He raised the dagger as high as possible. The silver metal glistened as the candle on the nightstand burned. Who shall I try and summon? His mind whirled with possibilities, flashing the names of the beings he’d studied and learned this past week in preparation for searching the temple.
Cronus, the warrior king? Cronus would understand power and respect it. But he seemed to hate the Lords, and he’d been the one to order Anya’s death.
Rhea—wife to Cronus? Paris knew nothing about her. Geae, mother of the earth? She would, perhaps, show the most concern for his plight. Oceanus, the god of the water? Tethys, who loved Oceanus? Mnemosyne, goddess of memory? Hyperion, god of light and father of the sun? Themis, goddess of justice?
No, Themis was in prison, he recalled Anya mentioning. She had aided the Greeks all those thousands of years ago, helping them defeat the Titans. Immediately upon regaining the throne, Cronus had locked her up.
Who else could he approach?
There was Phoebe, goddess of the moon. Atlas, who had once held the entire world on his back. Epimetheus, the god of afterthought. He was supposedly the stupidest of all the gods. Prometheus, god of forethought. Now there was a god who’d understand unrelenting torment. He’d spent thousands of years having his liver eaten every night, only to regrow so that it could be eaten again.
Mythology was tricky. What humans knew was bits and pieces of the truth twisted together with falsehoods. Paris, exiled from Olympus all those centuries ago, didn’t know what to believe. Didn’t know who was strongest, who was loved and who was hated. If he called the wrong name…summoned an enemy…He might be wise to summon a female, for hardly anyone could resist the demon of Promiscuity. But if he tried to seduce the wife of a god…Anya had told him William had slept with Hera, and as punishment Zeus stripped William of his ability to flash or be flashed. That way, William could never again escape from a bedroom he was not supposed to be in. He would have to remain—and deal with the enraged husband.
No females, then.
He pushed out a sigh, his mind turning once more to Cronus. Might as well go for the gold. The god king was the most enigmatic of the bunch, hard and embittered. But he had brought Lucien back to life recently, and that was the type of ability Paris needed.
If the temple did not have humans swarming all over it, he would have returned and performed the coming ritual there. As it was, he would have to make do. Closing his eyes, he called, “Cronus, king of gods. I summon you.”
Several seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Paris hadn’t expected the god to appear right away, had known a sacrifice would need to be offered to even tempt such a being to his presence. So he lowered his arm, slowly, deliberately, and slashed the blade’s tip across his chest. The flesh ripped open inch by inch and warm blood flowed down his stomach, pooling in his navel.
Still, the seconds passed with no result.
“God King, I need you. I beg an audience.”
The crimson continued to flow…and flow…He’d set a glass of water on the floor before deciding to continue the ritual. Just in case. It was Anya’s rainwater, the tears of the earth.
Paris soaked one of his hands inside, then wiped the droplets across his wound. Blood and water mixed, the crimson fading to pink as it slid along the ropes of his stomach and onto the floor.
“I beg for a glimpse of you. I humbly wait on my knees.” He raised his hand again, the dagger still clutched there, before slashing another wound on his chest, a direct crisscross. Pleading was more difficult than he’d imagined. Last time he’d fallen to his knees like this, his cries had been ignored and a demon shoved inside his body. “I will wait forever if you so deem.”
“Is that so?” The quiet voice echoed throughout the bedroom, wry, a little angry.
Paris’s eyelids popped open. The murky light hadn’t brightened, a halo didn’t surround the god king’s thin form, but there he was. Cronus. Shock nearly felled Paris, and he was immensely glad he was already on his knees.
The god had thick silver hair and a regal beard. His eyes were dark, fathomless pools. Clean white linen draped one of his shoulders and cascaded down his body. He clutched a staff in one hand. The Scythe of Death—a weapon not even Lucien possessed.
He was tall and lean, aged, but power radiated from him.
Paris didn’t dare stand. He bowed his hand, heart racing all the faster. Cronus had come. He’d truly come. “Thank you for deigning to appear.”
“I did not do it for you. I am…curious.”
Tread carefully. “If that pleases you, it pleases me.”
“It does not please me. I do not like puzzles.”
Not a good start. “I offer my sincerest apologies for disturbing you, my king.”
Cronus chuckled, the sound still wry but no longer laced with anger. “You have learned something of control and diplomacy in all your thousands of years, I see.”
“No thanks to the Greeks,” Paris said. One thing he and Cronus shared was a common enemy. A common hatred.
As he’d expected, the words delighted the new king. “Zeus was never my equal.” Cronus stepped forward, the scent of stars and sky radiating from him. “I am pleased you realize this.”
Paris noted the king’s toes peeked out from under the long chimation he wore. They were framed by pristine sandals and tipped by clawlike nails completely at odds with the dignified appearance the god presented.
Perhaps they were not so different, god and demon.
Cronus walked around him but never touched him. “You are Paris, unwilling keeper of Promiscuity. My sympathies to your demon, for I know what it is like, being imprisoned.”
Oh, yes. They were alike. “Then you also know what it is to suffer.”
“Yes.” Another pause. Fingers sifted through Paris’s hair. “Did you summon me because you wish to be free of your demon?”
With one wave of his hand, Cronus could separate man and beast. If he did so, Paris would die.
Paris could barely remember his life without the demon. Yes, he wanted peace. Yes, he wanted freedom inside his own mind, wanted his thoughts to always be his own, but Promiscuity was the other half of him. “No, my king,” he finally said.
“A wise choice. That pleases me.”
“As your servant, I pride myself on pleasing you.”
A soft chuckle. “Well said.”
Paris kept his head bowed and watched as his blood coated the bottom of the god’s linen. The stain seemed to take the shape of a heart. “I must admit, I expected…”
“A monster?”
“Yes.” He didn’t dare lie. This was too important. “I thought you would be happy to end the Lords.”
There was a rustle of clothing, the god no longer in front of him, then warm breath was caressing Paris’s ear. “You expected correctly,” the king whispered. Another rustle, and the warm breath disappeared. “I am a monster. I am what prison made me.”
“Now you crave the worship of your people. I will worship you all the days of my life if only you will—”
A gust of wind slammed into Paris’s back, knocking him face-first into the floor. His blood had clotted and now splattered his cheek, too thick to fall.
“Face me, demon.”
Slowly Paris raised his head. There was Cronus, in front of him once again. He wasn’t used to obeying anyone but himself and the demon. Instinct demanded he refuse simply on principle. To obey was to invite more demands.
For Sienna, anything.
Without further hesitation, his eyes latched on to the god’s face. The room’s shadows had seemed to grow arms, reaching out and wrapping Cronus in their midst, shielding him. But his gaze, dark as it was, glowed.
“You cannot begin to know my wants.”
“My apologies.”
An eternity ticked by in silence, but the tension in the room never eased.
“I must admit I have been unsure what to do about you and the other Lords,” the god finally said. “You are abominations, that mu
ch I know, and yet you do serve a purpose.”
Abominations? Spoken like a Hunter. Truthfully, Paris had once thought the very same thing. He and the others had done terrible wrongs. To the world, to mortals. Even to the Greeks by betraying their trust. But they had spent centuries trying to absolve their sins. “Purpose?”
“As if I need explain myself to you,” Cronus scoffed.
There was nothing to say to that. Nothing that would help him, that is.
“I know what you desire, demon. The woman, Sienna. You want her returned to you.”
It was difficult, hearing his most private desire spoken aloud. For him, for the demon currently slamming from one side of his brain to another in a desperate frenzy. While Paris loved the thought of being with only one woman, his companion did not.
“Yes.”
“She is dead.”
“As you once proved with Lucien, you are more powerful than death.”
A whisper-soft chuckle. “Flattery, oh, sweet flattery. But I will not grant you this wish. What’s done is done. She’s gone.”
Giving in to the crushing weight of disappointment now pressing into his shoulders was not an option. A warrior did not give up until the last breath was taken—and even then Paris suspected there might be opportunity to negotiate. “I will bargain for her.”
“Yes, with your worship,” Cronus said drolly. “You, demon, have nothing of value.”
For once Promiscuity seemed more concerned with doling out pain than taking pleasure, because both Paris and the demon roared at that, ready to lash out. “Surely there is something,” he replied tightly.
“No. Nothing. I have no need of more warriors. I have riches, freedom, power beyond imagining. You have my cage, but I cannot bargain for that because I gave my word and my word is law. Should you find my other weapons…perhaps.”
“Please,” he rushed out, afraid the god would vanish at any moment. “You are my last hope. I will do anything you ask, if only you will grant me this one request. I am lost without her. I need her, for she is the calm in my storm. My anchor. Without her, I am just the shell of a man. Have you never felt that way about anyone? Have you never wanted something so badly, you would give your own life for it?”
A pause. A sigh. “Your desperation intrigues me. Since Anya gave away her greatest treasure to save her man, I have wondered at exactly what the depths of love will drive a heart to do.”
At his words, every cell in Paris’s body lit up.
The god’s head tilted to the side, his expression pensive. “Tell me why you choose this woman above everything you could ask me for. Why not risk all and beg me to release the warrior Aeron from his quest?”
“I—I—” Fuck. What kind of friend was he? That should have been his request, and it should have been his request weeks ago. “I am ashamed to say I have no answer for you.”
Fingers again ran through his hair, gentle, almost tender. “That does not clear my confusion. She was your enemy, and yet you have placed her above your lifelong friend. He would save you. She would kill you. You love him. You do not love her.”
No, he didn’t, and his guilt ratcheted up another notch. “Can’t I have both?”
“I am still not convinced I will grant you even one.”
Paris closed his eyes in a futile attempt to shut out that terrible, ever-growing guilt. “My body was able to respond to Sienna as it has never responded to another since I was cursed. I thought, hoped, she could save me from myself.”
“Very selfish of you. I thought you had learned control in your years on earth, yet still, you are a slave to Promiscuity?”
Thanks for digging the knife deeper. “Yes.”
“If I gave her back to you, she would ultimately betray you. You know that, do you not? Your friend would continue to suffer, and yet he would love you even though you chose a woman over him.”
The words were too much, too real, and Paris sagged forward, clutching his stomach, fighting tears from his eyes.
“That is enough for now. Think about what I have said, demon, and we will talk again.” Cronus was gone in the next instant.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, Sabin?”
“Preparing for war,” he answered, eyeing the warriors surrounding him. They were propped in every corner of their rented house in Rome, watching him intently. “You know that.”
A little while ago, Lucien had returned to Buda and flashed the now-healed Gideon and Kane here. The ceiling’s plaster was already crumbling on top of Disaster’s head.
Lucien had brought them to “talk some sense into” Sabin. Sabin thought the others needed sense talked into them.
“What? Why?” Maddox demanded.
“That’s what I do, what I’m good at.” He returned his attention to his Sig Sauer, loading bullets into the magazine. “The Hunters we killed at the temple aren’t the only ones here. There are more, and they’re most likely searching for us. More than that, Paris saw Reyes’s woman holding our box in that damned vision of his. Was she holding it for us? Or them?”
The ominous question cast a dark silence over the living room. No one knew the answer. “She saved Ashlyn once. I like her,” Maddox said, and not for Ashlyn’s benefit. Currently his woman was resting in another room. He meant what he said.
But Sabin wasn’t done. “We know Danika spent time with them. We know she doesn’t like us. Hunters could still be here, following us, meaning to snatch the box from us the moment we find it.”
“We have not known that since the beginning,” Gideon said in a show of agreement. He rubbed his temples, blue hair momentarily shielding his fingers from view.
Strider patted his waist and nodded when he encountered his blades. “I’m with you.”
Sabin glanced at Amun. The man rarely spoke. As keeper of Secrets, he couldn’t speak without revealing things everyone in the room was probably better off not knowing about each other. But he, too, nodded.
Anya planted her hands on her waist. “I’m not going anywhere without Lucien.”
Love, Sabin scoffed. He’d fallen a few times over the centuries, and each time had been a mistake. Eleven years ago, Dean Stefano’s wife, Darla, had been the last to win his heart. After her death, he’d vowed not to allow himself such emotions again. Always he drove women into depression because they couldn’t stop doubting themselves and their actions; in extreme cases, like Darla’s, that depression drove them to suicide. Love was not worth the hardships it wrought.
Gideon shrugged. “You know how I hate to fight Hunters.”
Good. He was in, as well.
“You want to war? Just like that?” Maddox snapped his fingers. “Without preparation? We did that in Buda, and you know what happened there. A bomb, Torin nearly killed. A plague unleashed on the city. You were partly responsible for bringing the Hunters to our door. Obviously, you haven’t changed.”
When they’d split up those few thousand years ago, Maddox had sided with Lucien, hoping for peace, and Sabin had mourned the loss of a great soldier. He did not want to split again. But…
“You haven’t, either,” Sabin growled. “There cannot be harmony without war. History—history we have lived—has proven that time and time again. We must fight for what we want or it will be taken from us.”
“I want the Hunters dead,” Maddox said tightly. “I do.” He was Violence, as tempestuous as human females could often be. The storm inside him drove him to constantly seek calm around him, Sabin knew, but he also knew Maddox now controlled his demon just by thinking of his woman. “I just want my friends alive more. You are rushing out there. You do not know how many Hunters there are, what weapons they have and can use against our females. You—”
Beautiful Ashlyn stepped into the room.
Maddox hadn’t seen her, Sabin didn’t think, but the man pressed his lips together, cutting off his words. The warrior always seemed to know when the human girl approached, though Sabin wasn’t sure whether he could smell her lovely scent or simply sensed her
.
His violet eyes scanned the living room and when they landed on her, his expression softened. Sabin studied her, as well. She was the color of honey and just as sweet, as lovely as a cameo. She always appeared so…fragile, which made it difficult for him to understand how she had tamed such a wicked beast as Maddox. No doubt she’d even be able to convince him to change diapers once the baby was born.
Maddox motioned her to him. Smiling, she obeyed. The moment she was within reaching distance, the warrior enfolded her in his arms.
There would be no more talk of war. Maddox would kill anyone who scared his woman, and that was as it should be.
“Hey, everyone,” she said.
A chorus of “heys” rang out.
Maddox frowned down at her. “You are pale. You need more rest. Let me carry you back to our—”
“No, not yet. I, well…I heard something,” she said, features somber now.
Everyone, including Maddox, stiffened. Ashlyn had the unique ability of hearing every conversation that had ever transpired in whatever spot she stood in, no matter how much time had passed, no matter what language was spoken. Those voices were quiet only when Maddox was near her. None of them were sure why that was the case, but Ashlyn liked to say that it was a sign she and Maddox were meant to be together.
Sabin had wanted to make use of her gift on several occasions; Maddox had told him the voices tormented her and had forbidden it. But the warrior would not turn his wrath on Ashlyn for walking away from him and listening on her own. A fact Sabin had mentioned to her on several occasions.
“Did you leave the house?” Maddox asked her, the question tight with only the slightest hint of anger.
“Maybe,” she hedged. “I know you were worried I’m not getting enough rest and wanted me to nap before going out again to listen for past conversations about the box with Anya—who, by the way, would not stop talking about being ejected from the battle at the temple, so I didn’t hear much. But any more rest and I might as well dig a grave. I just went for a walk. That’s all.”
Lords of the Underworld Bundle Page 91
