The Darkest Seduction lotu-10

by Gena Showalter

  —something slicing between each of her ribs—

  —rotted breath fanning her ear, trailing down her chest—

  She wrapped her arms around her middle. Distract yourself. “Did the Lords do that to you?”

  “Yes,” he repeated. “As promised, I let them go without hurting them back.”

  “Th-thank you.” Worry for them was another constant in her life.

  A long moment passed in silence, allowing her thoughts to once again careen out of control. Soon she was imagining what would happen to her once Galen healed. “Why do you hate them so much?” she asked, just to fill the void.

  “I don’t hate them.” He balanced his elbows on his knees and his weight on his elbows. “I’m simply looking out for myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Who else will?” Then, “Enough about me. What happened to you in hell?”

  The blood drained from her face, then the rest of her, leaving her cold and empty. “I can’t…talk about it, please don’t make me talk about it.”

  He stared at her, different emotions washing over his face. Fury, regret, hope, jealousy, fury again.

  Fox rushed back in, the black bag she held slamming into her thigh with a loud thump. Legion curled her knees into her chest, doing her best to become a smaller target, but Fox was through intimidating, her focus on Galen.

  She crouched in front of him, set down the bag, and dug inside. After cutting away his robe, she whistled as she looked him over. “This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

  “Don’t care. Do what’s needed.”

  As she worked, Legion kept her attention on the back of her head. Maybe because Galen kept his on her, still staring at her, trying to see past her skin and into her soul.

  Fox was demon-possessed, she realized. Having grown up among the dark lords of hell, Legion sensed the evil inside her, could feel the ooze of her…distrust. Yes. That’s what she felt rubbing her nerve endings raw.

  Distrust. A High Lord. The strongest of the strong, a leader of many minions. Legion was a minion of Strife, and the two demons had warred constantly, pitting their armies against each other. Distrust was no longer…right, though. The malice seeping from the girl’s pores was warped, almost frantic. No wonder her skin was grayish and her face bruised. She must have to fight the demon every hour of every day to remain sane herself.

  “So, you want to tell me what happened?” Fox asked. “What’s going on?”

  “No,” Galen replied tartly. “I don’t.”

  “Do it anyway. You take off for Rome to deal with the Unspoken Ones and get the Cloak, and I don’t hear from you for weeks. I thought you were dead. Then suddenly you’re back, and you practically are dead.”

  She’d removed everything that didn’t belong, and was now cleaning the blood from his chest. As the crimson was wiped away, she began to piece together the tattoos on his chest, stitching his skin in place. A butterfly over his left pectoral, and one over his right.

  Two butterflies?

  Legion’s gaze jolted up and clashed with his. He was still eyeing her through those narrowed lids, daring her to say something. She gulped, kept quiet.

  “I got the Cloak, stole Maddox’s woman and traded her for this one.” He motioned to Legion with a tilt of his chin. “Hey! Can you at least pretend to be a woman and try for gentle?”

  “Wuss. Why her?” Fox demanded, spreading some kind of paste over each of the wounds.

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s mine, and she’s not going to hurt me. Are you, Legion?”

  If only. She shook her head.

  “Say it. Say the words.”

  A tremor moved through her. “I’m not going to hurt you.” She couldn’t. Even if he chained her up and did…and did… Bile, spreading faster and faster…

  “Because I’m commanding you to take care of me, and you have to obey me, don’t you.” Not a question.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Calm down, Gay Man,” Fox told him. “Your heartbeat is jacked up, and it’s causing you to bleed more heavily.”

  “You know I hate when you call me that.”

  He’d grumbled the admonishment, but he hadn’t struck at her, and that shocked Legion to the bone. He must really like the woman, she thought. And was that…could that be…jealousy swimming through her?

  No way. Legion wanted nothing to do with Galen. Nothing! Hate him. For what he’d done to Aeron, to Ashlyn.

  A short while later, Fox had him bandaged up and lying flat on the mattress. She tucked the covers around him and stood there, brushing his hair from his face until he fell asleep with a last shuddering command. “Don’t hurt her.”

  That’s when Fox turned and leveled Legion with the evilest stare she’d ever seen—and she’d been chained to the devil himself a few times.

  “Galen might think of you as his, little girl, but he is mine. And I protect, and avenge, what’s mine. You harm him in any way, and not even he will be able to stop me from harming you in kind.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CRONUS SEETHED WHEN he discovered his Lords had found his hiding place, the Realm of Blood and Shadows, where he kept Sienna and the three demon-possessed warriors he’d locked there. They’d invaded his private castle. All except for Torin, the keeper of Disease, who was back at the fortress in Budapest, having refused to let Lucien flash him. Too much risk, he’d said, even if he was draped from head to toe with protective gear.

  One touch of Torin’s skin against his, and Lucien would be infected with the very disease running rampant in the other warrior’s veins. Torin put his friends before himself, always, an attitude Cronus did not understand or respect. But the thought reminded Cronus there was a way to work this situation to his favor.

  Torin would do anything to touch a female human without hurting her. Even accept a gift that wasn’t a gift. A gift that was a curse. A gift that was a death sentence. A gift that would ruin Rhea’s own plans. Not that he would know it. Cronus grinned.

  Unlike Lucien, Cronus did not have to touch an individual to move him. Cronus simply spoke, and Torin appeared in front of him.

  The warrior palmed two blades in his gloved hands and spun, searching for the culprit, even as he oriented himself to his new surroundings. He stilled when he noticed Cronus, though his gaze continued to rove, memorizing the details, the exits.

  A field of ambrosia stretched for miles, scenting the air oh, so sweetly, the violet petals glistening under the gleam of a sun that offered the perfect amount of light and heat.

  “Cronus,” Torin said with a nod of his head. If he was upset or even thrilled about being pulled from his Budapest fortress for the first time in centuries, he didn’t show it. No bowing, either, so of course, no scraping.

  All of his current problems stemmed from his leniency with the Lords, Cronus mused. They issued commands and expected him to obey. Then, when he issued commands, they refused him, sometimes openly, sometimes by more stealthy means. His mistake was trying to connect with them, to become one of them. He should have proven his strength and demonstrated the consequences of defying him from the beginning. He wasn’t their friend, would never be their friend. He was their king, their master.

  And now he would prove it.

  “You rang?”

  Oh, yes. He would prove it. Cronus studied him, this warrior he was about to use. Torin had white hair that shagged around a wicked face humans craved for the rest of their lives if they were unlucky enough to catch a single glimpse of it. Emerald eyes, more sinful than anything. Lips that had never known a female’s taste.

  “Walk with me,” he commanded, expecting absolute compliance.

  And getting it. When the warrior reached his side, he pivoted and strode through the field, the lush leaves caressing his suit-clad legs. He ran scenarios through his mind, gauging the pros and cons of his decision.

  “So…what’s up?”

  The impudent tone irritated him, but he made no comment. For now. “I h
ave a new task for you.”

  A groan. “You and your tasks. Torture so-and-so. Kill so-and-so. Rally my boys and send them into the danger zone. So, fine. Let’s hear this new one. I’m sure it will delight me as much as the others.”

  “Tone,” he snapped.

  “Yes. I have one.”

  Calm. “And you’ll lose your tongue if you use it again.”

  Silence.

  Excellent. “Today, Disease, I give you a gift. The greatest treasure in my possession. Despite your disappointing, offensive attitude.”

  Those green eyes rolled. “All right. I’ll bite. What’s this gift?”

  “My…All-Key.” He needed to give it away, but doing so irked considering the lengths he’d gone through to get it.

  “Great, but I have no flippin’ idea what that is.”

  Of course not. Save for four others, Cronus had murdered everyone who knew about it. The four? Anya, the minor goddess of Anarchy and its former possessor; her father, Tartarus, who had given it to her; Lucien, who knew every one of Anya’s secrets; and Reyes, who had once dared to shackle Cronus and barter for his woman’s freedom. And the quartet lived only because Cronus had a use for them. Had they ever spoken of the key, he would have stopped caring about their usefulness, and they knew it.

  “This key unlocks any door, any prison, any curse. Anything. Nothing can bind you. And if anyone tries to take it from you, they will die.” That did not mean Torin would be free of his demon. The two were bonded, two halves of a whole. One could not live successfully without the other.

  “Sounds cool, but why me?”

  Because Torin was solitary, spending more time alone than with his friends. Because he would never fall in love, nor betray his secrets to a female while they whiled away too much time in bed. Something that happened far too much for Cronus’s liking. Something he himself had once been guilty of doing.

  “Should you tell anyone about this gift,” he continued, not deigning to reply aloud, “I will kill you as well as the one you told. Should you try and give it away, I will kill you and all those you love. And, when I ask you to return it to me, you will do so without hesitation. One moment of resistance, just one, and I will do more than kill your loved ones. I will hurt them in ways you cannot imagine.”

  Torin’s purposeful stride never faltered. “Yeah, well, thanks for thinking of me, but I’d rather eat dirt.”

  Cronus sent a wave of power slamming into the man’s temples, knocking him off his feet. He hit the ground, writhing from the pain of it, blood soon spurting from his ears.

  Looming over him, Cronus said, “You were saying?” A wave of his hand, and the pain eased.

  Torin lay there, panting, dripping with sweat. “I was saying dirt is delicious, thanks for the mouthful.”

  His lips pursed. Breaking the Lords would clearly take more than his usual strong-arm tactics. They smiled when he hurt them, laughed when he threatened. As much as that frustrated and angered him, it also fascinated him. Despite everything, they were honorable. When they gave their word, they stood by it. A foolish practice, really, but one he’d come to rely on where they were concerned.

  Only when he threatened those they loved did they fall in line with him. But Torin could not simply cooperate because of fear. Not this time. Not with something as important as the All-Key.

  “Do this, keep the key safe for me, and I will grant you a boon,” Cronus said. “Anything you wish. Anything that is in my power to give, of course.”

  Suspicion danced in the warrior’s eyes, and Cronus knew he was weighing his options. Refuse the king, and face punishment. Accept, and face potential trickery. Betrayal. But for the prospect of such a reward, he would not say no.

  “I think we both know what you want,” Cronus pressed. “A chance to touch a woman without sickening her and starting a plague.”

  Breath caught in Torin’s throat, and Cronus knew that he had him. “Can you give me that chance?”

  “In a way. What happened to the vial of water the angel Lysander gave you?” If there was but a single drop left, Torin could touch a woman, then feed her the droplet and save her, for the water healed any wound on any creature. Would he be able to touch her after that? No, but his condition would have been met.

  “Gone. And the angels won’t give us any more.”

  Unfortunate, but understandable. The angels had to endure terrible, terrible things to even approach the River of Life from whence the water came. Cronus himself had never dared go near it. “There is a woman…I will force her to meet with you. You can touch her all you desire, and she will never sicken.”

  “Yeah, uh, no thanks. I want to pick my own woman.”

  “That, I cannot give you, and that was not the bargain. You wanted a woman to touch. I can give you one.”

  A long while passed in silence while Torin considered the offer. “Is she dead?”

  “No. She lives.”

  “Old? A child?”

  “No. She is neither too old nor too young.”

  “How will I be able to—”

  “Answers were not part of the bargain, either. Decide!”

  Finally Torin nodded, as Cronus had known he would. “Very well. You have a deal.”

  He did not allow himself to smile. When the All-Key left him, its powers would leave Rhea. He could imprison her. Have her at his mercy—or lack thereof.

  What he did not mention to Torin: the All-Key wiped the memory of the one who gave it away. Except Cronus’s, and probably, because of their connection, Rhea’s. Cronus had created the key, and so had ensured it would never adversely affect him. However, no one else, Torin included, was extended the same courtesy.

  When Torin bent his knees, as if to push himself into a stand, Cronus shook his head and reached down. “Stay there. This might hurt a bit.”

  ON THE OTHER SIDE of the heavens, Lysander stepped from the cloud he shared with his Harpy mate, Bianka, his wings spread and gliding just enough to leave him hovering in place.

  “I am failing you,” Zacharel said, the words gritted. The snowstorm that followed him constantly increased in ferocity, the flakes catching in his eyelashes, between the feathers of his wings, weighing them down.

  “You have not failed me, and you will not fail me. I have complete faith in you. Now, what report do you have of the girl?”

  He rallied and said, “While she thinks she will be able to walk away from Paris in a few days, the pair has grown closer. Worse, she now carries his darkness.” He’d seen the shadows swirling in her eyes after he’d carted Paris away from her.

  “The war grows ever closer,” Lysander replied. “She will still be of great use to us.”

  “Are you sure? Cronus has tricked her, convinced her to aid him. I expected him to lie to her, but I also expected her demon to catch on. He hasn’t. And now that Paris has learned of his marriage to her, he will fight for her to the death.” He’d thought Paris would never learn of the connection, which was the only reason Zacharel had helped tattoo him. Had he refused, Paris would have done it anyway and begun resisting him ahead of schedule.

  “Cronus is a greedy fool, but Paris has surprised me. He might have shared his darkness with her, but she has shared some of her light with him.” Lysander thought for a moment. “If he wants her as I want my Bianka, he will not part from her easily.”

  Too true. Passion, desire, lust, whatever you wanted to call that wild craze to mate, still remained completely out of Zacharel’s realm of understanding, yet he could not deny something took hold of the pair whenever they so much as looked at each other.

  Like magnets, Paris and Sienna were drawn to each other. They fought for each other, and parting would destroy them on some fundamental level. That he’d once thought to convince Paris to willingly walk away from her had been foolish. Force would be needed.

  “Whatever you wish me to do,” he said, bowing his head, “I will do.”

  Lysander expelled a weary sigh. “We need her. No matter what,
we need her. Do whatever you must to convince her to side with us. If that’s not enough, simply take her.”

  IN THE DEPTHS OF HELL, Kane sank in and out of consciousness. As vulnerable as he was when he slept, he much preferred it to the crippling pain of having his guts tucked back inside his body and his flesh stapled back together. Then, when the staples failed, having that battered flesh cauterized with liquid fire. He felt like someone had parked a bus on his chest, done some donuts, then let the passengers stampede off.

  And the laughter…oh, the laughter from his demon. Disaster loved this. Loved the pain, and the degradation, and the helplessness. Kane imagined this was exactly how Legion had felt when she’d been stuck down here.

  He should have supported her better. Should have tried to help her. Not that Kane wanted help himself. Part of him still wanted to die.

  The horsemen—Black and Red—were saviors as well as tyrants. When he’d screamed as they “doctored” him, they’d next taped a ball gag in his mouth. When he’d thrashed, they had chained him down. They weren’t cruel about it, though; they were matter-of-fact, as if they were doing him a favor. A reason he wouldn’t take them with him when he kicked it.

  Red stood over him now, blowing cigar smoke in his direction. “You up for a little poker yet?”

  Whenever the pair realized he was awake, they always asked the same question. That one. He shook his head, unsure why a game of cards was so important to them.

  “Bummer.” Genuine disappointment shone in his features. “Soon, though.”

  Kane nodded in agreement because he didn’t know what else to do, and closed his eyes. Without any resistance on his part, he drifted back to his favorite place, a black void of nothingness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER spending the entire night making love to Sienna, Paris showered, threw on clothes someone had brought him from home, weaponed up and ensured Sienna’s crystal dagger rested on the nightstand, ready for her use if it proved necessary. Though he hated leaving her, he exited the bedroom and entered a whole new world.