yet been created. Therefore, Cronus had assumed an angel assassin would come for him, which was why he’d pitted himself against the Deity’s Elite soldiers. War had broken out—among angels and gods, Greeks and Titans—and even those on earth had suffered.

Weakened from the ceaseless fighting, Cronus found himself defeated by Zeus and thrown into Tartarus. Soon afterward Zeus created the Lords, Galen among them, to serve as his personal army, ready to defend him should the Titans rise up from their moldering prison. But in a fit of foolish pique, those same warriors opened Pandora’s box, unleashing the demons from within and raining down more havoc on a world still reeling from the heavenly war. When Zeus meted out their punishment, decreeing that each would house a demon inside himself, Galen was paired with the demon of Hope, wings of white sprouting from his back. Then, upon Cronus’s escape from the immortal prison, the newest All-Seeing Eye had painted the same future that had earlier been foretold, this time showing Galen’s victory over him.

What the first Eye had told him—and the newest did not yet know—was that there was a way for him to save himself. A woman with wings of midnight, who had lived among his enemy but craved a life with his allies, was to be his salvation.

That woman was Sienna. Everything about her fit the Eye’s description, from her appearance to her circumstances.

Therefore, she had to do as the Eye had said she must do. Reign by Galen’s side, despite her desire to aid the Lords. Only she could keep Galen’s attention, though she didn’t yet know how or why and Cronus wouldn’t tell her. Only she could hold her own against Rhea, if ever his wife got free. Only she could stop the Lords from attacking Galen, for killing the keeper of Hope would not stop the prophecy from coming to pass. His demon would be given to someone else, and that someone else would then become the white-winged slayer of the Titan king.

“I will escape, you know,” Rhea said, and she sounded confident.

Whether that confidence stemmed from her abilities or his capitulation, he wasn’t sure. Didn’t care. He rubbed a thumb over one brow, another dismissive gesture. “No, I do not know. I’ve never seen so weak a goddess.”

Only he could unlock her chains, and he planned never to do so. Among her most recent crimes, she had convinced her sister to become his mistress and spy on him. Another reason for Cronus’s insistence that Sienna do the same to Galen.

“One day …” she gritted out.

He moved to the side of the bed, away from the dead body and closer to his hated wife. “You will ruin me. You will imprison me. You will … What other threats have you issued, hmm?”

“I will peel away your skin, spit on your bones and dance in a pool of your blood.”

“Sounds like a truly spectacular evening. Until then, I think I’ll have a bit of fun.” With a single wave of his hand, he summoned one of the countless females currently residing in his harem. A redhead with deeply tanned skin and roses in her cheeks appeared beside him. Unlike some of the others he owned, she truly enjoyed attending to his needs.

Today she wore a transparent drape of silk and lace, jewels that had once belonged to Rhea and a smile brighter than any sun. Seeing the Titan queen so helpless on the bed, and knowing she herself was a favorite of his, she puffed with pride, flipped her hair over one shoulder, and waved smugly.

Rhea hissed.

And that’s why I chose her, he thought with an inward grin.

Recognizing the diamonds curling around the girl’s neck, Rhea released a spew of curses.

“Majesty,” the girl said with a curtsy, talking over the queen to prove how little she mattered. The fragrance of citrus wafted from her. “What can I do for you?”

“You can show the woman on the bed how much your man pleases you.” He waved her in front of him, where he bent her over, her face right in front of Rhea’s.

“Does she not please you?” the girl asked.

The queen gave another hiss and tried to bite her.

“Enough of that.” His gaze on his wife, he lowered the zipper to his leather pants. He despised wearing such constrictive clothing, but Rhea found this type of garment attractive, and his need for vengeance far surpassed any desire for comfort. “You know what you must say to stop this from happening,” he told his wife. Rhea must only concede defeat, vowing to forever obey him.

“I’ll die first.”

“Very well.”

He took the servant, and the pleasure was intense—and he would never admit it was so satisfying only because he kept his eyes on his wife. She, however, closed her eyes to block his image. No matter. She felt every sensation along with him, and that was enough. For now.

When he finished, he righted his clothing with hands trembling from the force of his release—which was humiliating; a king should recover swiftly—and sent the grinning servant away.

“Bastard,” Rhea said on a panting breath. “I hate you. With all of my being, I hate you.”

“As I hate you.”

A smile of genuine amusement suddenly curled the corners of her mouth. “You know, Cronus, darling. You did not enjoy your whore half as much as I enjoyed mine.”

The words were carefully calculated, a stinging blow to his masculine pride. But he was careful to keep his own expression equally amused. “You know, darling,” he said. “You might have enjoyed your men, but you only ever had them once before I found and killed them. I, on the other hand, am already looking forward to having the redhead again tomorrow.”




CHAPTER TEN


FANGS IN HIS ARMS. Claws in his legs. Horns jabbing into his stomach. At least, Paris seriously hoped that it was horns jabbing into his stomach. For a while, some of the gargoyles had ground on him like dogs in heat as their friends attempted to chain him down. Won’t gag. He would have allowed the restraints—if he hadn’t seen Sienna. She was here. Alive. Unfettered.

She’d looked at him, had met his gaze, and sadness had wafted from her. Sadness and regret, and even horror. The horn-rimmed glasses she’d once worn were gone, her eyesight probably perfect in the afterlife, but her features were the same. Big hazel eyes, plump red lips. A flow of mahogany waves, now to her waist.

His woman. His mine. One by one his friends had fallen in love, and he’d been so jealous. Now, here was the woman who’d fascinated him as no other. He’d thought, Must reach her … must wipe away the horror …

Sex had thought, Must have her.

Now his demon retreated into the back of his mind, the coward, as Paris fought his way free of the gargoyles to run after her. In an instant, his captors swarmed him, their fervor intensified. He tossed one, then another, then another still, slamming the rigid stone bodies into walls. They recovered instantly and returned to him. More clawing, more jabbing.

They slowed him, but they didn’t stop him. He was weak and growing weaker, because he hadn’t had sex all day. Didn’t think he’d had sex yesterday, either. He’d already forgotten. Whatever. Sienna was here, and with one glance, he’d gotten hard for her.

He could have her again. No question about that now.

He just had to reach her.

As the darkness rose up inside him, clouding his mind with thoughts of destruction and death, he offered no more resistance, allowing it to drive him deeper and deeper into the place where only demolishing the obstacles in his path mattered. These gargoyles wanted to keep him from his woman. They did not deserve to live.

One step, two, three, the things clawing at his thighs, his calves, hanging on to his ankles, he eked his way into the ballroom. All the while he punched at heads, kicked and stabbed at middles. Stone cracked. Pieces scattered on the floor.

“Sienna! Where—”

She flew around the far corner, her dark hair tangled behind her, her hazel eyes wild and bright. In a blink, the world slowed down and he noticed details he’d missed before. Her lips were more swollen than usual, with droplets of blood dried at the corners. A bruise colored her cheek, a blue-black testament of the pain she had been forced to endure. One of her obsidian wings was bent at an odd angle, clearly broken.

She’d been hurt. Someone had hurt her.

Red mixed with the black, both swimming so thickly in his brain they compromised his line of vision. Shimmers of rage sparked a thousand must-kill-must-protect fires, each one warring with the others. In his veins, his blood was molten, turning jerky movements into fluid, lethal arcs.

With a roar, he tossed away two other gargoyles. He grabbed another by the neck and punched, punched, punched, creating a hole in the creature’s cheek, the rest of the stone chipping away bit by bit. Still the creature fought Paris’s hold, teeth chomping at his fist.

“Let them chain you,” Sienna shouted. “Please, just let them chain you.”

She wanted him bound? Hated him as much as he’d feared? No matter. Her command and plea were discarded, his determination unwavering. Must kill … Punch, punch. Enemy must die. Punch, punch, punch. Stab. Obstacles must be eliminated. Punch, stab. Debris flew in every direction. The gargoyles forgot about their desire for pleasure, or whatever they’d felt while writhing on him, and went on full attack, no longer going easy on him.

Sienna reached him, smelling of wildflowers and … ambrosia? He inhaled deeply. Oh, yeah. Ambrosia’s sweet, sweet perfume permeated his skin, overshadowed everything else, including the need to kill, but oh, he now wanted to imbibe. Had to imbibe. His mouth watered, even as he wondered why she would smell of the immortal drug he had forced himself to stop using not too long ago, when he was hurt during a fight he would have won if he’d been clearheaded. His injuries had almost caused him to miss his appointment with a goddess to purchase his crystal blades, and he’d decided then and there to stop using. Thankfully, he had gone through the worst of the withdrawal already; he couldn’t afford to go through it again. He would stop caring about anything but his next fix.

Want her. As close as she now was, Sex perked up, pouring strength straight into Paris’s system and changing the direction of his own thoughts. Must touch her … must have her …

For once, they were in agreement.

“You have to let them chain you.” When she attempted to jerk two of the gargoyles away from him, they turned on her, some biting, some clawing, some head-butting her. Her knees collapsed under their weight.

Another roar ripped from his throat. She had tried to save him? The very idea was foreign to him. Ignoring the beasts still attempting to subdue him, he concentrated on the ones climbing on top of her. He grabbed one and threw. Grabbed another, threw.

“Run!” he commanded her.

The beasts returned to him in a snap. He tried to knock them away, clearing a path for her, but she didn’t run. She lay panting, her limbs unmoving, not even trying to shield herself.

Her watery gaze pleaded with him. “Please, Paris. Be still. Don’t fight.”

Heated breath caught in his throat, and though every instinct he possessed screamed to continue fighting, continue hurting anything and everything in his way, he planted his heels on the floor, sheathed his blades and lowered his arms. She had tried to save him; he would trust her.

He would surrender.

For a moment, the beasts took full advantage, converging on him like flies to honey. Steady. Like Sienna, he remained unmoving. Shockingly, the fighting frenzy soon eased. The gargoyles latched on to his arms and once again began dragging him to the prison where they’d already locked William.

Sienna lumbered to her feet and followed, never allowing eye contact to break. A good thing. If she had, he would have erupted all over again. Can’t lose even that much.

“They’ll leave you alone after they chain you.” Her voice trembled, pain in the undercurrents. “They simply have to complete their task, and then you’ll be free to do whatever you want.”

Want her …

Despite his injuries, he hardened a second time, his demon’s scent wafting from him, a rich chocolate mingled with the most expensive champagne. If he’d needed more proof that he could have this woman again, here it was. He could have her as many times as he wanted her, however many times she would allow him. He was awed. He was vindicated.

He was undone.

Finally, he was with the woman he craved above all others.

The beasts not holding his limbs leapt back on top of him, grinding, rubbing against him in that disgusting way. Harder this time, and much more determined. Even their need to complete their duty and chain him couldn’t override his demon’s allure, he supposed. He tuned them out, kept his focus on Sienna.

She was here—he would never tire of the thought—and she was breathtakingly lovely, the essence of all that was feminine. Even dirt-smudged and blood-caked as she was, he’d never seen a more exquisite female. His mind had not built her up during their separation. On the contrary, his mind had not done her justice. Those hazel eyes glittered with swirls of emerald and copper, hints of summer and winter combined, framed by spiky jet lashes. Her lips were bee-stung and utterly wicked. The kind women paid to have and men paid to use.

Her hair wasn’t too dark or too light, but the perfect shade of russet streaked with shimmers of the purest gold. The locks were longer than before, with waves as mesmerizing as those in an ocean.

Her freckles had lightened, but they were as decadent as ever, a treasure map for his tongue. The rest of her skin, cream and rose petals, glowed as if she had swallowed the sun. Her body, so slender, so elegant, was as graceful as a ballerina’s. Her breasts were small, but they would fit amazingly well in his big hands as he tongued her nipples. Her legs were long and would wrap around his waist, holding him tight.

Mine, he thought. Mine.

Take her. Sex had abandoned the I wants and I needs, and was now all about the commands. As if Paris would argue. One question plagued him, though. Would being with her a second time actually strengthen him?

Around the corner, William waited—and he was grinning, his electric-blues calling Paris all kinds of stupid. He had broken free of his chains, as Paris should have done to avoid the beating, and waved as Paris passed him. The beasts paid him no heed, still clinging to Paris and proving Sienna’s claim. He relaxed. So close to holding her, to touching her as he’d dreamed.

Oh, the things he wanted to do to her …

She might push him away; she might not. Either way, at long last he would find out.




CHAPTER ELEVEN


PARIS WATCHED AS WILLIAM flowed into motion beside Sienna. Still she didn’t look away from him and he wondered what thoughts she entertained. Was her body reacting to him, as his was reacting to her?

Blood-spattered walls framed her, and Paris cursed. He would have given anything to see her surrounded by silks and velvets. Would make it so, before he let her go. A vow, even as the thought of letting her go made him want to howl.

“Nice to see you again, Sienna,” William said, as pleasantly as he was able. The frost in his eyes belied his endearing facade.

Paris tensed. If the warrior hurt her …

“We’ve met?” she asked.

For a moment, William radiated absolute bafflement. Then his expression cleared, and he offered a sugar-sweet smile. “It distresses me that you don’t remember, but I don’t mind reminding you. Allow me to paint the scene. We were in Texas, and you were crouched on the concrete like a dog, holding on to Paris like a leech.” His cruel, sneering pitch was meant to intimidate her, to put her in her place for everything she’d done to Paris.

“Tone,” Paris snapped. She might have done him wrong, but he would not allow her to be disrespected.

Sienna shrugged, apparently unconcerned by what the warrior had said. “You’ll have to forgive me for not noticing you back then. Next to him, you’re kind of homely.”

William choked on his own tongue.

For the first time in forever, Paris grinned with true amusement. The only other time he’d witnessed such spunk from her was when she had drugged him. He hadn’t liked it then, but he liked it now, especially since it was directed at someone else.

William caught his breath and added, “Just so you know, I’ll kill you if you harm him in any way. And I don’t care how much it will upset him.” So calmly stated, there was no arguing the warrior’s intent. “Paris has proven to be stupid where you’re concerned, and that means his friends have to pick up the mental slack.”

There went his amusement. An animalistic growl left him, his lips peeling back from his teeth. Darkness rising again … rage returning … Paris struggled to free his arms, intending to wrap his fingers around William’s neck and squeeze. No one threatened Sienna. No one. Ever.

You don’t really want to injure him. Stop. A plea from deep inside himself, where remnants of the old Paris must still reside. William’s loyalty was a nice surprise, and something he appreciated on a visceral level.

Where Sienna was concerned, however, Paris was not exactly rational, and his struggling intensified. Must defend her …

The gargoyles stopped dragging him, stopped humping him and returned to fighting him, shoving him to the floor and into a pile of bones. They raked at him with their claws and teeth.

“See?” William splayed his arms, his point proven. “Stupid.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Paris forced himself to chill a second—third?—time. He huffed and he puffed like the big, bad wolf he was, knowing he would be given a chance to make his point about Sienna later, when he could get to his knives. His friends could do and say anything they wanted to him, but not to her.

Once again the creatures lost interest in the battle and resumed the trek to the prison.

Sienna and William continued to follow, and soon Paris’s wrists and ankles were shackled to a crumbling stone wall in a four-by-four chamber devoid of any luxuries. Claws scraped the floor as the creatures filed out, each squawking happily about what they clearly considered a job well done.

Sienna severed visual contact and collapsed at his side, her trembling fingers working at one of the metal bands. He could have freed himself. Or hell, William could have freed him, but Paris liked having those soft, elegant hands on him. They were his favorite part of her body, every movement an exotic dance.

On a raspy catch of breath, she said, “They’re tasked with chaining anyone who survives the walk from drawbridge to castle, and once that’s accomplished, they lose interest. You’ll be free to move about the place as much or as little as you want.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting her voice drift through his mind. Husky, low, a caress he’d missed more than he’d realized. He could listen to her forever.

Did part of him still hate her? Yeah. Definitely. Hated what she’d done to him, hated what he’d done for her. Hated how strongly she affected him. And beneath all the hate, he resented that she hadn’t seen beyond her own hatred to choose him all those months ago, the way he’d chosen her.

He would have taken her home. He would have pampered her. At least, that’s what he told himself now. He wouldn’t contemplate what he would have done to her before the pampering commenced. Wouldn’t think about the interrogation he’d planned or the chains he’d imagined buying for her.

“I’m having trouble … I can’t … The fall must have hurt worse than I realized.” Her voice had thinned to a mere wisp of sound, barely audible. “So … sorry …” Her hands fell away from him, and she slumped forward, her slight weight resting on his chest.

“Sienna?” he demanded, but there was no response. Anyone who could see and touch her could injure her spirit form; he knew that. And the gargoyles had certainly been able to see and touch her. But without a heartbeat or need to breathe, she should rebound quickly. Right? Except, the bloodstains around her mouth … how had she bled? he wondered now.

“Must have fainted from the sight of my beauty,” William remarked with a sigh. “There goes the tickle fight I had planned.”

Ignoring him, Paris yanked one of his arms, ripping the chain from the wall. He wrapped that arm around Sienna’s waist, holding her against him, keeping her steady.

She fit him perfectly.

After he ripped the other arm free, he eased her to her back and peered down at her, his heart causing a riot of sensation in his chest.

Her head lolled to the side, and she was pale, paler than before. Another rip, followed by another, and his ankles were free. Then he jerked at the cuffs themselves until they fell away. Then he did what he’d wanted to do since the first moment he’d seen her. He touched her, smoothing the hair from her brow. Her skin was as soft as it appeared, and warm, so wonderfully warm. He’d craved a moment like this so desperately, had dreamed of it over and over again, and had nearly killed himself a hundred times over to have it. To his delight, reality was so much better than the dream. More than feeling her heat, he smelled her scent all around him, enveloping him. The wildflowers, the coconut sweetness of ambrosia, both creating a heady musk of arousal.

Why ambrosia? He couldn’t get past that. Was she a user? If so, he’d bet someone, like, say, Cronus, had forced her to become one. She wasn’t the type to willingly fall into drugs. From what little he knew about her, she liked order and craved control.

I’ll protect her from further abuse, he thought next. She was his. For just a little while, she was his.

Sex jumped up and down. Take her, take her, take her.

Instinct demanded he obey. Still he resisted. Not like this. Not while she’s out.

A sigh of frustration, maybe even a muttered you’re no fun as Paris looked her over, shielding her from William’s gaze as he moved her clothing out of the way to check for injuries. Every newly revealed inch of skin acted as a lick of flame to Sex, causing the demon to hiss and shake. Or maybe you are fun.

Though Paris admired the body beneath him just as fervently as his dark companion, he hissed and shook for a different reason. Another rise of darkness, another increase of boiling rage. Beneath fading bruises, his woman was as fang-and-claw-mark-ridden as he was, blood oozing from her in tiny rivers of pain.

His next mission crystallized. Finding out how to hurt the gargoyles and then making them pay for every mark.

Really making them pay, he decided when he spied a deep, angry gouge in her side. He sucked in a breath to try and calm himself down, but he inhaled so sharply his lungs felt like mini-vacuums, drawing the air in with commando force. His muscles tensed, his head fogged all over again and his mouth watered. He could actually taste the ambrosia in the air. Frowning, he bent down and sniffed along the line of her neck. The closer he was to her, the stronger the scent became.

“Kinky,” William said.

“Can you be serious?”

“I was being serious. I always figured you for the in and out type. Kinda stealthy, leaving the girl wondering whether you’d even been there or not. But I didn’t know you were quite this stealthy.”

“Nice to know you’ve considered my sex life,” he grumbled.

“Hasn’t everyone?”

“Screw you.”

“Again, hasn’t everyone?”

“This is pointless.” Another sniff. The fog thickened, Paris’s brain practically swimming through it. Could the fragrance originate in Sienna’s blood? Yet another sniff, another infusion of that ever-thickening fog. Yeah, it was definitely in her blood—and a lot of it. More than even an addict could handle. Her scent was as strong as if she were actually growing in an ambrosia field.

Which should be impossible. Right? Ambrosia was harvested in special meadows elsewhere in the heavens, as far from this dark realm as the moon was from the earth. Lavender petals were plucked from the foliage, the clear, intoxicating liquid squeezed out before those petals were dried and turned into powder. No one could handle the liquid, not even immortals, and humans certainly couldn’t handle even the powder.

But Sienna wasn’t human anymore, was she.

He was ashamed to admit he was tempted to bite her, to drink her down and savor every drop. He’d walked the path of addiction, sprinted it, really, but he had somehow managed to skirt the edge of need during his journey here, knowing his wits were required to succeed. If only that would lessen the sweet, tantalizing lure of her right now … but no.

“As interesting as this is, and honestly, I don’t mean to interrupt your seductive process,” William said, air-quoting the last two words, “but are you gonna get to the good stuff or what?”

“I thought I told you to shut it.”

“No, you told me to screw you, and that was five minutes ago. A lot’s changed since then. Like, I’m currently bored.”

Biting his tongue until he tasted copper, Paris finished his search for injuries. And shit, there was another shot of desire—his own rather than his demon’s. He shouldn’t notice those lovely pink nipples, shouldn’t notice the soft dip of her belly or the trim length of her legs. Shouldn’t be counting her freckles, already planning his tongue’s attack. (He would start with the darker ones on her stomach, and work his way to the lighter ones on her thighs.) He was a bastard. He was sick, disgusting. He should be whipped.

When she woke up, she’d take care of that for him, he would bet.

Hate myself. “She’s already dead,” he gritted out. He noticed her right wrist no longer bore the tattoo of infinity, a symbol the Hunters used. “Why is she bleeding? Shouldn’t she heal as quickly as we do?”

“Oh, now you want to talk to me?” the warrior quipped.

“Just answer the question before I cut out your tongue and nail it to the wall.”

“You’ve really lost your sense of humor, you know that? But okay. Fine. I’ll play along. She’s dead, yes, but she’s also possessed by a demon that is very much alive. His heart beats for her. His blood fills her veins. I shouldn’t have to explain demon physiology to you. And what the hell is that smell? It’s mouthwatering. A real party for my—”

“Stop breathing!” Paris didn’t want anyone else breathing her in.

“O-kay. Possessive much?”

“Let’s get back to the subject that won’t get you maimed. She’s possessed by a demon, yes, but she’s also a dead human spirit. So …”

“So, you’re still able to touch her.”

To borrow the bastard’s phrasing: Obvious much? “What I’m asking is, will she heal?”

“Yeah, because her demon will heal. And here’s a little tip for the next person held captive by your stunning conversation. You should have started with that and saved us time and trouble.”

Okay. Okay, then. Good. She would heal. Paris scooped her up in his arms—pissed all over again with the gargoyles. What they’d left on him … was now on his woman.

Sex adored the contact and purred his approval.

“I’m taking her upstairs, looking for a bedroom.” Paris would clean and bandage her. If she didn’t wake up and demand he leave her the hell alone first. “You’re not invited.”

As much as he wanted her awake, looking at him, talking to him, he hoped she slept through the cleaning. He was desperate to get his hands on her, really on her. Yeah, he was a sick, sick bastard. But that wasn’t the main reason, he told himself. He didn’t want her to feel any pain while he doctored her.

He studied the chains for a split second, thinking it might be a good idea to tie Sienna to a bed while he had the chance. That way, she couldn’t run until after they’d discussed a few things. But he hadn’t come all this way, done all those things, only to enslave her himself. His goal was, and had always been, her freedom.

And shit. She might not run from him. Earlier she had ignored him, had watched as he’d passed her, but a few minutes later, she had rushed to his rescue. Whatever the reason for the change, she hadn’t sought to get rid of him.

He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, luxuriating in the feel of her silky hair before carrying her out of the cell. The gargoyles hadn’t bothered shutting the iron bars that would have kept him and William inside. At least until they’d picked the lock, that is.





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