The Darkest Captive

by Gena Showalter

  Come on…take another peek… This time, try not to scratch my priceless exterior. Kidding, only kidding. I want you to scratch my exterior—mostly my posterior—I just don’t want you to rip out my engine with your bare claws.

  I promise I will never hurt you. I will only hurt other people…a lot of other people…like, countless other people, but NEVER you. So, what do you say? Will you go on the best date of your life with me?

  Yours,

  Galen the Eager

  PS: I know I’m giving you the hard sell here, but I’m certain you’ll thank me later.

  * * * *

  My dearest Honey,

  What can I do to prove myself to you? Or at least get a response? I’d be happy with a single word on the dusty window. Wait. Shit! You weren’t taught to read or write when you lived in hell, were you?

  Well. That sucks donkey balls. How am I supposed to let you know there’s no line I won’t cross for you, no deed too dark?

  At least you don’t have to hear today’s tone: humiliatingly earnest.

  Whatever. I’m still going to finish this letter just in case I’m wrong.

  The war raging between Hades and Lucifer is spreading through different realms in the underworld and even spilling into the mortal world. Every day the battles grow more violent. I know you consider Hades a friend, and think he’s protecting you and all—and he is, for the moment—but sooner or later, the violence WILL reach your door, and you’ll be on your own.

  I don’t want you on your own.

  If you leave with me, you’ll get 24/7 care, and a huge benefits package. I can’t oversell that benefits package. Your safety, well-being, and satisfaction in a job well done will be my top priorities, I swear it.

  I want to protect you. I NEED to protect you. Please, let me.

  If you’re afraid of me…please, don’t be afraid of me. I’m a changed man. Well, maybe not changed, per se. “Changed” suggests there was something wrong with the old, perfect me. But. I’m considering the possibility of maybe thinking about becoming a tweaked man. You know, being even more perfect.

  I’m not asking for a chance this time. I’m begging for one.

  Yours,

  Galen the Desperate

  PS: If you think I’m hot, charming, and a treasure worth fighting for, do NOT reply to this message.

  Chapter One

  Possessed by the two worst demons imaginable. Villain extraordinaire. Lover of cheap wines and expensive women. Angel impersonator. Immortal assassin. Absentee dad to a twenty-something Harpy who hated his guts for a thousand different reasons. Galen was all of those things, and more.

  Most people had a demon on one shoulder and a cherub on the other. He had two demons—False Hope and Jealousy. In other words, he had a corruptionscience rather than a conscience. The fiends fed on destruction, and they were always ravenous.

  Throughout the endless eons of his existence, he’d lied to friends and enemies alike, cheated without a second thought, stolen whatever he desired, and killed with wild abandon. Play by the rules, and lose to a rule breaker.

  He broke the rules better than anyone.

  He would do anything to protect what he valued. Maybe because there were so few things he actually valued? At the top of the short list was his friend and adopted daughter Fox, who was—ironically enough—the keeper of Distrust yet the only person he trusted. In second place, his many homes. In the final slot, Legion. If she’d given him any encouragement, she would have moved to #2. But nooooo. Persistently stubborn, she continued to deny their connection. Plus, she distracted the shit out of him.

  In a way, she reminded him of his demons. Which made sense. Once upon a time, Legion had been a daughter of hell—a literal demon—working 9 to 5 torturing souls. A true cutthroat business. To become human and retain her immortality, she’d made a deal with Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness.

  Galen suspected the deal had somehow included the loss of his sanity.

  From the beginning, his obsession with Legion had proved baffling. Always before, he’d gravitated to bad girls who pretended to be good. Maybe because he’d pretended to be a good guy for centuries—a literal angel—and he’d seen himself in his lovers.

  So, basically, he’d dated himself?

  Yeah, the logic checked out 100%. What wasn’t to love about a supervillain willing to do anything to accomplish a task or crush a goal?

  Legion was the exact opposite: a good girl pretending to be bad. But even still, this particular pretender had two superpowers no one else had ever possessed. 1) the ability to make Galen focus on the future, his shitshow of past and present inconsequential. 2) the ability to strip away layers of hard won sophistication, leaving a primitive caveman desperate for sex.

  How did she do it?

  Like you don’t know. If ever Galen had created a woman from scratch, he would have used Legion as the template. She had the dangerous curves of a femme fatale, topped off with a silky waterfall of dark blonde curls his hands itched to fist. Black spiky lashes framed eyes the color of whiskey—eyes just as intoxicating. Lush red lips tempted all who gazed upon them, silently promising to escort sinners to heaven.

  Her personality only added to her appeal. With a tantalizing vicious streak, an affinity for anything princess, surprising strengths, and agonizing vulnerabilities, she suited needs Galen had never known he’d had.

  He needed to get her into his bed. Gentleman extraordinaire, he would only keep her there a few months. Maybe a few years. A mere blip when you were immortal. After he’d touched and tasted every inch of her, taken her in every position imaginable, and brought her to climax, oh, about a thousand times, her effect on him would be neutralized, probably, and he could focus his energy on war. So simple. So easy.

  But first, he had to save her life.

  Earlier tonight, one of Galen’s enemies had sent an army to abduct Fox. An attempt to hobble him, since she was more than a friend; she was his right-hand woman. The list of potential suspects contained only two names.

  --Lucifer, prick to the max

  --Cronus, former Titan king who’d died…kind of

  The attempt hadn’t ended as the bastard had hoped. Whichever bastard happened to be responsible. Fox had gotten away with only minor wear and tear. Galen remained irked. Because, as an encore, his enemy decided to abduct Legion, a fragile flower who withered at the first hint of violence. Not counting the time she’d tried to murder Galen, of course.

  A god or king going to all this effort, simply to strike at big, bad Galen? Or maybe the culprit wanted to force his hand. A do this or the girl dies kind of thing.

  Hey, asshole. Galen from Ancient Greece called. He wants his plan back.

  Galen would find and behead the POS. After he slaughtered the horde of immortal soldiers marching toward Legion’s cabin. Priorities.

  Your efforts are in vain. You can’t save her. The soldiers will find her first. She’ll die cursing your name…

  He ground his teeth. Hate False Hope! The fiend perverted true hope, inciting fear—a twisted hope for the worst to happen. I will do anything, cross any line, to reach Legion before the soldiers.

  Determined, he rushed around gnarled trees, pushed past tangled limbs, and jumped over massive buttress roots. Sweat trickled from his temples, beaded on the back of his neck, and ran in rivulets down the muscles in his torso. The scent of pine and jasmine clung to his skin while leaves and insects burrowed in his wings.

  Wings, man. The snow white, feathery monstrosities were both a blessing and a curse. His appearance said, Come closer, touch… The moment someone complied—boom! Galen would strike. Very few people knew he’d only grown the wings after his demon-possession. A gift from False Hope.

  Re-gift, anyone?

  Though Galen had exceptional night vision honed from centuries of training, he could not see through the thick, pervasive darkness that currently cloaked the realm. If not for the crimson laser shooting from the eyes of his robo guide pigeon, he would
have been blinded. Soon, the sun would rise and the soldiers would have the advantage.

  Faster! He’d been sprinting for hours. Now, extreme exhaustion plagued him. His lungs burned as if he inhaled acid rather than oxygen, and his limbs trembled so fervently, his bones felt like tuning forks. Blisters had formed and burst on his feet, filling his combat boots with blood. His heart hammered against his ribs at warp-speed, setting the pace for his legs. Almost there.

  The closer he got to Legion, the better he scented her. Wildflowers and temptation.

  He could reach her quicker if he could fly, but air-piranha greeted anyone who dared soar above the treetops. Beasts able to eat a man’s flesh and muscle in seconds, leaving only bones and death. Galen knew because he’d once tossed a man up there. My bad.

  Flashing—moving from one place to another with only a thought—wasn’t an option, either. The moment you materialized in another location, the air-piranha materialized around you.

  Galen had visited this forested labyrinth countless times, attempting every conceivable means of reaching Legion. In the end, he’d only managed to memorize a route to the cabin while on foot, no matter where he happened to be.

  He had yet to bypass the biggest obstacle. The mystical wards that surrounded the cabin.

  Anyone who stepped on the cabin’s porch prayed for death. Galen knew this firsthand.

  Which was why he’d resorted to sending handwritten messages via robo-birds instead of, say, sending a strip-o-gram starring his majestic majesticness.

  Maybe the army-o-enemies would have better luck with the wards, the sheer number of bodies overwhelming the magic, maybe not. Any chance over .000% was too great. For Legion’s sake, Galen had to be the first, the only, to succeed.

  A steady thump-thump of footsteps sounded, breaking into his thoughts. Well, well. He’d caught up with the army at last. Time for stage two of Operation Kill Everyone.

  Galen palmed two short-swords and quickened his pace.

  “What is that?” The speaker had picked up Galen’s panting breaths and heavy footfalls.

  “Hold,” someone else called. The thumping ceased. “Prepare for attack.”

  Clothing rustled, bodies shifting. Metal whistled, weapons being readied.

  Too infuriated for finesse, Galen burst past a line of trees. With the robo-pigeon’s help, he catalogued his opponents. Forty-three men wearing bloodstained armor. Forty of the SOBs held swords, three clutched torches. The soldiers had broken into groups of four and stood shoulder to shoulder, each member facing a different direction.

  Let’s do this.

  Almost frothing at the mouth, Galen dive-bombed one group, knocking the four males into a second group. As they tangled together, he flared his wings. The enormous appendages would have made him a bigger target, if he hadn’t spun. The razors he’d woven into the tips of the feathers sliced one throat after another. A battle hack he’d learned from a warrior named Puck the Undefeated.

  For the next few minutes, Galen played a game he liked to call War Santa. A severed spine for you. Disembowelment for you. A boot to the testicles for you. He kicked again, ensuring said testicles got a one-way ticket into the guy’s chest cavity.

  The gift recipients grunted, groaned, and bellowed. With a little follow-up slice and dice, they also died. A rusted copper tang saturated the too-hot breeze, colliding with other eau de battle scents: emptied bowels, urine, and acrid sweat.

  When the last soldier fell, Galen went after the torch-holders. The torches fell, too, a golden blaze quickly spreading over grass, trees, and bodies like, well, wildfire. Agonized screams echoed through the night, survivors doing their best to douse the flames.

  As Galen oversaw his next kill, pain erupted in his shoulder. He glanced down. An arrow had embedded in the space between his collarbone and heart. Poisoned? Dizziness rushed through his head and stars winked through his vision.

  He almost missed the sword aimed at his throat. Block. Turn. Swing.

  Can’t fail. Keep fighting.

  Injured soldiers climbed to their feet to attack. Round two. Galen ducked and spun, simultaneously hitting the end of the arrow with his own sword hilt to send the shaft out the other side. Then he came up swinging. Clang. Whoosh. Clink.

  Despite the pain and dizziness, his ferocity and cruelty never wavered.

  Jealousy said, These men covet what’s mine. They must die.

  For once, Galen and the demon agreed.

  Chapter Two

  “Time to make a decision, once and for all.” Legion paced from one side of the living room to the other, the walls of the cabin seeming to shrink around her. Deep breath in, out. “Having the right name is important.” Especially when you’d once been an object passed around for the use of others. “But having two names is confusing. Am I Legion or Honey? I think of myself as Legion, but legion means a multitude, as if I’m just one in a crowd of thousands. But honey is a healthy substitute for sugar, and I’m a substitute for no one. I much prefer high fructose corn syrup, the Cadillac of sweeteners.” Gah! “At this point, maybe Hey You would work.”

  Her roommate Tipsy—aka Sips—chittered in response. He was a pain in the butt runt of a raccoon that Hades rescued from a bar parking lot.

  The evolution of the little cutie’s nickname never failed to amuse. Tipsy… Tippy Poo…Tippy…Tip Tip… Tip Tip Hooray… Tippy Tippy Boom Boom…Tippy Sippy…Lord Sippy…Sips. Except today. Nothing amused her today.

  “Maybe I should wave the white towel of surrender.” She frowned. The phrasing struck her as odd. But then, mortal references had always confused her. “Maybe I should go with a certain male’s suggestion, and forever refer to myself as Sugar Tits McGyna. Although I can imagine the response I’ll get from others. Hey MyVagina. Come over here and pour your Sugar on me.” No, thanks.

  Why did a name even matter anymore, anyway? She never interacted with anyone other than Sips.

  But she wanted to interact with someone else…

  He Who Should Not Be Named.

  Legion would have exited the cabin and hunted him down, maybe, but probably not, if foreboding hadn’t prickled the back of her neck, telling her to stay in, go nowhere, and speak to no one. Outside these walls, pain and only pain awaited her. No doubt about it.

  Did she really want to kick off a new season of night terrors? She’d finally started sleeping again.

  All right. It was settled, then. She would stay in and torment herself about a moniker, and refuse—absolutely refuse!—to ponder the beautiful man who had inspired the debate about it.

  Beautiful?

  Ha! Try sadistic. Sinister. Maddening. There was nothing beautiful about those things. Although, yes, okay, she’d once loved those qualities in a person. Fine! A part of her still did. But only when the person used those qualities against her enemies.

  Anyway. A new name wouldn’t change who or what she was. Quinientos Dieciséis of the Croisé Sombres of Neid and Notpe-hocil. The title given to her at birth.

  The mix of languages, words, and numbers literally translated to “Legion Five Hundred and Sixteen of the Dark Crusaders of Envy and Need.” One of a myriad demons assigned to punish humans who’d committed crimes motivated by jealousy.

  She gasped as the hem of her ball gown snagged on a splintered piece of wood and tore. Stupid gown! Why did she have to love and adore impractical prom-wear so much? Why did she even want to feel pretty? She had no one to impress. She’d loved, and she’d lost.

  Don’t think about that, either. Unless you want to start sobbing?

  Desperate for a distraction, she focused on the cabin. Home sweet home. She’d been here for…a while. She’d lost track of time. Though small, the place was a total dream. Weathered white wood. Crystal chandeliers. Stained glass. Every piece of furniture had a rustic yet chic flare.

  She had only to tell the refrigerator what she desired and voilá, the food magically appeared. Same with the wardrobe in her bedroom. Legion wanted for nothing…except for
peace of mind. And self-esteem. And, you know, a life worth living.

  Okay, so the distraction hadn’t worked. Wagging a finger at Sips, she said, “Stop planning ways to torture me, and start helping me.”

  The raccoon perched on a floral-print couch, watching her. Every day he played some kind of prank. Pebbles in her shoes. Snakes or scorpions in her bed. Urinating on her clothes. But dang if he wasn’t the most adorable creature ever.

  “Forget my name. I have another decision to make. To date or not to date…” Do it. Say it. “Galen.” There. He Who Should Not Be Named had been named.

  Had she inadvertently summoned him the way humans had once summoned her?

  Heart thudding, she spun and searched the cabin for any sign of him. Nope. No sign. She breathed a sigh of relief. Yep. Relief. Not disappointment.

  “In the plus column, he’s an immortal warrior. Outrageously strong. He can kill anyone who threatens me. In the minus column, he’s known as the Betrayer. How can I ever trust him?”

  Chitter-chitter. Sips-speak for All pluses. Why does such a fine specimen want YOU?

  “Excellent question.” Pacing, pacing. At their first meeting, she’d tried to kill Galen. Why would he give her a second chance to strike? Unless he planned to strike at her?

  No, no. He’d had plenty of opportunities to do so. Instead, he’d only ever protected her. He’d even faced the wrath of her first love, Aeron, just to spend time with her. Galen genuinely wanted her. And, well, she’d grown flattered by his attention.

  “Okay, I’m going to give you the full scoop, nothing held back.” Maybe she would stumble upon answers to her dilemmas. Trying to ignore the issues hadn’t helped. Here goes. “Forever ago, I fell in love with Aeron Lord, an immortal warrior once possessed by the demon of Wrath. I was fully demon back then, and I knew I couldn’t win him. So I made a bargain with Lucifer to acquire a human body and keep my immortality and retain my demonic defenses. Like my poisonous bite and claws. The best of both worlds. In exchange, I had a limited time to seduce Aeron into my bed. Failure meant returning to hell… as Lucifer’s slave. I might have won, if Aeron hadn’t been busy falling for Olivia, the Sent One supposed to kill him.”