He didn’t want this.
He didn’t.
Darkness was a living, writhing thing inside him. It whispered, coaxed and seduced, and all Daimon could do was listen to it, to be swayed by its black magic, to crave more of the violence that had come before.
The pain.
Was this how Esher felt?
He stared at the gate, at the rings that were shrinking, winking out of existence, and reached for the other side of it.
For Esher.
Pain flooded him again, anger and desperation following it, together with despair.
Esher.
He stepped forwards, heading for the gate, picking his way over the remains of the daemons.
His brother needed him.
It gave him the strength to fight back, to resist the darkness and step towards the light. Esher needed him and he wouldn’t fail his brother. He would be strong. He would do all in his power to conquer the darkness, the pain, and remain.
Ready for his return.
Esher needed him strong. He needed him to take care of Aiko. He needed him to be there for him when he came back.
So Daimon could bring him back.
Light flickered, the heavy pulsing weight of the power the gate emitted weakening, the connection between him and the Underworld fading with it as Marek finally finished sealing it.
His link to Esher faded too.
Physical pain gave way to emotional pain as the gate finally winked out of existence in the centre of the Stadio Palatino.
Marek collapsed on the muddy ground of the ancient monument, and Valen rushed to him, gathered him into his arms and looked at Daimon.
Daimon just stared at him, fatigue beating in every fibre of his being, mingled with the darkness that refused to release him now he had allowed it to take hold. Black thoughts whispered in his mind, terrible things that kept him skirting the edge of the abyss, kept him filled with agony and despair.
And rage the depth of which he had never felt before.
A twisted, dangerous need continued to consume him. He had been a fool to court the darker side of his blood, but he had been desperate for some release, for something he felt he needed even when he wasn’t sure what it was.
“I’m taking him back.” Valen weighed each word, eyeing him closely as his blond eyebrows slowly lowered over bright golden eyes. “You okay?”
Daimon managed a stiff nod.
He looked down at his left side, felt nothing as he watched blood trickling from the gash above his hip.
Darkness continued to writhe, to twist and snarl.
To murmur in his ear.
To taunt him with images of Cass with another man.
She was meant to be his.
He felt that deep in his soul, in the darkest corners of it where a possessive beast snarled and paced, tormented by the need to seize hold of her but fearing reaching out.
The fear always won.
It turned him in circles, always leading him back to the start, as if it enjoyed torturing him, making him feel he could win Cass only to throw a hundred moments at him when he had seen in her that she would never abandon her duty.
He wanted her, more than anything, but the thought he might come to know her taste, that he might find the courage to unleash his hunger and this desperate need for her only to lose her in the end, was unbearable. It would be torture far worse than having to endure centuries of loneliness because of his power.
Daimon stared down at the lacerations that covered his legs and chest, that littered his arms. What was she doing to him?
She was the wave. Washing over him to pull him under, letting him break for air only to suck him under again. She was killing him.
Another image of her with a faceless man flashed across his mind.
The darkness within him roared in response, flooding him with a need for violence, to lash out and strike at everything around him. The daemons were dead. There was no one to give him the pain and destruction he craved.
He shoved his hands through his hair and clutched the sides of his head, squeezed it hard as he gritted his teeth.
Tried to purge the darkness he had foolishly allowed to take hold of him.
“Daimon?” Valen’s soft voice reminded him he wasn’t alone.
The darkness turned its sights on his brother.
“Give me a minute,” Daimon growled, hoping Valen would get the hint and leave him, because he didn’t want to hurt his brother.
“Sure.” Valen disappeared with Marek.
Daimon exhaled hard and sucked down another breath, wrestling with the black rage, the hunger and the hurt. He shut out its insidious whispers, refused to obey it and hunt the daemons who lived in Rome, seeking another fix.
Seeking more pain.
He squeezed his eyes shut as the fight at the Rome gate replayed, trying to stop it from happening even when he knew it wasn’t possible. Everything fast-forwarded, rushing past his eyes in a bloody blur, culminating in the dreadful moment he had let the darkness overcome him.
In that moment, he hadn’t cared what the daemons did to him.
He had welcomed it.
He clawed and tugged his white hair back, his scalp stinging as he gritted his teeth and growled through emerging fangs.
This wasn’t him.
He just needed to rest, to recover from his injuries, to find some peace for a moment, and then he could pull himself back together and continue, without surrendering to the need burning inside him.
The need to take hold of Cass and never let her go.
He stepped and didn’t bother to remove his boots, because he was going to leave an unholy mess in the mansion no matter what he did.
Rather than appearing inside, he landed on the walkway that ran around the courtyard.
A mistake.
Cass stood before him by the arched wooden bridge, facing Keras.
The darker side of his blood that had been slowly fading roared back to life at the sight of his brother so close to her.
Keras moved before the need to rip his brother away from her could manifest, distancing himself from the sorceress. His brother glanced at him as he reached the walkway. Daimon glared at him.
And then at Cass.
What had they been doing alone in the garden?
Why did Cass look flushed, her pale blue eyes bright?
Those eyes gained a horrified edge as they landed on him, swiftly followed by concern.
That concern wounded him more deeply than any blade could, cleaving him open, tearing at him. He didn’t want to see such soft emotions in her eyes. Not directed towards him. It hurt too much.
Cass hurried over to him.
Daimon stalked past her, his head turning, vision blurring for a second before the dizziness passed. He held his side, stemming the flow of blood, unsure what to do as gravel crunched beneath his boots. He couldn’t go to his room, even when he craved sleep. The covers of his bed would act as a wick, drawing more blood out of him. He needed to fix his wounds before he could rest, but he was so godsdamned tired.
His thoughts blurred together as he mindlessly walked forwards.
Going somewhere.
He just didn’t know where.
Anywhere was better than here, near Cass.
Only he couldn’t escape her.
She followed hot on his heels, her presence a pain he couldn’t endure, rousing the softer emotions he had tried to banish tonight.
Tried to kill.
“Let me take care of you.” Her voice was soft, sweet, a balm to his aching heart.
Gods, he wanted to give in to her.
He wanted to place himself in her hands and trust it would all work out exactly the way he wanted it to.
But he wasn’t a fool.
“Go away,” he grunted.
She huffed and stepped around him, blocking his path, her eyes glittering with silver stars as they narrowed on him. “I’ve seen you fight and you’re stronger than any daemon. None of them should have been able
to deal this much damage to you… unless you let them.”
The last four words leaked from her lips as desperation filled her eyes. They danced between his, seeking an answer, one she wasn’t going to like.
Her brow furrowed and she whispered, “Why would you do that?”
The softness, the concern and the hurt gave way to something far darker when he didn’t answer, just stepped around her and kept trudging forwards.
She appeared in his path again, her face a mask of darkness, accusation in her eyes and anger in her tone.
“Why, Daimon?” She cupped his cheeks with both hands, her touch too warm and soft for him to bear.
It destroyed him.
He took one last look at her and stepped.
Cold wind whipped around him, cutting him to the bone, driving ice into his marrow.
He let it buffet and chill him as he stared at the endless, frigid white that surrounded him.
Let it numb him.
He wanted to laugh at that.
He had been numb for centuries.
Now, he wanted to feel, and he was too afraid to do it.
He was too afraid of where it might lead.
He was too afraid that if he dared to love again, he might lose Cass too.
Chapter 20
Darkness surrounded him, black lands as far as the eye could see. A valley rimmed with mountains stretched below him, spotted with clusters of golden lights that shone like dull stars in the night.
Esher grinned, felt the thick mixture of daemon blood and dirt of the Underworld on the left side of his face crack.
It was old now, dried and flaking.
Blood from the wretch he was hunting.
Taken the first time Esher had caught up with him shortly after he had dared to enter the Underworld.
He absently lifted his hand and touched the war paint, pleasure humming in his veins as his fingers traversed the rough spine of it that streaked over his left eye, covering that side of his face from his hair to his jaw.
The odour of foul daemon blood filled his nostrils, rousing the hunger, keeping it as sharp as a blade.
Fresh blood.
The darkness bayed for more.
And he howled with that need too.
He shuddered as he stared down into the valley, cold winds cutting through his torn shirt and jeans, unaware of the world around him, his focus fixed on one thing and one thing alone.
The hunt.
Pleasure rippled through him again, stronger now, a drugging sensation that had his lips curling further to flash his fangs as his eyelids grew heavy. He breathed deep of the daemon blood on his hand, anticipation rolling through him, bringing forth images of the last two times he had clashed with the wretch.
A wraith.
Frustration rolled in on the heels of the satisfaction he took from replaying his battles against the fiend, mounted inside him to pull a growl from his lips.
Twice he had clashed with the daemon.
Twice the male had escaped.
But Esher had his scent now.
He trudged forwards, boots skidding on the loose shale as he descended the mountain, pulled to the valley, a slave to the black need to hunt.
To kill.
He shook that thought away, the small part of him that was clinging to consciousness, refusing to fully succumb to the darkness, unleashing a distant scream in his ears.
Not kill.
He needed the male alive.
To torture. To torment. To plunge into a living nightmare, a hell he wouldn’t be able to escape.
To make him pay.
His grin stretched wider.
Yes. Make him pay.
The male would suffer as his sister had, as his brothers had. Esher would see to it personally, drawing out his punishment so it lasted a lifetime and then another. It was what the bastard deserved.
His left boot hit a snag and he stumbled forwards a few steps, struggling to find his footing on the steep slope. A snarl tore from him as he found it and halted, as his feet throbbed, pain pulsing in a powerful wave up his legs to steal the strength from them.
How long had he been walking?
Always moving forwards.
Never stopping.
Never resting.
He had to keep going.
His stomach cramped near-constantly now, hunger stealing strength from him, thirst blurring his thoughts.
But he couldn’t stop.
He was close now.
He could feel it.
He brought his hand back to his lips and flicked his tongue over his bloodstained fingers.
Tasted it.
He trudged forwards, unaware of the world, uncaring of it. A legion tracked him, but they wouldn’t reach him in time. He was close now. He stalked the uneven terrain, his fatigue falling away as he neared the valley bottom, strength flowing back into him as he thought about what was to come.
The scent of blood curled around him and his gaze dropped, crimson eyes unerringly locking onto the spot of it that blended with the black rock.
His grin stretched wider still.
Fresh daemon blood.
Eli’s blood.
Esher stalked forwards, his steps surer as adrenaline surged, as pleasing images of capturing the wraith and beginning his torment filled his mind, driving him onwards. No time to rest. No time to delay.
His crimson eyes scanned the valley ahead of him, leaping over everything, singling out each cluster of buildings, assessing them all.
The valley was filled with places to hide.
But not a single place where the wraith could hide from him.
The distant screams came again as thoughts of drenching his hands in daemon blood flooded his mind, coaxing a low moan from his lips and sending a shiver down his spine. He tried to quieten the voice, and when that didn’t work, he growled at the other side of himself, the pathetic side that wanted to save this wretch.
It continued, battering his mind and his will with words about capturing the daemon, about questioning it, about the importance of keeping it alive.
Esher bared fangs at the thing inside him.
He wanted blood.
The daemon had taken his sister from him, had nearly destroyed his family, and had harmed not only his youngest brother but others that he loved.
The daemon deserved death.
The voice whispered.
And he would receive it.
Esher stilled, canted his head and listened to the other side of him, curious now. It wasn’t like the weak thing to want to kill. He couldn’t recall the last time they had been in accord with each other.
The distant voice promised blood, promised retribution, promised the chance to torture, to torment.
All things it kept promising.
But this time, it promised death to the wretch too.
Only if he had patience.
Patience?
Esher spat on the black ground, despising that word for some reason.
He had been patient. Hadn’t he? He frowned, a thread of confusion knitting a jumble of thoughts together in his weary mind. He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts into order, trying to remember. Someone had told him to be patient.
Someone he loved.
An image began to build before him, a figure of a male, but it crumbled before it fully formed.
Esher rubbed his temples, closed his eyes and lowered his head, attempting to coax the memory. It refused to come.
So he clawed at his hair, raking black talons over it, drawing his own blood as frustration got the better of him.
He didn’t want to wait.
He growled and turned, looked at his surroundings and frowned as a thought struck him. What was he doing? Who was he looking for? The owner of that voice was inside him. He clawed at his chest, ripping through the front of his shirt, tearing new gashes in it. If he could get the wretch out of his body, he could kill the daemon, just as he wanted.
No, he couldn’t.
/> He stilled, claws buried deep in his own flesh.
He needed the wraith alive.
Eli was the key.
Killing him would only avenge his sister.
Capturing him and bringing him to his brothers might save her.
But he wanted to kill him.
He absently raked his nails over his pectorals as he considered every angle. There was a way he could both avenge his sister and save her.
Patience.
He had no love for that word, but he would do his best to be patient, even when he didn’t want to play any sort of long game. He wanted blood on his hands. He wanted to see that glorious moment when hope turned to despair in the wretch he was hunting. He wanted to watch the light in the wraith’s eyes fade.
The voice coaxed, whispering sweet words about torturing him, tormenting him, how he could draw out the pain and see that moment of hope giving way to despair over and over again.
If he had patience.
He huffed and stalked forwards. Fine. If patience was the price to pay for being able to draw out the wretch’s suffering, then he would pay it.
Although he made no promises that he would be able to control himself when he had the wraith within his reach again.
The irritating other side murmured to him, things about the Blessed Isles, about getting his sister there.
He focused on them as he tracked the wraith.
Let them flood his head with pleasing images, ones that leashed the black need to kill, harnessed and honed it into something else.
A terrible need to make the bastard suffer at his hands for centuries.
He wouldn’t kill him. Not even when the wraith had given up every drop of information. He would keep the fiend alive. To torture. To torment.
To keep locked in a cage for his pleasure.
He would do to the male what the wretches had wanted to do to him.
His gaze fixed on one black building, a small single-storey abode nestled among many others.
His grin stretched wider as he sensed the wraith inside.
He would make Eli his pet.
Chapter 21
Cass pressed her hand to her stomach, clutching it through her black corset as she stared at the onyx ribbons of smoke dissipating before her. Sickness brewed, the knowledge that Daimon had allowed daemons to hurt him rousing a thousand questions in her mind.
Daimon: Guardians of Hades Series Book 6 Page 18
