Reaver

Deranged laughter bubbled up but never got the chance to surface. A faint tremor prickled her skin.

Again. And again. The vibrations came in a steady beat, and she choked on a sob when she realized what they were.

Footsteps.

Cold terror knotted every one of her muscles, locking her up so hard she could barely breathe. As miserable as she was now, at least she was alone. No one was making her scream in agony. No one was demanding answers from her with sharp objects or torturing her with bloody threats they always followed through on.

The tremors grew stronger. Someone was coming closer, and dread made her empty stomach churn.

Warmth spread over her back. Whoever was in the room was just inches away.

“Who are you?” Harvester felt hands on her, felt the whisper of someone’s words against her cheek, but she couldn’t hear or see, and even her ability to think was being stripped away by impending panic.

The chains looped around her wrists came free. She dropped toward the acid pool below, but even as she started to scream, a hand covered her mouth and she was cradled firmly against a very broad chest.

This was a new torture. Usually while she was either blind or deaf or both, they struck her or cut her or worse—making her go mad with anxiety over where the next pain would come from and how bad it would be.

This was far more horrible. Whoever was hauling her away was being gentle. She didn’t like gentle. Gentle always resulted in pain. Mental or physical, it always hurt.

She trembled, waiting for it. This a**hole would skin her, or he’d stab her with a red-hot iron. Or he’d impale her on a spike. Maybe he’d violate her over and over before handing her off to friends. Perhaps he’d trick her into trusting him, and then he’d turn on her.

No matter what, it would be agonizing.

The whisper came again, a light, warm caress of air on her cheek. Soft lips brushed her skin, and she wondered what species of demon they belonged to. He was likely hideous, but she was sure he was male. Every place her body was in contact with his was rock hard and there was a very masculine note to his scent—which was surprisingly pleasant.

And familiar. But why?

She wracked her brain for the answer, but fear of the unknown and the pain of the last round of torture kept her brain too occupied to delve deep into the mystery. All she could do was wait for him to take her to wherever her new, fresh hell would take place.

The lips again. Speaking against her forehead. The male’s hand came up to tuck her head against his chest in what she could almost believe was a protective gesture before suddenly, he was moving fast, his movements jerky and violent. Twice he almost dropped her, and she lost count of the number of times he banged her against something. Each time, those lips would caress her skin, and deep in his chest, a rumble would vibrate through her body.

What was going on?

It seemed like they went on this way forever, with him sprinting like a madman through an obstacle course, and then occasionally stopping and going very, very still, with only his chest rising and falling as though he were panting. His heartbeat was a fast tap against her chest that never seemed to slow down. How could he go on like this? Surely his heart would explode or he’d collapse. And where were they going?

She lost track of time, and she thought she might have even fallen asleep once. Sleep that was brought to a painful, abrupt halt when she fell out of his arms and tumbled over what she assumed were sharp rocks.

As she lay on the ground her ability to hear cut in and out like a bad radio signal. The earth around her shuddered and shook… a battle was taking place. She had no idea where to go or how to protect herself, so she curled into a ball and hoped she was out of the way.

Gradually, the sounds of battle died away, and the male returned, his scent now carrying the distinct tinge of blood, sweat, and combat. Normally, she’d find those scents sexy. Now they just made her shiver with the unknown.

His palms came down on her head and her breath jammed in her lungs. What was he going to do to her? His hands roamed over her body and she cringed, waiting for a violation. Thankfully, after a rapid check from her feet to her head, he picked her up and they were off again, heading God knew where for God knew what.

Again, she lost track of time as he moved, sometimes running, sometimes skidding to a halt. Twice more he put her down to fight, and twice more she scented him when he returned. The second time, she welcomed his attention, because as frightened as she was, so far, he hadn’t hurt her.

Silky soft lips brushed her cheek again. “There… can… in… rest.”

She started. Words? She’d heard him! Finally, her hearing was coming back online. “Who…” She swallowed, but her mouth might as well have been a desert. “Who are you?”

“It’s… I… you’ll… okay. Tav will… and rest.”

The words were louder this time, but no clearer. Her heart started to pound. What should she do? Plot an escape? Help him with whatever it was he was doing? She hated this. Hated not knowing what was going on or what she should do. Worst of all, she hated not knowing what she should feel. Fear? Gratitude? Both were emotions that didn’t come easily to her.

She was far more comfortable with hate.

The male stopped and smoothed his finger over the shell of her ear. The telltale tingle of healing energy entered her body and, as if the world had suddenly gone from peaceful night to daytime in the city, sounds flooded her ears. In the distance, there were shrieks and barking noises. Somewhere close by, the distinct rattling of crispy tree leaves in the breeze joined the male’s labored breathing.

“Tell me,” she rasped, “your name.”

“It’s me,” he murmured in a voice that filled her with disbelief. Dread. Relief. Emotions that didn’t mix well. Like fear and gratitude. Love and hate. “It’s me. It’s Reaver.”

Five

“R-Reaver?”

Reaver held Harvester’s frail body tight against his as he navigated the final steps of a winding ledge that dropped them into a world of weird. “It’s me. It’s okay. We’re safe.”

Relatively safe, anyway. Relative meaning that they weren’t dead. Yet. He just hoped the same could be said for Tavin, Matt, and Calder. When he’d left them to sneak into Satan’s realm, they’d been engaged in a battle they’d initiated as a diversion. It had been a risky move, and Reaver could only pray they’d make it to the rendezvous point.

A hunter’s horn sounded in the distance and was answered by another, closer horn signal. Satan’s minions hadn’t gained ground, but they were spreading out. Damn.

He scanned the landscape of thorny plants, hills of blackened earth and trees, and twisted, abandoned structures. Nothing moved.

He looked down at Harvester, and as before when he first saw her hanging over a pit of acid, he felt sick to his stomach. He didn’t like Harvester even though he was grateful for the things she’d done, but she didn’t deserve this; her na**d body too thin and mottled with bruises and ligature marks, her once silken black hair tangled and dull, and worst of all, missing her gorgeous green eyes.

Under ideal circumstances, an angel could heal from even the most heinous injuries within hours. But these were far from ideal circumstances, and Harvester’s source of power, her wings, had been severed. Without wings or medical assistance, it could take weeks, even months, for an angel’s body to fully heal.

“I can’t risk healing you more than I did,” he said. “My power isn’t reliable right now, and I could do more harm than good.”

“Reaver,” she croaked, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Why… how…”

“Shh.” He tucked her face into his chest, quieting her. “We’re going to meet up with some friends, and then I’ll answer all your questions.”

Reaver and the assassins had worked out a plan A and a plan B. Plan A had been shot to hell when iron gates had prevented Reaver from getting out of Satan’s realm to the south, where his companions would have been waiting. Now, with demons in pursuit, they were on their way to plan B. Hopefully Tav, Matt, and Calder had realized quickly that Reaver’s escape route had gone bad.

Inhaling the stench of rotten vegetation that permeated this section of Sheoul, he started away from the skeletons of some burned-out buildings and toward a mountain range as expansive as the Rockies. He moved swiftly, outrunning the sounds of pursuit and pausing once to blast a group of imps with a ball of lightning. The sphere struck the leader, and from there sent electrical strikes at each of the surrounding imps, frying them all in a handy eight-for-one.

Harvester slept in his arms, barely stirring when he stopped to listen for anyone following them. By the time they neared the plan B meeting site, Reaver was sure they’d lost the demons—temporarily. Reaver wasn’t naive enough to think they were off the hook. The demons chasing them were only the first wave, the security detail unlucky enough to be guarding the dungeon Harvester was kept in.

Once Satan got wind of this, if he hadn’t already, Reaver and Harvester were going to have legions of minions on their heels.

A trail carved into sheer canyon walls dropped them into a narrow valley, where he found Tavin near a dense copse of twenty-foot-high larva-nettle bushes that bit like snakes. Worse, the bastards implanted their larva into the victim, and anyone unlucky enough to play host to the spiny larva died a week later when branches started popping out of their bodies.

Wisely, Tavin had positioned himself several feet away.

“Dude.” Tav stepped out from behind a gnarled tree trunk, his crossbow up and ready to nail anything that moved. “I can’t believe you f**king did it. Man, when all hell broke loose from inside Satan’s realm, I figured you were a goner.”

“If you can’t get us out of here soon, I still might be.”

“I’ll get you out of here, but we still have a three-day journey to a spot where you can flash us out.”

Three days. They might not last three hours if they ran into Satan’s minions. “Where are Matt and Calder?”