The Darkest Secret (17 page)

Strider snatched the phone out of William's hand and started dialing. Yeah, Maddox—like every other warrior—was on speed dial, but Strider didn't know the order Paris had them listed and he didn't want to ask. If Strider wasn't first, he didn't want to challenge the bastard to fix the mistake.

A few seconds later, Strider realized he'd dialed the wrong number because some dumb kid answered with a “What's up, yo?”

Strider quickly hung up and tried again, carefully pecking at the keys. After the first ring, he switched to speaker.

Maddox answered a few seconds later, his voice raspy with the force of his panting. “Something wrong, Paris?”

William and Paris were on the edges of their seats, peering over at Strider with utter glee. He hadn't seen either warrior that happy or relaxed in a long time, and he realized they had needed this vacation as much as he had.

Strider blew into the mouthpiece, then moaned as if he were buried deep inside a woman's body. He tried not to grin.

“Paris?” Maddox asked, confused. “You there? You okay?”

Both warriors tried to cut off their laughs, smashing their knuckles into their mouths, but snorts managed to escape.

“You naked, big boy?” Strider asked in his best imitation of an aroused female. “Because I am.”

More snorting followed his words.

“Strider? And don't try to deny it. I recognize your voice. What the hell are you doing with Paris's phone? I thought you were in Rome. And furthermore, what the hell does it matter if I'm naked or not? You have exactly two seconds to explain or I'm going to reach through the line, rip your tongue out of your mouth and—”

There was a pause, static, a muttered, “Give me that,” by an indignant female. Then the normally quiet and reserved Ashlyn was demanding, “Did you just drunk dial my husband?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Strider said, and the other two finally burst into laughter, falling back in their chairs, their bodies shaking with the force of their mirth. “A guy's gotta have some fun. Even if it's the fun he puts in his own funeral. So is he? Naked, I mean.”

“No, for your information, he is not. He's working out. I, uh, kind of incited him to rage so he's beating the crap out of a brick wall.”

The laughter continued for several minutes, until even Ashlyn was chortling. “You boys are incorrigible. This isn't funny! He'll probably destroy the other wall when we hang up.”

“Good. He needed to get out of bed and finally do something besides—” Strider stopped himself before he said something else Maddox would rage over.

“Besides pleasuring me?” Ashlyn finished for him, anyway. “You'll change your mind when you next see him. Lately, he's a nervous wreck about the babies. He's picking fights with everyone he meets and has even been arrested. Twice. We're going to make our way back to the fortress in the next week or so. He needs you guys. Because, and
please don't laugh when I tell you this, if we're alone much longer I'm going to murder him in his sleep.”

Strider chuckled. “Bet you're wishing you hadn't saved him from his death curse.” Once upon a time, Reyes had been forced to murder Maddox every night and Lucien had been forced to escort his soul to hell. Ashlyn managed to reverse the curse, sparing them all.

“A little peace and quiet isn't too much to ask for, you know?” she said loudly. Then, in a softer tone, she added, “So everyone's good?”

“Don't be nice to them,” Maddox barked in the background. “You need your rest, and they interrupted.”

“Oh, hush,” she replied. “If you had your way, I'd be resting every minute of every day. And like I can really rest while we're outside, in the middle of town, while you destroy another building. Besides, I miss them and want to talk to them.”

That shut Maddox up. He could deny his precious Ashlyn nothing.

“We're great. Me, Willie and Paris are on vacation. Together,” Strider added. He relaxed against his lounge, his free hand anchored under his head, wondering if he'd ever have such an easy relationship with a woman. “
You
guys good? No trouble lately?”

“Besides Maddox's temper? Not even a hint of it.”

He didn't ask where they were or what, exactly, they were doing. Besides destroying public property. He didn't want to know. Ignorance was bliss. Besides that, if Hunters ever managed to pull their heads out of their asses and capture him, he wouldn't have any secrets to spill.

Secrets. Amun. Ex.

His jaw clenched.
You weren't going to think about them, remember?
“How are Stride and Stridette?” Friend that he was, he'd taken the massive burden of picking names for the twins upon himself.

“He's means Liam and Liama,” William called, but a shadow then passed over his features, his grin fading.

“Madd and Madder are kicking like professional soccer players,” she replied, her voice softening with love and affection. “I swear, we're gonna have our hands full when they finally get here.”

“By the way, you've ruined a perfectly good prank call with all this baby talk, Ash,” William scolded her.

“Seriously,” Paris said with a nod.

She laughed with unvarnished delight. “No more than you deserve, boys.”

“Hang up the phone, woman,” Maddox suddenly said, grim. “Someone's coming.”

“Uh-oh. I have to go now,” she said and hung up before anyone could reply.

Strider tossed the phone to Paris, who missed. “Think they're in trouble?”

“Nah,” Paris said, plucking the device before William could. “The someone who's coming is probably Maddox himself.”

“Yeah, he's probably dragging her back to wherever they're staying so he can make a prank call of his own,” William said, adding, “on her body.”

Before Defeat could throw in his own supposition, Strider changed the subject. “So now what are we going to do?” Out of habit, he scanned his surroundings.

The girls were watching them, he realized, confused by their amusement but clearly charmed by it. They were wearing dreamy expressions, as if they were already planning a triple wedding.

“I guess we could grab a female or two and head to our bedrooms.” Paris didn't sound enthused by the prospect. At least he wasn't going to deny himself his daily dose, though.

“Yeah,” William replied, and he actually sounded depressed.

Strider knew Paris's problem. The woman he had desired above all others, the first woman he'd ever been able to have sex with more than once, had died in his arms, gunned down by her own people. Hunters. Like Ex.

This time, Strider didn't even attempt to cut off his thoughts of her. Yet. Had she been among the shooters? Probably. There was no bitch more coldhearted. Literally. He'd never met anyone whose body was as cold as that girl's—except those he'd sent to the morgue, of course. Like he'd once sent Ex.

Was she cold because she was still dead? Was she akin to the walking dead?

The possibility was worth considering. Later. Right now, he wanted to figure out William's unusual somberness. A much safer topic. Was there someone the warrior wanted but couldn't have? Someone he'd lost? Was that why he was so hands-off when he used to be a worse degenerate than Strider? Seriously, he hadn't touched a single stripper. Not even to slap a rump.

“So am I the only one who sees the dead girl at Paris's feet or what?” William asked conversationally.

Strider and Paris stiffened in unison. Dead girl?

Strider was the first to find his voice. “What do you mean?” He looked, hard, but saw no hint of a dead…anything.

“Is this a joke?” Paris demanded, and there was no denying the menace in his voice.

“No joke, I swear.” William held up his hands, all innocence. “She showed up a few minutes ago and just kinda threw herself on the ground beside your chair. Dude, she's got her hands wrapped around your ankle.” His gaze remained in the same spot, as if he were studying her.
“She's got dark hair and dirt-smudged skin. Or maybe those are freckles. She's wearing a ripped white robe and black wings are growing out of her back. Ohhh, she's got nice hands. Look at those things. I bet she does all kinds of naughty things with them.”

Paris was on his feet a second later, wild gaze darting over the concrete surrounding his chair. “Where is she? Where, damn it?”

A frowning William pointed at the exact spot Paris was standing. “You're on top of her. Hey, girl. Girl. I don't think he can see you. Or feel you. I don't think grabbing on to him like that is gonna help you.”

Paris jumped back and, with an urgent moan, fell to his knees, patting the area in question as if he were putting out a fire. “I don't feel her. Are you sure she's here?” Desperate, uttered in a rush.

“Uh, yeah.” William's brow furrowed several seconds before smoothing out as comprehension dawned. “I guess I never told you guys, but I see dead people. Oh, and look. There's Cronus.”

Cronus, the god king. Strider's eyes widened, but he saw no bright light to announce the sovereign's sudden appearance. All remained as it was. No, not true. Paris had stiffened, fury bathing his face, his teeth bared in a fearsome scowl.

Cronus had given them medallions to hide them from the gods, but had since taken them back, saying the Lords had abused them. Meaning, Cronus wanted to know where they were at all times. Here was proof.

“Hey, buddy. How you doing?” William waved. “You taking the girl?” Pause. “Wow, you're brave. Doesn't look like she wants to leave with you.” Another pause. He didn't seem to care that he was having a conversation with himself. “Okay, then, but go easy on her. I think Paris likes her. Well, bye.” He waved again.

Paris listened, growing more and more agitated. At the “bye,” he launched himself at William, his roar shattering the ease of the night.

H
AIDEE FOUGHT THROUGH THE
thick, black cloud in her mind, hearing grunts, groans and hisses in the distance. Heavy eyelids blinked open, and through a misty haze she saw a tall, muscled warrior standing over her, a solid leg on each side of her hips. Amun. Her sweet Amun.

He slashed his serrated daggers with swift proficiency, his wrists arcing as his hands overlapped, quickly sailing apart and nailing a target. Or several targets at the same time. Thin, scaled bodies—snakes, she thought groggily—fell all around her, crimson rivers flowing under her. In death, their red eyes were fixed on her, their fangs forever bared but useless.

Those bodies continued to rain as Amun continued to slash, and a more fantastical display of male aggression and skill she'd never seen. But no matter how many reptiles he killed, more flew from the tangle of limbs, desperate to bite him. Many had already succeeded. His arms were covered with tiny punctures, his own blood dripping and blending with theirs.

None of the snakes had reached her, however. Every time one of them angled in her direction, either from in front or behind, he noticed and attacked. He protected her, even though he left his sides wide open to do so, allowing several other sets of fangs to sink deep.

She should help, do something, anything, but her limbs refused to obey her command to move. She drew in a deep breath—the air, so sweet, so pungent—trying to find
her center, trying to tap into a reservoir of strength. Only lethargy greeted her.

Amun was panting, sweating, probably tiring and definitely needing her to do—her eyes were closing again…
open, damn it
…closing…thoughts fragmenting…darkness.

 

T
HE NEXT TIME
H
AIDEE
managed to pry open her eyelids, she saw wide, rocky walls painted red with blood and depicting horrific images that blurred at her sides as she…floated? Even from the swift glimpses she was afforded, she managed to spot three stabbings, two rapes and countless burnings.

Worse than the images, however, she saw an actual human body hanging from the domed ceiling, crows eating at its rotting flesh. What. The. Hell?

Hell. The word echoed in her mind, rousing her memory. She had entered hell with Amun. Her dream man. Her enemy. Her obsession.

Her head felt too heavy to turn even the barest inch, so she moved her gaze instead—and found herself peering up at his beautiful dark skin. He cradled her in his arms, his chest littered with tiny, seeping holes. He stared straight ahead, his chin jutting stubbornly, his lips pressed into a thin, mutinous line.

He must be in pain, she thought, yet he carried her with careful, easy steps, doing his best not to jostle her. Such tenderness…such a darling man.

Would she ever figure him out?

She tried to open her mouth to thank him, to apologize for not aiding him in the Realm of Snakes, for actually hindering him, but no words emerged. Her lips refused to even part, lethargy still pumping through her at an alarming rate. Damn it. She owed him
something
.

He must have sensed her internal struggle, though he
never looked down, never slowed his gait.
Easy now,
he said, that husky voice wisping through her mind.
Don't try to talk. Sleep, heal.

That. She could give him that. Obedience, just this once. Or again. With him, the lines had always been blurred. She closed her eyes and let the darkness once again consume her.

 

H
AIDEE STRETCHED HER ARMS
over her head, back arching, legs kicking out. In the back of her mind, she knew she'd grown used to hard, twig-laden ground, cramped cells and general discomfort. But, oh, not this time. The mattress beneath her was soft and smelled deliciously of peat smoke and flowers. And sweet Lord above, she heard a crackling fire, felt wave after wave of delicious heat caressing her skin.

Only two things marred the luxury of the moment. A dull headache throbbing in her temples, and a gnawing sense of emptiness in her stomach. Both demanded attention. Now. She blinked open her eyes, taking stock. She was sprawled on her side, lying on a bed of soft, colorful petals. Inside a murky, barren cave. Had Amun picked the flowers from the forest and brought them here, just to ensure her comfort?

Amun.

She jolted upright, heartbeat accelerating with gratitude, delight and awareness. So much awareness. He sat only a few inches away, within striking distance. Perhaps he was coming to trust her. A fire blazed in front of him, creating a symphony of music and heat. His bare back was to her. As she'd noticed before, he bore no tattoos, no scars. She saw only the ridges of his spine and a wide span of muscle and scabs. From the snakes, she realized. The snakes he'd saved her from.

“Where are we?” she asked, surprised by the raw quality of her voice.

He didn't move, didn't even twitch with alarm at the sudden interruption.
We're between realms, I think. We're safe, though. I scouted ahead, and there's nothing and no one for miles.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything.”

He nodded.
You have to talk to me, Haidee.
Slowly he twisted so that his hip pressed against hers, and they were facing each other.
I wasn't sure how the ambrosia in the air would affect you. I wasn't sure if I needed to try and purge it from your body or leave you be.

She knew she needed to reply but couldn't. Not just yet. She wanted to savor this moment with him, no animosity between them.

He was just so beautiful, his dark, fathomless eyes probing all the way to her soul. His lips, though taut with tension, could lure a woman to her own downfall. As long as she could have those lips on her body, that tongue licking, sucking and tasting, destruction hardly mattered.

More than embodying physical perfection, he was courageous, caring, protective. How could anyone consider him evil? Least of all herself?

Honestly. How could she ever hurt him? Even if he decided he no longer needed her and opted to punish her for her past sins? She wouldn't be able to blame him. He just wanted to survive, as she always had.

And what if Baden had been just like him? she suddenly wondered, causing sickness to churn in her stomach. What if she'd helped kill an innocent man? Not that Baden had been innocent back then, but what if he would have matured into a dedicated warrior like the one in front of her?

What if they were
all
innocent? The sickness intensified. Strider had spent those seemingly endless days with
her, yet he hadn't raped her, hadn't tortured her, hadn't hurt her as he could have. He'd threatened her, yes, but then, she had threatened him. She had even hit him, stabbed him. He'd retaliated, once, but not as fiercely as he should have.

The Lords of the Underworld are the epitome of evil,
Dean Stefano, the modern-day version of the Bad Man, the first Hunter she'd ever encountered, had always said. As right-hand man to Galen, who rarely made an appearance, he was currently in charge of the troops.
They must be eradicated before their poison spreads. To you, to your loved ones. How many of your mothers have died of cancer? How many of your teenage daughters have been violated? How many of your spouses have betrayed you?

When someone had balked about killing another living being, Stefano had added stiffly,
Killing a demon isn't murder. Demons are animals, and those animals would slaughter your entire family without a single pang of remorse. Like a starving lion or bear. They attack and ravage thoughtlessly. Never forget that fact.

Wasted breath, she'd thought every time she'd heard that speech. Haidee hadn't needed convincing. A demon
had
slaughtered her entire family. Not just once, but twice.

She'd always blamed the entire lot of them because, to her, a demon was a demon and evil was evil. Now, with the proud, compassionate Amun so close to her, she at last saw the flaw in her logic. Evil destroyed. These men hadn't destroyed her when given the chance, yet destruction had always been
her
ultimate goal.

How many times had she tried to eradicate the Lords? Had she even cared about the methods used? No.

A wail of regret suddenly caught in her throat. What if
she
was the evil one?

A firm arm slid under her knees and another wrapped
around her waist. A moment later she was being lifted and lowered. After that, she was leaning against Amun's massive chest, her cheek pressed into the hollow of his neck. Gently he caressed her hair as if she was beloved rather than despised, as if her emotional state mattered.

What are you, Haidee?
he asked again, voice as gentle as his touch.

She'd never discussed her…infection with another living being. Ever. Not even Micah. But this was Amun. Her Amun. As tears burned her eyes, she relaxed against him, flattening her palm against the heart beating so swiftly in his chest. He'd saved her; he deserved to know the truth.

“I'm not exactly sure,” she whispered. “Human, I know that much, but something else, too. I
can
be killed just like anyone else. Bleeding out, disease, starvation. But each time I'm killed, I come back, exactly as I am now.”

You've died before? I mean, I know you died that once, but you've actually died several times?
His tender stroking never ceased.

“Yes. More than several, though. I lost count a long time ago. Still, no matter how long I manage to stay alive in one incarnation, I never age past this point. I guess my age just kind of froze after the very first death.”

So what happens after you die?

She shuddered. “It's horrible. You'd think the pain of dying would be the worst, but no. The pain of rebirth, or whatever it is, is devastating. I'll feel my life slipping away, float in darkness for what seems an eternity, but then, when the light comes…” She shuddered again. “The light swallows me, burns me to my soul, but not with fire, with ice, and my body will begin to rejuvenate. I'm like a mother giving birth—to myself. My bones feel like they're being injected with acid, every muscle spasms and my skin feels like it's being poured back on.”

Those warm fingers curled around her nape, the caress
becoming a massage. Again, his touch was tender, and yet, as aware of him as she was, her sensitive flesh prickled, her nipples beaded, and an ache bloomed between her legs. How she wanted this man.

She had always assumed discussing the past would be difficult. And never had she imagined doing so with one of the demon-possessed warriors she'd fought so diligently to obliterate. The words flowed smoothly, however. “When the pain finally leaves, I always find myself in the same location. Greece, in a cave next to the water. I won't remember any of the good things that happened to me, yet I'm aware that the memories were taken. Not that that makes any sense. I'll know who I am, every terrible thing that's ever been done to me, every terrible thing
I've
done, and the hate… God, Amun, I'm always filled with so much hate. For the first few years of a new life, that hate is the only thing that drives me.”

He rested his chin on top of her head, his warm breath ruffling strands of her hair, tickling.
How long have you been alive this time?

“About eleven years.”

Why have you never come after us before?

She should lie. The truth would destroy the tranquility of this moment. He deserved the truth, though. After everything, he deserved the truth.

“I have come after you,” she admitted. “A few years ago, some of you were in New York. I helped burn down your home. And then, a few months ago, in Budapest, there was a shootout. I was there.”

No, I mean, in one of your other lives. I've been around a long time, yet this is the first time since ancient Greece that I've encountered you.

He wasn't going to take issue with her confession. He wasn't even going to acknowledge it as the travesty it was. The realization was staggering. “I always remain in
seclusion until I've got the hate under control. And even then, I have to wait until I can pass myself off as someone else before I can rejoin society and the Hunters, which means waiting until the people who might have known me are dead.”

How do you know who they are, if most of your memories are taken? And how you are Haidee now, if you've changed your identity?

“I've come back so many times, and with so many years apart, I'm often able to reuse the same name. As for the rest, I keep records inside my cave, files detailing everything I've been through in one lifetime. I also send newspaper clippings, photos, that sort of thing, to a mailbox nearby.”

That's smart.
His sincerity warmed her as surely as his touch.

“Thank you.” She lifted her arm, drawing his attention to her tattoos. She'd never done this before, either. Never explained what the etchings meant. If she and Amun were ever going to make a relationship work, though—
you want a full-blown
relationship
now?
—one of them had to take that first, trusting step.

“See this?” she asked, ignoring her question to herself. With her free hand, she traced a circle around the only address amid the faces, phrases and dates.

His fingers curled around her wrist, slowly turning her arm, allowing him to study each of the surrounding tattoos. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over Micah's name, as if he could wipe it away. Just then, she wished he could.

Yes,
he said.
I see.

“That's where my mailbox is.”

At first, he didn't respond. Then his breath emerged raggedly and he stiffened.
Don't tell me anything else about how you survive. Okay?

“O-okay,” she said, confused. “Why?” Because he'd
feel obligated to tell his friends, but didn't actually want them to know? Yes, she realized a moment later. That was exactly why.