The Darkest Secret (2 page)

Too bad the drugs had been so potent. A good fight would have settled his nerves.

What was so important that Torin didn't want him taking a few minutes to lock an abominable Hunter away?

His thoughts splintered the moment he hit the landing.

All he could do was gape. Angels. So many angels. No wonder the house had been redecorated. Divine intervention and all that. Angels did like them some pretties.

They stood along the wall, the only space between them filled by the arch of their wings. White feathers laced with gold, the wings of warriors. Their scents perfumed the air, a collage of orchids, morning dew, chocolate and champagne. They ranged in height, though none were shorter than six foot three, and though they wore girly white robes, their muscle mass rivaled Strider's.

Most were male, but all were demon assassins trained to hunt, to destroy, and when warranted, to protect. Since they didn't rush at him, ripping swords of fire from the air, as he knew they were very capable of doing, he assumed they were here for the latter.

He studied them, searching for answers. Twenty-three in total, but not one of them glanced in his direction. They kept their eyes straight ahead, their stances taut, their hands anchored behind their backs. Not a sound did they make. Not even the rasp of breath.

Physically, they…entranced him. And yeah, it was
embarrassing as hell to admit that, even to himself. But the sheer magnetism of them was stunning. Hypnotic. A drug for his eyes.

They possessed all different shades of hair. From the darkest of midnight to the palest of snow, but his favorite was the gold. So pure, so fluid, a king's ransom that had been melted and mixed with the dazzle of summer sun. Rich, vibrant. Almost…alive. No way he'd be teasing any of them about such prissy locks, though.

They might not be attacking him, might not even be looking at him, but death radiated from them.

Someone cleared his throat.

Strider blinked, Torin coming back into focus. His friend occupied the center of the hallway. Probably had the entire time, only Strider had lost sight of anything but the angels the moment he'd spied them. Yep. Em-bar-rass-ing.

“Why?” was all he asked.

Torin understood. “Aeron and William took Amun into hell on a rescue mission. And yeah, they got Legion out of there. She's alive, healing, but Amun…”

Strider filled in the rest and wanted to punch a hole in the wall. The keeper of Secrets had new voices in his head.

He'd been with Amun for thousands upon thousands of years. Eons, what seemed countless millennia. He knew the warrior's demon absorbed the darkest thoughts and deepest mysteries of anyone nearby. Things long buried, horrific, gruesome. Unwanted, humiliating. Soul-changing. And if Amun had been in hell, where demons roamed in their purest form, his head was now churning with all kinds of evil. Malevolent whispers, wicked images, both drowning the essence of who he was.

Or rather, who he'd
been
.

“The angels?” Strider gritted out. Yeah, he knew it was rude to discuss the beings as if they weren't there, but
he simply didn't give a shit. He didn't love many people, but he loved the other demon-possessed residents of this fortress. Even more than he loved himself, and that was a whole hell of a lot.

“They wanted to kill him, but—”

“Fuck no!” he roared. Anyone touched his friend, and they'd lose their hands—followed by their limbs, their organs and, when he tired of torturing them, their lives.

He hefted Ex off his shoulder and into his arms before easing her to the floor and stalking forward, already reaching for a blade.

Defeat sensed his need to destroy and laughed.
Win!

“Stop.” Torin raised his arm to ward him off, even as he backtracked to maintain distance. “Let me finish, damn it! They wanted to kill him, were supposed to kill him, but they haven't. Won't.”

Yet
hung in the air like a noose around his neck. Strider chose to ignore that noose—for the moment—and stopped, already panting and sweating with the force of his instant and white-hot rage.

Win?
his demon whined.

No challenge has been issued.
Therefore, he could back off without consequences.

Oh,
he thought he heard, a whole lot of disappointment in the undertone.

“Why are they here, then?” he snapped, demanding an answer
now.
Or else.

Green eyes grew shadowed as Torin shifted from one foot to the other. His mouth opened and closed, the right explanation eluding him perhaps. “Amun didn't just absorb new memories. He absorbed demon minions. Hundreds of them.”

“How? How the fuck is that possible? I've lived with him for centuries, and he's never absorbed
my
demon.”

“Nor mine. But ours are High Lords who can bind
themselves to humans. Those were mere underlings, and as you know, they can only bind themselves to, what? High Lords. Which they did, to his. He's…tainted now, a danger far worse than the brush of my skin. The angels are guarding him. Limiting the contact he has with others, ensuring he doesn't leave and…hurt. Himself, humans.”

Strider scowled. Amun rarely spoke, containing the secrets he unwittingly stole inside himself so that no one else would have to deal with them, fear them or be sickened by them. A grueling burden few could carry. Yet he did it because there was no one more concerned with the well-being of those around him. So, a danger? No. Strider refused to believe it.

“Explain
better,
” he commanded, offering Torin another chance to convince him.

Since they'd reunited a few months ago after centuries apart, he knew Torin was used to his smiles and jokes, but Disease didn't flinch at Strider's new vehemence. “Evil seeps from him. Just going into his room, you'll feel its sticky gloom. You'll crave things.” He shuddered. “Bad things. And you won't be able to simply wish the disgusting desires away. They'll cling to you for days.”

Strider still didn't care and still wouldn't believe it. “I want to see him.”

Only the slightest hesitation, as if the decree had been expected, then Torin nodded. “But the girl…” His words trailed off.

Behind him, there was a rustle of clothing, a feminine moan. Strider whipped around in time to see one of the angels lifting Ex into his arms and carrying her toward the unclaimed bedroom next to Amun's.

He almost rushed forward and ripped her away from the heavenly creature. He'd dealt with an angel before— Lysander, leader of these warriors and the worst of the worst when it came to do-gooders—and knew such
beings wouldn't understand the depths of his hatred for the woman. They would see Haidee as an innocent human in need of sweet, tender care. But Amun was far more important than any Hunter's treatment, so Strider remained in place.

“Just so you know, she's worse than a demon,” he said, a lethal edge sharpening the truth in his tone. “So if you want to protect your charges, you'll guard her like you're guarding Amun. But don't kill her,” he added before he could stop himself. Not that they would have. Still. A guy had to state his wants up front, so there would be no confusion later. “She has…information we need.”

The angel paused in his stride, head turning to Strider with unerring precision. Like Torin, his eyes were green. Unlike Torin, there were no shadows in them. Only clear, bright flames, crackling, intense…ready to strike like a bolt of lightning.

“I sense her infection.” His voice was deep, with the barest hint of smoke. “I will ensure she does not leave the fortress. And that she continues to live. For now.”

Infection? Strider knew nothing about an infection, but again, he didn't care. “Thank you.” And hell, had he ever thought to thank a demon assassin for anything? Well, besides Aeron's Olivia.

With a shake of his head, he wiped Ex and everything else from his thoughts and marched forward, trailing behind Torin.

At the end of the hallway, the last door on the right, Torin paused, drew in a sorrowful breath, and twisted the knob. “Be careful in there.” Then he moved aside, allowing Strider to breeze past him without a single moment of contact.

First thing Strider noticed was the air. Thick and dark, he could almost smell the brimstone…the bodies charred to ash. And the sounds…oh, gods, the sounds. Screams
that scraped at his ears, muted, yet in no way forgettable. Thousands upon thousands of demons danced together, creating a dizzying chorus of agony.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, peering down. Amun writhed atop the mattress, clutching his ears, moaning and groaning. No, Strider realized a moment later. Those moans and groans weren't coming from his friend. They were coming from
him.
Amun was silent, his mouth open in an endless cry he couldn't quite release.

His dark skin was clawed to ribbons, those ribbons tattered and dried with blood both old and new. As an immortal soldier, he healed quickly. But those wounds…they looked as if they'd scabbed over, only to be ripped apart again. And again. And his butterfly tattoo, the mark of his demon, had once wrapped around his right calf. Only now, that tattoo
moved.
Sliding up his leg, undulating on his stomach, breaking apart to form hundreds of tiny butterflies, reconnecting into one, then disappearing behind his back.

How? Why?

Shaking, Strider studied his friend's face. Amun's lashes were fused together as if stitched, and the sockets underneath were so swollen he could have smuggled golf balls in there. Oh, gods. Sickness churned in Strider's stomach, pushing bile into his throat. He knew what that swelling meant, recognized the pattern blunted nails had left behind.

Amun had tried to pluck out his own eyes.

To stop the images forming behind them?

That was the last coherent thought Strider had. The last thought he controlled.

The darkness shrouded him completely, burrowing into him, filling his mind, consuming him. There were knives strapped all over his body, he recalled. He should palm them, use them. Slice, oh, how he would slice. Himself,
Amun. The angels outside the room. Then the world. Blood would flow, an ever-thickening crimson. Flesh would peel like dried, rotted paint, and bone would snap in two, tiny shards falling to the floor, merely dust to be swept away.

He would drink the blood and eat the bones, but they wouldn't be what sustained him. No, he would live off the shrieks and squeals his actions provoked. He would bathe in terror, exult in grief. And he would laugh, oh, how he would laugh.

He laughed now, the chilling sound like music to him.

Defeat wasn't sure how to react. The demon cackled, then whimpered, then sank to the back of Strider's mind. Afraid?
Be afraid.

Something strong and hard banded around his forearms and jerked him backward, dragging him kicking and shouting out of the darkness and into light. Such bright light. His eyes teared, burned. But with the tears, with the burn, the images in his head washed clean and withered to cinder. Somewhat.

Strider blinked into focus. He was trembling violently, glazed with perspiration, his palms bleeding because he
had
grabbed his knives. Was
still
holding them. Only, he'd squeezed them by their blades, cutting through tendon into bone. The pain was severe but manageable as he opened his fingers and the weapons clattered to the floor.

One of the angels stood behind him, another in front of him. They were glowing from within, like twin suns just freed from a too-long eclipse; he fought to breathe, managed to suck in one mouthful of oxygen, then two. Thank the gods. No brimstone, no ash. Only the scent of beloved—and hated—morning dew. Hated because, with the fresh, clean scent, reality was brought into Technicolor focus.

That's
what Amun had to endure?

Strider had been given a taste, only a taste, yet his friend suffered with the gloom and soul-shattering urges all day, all night. No one could maintain his sanity when constantly buffeted against that kind of wickedness. Not even Amun.

“Warrior?” the angel in front of him prompted.

“I'm myself now,” he rasped. A lie. He might never be the same again.

He looked over the angel's shoulder and saw Torin. They shared a horrified moment of understanding before he returned his attention to the angel and the situation at hand. “Why the hell are you just standing here? Someone chain him. He's tearing himself apart.” Strider's throat was raw, grinding the words into broken glass. “And for fuck's sake, get him on an IV. He needs sustenance. Medicine.”

The two angels shared a look similar to the one he'd shared with Torin, only theirs was fraught with knowledge only achieved through battle and heartache, before one returned to his post at the wall and the other entered Amun's bedroom.

The one at the wall said, “He has been on an IV before. Several times, actually. They do not last. The needles always find a way free, with or without his help. The chains, however, we can do. And before you demand we clean him and care for him, I will tell you that we have. We brush his teeth for him. We bathe him. We clean his wounds. We force-feed him. He is taken care of in every way possible.”

“What you're doing isn't enough,” Strider said.

“We are open to any ideas you have.”

Of course, he had no response to that. He might be in control of his thoughts again, but as Torin had promised, the need to kill, to truly hurt the innocent, hadn't fled completely. It was there, like a film of slime on his skin.

He had a feeling he wouldn't be able to scrub him
self clean, even if he removed every layer of flesh he possessed.

How was Amun going to survive this?

I
N BRIEF MOMENTS OF LUCIDITY
, Amun knew who he was, what he used to be and the monster he'd become. He wanted to die, finally, blessedly, but no one would take mercy on him and deliver the finishing blow. And no matter how hard he tried—and oh, did he try—he couldn't seem to inflict enough damage on his own body to do the deed himself.

So he fought, trying to expunge the black images and disgusting impulses constantly bombarding him, yet at the same time hold them inside. An impossible challenge, and one he would soon lose. He knew it. There were too many, they were too strong, and they'd already burned away his immortal soul, the last tether that had bound them to his will. Not that he'd ever had control.

He'd fight with every fiber of his being, though. Until the very end. Because when those images and impulses, those
demons,
were loosed on an unsuspecting public…

A shudder rippled through him. He knew what would happen, could see the destruction in his mind. Could taste the sweet flavor of devastation in his mouth.

Sweet…yes…

And like that, this newest moment of clarity evaporated like mist. So many images swam through his head, a deluge of memories, and he didn't know which belonged to him and which belonged to the demons—or their victims. Beatings. Rapes. Murders. Rapture in the face of each.
Pain. Trauma. Death. Paralyzing fear that consumed as it destroyed.

Just then, he only knew that fire smoldered around him, melting his skin, blistering his throat. That thousands of tiny, stinging bugs had managed to dig their way into his veins, and they were still feasting on him. That the smell of rot filled his nose, and had infused his every cell. That—

Dead bodies were piled around him, on top of him, smashing and burying him, he suddenly realized. He was trapped, suffocating.

Help!
he screamed inside his head.
Someone help me!
But no one ever came. Hours passed, perhaps days. His frantic struggling waned until he could only smack his lips. He was thirsty. Oh, gods, was he thirsty. He needed something, anything, to wash away the ash caked inside his mouth.

Please! Help!

Still no one came. This was his punishment. He was to die here. Until he came back to life to suffer some more. Desperation renewed his struggle to free himself—but that only made things worse. There were too many bodies, the weight of them drowning him in a ceaseless sea of blood, rot and despair. There was no hope of escape. He truly was going to die here.

But then his surroundings changed again, and he was looking down on that mountainous, decaying pile, grinning and holding another body to toss on top.

This one had died too soon, he thought, gaze shifting to the motionless female soul he held in his scaled, gnarled arms. Souls were as real and corporal down here as humans were up there, and for seventy-two years he'd kept this one chained. She'd been helpless as he'd sliced her piece by agonizing piece. He'd laughed when she'd begged for mercy, revived her when she'd thought to find that same
mercy in sleep, and forced her to watch as he did the same to her beloved family, two members he also owned.

So much
fun
…

A female's tears had never tantalized him so exquisitely, and he'd meant to enjoy her suffering at least another seventy years. But he'd gotten carried away this morning, his claws just a little too sharp, the tips sinking just a little too deep.

Oh, well.

He was Torment, and there were a thousand other souls awaiting his attention. Why mourn the loss of this one?

He rid himself of the body with the barest flick of his wrists. She landed, the other damned mortals clanking around her. He waited, expectant, and was soon rewarded. One of his minions, his hungry, hungry minions, crept to the body and began to feast, snapping and hissing at any other creatures who attempted to thieve the delicious meal.

Such a pretty picture they made, the scaled, crimson-eyed fiend and the naughty human who'd dared to die before he'd finished with her. Oh, well, he thought again. Her soul would soon wither, materialize, and solidify somewhere in this endless pit, and if he were the one to find her, he would have another chance to torture her.

Whistling under his breath, he turned and strolled away.

In the next instant, Amun was swept out of hell in a blinding gale of fury and sorrow, Torment no longer, but a female. Human. She huddled in a corner, no more than twelve years old, the harsh material that covered her body like something out of a historic reenactment, tears scalding her cheeks, fear a living entity inside her chest. She was dirty, pale, the straw surrounding her the only source of comfort.

“Have you forgotten how I saved you?” a hard male voice asked. In Greek.
Ancient
Greek.

His booted feet slapped the ground as he paced in front of her. He was on the short side, his face scarred by the pox and his body rotund. His name was Marcus, but she called him the Bad Man. Yes, he'd saved her, but he'd beaten her, too. When her words pleased him, she was given food, shelter. When they did not, she was forgotten, locked away, terrified of being sold as a slave.

She didn't want to be terrified anymore.

He'd plucked her from the hut where she'd lived her entire life. Until he had arrived, she'd been too afraid to leave, even though there'd been no one left to care for her. Somehow, he had known about the terrors that filled her every dream, both awake and asleep—memories no little girl should have, much less replay over and over again, eyes open or closed—and he had promised to help her.

For some reason, she had hated him at first sight, just as she'd begun to hate everything—herself, her hut, the world—but in her desperation, she had believed him. Now she wished she had run.

“Have you. Forgotten how. I saved you? How the evil one wanted you dead, how I whisked you away before he could return? Don't make me ask again.”

“N-no, I haven't forgotten,” she replied in that same lost language, the words trembling from her throat in a panicked rush.

“Good. Nor will you forget how the evil one infected you. Or what, exactly, the evil one is.”

She didn't understand the part about being infected, but the rest had been drilled into her head. “He is a Lord.”

“And who killed your family?”

“A Lord.” Her voice was stronger now, a flash of mutilated bodies appearing in her mind.

A memory quickly followed, the Bad Man disappearing from view. A memory only three weeks old, and yet, it seemed an eternity had passed already.

“You were promised to someone,” her parents' murderer had said, his voice eerie, unnatural, as he'd splashed over the crimson river between their bodies.
He
was the evil one, and something in his voice had caused a blanket of ice to form around her soul. He'd had no face, and his feet hadn't quite touched the floor. He was tall and thin, a black robe swathing him from head to toe, shielding every inch of him, floating around him and dancing in a wind she couldn't feel. “They should have kept their promise.”

“Who are you?” she'd asked shakily, terrified and numb all at once. She had only stumbled upon this scene a few minutes ago and hadn't quite processed what she was seeing.

Now, looking back, with the Bad Man's warnings about the creature's evilness ringing in her ears, she quaked. Despite her wonderings, the memory continued on.

“Who I am matters not. Who
you
are is all that matters,” the faceless being said. He scooped her up, obviously planning to leave with her, but she fought him with all her might. When he couldn't subdue her, he stabbed her. Once, in the side, barely missing vital organs.

The pain that consumed her was devastating. And yet, with the pain, more of that aberrant cold stormed to life, seeping from her. A cold that didn't just numb. A cold that raged liked a blizzard inside her.

And then, ice actually crystallized over her skin, seeping from her pores. What she was seeing couldn't be real. Couldn't possibly be real.

As the creature strode outside the hut, still holding her, she reached up and pushed at the face she still couldn't see, skin meeting skin. He howled with an agony that matched her own.

For several seconds, neither of them could pull away. Perhaps they were locked together, frozen by the ice. Then he dropped her, and she scrambled backward, bleeding,
hurting. Still howling, he disappeared, there one moment, gone the next. Leaving her reeling, uncertain of what had happened and how she'd done what she'd done.

“How are you going to repay these Lords, my darling Hadiee?” the Bad Man asked, drawing her back to the present. She didn't like him any better than she liked the evil one.

Another answer that had been drilled into her head. One she wouldn't forget, one that was as much a part of her as her arms and legs. Perhaps more so, because it was a shield of armor around her, keeping her safe. “Slaughter them all.” They were murderers, after all, and they deserved to die.

A pause, silence, and then soft fingers briefly ruffled her hair. “That's a good girl. I'll train you yet.”

A split second later, the image inside Amun's mind changed. He realized he was no longer reliving a memory, her memory, but was now staring down at the girl. She was bathed in light, older, a woman now, and sleeping so innocently on a bed of silver silk.

There was something familiar about her name, even though he knew she had changed it. Hadiee then, but Haidee now. There was something familiar about her surroundings, too, but his mind refused to bridge the gap from questions to answers.

She had a shoulder-length crop of pale hair that she'd streaked with pink. Her face was lush in its femininity, despite the silver eyebrow ring she sported. Perhaps because her dark blond brows arched like a cupid's bow.

Lashes thick enough to be a raven's wing fluttered open, one moment fanning over the rise of perfectly sculpted cheekbones, the next framing eyes of pearl-gray, the next, fanning again. She fought to awaken, as if sensing his scrutiny, but failed, allowing him to continue.

Her delicate nose led to lips that reminded him of a
freshly blooming rose. Her skin appeared eternally flushed, as if she were constantly lost to arousal, the undertones kissed by the sun. No, he thought next. Not just kissed by the sun, but
sprinkled
with its rays, as if she was lit from the inside, a thousand tiny diamonds crushed into her flesh. Not like the Harpies, whose luminous, multihued flesh rivaled the brightest rainbow. This woman, this Haidee, didn't actually glow. She was simply beauty personified.

He could have watched her forever, he mused. She was his first glimpse of paradise in what seemed an infinite nightmare. But, of course, even this was to be taken from him.

Though he fought, the image shifted again, orange-gold flames suddenly filling his line of vision. Plumes of smoke curled upward, painting the acrid air with what looked to be a demon's breath.

A city burned in front of him, huts crackling as timber fell and grass disintegrated. Mothers screamed for their children, and fathers lay facedown in the blood-soaked dirt, weapons protruding from their backs. All of them wore the same type of clothing little Hadiee—Haidee now, he reminded himself—had sported. Dark, threadbare linen, rough and stained.

He wasn't the only one watching the destruction. Eleven warriors stood at his sides, their eyes glowing bright red, their skin merely a mask that concealed the hideous monsters lurking underneath. Monsters with sharp-tipped horns knifing from their skulls, poisonous fangs jutting from their mouths, and oozing scales rather than peach-tinted flesh.

Their gore-covered chests lifted and fell with the force of their breaths, their nostrils flaring. Their hands clenched around blades as their thoughts invaded his mind. More. They needed more. More flames, more screams, more death. For only when the entire world was flooded with
the blood and bones of these
precious
mortals would they be satisfied. Fulfilled.

Except…

Amun didn't want to kill just then. He wanted to return to the little girl. He wanted to hold her close and tell her everything was going to be all right, and that he would save her from the Bad Man. He wanted to return to the woman. He wanted to curl beside her and hear
her
tell
him
everything was going to be all right, and that she would save him from the demons.

And he would. He would return.

Amun struggled to reach her. He didn't care when skin tore and bone snapped. No, he welcomed the pain. Liked it, even. Perhaps too much. And he didn't care when flames rushed to him, licked over him, hundreds of spiked tongues leaking acid. He welcomed the sting, because with these newest wounds, the bugs in his veins were finally freed. They raced out, crawling all over his body, the bed.

The bed. Yes, he was atop a bed, he thought hazily.

Suddenly he could feel the shredded sheets underneath him, every savage gash carved in his muscles, the pain so much greater than before, and not so welcome now. Worse, steel pressed into his wrists and ankles, preventing him from stanching the flow of blood or shooing away the bugs.

Though every instinct he possessed shouted that he continue to fight, he forced himself to stop thrashing. In and out he breathed, realizing the air was heavy and coated with decay. But underneath the rot, he smelled something else…something crisp, like the earth. Pulsing, vibrant life.

And beneath the flames, he could feel the sweetest kiss of winter ice, soothing his burns, gifting him with tendrils of strength. What—who—was responsible?

He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were sealed
shut. He frowned. Why were his lids sealed shut? And the steel…chains, he thought as the haze began to fade. Binding him, holding him prisoner. Why?

A startling moment of lucidity.