The Darkest Touch

by Gena Showalter

  "But why?" she insisted. "You warned me. I even chose to suffer this way. Remember?"

  She claimed to value truth, so that's what he gave her: the truth as he knew it. "I'm sorry Mari's dead. I'm sorry I touched her. Sorry she sickened and died such a terrible death. I'm sorry you lost a dear friend. Sorry I wasn't strong enough to walk away from her...or you." The sting in his chest proved far more lethal than a blade or claws. "Especially when I knew nothing good would ever come of it. I'm so sorry for everything, and yet there's nothing I can do to change anything. The past is the past. Over, done. Like you, I can only plow ahead and do my best to make things right."

  She turned her head away. To hide tears?

  The sting inside him sharpened. But he welcomed the pain, deserved it. "Don't cry. Please, don't cry."

  "Never!" she snarled, her hackles raised.

  Better.

  She inhaled with great force, then exhaled with greater force. "Perhaps I need to walk away from you and go after Cronus. I'll have time to think." She dragged her finger through the dirt, creating a symbol he didn't recognize. "I heard him bargain with Mari. After he attempted to bargain with me. He knew she would die, and despite my protests and willingness to change places with her, he let her go to you anyway. He must be punished."

  "Cronus is dead." And the world was far better for it. "He was decapitated."

  "Who would dare deny me my vengeance?" she gritted, her shock surprisingly adorable.

  "It wasn't intentional. My friend took him out on the field of battle. She's now leading the Titans."

  Blink, blink. "A woman?"

  He nodded. "The mate of a Lord of the Underworld."

  "And the Titans haven't refused to serve her?"

  "No. Why would they?"

  Awe in her eyes. Envy. "Because...just because!"

  There was a story there. Hell, there were probably a lot of stories, and he would have liked to hear each one. "What of your people?" he asked. "Any others out there?"

  "As far as I know, I'm the only pure breed left, the remaining Curators having mated with fallen angels, thinking it would make them stronger. But all they managed to do was dilute their bloodline and die out."

  An honest answer, though it was offered with zero hint about her emotions. Did she miss the others? Mourn their loss?

  And another question: Why did he wish he could hug her?

  Dude. Hugging could lead to kissing and kissing to sex. Wasn't like it was rocket science.

  He wouldn't be the oldest virgin in history anymore. Finally he would know the feel of a woman's inner walls. The hot clench. The wet clasp he doubted his own hand had ever quite been able to replicate.

  He gripped the tree root at his side in a bid to hold himself away from her--can't do it, can't take her. Even though he still tingled where she'd touched him...

  Would giving in to his attraction to Keeley really be so terrible? Especially now? The worst of the damage was already done. She would die anyway, and--

  Stop!

  He couldn't risk giving her two diseases at once. There'd be zero chance of survival. If there was any chance at all.

  "Why didn't you mate with a fallen angel?" he asked.

  "I already had a fiance, and by the time we split, the truth had been realized. The fallen angels were poison to the Curators, spreading their curse of darkness. Oh, and I was locked away."

  Something hot and dark shot through him. "You were engaged?"

  That's what I focus on?

  "Yes," she said. "Why?" She threw a twig at him. "Is it some big surprise that someone once found me so appealing he wanted to keep me forever?"

  "Sheath the claws, wildcat. I meant no offense." He couldn't call that hot and dark thing burning inside him jealousy. There was no reason for him to be jealous. He'd call it...indigestion. Because that's what it was.

  What kind of man had won her heart? The kind who had fawned over her, surely. As soft and delicate as she appeared, Torin could well imagine her as some whipped sap's favorite sexual trinket, to be taken out and played with whenever the mood struck. And it had probably struck often.

  His indigestion grew teeth and gnawed at his organs. "Where's the guy now?"

  "Don't know. Probably somewhere he can behead puppies and gut kittens without anyone complaining."

  The relationship had ended poorly. Got it.

  "Look," she said, and sighed. "I appreciate the conversation. I really do. I'm not ever going to be your biggest fan, but I'm willing to admit you're not the hellhound I thought you were. Which is why I still think it'll be better if we part ways and resume our war at a later date."

  "Stay. Let me take care of you."

  "I'm not sick."

  "We've covered this. You will be."

  "No. I'm telling you, I'm too powerful. You've never met anyone like me, so you can't know how I'll react to--" A gut-wrenching cough interrupted her denial. She hunched over, the force of it too great for her body, and covered her mouth.

  Minutes passed before she quieted. She held out her trembling hands. Spots of crimson were smeared over her palms.

  Snow began to fall once again, and this time, bright flashes of lightning accompanied it, streaking the sky. He'd realized the weather responded to her moods and figured this must be a sign of fear and pain.

  She met his gaze, shook her head. "No. No."

  Yes. "You're infected."

  *

  IN LESS THAN an hour, she was hacking up rivers of blood.

  In less than two, she was ravaged by fever.

  She tried to tell him something, saying things like "rain," "drown" and "minions," but the meaning was lost on Torin. The only thing he understood was "don't...kill."

  He'd told her he would kill her if she became a carrier. And he should; it would be best. For her, for the world.

  Then why try to save her?

  Because he couldn't shake the urge to hug her. Because he owed her.

  Because he couldn't have her, ever, if she died.

  He punched the ground, flinging dirt. They would deal with the carrier thing if and when it became necessary.

  As gently as possible, he plied her with medicine. He used some of the canteen water to keep her brow cool and poured the rest down her throat. But by the middle of the next day, the water was gone and she needed more. Her cough worsened, and her fever intensified, growing dangerously high. The woman who'd been powerful enough to topple a prison for immortals weakened until she could no longer even writhe in pain, her chest barely rising and falling, her breaths wheezing...sometimes even rattling.

  The death rattle. He knew it well.

  But the most telling sign of impending doom? About twenty feet around her, the grass had withered. Nearby trees had slumped over and dried up, leaving nothing but brittle leaves and blackened bark.

  At least the snow had stopped. Small consolation.

  "Just hold on, princess," he said, knowing she couldn't hear him but compelled to speak anyway. He picked her up, careful to ensure their clothes remained a constant barrier.

  But even without skin-to-skin contact, she managed to deluge him with endorphins, wave after wave of the most intense bliss he'd ever known saturating him. He hardened. He throbbed.

  Need her hands on me again.

  Enough! He carried her through the forest, heading for the clearing he'd shared with the Terrible Trio. They would fight him. They wouldn't understand why he was helping a woman so determined to kill him. He barely understood it himself. But they weren't there, and it looked as if they'd been gone for a while, saving him the hassle of combat.

  Torin eased Keeley onto the ledge of the spring. He dipped a rag into the frigid water before draping the material over her sweat-beaded brow. Her teeth chattered, and every few seconds she convulsed, but the fever never abated.

  He picked her up and eased her into the center of the pool, dress and all. The liquid rippled and lapped all the way to her chin...but the heat she projected actually warmed
the water. Frustration and fear ate at him.

  "Hades," she mumbled, her voice little more than a broken rasp. "Mine..."

  A terrible stillness came over him. Hades, the former ruler of the underworld? A male Torin wouldn't trust with a stick of gum, much less a life? Pure evil? The father of William the Ever Randy and Lucifer, king of the demons?

  Although, to be fair, Hades wasn't William and Lucifer's natural father. He'd claimed them through some sort of shady, supernatural adoption. But to be even fairer, that kind of made him worse.

  Keeley called for that guy? Seriously?

  "Don't," she begged. "Please, don't do this."

  Hades had hurt her? No big surprise, and yet Torin cracked his knuckles. Whatever was done to her will be revisited on the male a hundredfold.

  "Shh." In an effort to calm her, Torin smoothed a gloved hand along the curve of her jaw. This isn't for me--it's for her.

  Lying to myself now?

  He marveled at the delicacy of her bones and had to fight against a thousand more waves of bliss, each headier than the last. "I'm here. Torin's here. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, princess. I won't let it."

  "I love you. You love me. Our wedding...please."

  He stiffened, several facts becoming crystal clear. Hades was the fiance she'd mentioned. She'd actually planned a future with the guy. Had begged for it.

  Jealousy. Yes, he felt it. Jealousy, and not indigestion. He could deny the truth no longer. However, he would not tolerate such an emotion. Keeley wasn't his. She didn't belong to him, and never would. Because even if they worked out their problems--not likely--he would never be able to satisfy her. What he had to offer would never be enough.

  He'd learned that the hard way.

  To watch discontent settle in her eyes? He would rather die.

  Experienced enough humiliation on that front.

  "Helpless," she whispered. "So helpless. Trapped."

  "Shh," he said again. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

  "Torin?" Her head tipped toward him. Her arms floated along the surface of the water, brushing against the curling ends of her hair. Wet, the strands appeared honey-brown rather than blue.

  Will look so pretty wrapped around my fist. I'll angle her just right, take her mouth with a skill she's never before encountered and--

  Nothing.

  He pushed out a ragged breath, only then realizing the water had cooled significantly.

  Had her fever broken at last?

  He lifted her out of the spring and eased her onto a patch of grass, tense with dread as he waited for the blades to wither. When one minute ticked into another and they remained lush and green, he relaxed.

  His gaze slid over her. The color of her skin had vastly improved, the fever flush of red gone. But her dress was plastered to her skin, outlining every magnificent curve.

  Tensing all over again...have to look away. But no matter how diligently he tried, his gaze remained glued to her. Her breasts were luscious, in need of kneading. Her nipples were beaded, practically begging to be sucked. Her stomach was concave, allowing water to settle inside her navel.

  Water he could lick away.

  Stop this. Wrong on every level.

  Her legs were long and lithe, the perfect length to wrap around his waist. Or his shoulders. She had no scars or tattoos, her skin like mile after mile of cobalt silk.

  The promise of sex seethed from her.

  His already frayed control threatened to snap.

  No! He scrubbed a hand down his face, at last breaking the spell she'd somehow woven. Yeah. Blame her. Idiot! What the hell was wrong with him? She was sick, possibly dying, and he was scheming on her?

  I suck.

  Get her well. Then get rid of her. Afterward he could continue his search to find Cameo and Viola with a clear conscience.

  Like the Terrible Trio, Viola had been incarcerated in Tartarus at the wrong time and had received one of the leftover demons. He shuddered. She'd gotten Narcissism. The worst of the worst. Viola was a flat-out nightmare to be around, but she was also part of his family.

  A man protected his family.

  Mari had been Keeley's only family, he thought. And I took her away.

  He owed the Curator more than vengeance. He owed her another family. But there was no way he could introduce a carrier to innocents. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel with a rocket-propelled grenade.

  His friends, on the other hand... They knew how to deal with carriers. They'd been dealing with Torin for centuries, and not one of them had ever gotten sick. They were experts at evading him. Maybe they could be Keeley's family--he wouldn't have to kill her.

  The idea...did not repel him.

  She threatened their safety.

  Yes, but Torin knew she wouldn't hurt them. He'd seen the core of honor underneath her rage.

  She might even find a measure of happiness with the group. Two of his friends were dating Harpies, a race of females known for causing massive bloodshed...and for making grown men pee their pants in fear. That had to be dream best-friend material for Keys. And, not that it mattered, none of the males would make a play for her; everyone was taken.

  Well, except for William the Ever Randy, who lived with them, but the guy had been watching his ward, Gilly, a lot more intently lately. Girl was a human and due to turn eighteen very, very soon.

  Torin wasn't sure what would happen between the two the day of her birthday--he just knew something would happen.

  Not important. Keeley would probably protest the move to Budapest. Probably? Ha! But he would have to find a way to convince her to do it. Because there was no better solution...and no other way he could keep her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CAMEO, THE KEEPER of Misery, jimmied the lock on the back of an old ice cream truck. Rusty hinges creaked as the door swung open. She jumped inside the vehicle and dug through the freezer on each side until all of her fingers were numb from cold. Surely she would find what she was looking for-- Curses!

  Unleashing the snarl her male friends had once dubbed "Blue--she must be PMSing--Steel," Cameo punched her fist through the back of the driver's seat. If she didn't find chocolate soon, she was going to commit cold-blooded murder. Any kind of chocolate. Fudge pop. Ice cream sandwich. Neapolitan.

  And she already had a target in mind.

  "Are you going to cry?" the target in question asked. "I bet you're going to cry."

  He stood in the open doorway, peering inside the truck, watching her with his patented smirk. His name was Lazarus, and they'd been partners for... She wasn't sure how long. Time had ceased to exist.

  In a bid to retrieve her...friend? Ugh. No. Acquaintance? Better. In a bid to retrieve her acquaintance Viola, Cameo had touched the Paring Rod, an ancient artifact created by the Titans; it was some kind of bridge between worlds, supposed to lead the way to Pandora's box. Can't wait to smash that box into a thousand pieces! It was simply too dangerous.

  One second she'd had her hand on the Rod, the next she'd been in another dimension...realm...whatever!

  Lazarus had touched the Rod, too, only he'd done it months before. He'd found a way to glom on to her at just the right moment and come out the other side with her. She wasn't sure how or why he'd done it. She'd asked him, but he wasn't one to hand out answers. Or understanding. Or compassion.

  What she did know? They'd found a doorway to another realm and they'd walked through it. From there, they'd found yet another doorway, another realm. None of which she'd been familiar with. Some areas were primitive. Some were well populated and modern. All were dangerous.

  "Have you considered Zoloft?" Lazarus asked. "It's supposed to help with bouts of crying. Or so I've heard. It might help with your voice, too. Have I mentioned your voice is tragic?"

  About a thousand times.

  She closed the distance between them. He was a beautiful man. One of the most beautiful ever created; just ask him. But he was intense. And savage, and when he killed,
he killed. After he played a bit. Not even her demon-possessed friends fought as brutally or played so violently, and they had been known to reach into an enemy's mouth and rip out the spinal cord.

  Standing inside the vehicle as she was--while his feet were planted firmly on the ground--she should have been the taller of the two. She wasn't. And it irritated her. She was five seven, not short by any means, but she was a tiny fluff of nothing when compared to Lazarus.

  "Have you considered the fact that I have daggers and I'm not afraid to use them?" she asked.

  He cringed, inky hair falling over his forehead. "Why use daggers? Your voice is weapon enough."

  She knew every word she spoke was layered with sorrow, dipped in regret and rolled in sadness, thank you. "If my voice makes you want to kill yourself and saves me the trouble of rendering the final blow...well, why don't I spend the next few hours telling you all about my life?"

  His lips quirked at the corners. He took her by the waist and swung her around, setting her on the ground. His hands stayed put, remaining on her, and his dark eyes gleamed. "Why would I kill myself? Being around you is torture, yes, but it's also highly entertaining."

  Most men were intimidated by her. Her friends were protective of her and did everything in their power to spare her feelings. This guy provoked her at every turn, unafraid of the consequences.

  She slapped his hands away, but he held on to her for several seconds more, just to annoy her, she would bet.

  But...this. This was the reason she would not allow herself to be attracted to him--no matter how handsome he was. Personality mattered, and his sucked.

  So does mine. Doesn't that mean we're perfect for each other?

  No!

  "Let me go," she demanded.

  "Not yet."

  A minute passed. Two. She could have fought him, but why waste the strength...especially since she kind of enjoyed where she was?

  He released her only when he decided he was good and ready.

  She stalked away from him. Today she found herself in a land very much like the world she was used to. Only, there were no people. Cars were crashed and abandoned. Roads were deserted. Trees and foliage were overgrown. Buildings were crumbled.

  The bones of the dead were everywhere. But power lines still worked and batteries hadn't run down. It was weird.

  "Have you ever had a boyfriend?" Lazarus asked, keeping pace behind her.

  "I'm thousands of years old. What do you think?"