by Addison Fox
He was stronger.
Loud thumps resounded on the floorboards above, indicative of a battle in full force. “Who can possibly be here?” she whispered to him, not exactly sure why she’d lowered her voice, as the risk of being heard over the loud shouts was nonexistent.
“Why don’t you tell me? You were here first. More people you need to steal bodily fluids from? Oh, wait. Was that part of your little charade back there in the safe house? Grab a few swimmers while you were at it, too?”
The tone of Kane’s words—layers of distrust and anger, stretched over a healthy core of suspicion—penetrated through the loud racket from above. Whirling on him, her hands went to her hips of their own accord. “Don’t be crass. I was trying to come clean—trying to make up for what I did to you. You have every right to be mad, but don’t you dare suggest I put your friends up there”—she pointed to the ceiling—“in danger.”
“You’ve set me up from the first. I’ve just been too dumb to see it.” Kane muttered into his hands as he scrubbed them over his face in tired movements, “Just like before. Will I ever learn?”
“Whatever you think I did or didn’t do today, you can get rid of the thought. I wasn’t here. Remember?”
“Yeah. You had your mouth latched on to my cock. Mighty diverting of you, sweetheart. Well done.”
“Son of a fucking bitch.” Anger—soul-deep, raw and entirely self-righteous—swelled in her breast. By the gods, she was done being judged without benefit of a fair hearing. She’d told the truth! As scary as it was, she’d told the truth.
And still she was being treated as she’d always been. Sentenced to punishment without even the benefit of her own voice ringing in her defense, explaining her cause.
With swift movements, Ilsa launched herself toward the basement steps, following the path Kane and his brothers had trod less than an hour before.
And landed in the middle of a fight like something out of a Highland battle from the Middle Ages.
Men fought wildly, their large bodies clashing, retreating and clashing again in combat. A strange, static electricity filled the room, crackling around her and standing the hair on her arms on end.
What was this?
She recognized Kane’s Warrior brothers immediately. Quinn and Drake both fought off two men each, while Grey tussled with a burly man in a neon green T-shirt and bright orange workout pants. The garish counterbalance of Grey’s elegance with the neon color highlighted the battle playing out between them.
Both grunted and groaned, using all their limbs to try and subdue the other. Legs flailed, arms thrust in repeated motion and both men seemed intent on strangling each other.
With morbid fascination, Ilsa watched as Grey gained the upper hand—literally—and clamped his long, tapered fingers on Neon’s neck. Movements deft, and undeniably lethal, the man’s head snapped under Grey’s expert grip.
As usual, when this close to death, Ilsa waited for the soul to separate from the body. Even though he wasn’t hers to deliver to Hades—or anywhere else—she was in tune with the process. And with this guy, she felt . . . nothing.
Where was that fleeting brush? The ethereal essence of another?
And then the reason became evident as Neon disintegrated into a puddle before her eyes, the skin that stretched over his body shriveling and shrinking, like there was nothing to hold him up.
Where was his skeleton? His muscles? His organs?
The sounds of the other battles faded away in her fascination with what was happening in front of her. Just like earlier . . .
Just like in the alley behind Equinox.
What were these men? And why were they so intent on Kane and his fellow Warriors? And how had they found this place?
The sounds of combat reengaged her consciousness as Kane’s battle cry resounded through the room. Grey had already moved to help Drake while Kane stalked unerringly toward Quinn’s side, a wicked, daggerlike instrument in his hands, pulled from a hiding place at his ankle.
A hiding place she’d never even seen or thought to look for when they were together before.
Had this man really made her lose every instinct for combat and self-protection? She’d had her hands all over him, for the gods’ sake. While she hadn’t made an inspection of his lower legs and feet, she’d stood mere millimeters from a nasty-looking weapon and had never even considered the possibility he’d be armed.
And then even her self-recrimination was gone as she watched Kane move. He was all sinew and muscle, full of lethal and predatory grace.
Without any warning, shock slammed through Ilsa once again. Her throat tightened on a scream as a large black scorpion, nearly as tall as Kane, rode along his back, its deadly tail sweeping in a wide arc behind Kane.
“ ’Bout fucking time, Monte!” Quinn shouted. “You got a clean shot?”
Kane raised the weapon, while at the same time the scorpion’s tail swept in another arc. With movements so defined they appeared choreographed, the tail knocked one of Quinn’s foes off his feet as Kane slashed the wicked dagger along the man’s neck.
A loud pop rent the air as a great flare of electricity lit the knife edge with a spark. Then that body began disintegrating, just like the first.
Again, no soul.
Nothing spiritual marred the room. Instead, the body of the man was quickly becoming nothing more than an oily pool that seeped into the beige rug. Soon, a large spot was the only thing left to show for his life.
Ilsa thought she understood Themis’s Warriors. In her plans for revenge, she’d researched the Great Agreement between Themis and Zeus. Researched how the Warriors were empowered and how they protected humanity.
But this?
Foes who disintegrated into oily pools of grease? She knew nothing of it. Had never heard of a creature that looked human but who died in that way, like his body was merely a shell. An image of humanity that hid . . . well . . . nothing.
In all the sixteen millennia of her life, she’d never seen anything such as this. Were they men? What filled them with life? Which god or goddess did they belong to? Or did they even belong to a member of the Pantheon?
Before Ilsa could think on it any longer, Kane and Quinn were already in motion, the greasy mess of no interest. Although his weariness was rapidly returning, shadowing his every movement, Kane fought valiantly with his brothers, his movements keeping pace with theirs.
As he parried and thrust toward Quinn’s opponent, the room’s overhead light gleamed off the edge of his blade now slick with the same oil that soaked the carpet. Kane kicked and punched when he couldn’t get a clean thrust, his battle skills personal and almost intimate in the closed-in space.
The creature—the scorpion—had folded itself in on Kane’s back once they were in close proximity to Quinn, disappearing into nothingness, as if it had never even been there.
Ilsa knew she should jump into the fray. She should help these men, but for her very existence, she couldn’t understand what was unfolding before her.
Who were these men Kane and his brothers fought?
And why weren’t they truly corporeal? Where was the blood? The proof of their humanity?
Had they suffered the same sort of curse Zeus originally levied on her? But if they did, how did they have physical mass and strength?
And what of that scorpion?
A movement from the direction of the second set of stairs drew her attention away from the battle and from her thoughts. Stairs rose at the far side of the room, with a landing at the top that was visible from below. A wooden railing framed the landing, preventing anyone from toppling to the first floor. A sixth man by her count stood at the top of the stairs, his gaze focused on Kane. Time slowed as, without warning, the man leaped over the railing, hurtling himself toward the fray below.
The scream built in her throat, rushing from her vocal cords with a painful blast of sound.
The predator landed squarely on Kane’s back, a long dagger gleaming in his h
and.
Kane felt the unbearable pressure as a heavy weight rode his back. A foul, fetid stench filled his nostrils as waves of static bombarded him from all sides. Add up all the clues and it didn’t take ten thousand years of battling the same opponent to figure out a sixth Destroyer had joined the party.
Fucking shithead has a grip like a monkey’s. Smells like one, too.
The only good thing about his current predicament was that the asshole was too close to lob a fireball at him. Those great rolling balls of energy that flew from a fully charged Destroyer were a challenge for any Warrior when he was at his normal strength. The energy pockets stung like a bitch and too many allowed the Destroyer to weaken his opponent.
It killed him to admit it, but in his weakened state, Kane knew he’d be flat on his ass in about three nanoseconds if he were hit with one.
Large forearms wrapped around his windpipe and Kane reached up with his free hand to tug at the grip, while with his Xiphos in the other hand, he swept a longways cut down the asshole’s forearm. The Destroyer didn’t let go, but the movement loosened his grip. The slight easing of pressure was just enough for Kane to wedge his free hand between his neck and his opponent, pushing for more air.
The weight added a few additional problems, including a decided lack of vision. Funny how one hundred and seventy-five pounds of asshole on your back had a way of doing that to a person.
Kane couldn’t see Grey, Quinn or Drake, so he could only assume their battles were as challenging as his. But damn it all, he sure would have loved some backup. He didn’t even have his scorpion, the writhing horde of energy covering his back ensuring the animal stayed locked inside his aura.
A loud scream broke through the grunts and groans flying all around him. A streak of color and long, luscious legs streamed past him and then Kane felt a second, lighter weight drop onto the first.
Ilsa. His little deceitful warrioress had decided to join the fray.
Gritting his teeth, Kane bent his knees, attempting to support the added weight. It nearly worked, his balance surprisingly even, until the two weights on his back launched into their own battle, twisting and turning.
Well, this is fun. What the hell was he supposed to do with three hundred pounds on his fucking back? At least the stranglehold on his windpipe was gone, but they also had him at a disadvantage because the Destroyer wouldn’t drop his leg lock. Nor would he shift far enough to allow the scorpion out.
The instinct to slam the weight against a hard surface had Kane stumbling drunkenly toward the wall closest to him. Putting every ounce of strength he had into his movements, he rushed backward for the wall, desperate to dislodge the weight.
Almost . . . just nearly . . . bloody hell!
Kane pulled his landing and stopped just short of impact at the sudden realization that Ilsa would take the brunt of a crash against the wall. The combined weight and force of two full-sized men slamming into her would put her through the wall if she were lucky. Seeing as how this structure had stood the test of time—and World War II bombings—the plaster would be the likely victor and she a mere spot on it.
The poison, which had been blessedly silent since Ilsa’s generous ministrations, reared up to further weaken him.
Long, sinuous waves of pain coated his chest, making it hard to breathe as he fought the Destroyers.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. How did the damn poison know? It was like whatever organ he needed most at any given time was where the shit struck.
Tightening the grip on his Xiphos, Kane fought the poison and the soulless monster currently attached to his person. He slashed at one of the legs wrapped around his midsection. Just as the forearm slash had given him much-needed air, the leg lock lightened enough to free the intense pressure on his rib cage and proved to Kane he might actually have a chance of getting the asshole off without hurting Ilsa in the process.
Even if she had brought this on all of them.
He slashed again, this time at the other leg, the sharp edge of his blade making a loud sucking noise as he pulled it from the Destroyer’s body, full of that slick oil that made the minions of Enyo so lethal.
Pure, semiconductive energy. Their human appearance covered a liquid core that carried the electrical power of a lightning storm.
As Kane plunged the Xiphos again, something nagged at his subconscious.
Had Ilsa brought this on them? Despite her confession about stealing his blood, she had seemed as surprised by the melee going on in the house as he had once they’d ported back into the basement. And the hurt anger he’d seen in the depths of her eyes at his accusation was real.
Wasn’t it?
And what did it matter anyway? He knew, sure as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow, he didn’t have the balls to kill her.
It wasn’t rational and it wasn’t smart, but it was the truth.
Ignoring the new reality of whatever he shared with the woman, Kane forced his full attention back to the fight at hand. With skills honed over thousands of years of battle, he took a deep breath. His movements slow and deliberate, he took a moment to make sure he had his full balance, planting his feet and bending his knees to ensure his lower body held the writhing weight on his back.
There would be one chance to do this. One opportunity to do it without killing either himself or Ilsa in the process.
Holding steady, Kane attuned himself to the rhythm of the fight above him. She obviously knew enough to go for the head, because Ilsa struck repeatedly at the Destroyer’s face, ears and neck. Her blows were steady and true, and each was met with a back head butt from the Destroyer as he worked in counterbalance to subdue her.
Willing himself into a state of calm, Kane shut out the battle cries of his Warrior brothers. Shut off the jovial spikes of renewed pain the poison pressed to his organs. Even blocked out the pain-filled moans that Ilsa uttered when the Destroyer struck her, despite the fact they racked him with angry fury each time she took a hit.
He had one shot and he had to do this right, or he risked hurting her as well.
Steady . . . steady . . . and . . . now!
With an aim born of well-honed battle skills, Kane slammed the Xiphos into the Destroyer’s head. A loud sucking sound accompanied the force of his movements. The pressure and weight on his back stopped and the battle ceased immediately as the large man fell to the ground, clutching his head. Ilsa tumbled after him, falling on top of him in a heap.
Kane whirled to finish the job, but the Destroyer had already rolled out of immediate range of both him and Ilsa.
Scrambling to her feet, Ilsa shifted into battle stance, proof she was as engaged in this skirmish as the rest of them. “Kane. What can I do?”
Leaping toward the Destroyer, Kane shouted instructions as he went. “His neck, Ilsa. It’s all in the neck. You have to snap it.”
He’d nearly closed the gap when Drake and the Destroyer he was battling fell into his path. The momentum of two men engaged in mortal combat stopped Kane’s forward progress and forced him to his knees. Frustration clenched his stomach in knots, the tight pain a suitable rival to the poison’s clawing hold.
Drake’s voice was barely winded as he tossed off directions. “Monte, give me a hand. Underneath me.”
Without needing any further direction, their movements already in sync with each other, Kane shifted himself into position. Drake used that to his advantage, pushing the Destroyer toward the stumbling block made by Kane’s body.
Kane felt it as the Destroyer fell down over him. A wave of static electricity washed over every inch of his skin in prickling awareness.
Drake took advantage of the downed Destroyer immediately. Swinging his Xiphos in a deadly arc, he slashed the Destroyer’s throat. The body deflated immediately, disintegrating into a large greasy pool.
Kane struggled to regain his feet, but Drake’s weight, combined with the slippery, oily substance that now coated them both, slowed his movements. As he and Drake worked to free themselves from the
slimy mess, the Destroyer who’d leaped on Kane’s back moved toward them, a dagger held high in his hand as he ran.
“Kane!” Ilsa screamed, as her body evaporated in a port, reappearing almost immediately at his side.
Despite the speed of the port, Ilsa wasn’t fast enough.
The moment spun out in front of Kane in slow motion.
Drake leaped as Kane did, his attention focused on the Destroyer, his stance further proof he was fully prepared to take the brunt of the attack. Although their Pisces managed to shift the asshole’s momentum, shoving him off balance, the dagger that was aimed at Kane’s throat brushed in a straight line across his collarbone.
Kane felt the dagger slice through his T-shirt into flesh, an arc of liquid fire branding his skin like an iron.
Great, gulping waves of heat consumed him from the inside out as the venom that lived under his skin rose up in happy waves of agony.
What was this?
Kane fought for consciousness. Fought to gain some perspective on a world that was rapidly tilting on its axis.
Although he could feel pain as an immortal—and a dagger thrust was never pleasant—it generally held no power over him. Even the poison, for all its deadly potential, had its limits. But this soul-searing agony was something . . . different.
Black spots swam before his eyes and all the noise in the room grew very far away, as if he listened through the opposite end of a megaphone.
“Kane!” Was that Ilsa?
“Stay with me, buddy!” Drake? Or was it Grey?
Kane felt the action going on around him, but he had no control over his body. The poison that lived under his skin cackled, tap-dancing great, happy circles on his nerve endings.
The thought hit him that he should make his limbs move. Should run after the Destroyer with the dagger. Should try and help his Warrior brothers with their own battles.
Instead, he let the black spots fold in on themselves until there was no more light.
Only the warm welcome of darkness.
