The Darkest Surrender lotu-9

by Gena Showalter

  Sabin and Gwen strutted in next, moving to flank the angels. Even though Strider hadn’t texted his leader to tell him the Eagleshields were here, the warrior didn’t look surprised to see them. He must have watched them from the heavens, then, as planned.

  Any luck finding the Rod?

  “Bianka,” Kaia said with a laugh as she launched herself to meet her sister in the middle of the room. The twins hugged and danced as if they hadn’t seen each other in years.

  “I would have been here sooner but Lysander held me prisoner in our cloud,” Bianka said with a grin. “He wouldn’t relent until Sabin gave the okay. Which I still don’t understand and will continue to punish him for until he spills. Secrets or guts, I don’t care which.”

  That would explain the black eye the warrior currently possessed, Strider thought with a grin of his own.

  “You’re so lucky,” Kaia said. “You can harm your consort.”

  “I know. And feel free to harm him yourself. Although, maybe don’t hurt him too badly. There’s all kinds of trouble in the heavens nowadays, something about losing a piece of love, whatever that means, and my pookybear is stressed.”

  That was the last thing Strider understood as the sisters began talking over each other.

  “—because you look amazing and—”

  “—wouldn’t believe the balls on—”

  “—next time I want video feed of—”

  “—cut just right, flesh makes the cutest purse—”

  “—she doing here?”

  In unison, they faced the bar, leveling Juliette with glares of abject disgust. Juliette pretended not to notice. Not her consort, though. He smiled at the twins as if they were the Christmas present he’d always wanted.

  Blood…heating…

  Strider would have volleyed himself like an H-bomb if a hard hand hadn’t settled on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t,” Lysander said.

  “You wouldn’t. I would.” His gaze remained locked on the male he desperately wanted to slay.

  An equally hard hand settled on his other shoulder. “Perhaps you should rethink your strategy,” Zacharel said in his cold, toneless voice.

  Yeah, well, perhaps the humans disagreed with Strider’s “physically perfect” description, because they still loitered inside the bar, paying the angels no heed. And hell, they had wings and wore girly robes. Two other reasons to stare right there.

  “They cannot see Lysander or me,” Zacharel explained. “You were correct. If they could, they would stare.”

  Strider’s jaw clenched. “Stay out of my head.”

  “Stop projecting your thoughts.”

  He didn’t mind when Amun read him, but Zacharel? An angel? Freaking irritating. “The consort. What is he?”

  Lysander didn’t ask for clarification. “His name is Lazarus, and he is the only son of Typhon.”

  Oh, shit. He’d been right—guy was far from human. Strider wanted to shake his head, to deny, to do anything but accept. But when an angel spoke, there was no doubting him. Ever. Truth layered every nuance of Lysander’s voice and every cell in Strider’s body believed what he’d just been told.

  As an elite guard to Zeus, Strider had fought many monsters. None had ever compared to Typhon. Bastard was a giant with the head of a dragon and the body of a snake. His wings spanned the entire length of a football field and a never-ending abyss had waited in his eyes.

  Typhon had challenged Zeus, and he would have won, had been winning, until Strider and friends arrived on the scene, causing the giant to flee. You’re welcome, he thought dryly, recalling how Zeus had blamed them for distracting him, claiming he would have pulled through without them. Strider hadn’t heard a shred of gossip about Typhon since, and now he had to wonder what had happened to the guy.

  “Who’s his mother?” Strider asked.

  “I do not know her name, only that she is a Gorgon.”

  “This just gets better by the second,” he muttered dryly. Gorgons could turn a man to stone with only a glance. They had snakes on their heads rather than hair—snakes that poisoned their victims when they bit. Medusa was the most famous of them, and so legendary even humans told tales of her evil prowess.

  Mortals. So gullible. If they only knew Medusa was the cream of the crop and a real sweetheart compared to others of her race.

  “Clearly, he wants a piece of Kaia.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Zacharel asked, deadpan. As always. “She is a beautiful woman and I have seen how happy a Harpy can make an angel.”

  Strider had his nose pressed into the angel’s a second later, breath sawing in and out. “You better stay away from her.”

  Win.

  No problem.

  “I will,” the angel said easily. “Stay away from her, that is.”

  Strider blinked, confused, and backed a step away. “But you just—”

  “I just agreed with you. Yes. Every unmated man in this building wants a piece of her.”

  He was back in the guy’s face a second later. “And you?” Damn it. He had to get himself under control. He’d vowed not to let himself be challenged majorly for the next few weeks, yet he kept reacting to everyone who so much as glanced in Kaia’s direction.

  “I was merely ensuring you desire her, rather than…someone else.”

  Someone, like an angel. Once again, he stepped backward. Faster this time, his cheeks heating with mortification. So. The bastard had picked up on the earlier fascination.

  “You look all innocent and shit, but you’re really a devil in disguise, aren’t you?”

  Zacharel merely shrugged, his expression unchanging.

  Win?

  Yeah. We won that round. The angel hadn’t made a play for Kaia, and that was all that mattered.

  Defeat might have agreed, but there were no accompanying sparks of pleasure. Nor were there spurts of pain.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” he grumbled.

  “Bianka competes in the next game. Lysander wishes me to—”

  “Lysander can speak for himself,” the warrior interjected. “I wished for a supporting arm to either hold me back or help me, should I be inclined to punish Bianka’s opponents.”

  Aw. True love. How sickening.

  Both Lysander and Zacharel could create swords of fire from nothing but air. A few Harpy heads would probably roll by the time the second game ended if any harm came to Kaia’s twin.

  “You do know you’ll embarrass Bianka if you—”

  “Who are you talking to, Strider?” Though Haidee had closed most of the distance between them, she asked the question from behind her beer bottle, not daring to glance in his direction. He knew she didn’t fear Kaia, though she should, but merely thought to prevent another attack while the enemy was nearby.

  And damn it. The angels had warned him. No one else could see them. Well, Sabin and Gwen could, he was sure, since they were smothering their laughter behind beers of their own.

  “No one,” he muttered. No one important. He refocused on Kaia and Bianka, the Twin Troublemakers.

  “—no better time,” Bianka was saying.

  “Then let’s do it,” Kaia responded with an evil grin. “Juliette will never know what hit her.”

  Shit. Do what? With those two, “it” always involved bloodshed, grand theft auto or a five-alarm blaze. Or, on special days, a combination of all three. He watched, dread coursing through him, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, as the girls moved forward.

  Then the worst of his fears were confirmed when they climbed onto the dais.

  To karaoke.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PARIS PRESSED INTO A SHADOWED corner of the heavenly harem. Mindless chatter and the sound of playful splashing coasted on the over-warm air. The scent of jasmine oil and sandalwood drifted to his nose and he tried not to inhale. Ambrosia layered both, a waft of coconut that lured and seduced, and he couldn’t yet afford to get high. No matter how much his body shook, desperate for a fix.

  Aft
er his back-alley brawl, he’d taken the first female he’d stumbled upon. Sex had ensured her willingness, despite Paris’s ragged appearance, and he’d healed quickly afterward.

  Unfortunately, the vital encounter had made him an hour late to his meeting with Mina, the goddess of weaponry, and he’d had to pay extra for the crystal blades.

  She liked her pleasure with a bit of bite, and he’d had to do things to her that might haunt him for years. But he had the daggers now and had crossed item one off his To Do list.

  He rubbed the hilts as he scanned his surroundings, hating the cobalt wisps of fabric that fell from the ceiling and draped the entire enclosure. Hating the beaded lounge pillows, the naked, glistening bodies strolling this way and that.

  Time to cross off item number two. Arca, the messenger goddess. Surely she would know where Sienna was being held, as one of his many partners had led him to believe. Pillow talk—his best friend, and everyone else’s worst enemy.

  If she wasn’t here, he had no idea where to go next. Or who to do.

  Don’t think like that. No one here had sensed him. Yet. That would change all too soon. Sex craved today’s dose. Already the scents of chocolate and champagne drifted from him. Soon mortals and immortals alike, all brought here to service Cronus, would find themselves consumed by hunger.

  The god king had given up keeping a single mistress. Now he was keeping thirty…three. Yes, thirty-three, Paris counted. The twenty-seven others standing around the pool ledge were bodyguards, not sexual conquests.

  Paris doubted Cronus had slept with everyone here, or that the bastard even planned to nail them all in the future. But Cronus would do anything to piss off Rhea, his traitor of a wife, and nothing hurt a woman’s pride quite like infidelity. A fact Paris knew very well.

  He’d never been faithful. Could never be faithful. No matter how much he wanted to be. No matter how much his many conquests screamed and ranted at him, desperate for something he couldn’t give them. Something…more. His lovers were his demon’s food, that was all. He couldn’t let them be anything else. And really, he didn’t want them to be anything else.

  He just wanted Sienna.

  If he could find her, if he could touch her, if she no longer despised him—which didn’t seem likely, especially after the things, people, he’d done up here—would she give herself to him?

  So many ifs.

  He’d been up here off and on ever since her disappearance, and he’d kept his ear to the ground—aka he’d screwed the information out of anyone close to Cronus. See? Unfaithful. He was here for one woman, but had slept with another. And another. And another.

  Buck up. Otherwise, he’d start wanting that ambrosia.

  Hell, maybe he should just give in.

  Or maybe he should leave. Cronus was going to pop a vessel when he discovered Paris’s whereabouts. Would definitely punish him. Because…to hide his activities, Paris had to wear a necklace—a manlace, as Torin called it—the god king had given him. A manlace he was only supposed to wear to hide himself from Rhea. Using it to conceal himself from Cronus as well was a small crime, sure, but couple that with Paris’s intentions…

  You’re close. Closer than you’ve ever been. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t give up. So, no ambrosia and no leaving.

  “I’m so hot,” one woman said. She lay on a velvet recliner, naked and glistening, arching her back as she traced her fingertips between her large, tawny-tipped breasts. “So needy.”

  “Me, too,” another said. She licked her lips as she searched for a partner.

  Oh, yes. They had sensed Paris at last.

  His friends were used to him, used to his scent and the need it caused, and were mostly immune. Plus, he’d over-indulged Sex, so the demon had rarely acted out like this. Paris wasn’t yet used to it.

  “I’ve never been this aroused,” another female said.

  Then, it was on. Moans of pleasure resounded as an orgy broke out. Multiple writhing bodies, hands stroking, legs spreading. The sight failed to arouse even the barest flicker of need. Been there, gotten tired of that.

  They were distracted, at least. He studied them, searching for the telltale “long, braided white hair” he’d been told Arca possessed. Another tidbit he’d learned: she was responsible for the children’s story about Rapunzel. Once, when she’d delivered a godly message to a human king, he’d become captivated by her beauty and thought to keep her. And he had very nearly succeeded. Not just because he’d used black magic, but because his timing had been impeccable. The Greeks had gained control of the heavens, locking the Titans away. Arca had been forgotten.

  Paris didn’t know if the rest of the story held true. If she had been rescued by a mortal prince. If the mortal had been killed in front of her when the Greeks at last remembered her and dragged her up to the heavens, locking her in another, stronger prison. And he wouldn’t let himself care.

  What he did know? Arca had been grabbed right off a golden street and tossed here. Paris could work that to his advantage. She had to despise the king, had to crave revenge.

  Also, she wasn’t in this section of the palace. Please be in another.

  He slinked along the wall. He could have stripped and presented himself as a slave, or a new addition to the harem, but he refused to relinquish his new weapons. No doubt he’d need them.

  He reached a corner, paused, listened, looked. Heard no footsteps. Saw no shadows moving along the marble floor. He inched forward, leaving the bathing area completely. Curtained doorway after curtained doorway greeted him, and he gnashed his teeth. If he had to screw someone just to find out which room belonged to Arca—

  A slave strode from the room at the far end of the hallway, a silver tray balanced in his hands. He spotted Paris, but didn’t issue an alarm. No, his tanned, naked body reacted instantly, his belly quivering. He set the tray on the floor and practically skipped over, as if in a trance.

  He probably was. Paris hadn’t fed his demon for twenty-three hours. He wouldn’t start weakening for another hour, yet Sex’s pheromones—or whatever it was the bastard released from Paris’s pores—would continue to strengthen until they’d come inside someone.

  A few times, Paris had let himself become so weak he couldn’t move. Yet those pheromones had drifted from him, so damn potent that humans had fallen on him, unable to help themselves, lost to lust. A few times, before Paris had reached the point of total weakness, he had lost control of himself and fallen on humans.

  The slave reached him. “Who are you, beautiful?” Callused, overworked hands whisked along his chest, caressing.

  Maybe he wasn’t as close to finding Sienna as he’d thought. First time he’d neared her, his demon had begun repelling others. This slave was far from repelled. But he wouldn’t change course, Paris thought. He couldn’t. If not here, he had no idea where to go.

  “Do you know where Arca is?” he asked, ignoring the question asked of him.

  A pink tongue emerged, tracing over already moistened lips. “Yes.”

  Relief flooded him. “Tell me. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

  Those questing hands slid lower…lower still… “For you, anything.”

  He waited, forcing himself to remain still. When no other response was forthcoming, he said, “Tell me.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but first I must…have to…please…” Every word caused the slave’s voice to dip lower, huskier, absolute yearning in the undertones.

  Lost, Paris thought. The slave was already lost to his body’s needs. Paris would get no answers until that need was assuaged. He leaned against the wall and stared up at the domed ceiling.

  “Drop to your knees,” he commanded, pulling Sienna’s delicate face, dark hair and adorably freckled skin to the forefront of his mind.

  WILLIAM PACED THE CONFINES of his prison cell. After the blonde bitch had dropped her bombshell about Kane, he had erupted, shouting and fighting for freedom. She’d soon realized there would be no calming him down
and had had his gurney wheeled here.

  About an hour ago, he’d regained enough of his strength to break out of the metal restraints. Not so with the cage. Four walls, all bars, and he couldn’t bend or manipulate a single one.

  The prison had been built for immortals.

  He had to get out of here. Had to get to Kane. Had to stop the warrior from reaching hell. The horsemen. The danger…

  “So. You’ve calmed down.”

  The blonde. Fury rising inside him, William turned on his heel, following the sound of her voice. And there she was. Ponytail, wire rims, delicate features, lab coat.

  “Are you ready to chat now?” she asked.

  Don’t erupt again. Much as he currently wanted to rip her throat out, he needed her.

  He was at a disadvantage, though. Patches of his skin were still charred, his pants—the only article of clothing currently remaining on his body—were bloodstained and ripped, and his hair was sticking out in spikes.

  He was still a babe, though. Surely.

  He pasted a seductive smile on his face. “Absolutely I’m ready. What’s your name, darling?”

  She arched a brow two shades darker than her hair. “I thought you didn’t care about my name.”

  Great. She was one of those. Stubborn and determined not to let a man soften her. Otherwise she would have melted already. And yes, he usually worked that quickly. “That was the pain talking, I promise.”

  “Okay. I’ll pretend that I believe you. My name is Skye.”

  “I’ll call you Dr. Love Button.”

  “And I’ll have you castrated.” There was no heat in her tone.

  “Kinky. So you work for Galen, do you?” Gods, William hated the bastard. Not for the sake of the Lords, though that didn’t help the keeper of Hope’s cause, but because William simply couldn’t stand people who were deceitful about their evil. Reminded him too much of his brother. And they didn’t get more deceitful than Galen, who masqueraded as an angel so he could manipulate a bunch of feeble-minded humans into doing his dark bidding.