The Darkest Pleasure (15 page)

Why not smite her down themselves, though? Surely an easy task for any god. Why force Aeron to do their dirty work?

He glanced over at Reyes, who had paled. They must have put the same pieces of the puzzle together. If Danika were to be captured by godly enemies and forced to betray heavenly secrets, the gods would never leave her alone. They would not rest until she was dead.

There would be no saving her.

“I don’t—I’m not—” She scrubbed a hand over her face, as if the action could jump-start her brain into understanding. When she stilled, her expression was carved from stone. “Stop trying to distract me.” Her gaze moved to Aeron and stayed. “Where is my family?”

“We will trade information, you and I.”

“Okay.” No hesitation.

He watched as she slowly unwound her fingers from the bars, dropped her arm and reached for Reyes. The warrior slid his hand through the bars and captured hers, intertwining their fingers. They sought comfort from each other, Aeron realized. One silently asked for it, and the other silently gave it. Did they even comprehend what they’d done?

“What do you want to know?” she asked, her voice shaking. Her eyes slitted, and she cleared her throat. She asked again, and this time her voice was clear.

“Have you seen hell? And do not lie to me. One lie, and the conversation ends.”

A moment passed before she answered, as though she were weighing her options in her mind. “Like I said, I see it in my dreams,” she finally replied.

“Do your sister, mother, grandmother dream of hell?”

She shook her head, blond tresses dancing. “They’ve never spoken of it.”

There was a hitch in her voice, but he pretended not to notice. If she had lied, he had, too, for he did not want the conversation to end. “What do—”

“We’re supposed to trade information,” she interjected with a steely edge. “So let’s trade. Where’s my mother?”

“In the States. A small town in Oklahoma.”

Absolute relief suddenly lit up her lovely features, and she closed her eyes. A tremor slipped through her, and several tears beaded between her eyelids before sliding down her cheeks.

He didn’t,
couldn’t,
allow the sight to affect him. “Have you ever dreamed of the heavens?”

“Yes.”

“What do you—”

She gave another shake of her head. “No. I answered. Now it’s your turn. Where’s my sister?”

“Thisss boring,” Legion said with a sigh, curling into Aeron’s lap and closing his eyes.

“Your sister is with your mother.”

“Oh, God.” Another tear of joy and relief journeyed south, streaking a crystalline path to her chin.

Aeron thought her legs might have collapsed had Reyes not released her hand, arm snaking around the bars, as well as her waist, holding her up. She didn’t protest. No, she sidled closer to him.

How could they trust and need each other like that?

They were fools; he was not jealous. “What do you see when you trek these spiritual planes?” he asked.

“I see great evil and unerring goodness. I see death and life. Darkness and rainbow colors. Demonlike creatures who destroy, screams all around them. Angels who repair the damage, songs of glory humming from their wings.”

When she did not elaborate further, Aeron frowned. None of what she described was reason enough for the gods to mark her for death. His kind of death, at that: the sins of her past cutting through her skin and bones as though they were no more substantial than butter.

“What have you seen of the gods? What—”

“My grandmother,” she interjected. “Where is my grandmother?”

He pressed his lips together, his heart rate increasing, sweat beading on his temples. If he told the truth, she would leave, and he wasn’t ready for her to leave. Not yet. Thousands of questions still ran through his mind.

“I’m not satisfied with your last answer,” he said. “Tell me if you’ve seen the gods.”

Even though several feet separated them, he could hear her teeth gritting together. “I don’t know if I’ve seen them.”

“Think!” he roared.

She flinched, and Reyes growled over at him.

“How would I know? I don’t believe in gods and goddesses, I don’t know what they look like or sound like.” Her breathing was choppy, raspy. “I could have dreamed of them a thousand times and not have known it.”

“Help her figure it out,” he snapped to Reyes.

Reyes looked down at her, his expression hard. Reminded Aeron of the night Reyes had asked him to fly Danika into town. She hadn’t wanted to go, Reyes hadn’t wanted Aeron to touch her, but he had stepped back and forced the players into action for the greater good.

He’d always been like that, placing the needs and wants of his friends above his own. He’d also always been determined, unwilling to back down when someone he loved desired something—even if they began to hate him for his methods of obtaining it for them.

“If you’re withholding information, stop,” Reyes said. He
released her and left the cell, locking the door behind him before turning back to her. “Aeron will not renege on his word. Tell him what he wishes to know, and he will tell you about your grandmother. What have you seen recently? Describe it—or them—to us. What have you heard? No detail is too small.”

She gulped. Licked her lips. Another tremor swept through her as she tore her gaze from her man and faced Aeron. “Was there—was there a war recently? You know—up there?”

Aeron’s jaw dropped.

Reyes might have gasped. He did step away and turn to see her more clearly.

So. It was true. She
could
see into the heavens. The reason for her death order was finally revealed with absolute certainty.

“Yes,” Reyes croaked out. “There was.”

“Greeks fighting against Titans? I think that’s what they called themselves.”

“Yes,” Aeron answered.

Her cheeks leached of color. “The Titans won and the Greeks were locked away. Well, most of them were, at least.”

“Yes.” The word emerged from both of them as the faintest of whispers.

“The Titans are scrambling to find a group of weapons. The…king, I think it was, held a meeting with his new Captain of the Guard. I guess that’s the leader of his army.” She kept talking, the words rushing from her as if she feared stopping and being unable to start again. “They have a plan. The captain will come to earth to watch and wait, follow and steal. I don’t recall everything. My painting could give the details I’m forgetting. After I dream, I try to forget. I don’t want to remember.”

“Painting?” Reyes asked, more a croak than a question.

She nodded, eyes shadowed with memories. “When I dream of…heaven and hell, I always paint what I see to purge it from my system.”

“Where are the paintings now?” he asked, punching the
wall behind him with so much force she backed two steps away, palms up.

“A few are at my apartment in New Mexico. Most are in storage, where I’m paid up for a year.”

Reyes spun from her and faced Aeron, grim, expectant.

Danika, too, eyed him. “I answered fully. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about my grandmother.”

After everything she’d told him, he owed her the truth. He did not try and sugarcoat it. He looked her straight in the eye. “I think I killed her.”

R
OME
.
A place of majesty, steeped in history and opulence, violence and pleasure. No matter where a man stood in this magnificent city, the sea would sing to him, innocent and tranquil; the sky would respond with a song of its own, a peaceful melody of fading light.

Neither calmed Paris.

He stood at the edge of the Temple of the Unspoken Ones, hidden beside his friends. Waiting. The eerie temple—sometimes he would swear he heard tortured screams on the wind, rising above the sweet melody of the waves—had risen from the sea not too long ago, shrouded from the human eye until recently. Now workers swarmed the area, buzzing back and forth, cleaning and searching the crumbling corridors for glimpses into the past. They didn’t know that the gods planned to use the temple to bring mortals full circle. Once they’d worshipped and sacrificed at the altars of their heavenly creators, soon they would worship and sacrifice again.

No matter what their desires were, he was sure.

The rising of the temple, and its counterpart in Greece, was merely stage one. At least, that’s what Paris surmised. He was perhaps the most human—the most earthbound—of all the Lords of the Underworld, and the others might scoff if he offered an opinion on their new sovereigns, the Titans. But Paris liked to think his immersion in humanity added to his understanding of all things spiritual. Having spent so much time
among mortals, he knew their emotions well. Greed, jealousy, the desire to be loved.

Yes, there was definitely an overlap between mortal emotions and godly ones.

What were the Titans if not greedy for the power that had once been theirs; jealous that the Greeks had reaped the bountiful harvest sown by
their
hard work; and desiring the adoration and worship that had been denied them for thousands of years? Their wants and needs had not been considered during their time in prison, so now they would indulge their every whim.

And yet, this insight did not help Paris. He couldn’t figure out how to fight them. They had amazing powers, could flash from one place to another with only a thought, could control the weather and observe the world and its citizens unimpeded. They could curse with one hand and bless with the other. Paris had a demon who liked to fuck. A demon who weakened without sex and wasn’t much of a weapon in any game but seduction.

No question who would win a fight.

If he did nothing, however, his friends could be obliterated. Hunters, his most hated enemy, could be made into guardians of peace and prosperity. Paris wondered if the dominoes had already been set in place for just such a reality and if only a small gust of wind was needed to begin the downpour.

What could he do, though?

Find Pandora’s box, yes. That way, he and his friends couldn’t be separated from their demons. It would kill them, for once they’d melded, they’d become inseparable, death or insanity their only other options.

He felt so damn helpless. He felt raw, constantly angry. He felt…empty. And all of that negative emotion was wrapped in hot threads of fury. His Sienna was dead. He’d burned her body in a funeral befitting a warrior and scattered her ashes. She wasn’t coming back.

Who should he blame? The Hunters? The gods?

Himself?

Who should he punish? Who should he slay in retribution?

An eye for an eye, he’d been taught the first day of his creation. If a warrior failed to mete out the proper penalty for crimes against him, his enemy would view him as weak, attacking over and over again, never ceasing, confident in victory. What was a man to do when the enemy might very well be himself?

“Ready?” Anya asked.

Paris glanced up, pulled from his musings by her excitement. The warriors surrounding the goddess nodded at her, just as eager as she was. They were bordered by shadows, easily skipped over amid the hum of animated activity inside the temple. Humans were collecting rocks and gently scraping at moss.

“Here goes.” Anya smoothed her hands down her perfectly flared hips, fingers catching in the diamonds studded at her waist. She fluffed her long, pale hair. “You boys had better be properly impressed by my powers and fawn over me accordingly when I’m done.”

Murmurs of “Yes, Anya,” and “We will, Anya,” rose among them. Even the Lords were afraid of her.

Though Anya had lost many of her powers when she had chosen Lucien over her eternal freedom, giving up her most beloved treasure to be with her man, she was still the creator of disorder and could wield a storm with only a thought.

Paris counted five Hunters among the workers, the mark of Infinity on their wrists. The mark of death, in Paris’s mind.
Blame
them
for Sienna’s death. They recruited her, filled her head with their lies. Hurt them as she was hurt.
His hands fisted at his sides.

“The things I do for my men,” Anya murmured, then strolled into the midst of the humans.

Paris watched as their motions slowed before stilling altogether. Conversations faded to quiet, then to utter silence. Everyone turned and stared at the magnificent beauty wearing a too-short black skirt and a transparent lace-up-corset top.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” someone finally asked. A human, no tattoo on either of his wrists. Short, balding, a bit overweight. A name badge hung from around his neck. Thomas Henderson, Global Society of Mythological Studies. “Do you have clearance?”

“Absolutely, I do.” Her sensual lips lifted in a grin, even as she lifted her elegant arms. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise, now would I, sweetcakes.”

His brow puckered in confusion. “What’s your name? Everyone on the list is already here, and I don’t remember adding another name.”

“No need to check again. A storm’s coming.” Lightning suddenly lit the sky, gold in a canvas of pinks and purples. The wind kicked up, whipping Anya’s hair in every direction. “You should go home.”

All of the men were staring at Anya in awe and lust they couldn’t hide.

“Mine,” Lucien said, watching her with desire in his mismatched eyes.

Paris had to close his eyes for a moment.
I want one of those. I want a “mine.”

Maddox looked at Ashlyn that way. Reyes looked at Danika that way. It was as if the women hung the moon and stars. But what had such a thing gotten Reyes? Grief, most definitely. A death sentence followed the woman everywhere she went, and more than that, Sabin believed she had joined the Hunters and was gathering information for them about the Lords and Pandora’s box.

Sabin wanted her dead, like, yesterday. Had even palmed a gun last night while Reyes slept, meaning to plant a bullet in Danika’s brain and save Aeron from a fate the warrior had once considered worse than death. Lucien had stopped him. Somehow, someway, Danika’s presence calmed Reyes’s need for pain. Since her arrival, he hadn’t jumped from the fortress roof
or pursued any of his usual dangerous activities. He cut himself, yes, but the death wish was clearly gone.

A Lord could not ask for more.

It’s what they all craved: peace after an eternity of war and agony and blood. How could they knowingly steal that miracle from one of their own? They couldn’t. So they’d left Reyes to deal with the woman alone. Well, not alone. Torin, Kane—the keeper of Disaster and a man you could not take
anywhere
without lightbulbs shorting out and plaster falling from ceilings—and Cameo remained in the fortress, monitoring the computers, guarding the home from invaders. Oh, and William. Not that Paris had any confidence in the man’s skills.

Violence, Disease, Disaster and Misery together. Now, that should be fun, Paris thought dryly. Grinning, he shook his head. Sienna would have loved to get her delicate little hands on that information. She would have—

What amusement he’d entertained died a fast death, leaving him once more barren inside and sporting a fierce frown. He had to stop thinking of her. She was dead. Burned. A hated enemy, besides.

Fat raindrops blazed from the sky like arrows, slamming into the ground, pummeling everywhere but where the warriors stood, some hitting the ground so viciously they rebounded onto Paris’s freshly polished boots. Hail soon followed, beating like fists.

“Hurry!” someone called.

“The storm’s getting worse,” another shouted.

Footfalls echoed. Paris was reminded of hamsters running inside a wheel as the humans raced to their boats. With every second that passed, the rain increased in volume and intensity; the hail grew thicker, heavier. Golden bolts of lightning offered a frantic, electric dance. Thunder boomed; dust and debris filled the wind-churning air.

Anya’s storm was alive, magnetic, the tiny hairs on Paris’s
body standing at attention. He closed his eyes for a moment, only a moment, wishing that electricity would infuse his body, killing the hardened man he’d become and returning him to the carefree man he used to be.

When the last of the humans had sped away, the storm rose…until it formed a dome around the temple. No one would be able to see past it to the warriors who would soon be searching the grounds. Not even someone in the air, camera staring down.

“Clear?” Anya asked.

“Clear,” Lucien told her.

Slowly she lowered her arms. The rain and hail thinned, catching on and staying outside that dome. The rumble of thunder died.

As the chaos around the temple faded, Paris scanned the area. He caught the glint of silver, the barrel of a gun peeking from behind one of the still-standing marble walls. Anticipation zinged through him as he palmed a gun of his own.
Hunter.

For thousands of years, he’d left the battling to Sabin and his crew. He’d tried to live a good life, uneventful and repentant. After all, he’d once helped cast the world into darkness and despair by releasing Pandora’s demons. He deserved nothing better.

Now, his past sins no longer mattered. He hated the Hunters more than he hated himself. And after Sienna…

“Hunter,” Lucien muttered, his blades already unsheathed. “Eleven o’clock.”

“Mine,” Paris told him.

“I see him,” Sabin said, “and I’m wondering why you get all the fun.”

“Mine,” Paris repeated.

Sabin rolled his eyes. “I counted six earlier, and I’m betting they’re all here, waiting.”

Six? “I counted five.”

“You miscounted,” was all his friend replied, checking the chamber of his .45.

“Every single one of them does
not
have a gun and those guns are
not
9 mm semiautomatics,” Gideon the liar said.

Excellent. A shoot-out.

Paris blocked the stream of memories trying to batter their way into his mind: deafening shots, zipping bullets, a feminine gasp of pain. “They haven’t seen us or they would have started firing already.”

Lucien didn’t reply. He disappeared, there one moment, gone the next. He reappeared next to Anya and said something Paris couldn’t hear. Anya nodded and seemed to be caught in the center of a small, whipping tornado a moment later. Then the tornado rose above her, creating a thick wall between Hunters and Lords.

The first blast sounded, the first bullet flying. But it hit the wall of wind and fell to the ground, useless.

Lucien was beside him again a second later, Anya nowhere to be seen. Her protests echoed, though. “—tricked me. The wall was to save you, not protect me so you could flash me.” He must have taken her home. Or above the dome to continue wielding the storm. Another shot rang out, and one of the Hunters yelled, “Demons!”

“They came,” someone said gleefully. “Must be our lucky day.”

“You know the rules.”

A third shot. The wind wall had fallen away. Rock exploded and dust spewed behind Paris as the bullet slammed just above his shoulder. He ducked, already crouching forward.

“We’ll circle around in opposite directions,” Lucien said, “and meet in the middle when every one of them is dead.”

“Let the blood flow,” Paris muttered, and then his gaze locked with Strider’s, whose eyes were the same cerulean shade as his own. Strider was the keeper of Defeat and could not lose,
no matter the circumstances, without severe consequences and excruciating pain.

“Need one alive for questioning,” Strider told him.

“You’re asking for a miracle.”

Bullets began flying in quick succession, beating all around them. Strider grinned, a feral flash of teeth completely at odds with his pretty-boy face. He pointed to the always-silent, always-reserved Amun, a dark slash in the quickly falling night, who lifted a tranq-gun.

“You out there, cowards?” a Hunter called.

“Come and get us,” Strider said. “If you can.”

Paris nodded in understanding and sheathed his weapon. They were to keep one alive. If possible. With a semiautomatic in hand, Paris wasn’t sure he’d remember to keep things nonlethal.

Strider leapt into motion, staying low to the ground. He disappeared around a bush. A few seconds later, a scream echoed through the island, pain-filled and shocked. One down. Only five left.

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.