The Darkest Promise--A Dark, Demonic Paranormal Romance

by Gena Showalter

  He hit the ground with a heavy thud. Stars flashed through his vision.

  Rather than launch her next attack, as any sane person would, she peered down at him. Gaze locked with his, she raised her fingers to her mouth. Out came her tongue, lapping up his blood.

  “Delicious,” she said.

  Fury blazed through him. Perhaps humiliation. “You’re a fool. You should have taken me out while you had the chance. You won’t get another.”

  “Ready for more so soon? I know I am.”

  Lazarus jumped up. This time, when she swiped at him, he dropped to his stomach, palming two daggers on the way down. She missed, and he stabbed both of her feet.

  Her roar echoed off the walls, shaking the entire room. Claws ripped across his back. Ignoring the newest onslaught of pain, he rolled to the side. When she took another swipe at him, he caught her wrists, kicked up his legs and crossed his ankles at her nape.

  He rolled to his back this time, flipping her over his head. The daggers fell from her feet. He ended up on top of her, his knees pinning her shoulders. Anger contorted her features into a whole lot of ugly.

  Not so smug now, are we?

  Grinning, he punched the underside of her jaw. His knuckles cracked, but so did her jaw. She bucked, but the action failed to dislodge him. Then her wings swept up and knocked him across the room. Fueled by adrenaline, impact barely registered. He leaped up and spit out a feather. She climbed to all fours.

  They circled each other, every step she took leaving a bloody paw print.

  “There’s something different about you.” Her gaze slid over him. “But what?”

  If she noticed the crystals, his weakness, he would—

  Not care. Hilda died today.

  He blew her a kiss. “I’m no longer a child, but a man. Not quite the man you are, of course, but everyone has a cross to bear.”

  The sneer in his tone did exactly as he’d hoped. Provoked beyond reason, she dived at him, fangs bared, claws ready. He swiped up the fallen daggers and ducked. As Hilda soared overhead, missing him by only a few inches, he used one hand to punch up and cut through her breastplate—through her body, from sternum to pubis. The other hand sliced through her wing.

  Blood and organs rained over him. A pained shriek blended with his satisfied grunt as she flopped to the carpeted floor. Acting quickly, knowing she would regenerate everything she’d lost, he threw himself atop her and framed her face with his hands. Skin on skin.

  Her eyes widened when she realized his ultimate purpose. She erupted, fighting him with all her might. As slippery as he was, soaked with her blood, he lost his grip. She kicked him off. Damn it! He returned, knocking her down as she tried to sit up. She punched his face, kneed his balls. Air gushed from his lungs. Her elbow collided with his cheek, and he staggered to the side.

  When she attempted to stand, he kicked her in the jaw. No mercy. Down she tumbled. He jumped on top of her yet again and dug his claws into her temples, holding on tight.

  “This is happening,” he snarled, embarrassed to be panting. “Take it like a man.”

  “If I took it like a man,” she snarled right back, “I’d be crying.” She batted his hands away, ripping out his claws, leaving her cheek as raw as hamburger meat.

  Even as she grunted with pain, she rolled to her side and punted his chest. But her strength had waned. The action only knocked him halfway across the room.

  By the time she made it to her feet, he’d pushed his way back. Remaining prone, he kicked her ankles together. She flailed as she fell. The second she landed, he rolled on top of her. She fought for dominance. Punching. Biting. Clawing.

  Blood dripped into his eyes. His own? Or hers? She bit into his shoulder and tore out a hank of flesh and bone. Pain seared him. He roared to the rafters, pinpricks of light winking behind his eyes.

  Overcome by his rage, Lazarus lifted his head, sank his teeth into her vulnerable neck—and tore out her trachea. She gasped, the gaping wound sucking raggedly at whatever air it could steal. He rolled a final time, ending up on top, shoving his knees into her torso and cupping her cheeks.

  With the flip of a mental switch, heat flowed out of him and into her, such intense heat. Sweat suddenly drenched her. Her flesh began to turn to stone...

  At first, she flailed. As her skin and fur hardened, beiges and browns darkening to gray, her motions slowed...

  Bastard, she mouthed as the last of her petrified.

  To his knowledge, the process could not be undone. Which meant he’d won.

  Relieved, he collapsed beside her. The process always drained him, the reason he only ever used the ability when he lacked an audience.

  “Told you,” he rasped.

  He studied his newest statue. Her agonized features were forever frozen, her eyes gazing upward, pleading for mercy, her mouth open, revealing fangs. Her arms were extended, her hands balled into fists. Both sets of legs were extended as well, now pushing at oxygen. Her broken wing lay at an odd angle, while the other wrapped inward in an attempt to protect her. Her chest cavity was split open, not yet having healed.

  She would have a place of honor in his garden.

  One last thing to do...

  He lumbered to a stand and stalked across the room, stopping directly in front of the display case. The power he’d encountered earlier brushed over him, his blood beginning to fizz all over again.

  He pulled off the remains of his T-shirt, wrapped the material around his fist and punched through the panel that protected the box.

  The glass shattered and slashed through the cotton. Sharp stings zinged over his fingers, and crimson beaded from a thousand tiny wounds.

  Steeling himself, he reached for the box...only to still. The pulse of power wasn’t coming from it. He frowned and focused on the skull, the true source. Why had its teeth been filed into razor points...if not to guard something of importance?

  Acting on instinct, he reached inside its open mouth. Those teeth clamped down on his wrist, and he hissed, but he didn’t yank out his hand. His fingers bumped against a small object anchored inside, and the power arced through him, pure and undiluted. The scratches in his stomach and back healed. The cuts on his knuckles closed up.

  This was the same power he’d experienced the few times he’d encountered Kadence, the goddess of Oppression. Upon her death, her bones were used to make the box.

  Satisfaction bubbled inside him. He latched onto the item, whatever it was, and yanked. The skull’s teeth remained embedded in his skin. Poison leaked from the incisors, but it was no deterrent to him. One by one, he tossed the bits of enamel to the floor. Then he examined the small trinket he’d liberated.

  Definitely made from bones, just like the box. Fingers and knuckles. And yes, they belonged to Kadence. The bones had been shattered, the pieces welded together and stained red to resemble an apple.

  An apple. The original temptation. But...

  This was the infamous Pandora’s box?

  Problem: the other Lords remembered a literal box, like the one he’d first reached for.

  Possibility: whoever made the box could have remade the box after it was opened. A good strategy. How better to hide it? But who had made the first box? And why?

  The Lords believed a living being was still trapped inside. The Morning Star. Not a demon, but a creature able to destroy Lucifer and his evil with a single touch. Able to free the Lords of their demons, too, while ensuring the warriors lived on.

  Lazarus had done his research. Some said the Morning Star was a Sent One, the best demon slayer ever to live. Others claimed the Morning Star was a literal descendant of celestial beings known as Starlights, so bright the sun would weep with envy. Still others suggested the being was a jinni, a granter of wishes.

  The next problem, or maybe the biggest parad
ox: Lazarus would love to use the Morning Star, but to do so, he would have to open the box. Cameo could die before he had the chance to use the Star, saving her.

  Could she be saved?

  Speaking of his μονομανία, how was he to get word to her? He had what she craved.

  She expected him to show up at her door, all Remember you said you’d reward me if I escaped the spirit realm?

  He knew what he would request. Her mouth on his shaft.

  Lazarus hung the pendant from a chain around his neck and tugged the ruined remains of his shirt overhead, hiding the artifact under the material. Using the ring, he created a portal to the Realm of Grimm and Fantica. He dragged Hilda through and ended up in front of the other portal. The one leading to the mortal world. To Cameo.

  He glared daggers at the shimmery air. You took my woman from me.

  A strange tugging sensation drew him closer. His mind whirled as he dug in his heels. Pandora’s box, attempting to reach the demons?

  No, couldn’t be. The sensation originated in his veins. In the crystal. He didn’t understand, but he expected the worst and backed away.

  His men were just as he’d left them. His sky serpents, too. Trees had been felled, but so had griffins. Their bodies lay in pieces throughout the forest.

  “Good boys and girls,” he praised. To his soldiers, he called, “Rope.”

  One of the men rushed forward to offer the desired item. Lazarus anchored one end to Hilda and the other to his stallion’s saddle, ensuring the braided length wouldn’t tangle in the steed’s wings. He mounted.

  “You, you and you.” He pointed to his strongest men. “Camp here. When the dark-haired woman returns, protect her with your lives and escort her to the palace. The rest of you...let’s go home.”

  * * *

  Lazarus positioned Hilda in the Garden of Perpetual Horror. Only the best for his newest addition. Her broken body lay underneath a squatting troll who’d raided a nearby village and slaughtered the males in order to steal the females.

  Satisfied with his selection, Lazarus marched into the palace. No servants rushed to greet him. In fact, the halls were eerily quiet. He withdrew two daggers even as he opened his mind to gauge the situation.

  Mental chatter from the soldiers who’d returned with him. They wondered about Cameo, what she meant to their king. The only other occupants were...dreaming? Nothing else explained the image of a dancing elephant with a tutu, a talking car and a horny robot.

  He turned the corner, entering the dining hall, and found the bodies of soldiers and servants slumped over furniture and splayed on the floor.

  Finally—an answer from the Amazons he’d imprisoned. The bags of poison had been decoys. They’d already turned their blood to poison—for others.

  He’d been tricked, distracted by one ploy while another brewed. What he’d done, they’d wanted him to do.

  And now, he sensed another presence. Someone he’d warned away.

  “Rathbone,” he shouted. He stormed through the Great Room and past the exquisitely painted arched doors that led into his throne room.

  The dark-haired male reclined on the throne, one leg crossed over the other in a lazy, relaxed pose. There was only one outward sign of his impatience—he drummed his fingers against the chair’s arms.

  “Look at you,” Rathbone said. “Alive and well. And practically shirtless. Determined to set maiden hearts aflutter, are we?”

  “What are you doing here?” Lazarus demanded.

  “Protecting your people in your absence. You’re welcome.” The king of the underworld waved to the far wall. “Behold.”

  He turned to see the Amazons suspended in the air.

  “They escaped and attempted a coup.” Rathbone grinned without humor. “Their queen has plans for you. An enslavement masked as a wedding.”

  His grip on the daggers tightened. She thinks to enslave me? She dies!

  “They’ll receive prime spots in my Garden of Perpetual Horror by the end of the day.” He would not thank Rathbone. The words would be an admission he’d needed help. He hadn’t. He could have reclaimed the palace on his own, no problem.

  Amazonian fear left an acrid scent in the air. The females collectively fought Rathbone’s hold...and failed.

  “Excellent. I’ll be going, then.” Rathbone stood. “But I’m afraid I must hear your decision. The war no longer brews. The first battle between father and son has been waged. A sneak attack. One of Hades’s homes was destroyed, everyone inside it captured or killed.”

  A loss always stung, but a loss at the start of a war devastated. Motivation among the troops plummeted.

  Begin the way you hope to end. Words his mother had once spoken to him. She’d referred to his romantic relationships, offering her only child a bit of advice to help him in the years to come.

  Never align with the losing side. Their losses become yours. Words his father had spoken.

  Then and there, Lucifer should have earned Lazarus’s support. But...

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll fight for Hades.” For Cameo. Only parted from her a few hours, and I yearn for her as I would a missing limb. “My time frame hasn’t changed, however. I’ll use my month to get my own house in order.” To get his woman back. Until he had his night with her, he would be useless.

  “You are needed now.”

  “So? The war might have started, but it won’t be ending anytime soon. Put your best player in at the end to ensure victory.”

  The male pursed his lips, but nodded. “I should probably warn you. Hera escaped Tartarus. The Greek queen is now free.”

  Every muscle in his body tensed. Outside Tartarus, Hera was fair game. Vengeance...finally within reach...

  Reveal nothing. “Former queen,” he said with a shockingly even tone.

  “Will you hunt her?” Rathbone asked.

  “You know I cannot leave the spirit realms.” The words were grated. The bastard taunts me!

  Rathbone’s head canted to the side. “You are Lazarus, only son of the Monster, yes?”

  “Yes,” Lazarus snapped.

  “Then I know no such thing.” Smiling, Rathbone vanished.

  * * *

  People suffered tragedies every day. They cried, sobbed and one day, they woke up and their hurt had mysteriously diminished. Cameo had suffered for centuries, her pain constant. But now, without Lazarus, she suffered worse.

  She’d been home only two days, and already she missed him as she would miss a limb. And she should know! During her incarceration, the Hunters hacked off her hands and feet to stop her from fighting back.

  Half of the day she longed to forget Lazarus—and hated herself for it. She’d lamented the horror of losing her memory for so long, she’d lost sight of the peace she could gain without it.

  The only reason Misery had allowed her to keep her precious...hated...beloved...really hated memories—was to ensure she never, ever felt any peace at all.

  Did it matter, though? The other half of the day Cameo longed to return to the warrior, anyway.

  For a night. Only a night.

  One night with him had to be better than a thousand nights without him, right?

  Every time she considered going back, the demon threatened to take her memory, despite the vision she’d had.

  Can’t lose my memory of Lazarus. The way he’d smiled at her had warmed her...the way he’d teased her had soothed her...both were precious to her. And their goodbye kiss...it had set her ablaze, changing the very fabric of her being.

  I’m Lazarus’s woman.

  She needed a distraction and, remembering Lazarus’s treatment at Juliette the Eradicator’s hands, she knew just what to do.

  She texted her friend Gwen, the Harpy consort of Sabin, keeper of Doubt. When the
reply came in, a tendril of anticipation swept through her. She packed a bag and strapped on her favorite weapons.

  As she strode into the hall, cheers and laughter drifted from the dining room downstairs.

  Once Urban and Ever had been reunited with their frantic parents—and worries and tempers had calmed—everyone who wasn’t in the underworld helping Hades had celebrated. There’d been feasts, bad karaoke and far too much drinking. Ambrosia wine for adults, juice boxes for kids.

  Like every celebration in the past, Cameo had watched from a distance, not wanting to ruin everyone’s happy buzz.

  Now she headed for Viola’s room. Every great warrior should have a sidekick, someone to guard her back, and the goddess would be hers.

  “Pandora’s box is in play. I repeat. Pandora’s box is in play.” Torin’s voice boomed from strategically placed speakers in the ceiling. “This is not a drill. Danika painted a new scene, and Keeley was finally able to use the artifacts to get inside the office, where the box was being kept. Key word. Was.”

  The cheers from downstairs ceased abruptly. Cameo froze, her mind spinning.

  Danika was the All-seeing Eye, able to peer into the heavens and hell, as well as the past and the future. She painted the things she saw.

  Keeley treated Danika’s paintings liked maps and used them in conjunction with three other artifacts. The Cage of Compulsion, the Cloak of Invisibility, and of course, the Paring Rod.

  Questions shouted from different areas of the house. “Do we have the box?”

  “Where is the box now?”

  “Is the Morning Star still inside?”

  “The box is not in our possession, no,” Torin said, and his words were met with groans. “It’s been moved or taken. The women are searching, and they will find it. Do not come knocking on my door to repeat your questions. My answers won’t change. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  As murmurs rose from the kitchen, Cameo’s heart thundered. Who had the box? Would it be opened? Were she and her loved ones destined to die?

  A sense of urgency assailed her, her biggest regret suddenly clear. If her days were numbered, she wanted her night with Lazarus, wanted the pleasure he’d promised her.