TWENTY-EIGHT
Rune’s head pounded, his ears ringing.
Josephine had used him, sighing his name and coming on his tongue. She’d given him his first real kiss. But her reactions had been feigned so she could return to the one she loved.
Loved. She’d given her heart away. Lore females didn’t do that lightly. And I’d actually been worried about her getting attached to me?
The night she’d fouled his shot, she’d been dressed like a man-eater—because she’d known she was going to see Thad. The body Rune had lost himself in belonged to someone else.
He pinched his temples. He’d planned to go to the tree nymphs’ covey, but couldn’t quite bring himself to leave. His headache worsened, and an unfamiliar, churning aggression filled him. Damn it, that night with her had meant something to him.
Shared breaths, discovery, barriers broken. It’d been different; it’d been more. How much had been real for her?
He did the using. Artifice was his specialty. He gritted his fangs, pacing the room. He craved angry sex, a good hate fuck. He wanted to hurt Josephine. Needed to.
He could return to New Orleans and take down her male. From his ever-present quiver, Rune pulled a gray arrow. The eraser, they called it. A shot to the chest with this one, and there’d be too many pieces to find.
The demon in him whispered, Do it. Then piss on his grave marker.
The fey in him said, She’s too young to know what love is. She’s too young for you! Just think about this and calm yourself.
She might have a man, but Rune would keep her from him. He couldn’t allow a security risk like her to be freed—
One of the symbols on his arm began to glow and tingle. An alert. Someone had tripped his perimeter wards. A trespasser in my sanctuary.
He pictured Josephine—small and helpless in his bed. The demon in him commanded protect. Fangs bared, he unslung his bow, then traced to the observatory. His scowl deepened. He had a guest.
Sian was drinking from a flask, gazing down at an orgy, his customary war ax sheathed at his side.
By way of greeting, Rune said, “How did you find this place? And trace past my ward?” He shouldered his bow once more.
Sian cleared his throat. “You concealed your knowledge of this location, but when I read your mind, I uncovered enough.” The demon’s striking face was stamped with fatigue, his intense green eyes bloodshot.
How long did he have before his appearance started changing? With his twin’s death, Sian had become the King of Pandemonia and all Hells—which meant he would transform from one of the most physically faultless males in the worlds into his own most monstrous state.
Sian offered his flask. “Brew?” The favored libation of demons.
Rune found the taste harsh, but as a lad, he’d drunk it just to have more in common with demons. The habit had stuck. From his pocket, he retrieved his own flask.
He raised it and took a generous swig. “What are you doing here?” Would Sian scent Josephine on him? How would Rune explain that he smelled of only one female? “You could have contacted me.” His wrist tattoo was dark. “Now is not a good time.”
“You must have a thousand nymphs in need.”
Rune corrected him: “A thousand and one.” Soon. He’d gone two nights without release, holding vigil for a female who didn’t want him. Two nights abstaining! That was why he was conflicted. Rune wasn’t the only one. “You look like hell, demon.”
“Soon to be literally,” Sian said in a bitter tone. “I’m now the king of it and must fit the part.”
Rune had nothing but sympathy for Sian. He loathed change, had been altered so many times during his life, he refused to be ever again. “How long do you have?”
Sian didn’t respond to that, his focus on a racy scene below—a demoness with three males inside her. “Gods, I will miss the attentions of desirable females. They flock to me now. Anon, they will gaze upon me with horror.”
There was only one cure for a demon like him, and it was so implausible, Rune had little hope for his friend. “Will you resemble Goürlav?” Sian’s twin had been a giant with green skin and slitted yellow eyes, considered repulsive by most.
Curt shake of his head. “Already I sense different changes. I’ll be my own brand of monster.” He drank again. “I asked around about my brother, couldn’t understand why he would enter a contest for a kingdom. He already had the demonarchy of Pandemonia.”
The source world of all demons. “Then why’d he do it?”
“Also up for grabs was a queen, a sorceress who’d volunteered to be won.” Sian met Rune’s gaze. “Don’t you see? He craved a willing wife and could see no other way to get one.” Sian took a long swig from his flask, then stared down at it. “The spectators of that contest considered him a monster, when all he wanted was a companion. Soon, I’ll be the one who’s hideous and yearning. How amused she would be about this.”
“The fey girl? With different colored eyes.”
Sian glanced up. “We have so few mysteries among all of us.”
“Was she your mate?”
“I never attempted her, so I can’t know for certain,” he answered. “But I had a strong sense she was mine.”
“You once said she was treacherous.”
“As duplicitous as she was lovely.” Sian rubbed his head, a gesture he often did—a telling one. A full-blood hell demon like him should sport sleek black horns, but his had been shorn when he was too young to regenerate them. Even after so long, he felt their absence. Like phantom limbs.
A predatory and defensive feature, horns were also sexual organs, sensitive to the touch. Amputation would be a nightmare.
“I would give anything for vengeance.” Sian turned up his flask, draining it, then swiped his sleeve over his mouth. “Let’s think not on the past. I’ve come to call you to battle.”
Even better than a covey visit! “Against?”
“The Ice Demonarchy. They’ve been making sacrifices to old deities, attempting to wake them.”
Idiots. They had no idea what they were doing. The Møriør ran into this sometimes, were old enough to have personally encountered most of those gods before they’d slept. The ice demons played with powers more evil than the Møriør could dream of being.
Was Nïx steering that faction as part of her Vertas army? If so, she was steering them straight into an apocalypse. Yet she would blame the Møriør and Orion?
Few knew a fundamental truth about the Møriør: The Bringers of Doom didn’t cause the apocalypse; they heralded it.
Sian pocketed his empty flask and stood. “I traveled to that realm ages ago. I know our meeting place.”
“Then let’s be off.” Rune grabbed one of his brawny shoulders, and the King of Hells transported them to the frozen reaches of the ice demons, landing atop a snow-covered shelf.
Chill winds gusted. A waxing moon illuminated lines of warriors below them, stretching all the way to the horizon.
Darach, Blace, and Allixta were already on the ledge, along with the witch’s familiar. Curses’ whiskers were frozen white.
Darach appeared on the verge of turning, his eyes as blue as the glaciers all around them.
Blace looked as impassive as ever. One would never know he prepared to enter the fray.
Rune glanced from Blace to Darach. Had either coveted a female to distraction? Wondered if she might be his mate?
Had either been used by someone he’d desired?
“Oh, it’s the baneblood,” Allixta said as she fought to keep her hat on against the winds. “The assassin who can’t take out a single Val . . .” She trailed off when Rune rested an arrow against his lips, eyes narrowed with threat.
Silence, witch, or die this night. He might be crazed enough to do it.
Though her palms glowed with defensive magicks, she turned away from his challenge. Smart girl.
Blace told them, “We don’t know who’s listening in these rocky crags. Speak silently.” They often communicated telepathically in the presence of others. —The Valkyrie has eluded you, Rune?—
—For only so long, vampire. I have this well in hand.—
Blace raised a brow. —Then why are you in such turmoil?—
Did the vampire recognize that so well in others because he rarely felt it?
—If I am, it’ll be short lived.— Rune would celebrate this victory with an entire covey of nymphs.
Blace drew his sword, then turned to Sian. —You don’t have any hesitation about killing your own kind?— Was the vampire getting soft in his old age?
Sian readied his war ax. —The Møriør are my own kind.—
Exactly Rune’s thoughts! Sian knew where his loyalty lay. Why had Rune allowed Josephine to live after she’d taken his blood?
Because she makes me weak. He’d risked his standing among the Møriør for a female who didn’t even want him.
His alliance meant everything. Rune focused his gaze at the battalions of demon warriors below. Every one of those males was bent on defeating Rune’s brethren. On stealing victory from their grasp.
Stealing the triumph I’ve enjoyed since joining the Møriør.
Allixta asked, —This army was given a chance to surrender?—
—We always give them that chance.— Sian twirled his ax. —Let’s get this over with.—
Rune nodded. —Good warring, Møriør.— As he awaited Blace, Darach, and Sian’s charge, Rune’s thoughts turned to a memory from long ago.
He’d been target practicing in Perdishian’s training yard, growing more and more frustrated. In the distance, Kolossós, one of the first to join Orion, had been having some fit or another, so the ground—and Rune’s target—had quaked.
Orion had appeared beside Rune. “How fares this, archer?”
“I don’t understand why I can’t take up a sword and leave this bow to another.” He’d pointed an arrow at Blace, sparring with Sian. “The vampire is teaching me.”
If Rune mastered swordplay, then he could fight his half brother Saetthan on equal footing. Saetthan carried the sword of their ancestors, a weapon passed down through generations. The ancient metal had been forged in the fires of a world being born: Titania, the second of the three great fey realms.
Saetthan was rightly proud of that weapon. But then, he’d always enjoyed lording over Rune anything he’d inherited as the legitimate Sylvan heir.
Orion had said, “Could you match Blace’s talents? Become our swordsman?”
Rune showed promise. But he could never be better than Blace.
Just then Uthyr had soared overhead, unleashing a stream of fire. The gigantic dragon had flown into the flames, warming and cleaning his scales. Yet another fantastically powerful Møriør.
Orion had gazed up with his fathomless eyes, musing, “Why not take up fire breathing?”
Rune had scowled. Already he’d felt as if he didn’t belong here. Blace was the oldest vampire, filled with the wisdom of ages. Sian was the prince of hells, son to the first demon, and a second generation Møriør after his sire had died.
Rune? A killer from the shadows and a whore.
“Just as the Møriør are limbs of one entity, that bow must become a part of you.” Strolling on, Orion had said, “Remove the leathers from your hands.”
His archery guards? Rune had called, “My fingertips will be shredded.”
Without turning back, Orion had spoken into his mind. —Did you think to become the Archer without pain?—
Rune roused from his memory when Sian gave his fearsome roar.
Battle on.
Sian and Blace began tearing through that army’s ranks with little resistance. Rune loosed strategic arrows to cover the two, though they had no need of help. From the icy forest beyond, Darach howled, fresh on the trail of something.
Within a quarter of an hour, victory was nigh.
—Shoot the bonedeath, Rune!— Blace commanded. —West flank.—
Rune plucked a white arrow from his quiver.
Allixta warily said, —You’ve configured those magicks to make Møriør immune?— She was understandably nervous.
—You’ll soon find out.— Rune drew his bow to the limit, aiming for a boulder in the rocky field below. He adjusted for winds, gauging the direction with the sensitive tips of his ears.
Silent, he let fly his arrow.
It sliced through the air. When it implanted in stone, the icy rock exploded.
Waves of heat and pressure expanded from the target, scorching snow, striking the closest demons, then sweeping out farther for miles.
All around Sian and Blace, demons fell to their knees with yells of anguish as their bodies broke and broke. Soon their bones were dust, and they could only writhe on the ground. None would regenerate; each would become an immortal burden on what was left of his people.
The battle was over. The bonedeath always ensured a decisive—and talked about—victory.
Watching his enemies helplessly squirm made Rune even more unsettled! He understood why this needed to be done; the show of force would cow enemies and prevent future conflicts. Besides, if the Møriør didn’t prevail, all these demons would be dead anyway.
But he didn’t relish this.
Nïx had described the Møriør as pure evil, an alliance of monsters and devils. That malicious Valkyrie had long allied with the fey; would she have deemed the outwardly beautiful Magh a monster?
Sian and Blace traced from the devastation and rejoined them with grave faces. No one would celebrate this as a victory.
Rune strapped on his bow. —I wonder why Orion didn’t merely destroy this dimension in the palm of his hand.—
Dear gods, had Rune spoken that to the others?
Apparently. Orion materialized that moment, his uncanny gaze boring into Rune. Tonight, the Undoing resembled a demon, a gruesome one like Sian’s twin Goürlav had been. Standing over twelve feet tall, Orion had thick-plated skin, two rows of horns, and dripping fangs. But his chilling black eyes were the same. —This demonarchy has strategic value and is filled with resources. Do you harbor other doubts, archer?—
Feigning nonchalance, Rune shrugged. —None, my liege. If I’ve discharged my duty here, I’ll take my leave.—
—By all means,— Orion said, his demonic expression giving away nothing.
Rune was tempted to return to Josephine, but he couldn’t predict his behavior. His hunt for Nïx wouldn’t resume until night fell in New Orleans. Only one thing left to do.
He traced to the Dryads, his favorite nymph covey. They lived in a hollowed-out tree as large as an apartment building. Each nymph had her own quarters, her “nest.” They were spread throughout the interior of the tree’s limbs. The main gathering area was a bar at the base of the trunk.
When he appeared inside, nymphs cheered his arrival. They were all topless, their voluptuous bodies painted with leaf designs. Amber jewels adorned them.
The other males present scowled, knowing Rune had just skipped them in line.
“Well, hello, doves.” He cast the nymphs his wickedest grin. They crowded around him, fawning, hoping to be chosen.
This was what he’d needed! He’d already fucked most of them, which meant they craved a repeat.
Josephine, however, had woken from a night in his bed with one question on her lips: Will you really let me leave?
Here, he was the best choice, the ultimate for any female to enjoy. Here, he had one worry: deciding which nymphs to honor with his dick.
Second best? Not among these beauties.