Darkest Heart

by Juliette Cross

  “She’s gifted. No mistaking that.”

  “But expensive. I’m saving drakuls for a set of her black steel daggers.”

  Opening my jacket, I reached down to my belt and slid out one of the finger-length set she’d given me.

  “Take a look at this. One of her newest crafts. Throwing daggers.”

  He switched his brimstone cigarette from his right to his left hand and kept it on the wheel as he took the sleek-designed dagger into his right.

  “Whoa.” He shook his head, barely keeping an eye on the road as we swiveled up a winding drive toward the palace, the grounds blanketed in snow. “Remarkable.”

  “Isn’t it? Why don’t you keep that one?”

  His hand jerked on the wheel, swerving the vehicle a foot before he righted it.

  “My lord,” he said in a hushed voice. “I couldn’t take such a gift. No payment is needed for escorting you here with Skaal. It’s my job.”

  “No worries. I’ve got a whole set. And a number of other weapons made by Bone.”

  He frowned.

  “At home, of course.” I’d had to give up my weapons at the border, allowing Vaughn’s partner to store them in his van. “That’s just a keepsake.”

  Vaughn appeared to believe me, for what harm could a lone demon lord do with one tiny dagger. I still had the rest of the set inside my belt, but he was so fascinated with my gift, he didn’t seem to care.

  “But. You don’t even know me.”

  I gestured between us, my cigarette in my mechanical hand. “From comrade to comrade.”

  He swallowed hard, glancing at the little dagger, then at me, obviously in awe that a stranger could offer something without demanding payment in return. Demons didn’t know what to do with kindness. Anya would be so proud, until she discovered I was laying a trap. Or perhaps she’d be proud since this was for her anyway. He stared at the perfectly crafted blade sitting on his palm, like he was holding a baby viper. Awfully precious, but he was sure it would bite.

  And it would. But he’d never expect it.

  Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he tucked the blade inside a pocket of his jacket. “Thanks. My lord.”

  “No problem.”

  He veered the van toward the front of the two-story palace, it’s Grecian columns embedded into the building and white flowery filigree an ostentatious display of the Baroque style. The palace was a gift from the Czar Peter the Great to his wife, Catherine. I suppose an apt tribute as it was a gift from Vladek to his first and favorite concubine.

  Something told me the pretty façade would be in direct contrast to what awaited inside. We rolled up the snow-covered drive, the fountains sporadically placed in the topiary garden all frozen and smothered in white. I jumped out the vehicle and walked to the edge of the drive, looking out, pretending I wasn’t waiting to hear and smell the presence of my angel as the guard hauled her out. It wouldn’t do to show too much attachment to her. Not on a personal level. I’d have to pretend my possession was due to her warrior prowess. And the pleasures she brought me. That’s the only language Lisabette would understand without pointing out the fact that she was my greatest weakness.

  I dragged in a deep inhale of brimstone, noting the blackbird winging to a far-off tree, perching with seeming disinterest. Puck was aware this was dangerous. Not a good sign.

  “There you go, baby,” said Vaughn, helping Anya to her feet, her hands shackled in front of her.

  Redressed in her all black skintight combat gear, as opposed to that angel-whore get-up she had to wear at Odin Shans, I sighed relief as I flicked the butt of my cigarette into the snow where it sizzled dead. Ambling over as casual as I could—wanting to punch Vaughn in the throat for calling her baby—I spoke with very distinct certainty.

  “Vaughn. No one touches her. She is my property. Do you understand me?”

  The big dude’s eyes widened into saucers. “Of course. My lord. You are Skaal’s guests.”

  Obviously, Lisabette had no idea that Skaal was the outside link to getting Nadya out of this hellhole. I wondered again what her story was. But no time for that now. Vaughn gestured toward the door and marched ahead. The second guard and Skaal were coming up behind us. I looked at Anya, observing her expression, reading her mood.

  Face placid, eyes steady, back straight, she was ready.

  “He shows himself at the oddest times.” Her gaze flicked over my shoulder to Puck in the distance.

  “He comes when he’s needed.”

  She made no remark, but moved to follow Vaughn when I urged her forward with a hand at her back. I wanted to let my fingers linger, keep her close, but this ruse wouldn’t work if Lisabette or her demons saw through me.

  Stepping through the entrance onto checkerboard tile, the ceiling went straight up to the second floor, complete with heavenly scenes painted on the ceiling and white Baroque angel sculptures playing the lyre or blowing a golden trumpet jutting from every ornate filigree. And somewhere in the distance, strains of an eerie orchestra called to us.

  Vaughn marched through the empty chamber and down a hall toward the haunting sound. Anya—chin up and confident stride—followed with grace. Whether we walked to our doom or not, she always held her head high. I wanted to grab her and get the fuck out of here before it was too late. But fate, it seemed, had plans for us both. So I walked on, following in her footsteps, letting her take me wherever this path led—to death or to freedom—it didn’t matter. As long as we walked together.

  The plaintive strains of violin, cello, oboe, and flute drew us in, the melody wistful but not near as heartrending as the sound that joined the tune in perfect harmony. A voice. An ethereal voice singing a mournful song of the beauty and love of the perfect queen. Obviously an ode to the witch. I knew that sound, one that evoked palpable emotion that could rip a soul in half with song. A seraph. Lisabette held a seraph captive.

  We slowed as we entered the chamber. The orchestra played, and the seraph stood at the center. Golden-haired, white wings downy and perfect, her gown—transparent white silk and cut in a vee down to her navel—displayed a mockery of what a seraph truly was. Their gift of song wasn’t simply for praise, it was to literally lift the human souls of those who’d lost too much, who’d lost hope, and were in the binding chains of despair. Their voices could transform souls. Save souls. This angel of Elysium was now reduced to a show horse—wantonly displayed—and forced to praise her slave owner with her gift of song. Even with the palpable touch of her voice vibrating in the air, captivating its demonic audience, this was only a fraction of what a seraph’s song could do.

  A swift sweep of the room showed that every underling courtier here felt the song in their bones, just as I did. But I wasn’t fooled by the seraph’s words. I was a high demon, once much higher than that. Seeing through the veneer of the witch’s hypnotic trick was all too easy.

  I followed Anya’s gaze toward the angel standing beside a golden throne where Lisabette sat in her glory.

  Uriel.

  Holy fuck.

  What had they done to him?

  His gaze was fixed on the floor, manacled wrists and ankles and a steel collar like the one I’d put on Anya back in Berlin. But this one wasn’t just for show. This one would most definitely contain heavy demon essence to keep him under control. Demon witch essence. His wings—once white and tipped in gold—were dusky from dirt and splattered with darker stains. The upper curve of his left wing was shorn of feathers, the raw skin and bone showing beneath. He wore…nothing. His body reflected the abuse he’d suffered. Nicks and scars. Too many to count. Some looked as if they were claw marks, across his chest, down one bare thigh.

  His long blond hair hung forward, masking his shadowed face. But I knew whenever I looked into those eyes, it would not be the Uriel I knew before. All-powerful. Almighty. Magnificent in radiant energy. His radiance had been snuffed out by the obscenity of Lisabette sitting beside him.

  Draped in black silk, matching the shade of he
r hair, a crown of blood-red rubies atop her head and dripping at her throat, she was voluptuous and beautiful and every inch a dark queen. As the seraph’s final note raised to the ceiling, the crowd erupted in applause. These creatures—lower demons, humans, witches some beautiful, some horrific—were dressed in ghastly finery. Raiment of the Goth world—reds and blacks, corsets and leather, collars and tattoos—it almost looked like I’d just walked into my old lair of the Dungeon back when I ruled New Orleans.

  This was a familiar scene. Except for one thing. In my world, I’d never forced enslavement. Humans and outsiders could join the party. Or they could get the fuck out. And no one was collared without consent. Yeah, I was a demon. But I followed the rules. I indulged in excess, all manner of pleasure and sin. Practically fucking swam in it. But what makes that kind of decadence the most pleasurable is when it’s freely given. I wasn’t a sadist.

  Apparently, Lisabette was. She was also powerful, a wielder of black magic, and the favorite concubine of a dangerous, brutal demon prince. This was fucked up.

  Skaal came to my side. As the applause dimmed, Lisabette craned her neck in our direction. She knew we were there but had waited for the song praising her beauty and glory by her enslaved seraph to finally finish before she deemed to look our way. Her fire-gold gaze should’ve shocked me. It was of an otherworld, but not exactly hell, somewhere in between. She was a creature of her own making, an amalgam of black magic and blood sacrifice and her demon prince lover’s essence.

  When her head swiveled, that’s when I noticed her beasts, whose heads mirrored her movement. Two of them. Bigger than any hounds of hell I’d ever seen. Laying lionlike on opposite sides of her throne, one with his paw over Uriel’s bare foot, their red eyes gleamed, watching and assessing just as their mistress did. Shaggy gray, like wolf hounds, with protruding canines like saber beasts, they were extraordinary. Horrifying. I knew when they stood, their shoulders would reach my own.

  Lisabette raised a hand to silence her court. They did at once, following her gaze to us.

  “Skaal,” she crooned with syrupy sweetness. “How good of you to pay me a visit. Odin Shans has brought me new entertainment?”

  “Your Grace.”

  Your Grace? Christ. Another one with a god complex. Or queen complex, to be precise.

  He strolled forward to the edge of her red carpet that rolled out from her throne. I followed with Anya beside me, though she kept slightly behind, showing deference, her eyes cast down, keeping up the charade. When Skaal bowed, so did I and Anya.

  “Permit me to introduce his lordship, Dommiel, and his angel warrior, Anya.”

  I felt movement from Uriel but didn’t dare look at him.

  “Dommiel?” She tapped a red-tipped nail on the arm of her throne. “I’ve heard of you.”

  I knew there was no chance to hide who I was. There would be too many in her company. Someone would know me. The gaunt black-eyed, raven-haired high demon to her right, her advisor no doubt, looked at me with recognition. But fuck all if I was going to hide or let Skaal take Anya in here without me. Forget about it. So here I was. Dommiel, the traitor, traipsing into the witch’s lair like I didn’t give a fuck. When my nerves were about to fracture into a million pieces with Anya so close to such putrid, foul evil.

  Skaal knew my backstory as well as anyone. The basic tale, this high demon helped the demon hunters, so a prince cut out his eye for it. They had no idea how deep my betrayal went. They had no idea I was in love with one of the enemy—the badass, beautiful angel standing slightly behind me to my right. And that I’d kill every motherfucking one of them if they touched her.

  “Step forward, my lord.”

  Certainly not a request. I stepped forward till her hounds lifted their heads, at alert. But neither growled. I clasped my hands in front of me, bringing her attention to my crotch. Lisabette’s fiery gaze swept down my body, stopping at my dick or maybe she was taking in my mechanical arm—both seemed to please her—then back up.

  “You’re quite notorious, Dommiel.”

  “I’m aware, Your Grace.”

  I smiled in the way I once did so long ago, when I’d honed in on the woman I wanted for the night. Strange feeling to be giving her that look. Nauseating, to be more exact.

  Just as it did in my player days, her body reacted. She arched her spine a fraction, pushing her breasts higher, squeezing her thighs tighter, opening her mouth but not saying a word. At first. Then she gave me her smile. The one that seduced demon princes and made minions fall at her feet. But I didn’t blink. Didn’t move a muscle. Why? Because that would make her want me more. To get me under her spell.

  She tilted her beautiful head, a sleek wave of black hair slipping over her alabaster shoulder, her black gown in the halter style.

  “Tell me. Is it true what they say about you?”

  “I’m not sure. They say a lot of things about me. What have you heard?”

  The weight of everyone’s attention wasn’t beyond me. But I’d talked my way out of rougher spots than this. Bring it, witch.

  “That you allied with the vessel they call the Destroyer. The one who can kill with a word.”

  Gasps and whispers ricocheted through the court. Someone hissed.

  I chuckled. “Words always get twisted in the retelling, don’t they?” Keeping eye contact with her, I barreled on. “That isn’t what happened. I owed the vessel a favor, for she’d done one for me that must be repaid. And I always pay my debts.”

  Lies, of course. It was the other way around. I’d helped Genevieve get into hell to find her man, Jude. And she’d repaid me by stopping Damas before he took far more than one eye. But I was the perfect liar. Full eye contact, voice steady, I could out-lie the devil himself if needed. But let’s hope it didn’t come to that.

  She reached out with her left bejeweled hand, rings on every finger, and stroked the hound on her left.

  “I like a man who pays his debts.”

  “Then we would get along perfectly, Your Grace.”

  “I bet we would.” A quirk of her red lips.

  I lowered to a crouch in front of the other beast on her right. A startled gasp and some chick actually squeaked in fear as I squatted eye level with the hound.

  “Best be careful, my lord. Sheeba has been known to snap off someone’s head when she didn’t like them.”

  “Oh, the beasts always like me,” I murmured in a soft rumble, reaching up to let her smell my real hand.

  Someone to the right of the throne fainted.

  “Your spawn?” I queried.

  Lisabette was quite still, watching her hound, watching me. The fanged animal sniffed my hand.

  “Easy, girl,” I purred. “Let daddy stroke you.”

  Yeah, I used sexual innuendo, knowing the witch’s imagination would bend to me talking to her that way.

  Sheeba lay her head back onto her great paws, one of them still covetously laying on top of Uriel’s foot. She nuzzled my leg with her nose, giving me permission, so I stroked the top of her head.

  Heavy murmurs carried through the room. I felt Anya’s stare into my back, but I couldn’t reassure her with even a glance. Not yet. Not here.

  Meeting Lisabette’s surprised gaze, I smiled wider. “I’m not so bad, Your Grace.”

  Scratching behind her ear, the she-beast actually made a contented sigh, though her mate grumbled behind me.

  “The girls like me.” I winked.

  Her bemused expression moved to Skaal and Anya. That’s when I finally chanced to look up at Uriel. God, his eyes. Hollows of fury behind a blank mask, but somewhere within his searching eyes, I caught the flicker of hope. He knew why we were there. That was all I needed.

  “Step forward, Skaal. Tell me about the exploits of our guests.”

  I stood and clasped my hands before me as Skaal stepped to my side.

  “Dommiel’s angel warrior battled Crusalla the Crusher in the pit at Odin Shans. With deft skill, Anya killed her in under two m
inutes.”

  Another ripple of murmurs and surprised gasps.

  “Did she? Step forward, angel.”

  Anya did so, keeping her demeanor submissive and her gaze down. Good girl.

  Lisabette stood and swayed seductively down the three carpeted steps to our level, stopping at my side but staring at Anya.

  “You may look at me, slave.”

  Anya lifted her gaze, my essence swirling in black wisps behind her violet eyes.

  “Mmm.”

  Lisabette swiveled to me, angling her voluptuous body in a sensual pose which had probably slayed many a man, hooked them deep, cock and brain and all.

  “She is easy to control?”

  “Like cleaning and cocking my gun.”

  Her smile widened. I didn’t dare look at Anya, who was surely seething. Lisabette placed her perfectly manicured hand on her hip she jutted out for my perusal.

  “And where did you catch such a creature? She has the look of a true warrior. One of Maximus’s army.” Her scrutiny shifted back to Anya. “You captured her from a battle?”

  “After a battle. Maximus is sweeping his way through Germany at the moment. I was visiting a friend in Berlin when he crashed our party.”

  The skeleton-like advisor strode forward to her side with hurried steps, bending from behind to whisper in her ear, his beady-eyed gaze on me. Lisabette’s hawk-gold eyes widened with interest, arching a brow when she spoke.

  “And are you sure this isn’t all some deception, my lord? Gibbon has just informed me that you share blood with the infamous general.”

  Gibbon can suck my dick. I didn’t flinch. Not even when I felt Anya’s stare.

  “Since you have a history of working with the enemy, how do I know you haven’t reconciled with your brother, Maximus, since the Fall and aren’t here on some reckless expedition to infiltrate my lair?”

  I could feel Anya’s stare boring into the back of my head as the witch laid out for everyone who Maximus truly was to me. I kept my cool.

  “I suppose you don’t, Your Grace. And while I realize it’s difficult to trust a demon like me, you must understand that I hate my fucking brother.”