Sweet Ruin (38 page)

She laid her palms on his face and tenderly kissed his lips. When she pulled back, his brows were drawn.

“Little female, you say a lot with your kiss. But I don’t understand the language—”

A boom of thunder sounded, shaking the guesthouse.

They shared a look.

“Nïx?” Jo bolted to her feet.

He ran out of the room like a bullet. She was right behind him. The sun was creeping up over the horizon, rays striking clouds and sparkling off the new snow.

With his hunter’s eye, he surveyed the area and pointed to the highest terrace. “It came from the top.” He took a split second to grab Jo’s hand before he traced there, ever careful to have her on the mission.

The clouds might conceal them from humans. Didn’t matter at that moment. They both wanted Nïx dead so badly, they risked exposure.

None of the stragglers on the terrace had noticed Jo and Rune appearing, were too busy rubbing their eyes after what must’ve been a hellacious lightning strike.

Jo pivoted in place, didn’t spy the Valkyrie. “Do you scent her?”

He shook his head. “What is she up to?”

“Did she return to Val Hall?”

He checked his wrist. Dark.

A monk padded out of the teahouse, heading straight toward them. With a welcoming smile, he handed them a note. He spoke in Chinese, but Jo made out “Nïx” a couple of times.

Thanking the man, Rune accepted the parchment, and the monk bowed and walked away.

“Another clue?” Rune ripped open the envelope. “The Valkyrie plays with us. She’s digging her own grave.” He skimmed the note.

“And?” Jo asked.

“And now we go to Rio.”

FORTY-SIX

T
WELVE DAYS LATER

R
io had been a total bust. So had the next eight locations the Valkyrie had lured them to.

Now Jo and Rune waited on the Bridge of Spires in Venice, with no sign of Nïx.

It was after three in the morning, and the bridge was empty. Jo had spotted a stray drunk driver—gondola version—but passersby were sparse.

Rune paced, bow at the ready, scanning the night with those intent archer’s eyes. The breeze ruffled his hair and his loose white shirt, and moonlight sheened off his leather pants.

Every day he seemed to grow more gorgeous. Where was the upper limit?

The bite mark on his neck from earlier was healing, and soon he’d insist on feeding her. They’d discovered twice a day was optimal for her. When they went too long,
he
would get antsy.

“She’s not coming,” Rune said. They’d been here an hour before three, the time given in the Valkyrie’s last clue.

Considering how easily Nïx had evaded them, she must be using her soothsayer powers to predict their movements.

Though Jo worried for her brother, Rune assured her he would be safe—even more so with the unpredictable Nïx constantly away, out leaving bread crumbs for them.

Rune had decided to give this pursuit one more night before requesting help from the Møriør. Unfortunately, the moving realm of Tenebrous was still days away. And he hadn’t wanted to call them in to assist with
his
responsibility. But for Jo, he would.

Which meant she’d have Thad back soon. What would he think of Rune? For the first time, Jo had to consider how different parties in her life might get along.

Rune did not play well with other men, so he might come across as arrogant to the easygoing Thad. Her brother might strike Rune as woefully immature.

By Thad’s age, the dark fey had been a seasoned killer. Yet never had he tracked a target as elusive as Nïx. . . .

Over the last twelve days as he and Jo had followed the Valkyrie’s clues across remarkable worlds, Jo had encountered one wonder after the next. She’d witnessed a “million-hoof” stampede in the centaur dimension. She gawked at mind-blowing exhibits in Brooklyn’s Morbid Anatomy Museum. She’d dodged ginormous feet in the land of giants and ascertained that they went “true toga” (hot poker for her eyes!).

Yesterday, Nïx’s clue had led Jo and Rune to the Fremont Troll under a Seattle bridge. Humans thought the cement sculpture had been created as art, but it actually marked a portal to the troll realm.

If I never go back to Trollton, it’ll be too soon.

She’d enjoyed watching Rune in action in the various lands they visited. He was always collected; nothing freaked him out. So many beings they’d met looked up to him, except for the giants, of course. But they’d respected him.

Rune spoke tons of languages, and if he drew that Darklight bow, creatures quaked. He was more well-known on other dimensions than on the mortal plane, and he seemed to like it that way.

Oftentimes, Jo and Rune had been forced to delay their travel, waiting for a demon transporter or for a Trollton muck-nado to pass.

In those lulls, they’d continued exploring their combustible chemistry, yet he’d still given no indication they would be exclusive. She maintained she would never accept anything less.

How much longer can I deny him sex?
Especially when she’d begun losing her heart to him.

Last night, he’d murmured in her ear, “Refuse me, then, but we both know it’s inevitable. It has been since the first moment I saw you. From the first moment I scented you. . . .”

Jo gazed down at the moonlit currents streaming under the bridge. She and Rune were stuck at an impasse.

Why can’t he commit to me?
Despite their sexual tension, they’d settled into a companionable ebb and flow. If one of them got discouraged, the other brought the fun. If one didn’t feel like talking, the other would pick up the slack.

They were becoming so attuned, they often finished each other’s sentences. The last time it’d happened, he’d given her a puzzled look. “Sometimes, it seems like you know me better than the allies I’ve fought beside for millennia—allies who can read my mind and speak telepathically to me.”

She’d smiled pleasantly, telling him with her expression:
It’s because I’m your mate, sport. . . .

After Mount Hua, they’d awaited Nïx in Rio, laying up in a beachfront hotel. With Jo’s head on his chest, they’d listened to the waves roll in. She’d told him, “I want to know more about the symbols you draw.”

“Most people’s eyes glaze over if I talk runes. Do you recall any of the ones you’ve seen?”

She’d leaned up. “I can draw all of them.”

Smirk. “Sure you can.”

Glare. “Watch me.”

He’d been shocked when she’d drawn one—much less thirty. “You did remember them all!”

“Like it’s difficult?”

He’d translated them for her. Most were simple. “That one indicates
purity of purpose
. The second means
victory
—or rather,
domination
. That one means
nightmare
. The combinations are just as important as the rendering.”

Whenever they had time, he’d taught her more. As he sketched, he would grow relaxed, often giving her additional details about his mother. “She could have hated me, the son of a despised foe—not to mention that I was considered an abomination—but she adored me.”

As he’d spoken, Jo had experienced a flash of a memory: the sight of his mother smiling down at her son with utter love on her pretty face—and the fullness in Rune’s heart for his beloved “dam.” Jo had realized she might not remember all of her memory-dreams until something triggered her recollection.

He’d told Jo that his talisman had been a last gift from his mother, was his most cherished possession.

Then Jo had stolen it. Twice. “Rune, I’m sorry.”

“I got it back.” He’d brushed his knuckles along her jawline. “And more.”

Wondering if he’d confide in her, Jo had asked, “How did your mom die?”

He’d dropped his hand before it clenched into a fist. “Magh sent her to a brothel. Though my mother hadn’t transitioned into full immortality, she went so that Magh would spare my life. My dam was too young to survive the . . . demands.”

And then Magh had sold
him
to the same place. If his mother had died there, what had Rune
lived
through?

He never mentioned a word about that time in his life, but Jo had been getting glimpses from his blood—torture scenes that turned her stomach; no longer did she question his need to wipe out the Sylvan royal house.

His blood had also delivered glimpses of his allies. Jo had stopped delving into the past—reminders of Magh enraged him—and started asking about the Møriør.

He spoke about Orion in respectful tones, but he admitted he wished he knew his liege better. Rune’s manner grew more casual when he talked of his compatriots, like Darach Lyka—a real-live werewolf!

“His Lykae form is petrifying to most,” Rune had told her. “Darach is the primordial alpha, the largest and fiercest of their entire species, but he has little control over himself.”

Sian, a demon and now the King of Hells, was notoriously good-looking. “The expression ‘handsome as the devil’ was coined because of him.”

Rune had frowned when explaining his ally Kolossós. “I find him indescribable. Let’s put it this way: There are twelve seats at our table. For some Møriør, they’re merely places of honor. . . .”

Now Rune exhaled, recalling her attention to their surroundings. Yet again, he checked the band on his wrist. “Nïx isn’t there. And she’s not here.”

During their travels, they’d also searched for a lock of Valkyrie hair. Rune had told her the wraiths guarded Val Hall in exchange for it. When they’d braided the locks to a certain length, they could bend all Valkyries to their will. Rumor held the braid was nearly complete.

Death controlling life. Jo wished the wraiths all the best with that. “How much longer do we wait?” she asked him.

In a wry tone, he said, “Do you have something more pressing to do?” His eyes flickered as he said, “I know where I’d like to be instead.”

Her body responded as if he’d touched it. He continued to make comments about her supposed infatuation, but she
felt
like they were destined. How to convince him?

If he’d just commit to her, she’d sleep with him, and then his seal would break, proving what she’d known all along. He couldn’t deny evidence like that! Nothing could be more convincing—not her arguments, not her holding out.

What if she gave it up? Would the undeniable proof jump-start their future together?

Or break her heart?

FORTY-SEVEN

T
hough Rune and Josephine had been releasing pressure a few times a day, just being around her ratcheted up his need. He was having difficulty concentrating. Right now, he should be on guard against threats along the Venetian canal, not staring at her.

But in the moonlight, her creamy skin looked even paler, her eyes darker. Her hair shone, appearing almost black. At that moment, she tucked a curl behind her bewitching ear, as if to tease him.

She turned back to the water, but not before he saw her irises waver with desire. He wasn’t the only one in need.

“Let’s give it fifteen more minutes.” She leaned forward to rest her forearms on the bridge railing, drawing his attention to her black miniskirt.

Erection straining against his pants, he fantasized about taking her just like that. He’d smooth that skirt up her hips, tug her thong aside, then work his cock inside her right here. If she was his, he would come in her, claiming her.

He forced his gaze away from her to study their surroundings, marking vantages and blind spots. He knew Nïx was playing with them, foreseeing their movements, yet these weeks hadn’t been wasted. Rune had used the time to recruit Josephine.

He could now admit he was securing her loyalty for himself far more than for the Møriør.

How long will she bloody hold out from me?
While his will seemed to weaken, Josephine grew more powerful in all aspects. Even she’d noticed it, attributing her increased speed and strength to his blood.

His regular donations left him with no negative effects. Just the opposite. He felt energized. But if they went too long between feedings, he’d get heated, as if he had too much blood, his body overfull with it.

All
parts of his body. His throbbing shaft woke him each morning. He would cut himself, waking her with the scent of his blood, then eagerly steer her to his cock.