Lord of the Vampires and The Darkest Angel and The Amazon's Curse and The Darkest Prison

by Gena Showalter

  Chuckling, she propped herself against the bed’s headboard, yawned and closed her eyes.

  “I’d like to hold a bowl of Lysander’s grapes,” she said, and felt a cool porcelain bowl instantly press atop her stomach. Without opening her eyes, she popped one of the fruits into her mouth, chewed. Gods, she was tired. She hadn’t rested properly since she’d gotten here—or even before.

  She couldn’t. There were no trees to climb, no leaves to hide in. And even if she summoned one, Lysander could easily find her if he returned early—

  Wait. No. No, he wouldn’t. Not if she summoned hundreds of them. And if he dismissed all the trees, she would fall, which would awaken her. He would not be able to take her unaware.

  Chuckling again, Bianka pried her eyelids apart. She polished off the grapes, scooted from the bed and stood. “Replace the furniture with trees. Hundreds of big, thick, green trees.”

  In the snap of her fingers, the cloud resembled a forest. Ivy twined around stumps and dew dripped from leaves. Flowers of every color bloomed, petals floating from them and dancing to the ground. She gaped at the beauty. Nothing on earth compared.

  If only her sisters could see this.

  Her sisters. Winning a game or not, she missed them more with every second that passed. Lysander would pay for that, too.

  She yawned again. When she attempted to climb the nearest oak, her lingerie snagged on the bark. She straightened, scowled—reminded once again of the way her dark angel had stalked to her, leaned into her, hot breath trekking over her skin.

  “I want to wear a camo tank and army fatigues.” The moment she was dressed, she scaled to the highest bough, fluttering wings giving her speed and agility, and reclined on a fat branch, peering up into a lovely star-sprinkled sky. “I’d like a bottle of Lysander’s wine, please.”

  Her fingers were clutching a flagon of dry red a second later. She would have preferred a cheap white, but whatever. Hard times called for sacrifices, and she drained the bottle in record time.

  Just as she summoned a second, she heard Lysander shout, “Bianka!”

  She blinked in confusion. Either she’d been up here longer than she’d thought or she was hallucinating.

  Why couldn’t she have imagined a Lord of the Underworld? she wondered disgustedly. Oh, oh. How cool would it be if Lysander oil-wrestled a Lord? They’d be wearing loincloths, of course, and smiles. But nothing else.

  And she could totally have that! This was her cloud, after all. She and Lysander were now playing by her rules. And, because she was in charge, he couldn’t rescind his command that she be obeyed without her permission.

  At least, she prayed that was the way this would work.

  “Remove the trees,” she heard him snap.

  She waited, unable to breathe, but the trees remained. He couldn’t! Grinning, she jolted upright and clapped. She’d been right, then. This cloud belonged to her.

  “Remove. The. Trees.”

  Again, they remained.

  “Bianka!” he snarled. “Show yourself.”

  Anticipation flooded her as she jumped down. A quick scan of her surroundings revealed that he wasn’t nearby. “Take me to him.”

  She blinked and found herself standing in front of him. He’d been shoving his way through the foliage and when he spotted her, he stopped. He clutched that sword of fire.

  She backed away, remaining out of reach. No touching. She wouldn’t forget. “That for me?” she asked, motioning to the weapon with a tilt of her chin. She’d never been so excited in her life and even the sight of that weapon didn’t dampen the emotion.

  A vein bulged in his temples.

  She’d take that for a yes. “Naughty boy.” He’d come to kill her, she thought, swaying a little. That was something else to punish him for. “You’re back early.”

  His gaze raked her newest outfit, his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared. His mouth, however, curled in distaste. “And you are drunk.”

  “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!” She tried for a harsh expression, but ruined it when she laughed. “I’m just tipsy.”

  “What did you do to my cloud?” He crossed his arms over his chest, the picture of stubborn male. “Why won’t the trees disappear?”

  “First, you’re wrong. This is no longer your cloud. Second, the trees will only leave if I tell them to leave. Which I am. Leave, pretty trees, leave.” Another laugh. “Oh, my gods. I said leave to a tree. I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.” Instantly, there was nothing surrounding her and Lysander but glorious white mist. “Third, you’re not going anywhere without my permission. Did you hear that, cloud? He stays. Fourth, you’re wearing too many clothes. I want you in a loincloth, minus the weapon.”

  His sword was suddenly gone. His eyes widened as his robe disappeared and a flesh-colored loincloth appeared. Bianka tried not to gape. And she’d thought the forest gorgeous. Wow. Just…wow. His body was a work of art. He possessed more muscles than she’d realized. His biceps were perfectly proportioned. Rope after rope lined his stomach. And his thighs were ridged, his skin sun-kissed.

  “This cloud is mine, and I demand the return of my robe.” His voice was so low, so harsh, it scraped against her eardrums.

  The sweet sound of victory, she thought. He remained exactly as she’d requested. Laughing, she twirled, arms splayed wide. “Isn’t this fabulous?”

  He stalked toward her, menace in every step.

  “No, no, no.” She danced out of reach. “We can’t have that. I want you in a large tub of oil.”

  And just like that, he was trapped inside a tub. Clear oil rose to his calves, and he stared down in horror.

  “How do you like having your will overlooked?” she taunted.

  His gaze lifted, met hers, narrowed. “I will not fight you in this.”

  “Silly man. Of course you won’t. You’ll fight…” She tapped her chin with a fingernail. “Let’s see, let’s see. Amun? No. He won’t speak and I’d like to hear some cursing. Strider? As keeper of Defeat, he’d ensure you lost to prevent himself from feeling pain, but that would be an intense battle and I’m just wanting something to amuse me. You know, something light and sexy. I mean, since I can’t touch you, I want a Lord to do it for me.”

  Lysander popped his jaw. “Do not do this, Bianka. You will not like the consequences.”

  “Now that’s just sad,” she said. “I’ve been here two weeks, but you don’t know me at all. Of course I’ll like the consequences.” Torin, keeper of Disease? Watching him fight Torin would be fun, ’cause then he’d catch that black plague. Or would he? Could angels get sick? She sighed. “Paris will have to do, I guess. He’s handsy, so that works in my favor.”

  “Don’t you dare—”

  “Cloud, place Paris, keeper of Promiscuity, into the tub with Lysander.”

  When Paris appeared a moment later, she clapped. Paris was tall and just as muscled as Lysander. Only he had black hair streaked with brown and gold, his eyes were electric blue and his face perfect enough to make her weep from its beauty. Too bad he didn’t stir her body the way Lysander did. Making out with him in front of the angel would have been fun.

  “Bianka?” Paris looked from her to the angel, the angel to her. “Where am I? Is this some ambrosia-induced hallucination? What the hell is going on?”

  “For one thing, you’re overdressed. You should only be wearing a loincloth like Lysander.”

  His T-shirt and jeans were instantly replaced with said loincloth.

  Best. Day. Ever. “Paris, I’d like you to meet Lysander, the angel who abducted me and has been holding me prisoner up here in heaven.”

  Instantly Paris morphed from confusion to fury. “Return my weapons and I’ll kill him for you.”

  “You are such a sweetie,” she said, flattening a hand over her heart. “Why is it we haven’t slept together yet?”

  Lysander snarled low in his throat.

  “What?” she asked him, all innocence. “He wants to save m
e. You want to subjugate me for the rest of my long life. But anyway, let me finish the introductions. Lysander, I’d like you to meet—”

  “I know who he is. Promiscuity.” Disgust layered Lysander’s voice. “He must bed a new woman every day or he weakens.”

  Another grin lifted the corners of her lips, this one smug. “Actually, he can bed men, too. His demon’s not picky. I do hope you’ll keep that in mind while you guys are rubbing up against each other.”

  Lysander took a menacing step toward her.

  “What’s going on?” Paris demanded again, glowering now. Bianka knew he was picky even if his demon wasn’t.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Lysander gave me control of his home, so now I get whatever I want and I want you guys to wrestle. And when you’re done, you’ll find Kaia and tell her what’s happened, that I’m trapped with a stubborn angel and can’t leave. Well, I can’t leave until he gets so sick of me he allows the cloud to release me.”

  “Or until I kill you,” he snapped.

  She laughed. “Or until Paris kills you. But I hope you guys will play nice for a little while, at least. Do you have any idea how sexy you both are right now? And if you want to kiss or something while rolling around, don’t let me stop you.”

  “Uh, Bianka,” Paris began, beginning to look uncomfortable. “Kaia’s in Budapest. She’s helping Gwen with the wedding, and thinks you’re hiding to get out of your maid of honor duties.”

  “I am not maid of honor, damn it!” But at least Kaia wasn’t worried. The bitch, she thought with affection.

  “That’s not what she says. Anyway, I don’t mind fighting another dude to amuse you, but seriously, he’s an angel. I need to return to—”

  “No need to thank me.” She held out her hands. “A bowl of Lysander’s popcorn, please.” The bowl appeared, the scent of butter wafting to her nose. “Now then. Let’s get this party started. Ding, ding,” she said, and settled down to watch the battle.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LYSANDER COULD NOT BELIEVE what he was being forced to do. He was angry, horrified and, yes, contrite. Hadn’t he done something similar to Bianka? Granted, he hadn’t stripped her down. Hadn’t pitted her against another female.

  There was the tightening in his groin again.

  What was wrong with him?

  “I will set you free,” he told Bianka. And sweet Holy Deity, she looked beautiful. More tempting than when she’d worn that little bit of nothing. Now she wore a green and black tank that bared her golden arms. Were those arms as soft as they appeared? Don’t think like that. Her shirt stopped just above her navel, making his mouth water, his tongue yearn to dip inside. What did I just say? Don’t think like that. Her pants were the same dark shades and hung low on her hips.

  He’d come here to fight her, to finally force her hand, and judging by that outfit, she’d been ready for combat. That…excited him. Not because their bodies would have been in close proximity—really—and not because he could have finally gotten his hands on her—again, really—but because, if she injured him, he would have the right to end her life. Finally.

  But he’d come here and she’d taught him a quick yet unforgettable lesson instead. He’d been wrong to whisk her to his home and hold her captive. Temptation or not. She might be his enemy in ways she didn’t understand, but he never should have put his will above hers. He should have allowed her to live her life as she saw fit.

  That’s why he existed in the first place. To protect free will.

  When this wrestling match ended, he would free her as he’d promised. He would watch her, though. Closely. And when she made a mistake, he would strike her down. And she would. Make a mistake, that is. As a Harpy, she wouldn’t be able to help herself. He wished it hadn’t come to that. He wished she could have been happy here with him, learning his ways.

  The thought of losing her did not sadden him. He would not miss her. She’d placed him in a vat of oil to wrestle with another man, for Lord’s sake.

  There was suddenly a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “Bianka,” he prompted. “Have you no response?”

  “Yes, you will set me free,” she finally said with a radiant grin. She twirled a strand of that dark-as-night hair around her finger. “After. Now, I do believe I rang the starting bell.”

  Her words were slightly slurred from the wine she’d consumed. A drunken menace, that’s what she was. And he would not miss her, he told himself again.

  The bitterness intensified.

  A hard weight slammed into him and sent him propelling to his back. His wings caught on the sides of the pool as oil washed over him from head to toe, weighing him down. He grunted, and some of the stuff—cherry-flavored—seeped into his mouth.

  “Don’t forget to use tongue if you kiss,” Bianka called helpfully.

  “You don’t lock women away,” Paris growled down at him, a flash of scales suddenly visible under his skin. Eyes red and bright. Demon eyes. “No matter how irritating they are.”

  “Your friends did something similar to their women, did they not? Besides, the girl isn’t your concern.” Lysander shoved, sending the warrior hurtling to his back. He attempted to use his wings to lift himself, but their movements were slow and sluggish so all he could do was stand.

  Oil dripped down his face, momentarily shielding his vision. Paris shot to his feet, as well, hands fisted, body glistening.

  “So. Much. Fun,” Bianka sang happily.

  “Enough,” Lysander told her. “This is unnecessary. You have made your point. I’m willing to set you free.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “It’s unnecessary to fight without music!” Once again she tapped her chin with a nail, expression thoughtful. “I know! We need some Lady Gaga in this crib.”

  A song Lysander had never heard before was playing through the cloud a second later. Like a siren rising from the sea, Bianka began swaying her hips seductively.

  Lysander’s jaw clenched so painfully the bones would probably snap out of place at any moment. Clearly there would be no reasoning with Bianka. That meant he had to reason with Paris. But who would ever have thought he’d have to bargain with a demon?

  “Paris,” he began—just as a fist connected with his face.

  His head whipped back. His feet slipped on the slick floor and he tumbled to his side. More of the cherry flavor filled his mouth.

  Paris straddled his shoulders, punched him again. Lysander’s lip split. Before a single drop of blood could form, however, the wound healed.

  He frowned. He now had the right to slay the man, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He did not blame Paris for this battle; he blamed Bianka. She had forced them into this situation.

  Another punch. “Are you the one who’s been watching Aeron?” Paris demanded.

  “Hey, now,” Bianka called. No longer did she sound so carefree. “Paris, you are not to use your fists. That’s boxing, not wrestling.”

  Lysander remained silent, not understanding the difference. A fight was a fight.

  Another punch. “Are you?” Paris growled.

  “Paris! Did you hear me?” Now she sounded angry. “Use your fists like that again and I’ll cut off your head.”

  She’d do it, too, Lysander thought, and wondered why she was so upset. Could she, perhaps, care for his health? His eyes widened. Was that why she preferred the less intensive wrestling to the more violent boxing? Would she want to do the same to him if he were to punch the Lord? And what would it mean if she did?

  How would he feel about that?

  “Are you?” Paris repeated.

  “No,” he finally said. “I’m not.” He worked his legs up, planted his feet on Paris’s chest and pressed. But rather than send the warrior flying, his foot slipped and connected with Paris’s jaw, then ear, knocking the man’s head back.

  “Use your hands, angel,” Bianka suggested. “Choke him! He deserves it for breaking my rules.”

  “Bianka,” Paris snapped. He
lost his footing and tumbled to his butt. “I thought you wanted me to destroy him, not the other way around.”

  She blinked over at them, brow furrowed. “I do. I just don’t want you to hurt him. That’s my job.”

  Paris tangled a hand through his soaked hair. “Sorry, darling, but if this continues, I’m going to unleash a world of hurt on your frenemy. Nothing you say will be able to stop me. Clearly, he doesn’t have your best interests at heart.”

  Darling? Had the demon-possessed immortal just called Bianka darling? Something dark and dangerous flooded Lysander—mine echoed through his head—and before he realized what he was doing, he was on top of the warrior, a sword of fire in his hand, raised, descending…about to meet flesh.

  A firm hand around his wrist stopped him. Warm, smooth skin. His wild gaze whipped to the side. There was Bianka, inside the tub, oil glistening off her. How fast she’d moved.

  “You can’t kill him,” she said determinedly.

  “Because you want him, too,” he snarled. A statement, not a question. Rage, so much rage. He didn’t know where it was coming from or how to stop the flow.

  She blinked again, as if the thought had never entered her mind, and that, miraculously, cooled his temper. “No. Because then you would be like me and therefore perfect,” she said. “That wouldn’t be fair to the world.”

  “Stop talking and fight, damn you,” Paris commanded. A fist connected with Lysander’s jaw, tossing him to the side and out of Bianka’s reach. He maintained his grip on the sword and even when it dipped into the oil, it didn’t lose a single flame. In fact, the oil heated.

  Great. Now he was hot-tubbing, as the humans would say.

  “What’d you do that for, you big dummy?” Bianka didn’t wait for Paris’s reply but launched herself at him. Rather than scratch him or pull his hair, she punched him. Over and over again. “He wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  Paris took the beating without retaliating.

  That saved his life.

  Lysander grabbed the Harpy around the waist and hefted her into the hard line of his body. Soaked as they both were, he had a difficult time maintaining his grip. She was panting, arms flailing for the demon-possessed warrior, but she didn’t try to pull away.