Her Warriors' Three Wishes (Dante's Circle)

by Ryan, Carrie Ann

  Hell, she needed to get over him.

  “I’ve done what I’ve needed at home,” he said, his rough voice hitting her in all the right places. “Now I’m here to fulfill my promise.”

  Hurt assaulted her, sharp pains that wouldn’t fade away. Why did she have to feel bad about that? It wasn’t as if she’d had the romantic notion he’d come back to her. So, she’d thought it. That hadn’t meant it could actually happen…right?

  She bit her lip and closed her eyes before taking a deep breath. She’d be okay. She’d survived before; she would now.

  The conversation turned over to their various day jobs, though Jamie was only half listening. Between her body feeling weak, her bookstore failing, and the angel beside her who didn’t want her, it was all too much.

  “I’m feeling a bit tired,” she said during a lull in conversation. “I’m going to head home.”

  “Be careful, Jamie,” Ambrose warned.

  She faced him, determined not to let her feelings show. “Always am.”

  “I’m serious. We don’t know what the world thinks of your predicament. I want you to be careful. Would you like me to accompany you?”

  Oh, God, how she’d want that. She could invite him in, have a drink, get naked…no. That wouldn’t be happening.

  She shook her head and stood. “No, I’ll be fine. It’s been a year and we’re fine. If you were so worried, why haven’t you been here? The warning’s a bit late.” She turned to her friends who were watching them with curious glances. Great, she’d have to answer for the tension in the air. Not now, no, now she needed to leave. “I’ll call Lily when I get home.” If she’d just said she’d call any of them, then they’d all worry until she’d call all of them.

  By the time she’d gotten to her car and driven home, her body was ready to shut down for the night. God, she was tired. She was always tired these days.

  Jamie sank into the cushions of her couch and sighed. Maybe she wouldn’t have to see Ambrose much while he was here. As much as she wanted to see him, she couldn’t, not if she wanted to stay sane.

  The window above her head shattered, sending glass all over her body, slicing into her skin as pain radiated through her. What the hell?

  Instinctively, she lowered her body, but something pulled her by the hair and threw her into her wall. She crashed into pictures, bringing them to the floor with her. She raised her head, trying to see her attacker, but he kicked her in the face. She screamed as her cheekbone broke, her body growing heavy.

  Oh, God, whoever he was, he was going to kill her.

  “Don’t fucking kill her,” a voice said.

  She didn’t recognize it, but maybe they’d help her since he didn’t want her dead.

  “Right,” another voice said, this one closer to her. “The master wants her alive for his plans. We can heal this bitch up later.”

  Fear, unadulterated fear, slid over her.

  She wasn’t going to die here, but it would come soon.

  Jamie tried to lift herself up off the floor so she’d be able to fight back, but hands grabbed her again. She twisted and struggled, but he slapped her on her broken cheek. Tears burst from her as she fought not to vomit from the pain.

  “Oh, Master’s going to like you. You’re a fighter,” the one who’d hurt her said.

  As the world blackened, all she could think of was Ambrose. He’d come when she didn’t call, right? He’d come.

  Chapter 3

  Metal clashed against metal as Balin Drake’s sword came down across his opponent’s blade. The sound rang out through the cavern, deep in the pits of hell. The stalagmites reached down like claws, grasping for their victims. Balin swung again, the other demon staggering back with the force of the blow. Balin gritted his teeth, his body weakening at the lack of energy, but fought on.

  This may have been just a training exercise for the other demon, but for Balin, it was a way of life. In the hell realm, war, famine, loss, and torture were a norm, the only way to live as a demon. Fighting against another demon, training, killing, maiming was all part of their lives—their memories.

  The other demon, Fawkes, came at Balin again, his sword too high, not protecting his mid-section. If Balin had been any other demon—the kind who relished killing and death—he would have sliced the younger demon through the belly. The flesh would slide around the blade like butter then Balin would twist, damaging and cutting every internal organ he could with just one hit.

  However, Balin wasn’t any ordinary demon. No, he was a pure-blood demon who had a conscience and was sick of death and blood—a rarity if not a complete unknown in the realms of hell. So, Balin wouldn’t kill Fawkes today, maybe another day if Fawkes turned on their fragile alliance, but not today.

  Balin elbowed Fawkes in the gut and cursed. “Watch your body, idiot. You’re likely to make yourself a kabob and be roasted on a spit if you continue to fight like that.”

  Fawkes grinned like the teenager he was and lowered his sword. “A spit? Do you really think they still do that? We aren’t barbaric.”

  Balin put down his sword on a nearby rock since he hadn’t bothered with a scabbard for the day, then threw his head back and laughed, even as a weariness slid through him. “Barbaric? Oh, son, we are. You just spend your time chasing girls with tails and horns without a scratch on them. Once you see your first war, you’ll understand. Your own father was known as the demon who picked the bones of enemies from his teeth.”

  Not to mention other things, but Balin didn’t want to mention those things to Lucifer’s youngest “late in life” son. He didn’t want to deal with the bastard’s wrath. Lucifer’s, not Fawkes’.

  “That’s not really true, is it?” Fawkes asked, his face scrunching up. “I know my dad’s not the greatest guy in the world.” That was the understatement of the millennium. “He couldn’t really have done everything they say, right?”

  Balin took a deep breath and winced when his side ached. Damn, he was getting too weak to even do a small form of training. He’d have to stop soon.

  He’d have to stop everything soon.

  “You know most of what anyone says about a legend is invented or exaggerated, but some of it is likely based in truth.” He couldn’t lie to the kid, not if Fawkes wanted to live past twenty—when a demon was considered fully adult and ready be indoctrinated in war.

  Fawkes blinked hard then looked down at his sword. “It’s tough being the son of the Devil.”

  At least the Devil had calmed some in his old age. Balin’s dad was still a bastard and sadist in every sense of the word. Pyro needed to die, yet Balin couldn’t do it, not if he wanted to live. Damn Lucifer. Because of Lucifer, fathers could not kill sons and sons could not kill fathers, not in the realms of hell.

  And, because of his sickness, Balin couldn’t go to the human realm and deal with the problem there. He was literally stuck in hell, shriveling away while Pyro lived and flourished.

  Yeah, being the son of the Devil sucked, but being the son of Pyro wasn’t a fucking picnic.

  “You’ll be fine, Fawkes,” Balin said. “You’ll learn what you need to and thrive. You don’t have to be like your father. You can be better than that.”

  Fawkes gave him a long look. “Yeah, I could, but then I’d die, right?”

  Ah, the reality of being a demon. You try to be good, and you die.

  Just like me.

  “True, but there’s a way out of that.”

  “Yeah, but you never found it and now look at you.” Fawkes’ eyes widened, and he ducked his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not yet twenty, Fawkes. When you turn twenty and you have to take your first soul, you’ll understand. I resisted. I’ve resisted for so long that I’m dying.”

  “You have until your three hundredth birthday before you die, right? You can still find that loophole.”

  Balin let out a breath that shook, showing too much of his age. “I’ll turn three hundred in five days, Fawkes. I’m pretty s
ure my time is up.”

  Fawkes’ eyes widened, and shame exuded from him, mixing with the sorrow-laden air.

  “I…”

  Balin held up his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I know what’s coming. I’ve known what’s coming. I chose my fate.”

  “But…”

  “Let’s fight again. This time, be sure to keep your guard lower so you can cover your belly. Those wounds are hard to heal, even for a demon.”

  They fought again, swords clashing, sweat running down both their faces. They each were tanned from the fires in the pits of hell. Balin was larger, stronger looking, though weakening from within. Fawkes had red horns on his upper forehead that stuck straight out to a point about a foot from his head, just like his father. Balin’s horns were black and curled back over his head so they appeared to flow with his hair. Both sets of horns were extremely sensitive, but hard as bone.

  Yet one still had to make his choice—to take the souls of innocents or to live a half-life, one of retribution.

  The other had made his choice long ago and was suffering the consequences, but it was worth it. Balin might have been dying, but it would be worth his own soul and those he’d saved.

  They ventured farther along the cave, the heat from an uncontrolled fire raging out of control behind them. They’d have to quit soon, or they’d burn.

  Sweat ran down his face as his muscles strained under the strength of his opponent. If Balin weren’t careful in his weakened state, Fawkes would win.

  Fawkes seemed to realize this and pulled back. Balin cursed and gave the man a nod.

  “Tomorrow?” Fawkes asked, his tone eager.

  Balin shook his head, his chest heaving. “No, I think I’m done, Fawkes.”

  “No, you still have time. Don’t give up.”

  Balin lifted a corner of his mouth and shook his head. “I’m not, but I don’t want to waste my energy.” He winced as hurt crossed Fawkes’ features. “Fuck, that’s not what I meant. I’m just tired, Fawkes. I need to make sure I can still walk on my own two feet.”

  Fawkes took a deep breath and held out his hand. Balin grasped his forearm and squeezed.

  “You’ll let me know if I can help, right?” Fawkes asked.

  Balin nodded. “I don’t think I’ll need it, but yes, I will. There’s nothing you can do, Fawkes, but I’m glad to know you as a friend.”

  They parted ways at the mouth of the cavern, and Balin walked to his home, a modest home on the outskirts of his father’s territory. Such was the life a demon who refused to eat souls. He made his way inside and stripped off his boots and leather pants as he walked toward the shower. He was covered in blood, sweat, grime, and desperation, a little more than he cared for.

  As a demon, it became his need at the age of twenty to take the souls of innocents to ingest for energy. Demons ate and drank like humans but needed souls to live past the age of three hundred.

  It had always been that way and would always be. It was in their genetic makeup.

  Few had ever fought that destiny, and even fewer had lived, because, for that to happen, they needed the life energy of more than one person. Once a demon found their true half, they’d connect on a soul level that surpassed all connections and not only would they have a relationship with the one, or in some cases two people, who were meant for them, but that connection would thrive on a loop of energy, resulting in the life of the demon.

  The only problem was that demons did not have true halves with demons. It just wasn’t done. In order for a demon to find their true half, they needed to go to the human realm—or any of the other realms—to find them. What made it worse, in order to go to the other realms, a demon needed to have a large supply of energy—meaning they had to be young.

  Between wars and being trapped in his father’s basement, Balin had lost all that time, and now he was stuck in hell, dying.

  If he hadn’t had pride, he’d have killed himself long ago.

  He turned on the hot water and stepped under the spray. He sighed as it hit his muscles, helping the aches and pains. Damn, if he hadn’t known he had only five days left, he’d install one of those seats for the elderly. He felt eons older than his two hundred and ninety-nine years.

  He soaped up his body, cursing as he hit some of the small cuts from the rocks and the tip of Fawkes’ blade. Fuck, the boy had gotten close. The sad thing was Fawkes still had years left in his training, and Balin was just too tired to fight as hard as he had his whole life.

  The temptation to just take a taste of a soul as it passed through the veil swept through him, but as always, he resisted. He always had, and soon, he’d die following his own morals.

  As a human thought about giving it all up, or because of their own evil, the veil between hell and the human realm thinned and demons could see the souls, eager and ready to pluck the ripened.

  Balin had never succumbed.

  It had been close years ago, but he was stronger in that respect at least.

  He ran his hands through his hair and over his horns. He’d never been the kind to jack off that way, though he knew others loved it. There were clubs dedicated to horn fetishes, licking, touching, and things he didn’t even want to think about. A demon’s horns were as sensitive as their dicks, yet Balin had never come that way.

  He’d always had the notion his mate would do that for the first time.

  He gave out a dry laugh. What a fucking crock.

  Balin turned in the shower and soaped up the rest of his body then wrapped a hand around his cock and squeezed. He’d had sex over the years with random demons—male and female—but he’d given up the practice years ago. No use when he’d just die anyway.

  And, now, he sounded like a whiny fucking bastard.

  He ran his hand up the length of himself, bracing his back against the shower wall, and stroked harder. An image of a laughing woman with chestnut hair and a man with gray eyes flashed across his mind, and he came fast and hard.

  Fuck.

  Whoever the people in that image were, though most likely it was just a dream, he wanted them.

  Too bad he’d never find them.

  He didn’t want to die, but it looked like an inevitability. He’d do what he could to find a way out of hell, but it didn’t seem likely. The only way it looked even remotely possible was if his true half came to him.

  Balin laughed as he turned off the water and stepped out of his shower. Right, like that would ever happen.

  His phone rang, and he sighed. Damn it, he was too tired to deal with whatever bullshit was on the other end, but if he didn’t deal with it, it would probably bite him on the ass—literally.

  He pulled on his leather pants, leaving them untied, and walked to answer the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Get over here, I have a treat for you.” Pyro hung up once he finished speaking, and Balin rolled his eyes.

  That wasn’t a request. No, that had been a summons, and Balin wasn’t strong enough to fight back. Fuck, he hated being weak, and that was exactly what he was.

  He put on his boots then found a button-down shirt so he wouldn’t have to go out shirtless. Although most did since it as so hot, he wasn’t in the mood to show his scars to his father. The ones on his back, his father’s handiwork, only made the bastard smile.

  When he made it to his father’s sprawling mansion, Balin held back the bile that rose in his throat. Damn, Pyro sure liked his opulence. The man had a fucking moat, filled with lava.

  “Balin! Get your ass in here,” Pyro yelled from the front door.

  Balin gave his father a cool look; he never let the man see anything but a lack of emotion. That set the bastard off but kept Balin sane.

  “What took you so long?”

  It had taken less than ten minutes, but whatever.

  “I’m here now,” he said.

  Pyro waved his hand and rolled his eyes. It was like looking into a mirror, but where Balin’s eyes were black with flecks of red, Pyro’s were ful
l-out red. They’d always been that way, so Balin didn’t think it was because he lacked souls in his own system.

  “I have a new toy from the human realm and wanted to show it to you before it got damaged.”

  Revulsion slid through him at the thought of what awaited the poor human. Once humans made it to hell, they rarely made it out alive.

  Pyro was known to leave the carcass or bones in the streets of the human realm to scare the police force, and any human he could. The games some demons played sickened Balin.

  “Why would I want to see that?” he asked.

  Pyro narrowed his gaze. “I’m giving you one last shot, boy. Take her soul while she still lives and quit being an embarrassment to me.”

  “I’m not going to take her soul.”

  “Fine,” Pyro spat. “Die like the flaccid failure you are. You’re still going to have to watch me play with her. Once I’m done, if she still lives, I’ll put her in the games to see how quickly the games tear her limb from limb.”

  Balin held back a shudder. The demon games were versions of the fights between human gladiators, where demons and other species fought against each other to the death. Putting a human in there would be a brutal deal for sure.

  There was nothing he could do. He could try and take her away, but he had nowhere he could hide her, not when he would be dead within the week and he couldn’t get out of hell.

  Fuck.

  They walked through the decadent foyer to the torture chamber on the first floor. At least Pyro hadn’t taken her to any of the lower basements. The first-floor chamber was, relatively, the least deadly of the bunch.

  Death hung in the air, but the stench was too old to be from the human woman. Pyro had killed recently, probably that morning. Balin clenched his fists even as his body weakened that much more, his energy draining, his knees shaking. Damn, he couldn’t save anyone, not in his state.

  When Pyro opened the door, Balin held back a gasp.

  Fuck.

  This human had to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, even with the bruises, cuts, and broken cheekbone. It wasn’t her beauty that drew him, no, it was something about her…something that could be his.