The Darkest Kiss lotu-3

by Gena Showalter

  The younger man shrugged, taking over the story. "The All-seeing Eye provides glimpses into the otherworld, illuminating the right path. The Cloak shields the wearer from prying eyes. The Rod may part the ocean, though that is widely disputed, and the Cage enslaves whoever is locked inside. Like we said earlier, all four are needed to find and win the box, or so the legend goes, but we don't know why."

  "And where are these artifacts now?" Paris rushed out. All of the warriors crowded around the men in anticipation of their reply.

  The old man sighed even as he inched backward, as if fearing the warriors would erupt with his next words. "Again, we don't know." He laughed, the sound bitter. "We've been looking for them a long time and never found any indication they truly existed."

  "That's why those bastards brought us here," the younger one added. "To help them hunt for clues."

  "Had they found anything?" Lucien asked.

  "No." The younger man shook his head. "And they were more frustrated by the day. They have men everywhere, all over the world, searching. Much as I might wish otherwise, I seriously doubt there's anything to find. If there were, we would have found it by now."

  He had known the Hunters were everywhere, but he hadn't been aware of the artifacts. It was his fault, really. For so long, he'd purposely cut himself off from the world, content to live quietly in his fortress, the heavens a distant if bitter memory. Never again.

  Cronus had to want the items back. Desperately. Perhaps Lucien could use that to his advantage. He made a mental note to visit Sabin and the warriors in Rome so he could alert them. "That is all you know?" he asked the men.

  Both nodded warily.

  "We are grateful for this information. Let's get you home now," he said, curling his fingers around each of their wrists.

  "Our house is in Athens," the younger man said in a trembling voice dripping with hope. "We live together, and we can find our own way."

  Tears of relief streamed down the old man's cheeks. "Thank you. Are you—one of them? The immortals? You disappeared earlier."

  "Give me the address," Lucien said, pretending he hadn't heard the question. "I will take you there."

  When the father told him, reverence blooming in his eyes, he flashed them.

  Surprisingly, Anya was waiting in their house. She paced back and forth in the sparse but comfortable-looking living room. Not a flicker of emotion played over her features when she spied him.

  "I'll wipe their memories," she said, her voice devoid of emotion, as well. "They'll recall nothing of the Hunters, nothing of the Lords."

  Despite himself, Lucien was overjoyed to see her and grateful that she still planned to help him. However, he flashed back to the island without uttering a word. One word would have led to another and that word would have led to a plea—kiss me, touch me, please—and then he would have challenged Cronus. I will not kill her. I'll kill you. Because, at that moment, Lucien did not care about the curses Cronus could heap upon him and his friends. He did not care that the god king could make them suffer for all eternity.

  Without Anya, he was going to suffer anyway.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "SHAVE MY HEAD," ANYA muttered darkly. How would Lucien react if she actually did it? If she next appeared to him bald? Probably call her "ugly" and "gullible" and resist her more fervently. "Jerk."

  And yet, foolishly, she missed him.

  When he'd slipped into the spirit realm to escort those souls to hell, she had flashed to the humans' home, knowing he would soon arrive. Seeing him again had affected her deeply. She'd almost thrown herself at him, glad that he was healthy and whole, face and neck already healing; she had only managed to suppress the urge by suppressing her emotions, as well.

  Afterward, she had returned to her beach in Hawaii, dejected, and had shimmied into her favorite white one-piece. Now she strolled along the water's edge flinging glistening sand in every direction, hair hanging down her back, damp and curling. The sun glowed hotly, stroking her skin. Waves lapped at the pink grains, washing some away, and all the emotions she'd momentarily overridden lapped at her just as determinedly.

  "All I wanted to do was help him."

  And what had she gotten in return for her generosity? He'd pretended to want her, even chained her to his bed—then vanished. That still hurt. She'd been desperate for him, and he hadn't been able to get away from her fast enough. "I am such a moron."

  Why couldn't she forget him?

  No man had ever affected her like this, and despite her curse, she'd dated plenty! All had been mortals, amusing for a little while as they showered her with the compliments she'd always craved from the gods, but most had been as forgettable as she wanted Lucien to be. The more memorable ones had become her friends, even though she had refused to sleep with them.

  One by one they had died. Casual though the friendships were, their loss had hurt her, their humanity a weakness she'd come to despise. She no longer hung with humans, hadn't for several years, and some nights she was so lonely she found herself snuggling with the teddy bear she'd stolen from the grand opening of a Toys "R" Us.

  With Lucien, she wasn't lonely. She was excited. Every moment with him was a surprise. And he wanted nothing to do with her.

  Grrr! From this point on, she would stay away from him. Would make him come to her. He'd have to eventually, if he hoped to obey Cronus. Patience, though, had never been her strongest virtue, and in spite of everything, as the day ticked by she realized she craved another sight of him.

  "I'm not a moron. I'm a fucking moron." Watching Lucien fight had to be the sexiest thing she'd ever seen. Ev-er. He'd been lethal strength and total Death, fast and fluid as he'd wielded those daggers. His mismatched eyes had glowed with the promise of eternal damnation, and she'd found that irresistible.

  Still did.

  She liked sparring with him. She enjoyed his company, was bored when parted from him.

  Seriously. None of that made sense. As grave as he was, he should have been dull. Yet he amused her, challenged her and made her feel alive. Odd, since he was possessed by Death.

  Did he feel anything for her? Anything at all besides disdain and irritation? If so, he hid it well. Except when he kissed her. Then he was another man completely. Passionate and tender, a little wild. He kissed with his entire body, showering her with desire and that rose-scented flavor.

  "Who am I trying to fool? I'm going back to him."

  Cronus had chosen her executioner well. She couldn't stay away from him, didn't want him to stay away from her, and might even let him try again to kill her, just for another kiss.

  "Might be fun," she murmured, flashing.

  IT WAS THE STRAWBERRY-SCENTED breeze that first alerted Lucien to Anya's presence when he materialized on the Greek island after escorting a group of souls to heaven. There'd been a bus accident in the States, a carefree troop on their way to a church social. They'd been hit by a drunk driver and every one of them had died.

  A waste. Thankfully he'd numbed himself enough that even the children failed to affect him anymore. He couldn't allow them to; as much death as he dealt, he'd be a mess if he did.

  You're a mess right now, thinking of Anya.

  The thought came from him, but his demon was quick to respond.

  Need another kiss.

  Lucien wasn't surprised this time. Whenever the woman approached him, Death purred like an excited kitten. A phenomenon he still did not understand. Why do you want her? He hated the thought of anyone, even the demon, craving her as he did.

  Tastes good.

  There was no refuting that.

  More and more, Lucien could feel Cronus's anger radiating down at him. It was a burn in his gut, a churning in his soul. The king would not wait much longer, would surely curse him soon if he failed to act. Or curse his friends.

  Yet just the thought of seeing Anya again lit an inexorable fire inside him, overshadowing the thought of both her death and his punishment. Since that fight with the Hunters
two days ago, he hadn't gone to her and she hadn't appeared to him. He'd missed her as she'd once claimed to miss him.

  Lucien searched the Temple of the All Gods for some physical sign of her. He saw moss-covered columns, mounds of crumbled stone and pools of crystal water. No Anya.

  So many times he'd pictured her here. In his mind, the pillars were gleaming white with lush emerald ivy and provided the perfect frame for her exotic beauty. In his mind, the puddles were bubbling pools and she liked to frolic. Naked.

  "Anya," he said.

  She didn't respond.

  He waited several minutes, then called her name again.

  Again, nothing.

  "I know you're here."

  Nothing. What game did she play now?

  Trying not to frown, he bent over a sand pile and sifted through the grains. If he couldn't coax her out of hiding, at least he could begin looking for evidence of the four artifacts' existence.

  Something soft brushed his shoulder blades and the scent of strawberries became stronger, filling his nostrils, tantalizing him; he didn't turn, didn't acknowledge the sensation. Not outwardly, at least. Inside, he shook.

  "Whatcha doing?" she asked. Finally she materialized.

  Stomach tightening with arousal, Lucien focused on her. Dear gods. Her clothes…He gulped. She leaned against one of the towering white columns. Crumbling rock and Parisian marble walls stretched around her, intricate patterns framing her perfect pixie face. Wisps of hair caressed her, and he experienced a momentary burst of jealousy.

  He wanted his fingers to caress her, and nothing else.

  She wore a transparent white gown—did she have an endless supply?—that draped one shoulder and bared the other's sun-kissed glory. A braided gold belt wrapped around her waist, hugging her curves. A slit rode the entire length of her thigh, revealing inch after inch of smooth, creamy skin, as well as a hint of snow-white panties.

  Suddenly Lucien had trouble breathing. With the sun hitting just behind her, he could see the outline of her strawberry nipples.

  Strawberry. A word he would forever associate with Anya.

  Make her leave. She's a distraction you cannot afford.

  Want her to stay! the demon growled.

  If only. "Not many more hours of light, so…" His voice was hoarse.

  Hurt glimmered in the blue depths of her eyes. "So get lost? Is that what you're saying?"

  "Yes." He turned away from her—for the best, you know it—and scooped another handful of dirt.

  Kiss her. Kisskisskiss.

  He clenched his jaw.

  A moment passed in silence. Then, "Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Not wise, giving me your back."

  "The other warriors are nearby." They were spread out over the island, close enough to hear but not close enough to kill an immediate threat. "I'll let them worry about my back," he lied. He just, well, he couldn't face her again. She stirred all kinds of emotions inside him. Emotions he was better off without.

  "Well, then. Aren't you going to rush me or something? I'm, like, at the top of your destruction list."

  "Later. Right now, I'm busy." He heard her shift, heard a rock fall. Wanted to look. Didn't. One more glance at her, and he might never look away. He might rush her as she'd asked, but he wouldn't hurt her. He would kiss her, just as Death craved. Again and again. Until their clothes were shed and he was pumping inside her.

  In that instant, his body was so hard he thought he might burst.

  "Lucien," Paris called from beyond the far temple wall, his voice tense.

  He straightened. Still he did not face Anya. "Yes."

  "I smell female. Your female."

  "Stay where you are." He didn't want the others to see her like this. "All of you. Keep looking for something to point us in the right direction."

  Paris grumbled something under his breath. Strider shouted, "You lucky son of a bitch." Amun and Gideon did not reply.

  "Guess they won't have your back, after all," Anya said, her tone strangely devoid of emotion.

  He didn't like it when she became so unreadable. He was afraid she was doing so to protect herself from pain. Pain he caused.

  "So you guys are looking for artifacts, hmm?"

  "Do not pretend ignorance. You sent us here." He crouched down once more and rolled a large silver stone aside, spotting pebbles and a dead clam underneath. He gritted his teeth, feeling impatient and like a fool. What kind of warrior played in the sand?

  "This temple had been buried under the sea for thousands of years," Anya said. "The salt water probably washed all evidence of the past away."

  "Perhaps something remains." He had to believe it was so.

  "I thought your precious Ashlyn told you the box was guarded by Hydra," Anya said, and this time she spoke with a sneer.

  Yes, Ashlyn had heard something about Hydra in her travels with the World Institute of Parapsychology. But why had Anya sneered? She had once aided Ashlyn, had seemed to like her. Doesn't matter.

  According to numerous sources, Hydra had multiple heads and poisonous breath. Hercules was said to have defeated her at Lake Lerna. But Ashlyn claimed there had been a few sightings over the years. Always in a different location—the Arctic, Egypt, Africa, Scotland and even the States. Humans called her Nessie, Big Foot and all other manner of names. Leave it to mortals not to know what was right under their noses.

  Part of Lucien wanted to abandon this temple and search in one of those locations. For if he could find Hydra, maybe he could find the box. Maybe he could destroy it at last and prevent Hunters—and even the gods—from trapping the demons and killing him and the other Lords.

  Curiosity, however, held him here. The Titans had resurrected this temple for a reason. Yes, they planned to bring humans back to the days of worship and sacrifice. But there was something here. Had to be. Why else would the Hunters have been looking so diligently?

  "I love treasure hunts," Anya said, reclaiming his attention. "They're so exciting."

  "You are not helping us."

  A pause. Then, suddenly, she was standing beside him, strands of her hair brushing his bare arm. He'd removed his shirt an hour ago, the sun too bright and too hot. Sweat trickled along the ropes of his stomach, causing that hair to plaster against his skin. He had to grind his molars at the headiness of being connected to her, even in so small a way.

  "Why can't I help?" Anya asked, and there was a catch in her raspy voice. A pout. Gods, he loved the sound of that pout. "I've proven myself invaluable so far."

  Foolish him, he finally dared a glance up at her. He saw her panties first and had to swallow a wave of need. He forced his gaze to continue its upward slide, not stopping until their eyes locked. So pretty. He pushed to his feet, damned legs shaking.

  Her gaze immediately dropped to his chest. To the black butterfly tattooed over his torso and shoulder. He gulped, had to look away again. Stark desire radiated from her. She even reached out to touch him, caught herself, and lowered her arm.

  Do it. Touch me. Too many days had passed since he'd felt the fire of her fingertips.

  She didn't, though. "It's lovely," she said, motioning to the butterfly.

  "Thank you." Disappointment slammed into him when she didn't reach out again, but he knew it was better this way.

  "I hate it," he admitted.

  "Really? Why?"

  "It is the mark of the demon. After Death was thrust inside my body, the tattoo simply appeared."

  "Well, FYI. It's a babe magnet. Maybe I'll get one. A dagger or maybe even angel wings. Oh, oh. I know. I'll get a matching butterfly. We'll be twinkies!"

  Anya, tattooed. A design for his tongue to trace. He gulped. Touch me. Please touch me. "To answer your earlier question, you cannot help us because you will distract us from our purpose," he said a little more forcefully than he'd intended. He was barely able to concentrate on anything but her scent and her beauty every time she neared him. "I'm sorry."

  Her gaze snapped to his. "You're not sorry, but wha
tever," she said tightly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Now I won't tell you where the box is."

  He was gripping her arms in the next instant. "You know where it is?"

  She grabbed his wrists and squeezed. Not to push him away, but to hold him in place. "Would you stop trying to kill me if I did?"

  "No."

  Scowling, she stomped her foot. The action caused her breasts to bounce gently against his arms. "I don't even know why I'm bothering with you."

  "You said that before."

  "Well, it's important enough to be mentioned twice."

  He sighed. "Why are you here, Anya?"

  Her expression became mulish. "None of your business, Flowers."

  "Trying to butter me up some more?"

  Her eyes closed off like blinds drawn over a window, but he could see the blue fire banked there through tiny slats of inextinguishable emotion. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

  Unable to stop himself—would it always be so?—he jerked her up and into him, body to body, placing them nose to nose. He had not felt this out of control since those early days with the demon. Anya's nipples poked at his chest deliciously. "So are you. You are driving me insane."

  "Boo fucking hoo. You're driving me insane."

  He shook her and she suddenly gasped, losing all hint of anger. She moaned. Moaned! "Mmm. Must be my lucky day. You have another erection."

  His nostrils flared, potent desire heating his blood. Well, more desire. Concentrate. "What do you know about the box, Anya?" She had mentioned it, yes? He couldn't recall. Could only remember the way she tasted, hot and wild.

  Her luscious little tongue flicked out and traced the seam of her lips. "Confession. I don't know where it is, but I do know you'll never find it."

  No emotion. No damn emotion. "Why not?"

  "Even the gods don't know where it is. If they did, it would have been found and put to use by now."