by Jane Cousins
“Ready?” Declan stood up, stretching.
Damn, the man should issue a warning before he did something like that. For a micro-second Darcy hesitated, couldn’t their grand escape wait another thirty minutes while she worshipped that magnificent body just one more time? No, that was just her hyper-hormones talking.
Hell, maybe she was in more trouble than she thought. A twelve hour non-stop sex-fest hadn’t put a dint in the level of simmering desire that she felt for Declan. Crap. What she needed was to get back to her routine, back to work, focused, hunting. She was sure once she was back in the Special Liaison saddle that this… craving would settle down to manageable proportions.
Declan was hot, sure, but she controlled her instincts, they did not control her. So that was why she intended to schedule their beck and booty-call get togethers sparsely and stick to that schedule. Just like dentist appointments. There would be no two in the morning I’m hot to trot texts. No, they’d make it once a week, okay, maybe twice… three times would be pushing it, wouldn’t it? Grrr, she really needed to hurt someone. “Let’s get out of here. I have a ton of stuff on my to-do list waiting for me back at the Sanctuary.”
“Including my performance appraisal.” Declan flashed her the dimples before heading for the door.
For a moment Darcy thought he was referring to their sex-fest, she would have no choice but to tick the satisfactory box, but then realised Declan was talking about his Enforcer field exam. “Yeah, just one problem, you didn’t exactly track down the missing Incubus, did you? You were busy being gassed and kidnapped. And here I am saving your ass.”
“You mean the ass currently sporting three sets of your teeth imprints?”
“Don’t blame me, you’re the one who kept waggling it in my face, what did you expect me to do?”
“I wasn’t complaining, Darcy, I was boasting.”
“Oh.” She was glad in the golden glow of the narrow corridor they were heading down that he couldn’t see the heat suffuse her cheeks. Was she coming down with a fever? That had to be it, otherwise it would mean that she was pleased that Declan liked her brand of rough sex play, and that would be too girlie a reaction by half. No, she was definitely feverish, probably some kind of weird fae pollen affecting her sinuses or something.
Declan had seen enough of Aengus’s memories to have a reasonably good idea of where they could find the nearest large mirror. So he ignored all of the doors, and secret voyeur windows along the corridor, leading the way deeper into the Estate. Heading for more modern additions to the vast building that had been added over the last few centuries and would be decorated accordingly. “You don’t think you could extrapolate all the talents I’ve displayed so far and see your way clear to signing off on my final evaluation?”
“Talents? Like what?”
“Let me think… talents I’ve displayed recently… well, I don’t think you can complain about my level of stamina. My ability to take instruction. And let’s not forget my fine attention to detail.”
Darcy was unable to refute any of those talents, but she couldn’t see herself writing up her final report for Elijah and detailing how their twelve hour sex-fest, resulting in more orgasms than she had fingers, was the kind of task her cousin expected her to set Declan to pass or fail on. But if it had been, it was a given he’d passed with flying colours.
“Nah, I don’t see that happening. Don’t worry, I’m sure a new assignment will come across my desk in the very near future. I hear rumblings that the Griandor clan are thinking of paying the Sanctuary a visit soon for trade discussions, you can be the official greeter. If you survive, congrats, you’re an Enforcer.”
Declan chuffed a laugh. “The Griandor spit deadly acid when they speak, and they take offence to any word used in their hearing that includes the letters ‘s’ or ‘e’.”
“Yeeessss, sssucks to beeee you.” Darcy informed him cheerfully.
Declan laughed again, coming to a halt beside a small window set in the corridor head height. Glancing into the room via a secret peephole, the smile abruptly dropped from his face. “Fuck, I think we might have a problem.”
Darcy shouldered him aside, went up on tip toe, her eyes widening at the view. The room looked distinctly like the Playboy mansion of the seventies. Lots of red satin, matching shag pile and a disco ball that sent out sparkles.
“There’s supposed to be a wall made of mirrors. It’s gone.”
“Damn.” Darcy stepped back. “What are the chances all the mirrors have disappeared?”
Half an hour later, having checked six more potential rooms, they had their answer. They were gone.
“Any ideas?” Darcy looked to Declan, he knew the Estate.
“There’s only one option left. The altar room. And I’m guessing that’s where Aengus wants us.”
“He really is an asshole, I don’t know how you stood living with him in your head for so long.”
“It’s only a small measure of payback that he’ll be stuck in the turtledove form for a while as I’m pretty sure he won’t be willing to jump to any of his Followers just yet, even temporarily. Not until he sees me dead. He’s a petty, vengeful bastard. Trust him to find a loophole in our agreement.”
“So, it looks like we have a date with a Love God. Care to lead the way?”
“Sure. The passageway on the right will take us directly to the Temple Grand Entrance.”
“Grand Entrance?”
“Hey, I didn’t name it, or decorate it. Wait until you see the number of gilt cherubs screwing each other carved into it, it will put you off Valentine’s day for life.”
Darcy found herself smiling as she followed Declan. Because she was going to get her wish to hurt someone in the very near future, not because she was having fun or enjoying Declan’s company. Nope, he was her walking, unfortunately never stop talking, sex toy. That was all. Move it along, no feelings to see here.
Grrr, the smack down with Aengus couldn’t come soon enough.
* * *
Declan hadn’t undersold the multitude of fornicating gilt cherubs carved into the admittedly grand entrance doorway to the Temple. Thankfully there was a mega load of angry, armed Priestesses awaiting them inside to keep Darcy’s attention from wandering.
In only twelve hours the Priestesses had undergone a makeover. Gone were the diaphanous see through robes, replaced by black biker leathers; fitted trousers and tight waistcoats or matching halter tops. And behind them on the raised altar sat Rowan, dressed in white leathers, lounging in a gilt chair that was clearly designed by the same person who created the grand entrance doors.
Rowan’s blue eyes were brimming with triumph, a smirk lifting the corners of her mouth as she surveyed the two interlopers.
Darcy instantly computed all the angles and factors, the most glaring piece of information being on the table beside Rowan. A plate of half eaten food, including the carcass of a small bird the size of a turtledove. Bye, bye Aengus, ousted and consumed by your own High Priestesses. It would take the God centuries to come back from that betrayal.
From the fierce scowls on the forty-five minion Priestesses facing them, Darcy was guessing that Rowan had sold them a story that either she or Declan had killed their Love God. They were seriously out numbered, and several of the Priestesses actually looked like they knew how to swing the sword they were holding. Crap, okay, they were tough but thankfully not insurmountable odds.
Options zipped along the threads, milliseconds later the most optimal approach presented itself. It was doable, Darcy would incur several injuries, that was to be expected. But if she could avoid any critical hits she thought she could fight her way through forty-five minions, deal with Rowan and make it to the large mirror set up behind the altar.
“What do you say instead of me dealing with the Griandor, I clear a path for us to the altar for my final exam? I’ll take on the minions, you deal with Rowan?”
Darcy blinked, duh, she’d forgotten to factor Declan into her comput
ations. A rookie mistake, her brain was a little more fried from their sex-fest than she’d realised. Which should have sent a warning alarm clamouring along the threads. And the fact that it hadn’t, should have kicked off even more alarms. Heavens, the whole web should have been lit up like a Christmas tree. Except, it was remarkably calm.
What the hell was going on. With the web? With her? Normally, she was exceedingly good at compartmentalising her life. Easy when the men in it were so self-involved and interchangeable. But here Declan was, beside her. It was weird how calm, how right everything suddenly felt. She should be running a mile, but instead seemed to be intent on wilfully ignoring the complete absence of warning bells. Damn, and stop thinking about the man. Stand off, remember.
Hmmm, she considered Declan’s offer, it might work, even if he managed to clear five… no, she should give him more credit than that, say ten minions, then it would significantly decrease Darcy’s odds of incurring a serious injury. “Have at it.”
Declan stepped up, flicked his head back slightly to get the hair out of his sparkling violet eyes, flexed his pecs and smiled at the ready, waiting and armed Priestesses. “Hi.”
Darcy fought hard not to roll her eyes as at least fifteen of the women sighed audibly. Heavens, Elijah was right, if only all the Sanctuary’s enemies were women then they could send Declan in, while everyone else went out for pizza.
“For those of you I haven’t met, I’m Declan. I know things have been tense lately-”
“You killed Aengus!” A platinum haired beauty wearing black leather shorts hissed. “Don’t be fooled by his looks, the man is evil.”
Darcy was surprised, a woman not falling for Declan’s charms? How rare. Darcy’s assessment powers noted and filed away the fact that the woman’s inner thighs were red and blistered, plastered with salve. Weird place for a burn.
“I didn’t kill Aengus.” Declan’s tone was mild but rang with truth. “Seriously, I’m more of a lover than a fighter, honest.” Several of the minions lowered their swords, blinking, looking uncertain.
“Oh, please, does anyone here believe the Abomination?” Rowan continued to lounge on her throne, well protected by her plethora of followers. “He denied Aengus at every turn. Denied him life. Denied him the opportunity to be with us, to love each and every one of you. Kill him and his thrall. Revenge, in the name of Aengus.” Rowan pressed her fingers to her lips and then her heart, bowing her head ever so minimally in reverence. The majority of followers echoed her actions and words.
“That’s a cult mentality. Love is not blind worship. Love is not demanding, following rules, or Gods. Love is trust. Compromise. Pain. Pleasure. Happiness. Sacrifice. And when it is right… peace. You don’t worship the act of love here, you worship sex. And sex is great.” Declan’s smile broadened, his dimples deepening. “Sex can be fantastic, but if there are no emotions involved then a diet of meaningless sex will starve a person looking for love. I look at each of you, and all I can think is that you are starving… withering away.”
Darcy tamped down on a frown. Declan was just playing to his audience, right? All that talk about trust, happiness and peace, that was for the minion masses. Darcy absently noted that the numbers they were facing had began to drop, as first one, then four, then twelve Priestesses slipped away via discreetly located side entrances. Wow, all that from just talking. When Darcy spoke, usually that was the trigger for the mayhem to begin.
Huh, who knew you could avoid a fight with fancy talk. Not that it was a skillset Darcy ever hoped to utilise, she was a big advocate of violence as an effective teaching tool, but still, interesting.
She wondered what the Sultan of Satin Sheets had up his metaphorical sleeve to deal with the remaining - two more left, hand in hand, so love could be found here at Aengus’s Temple – thirty-one Priestesses. Declan sent Darcy a quick, fleeting, confident smile before he moved forward, his bare chest glimmering with colourful lights from the sunlight streaming in through the arched stained glass windows. Damn, he moved gracefully for a man. Light and quick.
Very quick. Darcy watched, slightly impressed, as Declan made a run at the wall of black clad minions, ducking under a red-head’s thrusting sword, rabbit punching her in the throat and liberating her weapon for himself all within a blink of an eye.
Sometimes it was easy to forget, given his looks and cheerful disposition, that the man was a well-trained gung-ho Southern Sanctuary Enforcer, in everything but actual pay status. In under a minute he’d used the sword and his fist to decimate the first two lines of minions. Huh, he really did know what he was doing. She didn’t like the feeling that she had been caught judging him by nothing but the pretty packaging. Darcy loathed being predictable.
Deciding to have faith in Declan, after all, he’d been trained by Elijah and Hadleigh. Darcy slipped through the mass of bodies, ducking, kicking, and punching, until she made it to the stairs leading to the raised altar. Rowan was standing now, waiting, looking imposing in her white leather pants, matching waistcoat and knee high boots. Chin lifted, her golden hair flowing down her back, pure blue eyes shining, an aura of power radiating out from her.
“I knew I should have been tougher on them, but the lazy bitches would prefer to sit around painting their nails than pick up a sword. Now look at them, mowed down by a shirtless himbo, pathetic.”
Darcy stalked up the steps. “Well congratulations, they are truly your minions now. No pesky God will be turning up to rain on your power play for a couple of centuries.”
Rowan smiled, eyes flicking to the plate where the picked over turtledove carcass lay. “A little gamey, but the symbolism more than made up for the after taste. I’m afraid I can’t have either you or the Abomination leaving, spreading naughty little rumours about what happened here. But hey, at least you had last night, right? You’ve taken the shine off the boy, made him into a man, congrats.”
Darcy palmed her favourite knife, ignoring Rowan getting all speechified up in her face. Honestly, if she wanted to distract Darcy, the woman should at least try and make some sort of sense. “Here’s how this is going to go. Declan, not the Abomination… Declan, is going to finish up whupping the last eleven… ooh, ouch, make that ten minions, and you are going to step aside and let us leave this realm.”
“And if I don’t?” Rowan reached back and pulled a small kukri blade from a holster at the base of her spine.
Darcy smiled, it was her rare happy smile. “Now don’t tease, please tell me you know how to use that thing?”
“Step closer, Thrall, and you can find out for yourself.”
Darcy wasn’t particularly fond of her new nickname, but she did appreciate a kind invitation. And it went without saying that the ones that resulted in violence were her absolute favourite. Enough with the bitch talk.
Darcy sprang forward, nicking a long shallow cut down Rowan’s arm. “I hope for your sake will-o-wisps can get blood out of white leather.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched in fury as she shot forward, blade slashing.
Darcy weaved, twirled and spun past her. “My bad, now that Celtic tattoo spells out a really, really rude word. Sorry.” Darcy grinned, eyeing the second cut she’d inflicted across Rowan’s upper arm. Hmm, and if she cut there and there, the whole tattoo poem turned into a very bawdy limerick, cool, time to go to work.
Declan exhaled, ducking, slipping behind one Priestess, bringing the hilt of his sword crashing against her temple, as she crumpled to the ground he was kicking out the knee of a second opponent, and whirling to block the sword thrust of a third. Even as he worked his way through the melee of women he was very aware of Darcy on the raised platform battling Rowan. From the fleeting glimpse of a smile on her face he knew she was enjoying herself.
Rowan on the other hand looked grim and blood splattered. She wielded her blade and fought with determination and a high level of skill, but she was no match for Darcy, who was a natural, making every move look like it was part of some deadly, sexy dance.
Declan side stepped just in time to avoid a sword thrust to the kidney. The smarter, more highly trained Priestesses had waited to let their brethren face off with him first, taking the time to study his fighting style. So that even though he was down to the last five, they were by far the toughest fighters yet.
That was okay, he swapped out the brute strength approach he had used to get this far, and began to concentrate on his footwork and breathing. Channelling all those years of studying under Hadleigh, who considered a blade nothing more than an extension of her arm. He flowed forward, scooping up a second sword and began twirling them in a fancy complex manner. It was a little showy, but any opponent suffering a crisis of confidence would be intimidated, and that was part of the Enforcer package. Sometimes it wasn’t enough to just physically defeat an opponent, you needed to destroy their confidence so they would never contemplate seeking revenge. Vitally important since he had no plans on killing anyone here today, but didn’t want to live to regret that decision.
Two opponents attacked him at once. Stupid, all five should have come at him, but they were probably afraid to get in one another’s way. Metal clashed, he stepped to the right, ducked and spun around, he incapacitated one with a slice to the left Achilles tendon and stabbed the other in the right foot. Declan kept moving forward, it took less than seven heartbeats to defeat the remaining three.
Breathing hard he pushed back on the niggling aches and pains that suddenly made themselves known, along with several bruises and a couple of thin shallow cuts across his back. Lucky he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt, it would have been shredded… again.
Climbing the steps slowly, he chuffed a laugh. Rowan, like himself, like every Pagan Priestess left moaning and or sobbing on the ground behind him was splattered with blood. The one person with not one speck on them was Darcy. She claimed it was skill, not magic. But Declan had his doubts.
“Finished. You can quit playing with her now, we can go.”
