Adi sucks in a breath, leaning forward. “Are you a sadist?” she whispers.
He shakes his head slowly. Grabbing her wrist, he moves his lips to the base of her fingers, sucking the juicy piece of fruit from the tip.
“No, but a mate has that effect on a male Were. And you were licking my wounds and body. I could hardly stand up to that.” He shrugs. “I'm only a Lycan.”
She smirks, and his hands go to her waist. “You were standing up, all right.”
“Yes. I was—as I am now.”
Adi's smile broadens to a grin. “I feel that.”
His face grows serious once more. “I can hardly help it, Adrianna.”
“I can,” she says.
Slash looks at her for a heartbeat then closes his arms around her petite body.
He speaks against her temple, stirring her hair with his warm breath.
“I know.”
*
Adi lies on her side. Her hands are folded beneath her head as though in prayer. She gazes at Slash within the deep shadow of the guest bedroom of the witch's cottage. “Doesn't it feel weird to be inside Della's house when she's out there cooling her heels—rotting.”
Slash chuckles, cupping her side at the valley where her waist dips.
He shrugs, cocking his head to the left. “She's dead, Adrianna, and thank Moon for that.” His fingers work small circles on her skin, and she shivers at his touch. “We need whatever resources we can procure before we leave. Rest, showers, and especially, food.”
Adi rolls over onto her back, and Slash props his naked body above her with an elbow, staring down at her.
“If I eat another bite, I'll barf.”
Slash roars out a laugh. “Oh, my mate, you don't lack for interesting expressions.”
Adi arches an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
His smile gradually fades, but the laughter edges his lips. “Never. You are a breath of fresh air. Vital. Engaging. I hope you never change. But I will say, I'm in for interesting times.”
“What you really mean is, I'm not boring.”
He nods. “Never.”
Slash lays the side of his face gently against her stomach. “I can't believe a tiny whelp grows within you.”
Adi puts her hand against the short hairs of his scalp, rasping over the top, the bristles tickling her flesh. “Me, either.”
“Are you happy?” His words are soft, his meaning deep.
She thinks about it. “I'm happy with you. I'm worried about our future. We just seem to escape from one mess to the other. I want the chaos to stop. I want peace for our baby.”
Slash lifts his head to stare at her, and Adi's hand slides from his head. He captures her fingers, threading his through them. “That is why the Northwestern is the most important next step. We can belong to a pack, have protection, be a part of the whole. You know how unhealthy it is for Were to not be part of a pack.”
Adi knows. That's probably the reason she feels so horribly unsettled. She needs other Lycan. It's their nature to be together.
“What about Jenni?” It feels like each one of her heartbeats are a sick thud when Adi thinks about the nurse she left behind.
“The nurse?” Slash asks.
Adi nods. “I really want to go find her. Yʼknow—bring her into the fold.”
Slash shakes his head, eyes blazing momentarily. “No. It's suicide. All that happened too close to the Lanarre of the Hoh. We'll be instant targets if we go back.” His eyes tighten. “And I'm not sure what happened to the bodies.”
His eyes move to wolfen as his body hangs balanced between partial and full change.
Adi goes quarter-change just by proximity. “We left behind proof.”
He nods. “You turned a human.”
“She was diseased—dying.” Even Adi can hear the defensiveness in her voice.
Slash's eyes skate away. “You're very young, Adrianna.”
“Listen, you!” She sits up, and his head falls away from her belly. “Don't get on your high horse. That human girl tried to shelter me, even after Jenni knew all the supernatural goodies. And she didn't have much life left. I wanted to help.” Adi hits her chest with a thunk.
Slash captures her hand, dragging Adi against him.
She doesn't struggle in his hold even though she's pissed.
“I'm not saying you're not an honorable female. Saving Jenni was a noble gesture, to be sure.”
Adi holds her breath. Releases it. “But?”
“The truth is, now there's a female rogue out there who doesn't know anything about being a Were. And she's in Lanarre territory.” Slash's eyebrow hikes, and Adi nods. “Jenni needs to extract herself. I will not sacrifice my mate because she feels responsible for this human.”
“She's a Were now, Slash.”
He nods. “She is.”
“Then why can't we get her?”
Slash palms the side of her face, pressing his forehead to hers. “Because I will not put you in a position of vulnerability.”
Adi feels a full pout come on.
He studies her expression. “That will not work, either.” Slash tucks a hair behind her ear. “No matter how much your happiness means to me.”
“Really?” Adi asks, flummoxed.
Slash nods. “Nothing is more important than your safety.”
Adi is beginning to see that Slash is really serious about that.
She's a slow learner.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dark Master
The Singer’s lifeless corpse lies motionless on the central tableau, one hand dangling over the side. The skin is covered in so much blood that the mangled fingers look like cerulean worms.
Dark Master is disgusted. His foolish high demonic servants botched the handling of the male, necessitating a more rapid execution of his death. He had no time to play with the angelic. Dark Master is not usually inclined to pout. There simply are too many dealings in Hades for which he is responsible.
Yet sometimes, he longs for a bit of fun. And the buffoonery of theirs has robbed him of his sport.
He sighs, surveying the gore. Little remains, and what does, sinks into the fissures on the stone's surface. He learned nothing of Praile, except the confirmation that a “Peter” had made an appearance at Region One of the Blood Singers’ compound, posing as a male Singer who hailed from Region Two.
Of course, Lazarus had been with Praile. Both claimed to be survivors of the massacre perpetuated by Laurent, and the whole of Region One welcomed them with open arms.
Dark Master has no doubt that the Singer told the unvarnished truth. He is too skilled with torture to believe any being could maintain silence through the execution of his tender mercies.
He walks to his high demonic servants.
They cower.
Sometimes that happens when he's been a might enthusiastic with his tasks.
They worry the Dark Master's attention may turn to them in the same manner. They do not realize his artistic passions would never drift to them, and he is too happy to remain silent on the matter. It is not entertaining to torture one's own kind.
Dark Master prefers a challenge—to employ finesse.
That is why he might be forced to surface to Between. Praile is unreachable, and he has never been able to confer with Lazarus.
He must ascertain what has occurred with the Rare One. I need Praile.
The undertaking of going Between is a horrible process. Dark Master is the ruler of Hades. He is not meant to surface to other realms.
And just that thought alone is enough to manifest stinging sweat at his temples, pits, and crotch. He rubs his hands together, and they're tacky with dampness.
“Stand!” Dark Master commands.
The high demonic who have been in bowing positions on the hot ground for a half hour rise to their feet.
Their kneecaps, worn to the bone while they kneeled, gleam dully. Only the soles of the high demonic are immune to the extreme heat generated by the groun
d within this realm.
The remaining bits and pieces of their bodies are vulnerable.
“Master...” Rernard bows his head, not daring to meet Dark Master's eyes. Dark-red hair curls softly around his ears. “All communion with Praile has failed.”
He waves his hand around, clearly indicating silence is the order of the moment. “Yes, thank you, Rernard. That is why I must vacate Below for Between.”
The howls and tribulations the lowly demonic beat and torture from those deserving souls who end up in Hades begin to fade with this new proclamation.
“I will make you in charge of Hades in my stead.”
Rernard’s deep eye color, very like obsidian metal, shines back at Dark Master in the gloom, Thin, opaque skin like paper covers Rernard's healing kneecaps. He drops to his knees, cringing as the hot floor burns the brand-new flesh off a second time. “Master, I have already failed you once. I cannot do so again.”
“Stand.”
Rernard presses his palms to the floor and heaves himself upright. Fresh blood dampens his palms, the flesh of his knees bleeds—the bone like broken eggshells.
“You know what will occur if you fail me in this, Rernard.”
As he gives a quick series of jerky nods, the horns atop his head, which match his unusual eye color, catch the light.
Rernard is a handsome high demonic specimen. Not like the ugly duckling of Dark Master's servants, Lazarus.
“And what of Lazarus?” he inquires.
Rernard gives him sharp eyes then flicks his gaze away. “No one can ever reach Lazarus, Master. You know his mixed blood blocks many things.”
Dark Master cups his chin, lightly tapping a talon against the hot flesh of his jaw. “Yes,” he agrees in curt reply. Lazarus is already so disadvantaged in looks, Dark Master does not wish to think of more prejudice to heap upon him. After all, Lazarus has done much to advance within the hierarchy of Hades. Most of it horribly fitting.
“Master, what if you do not return?”
Rernard's Adam's apple bobs.
“If I cannot commune with Praile, I must do the job myself. You understand the importance of my work, Rernard.”
He nods again, but Dark Master can see from his expression that he does not fully appreciate the position Praile's put them in—all of Hades.
“You cannot ascend, Master. Our Dark Master cannot go Between.”
“I can if I take certain measures.”
Horror flows over Rernard's expression. “Are you thinking of—”
He meets Rernard's eyes. “Yes.”
“But you will be maimed forever.”
“Yes.”
They turn their attention to the fallen angelic on the tableau. “Ready his blood,” he instructs in a bald voice.
Rernard thinks to touch him.
Dark Master stares at the other demonic's fingers upon the flesh of his arm until he removes his hand. Dark Master can still feel the ghost of his servant's talons on his body. “Do it.”
Seconds pound between them.
Then Rernard says, “As you command, Master.”
*
Dark Master has no voice left with which to scream. His vocal chords have grown hoarse from the many times he shrieked during the process to ascend.
He can merely whisper. “Come,” he croaks to Rernard. And though the call is whisper-thin, little more than breath and heat, like all high demonic, Rernard possesses excellent hearing. He moves with great reluctance to the soft bed of feathers that Dark Master rests upon. The feathers are from angel's wings.
The procurement of such from Above is truly dangerous. Yet nothing is softer. Nothing promotes greater healing.
Dark Master sleeps on a bed of angel's feathers each night. Though he does not require food, he must be at rest for a few hours each Hades day. Rejuvenation is critical.
Dark Master dreams while he slumbers. He dreams of beautifully violent scenarios.
Many of which involve the Rare One.
But he must bide his time. The transfusion of angelic blood into his body was a most unpleasant experience.
He burst all the minute blood vessels of his face screaming—no begging—for a hiatus from the misery.
None came, for he'd thoroughly explained what would occur if Rernard did not complete the metamorphosis.
True Death. Eternal death. The type of demise reserved for the heinous who dwelt in Between during their time alive.
Dark Master offered his high demonic the eternal licking by fire while falling, yet never landing. For eternity.
Rernard was uninterested in that option.
He can feel his lips curl, remembering Rernard's expression. It had been a mix of terror and trying not to show it.
Dark Master attempts to sit up.
Rernard rushes forward as though he might assist.
“Touch me and die.”
Rernard halts.
Dark Master gives him a searing look.
Rernard's beautiful red skin splits wherever his eyes touch him.
“Please, Master,” Rernard pleads, his newly torn skin oozing and weeping black blood, “I have done all that you asked.”
True.
“Bring me a hand mirror.”
Rernard cringes, quickly looking away at what must be the horrible sight of what he has become.
“Are you sure?”
Dark Master's eyes narrow. “Do I look unsure?”
“No.” Rernard vigorously shakes his head.
“Fetch it to me then.”
Rernard races off, and Dark Master scans the parts of his body he can see.
Smooth flesh like alabaster greets him. Pure, white. Disgusting.
Dark Master shuts his eyes tightly. I shall not be vain.
Rernard's hurried footsteps return.
Keeping a good distance, he extends his arm away from his body, the hand mirror barely gripped between his fingers so as that his body is not too close to Dark Master and his metamorphosis.
The image in the mirror will be irrefutable proof.
Ones from Above cannot sully themselves with blood from the demonic and hope to survive. He who shall never be mentioned has given that assurance to those who are in league with Him.
However, the demonic, though completely altered physically, can withstand the process.
Though it is a permanent one. There are no “take backs,” as the humans from Between would have them believe. There is only forever.
Whatever the image in the mirror, Dark Master must live with it for eternity.
He yanks the mirror from Rernard's lifeless grip and flips it over.
With supreme restraint, he begins to raise the heavy glass.
Dark Master tells Rernard that looks are not important, that succeeding in one's duties is more important than the beauty of black irises, ruby hair, and horns. More important than having a magnificent battle tail.
Then he sees what he looks like.
Dark Master rears his head back and roars his grief into the tombs of Below.
The sound reverberates back to him like a boomerang, his grief sent home like a well-aimed sucker punch.
Being ugly forever will give him even more motivation to kill the Rare One.
And if there is one thing that isn't lacking in Hades, it is motivation for wrongdoing.
He opens his fingers, and the mirror falls, shattering into a million tiny shards of reflective crystal on the smoldering floor.
Dark Master orders all mirrors share the same fate as the one reflecting his ugliness.
Before the hour is through, glass is melting everywhere it once hung.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tessa
Tessa's heat flares, momentarily stealing her breath.
It's been an entire day, and already, her cycle is building again. She squeezes Laz's hand, and he squeezes back. His unhurried study of the great house's interior of the Lanarre prince does not affect him in the least.
Tessa is in awe.
&nb
sp; Her eyes run over all the lavish details that are like icing on a cake. Huge, old-growth Douglas fir timbers anchor all the load-bearing points throughout the ceilings, which are higher than fifteen feet.
She cranes her neck, fingers nervously trailing over the back of Laz's hand.
He remains stoic and seemingly unafraid. While Tessa is sure that they've been given a respite—only to have to fight their way out of the Lanarre Hoh pack.
Tessa's afraid. Not in the way she was for the two decades that Tramack pursued her. No. It’s not the adrenaline-fueled fight-or-flight instinct that clung to her body as she hopped from one location to the other, but a deep-seated fear arising from her time as whelp. Every whelpling is taught about the Lanarre from the moment they can change. They are Lycan Royalty.
Supreme Were. The ones who set the boundaries, limits and laws for all Lycankind.
Now here her and Laz sit, as though judgement's already been passed. The only thing that serves as a distraction is Tanya, the imposter.
She sashays around the room as though she owns it.
What a bitch.
Tessa bites her lip. She and Laz don't need to make any waves. As it stands, every pair of Lycan eyes that fall on them is filled with disdain.
Some hold envy. Tessa doesn't like that combo. It doesn't bode well.
“You're going to let Tessa leave with that demon, Drek?” Tanya purrs, her ripe body pressing up against Drek.
Oh, what Tessa wouldn't do to for an ability to barf on demand.
Right on Tanya's tootsies.
Laz sits up straighter, as though aware of her train of thought.
A low growl seeps from between the lips of a Were she can't identify. Tessa breathes deeply, trying to calm down. Normally, her emotions wouldn't be so close to the surface, but with heat riding her... all bets are off.
Drek frowns at Tanya, his eyes raking over her curvaceous form. He physically removes her from him.
Tessa gazes at the rough slate floor that borders the sunken living room, so no one sees her smile.
Warmth from a roaring fire in the massive, all river-rock fireplace chases away the chill.
Lazarus doesn't seem to mind the heat.
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