“Stop that.” He jerked her hand away.
“Oh, come on, big man. You promised to let me do anything I wanted.”
Normally, elevator blow jobs were his favorite, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood. He couldn’t get that horrible elevator woman out of his mind, and being in an elevator definitely wasn’t helping.
“I’ll make it fast, baby.” The woman kneeled in front of him, clawing at his cock through his jeans.
“Stop that.” He helped his date to her feet—or more accurately stated, onto her four-inch heels. He’d already forgotten her name or why he’d lied to her and told her they were going to a party. In his defense, however, she had picked him up—begged for some fun and promised to do anything he liked just as long as he spent the night with her. He had not wanted to—so many heavy thoughts on his tequila-saturated mind—but one look at her needy eyes and dull gray aura, well, he did what he was meant to do.
Yep.
Tequila shots.
Yep.
Dirty dancing.
Yep.
A promise to take her home and play naked Twister.
But then the text came in from Forgetty, reminding him not to forget the emergency meeting at the Immortal Matchmakers’ office. He’d somehow ended up inviting…Oh hell, I forget her name.
His date shimmied down her black dress and checked her lipstick in her mirror as the elevator slowed to the fourteenth floor. “Looking good!” she said to herself.
Acan frowned. She had red smeared clear across her cheek. “Eh, I think you missed a spot.” Gods, drunk people can be so annoying.
Wait. What? Acan shook his head from side to side. Who the hell am I? He closed his eyes. I am the party god. I do not judge. I seek to bring fun and lack of inhibition to the masses so that they may tap into their wild sides. I am the party god. I do not judge. I seek to bring fun—
The elevator doors dinged, interrupting his serenity prayer.
“Oh, wow!” said the woman in a high-pitched voice, stepping out into the large office with very little furniture.
Acan stepped out behind her, seeing ten of his brethren standing in a semicircle, waiting for him.
“What the bloody hell is this?” he said, feeling the buzz of his five bottles of tequila quickly wearing off.
Cimil stepped forward with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “This, my dear brother, is your intervention.”
“Baby, we should go.” The brunette tugged on his arm. That was when he noticed he’d forgotten to wear a shirt.
Hey, at least it’s not my pants.
“Intervention?” he asked. “Like for those alcoholic humans who refuse treatment?”
Cimil laughed. “You’re a god, immortal and immune to such things as alcoholism.”
“Exactly.”
“But you are addicted to something far more potent,” Cimil said.
“I am?”
“You’re addicted to the party life of a bachelor, and if you do not set aside your philandering, cock-plundering ways and settle down with one female—only one—millions will die.”
Acan felt his anger bubbling up. This entire thing was ridiculous. And no one—I mean no one—is going to stop the party!
“Prove it,” he said.
Cimil blinked at him in question.
Acan crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s right, you fib factory. I’m calling your bluff. There isn’t a god in this room who hasn’t been misled by your lies, your exaggerations and manipulations. So prove it. Prove to me that you are telling the truth and that death and destruction will ensue if I do not settle down.”
Cimil’s red lips flapped for a moment. Apparently no one had ever challenged her in this manner before. Or perhaps he’d never put so many words together to form a…a…a sentence! Yes, that was the word.
“Well…well…” She shook her head from side to side, her long red curls flopping about. “Are you sure, brother?”
“Sure about what?”
“Hey, baby. This party bites. Let’s go!” His human date yanked vigorously at his arm.
Acan whipped his arm away and urged her to be silent with his eyes.
Suddenly, it all went black.
Zac had spent the evening with two smokin’-hot women—black, delicious, and French—who’d come to LA, looking for a taste of fantasy, sex, and drama. So he had tempted them all the way to his penthouse for some serious exploration of their limits. Waste of time. As a god he had very few inhibitions, but these two ladies seemed more adventurous than even himself. Toes, toys, and teeth. Anyway, he’d barely been able to get the old man-pho working, so the women ended up getting each other off. He’d then fled his own apartment, wishing for something less sinful. Or a certain someone less sinful.
Zac glanced at his watch, realizing the emergency summit meeting had started ten minutes ago. Fuck, they’re going to kick my ass.
The elevator doors slid open. “Hey. Sorry I’m late, but…” His voice faded as he looked across the room. Blood everywhere. Ten of his brethren lie decapitated on the floor. Belch stood in the middle, panting, dripping with red, fists clenched.
“What the fuck?” Zac gasped.
Belch’s head whipped up, his normally turquoise eyes solid black.
“Belch, wha-what have you done?” Zac stammered.
Belch frowned and seemed to be awaking from a diabolical trance. “I-I-I don’t know.”
A strange woman, who cowered in the corner of the office space with Cimil’s weeping children, jumped up. “He killed them all! He snapped his fingers and their heads fell off!” The woman ran for the stairwell.
What in the gods’ names? In all his years, Zac had never heard of such a power.
“No. That’s not possible. I would never do that.” Acan’s eyes scanned the carnage before him. “Forgetty!” He fell to his knees.
“He did it. He did it,” yelled Cimil’s kids.
Zac stepped back, staring at the lifeless heads on the floor. “Dude, they are so going to be pissed.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Acan felt certain he’d wandered into a nightmare from the deepest reaches of Cimil’s basement—or walk-in closet—whichever—but after a few sobering moments, he had little doubt that the carnage before him was real. And his doing. Ten of his brothers and sisters—Cimil, Votan, Ixtab, Akna, K’ak, Ah-Ciliz, Colel, Chaam, Máax, and Forgetty—lay dead on the floor. Their heads, with various shades of hair ranging from golden blonde to jet black, were scattered about like marbles spilled from a jar. To be clear, they were immortal and would return, but there was no bigger dishonor than killing your brethren.
What have I done? And how had he done it?
Acan knelt beside his beloved sister, the Goddess of Forgetfulness, her turquoise eyes vacant of life. He gently rolled her head back to her neck and covered the horrific separation with her long blonde hair. “I know you can hear me, sister. I know at this moment you are en route to the realm of the gods, cursing every profanity ever created.” He took her lifeless pale hand and held it to his cheek. “Please forgive me. Please. I would never do anything to hurt you. Except for this removing-your-head thing, which I clearly just did. But other than that, never.”
Acan felt a sharp stabbing sensation in his gut and a flame scorching through his heart. He dropped his sister’s hand and pressed his palm over his chest, feeling like he might pass out from the pain.
“Aaah…” he cried out. Was this their doing? His brethren reaching through their divine connection to teach him a lesson? “I promise I will find a mate. This will never happen again.”
The pain stopped and Acan fell back onto the blood-soaked carpet, his arms sprawled to his sides.
“Belch?” Zac stood over him, his eyes ten different shades of pissed off.
“What?” Acan groaned, feeling his soul sink into the abyss. How could he do that to someone he loved so much?
“You’d better get the hell out of here because Cimil’s husband just texted. The kids
probably called him, and he’s on his way.”
Fuck. Roberto. Also known as Narmer, king of the vampires, ex-Egyptian pharaoh, and one of the Ancient Ones. He was the original badass vampire, as potent and lethal as he was fast and strong. While he was not truly immortal—vampires could be killed—he was not the sort of man one wanted to mess with. Nor did he appreciate anyone fucking with his mate, Cimil.
Zac reached out his hand and helped Acan to his feet. “Take the stairs down to the garage,” Zac said. “My Mustang is parked next to the elevator.” He reached into his pocket and produced a set of car keys. “Here. Take ’em.”
Acan looked at the keys, then at his brother, and then at Forgetty. “I don’t want to run. I don’t want to hide.” The only thing he wanted was his sister back and to know with absolute certainty he would never harm her again. Through thick and thin, she’d been by his side when they were merely infant deities trying to find their purpose. He’d been a late bloomer compared to the others, and when he had finally discovered his gift of cocktail slinging and celebrating, the other gods looked down on him. They were gods with respectable powers—God of Death and War, God of the Sun, Goddess of the Underworld. But him? God of Wine and Intoxication. No one had ever taken him seriously except for his sister, the sister no one ever remembered or missed. She was the only true family he had in this world.
“Sister, I will make this right. Just please, when you return, do not castrate me.”
“Belch!” a deep, deep voice raged from the direction of the stairwell.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Cimil’s children rushed toward the towering man with long black hair, mocha skin, and dark eyes.
Zac stepped in front of Acan, something Acan found strange. Why was his brother moving to protect him? Zac didn’t care about him. None of them did except for Forgetty.
Zac stretched out his meaty arm. “Back the fuck off, vampire.”
Roberto’s dark eyes drilled into Acan as his children hugged his legs. Legs encased in black leather pants.
“Nice pants,” said Zac, “but you know I cannot allow you to harm Belch.”
With fists clenched, Roberto’s nostrils flared, and his eyes speared Acan with hate. “You fucking killed my wife.”
“Technically, she cannot die,” Zac pointed out. “So this is more of a three-day body-pause. A long rejuvenation weekend.”
Roberto stared down at Cimil’s lifeless head and pointed. “Vacation? Vacation! I will dismember you with a teaspoon and then strap your bits to firecrackers. I will watch every particle of your human shell disintegrate into nothing, and then I will do it again!”
Zac was about to speak, but something inside Acan snapped. What is happening to me? I feel…brave.
Weird.
Acan cleared his throat. “Roberto, there is nothing I can say for what I’ve done. I don’t even know how I did it.” He blew out a breath and tried to run his hands through his hair, but it was matted into long ropes. “Simply know that it was unintentional, the result of flipping, a situation I will rectify by finding a mate as Cimil has instructed.”
Roberto blinked at him. “Why are you not slurring or scratching your gonads?”
“I am not intoxicated and my balls do not itch.”
“Fair enough,” said Roberto. “However, what guarantees can you provide that this situation will not repeat? You are nothing but an untrustworthy, infantile, belligerent slob.”
Acan felt a rage deep in his chest. He did not appreciate anyone challenging him, not even the most deadly, powerful vampire on the planet. I am a fucking god. And it is time people take me seriously.
“Roberto, I would back the hell off if I were you,” said Zac. “Because apparently Belch is not merely the God of Wine and Intoxication, but the God of Decapitation, too.”
I am?
Yes. I fucking am.
“What he said,” added Acan.
Roberto eyed him warily as if trying to puzzle out a Picasso. The one with the crazy guitar. “Very well. Find your mate. But if you so much as look at Cimil the wrong way, I will call a thousand of my finest warriors. We will draw and quarter you and await you at the cenote so we can rinse and repeat for a few thousand years.”
“Bring it, vampire. I am not afraid of you.” And he wasn’t. Acan finally understood. He wasn’t simply the party god. He was the god of sweet and sour, exactly like the others. Each had dark and light sides with powers that dabbled in the playful and deadly. Cimil had her garage sales and unicorns, but ruled the world of dark souls. Votan—God of Death and War—was also the God of Drums and Algebra. Ixtab, once the Goddess of Suicide, was also the Goddess of Happiness. Yin and yang. Night and day. The Universe always demanded balance.
Fuck yeah. I’m the God of Decapitation. He could snap his fingers and heads rolled. Of course, this also complicated matters exponentially. If he became evil, it was no longer a question of turning a significant percentage of the population into violent, raving lunatics on New Year’s. Now he might kill millions with the snap of his fingers. This definitely placed him at the top of the list of the Universe’s most deadly beings, even deadlier that his brother Votan, God of Death and War.
Gods almighty. If I lose control, that will be a lot of heads to clean up. And unlike his brethren, those humans would not be returning to their families through a cenote.
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a mate to find.” Acan took one last look at his sister and committed the horrific image to memory. He could never allow this to happen again.
Feeling more determined than he had in his entire existence, Acan drove to his realtor’s home, woke his ass from bed, and called his lawyer, demanding that they have a new dwelling purchased immediately—something grand and worthy of a woman’s approval. Yes, it had been two in the morning. No, he did not give a shit about waking them up. That was what he paid them for. All right, it was usually to deal with matters of arson—arrests and being burned out of home and hearth—but whatever. Today was a day for firsts. So he’d spent most of the early morning hours reviewing listings with Gomez, his realtor, and then headed to the tailor.
This was not just any tailor. Mr. Damien Greystone had been dressing the gods and other large males in the immortal community for a decade. He’d inherited the business from his father and his father before that. They never asked questions. They never complained about the odd hours or rush jobs. They simply went to work, knowing exactly what to do and how to make clothes for men of large proportions, specifically pants—leather, denim, or cloth—to accommodate extraordinarily large dicks.
“I’ll require some T-shirts, athletic shoes, and whatever else men of this era wear on the bottom to keep their cocks in place while they exercise.”
Damien—on the tall side for a human at six three—dipped his head of thick light brown hair. “And will you be wearing these shorts multiple times, sir, or merely losing them like the others? Because I have a very nice shipment of ten-dollar shorts—”
“My drunken, pantsless days are over.” Acan waved his hand through the air while examining a variety of holiday sweaters with reindeer and snowmen hanging on the wall. He wondered if he should buy them. They kind of called to his party side.
No. No. I’m a serious grown god now. No more partying.
“You mean…you’re actually going to exercise in them?” Damien blinked with confusion.
Acan gave the man a hard look.
“Very good, sir. Then I will bring you something a bit sturdier.” Damien proceeded to the stock room and returned with several outfits—expensive-looking jeans, T-shirts, a few nice dress shirts, and gear to work out. “Your suits will be ready next week.”
“I need everything by tomorrow.” He had two weeks to find his woman. No time to lose.
Damien blinked and then smiled. “I will make arrangements, sir. And might I say, sir, it’s quite refreshing to see you so passionate about dressing yourself.”
Acan growled a few choice expletives under his bre
ath. Yeah, yeah. So I walked around pantsless for a few thousand years.
“My party days are over. At least until I find a mate.” Acan slipped a piece of paper from his pocket with his new address—a house he’d chosen only an hour ago. It was vacant and the owners were more than happy to let him stay in it while the paperwork got pushed through. He’d paid two times the asking price. “Have the suits sent to this address along with the bill.” Acan grabbed his six bags of new clothes and headed out to his taco truck parked in front of the store.
“Hey, man. Can I get two steak quesadillas?” said a young guy as Acan stepped into his grease trap on wheels.
Acan looked at the man, then at his taco truck, and then back at the man. “Where’s the nearest luxury auto dealer?”
“There’s a Tesla dealer a few blocks that way.” The guy pointed down the street.
“Thank you.” Acan started up the rumbling diesel engine.
“Hey! What about my food, man?”
“I am on a mission to wow the perfect woman. There is no time for snacking. However, show up to the dealer in half an hour and the truck is yours.” He sped off, spewing smoke into the air. Watch out, ladies, because here comes the God of Wine.
CHAPTER FIVE
Forty-five-year-old Margarita Seville toweled off her face and neck at the end of the Zumba class she’d just given, filling in for one of the instructors who’d called in sick today. She waved goodbye to the ladies filing from the room, a room with a glass wall on one side and a view into the world-class gym.
Her gym.
She sighed with a sense of accomplishment. She’d started Club CrossFit Santa Monica ten years ago, putting everything she had—money, blood, sweat, and tears—into this place to make it a success. To her, it was more than a business that provided an income for herself and her now sixteen-year-old daughter, Jessica; it was a statement about her values and will to survive. Her past, for lack of better words, had been one giant shame-fest, riddled with many mistakes, the biggest being Mike—her ex-husband and the saddest chapter of her life. The only thing good to come out of all that was Jessica.
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