Sweet Ruin (4 page)

For the first couple of months, she’d ghosted around the household, hovering over him as the Braydens spoiled him with tons of toys and a puppy and all the things Jo had wanted to give him. His washed Spidey doll sat on his toy shelf, buried among all the others.

If Thaddie called out for her, Jo had been there in an instant, never quite showing herself. Yet at the same time, her presence had seemed to upset him.

She’d found the Thadpack in a closet and had stolen it back—would hug it like an idiot.

For the next couple of months, she’d tried to back off, watching over him from a distance. Other kids came over to play, and he was always so psyched, finally having the “fwends” he’d longed for. They ran around in the Braydens’ perfect backyard with the puppy on their heels.

Her baby brother called out for her less.

While Thaddie grew like a weed and laughed more and more, Jo had been doing her worst, no closer to figuring herself out or controlling her on-again, off-again ghosting. Sure, she could float right into his bedroom, but how could she nab him when she was just air?

Determined to get to the bottom of her transformation, she’d returned to town. The hospital’s blood bank had drawn her. After gorging on bags, she’d gotten her body back, growing solid.

She guessed that was what vampires did. Though she did wonder why she could still go out in the sun.

Stronger from drinking, she’d practiced switching from ghost-mode to body and back. In time, she could ghost
things
. Anything she carried turned to air like her, but returned to solid as soon as she let go: purses from cars, clothes from stores, a wigged-out cat.

She’d worked hard at it until she felt confident she could steal Thaddie.

But deep down, she knew he was better off with two parents and his treasured puppy. So she’d strung together the filed bullet slugs from her “death” to make a necklace. If tempted to return, she touched the bullets, reminding herself she wasn’t right.

MizB had banished Jo for a reason. And the woman didn’t even know Jo was a killer ghost/vampire.

So she’d hung out at the morgue, hoping for someone like her to float out of a body bag, but it’d never happened.

She’d tried so hard to stay away. . . .

Then last week, she’d seen the coroner working on a corpse.

It was Mr. B.

Killed in a work accident. He never rose, just stayed dead.

It was a
sign
for Jo to return. Surely?

No longer were the Braydens better than Jo just ’cause there were two of them, and MizB would be in no shape to raise a kid on her own. Jo was sorry the woman would lose her husband and Thaddie all at the same time, but she couldn’t take this any longer.

She’d decided to let Thaddie attend Mr. B’s wake today, but then she was done. Once MizB put him to bed, Jo would go to him. She had the Thadpack with her and everything.

She could be just as good a mom as MizB. She could protect Thaddie, was strong enough to lift a freaking car. Rolling folks for money had never been easier, so she could buy him toys. And she hadn’t killed a single person since that first night. In self-defense, she sometimes squashed guys’ balls like grapes—but zero murders!

She craned her head. Where was he? The sun would soon set. There! He was scampering into the room, dressed in a little black suit with tufts of dog fur on the pants.

Looking from the pack to Thaddie, she realized he’d never fit. Maybe she could stuff the dog in there.

She’d take Thaddie’s hand, and the three of them would all ghost away together.

He crawled up to sit in an older woman’s lap. Jo had seen the lady visit before. She was MizB’s mom, Thaddie’s . . . “Gram.” The old chick was explaining to him that she would live there from now on and help out around the house.

Isn’t that swell?
Jo squeezed the pack.
He’s mine!
Her necklace felt cold and heavy around her throat.

Storm clouds gathered, thunder rumbling. Jo glared at the sky. Unlike her, Thaddie shouldn’t be out in the rain.

MizB came into the room, her eyes all puffy. She must feel like crap rolled over, but she wasn’t crying, and her dress and hair were neat.

Thaddie crawled from the old woman’s lap to MizB’s. Gazing up at her with those big hazel eyes, he asked, “Mama, where did Daddy go?”

Jo swayed, her breath knocked from her lungs.
Mama?
Tears welled and spilled. He hadn’t even called Jo that.

If she took him today, Thaddie would lose a father
and
a mother. Would that mess him up beyond hope?

The clouds opened up, rain falling as fast as her tears. Drops streamed through her; she must’ve gone into ghost-mode without noticing.

MizB wrapped her arms around him. Jealousy clawed at Jo when he curled up against the woman with so much trust. Jo found herself clutching the Thadpack to her chest.

Keeping a stiff upper lip, MizB answered, “Oh, sweetheart, remember? Daddy’s gone to heaven to be with JoJo.”

Knife in gut. Knife in gut. Knife in gut.

Jo stood in the worsening storm, heart shriveling—because she’d reached a conclusion about Thaddie’s future.

I won’t be in it.

She pressed her palm to the window. Though no imprint showed, she willed him to turn in her direction, to
see
her.

But he didn’t.

Tears pouring, she hugged the Thadpack tighter. Between sobs, she whispered, “Bye-bye, Thaddie.” She turned away, with no idea where to go.

As night fell, she ghosted down the lonely highway with only the storm as her companion. . . .

THREE

The dimension of Tenebrous, Perdishian Castle, capital of the Elserealms

B
eings of power stirred in the echoing stronghold as Rune Darklight made his way through the immense black castle.

He was the sole Møriør who’d stayed awake for the last five centuries and was tasked with rousing the others when Tenebrous had ground through time and space to near its destination: Gaia.

Also known as Earth. Rune had sounded the telepathic call moments ago.

Boots clicking across the ancient stone floor, he entered the war room—a chamber with a massive star-shaped table and a wall made of blast-proof glass.

Outside the glass, against a slate of black nothingness, images of worlds flashed by, as if from a film projector.

He took one of the twelve empty seats at the table, propping his boots up on the gold surface as he awaited his allies. Or at least, he awaited five of them. Two seats remained vacant, and four Møriør would slumber on; considering their natures, waiting to unleash them on Gaia was for the best.

Abyssian Infernas, prince of Pandemonia, was the first to join Rune. Sian, as his compatriots called him, was over seven feet tall and muscled, with long black hair. He wore leather bands over his broad chest and dark trews.

Rune could admit the prince of hells was as wickedly handsome as the devil who’d sired him.

Sian turned his green eyes toward the glass wall. “Good, we’re still a few days out. Gives us time to prepare.” He took his seat at the table. “I haven’t been to Earth in ages.”

“Much has changed. As you’ll soon see.” Rune had been the others’ eyes and ears over the last five centuries, documenting every realm he’d visited. Once his allies had convened, they would delve into his memories, updating their speech and learning about these new times in which they would war.

They were in for some graphic scenes; Rune had spent most of his years plowing slick nymph flesh.

Out of habit, he slid an arrow from the quiver strapped to his calf. He tapped his forefinger on the arrowhead, collecting some of his black blood to draw symbols on the shaft. With those demonic runes, he could focus his fey magicks, amplifying a regular arrow into one of power.

Allixta, the Overlady of Witches and the newest Møriør, entered, sauntering toward the table. How she walked in such a skintight dress baffled Rune. A question for the ages. “Are we finally here?” Curses, her familiar, trailed her. The creature was an Elserealm breed of panther, so large its whiskers brushed her shoulders.

“Close enough to wake,” Rune answered.

Adjusting the brim of her oversize witch’s hat, she sank into her chair. Curses hopped atop the table, reclined its gigantic frame, then hissed at Rune.

Rune hissed back, baring his demon fangs.

“This is what I wake to, baneblood?” Allixta glared at his arrow. “Why spill your disgusting poison in the presence of others? Do you intend to cause offense?”

Rune paused his drawing. As a dark fey, he had poisonous black blood, fatal even to immortals. “My dearest Allixta, if I’ve caused offense, it was unwittingly done—but a welcome development.”

Blace, the oldest vampire, suddenly appeared in his seat at the table, goblet of blood mead in hand. His dark-brown hair was tied back into a neat queue, and he wore an impeccable suit, though the shirt, cravat, doublet, and breeches were centuries outdated.

“Good awakening, friend,” Rune said. He liked the vampire. Blace provided welcome counsel. He was sparing with it, and usually dead-on.

Blace swigged his libation. “I wonder what sights your mind will show us this time.”

Darach Lyka, the first werewolf, entered the chamber, still transforming from his wolven form. The primordial wolf wore only trews and carried a wadded-up tunic in one fist. Rune had little in common with the quietly intense Darach—other than a mutual loathing of Allixta—but Rune respected him.

The best tracker in the worlds, Darach had proven invaluable in locating magickal objects. And on the few occasions when he’d mastered his beast and was able to communicate more easily, he’d shared keen insights, demonstrating a surprising cynicism for a man who’d risen from the dead.

Now Darach struggled to reclaim his human body, compacting his nine-foot-tall werewolf frame. Fangs grinding, he clenched his fists tighter, his bones cracking into place.

Each transition grew more difficult. One day Darach would transform into a beast and never return. Unless he found a way to keep his human form. Perhaps in the Gaia realm?

In addition to the Møriør’s overarching aims, each of them coveted something from Earth and its connected planes, had traveled across the universe to collect.

Most thought Rune wanted the throne of his home world. No, his desires ran much darker than that. As dark as his unnatural black blood. . . .

Their liege, Orion—the Undoing—was the last to convene. He was a being of unknown descent, but Rune believed he was at least a demigod. Perhaps a full deity, or even an overdeity.

Orion’s appearance and scent had changed; he altered them regularly. Today he was a tall blond demon. At their last meeting, he’d been a black-haired giant.

He moved to the glass wall without saying a word. He could remain silent for a decade. Before him, that line of ever-changing planets floated by as the stronghold passed one after another.

Now that all the awakened Møriør had assembled, the others began digging into Rune’s mind. Their mental link was so strong, they could even speak to each other telepathically.

He opened his memories wide for them, offering access to almost everything, at least after the first millennium of his life. He worked to conceal that earlier time of betrayals and violation.

Within a few moments, Blace raised an approving brow. “A dozen nymphs in one night?”

Rune grinned. He’d bedded thousands of them, was a favorite of Nymphae coveys far and wide. They were excellent sources of information. “That was merely the first round. The real debauchery started a day later.”

Blace shook his head ruefully. “Ah, the vigor of the young.” Rune was seven millennia old—young compared to Blace. “You come by your trailing name honestly.”

Rune the Insatiable. He buffed his black claws. “Wringing orgasms and breaking hearts for eons.”

Sian said, “Gods pity any female who loses her heart to you. I could almost feel sorry for your bedmates.”

“If one of my tarts is stupid enough to want more, then she deserves all the heartache in the worlds.” He made no secret of his detachment during sex. He felt physical pleasure but no connection, no immediacy—no emotions. Outside of bedsport, he did. He knew amusement; he grew excited about upcoming battles. He experienced kinship with the Møriør. But during sex . . . nothing.

Which was unsettling, since he spent a good deal of his life tupping.

“Tarts?” Allixta sneered. “You are such a whore.”

A former slave, he’d known his share of insults; most didn’t bother him. Now his claws sharpened as he remembered his queen’s words from so long ago:
You possess the smoldering sensuality of the fey and the sexual intensity of a demon. . . . I have a use for you after all.

Old frustrations made his tone sharp: “On the subject of whores, did I ever get around to swiving
you
, witch? For the life of me I just can’t remember.”

Darach bit back a roughened laugh as he pulled on his tunic.

Allixta leveled her green gaze on the wolf. “Something to say, mongrel?” Then she turned to Rune. “Trust me, baneblood, if I could stomach your befouled body long enough to bed you, you’d never forget it.”