Sweet Ruin (8 page)

Rune’s “bonedeath” arrow would explode into reverberations so violent the bones of their foes would disintegrate, never to be healed.

Darach would already have sped behind the army to track down and maul any who fled.

Allixta created shields and neutralized others’ magicks. Rune supposed her talent would be helpful if the Møriør ever faced a worthy adversary. For now, the tart looked decent in a hat.

Orion amplified all their strengths and directed them to their enemies’ vulnerabilities.

The Møriør who still slept? Well, the weakest one could consume a city.

When Orion and the Møriør offered opposition the chance to surrender, they accepted. Or died. . . .

This anticipation Rune felt could
not
be about the voyeur. She’d held his interest only because she was a rarity—no, a singularity.

The one woman he hadn’t been able to seduce.

Which was saying something, as his professions had always involved sex. He’d started young in the fey kingdom of Sylvan, because his queen had discovered uses for Rune, her husband’s halfling bastard.

Queen Magh the Canny had forced Rune to become an assassin.

With malice in her gleaming blue eyes, she’d explained, “Many of my foes could be tempted by a sensual creature like you. My assassins fail to get past sentinels, yet you would seduce your way into a place where no guards attend: the bedroom. Even if divested of your weapons, you’d carry death in your very blood. Your escapes would be easier still. With some help, you could pass as a full-blooded fey; who would suspect you can teleport like a demon?”

Keeping secret his potential for magicks and knowledge of runes, he’d learned fey ways and customs. He’d tapped into his demon side, learning to trace. The combination had made him unstoppable.

He’d had such success as a hitman that Magh had expanded his duties to become Sylvan’s secrets master, spying and interrogating—while still killing of course.

For all three pursuits, he’d used sex as a weapon, callously exploiting his targets’ weaknesses or perversions. There’d been little challenge.

He narrowed his eyes, scanning the streets for his voyeur. Maybe Lore females weren’t the only ones who liked a challenge.

Midnight neared. If he decided to show in that courtyard, would she be there? Perhaps she still had hopes of meeting him. His lips thinned. For
coffee
.

No. He refused to chase after her like some slavering lad. Captivation was as involuntary as captivity.

Remember how far you’ve come, from such humble beginnings.

With Orion’s help, he’d turned his life around. The Undoing wasn’t Rune’s friend, nor a father figure (as some supposed). Orion was . . . an idea. A feeling.

He represented
triumph
—something Rune hadn’t known until he’d sworn fealty to Orion.

Soon Rune would prove to be Sylvan’s undoing. How would that realm fare when he assassinated their present king, along with their entire line of succession . . . ?

Seeking focus, he reached for his most cherished possession, his talisman, a last gift from his mother. She’d been a Runic demon, one among a breed that could harness magicks through symbols. The talisman had been accompanied by a note that had raised more questions than answers. The runes themselves presented a puzzle he often contemplated.

He dug into his pocket.

Gone.

Gone?
He froze. He would never have left it anywhere; had never in all these eons lost it. The nymphs wouldn’t have dared to steal it.

Realization. Only one other person had gotten close enough to him.

Under his breath, he muttered, “That beautiful little wench.” The voyeur had picked his pocket! Oh, she was good. He’d been hard as rock, stretching his trews taut—yet he’d never perceived her hand dipping beside his dick.

What a surprise.

What a bad girl.

He turned toward the courtyard. Bad girls got punished.

If she’d stolen anything but his most prized belonging, he could have grinned.

Back at her rundown motel room, Jo set Rune’s bone thingy among her other mementos. They lined the top of a picnic table she’d teleported from a park.

She’d stolen most of these items from her shells. Though she couldn’t feel through any of the people, for the most part Jo got to
be
them.

She’d inhabited a cellist during her concert and had received a standing ovation. She’d served coffee at Café Du Monde (and later she’d punished patrons who’d grabbed “her” ass). She’d crashed a bachelorette party and laughed with other girls, pretending they were old friends from camp.

At a grand southern wedding, she’d been a bride for a day. She’d danced in a candlelit ballroom and had given away her garter as her new husband gazed on with adoration. Later, violins had played into the night as her groom had made love to his bride. He’d looked into her eyes so intently, Jo had pretended he could see
her
.

Which meant she existed.

That groom’s voice had cracked when he’d made vows to her.
I would die for you. I’ll love you alone for the rest of my life. You are everything.

Jo reverently traced her fingers over the dried roses from her stellar concert performance. With those, she could pretend she’d once been admired. With the tiara from that bachelorette party, she could pretend she’d belonged. A dollar-bill tip from Café Du Monde allowed Jo to believe she’d once been just a normal girl.

She straightened the cuff links stolen from her romantic groom. They were her favorites. She could rub her thumbs over them and pretend she’d once been beloved.

With a wistful exhalation, she scuffed across the worn carpet of her room. She would’ve liked to stay somewhere less shitty, but she didn’t have an ID, could never get one.

Because she couldn’t read the application form.

She turned to the banged-up set of drawers. One was filled with Thad memorabilia—scrapbooks and the Thadpack. She opened the drawer, brushing her fingertips over the nylon material. At times, her three years with Thaddie felt like a dream, as if it were just as imaginary as the rest of her life experiences.

She drew out her most recent scrapbook, filled with pictures of him holding up trophies or Eagle Scout badges or community service awards.

Wherever she’d ended up in the Southeast (she couldn’t stray too far from him) she had descended upon the closest library for a computer. Using the text-to-speech feature, she’d learned about his sports, charity work, and honor-roll grades.

She knew when his football team was going to the playoffs and when his . . .
mom
had won a pecan pie cook-off.

Jo stalked his social media so much she could tell when he was nervous about a big game, or even when he had a crush. Through his online yearbook photos, she’d watched him grow into a handsome seventeen-year-old with an easy grin that said,
All is right with the world
.

He was tall and strong, a world away from the tiny boy she’d carried everywhere.

Fourteen years ago, she’d made a heartrending choice, but obviously it’d been the right one. Every day Jo stayed away, his life seemed to get better and better.

Yet to spare Thad from grief, she’d suffered, willing each minute of her lonely existence to hurry by. She only slept for about four hours a night, so she had twenty hours each day to kill.

At least in New Orleans, there was the prospect of other freaks!

A knock on the door sounded.

She hissed with irritation. Few dared to disturb her.

When she’d first moved here, she’d been one of the motel’s only guests. After a month of her hunting—crushing testicles and “disappearing” rapists and fight-stealing pimps—the rooms had filled up with women, mostly prostitutes, many with kids.

Another knock. Jo traced to the door, removing the brace—she usually ghosted past it—and opened up.

The smarmy motel owner. He was always leering at the women here. Automatic probation.
One strike, and he’s out.

His expression was a mix of fear and lust, his attention dipping to her body.

As long as she consumed blood, Jo retained a ballin’ figure. Without it, she turned all sickly again.

“What do you want?” she demanded. Even this guy wasn’t
seeing
her; he damn sure wasn’t looking into her eyes.

He asked her tits: “I was wondering if you, uh, wanted to go get a cup of coffee with me?”

Coffee must be the theme of the night. She could drink java if she had to, but it tasted awful and made her pee. She liked never having to go to the bathroom.

Vampirism did have benefits. No running out of toilet tissue, no flu, no periods.

When she didn’t answer, he finally met her gaze. She leaned in until they were nose to nose. The shadows around her eyes weirded people out; he was no exception. She told him, “Trying to drum up reasons not to kill you; comin’ up short.”

He swallowed thickly. “Oh.” Axe would be an improvement on his smell.

She wrinkled her nose, her mind drifting to Rune’s skin. So tempting. But even if Jo wanted to, she couldn’t drink the poisonous dark fey.

The man cleared his throat. “Do you, uh, happen to have the money you owe me?”

Jo had tons of cash, piled up in the corner next to her comic books, and she could get more whenever.

“If not, maybe we could . . . work something out,” the owner added.

Just for that crack he’d get nothing out of her.
Lucky to be alive, little man.

She gave him her standard answer: “With your flayed skin, I’ll be able to finish my man quilt.” She slammed the door in his face.

One of these days she was going to have to start that quilt, or she’d just be a no good liar. . . .

She floated to the mini fridge to snag a bag of blood. It smelled dank and plastic-y. If Rune was toxic, then why had his flesh smelled so enticing? Even now her fangs were sharpening.
Aching.

She’d sensed power in him, there for the taking. That pulse point had called to her as little else in her life ever had.

Just because he was poisonous to others didn’t mean he would be to her.

When had rules ever applied to Jo?

Her gaze fell on his bone thingy again. Why did he keep it? For years to come, she would imagine scenarios for it.

Unless she met him for their date and simply asked him.

EIGHT

Y
ou’re good, female, I’ll give you that,” Rune said as he entered the courtyard.

The voyeur was sitting on the edge of the fountain, skimming her delicate fingers across the water’s surface, her black nails glinting. “Be specific. Good at lots.”

The mere sight of her made heat rush through him, pooling in his groin. When he’d scented her a couple of blocks away, he’d had to force himself to slow his steps. “Where did you learn to steal like that?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Practice.”

“I never felt you near my . . . pocket. Are you a thief by trade?”

“I guess you could say I’m between jobs.” Her lips curled, like that was an inside joke. “You showed; does this mean you’ll join me for coffee?”

“Return my belonging,” he said as he closed in on her, “and I might only spank you.”

“And that’s a hard no on java.” She rose and squared her shoulders—as if they were about to spar.

How strange. Aside from Allixta, no females opposed him. They were too busy trying to land him. “What could you want with such a useless trinket?”

The voyeur reached into her skirt pocket, then held up the talisman. “I want it, because
you
obviously want it.”

His gaze locked on the piece. “It’s of no value.” It meant
everything
. “I’ll have it back simply because it’s my belonging.”

“See, here’s the thing—this is now my belonging. I stole it fair and square. What’s it for, anyway?”

“It’s not
for
anything. As I said, it has no value.”
It’s merely the thing I care most about in all the worlds.
The nerve of this bitch!

“What do the symbols mean?”

“That’s not your concern.” He didn’t know!

Captured and enslaved young, his dam had only remembered a limited number of runes to teach her son. That talisman had been the sole possession she’d had on her, yet even she couldn’t read it.