Oussou obeyed without hesitation.
Masaka rolled her eyes, then leaned in to Valynda. “Take me word, gel, if you do decide to let him in, make sure you get a piece of him to hold on to that’ll always be yours. Don’t be the fool that others have been. His is a fickle heart. Off to the next before he’s even left you. Heed my words or you’ll pay a dear, dear price.”
Valynda smiled at her kindness. “Trust me, I know. And I appreciate your candor. But it’s not necessary. I’m not one to go milking any coconuts from anyone, no matter how handsome the tree.”
Masaka laughed, then winked. “I like this one, Bo. She’s a spicy girl.” And with that, she vanished through the portal.
Nibo clenched his fist and sealed it shut before he tsked at her. “I see you’re going to be a handful for me, aren’t you?”
“Not planning to be a handful to any.” And with that, she flounced away, intending to keep herself clear of the loa and his scheming coconuts and accomplices.
If only it’d been so simple.
Valynda sighed as she came back to the present to find herself on board the Sea Witch II, staring out the porthole into the murky waves.
So much had changed since that first day when Xuri had charmed her. She should have listened to Masaka and avoided him like the plague he was.
But he’d been hard to resist. Harder still to ignore. It was why he was the ghede known for sexual encounters. Anytime he’d been around her, his mere presence had set her body on fire and made her want to be his.
Now it just set her temper off, even though she knew she’d have to seduce him if she were to get that damned crook free from his grasp.
How easy her bargain had seemed, but the moment she’d laid eyes on him, the betrayal had been so deep that she couldn’t face him. Let alone charm or seduce him for anything.
She just wanted to rip out his heart and feed it to him. And who could blame her?
How could he do such a thing?
“What does it matter?” she breathed. Like everyone else in her life, he’d abandoned her when she needed him most. He was supposed to be the loa in charge of healing and of untimely death. Yet where had he been when she’d been murdered and her soul ripped from her body? Why hadn’t he come to ease her passage and offer her comfort?
Where had his powers been then, huh?
So much for telling her that she could put her faith in him. That he’d be there for her whenever she needed him and all she had to do was call and he’d be there for her. Always. When it’d mattered most, he’d been nowhere to be found. He’d set her up. And here she’d been stupid enough to think he was staying by her side out of loyalty.
Instead, it was guilt.
That was what sickened her most.
I am unlovable.
As much as she’d felt that way in human flesh, with a woman’s body, she was even more so nowadays. Now, she couldn’t blame anyone for being repulsed by this straw, unnatural form that itched and crinkled. She was an abomination. Abhorrent and foul. She really was the doll they’d once treated her as. A thing to be tossed about as if it had no feelings.
If only. Too bad she wasn’t a thoughtless, useless thing. How many times in her life had she prayed to be such a trifle that felt nothing and knew nothing, only to awaken in this nightmare known as life. Alone. Abandoned. Forgotten.
In the darkness, even your own shadow forsakes you.
Nibo’s words haunted her now. He was right. It was why her favorite verse had always been found in Romans, when the Lord looked upon those who had sinned and proclaimed to them, I loved you at your darkest.
Because that was the one thing she’d always wanted most. The one thing she’d craved since the hour she’d drawn her first breath and hadn’t had the God-given sense to make it her last.
Unrequited love. One that didn’t judge. Or demand. It simply gave. Not because it was required.
Because it cared. Not because she was beautiful or dutiful. Love that came to her in spite of her flaws, which were numerous. A blind love that was loyal and permenant. That was her dream.
And it was one elusive bitch who had taunted her every day of her life. Mocked her so very cruelly. Every time she caught her breath and thought that this day, today, she’d be all right and that no past madness would haunt her, someone or something would come along to remind her that she really was nothing special in this world.
That no one cherished her. If she died on the morrow, there would be no mourners. She’d be forgotten as quickly as a tide.
As Masaka had warned her so long ago, Nibo was a feckless bastard whose head was forever turned to whatever tart came near him. Which was unfair and she knew that. They weren’t the tarts, not really.
Nibo was the whore in this equation. Ever selling himself as a cheap piece of ass for a moment’s worth of pleasure. Keeping his heart locked away as if terrified to let it be touched for fear of what might happen to it should someone ever lay claim to that icy, petrified organ.
She would feel sorry for him if she wasn’t so busy holding a pity party for herself. As it was …
Go drown yourself in your misery, you faithless dog.
For that alone, she’d be happy to get his crook and hand it over to the Malachai. It was the least she could do given what he’d taken from her.
But to get the crook, she’d have to play nice with the sodding bugger.
I’d rather have me eyes gouged out.
Nay, she’d rather beat him until he bled.
Yet in her heart she knew the truth. She’d have rather had Xuri be the man she thought he was. Rather have died than learn this harsh lesson …
That he’d betrayed her.
Damn you, Xuri. Damn you.
And damn her. She gave a scoffing laugh as she realized it was too late. She was already damned, and there was no salvation for her.
Adarian staggered, then caught himself. What the hell? He glanced about and was grateful no one had been near just then to see his misstep. As the Malachai, he couldn’t afford for anyone to see him hold any kind of weakness, and normally he didn’t.
However …
Something wasn’t right. Ever since he’d pierced the veil that separated the worlds and entered the human realm, he’d been weaker than normal. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he had a son here.
Impossible, he knew, since he hadn’t been here in centuries.
But that was what it felt like—his powers weakening to accommodate the powers of a rising Malachai.
His replacement. A bastard born to kill him.
Which was why he’d taken care to make sure he had no issue. Male or female. Still …
The sensation was unmistakable. A light hum in his ears. Peculiar fog in his eyes that made everything dull, and the weakness of his limbs. Those were definite giveaways that he was growing weaker.
Slower.
“My lord?”
He froze at the sound of Vine’s voice. An ancient Deruvian, like her sister, Mara, she was a fiery redhead. One given to extreme tantrums over the slightest provocation. Just not with him, as she knew he reacted poorly to such theatrics.
As in he tended to snap such people in half.
Literally.
Adarian composed himself before he faced her. “What is it?” he hissed.
“Your generals are here. Laguerre and Grim.”
That made him feel better. War and Death. Of all his generals, they had always been his favorites, in spite of the fact that the two of them had played a major role in the damnation of the entire Malachai race and in particular his own family. Which was why they were enslaved to him now.
Payback was his pleasure.
Those two personally owed him and his predecessors, and he made sure they paid their debt in full. That they would for all eternity.
True to their style, they entered as if they were the ones in charge. Though Mot was nowhere near as tall as Adarian, the plucky little bastard strutted as if he was. Dressed in bl
ack on black, he appeared to be a cross between a funerary attendant and a military commander, hence why most called him Grim. His Colonial-style coat was similar to what the British officers peacocked about in, except for the fact that it appeared to have been dipped in night. Even the buttons were flat black. Along with his feathered tricorne.
Dressed in a bloodred riding habit, Laguerre was even more striking with her jet eyes and long dark hair that fell in spiral curls to her slender waist. The two of them had been seeding exceptional discord in his name, and they appeared quite pleased with themselves.
“I take it I won’t be gutting either of you today?”
That caused Mot to back up a step.
As the daughter of all evil itself and a war goddess in her own right, Laguerre wasn’t so easily intimidated. She actually smiled. “The day’s still young, but I think you’ll be happy with our report.”
“Then thrill me.” He gestured for her to take a seat.
With an audible gulp, Mot sat down. Laguerre chose to stand in the large room, near the window that looked out onto the sea where Adarian could take advantage of the beauty there. While he’d been held in Azmodea—the nether realm ruled by Laguerre’s father, who had tortured Adarian for centuries—he’d been unable to see any kind of beauty whatsoever. There had only been violence and gore. Screams for mercy and pleadings for death.
That had come from his own lips.
The others tortured there had been worse.
Now that he was free, he would burn this world down before he’d ever go back. To hell with Kadar and Azura, and all the old gods. They could all rot, and this world with them.
All worlds, for that matter. None cared for him and he cared even less for them and their outcome.
As if she sensed his darkening mood, Laguerre offered a smile. “It’s an interesting time you’ve chosen to escape in. The world has gone quite mad.”
Adarian yawned. “You’re boring me. Have you found my mother?”
She shook her head. “Apollymi is still in captivity. And Acheron refuses to release her.”
Damn him for it. Adarian wished he could do it, but since he was technically not Apollymi’s son, but rather her great-great-great-whatever-grandson plus a few generations, he was too far removed genetically from her womb to have the ability provide her the key to freedom.
Rather, all he could do was remember his link to the goddess, as each subsequent Malachai absorbed the memories of his father whenever he killed his sperm donor and rose to take his place—a special little nasty curse that Mot and Laguerre were directly responsible for since they had cursed Adarian’s great-great-whatever for attacking their daughter. As such, no reigning Malachai could ever quite shake the concept that Apollymi was his mother, given that he was directly descended from her first son Monakribos.
If only the goddess returned the loyalty. But as with all things in life, fairness was a fickle bitch, who forever went against his kind.
So, while the Dark-Hunter leader Acheron was viewed as a brother, he was a brother they all wanted to kill for the fact that he was one of the bastards who kept their mother imprisoned and was responsible for making sure the Malachai remained leashed to serve a master they hated while Acheron was free to do as he pleased.
And Adarian was sick of his collar. It’d long ago rubbed through his skin and left a bitter, chafing wound that wouldn’t heal. It didn’t matter to him that Vine and her Irini friends had opened the gates that allowed him to go free. He felt no sense of obligation toward her or anyone else.
Only an overwhelming need to destroy the world that had done nothing for him or his kind. There were only so many beatings a dog could take before it became rabid and went on the attack. And he’d passed that point long ago.
Now …
He wanted the throat of any and all who made the mistake of crossing his path. Particularly one bugger.
“Then bring me the heart of Acheron. We release my mother and she’ll burn down this world for us.” So what if she killed him in the process. He’d welcome that, too.
Laguerre watched as Adarian launched his wings from his back and then took flight through the grand set of windows. Stunned, she didn’t move until Mot rose behind her.
“Um … should we have told him that while Acheron’s death will definitely release Apollymi’s curse, it will leave her exceptionally pissed off at whomever is stupid enough to murder her beloved child?”
She passed a droll stare to her idiot husband. “I don’t think he cares.”
“Lovely. Then I nominate you for the task, as I’ve already pissed off and on one primal god too many. Since I’m not the child who calls one father, love, I think you’re better suited to the task anyway.”
Laguerre scoffed at his cowardice. “Believe me, one doesn’t rattle my aunt’s cage if one wants to keep their hand attached to their body. ’Tis why I have a wondrous compromise.”
“That is?”
Smiling, she went to the door and opened it. “Vine?” she called. “Adarian has an assignment for you.”
“What’s that long face for?”
Nibo paused at the sound of Brigid’s voice as she joined him where he sat drinking another round of kleren in the grand hall on their island home below the seas. It was here he was supposed to intercede on behalf of the living and the dead, taking special care of those like Valynda who’d died young and violently because of someone else.
Those like him, who should have left well enough alone and kept their interference out of someone else’s life.
There had been a time once when his job had seemed important. But centuries of needless, unending violence had taken its toll.
Now …
He was tired. Nibo didn’t understand this world. And he was disgusted from trying to figure it all out when really, crazy was crazy. And attempting to decipher fucking crazy just ripped your brains out, threw them on the ground, stomped them into oblivion, and made you join their ranks.
“I thought you’d be off with the others.” Nibo used his powers to push the padded chair out in front of him for her so that she could join him.
She accepted his invitation before she reached for the bottle he’d been making liberal use of and poured herself a drink. “Why bother? As you noted, they’re all fucking crazy.”
He laughed at her notorious “potty” mouth. “Stay out of my head, Maman Brigitte. You know I don’t like it when you make my brain your playground.”
“Few do.” She quickly knocked back the spiced rum before she poured another round for each of them.
As he watched her, his memories went back to the worst day of his afterlife.
He’d been sitting at this very table when he’d heard Vala scream out his name.
Not Nibo.
Xuri.
By that alone, he’d known how urgent it was, as she never used his real name lightly unless they were alone. And usually naked.
Twice so when he’d reached the gates to the human world and Kalfou had refused to let him pass through them. When Legba hadn’t answered his call to let him go so that he could help her.
Because of his nature and the rules of this land and his kind, Nibo couldn’t cross through the gates on his own. As a psychopomp, he was trapped here or on the other side. One of them had to open the portal for him so that he could pass from one world to the next. Otherwise he would be trapped in one dimension or the other forever.
Normally, no one minded when he wanted to come and go, and there was no problem with opening the portal.
Yet neither had seen fit to oblige him that day.
Instead, he’d been forced to listen to Vala’s cries as she died, unable to help her. Unable to stop the ritual that had stripped her soul from her body and left her trapped between worlds, lost and alone, cursing him. That, too, he’d heard every word of.
Damn them all for it.
He’d attacked Kalfou and they’d fought over it, but it’d done him no good. Nibo couldn’t leave here
unless they allowed him to cross over.
Rules were rules.
And he’d always hated rules.
Sighing, he narrowed his gaze at the petite woman before him. She was one of the few of them who’d come here from an older pantheon … another nanchon.
Her mother had been the raven battle-goddess the Morrigan, which made Brigitte a goddess in her own right. And as such, Maman Brigitte had some of the strongest powers of any of them. “You know, I’ve never understood why you left your lands to come here and join us.”
Maman sighed. “Sadly, times change, Bo. As do people.”
He heard the heartbreak that lay beneath that tone. Someone had hurt her badly. And grief and regret were the two things he understood all too well. Better than he’d ever wanted to.
Sometimes he wondered if perhaps those hadn’t been the first emotions created by the gods for their perverse pleasure. And then happiness made as an afterthought and given only as a way to increase the pain and depth of emotional suffering. After all, without joy and happiness there to remind people that there could be relief from the agony, someone could become immune to the pain. But nay, just as soon as you felt like you couldn’t take it anymore, fate or life threw in just enough happy to alleviate the bitter misery, and just when you thought you’d be all right, it would rip that rug right out from under you and send you back on your arse, to a depth even lower than before. It was an unending seesaw of perpetual anguish.
And how he hated every heartbeat of it.
So aye, despondent heartache must have been the gods’ first creation, as it was their go-to place for everything else.
And that bitter, dreadful emotion darkened her gaze as she fidgeted with the lace cuff on her sleeve. “The world wasn’t the same, Bo. People had begun to forget me, and my powers were growing weaker every day. I didn’t want to die off like so many others I’ve known.”
Nibo understood and couldn’t blame her. That was the most tragic part of all about the old gods. If mortals ceased to believe in them, their powers faded drastically. When that happened, they became vulnerable to the others of their kind, who could then prey on them and take over their territories, absorb their powers, and erase them from existence. Or worse, they would become mortal and their powers would be released back into the universe.
At Death's Door (Deadman's Cross Book 3) Page 8
