Slash is very glad Adrianna is turned away.
“No!” Della begins to scream, and the troop of seven-foot tall trolls turn to her as one. Each has a club in his burly hand. Forearm muscles bulge as they lift the thickest ends of the tapered and gnarled wood high.
“Your curse has lifted, and with your death, so will ours,” the leader says.
They move forward, and the ground shakes with their footfalls.
“Slash.”
“We're leaving.”
The lead troll turns. “You must bear witness.”
Shit.
“They could have killed us when we passed through the first time,” Adrianna softly points out.
Slash still doesn't like a bunch of males standing around with weapons while his mate clings to his body. Feels wrong.
His lips twist. What a fucking understatement.
“Yes,” Slash replies. He can't hope to escape with so many, so close.
They return their attention to Della, who's on her feet now.
“With violence, you were beget. With violence, we return you to the earth.”
Della holds up her hands. A wand appears in one.
The very thing she claimed not to use or need anymore.
The tip sparkles in the scattered light, and Slash can make out a crystal sphere catching whatever illumination floats in the gloom between tree trunks.
Adrianna turns just as Della raises the wand and points the shining tip at her.
With a downward arc, the wand slices the air, and a brilliant, iridescent ribbon untwines like a cracking whip toward Adrianna.
A troll leaps, inserting his body midair between the witch and Adrianna.
A wound the size of his torso opens him neck to crotch like a yawning mouth. Entrails pour onto the forest floor in a steaming, glossy pile.
The troll wails in agony.
Slash's beast bursts from his body in a painful explosion, throwing Adrianna to the ground in a pile of his discarded flesh, skin, and gore.
Slash roars as he leaps, and the sound echoing in the woods like a broken, hoarse siren.
He attacks the witch, tearing at her leg until he removes it from her body.
Della's wand falls, already fractured and sheared off at the tip.
Slash backs away, head down, jowls full with the spoils of ripping her apart.
The trolls advance on the defeated witch, their killing intent sings within the tense posture of their clubs, free of blood.
For now.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Laz
“Neil should not be chosen as our guard.”
Tessa kicks the door and is rewarded with a dent in the wood for her trouble. “He's just the first dickhead who volunteered.”
The corners of Laz's lips lift. “Yes.”
“Tahlia's gone. Drek should be looking for her—not keeping us until the proper murderer is discovered.”
“Agreed.”
Tessa looks at him. “Then why don't we sneak out of here. I mean—isn't the guy from the Hot Place going to send more minions after you?”
He would laugh, but not while his Redemptive has worry tightening the edges of her eyes.
Laz doesn't hesitate. “With certainty.” Every moment they remain is an additional one they don't have to spare.
Tessa comes close to him, and he reels her the rest of the way by her hands. “Redemptive, you are most impatient.”
She laughs. “And you're more patient than me?”
“Infinitely.” Laz gives a tight smile.
Her brows pull together. “What's with all this cloak-and-dagger shit, Laz?” Tessa pulls away, and he allows it, though he feels better in every way if a piece of his body is always touching hers.
Laz supposes that's not a reasonable thing to ask for, and badly suppresses another amused smile.
“What are you grinning about?”
Laz runs his eyes over her form. “I was only thinking that I'd like to touch you always, rather than be parted.”
“Moon, you are an addicting male.” She shakes her head as though wishing it weren't true.
“Is that a good thing?”
She nods.
A pocket of silence fills between them.
“Why do you say we need to have patience?”
“I believe Drek was only keeping us for the moment, to let us go later. The Lanarre prince took a blood oath; he would be a fool to go back on that. He is...” Laz searches furiously for the correct phrase. “Saving face.” Laz sweeps a palm where a disgruntled Were waits on the opposite side of the dented door. “After all, how would it look if he released us, after I killed his Lycan, and three others have been murdered where the killer has not been identified? Even though I healed the prince from damage wrought by Praile, I am not fully exonerated.”
“I love the way you talk,” Tessa says, and Laz is suddenly self-conscious.
“I am old,” he says in his own defense.
“Not that old,” Tessa says lightly, though her eyes hold heat when they run up and down his body.
He raises his chin. “I am nearly a thousand in Between years.”
As they stare at each other, Laz can literally see Tessa searching for how to respond.
Then she's smiling, and it reminds Laz what she looked like when the moon appeared from behind the clouds.
Radiant.
“You're just robbing the cradle then.”
Laz smirks. Tessa has a wonderful sense of humor. A trait utterly missing from Hades. Missing by necessity.
Thinking about his dark home dims Laz's humor.
“What?” Worry creases her face, and Laz desperately wants to erase the cause.
He shakes his head, dispelling what she saw in his expression.
Tessa takes both his hands, threading her fingers with his, and holds them up so the knuckles point toward the ceiling. “You expect me to just be mated to you and buy all this Redemptive stuff, and then you don't share what's on your mind.”
“Essentially”—he pulls her closer, rotating their hands down and between their bodies—“I killed my boss, second only to the Master himself.”
Tessa sighs. “He had to go. Chopping off his dick a couple of times didn't seem to slow him down, either. It had to be a full head-mashing.”
Laz doesn't laugh.
“Hey...” Tessa drops his hand and traces his full lips with a finger. “You have to lighten up.”
“As soon as we're free from here and making our way, I will rest easier.”
“Making our way where? And won't they find you?”
“I plan on taking measures to erase my demonic signature in this realm.”
Tessa's eyebrows slowly rise.
Laz answers her unspoken question, “We leave for the fey mound, gain safe passage, stay for a time until their search yields nothing. Then, when the threat of demonic presence has lifted, we leave.”
“Oh, right.” Tessa steps away, folding her arms. “The fey will just welcome us with open arms. That whole plan seems so easy. I remember those guys as being a mixed bag, at best.”
Laz senses his irises darken. “I admit going there holds a dual purpose. I can finally find what blood I have running in these veins. I am mixed. There must be some reason why my Redemptive is a Lycan—that I have one at all.”
“Should I be offended?” Tessa chides.
“No.” He runs a hand down her bare arm, and she shivers. “Complimented. There are few of Hades who could claim any female outside Below.”
“I know, I know. I'm your Redemptive.”
Laz nods. “Your status is more important than you know.”
“And the faeries can determine what you are?”
“They are a neutral species in many ways. Their very nature is mixed, their ground is magic—the sithen is a living thing. They can see and ascertain many things. And they might keep us safe from those who would pull us asunder.”
“That doesn't sound great. Not getting a wonderful
visual, Laz. More like we're a couple of voodoo dolls getting stuck with pins.”
“As a metaphor, it works.”
Tessa tucks a loose hair behind her ear. “That option terrifies me.”
“I would rather go with the evil we don't know than the one we do.”
“So we get the hell away from the Hoh pack, find faerie, and bust a move.”
Laz draws her in again, their bodies molding to each other. Tessa lays her head against the muscular planes of his chest, directly over his heart.
He runs his hands up and down her back, taking comfort in her closeness. “I don't speak as you do—”
“But you could.” Tessa grins.
His lips curl. “Yes, though it doesn't come naturally.”
“Anyways, we do our thing in faerie, then we leave. You'll know what you are, and the demonic will have given up searching for you.” Tessa looks up at him. “Is that how it will work?”
Laz badly wants to respond with a yes and allay her fears. Instead, he replies with the compulsion for truth, “The demonic don't give up easily.”
Tessa's exhale is frustrated. “Then why are we bothering with going all the way to the faerie mound?”
“Because,” Laz looks deeply into her pale-gray eyes, “it is our best hope among bad ones.”
He doesn't tell her that, as he views it, this choice is the only one.
*
Tahlia
She doesn't remain to see Drek mate with Tanya—or to continue to be tied up and dismissed. Tahlia is Lanarre and should at least have deference for that. Yet, she doesn't.
So she leaves.
Guilt over leaving Tessa to her own devices doesn't stop her, either. Can't stop. Tessa has Laz, though how she could trust a demonic makes no sense to Tahlia. Even if he was able to sufficiently prove his worth, he is of the devil.
And Tahlia doesn't trust the Lanarre of the Hoh enough to stay and take her chances that Drek would come to his senses and claim her as his chosen as he was supposed to—if she's even willing to accept.
Tahlia doesn't fly in the direction of the Redwood pack of the west. They won't help her. They'll assign blame.
A Lanarre female who was apparently rejected by a Lanarre prince, she would be shunned. And Tanya somehow easily usurped her position by just streaking through and jiggling her considerable assets.
Tahlia can't cry because of the bird form she holds.
She has no pack. Effectively, Tahlia is a rogue female. Not an ideal position for a female Lycan.
She finally sets down on a low branch and wraps her delicately sharp talons around the wood. She tucks her body tightly against the trunk, and her eyes immediately begin to droop, lulled by the soothing smells of cedar, fir, and forest. She's exhausted from the events and the emotional injustices she's suffered.
At the exact moment Tahlia drifts off into sleep, she remembers Drek. And in that paper-thin veil of gray between wakefulness and sleep, she recalls a single shining moment where Tahlia thought the prince might have been something far more than an arranged match between Lanarre packs.
For a breathtaking few seconds, Tahlia had thought Drek might be a male she could love.
*
Drek
“I do not care!” Drek seethes, gritting his teeth.
“You can stop shouting—I hear fine,” Bowen remarks.
Drek shoots a killer scowl at his second.
“You can't release the demonic and Tessa, Drek. Not without causing a huge uprising. You must punish the demonic in a showy way, so everyone gets the idea you're not soft.” Bowen flips his palms over, facing the ceiling, giving an exaggerated shrug.
“I hate how rational you are. And I hate fucking politics. And I took a blood oath.”
Bowen sighs, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “Fuck—Drek.” He hangs his head. “Somebody's gotta be. You're out of your gourde because Tahlia is unprotected. Admit that and we can move on. And as far as the blood oath goes, just don't see him dead.” Bowen meets Drek's eyes. “Because the moon will see your blood spill if you do. What possessed you to give a blood oath—ah yes, demon boy saved you.” Bowen rolls his dark eyes. “And I know you had blood connection with Tahlia.”
Moon. “It's that obvious?”
“Yes.”
“Lazarus is demonic, yet he healed me. I owe him his life for my own.” Drek closes a fist, placing it above his heart. “I wouldn't be standing here to worry about Tahlia if he hadn't.”
“And it was Praile, the other demonic, who injured you.”
Drek gives a miserable exhale. “That's all they'll see. But yes, if not for Laz's interference, I'd be dead.”
“We're Lycan. Were are not exactly known for being rational. We're ruled by the moon, for fuck's sake.”
Drek smirks.
Bowen snorts. “I know—you adore me.”
He nods. “I do. You're rash, and aggressive—”
“And I make an assload of sense.” Bowen nods, spreading his muscular arms. “Admit it, prince.”
“Don't call me that in private, Bo,” he says to the male he was whelped beside.
Bowen shrugs. “Hurt the demonic—slap on the wrist—shit, then release him. The pack will honor that as a wash. Lazarus murdered two Lanarre in defense of his mate, and then he healed you against wounds caused by one of his own.”
“I cannot believe a female would be with a demonic.”
Bowen shrugs again. “We have honorable males that would do quite a bit to be with a quality female such as Tessa.”
Their eyes meet.
“Even though she doesn't have royal blood.”
“That is important to this pack,” Drek begins, “though it is not important to me. Moon knows, we Lycans do not have sufficient females for the luxury of pickiness on royal blood.”
“I get it—I'm unmated.” Bowen's eyes meet Drek's, and they've gone silver at the edges with his wolf. “But this is what you must maintain for power, Drek. If one of the alpha's suspected that royal blood no longer mattered, you'd be fighting all of them for the throne. Beginning with Neil.”
Now it is Drek's turn to roll his eyes. “The hierarchy is antiquated. I want out. I want to be a male. A Lycan.”
“You were born royal—automatically Alpha. It is your birthright and can't be changed, Drek.”
He slams his fist on the giant wood table that has sat in the exact spot for a thousand years. “And look what it has cost me,” he finishes in a low voice.
They say nothing for a strained moment.
Finally, Bowen articulates Drek's worst fear, “You have to wait to search for Tahlia until this Laz thing gets handled. The sooner the better. Or Neil will find others, and bring something formal to do to him. You want to be the one, as our leader, to decide his punishment. Not that fucker wannabe, Neil.”
Drek chuckles. “I still don't care how much our pack might feel the need for justice against Lazarus. Every moment we delay searching for Tahlia, she is in more danger. Let's handle the Lazarus issue swiftly.”
“Agreed, but you can't take off on a wild-wolf chase with the pack this unsettled.”
Drek hates his choices, for he has none.
He stands, and with a nod at Bowen and a heavy heart, he makes the trek to the cabin where Tessa and Laz are being held.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dark Master
In many areas of Between, there are places where the veil that separates each realm is opaque. Fragile.
Dark Master has always avoided such pulsating tumors of separation because of the poisonous chasms they represent—a sucking void into a dimension that means sickness to him.
Until now.
His talons are gone, replaced with fresh pale-pink nails. His skin is fair like snow brushed by the first blush of sunset.
Dark Master couldn’t bear to look at his image a second time. The faces of his servants tell him much—more than any mirror. Their repulsion is reflection enough forever.
He has never
felt shame before. Now, as his kind look at him then quickly away, Dark Master knows he'll be forever marked.
However, if he can get at the Rare One and expunge her from the face of this realm, the demonic will gain a foothold Between. A measure of power that even the angelic do not possess. Like a stain, the demonic will spread their blackness Between.
That is, if he can ever regain his strength.
“Rernard!” Dark Master barks, his jealousy spiking as the high demonic draws nearer. Perfectly handsome.
Deep-red skin like freshly spilt blood wraps an impressively muscular body. Black horns and irises shine with malevolent beauty. Rernard even possesses an impressive battle tail, a coveted feature of the high demonic.
Hate seethes within Dark Master for the permanent loss of his handsomeness.
The Rare One will pay a steep price for continuing to exist and forcing him to cross the shroud from Below to Between.
“How long will I be...” He cannot finish the question, taking a look at where he lies on ground so cold it should not be a part of nature in any realm.
“I am not sure, Master. One of your stature has never attempted the transference before.”
With great effort, Dark Master rolls onto his back, staring for a moment at the ugliness of the sky of Between. Gone is the slick heat of blackness present Below. Instead, crisp pure white clouds happily trot across a blue sky that reminds him of the insipid eye color he now owns.
Fighting the urge to dig his new eyeballs out of his skull, he heaves himself upright, measuring Rernard's cautious approach as he places a stack of ugly garments, most typically worn by those who dwell Between, beside him.
He clenches his eyes shut, immersed in his misery. Finally, after a full minute of self-pity has passed, Dark Master opens his eyes.
“Master, let me assist you—”
“Go to hell.”
Rernard gives a curt bow. “Thank you, Master. However, I feel that I must insist.”
Of course he must. Though he loathes being weak, Dark Master holds up his hands. Rernard and a low demonic each grip his outstretched arms, yanking him upright.
Colors swim before his vision. Everything that surrounds him is bright and jarring, not the deep familiar warmth and low molten light of Below.
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