Lords of the Underworld Bundle (94 page)

Each of his inhalations heavy in his ears, Paris jolted forward. Amun kept pace beside him, and they whipped around half walls and rocks and slid against the moss-covered floor. He saw his target, a human he might have passed on the street without glancing twice. Tall. Average face. Average build. The menacing, hate-filled gaze gave him away, however.

“Always hoped I'd get a chance to face you. Be the one to bring you in.” Grinning, he aimed the barrel of his 9-mil at Paris's leg and squeezed the trigger. Aiming so low prevented Paris from ducking, which he knew had been the Hunter's purpose. Most people ducked, and if he did, the bullet would sink right into his heart, temporarily stopping him cold. So Paris leapt, flying at the shooter and intending to tackle. And when the bullet hit him, it lodged in his leg. Painful, but not debilitating.

He slammed into the Hunter and they propelled down, smacking into hard stone, debris ripping at their exposed skin. Amun was there a second later, aiming the tranq-gun and shooting the bastard right in the neck.

At first, the struggling Hunter gave no sign he'd been hit. But when Paris punched him in the face, nose cracking under the pressure of his fist, the man couldn't even lift his hand to feel the damage. Finally, he stilled altogether and Paris rose, panting.

“Hope you…suffer…” the man managed to croak. “Deserve it.” His eyes closed.

Still, the gunfire raged around them.

Strider was there a second later and gave Paris another smile. “Ready for the next one?”

“Absolutely.” He didn't glance at his throbbing thigh. There would be time to patch himself up later. He'd have to remove the bullet; it hadn't gone all the way through and he could feel the little metal cylinder abrading his muscle.

Of course, he'd have to find a woman and screw her to heal.

Once, he would have laughed happily at that. More and more, he hated himself, his actions, and the women who accepted him.
Better a woman than a man.
His stomach clenched at that. As dependent on sex as he was, he
had
to be with someone. If he couldn't find a woman…

“Come on,” he growled, and he, Amun and Strider joined the fray.

Blood dripped from him onto the ground, leaving a crimson trail that blended with the puddles left over from Anya's storm. His legs shook and he stumbled once.

He never found another target; the Hunters had already been defeated. All but one were dead, and that one was sleeping. Three of Paris's friends had been shot, and Lucien had to flash Gideon back to the fortress in Buda to recuperate, his stomach riddled with holes.

Suddenly tired, Paris sank to the ground. Water and blood soaked his pants, and it probably looked as if he'd wet them, but he didn't care.
I didn't get to kill anyone,
he thought with disappointment. He wanted a Hunter to jump from the bushes. He wanted to attack that Hunter. Wanted to slice a blade through the man's throat. Wanted to stab over and over and finally, hopefully, release some of the turmoil inside himself.

As he dug his fingers into his throbbing wound, Lucien flashed the living Hunter to their dungeon. A dungeon that had gone virtually unused for centuries and now seemed to welcome a new occupant every day. They might as well place a welcome mat in front of the fortress with all the traffic they were getting.

Paris didn't find the bullet until a few minutes later, when Lucien returned. The warrior was pale, shaking.

“You okay?” Paris managed to work past clenched teeth. Fuck, that hurt! The metal was slick and kept slipping from his grip.

“He awoke and stabbed himself with a little knife he'd stuffed in his pocket before I even set him down. Got me in the neck, too.” Blood oozed from a perfect hole in Lucien's neck. “Now I'm being summoned to transport the others.” Even as he spoke, his eyes glazed over and his body slowed its movements.

Death had called him to action. No telling how long his spirit would be gone as he and his demon escorted souls to heaven. Or hell. He could have taken his body, but probably hadn't wanted to deal with his aching neck.

Paris sympathized. What would it take to get the bullet out of his thigh?

When he finally achieved success, his shaky arm fell limply to his side, the compressed metal tumbling out of his fingers. Strider plopped beside him, unharmed, and motioned to his bleeding wound with a tilt of his chin.

“Maybe work on your reflexes for next time.”

“Fuck you.”

His friend grinned. “I'm flattered, but have to decline. You know I don't swing that way.”

Paris's head fell back and he stared up at the lightning storm still shielding the temple. “I walked right into that one.”

“Well, not everyone can be as smart
and
as beautiful as me.”

Strider had to have the last word, so Paris pressed his lips together and didn't comment. To distract himself, he scanned the temple to see what the others were doing.

Amun stood off to the side, observing as usual. Blood coated his left hand.
His
bullet had gone straight through, lucky bastard. Lucien's body was still vertical, still unmoving. Sabin was polishing one of his blades.

Just like home.

He rubbed his temples in an attempt to assuage the on-coming ache, idly studying the rest of the occupants. Danika was laughing at—

Paris's eyes widened. What the hell? Danika? Here? Shock pounded through him as he lumbered to his feet. A wave of dizziness joined the shock, causing him to sway, but he managed to remain upright. In the trail of blood and water leading to his feet, shimmery images had formed a living wall.

“Do you see that?”

“See what?” Strider asked. “Lucien? Dude should've taken his body with him. Why'd he leave it, anyway?”

“No. That.” Shock only intensifying, Paris pointed.

Strider arched a brow. “Sabin? Yeah. Ugly as always, but that's no reason to look ready to vomit.”

“No, the woman.”

There was a heavy pause. Then, “What woman?” Now Strider sounded confused.

Paris
was confused. The images were in full color, different scenes playing throughout, as though separate movie screens had been erected. The only common thread, he realized, was the star of the show: the lovely Danika.

In all of them, she hovered in the shadows, merely watching those around her. Much like Amun. In some, angels frolicked happily. In others, demons laughed evilly. In the final scene, however, Danika stood front and center. Her left arm was outstretched—and Pandora's box rested in her palm.

He hadn't seen the box in thousands of years, but he remembered every corner, every embossed jewel, every facet of the object that had led to his downfall. Nothing about the box had changed. Ivory bones taken from the body of the dying goddess of oppression were fused together, forming a deceptively small square. Rubies, emeralds, diamonds and sapphires sparkled from their midst.

When Promiscuity realized what it was looking at, the demon roared, clanging through Paris's mind, desperate to destroy the very thing that had bound it so torturously for so long.

Smash the box. Smash it!

“I can't. It's not real.”

The demon paid no heed to his words.
Smash!

Despite the screams inside his head, Paris hobbled closer. In that final, living portrait, Danika stretched the box out farther, as if offering it to him. She even winked at him.

His jaw nearly hit the floor, the pain of his wound forgotten. What the hell?

“H
OW ARE YOU FEELING
, Danika?”

Danika perched on the edge of Reyes's bed, her head between her legs, her breathing shallow and rough. She couldn't seem to fill her lungs, only seemed to scratch them with what little air she dragged in. An hour had passed—an eternity, maybe—since Aeron had delivered his “I think I killed her” when speaking of Danika's grandmother.

She'd demanded every detail from Aeron, and what he'd said had meshed with what Stefano's men had seen.
I carried her into a building. She was already bleeding, already hurting. I raised my claws. She screamed. That is all I know.

Danika's shock had worn off, and grief, sorrow and fury had taken its place, blending together inside her. She couldn't remember leaving the cell. Didn't recall walking into Reyes's bedroom. He must have carried her here. As Aeron had carried her grandmother to her death?

“I need to see them,” she managed to gasp out. “I need to see my mother and my sister.” Did they know about Grandma Mallory? Had they witnessed the terrible event? Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God. Tears flooded her eyes. She would find them, tell them if they didn't know, and then she would come back here and stab Aeron in his blackened heart.

No, scratch that. She would stab Aeron first. Then she would have at least one piece of good news to pass on to her family. The thought failed to cheer her.

Warm, strong hands curled on her upper arms and slowly dragged her up. The dark that haunted her dreams was suddenly weighing down her present. But Reyes loomed in front of her, determined to save her. “I am sorry this happened, angel. I am.”

Her chin trembled and her throat constricted. “You're sorry?” she said, her fury blooming ahead of all the other emotions in an effort to save herself. “You played a part in this, you fucking bastard, so you can leave me the hell alone. She was a good woman. Caring and tender. Loving. Admit it. You're happy she's gone, aren't you? Aren't you?” she screamed when he didn't reply.

“I am not happy. Your pain hurts me.”

“And you love to be hurt, right?”

“Danika, I—” A pause, heavy, oppressive. “Aeron said he
thinks
he killed her. Perhaps he did not. Perhaps she survived.”

“An eighty-year-old woman against a supernaturally strong demon?” She laughed without humor. “Please.”

Reyes's fingers bit deeper, almost painfully, as he shook her. “Don't you dare give up hope.”

“Hope.” She uttered another of those humorless laughs. “Hope is a demon worse than your Pain.”

Reyes released her as if she'd suddenly sprouted horns and stabbed him with them. Wait. He would have liked that, she thought darkly, and wouldn't have moved away. Guess he'd released her as if she'd tried to kiss him again.

“Answer me true. Did you make that comparison because of your hate for what might have been done or because you believe Hope truly is a demon?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged, going numb again, so numb she couldn't make herself care about the conversation anymore. “Both.” What a roller coaster she'd been on these past two days. It was too much.

“How do you know Hope is a demon?” he demanded. “Humans always think of Hope as good and wonderful and right.”

“So it's true?” What else was out there, stealing joy and destroying lives? “I should be surprised.”

“How?”

Another shrug. “Grandma Mallory used to tell me stories. I thought they were harmless, her mind's way of coping with the chaos of her life.”

“In this,” he admitted reluctantly, “she was right. Hope is indeed a demon. A monster now housed inside an equally treacherous immortal warrior.”

Like you,
she almost said but stopped herself. Reyes had not proven himself to be evil. “You know him—it?” Her lips curled in distaste. “Again, why aren't I surprised? Grandma told me Hope purposely raises expectations, makes people believe there's a potential for a miracle, and then he crushes those expectations, leaving nothing but ash and despair.” Stefano was right. The world would be a better place without a demon like that.

“We are not all like that,” Reyes said, as though he'd read her mind. “Hope was given to a warrior like me, yes. Galen was his name. But he was a corrupt man possessed by a corrupt demon and combined they are more dangerous than anything in this fortress. When I knew them, they delighted in uplifting and then crushing those around them.”

She wrapped her arms around her middle, cold again. So cold. From fury to nothing to
this.
A torturous gamut. She'd feared this day for two weeks, dreaded learning that her amazing grandmother had been murdered while Danika was too busy running to help her.

Reyes's gaze bored into her, piercing like a laser. “I need honesty from you, Danika. Did you hear any of what you've just told me from the Hunters?”

“No.” They'd mentioned nothing about either Galen or Hope.

A moment passed in silence, she and Reyes staring at each other. What he was thinking, she could only guess. That she had to die now and there could be no more saving her? That she would go back on her word now that she knew her grandmother was dead?

Sweet Grandma Mallory. Memories of a long-ago night played through her mind. Stars had twinkled from the sky as she and her grandmother made camp inside her tree house.

Lie back, baby girl, and Grandma will tell you another story.

Shuddering, Danika had climbed into her sleeping bag. Cool night scents floated on the breeze, but they had failed to calm her. Grandma's stories were not like the fairy tales her sister liked to read her.
“Will this one scare me?”

“Maybe. But it's okay to be scared sometimes. I don't want you to be like me. I want you stronger, better equipped to deal.”

“I don't want to deal. I don't like to be scared.”

“
No one does, but feeling the emotion is good. Gives you a chance to prove you're stronger than it is.”

“
O-okay. I'll listen to the story.”

“
That's my girl.”

Those tales of demons had frightened her back then—and that was when she'd considered them simple fiction—but she hadn't let them keep her up at night or stop her from enjoying life. Because of her grandmother. When her parents would have coddled her because of her nightmares, Grandma Mallory had helped her find a core of strength so Danika wouldn't one day fall under the pressure as she had done. She'd taught Danika how to fight the evil inside her head. How to win.

And it had worked…until Reyes and his friends had entered her life. Now, she was that frightened little girl again. Sadly, there would be no more deluding herself into thinking those bedtime stories had been make-believe. Her grandmother had seen things. Ugly things, evil things.
Real
things.

“What other stories did she relay to you?” Reyes asked.

“If I tell you, will you help me find her…her…body? Help me give her a proper burial?”

“Yes.
If
she is dead. I still think there's a good chance she's alive.”

Don't you dare start to hope. You just admitted Hope is a demon.
Danika allowed the stories to occupy every available space in her mind, sorting through them, trying to pull the most important facts front and center. How much time passed, she didn't know. But when she focused, Reyes was sitting in a chair directly across from her—close enough to touch—patiently and silently waiting.

“Did you know there were more demons than there were immortal warriors?” she found herself asking softly. “Without the box, some had to be placed inside the prisoners of Tartarus. Demons like Fear. Loneliness. Greed.”

Only for a moment did he appear disbelieving. He worried two fingers over his jaw. “Were any placed inside the Titans?” he asked, but the question was not for her. Clearly, he was thinking aloud. “They were prisoners at that time. Of course, there were hundreds of other immortals locked away during any given decade, so…” He shook his head. “No. No, this isn't possible. Had this happened, I would have known.”

“Maybe your demon didn't know. It was locked inside a tiny, dark box. And I doubt your gods tell you everything. Besides, all I know is what I was told. Believe it or don't believe it. I don't care.”

“But how could your grandmother know these things…” He stopped, sucked in a breath. “She was like you, was she not? She had visions?”

Danika nodded sadly. “We've been haunted by demons our entire lives.”
She helped me deal with mine, but I failed to save her from hers. I should have stayed with her, guarded her.

That dark skin Danika so loved to touch slowly paled. “This is…this is too much to absorb,” Reyes said. “More demons? More possessed warriors?” He shook his head, scrubbed a hand down his face. “Do you know what this means?”

“That you have to slice my throat now?” The question was devoid of sentiment.

He
tsked.
“I told you. I will not hurt you. Not now, not ever.” Then, “Danika, this means we have been intertwined since the beginning.”

There was awe in his tone. Reverence. His meaning, however, escaped her. “The beginning of what?” she asked, suddenly so tired she could barely hold up her head.
After all the self-defense and combat lessons I took, I couldn't save the woman who watched me every summer, played hide-and-seek with me in the woods and taught me how to ride a bike.
Was she looking down from heaven, ashamed? Was she now at peace with the angels they'd both seen in their dreams?

Reyes cleared his throat. “We have been intertwined since the beginning of my creation, I think.”

That would mean fate had played a role in both their lives, and right now Danika didn't want to consider fate.

“The grandmother who told you of Hope, she is the one…” His voice trailed off, as if he feared broaching the topic again.

“Yes. She is the one Aeron—” sweet Jesus, saying it was hard “—killed.”
There'll be no more stories from her.
Danika squeezed her eyelids tightly closed, blocking the tears forming there.
As soon as I get my strength back, Aeron is mine.

Gentle fingers smoothed over her brow, along the curve of her nose.

She shivered, surprised by the warmth and comfort seeping from his skin into hers. How could she sit here, letting a demon touch her like this? Letting a demon—
Pain
—console her? “Tell me about the warrior who houses Hope.” She would give the information to Stefano, no hesitation. It wouldn't be a betrayal to Reyes to feed Hunters data about a man he despised.

One of Reyes's brows arched. “Why?”

“To distract me. I don't want to think about my…I just don't want to think anymore.”

Again Reyes reached out, gently hooked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Galen and I were friends once. Soldiers in Zeus's elite army. I didn't yet know that he was the kind of man who would smile to your face but stab you the moment your back was turned.”

“Where is he now?”

“I know not. After the possession, he disappeared.” Reyes leaned down and kissed her cheek, the brush of his mouth soft and gentle. “Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?”

“I'm going to destroy your friend, Reyes.” The admission sprang from her, unstoppable. “Aeron. I know I told you I wouldn't, but…”

He sighed, weary. “All I ask is that you think about your actions. Aeron is stronger than you. He is immortal, you are mortal. You could probably hurt him, but most likely he will not die.
He
can hurt
you,
and you will crumble.”

“He has to sleep. I don't mind taking his head while he sleeps. Or…” Slowly she faced him, lids cracking, parting. The room receded, the warrior becoming her only focus. “You're as strong as he is. You've defeated him before. He came for me, but you stopped him.”

As she spoke, a curtain of unease fell over Reyes's harsh features.

“Kill him for me,” she beseeched.

“Danika—”

“Kill him, and I'll do anything you want. I'll cut you as many times as you need.”

“Danika,” he said again. In the three syllables it had taken to utter her name, she'd heard a war being waged. He was fighting himself.

Twice she'd watched him exchange blows with Aeron, but never had she seen such a look of torture on his face. A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed it, felt it settle deep in her stomach. Still, she didn't take back her request.