Dark Stranger Revealed (The Children Of The Gods Paranormal Romance Series Book 2)

by I. T. Lucas

  “He was such a beautiful boy.” Amanda’s lip trembled as tears trickled down her cheeks. “I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t. It happened over a century ago, but it still hurts like hell… as if it had been only yesterday.” Wiping her face with her hand, Amanda turned the treadmill on, and without bothering to warm up began running as if the hounds of hell were on her tail.

  Turning her own machine on, Syssi began with a brisk walk. She knew how it felt. She didn’t lose a child, which must’ve been even more devastating than losing her brother had been, but four years after the tragedy she still couldn’t think about his death without a choking sensation constricting her throat and her eyes burning with tears.

  After about fifteen minutes of running at a breakneck speed, Amanda finally slowed down, gradually coming to a stop. Fighting to bring air into her lungs, she bent at the waist, supporting her upper body with her hands on her thighs. “Hard to run when you’re choking,” she told Syssi.

  Syssi understood all too well. Slowing, she brought her machine to a halt and stepped down. With a ragged sigh, she touched her hand to Amanda’s shoulder, and choking on her own emotions, she whispered, “We carry our pain buried deep within our hearts, hidden away and securely locked, and when these raw emotions escape the prison we’ve built for them, it feels like acid is eating us from the inside. It burns… burns so bad.”

  There was nothing more she could say, no magic words that could ease Amanda’s pain. Instead, she pulled the taller woman into her arms and ran her hands soothingly up and down her back. Sharing her body’s warmth with her shivering friend was really all she had to offer.

  Mortal or near-immortal, it didn’t make a difference. The pain of loss was the same, and physical contact provided the only comfort to be had.

  For a few moments, they commiserated in silence, holding on to each other, with Amanda leaning into Syssi and resting her head on her shoulder. Then heaving a shaky sigh, she disentangled from the embrace and drew in a calming breath.

  Looking up into Amanda’s eyes, Syssi saw in their depths the dark shadows of the woman’s grief and her valiant effort to push against the pain. Tragically, Syssi often saw the same miserable expression staring back at her from the mirror.

  And even though the loss they had shared had brought them closer than ever, it was a pity that what had helped strike this new kind of communion between them had been the result of anguish and grief.

  Nevertheless, given the fact that she still had a hard time dealing with her own loss, Syssi was glad Amanda hadn’t wanted to talk about it. So maybe she was being selfish and wasn’t such a good friend after all, or maybe she was weak, or cowardly. But she just didn’t have the strength to take that on; couldn’t handle the added dose of grief.

  “I’m okay now, I can breathe again…” Amanda shot Syssi a sad, thankful smile. “Let’s run.” She climbed back on the treadmill and resumed her breakneck speed.

  Syssi maintained an easier pace on her own machine while going over the conversation in her head.

  She wasn’t thinking about what had made them both sad. Since her own tragedy had struck and changed her forever, keeping her mind off the depressing subject became a mental exercise she was getting better and better at as the years went by.

  Instead, her head was buzzing with all the questions she was dying to ask Amanda, mainly about her mother—The Goddess.

  What did she look like? What kind of a person was she? How powerful and in what way? What was their relationship like? And where was that heaven Amanda had described?

  Except, now was not the time for it. With Amanda pounding away on the treadmill, trying to outrun her demons, Syssi figured she’d better save her questions for later.

  CHAPTER 48: DALHU

  About thirteen miles away, in a rented Beverly Hills mansion, Dalhu woke up to the sound of light snoring. Turning to look at the call girl sleeping beside him, he braced on his elbow and traced his finger over her puffy red lips.

  Allowing a hooker to stay the night wasn’t like him, except, after what he had put her through, the girl had been in no shape to go anywhere.

  Not that she had voiced any complaints.

  She sure hadn’t expected to enjoy what he’d done to her so much. After he had sunk his fangs into her neck, the girl had orgasmed so hard her voice had become hoarse from her screams. And then he had her again… and she’d screamed some more.

  He smiled. She sure looked like a woman well satisfied; her pretty face flushed and her bleached-blonde hair tangled and sticking wetly to her rosy cheeks. What a shame he couldn’t allow her to remember any of it.

  Still, even though she was a pro, she had passed out way before he’d been ready to be done with her. Unfortunately, there was a limit to what a mortal female could take.

  Not for the first time, Dalhu wondered what sex with an immortal female would be like. For all he knew, she might be able not only to match his stamina but tire him out…

  Or even bite him back…

  Dalhu closed his eyes as the image sent a shiver of lust through his body. His palm found his growing erection and he began stroking it in leisurely up and down strokes, building on that image. She would go wild for the pleasure he would bring her, remember every wickedly sensual thing he would do to her, and beg for more.

  Nice fantasy… But it was not to be.

  The only immortal females he knew of were Annani’s descendants—his sworn enemies—and even though he had no problem overlooking that small detail, he didn’t know where to find one.

  Deflated, Dalhu lost his good mood along with his erection.

  Pushing off the bed, he trudged to the master suite’s luxurious bathroom, stepped into the waterfall shower and turned all of the jets on. With his arms braced on the marble wall, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The water sluicing down his hair, he once again allowed his mind to conjure the elusive phantasm of an immortal female of his own.

  As pointless as it was, it felt incredibly good to indulge in the fantasy, and as he tried to envision his perfect female, the face he saw belonged to the beautiful woman in the framed picture he kept by his bed.

  The professor…

  He would hold onto a woman like that forever. There would be no more whores for him to share with his brothers; he’d never soil himself like that again. It would be just her for him, and needless to state the obvious; only him for her.

  She’d bear him a son, maybe more than one. Or even a daughter…

  With her, he could have the kind of life he only caught a glimpse of in the mortal world. The only thing he ever envied humans in their wretched existence was having a family.

  Smiling, he imagined himself a proud patriarch; admired, respected, surrounded by his children and grandchildren. The head of his own clan. He would be a good leader, providing for and protecting his own.

  Honorable. Appreciated…

  Yeah, right.

  With a heavy sigh, he leaned his forehead on the wet shower wall, his hold on the illusion crumbling—the beautiful picture he had created dissolving into the mist.

  He was old.

  And his over eight hundred years of life felt pointless. The endless and senseless wars he had fought in. The meaningless sex with meaningless women he had shared with his fellow soldiers. Even the hating got old.

  Lately, he couldn’t summon the energy to loathe his enemy with the same passion he had used to.

  He didn’t really care about anything anymore.

  If Annani continued to corrupt the West with her immoral and loose ways, so be it, they could all go to hell as far as he was concerned.

  Let someone else take up the hating.

  He was tired.

  If he could only find an immortal mate, he wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if she belonged to the enemy’s clan. He’d grab the woman and run. Hide somewhere, where no one would ever find them—neither her people nor his.

  He needed to fulfill his own godforsaken dream—a famil
y of his own.

  With no money and no source of income, he’d have to start from scratch. But he’d manage, selling his collection of valuable jewelry to hold him over until he found another job. Killers for hire were always in high demand and the pay was good. Dalhu doubted there could be more than a handful of professionals who could match or surpass his level of skill. He was very good at what he did.

  Indeed…

  A fucking wonderful role model he would be for his hypothetical progeny.

  Chilled from the inside by the ugly reality of who and what he was, the cold spread from the center of his chest to his extremities, and he shivered despite the shower’s humid heat.

  Who was he kidding? Him a doting patriarch? A loving mate and father? This kind of fantasies befitted a naive, young boy with hopes for the future still fresh in his heart; not an ancient soldier hardened by life’s cruel reality.

  A killer for hire.

  Turning the water off, Dalhu stepped out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he reached for another to dry off his beard and the rivulets of water streaming from it down his chest.

  With the wadded towel in hand, he moved over to the vanity and wiped the vapor off the mirror, then took a good look at his face. He looked hard and old—more so with that dark beard and mustache covering most of his suntanned skin.

  It had to go.

  The few young men that he had seen on the streets with his kind of full-on beard were mostly the unattractive ones. The better-looking males had been either clean-shaven or sported a couple of days worth of growth.

  Rummaging through the vanity’s drawers, Dalhu found the scissors he was looking for and proceeded to snip away the bulk of the hair.

  Once he was done, he examined his face again.

  At first, he had planned to leave a short stubble. But now, as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he had the urge to just get it all off.

  When he was done, he felt as if a weight had been lifted off of him. For the first time in ages, he felt a cool breeze on his newly exposed skin, and even though it was only the recirculated air blowing through the air-conditioning vent, it felt damn good.

  Dalhu hadn’t seen his own face without a beard since he had been fifteen. He’d been so proud of the damn thing when it had finally gotten dense enough for him to feel like a man. But now, looking at himself clean-shaven, he decided he looked much better without it. Quite handsome, in fact, younger, if one didn’t look too closely at his deadened, dark eyes.

  Splashing water on his face, he removed the last of the shaving cream and bits of hair still clinging to his skin, then dried it off with the towel.

  When he got back to his bedroom, the hooker was still sleeping. He moved to stand near the bed and shook her shoulder. “Wake up. It’s time to go!”

  As her eyes flew open, he gripped her chin firmly, forcing her to look into his. She had a brief moment of fear and confusion before he entered her mind and thralled her to forget; him, the sex, the mansion. Instead, he gave her new memories; of a plain-looking middle-aged man, in a plain looking hotel room, and plain boring sex.

  Exchanging the extraordinary and unusual for the normal and mundane. He regretted erasing the memory of her incredible orgasms, though, and gave them back.

  Even a whore deserves to have some pleasure in her miserable life, he reasoned his uncharacteristic kindness.

  Rubbing his neck, Dalhu wondered if his mother and sister had ever been granted any, but suspected they had gotten none. No one cared for a whore’s pleasure or any of her feelings for that matter. They were treated as objects, not as human beings. As if they deserved being despised and mistreated for choosing to be what they were. Except, most of the wretched women didn’t have that choice.

  Come to think of it, the attitude toward women in general in his part of the world wasn’t much better. They were at the mercy of the men in their lives, be it fathers or husbands, and the ugly reality was that a lot of these men had no honor, treating the females in their care no better than their livestock.

  On second thought, some of the men treated their livestock better than they treated their women.

  Even here in the West, where women were free to make their own choices for the last eighty years or so, he suspected very few sold their bodies voluntarily.

  A wrong turn somewhere, an abusive boyfriend, drugs, poverty… Most probably thought it was only temporary—just until things got a little better. But things seldom did.

  They usually got worse.

  Blurry-eyed and stupefied, the woman got dressed clumsily and brushed her hair with her fingers. Dalhu gave her a few moments to clean up in the bathroom before leading her to the mansion’s grand vestibule.

  Still hazy, she stared myopically into space as she sat on the dainty chaise by the massive entry door, waiting for the taxi that would take her home.

  Dalhu left her there and headed for the mansion’s dining room, which served as their makeshift headquarters. His six remaining warriors were waiting for him there.

  As he entered the room, he glanced at the large street map of downtown Los Angeles and its adjoining neighborhoods that he had tucked last night unto the tapestry covering the room’s east wall. The thing was covered with colorful pins, marking the locations of the numerous nightclubs and popular bars he planned on scoping once the reinforcements he had asked for arrived.

  Tonight, he’d start with what remained of his original team. The same bunch that was now staring at him as if he had sprouted horns. At first, he didn’t understand their dumbfounded expressions, but as he ran his fingers over his smooth chin and realized what had caused their moronic reaction, his face pinched in anger.

  What a bunch of mediocre simpletons. But what could’ve he expected? Shaving off facial hair was forbidden for members of the Brotherhood, and it wasn’t as if these guys could think independently or observe their environment and adapt accordingly.

  They knew only what they had been told, and questioned nothing. Brainwashed since birth by Navuh’s propaganda, their deeply ingrained hate made them into well-sharpened weapons with which he delivered death and vengeance to those he considered his enemies.

  The way of true zealots, they were ready to die fighting for Navuh’s cause without really understanding what they were willing to sacrifice their lives for.

  Not that Dalhu could really blame the morons. It had taken him long enough before he had begun questioning what he had been told, and even longer for the supposedly holy cause to lose its luster in his eyes.

  But then, he was smarter than most, and with how easy it was to obtain information in this new, internet connected world, he was better informed.

  It all boiled down to the quest for power and wealth. Who had it, and who did not. Dalhu preferred to be on the side that had it—regardless of its moral underpinnings.

  It was all crap anyway.

  The whole world was corrupted, and those who believed differently were stupid and naive and deserved being led like cattle to the slaughter.

  Dalhu was as far from naive as it got.

  For real, though? All he needed from his men were their muscle, fear, and blind obedience. The thinking and strategizing he could manage himself.

  In the cutthroat world of the Brotherhood, having idiots for foot soldiers was a necessary evil; a smart ass, capable underling was liable to challenge your position, take you out, and seize leadership of your unit.

  Dalhu should know. Realizing early on that he didn’t want to spend his long life as a foot soldier, he had cunningly disposed of his first immediate commander. Though in his defense, he had believed he had no choice; as no one ever retired willingly or left to vacate a spot, it had been the only way to advance in the Brotherhood’s ranks.

  To become a leader, he had to oust his predecessor…

  The men were still shooting quick glances at his face when the elderly cook and her rolling cart, loaded with their breakfast, granted them a short reprieve.


  For a few blissful moments, they gave their undivided attention to wolfing down the huge stacks of eggs, toast, and hash browns onto their plates. Once they were done, and the cook cleared the table, Dalhu pushed up from his chair.

  “I have a plan,” he began. “The colored tacks on the map mark the locations of nightclubs. Each night, you will go out and scope for immortal males in the clubs you’ll be assigned to. For now, it will be one man per club. When reinforcements arrive, we’ll scope a larger area, and you’ll be working in teams of two. But even with the reinforcements, we’ll be stretched thin covering such a large city.”

  Given the guys’ clueless expressions, it was obvious they had no idea where he was going with this, and he continued. “In the past, we managed to snag a few of the clan’s males in whorehouses. Their biology being the same as ours, they need a constant supply of mortal females. Except they are not as lucky as we are, with a builtin brothel at our disposal; courtesy of our exalted and brilliant leader, Lord Navuh.”

  He paused for them to finish their chuckling and saluting. “They are forced to constantly prowl for females. As we all know, given the rampant corruption of the West, willing women come to the clubs and bars looking for males to fuck them. Therefore, it stands to reason that we’ll find what we are looking for in those places.”

  Dalhu waited, giving the men a moment to process what he had told them, then assuming his most severe expression, delivered the instruction that would trouble them most. “Your beards have to go; they are not popular here in the West, and you need to call as little attention to yourselves as possible. Consider it a sacrifice for our holy cause.”

  “But, sir, we are forbidden to shave,” one of the men protested. “Navuh doesn’t allow it! We’ll get ridiculed and most likely severely punished…”

  The panicked expressions of his comrades should have warned him that he had made a huge mistake; questioning your superior was not something a subordinate Doomer dared to do. Their lives belonged to their leader to do with as he pleased and to question his orders was to court dangerous retribution.