Kitabı oku: «The Darkest Seduction»

Dear Readers,

At long last, I’m pleased to bring you the story of Paris, keeper of the demon of Promiscuity. Yes, I finally feel like I’ve tortured him enough. After all, since the LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD were first introduced, Paris has:

1) Lost the only woman he was able to bed more than once

2) Given up his chance to find her by choosing to save one of his friends instead

3) Formed an addiction to an illicit substance

4) Choked out any light of goodness inside himself

5) Turned into a war/fighting machine.

His road to happily-ever-after has been paved with blood, sweat and tears. Mostly mine. Fine. Mostly his. Whatever. Semantics. Anyway, I knew he deserved something—and someone—special. In fact, I had an idea for him and sat down to write it. Four tries later—with three hundred pages in the trash—he showed me exactly what he wanted. OK, fine (again). I finally gave in and did things his way. And you know what? He got the “special” I wanted for him.

The characters had so much more depth than I expected, and as they interacted the puzzle pieces began to fall into place—I saw why he wanted what he wanted, and for the first time in a very long time I heard Paris laugh. (I heard this in my head, of course, but laughter is laughter.) He’d found his “mine,” and she was and is exactly what he’s needed all along.

Will I ever stand in my characters’ way again? Well, yeah. (Hey, at least I’m honest.) But this one time, giving in proved to be the best thing I could have done.

I hope you are as satisfied with Paris’s story as he is.

All my best!

Gena Showalter

Praise for New York Times and USA Today bestselling author GENA SHOWALTER’S

LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD

The Darkest Night

“A fascinating premise, a sexy hero and non-stop action,

The Darkest Night is Showalter at her finest, and a fabulous start to an imaginative new series.” —New York Times bestselling author Karen Marie Moning

“Dark and tormented doesn’t begin to describe these

cursed warriors called the Lords of the Underworld.

Showalter has created characters desperately fighting to

retain a semblance of humanity, which means the

heroines are in for a rough ride. This is darkly

satisfying and passionately thrilling stuff.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4 stars

“Amazing! Stupendous! Extraordinary! Gena Showalter

has done it again. The Darkest Night is the fabulous start of an edgy, thrilling series …” —Fallen Angels reviews

“Not to be missed … the hottest new paranormal series.”

—Night Owl Romance

The Darkest Kiss

“In this new chapter the Lords of the Underworld

engage in a deadly dance. Anya is a fascinating blend of

spunk, arrogance and vulnerability—a perfect match

for the tormented Lucien.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars

“Talk about one dark read … If there is one book you

must read this year, pick up The Darkest Kiss … a Gena Showalter book is the best of the best.”

—Romance Junkies

The Darkest Pleasure

“Showalter’s darkly dangerous Lords of the Underworld

trilogy, with its tortured characters, comes to a very

satisfactory conclusion … [her] compelling universe

contains the possibility of more stories to be told.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4 stars

“Of all the books in this series, this is the most moving

and compelling. The concluding chapters will simply stun

you with the drama of them … You will not be sorry if

you add this to your collection.”

—Mists and Stars

The Darkest Whisper

“If you like your paranormal dark and passionately

flavoured, this is the series for you.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4 stars

The Darkest Passion

“Showalter gives her fans another treat, sure to satisfy!”

—RT Book Reviews

Throughout the years I’ve learned that family matters. I’ve been blessed with one of the most amazing families EVER. They love me, support me, and they are always there when I need them. The bond you see between the Lords, as well as the bond between the Harpy sisters? That’s what I have with my family, and I am beyond grateful. So this one is to my husband and children, my mom and dad, sisters and brothers, in-laws (who are so much more than that), nieces and nephews, and crazy aunts and uncles. I love and adore you all!

Lords of the Underworld

In a remote fortress in Budapest, immortal warriors—

each more dangerously seductive than the last—are

bound by an ancient curse none has been able to break.

When a powerful enemy returns, they will travel the

world in search of a sacred relic of the gods—one

that threatens to destroy them all.

Gena Showalter’s LORDS OF THE UNDERWORLD

continues with

THE DARKEST SEDUCTION

Also available in this series

THE DARKEST NIGHT

THE DARKEST KISS

THE DARKEST PLEASURE

THE DARKEST WHISPER

DARK BEGINNINGS

THE DARKEST PASSION

THE DARKEST LIE

THE DARKEST SECRET

THE DARKEST SURRENDER

The Darkest Seduction

Gena

Showalter

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

From family to friends, I am blessed. To Jill Monroe, Kresley Cole and PC Cast. I love you, ladies!

I speak, and the humans tremble in fear. I speak, and my people rush to obey—and yet still they seek to destroy me. My salvation rides the wings of midnight, and my burden she carries. My rage she unleashes, delivering damnation to all with a single swing of her sword. I speak.

—A passage found in the private journals of Cronus, king of the Titans

Speak all the hell you want. I’m taking what’s mine.

—Paris, Lord of the Underworld

PROLOGUE

“HIS RAGE …”

“I know.”

High in the heavens, Zacharel watched the world below him. Watched as the once genial Paris murdered yet another of his enemy, the Hunters. How many victims that made in the past hour alone, the angel could not say. He’d long since lost count. And even if he paused to do the tally, the answer would have changed a second later as yet another body fell to the slick, blood-coated blades the warrior wielded.

Of course, the panting, sweat-soaked Paris spun to engage two others, his motions fluid, lethally graceful … as unstoppable as an avalanche. At first, he played. A punch, cracking bone. A kick, smashing lungs. Laughing, spouting the worst of curses. Soon none of that was enough for the demon-possessed soldier, and he danced his blades over the tendons in their ankles, hobbling his prey for easier elimination.

Paris had made himself Bait to purposely draw these Hunters to him. They’d come eagerly, happily, intending to steal the vile demon tethered inside him and finally end him. So Zacharel could not fault the warrior for what he did to defend himself, even as several new bodies joined the already mountainous pile enveloped by a sea of crimson and black. And yet, he could not commend the warrior, either.

These were not mercy slayings or even carried out in the name of a cold and calculated vengeance birthed in the bowels of an equally cold rage. No, these were a spew of fire, hate and desperation hotter than anything hell had ever created.

“He is like a poisoned apple,” Zacharel said to the angel beside him. And because Paris was bonded to the demon of Promiscuity, his pruning belonged not to the humans he lived amongst but to the Deity’s angels, who policed different realms of evil. “Poison of this nature spreads slowly but corrupts absolutely.”

Beads of ice fell around Zacharel, as they always fell around him these days, his breath misting in front of his face. Every crystal was to be a reminder of his own crimes, so recently brought to his attention. But unlike Paris, he did not wear misery like a winter coat, hugging it close to his body, relying on it, feeding it, helping it grow. Zacharel cared for nothing, not anymore.

In his quest to destroy the demons that had ruined his life, he had slain “innocent” humans, and this was to be his punishment—to carry his Deity’s displeasure with him always.

“As succulent as others consider this particular apple,” Lysander proclaimed, “they will be willing to taste anything he offers.”

Zacharel moved his gaze to the man who had taught him how to survive on the battlefield. The elite warrior was a muscled tower of unwavering strength. He wore a long white robe, his majestic wings like rivers of molten gold. Zacharel’s ice raged around him, too, though not a single flake dared land on the man. Perhaps, like myriad other creatures, the crystals feared him—and rightly so. In their world, he was judge and jury, his word law.

“Do we remove temptation?” Zacharel asked. For centuries he had acted as Lysander’s executioner.

“I will not order his assassination, no,” Lysander said, resolute. “At the moment, Paris is redeemable.”

Unexpected. Even with the great distance between the heavens and the earth, Zacharel could hear the grunts and groans Paris elicited, the screams of his enemies. The pleas for mercy that would echo into eternity, forever unheeded. And as determined as this Lord of the Underworld was, this was only the beginning.

“What will you have me do, then?”

“Paris searches for his woman, intending to free her from the Titan king’s enslavement. You will aid him, protect him and protect the girl. The moment her ties to Cronus are cut, however, you will bring her here, where she will live out the rest of eternity.”

Even more unexpected. The command smacked of leniency, something Lysander had shown to only one other demon-possessed immortal in all the millennia of his life: Amun, Paris’s friend. And only because Bianka, Lysander’s Harpy mate, had asked.

She must have requested this second favor, as well, for it was widely known that Lysander was powerless against her wiles. But even a besotted groom, tasked as he was with governing the heavens, responsible for all that transpired there, should not have asked another angel to do this deed. Aid a demon? Bring another here to live? Horrifying.

Zacharel offered no objection. And despite the fact that he had never experienced desire himself, he would do his best to cure Paris of his so that, when the inevitable break with the female came, the warrior would not return to his rage.

“Paris will protest her loss.” After everything the warrior had done to find and save her already, everything he would soon do … oh, yes, he would protest—using those dripping blades to make his case.

“You must convince him that he will be better off without her,” Lysander said.

“Will he be?”

“Of course.” There was no hesitation in the pronouncement, lending it an edge of fiery truth. An unnecessary edge, for Zacharel knew Lysander would not, could not, lie.

“And if I fail to convince him?” He had to ask, needed the penalty riding heavy on his shoulders, driving him to succeed.

Eyes of pitiless navy frosted over, revealing the iron depths of Lysander’s warrior core. “We are lost, for the greatest war the world has ever known now brews. The girl will lead us to our victory—or our enemy to theirs. It’s as simple as that.”

Very well, then. When the time came, Zacharel would take her. No matter how Paris was affected.

Paris would hate him, and would, perhaps, do more than rage. There was no stopping that, not when so much darkness swirled inside him, a rot in his soul, far worse than any spiritual poison. But that wouldn’t stop Zacharel from fulfilling his duty.

Nothing would.

CHAPTER ONE

PARIS TOSSED BACK THREE fingers of Glenlivet and signaled the bartender. He wanted an entire hand and by right or might, he’d have it. Except soon after the single malt was poured, he realized an entire hand wasn’t going to cut it, either. Fury and frustration were living entities inside him, frothing and bubbling despite his recent fighting.

“Leave the bottle,” he said when the bartender made a move to help someone else. Hell, suddenly Paris doubted every drop of alcohol in a ten-mile radius would do the trick, but hey. Desperate times.

“Sure, sure. Anything you say.” Shirtless Boy Wonder released the bottle and beat feet.

What? He looked that dangerous? Please. He’d washed off the blood, hadn’t he? Wait. Hadn’t he? He looked down. Shit. He hadn’t. Crimson streaked him from head to toe.

Whatever. He wasn’t in a human bar, so no “authorities” would have a beef with him. He was in Olympus, though the heavenly kingdom had recently been renamed Titania. Once only gods and goddesses had been allowed here, but when Cronus reclaimed the realm, he’d changed things, allowing vampires, fallen angels and other creatures of the dark to come and play. A nice little screw you to the previous king, Zeus.

Call the bartender back, Promiscuity said. I want him.

Promiscuity—the demon trapped inside him, driving him. Irritating him. Remember when I wanted fidelity? Monogamy? Paris replied in his mind. Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?

A familiar growl sounded in his head.

Whaa, whaa, pout, pout. He downed the second alcoholic offering and quickly chased it with a third. Both scorched so good he enjoyed a fourth. The potent alcohol razed his chest, burned holes in his abdomen, and flooded his veins. Nice.

And yet, his emotions remained as dark as ever, the edges of that bone-deep fury and frustration un-smoothed. His inability to save a not-so-innocent woman he should hate—did hate, at least a little—but also hungered for, body and soul, drove him, a constant whip against his flank.

“If I asked you to leave, would you?” a monotone voice said from beside him. A voice accompanied by a blast of arctic air.

He didn’t have to look to know that Zacharel, warrior angel extraordinaire and infamous demon-assassin, had just joined him. They’d met not long ago, when the feathered axman had come to Buda to off Paris’s friend Amun. Had old Zach actually succeeded, two crystal blades would have been drilling into his spine at that very moment.

I want him, the demon said.

Screw you.

Finally. We’re on the same page.

Really hate you right now.

Once upon a time, the demon had spoken to Paris with annoying frequency. Then the stupid sex fiend had stopped, merely urging Paris to bed this person or that person, no matter their gender or Paris’s own feelings toward them. Now, the talking had started up again and it was worse than before, because he wanted everyone, especially the ones Paris felt no desire for.

“Well?” the angel prompted.

“Leave, when I had to beg Lucien to bring me here and I know he won’t be so accommodating next time? No, but I’d damn sure want to know why you gave a crap about my location.”

“I do not care about your location.”

True story. Zacharel didn’t care about anything, a fact you learned real fast in your dealings with him. “That’s my point, so get lost.”

As Paris nursed a fifth whiskey, he studied the smoke-stained mirror in front of him, covertly panning the area behind him. Bejeweled chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The walls were rose-colored marble, veined with glittering ebony, the floor a sparkling stretch of crushed diamonds.

Throughout the room, men and women talked and laughed. From minor gods and goddesses to fallen angels trying to work their way back into their saintly fold. Good luck with that in a bar. Morons. Anyway. There was probably a demon or two sprinkled among the masses, but Paris couldn’t tell for sure.

Demons were as sneaky as they were evil. They could skulk around in their own scales, proudly showcasing their horns, claws, wings and tails—and getting decapitated by warrior angels like Zach. Or they could possess someone else’s body and skulk around in their skin.

Paris had thousands of years of experience with the latter.

“I will leave, as you so succinctly suggested,” Zacharel said, “after you answer another question for me.”

“All right.” Something else Paris knew from experience: angels were freakishly stubborn. Better to hear the guy out, otherwise he’d find himself with a new shadow. He turned, facing the dark-haired stunner with eyes the color of jade, and sucked in a breath. Never ceased to amaze him, how magnetic these celestial beings were. No matter their gender—or how mind-numbingly dull their personalities—they drew and held your attention, every damn time. For some reason, Zacharel did so with more intensity than most.

But the magnetism wasn’t what caught Paris’s attention this time. Majestic wings arced over the angel’s broad shoulders, a turbulent fall of winter clouds with streams of gold winding and curling throughout, snowflakes raining from the tips like glitter in a globe.

“You’re snowing.” Captain Obvious, that’s me.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can answer you, or I can ask my question and leave.” Dressed in the long white robe that was customary for his kind, Zacharel should have looked innocent and prissy. Instead, he looked like the Grim Reaper’s evil twin: emotionless, as frigid as the snow he shed and ready to kill. “Your choice.”

No thought necessary. “Ask.”

“Do you wish to die?” Zacharel said it as simply as he’d said everything else, mist crystallizing in front of his mouth, creating a dreamlike haze and reminding Paris of the breath of life. Or death.

Definitely ready to kill, Paris mused. “What do you think?” he asked, because honestly? He didn’t know the answer anymore.

For centuries he’d fought to live, but now, now he constantly threw himself into the fire and waited to be burned. Liked being burned. What kind of sick prick had he become?

Unflinching, the angel held his gaze. “I think you want one particular woman more than you want anyone—or anything—else. Even death … even life.”

Paris pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. One woman in particular: the not-so-innocent one.

Her name was Sienna Blackstone. Once a Hunter and always his enemy, for Hunters were an irritating army of humans who hoped to rid the world of Pandora’s demons. Then fleetingly, she’d been his lover. Then dead, gone. Then she’d been brought back from the grave, her soul merged with the demon of Wrath. Now, she was out there. Somewhere. And she was suffering. Cronus had enslaved her, thinking to use her demon to punish his adversaries, and now that he’d lost control of her, he thought to torture her into submission.

Paris might dislike the things Sienna had done to him, and yeah, as he’d already admitted, part of him might even hate the woman herself, but even she did not deserve the cruel, vicious—eternal—punishment being meted out.

I will find her, and I will save her. From Cronus … from himself. Right now, Paris simply couldn’t get past the fact that she was suffering. Once that part of the equation was dealt with, he would stop thinking about her. He had to stop thinking about her.

“So I want her,” he ended up saying to the angel. Sienna was not up for discussion. “BFD.”

“I will pretend I know what that means.” Zacharel shook his wings, more of that pure, glistening snow raining down. “As for you, I think that, despite your own desires, your demon wants anything with a pulse.”

“Sometimes even a pulse isn’t a requirement,” he muttered, and damn if that wasn’t the truth. Sex, as he’d taken to calling his dark companion, wanted anyone and everyone—but only ever once. With the exception of Sienna, Sex would not allow Paris to harden for the same person twice.

Why could he have Sienna again? No damn clue. “But again, so?”

“I think, even though you crave this particular woman, you slept with your friend Strider’s future wife. He is the demon of Defeat, and your actions made his courtship of the Harpy very difficult.”

“Hey. You’re entering dangerous territory here.” Not that Paris had anything to apologize for.

The one-nighter had happened weeks before Strider and Kaia hooked up. Or had even thought about hooking up. Therefore, Paris had done nothing wrong. Technically. And yet, he now knew what Kaia looked like naked, and Strider knew that he knew, and that meant all three of them knew Sex tossed out naked images of the girl every time they were together. A consequence Paris loathed, but couldn’t stop.

Zacharel’s dark head tilted to the side in a reflective pose, all the more mysterious because of the mist that continued to form with his every exhalation. “I meant only to point out that you have clearly moved on to other conquests and that you are hardly discriminating in your choices, which makes me wonder why you still pursue your Sienna.”

Because Sienna had been Paris’s one and only shot at monogamy. Because he’d inadvertently brought about her death. Because he’d felt like he lost everything when she died.

“You’re annoying,” he snapped. “And I’m done talking to you.”

Still the angel persisted. “I think you feel guilty about every heart you break, every dream of happily-ever-after you crush, and every bit of self-loathing you encourage when your partners realize how effortlessly you overcame their reservations. I also think you are overindulged and pathetic, and that you have no business crying about your problems.”

“Hey! I’ve never cried.” Paris slammed his glass on the counter with so much force the bar split down the center and the cup shattered. Blood welled from the slices in his palm, but the sting was minimal. “And you know what? I think you are seconds away from finding pieces of your body scattered in all the corners of this bar.”

Then, while he’s down, we can have him!

Zip it, Sex.

“Uh, here you go,” the bartender said, Johnny-on-the-spot with a clean rag he thrust in Paris’s direction. His arm shook. He was still afraid of Paris.

I want—

I said zip it! “Thanks, man.” Paris fisted the material, applying pressure to the slivers of torn tissue before anyone could scent him and the oh-so-special pheromones his demon excreted.

One whiff of the intoxicating aroma, and everyone around him would become unforgivably aroused, uncaring about where they were or who they were with. Mostly their hunger would be for Paris, and though that would have been an especially craptastic outcome tonight considering he was operating under a time crunch, he would have enjoyed rebuffing the males with his fists.

Except … the pheromones never enveloped him. He frowned. Sex wanted everyone he’d spotted tonight. Why not take advantage of his ability and force the patrons to want him back?

Paris returned his focus to Zacharel, wondering if the angel was somehow responsible.

Those eyes of the rarest jade narrowed to tiny slits. “I think you hope to save your Sienna, and that is a good thing. I think you mean to keep her, and that is not. No matter how intensely you crave her, no matter that she might be your only chance at forever, your demon will eventually ruin her, for humans were never meant to battle demons, and at heart, she is still a human.”

“What about her own demon?” he snapped.

“If one is bad, two is surely worse.”

“Enough!” If they continued on this path, his fury and frustration would rise up and consume him. He would lose sight of tonight’s goal. “I’m not going to keep her.” He would. He so would if given a chance, and if she would have him, of course, but hell, she wouldn’t have him.

“Good. Because this particular woman would not like the man you have become.”

Snorting, Paris shoved his free hand through his hair. “She didn’t like who I was.” And now, after he’d irrevocably stepped over the line between right and wrong? Please.

He’d known his actions were reprehensible, and he’d stepped over anyway. He’d killed, callously. Seduced, methodically. Lied, cheated and betrayed. All of which he would do again and again.

“Yet you still rush to save her,” Zacharel said.

Yeah. He was as big a moron as the fallen who frequented this place. Whatever. He knew. Didn’t care. “Look, I don’t answer to you. I don’t have to explain myself. And what’s with all the questions? You said you only had one more.”

“I have asked only the one. The rest have been observations, and I have one more of those to offer.” Zacharel leaned into him and whispered, “I think, if you continue on this destructive path, you will lose everything you have come to love.”

“Is that a threat?” Paris fisted the collar of the angel’s robe. “Go ahead and try something, winger. See what—”

Air. He was fisting and yelling at air.

Little growls sprang from his throat as he lowered his arm to his side. The only reason he knew Zacharel had been here was the temperature of his hands. They were practically frostbitten.

“Uh, who were you talking to?” the bartender asked, faux casual as he cleaned an already clean counter.

If an angel didn’t want to be seen, an angel wouldn’t be seen. Not even by his brethren, fallen or otherwise. So only Paris had seen Zacharel this go-round. Great. “Myself apparently, and we prefer to chat without an audience.”

Was Zacharel still here? Paris wondered. Or had he materialized somewhere else? And what was the purpose of all that talk of Paris needing to stay away from Sienna? The angel shouldn’t care.

Paris dropped the rag and turned the rest of the way to face the crowd. Several warriors were scowling in his direction—why?—dangerously close to ruining the room’s elegance with the blood they were tempting Paris to spatter. He massaged the back of his neck, forcing thoughts of Zacharel and his threat into hiding. He had bigger and badder to deal with. He was here for Viola, the minor goddess of the Afterlife and keeper of the demon of Narcissism. She should have popped in already.

Maybe she’d heard he was coming and bailed, and if that was the case he couldn’t blame her. He and his friends had once stolen and opened Pandora’s box, unleashing the evil from inside. As punishment, they were cursed to host the demons they’d released within themselves. Unfortunately, there’d been more demons than naughty boys and girls to contain them, and when the box had disappeared in the chaos, the leftover evil spirits had needed homes. What better recipients for the Greeks to select than the unlucky, unable-to-run inmates of Olympus’s—Titania’s—immortal prison, Tartarus?

So, yeah, Paris was partly responsible for Viola’s dark side. She’d been one of those unlucky prisoners. He wasn’t entirely responsible, though, considering the girl was a criminal once considered dangerous enough to be forcibly kept away from the very gods and goddesses who were often praised in mythology books for their most vicious deeds.

What crime Viola had committed, he didn’t know and didn’t care. She could slash him to ribbons, as long as she gave up the information he craved. The final puzzle piece needed to at last save Sienna.

According to the Hunters he’d slain just this morning, Viola came here every Friday night to hustle immortals at pool and rave about her awesomeness over a few beers. Apparently, said Hunters had been watching her, intent on nabbing her and “persuading” her to join their ranks. So, in a way, she kinda owed him.

Where the hell is she? he wondered again, searching for the telltale long blond hair, eyes the color of cinnamon and a killer body that could—

Appear in a puff of white smoke.

There, in front of the bar’s only entrance, stood a luscious woman with long blond hair and eyes the color of cinnamon. Paris straightened, his nerve endings zinging with anticipation. Just like that. Prey located. Target acquired.

CHAPTER TWO

I WANT HER, SEX SAID as Paris studied Viola.

Of course you do, he replied dryly.

The tendrils of smoke that had marked Viola’s appearance now curled away from her, thinning out to reveal a slinky black dress. The thick straps on her shoulders veed to frame heavy cleavage before dipping past her pierced navel. The micromini skirt stopped just below the hem of her panties.

Was she even wearing panties?

Paris yawned. He’d been with gorgeous women, ugly women, and everything in between. One lesson he’d quickly learned: beauty could hide a beast, and a beast could hide a beauty.

Sienna belonged to the beauty-hiding-a-beast category—at least to him. While he’d been crazed with desire for her, she’d been plotting his downfall. And maybe he was as bad as his demon because part of him found even that side of her sexy. A reed-thin female had bested a battle-hardened warrior, and he thought that was hot as hell.

And okay, yeah, she considered herself plain and maybe once he would have agreed, but from the beginning, there’d been something tantalizing about her. Something that drew him, held him captive. Now, anytime he pictured her, he saw a flawless gem with no equal.

Concentrate. A command from the demon, who still wanted the minor goddess, and a reprimand from himself.

Viola flipped the length of her silky hair over one sun-kissed shoulder and scouted her surroundings. Men openly gaped. Women tried to hide their jealousy with (unconvincing) blank masks. She paused on Paris, looked him up and down, her lids narrowing, and then, shockingly, she dismissed him and continued her visual sweep.

The last time his demon had failed to attract a potential bedmate, he’d met Sienna shortly thereafter. Could that mean … what if … His anticipation intensified until his bones vibrated. He would get his answers—tonight—no matter what was required of him.

He closed in on Viola, schooling his features to reveal only admiration as he went over his plan. Charm first, if he could actually remember how to be charming. Force second, and yeah, he definitely remembered how to go that route.

Ignoring his approach, Viola bent down and slid a glittery pink phone from inside her black leather boot. Moans of approval erupted behind her, and men high-fived each other, as if they’d just received a glimpse of heaven. Even immortals could be childish. Never me. Unaware or unconcerned, she danced her nimble fingers over the phone’s tiny keyboard.

Paris frowned. “What are you doing?”

As an opener, the question totally blew, as did his accusing tone. But if she thought to summon help, someone to fight him, or even a Hunter to kill him, she’d soon find herself his hostage, as well as his informant.

“I’m Screeching. That’s the immortal version of twittering or tweeting or whatever you lower beings want to call it,” she said without glancing up. “I’ve got over seven bazillion followers.”

O-kay. Not what he’d expected. He’d spent a lot of time with humans, and knew they enjoyed sharing their every inane thought with the world. But a Titan who did so—that was new.

“What are you telling them?” Was Cronus among the seven bazillion? Was Galen, the head honcho of the Hunters? And how many was a bazillion?

“I maybe might be kinda sorta telling them all about you.” A grin lifted the corners of her plump red lips as she continued type, type, typing. “‘Lord of Sex is filthy and looking to score. I’m not interested, but should I help him rack up points with someone else?’ Send.” She focused those haunting auburn eyes on him. “I’ll let you know when the results come in. Until then, is there anything else you want to know about me before I walk away and ignore you?”

Lord of Sex, she’d said. Sooo. She knew who he was, what he was, but she wasn’t running from him, wasn’t tossing insults at him and wasn’t screaming for his execution. A great start. “Yes, there is, and it’s a private matter very important to me.” Subtext: don’t you dare Screech about it!

“Ohhh. I love private, important matters that I’m not supposed to talk about but do, because I’m such a giver. I’m listening.”

Despite her convoluted confession that she meant to tattle, there was no more typing. Good. He proceeded. “I want to see the dead. How do I make that happen?” Sienna was a soul without a body—a soul he couldn’t sense in any way. Only those who communed with the dead could see, hear and touch her. But rumor was, Viola knew a trick that rendered the ability unnecessary.

She blinked, and he noticed that her lashes were painted a glittery pink to match her phone. “Let me tell you what I just heard. Talk, talk, talk, I. Talk, talk, talk, I. Well, what about me?”

His jaw clenched. There was being charming, and there was being a sucker. He wasn’t a sucker. Well, not all the time. “I’ll tell you about you. You can see the dead. Now you’re going to teach me how to see them.” An order she would do well to heed.

Her nose wrinkled. “Why do you care about seeing souls? If they’re still here, they’re causing trouble and—oh, oh, wait.” Clap, clap, jump, jump, twirl. “I’ve already figured this little mystery out because I’m highly intelligent. You want to see your slain human lover.”

Instantly his fury flashed to the surface, hot enough to blister. He didn’t like anyone speaking of Sienna in any fashion. Not Zacharel, and certainly not this strange minor goddess with a penchant for gossiping. Sienna was his to protect, even in that capacity. “I—”

“Tsk, tsk. No need to confirm my genius assumption.” Viola patted his cheek, all syrupy sweetness for his mental handicap. “Especially since I can’t help you.”

She tried to walk away.

He caught her wrist. “Can’t or won’t?” There was a big difference. The first he could do nothing about. The second he could change, and if she pushed him, she would discover the lengths he was willing to go to, to do just that.

“Won’t. See ya.” Oblivious to the rage she threatened to unleash, she jerked from his hold and practically skipped to the back of the bar, her perfect ass swaying, the heels of her boots clicking.

Incensed, he followed her, shoving aside anyone who got in his way. Grunts, groans and growls abounded, the predators in the crowd taking exception to his brute-force tactics. No one attempted to stop him, however. They sensed a far greater predator in their midst.

“How do you know who I am?” he demanded the moment he reached Viola. They’d start there and work their way to the mind changing, just in case one was dependent on the other.

She performed another twirl, making a production of it, as if she were a model at the end of a runway. He was a tall man used to towering over women, but Viola was a tiny fluff of five feet nothing and he dwarfed her.

Sienna, on the other hand, was just the right height. Standing, or on his knees, or lying down, he’d reach all the best parts of her, no problem.

“I know everything there is to know about the Lords of the Underworld,” Viola said. “I made the entire horde of you my business when I escaped Tartarus and learned you were responsible for my condition.”

She did blame him for the demon she’d been stuck with, then. And she smelled of roses, he realized with a jolt, the gentle scent suddenly clinging to his sinuses, very nearly drowning him in a warm sense of peace.

Lucien, the keeper of the demon of Death, could do the same thing to his enemies, calming them just before he struck a life-ending blow.

Paris’s fury and frustration quickly chased that peacefulness away. “Stop that.”

“Wow, that’s a dark scowl. And not a very good look for you, I must say,” she added, then caught a glimpse of her coral-painted fingernails and studied them in the light. “So pretty.”

Touch her.

He tuned out his demon and decided he’d give the charm/sucker thing one more shot. Because, honestly? He had yet to intimidate this female in any way. If this next attempt failed, he would let loose his beast in full force—and he wasn’t talking about Sex. There was darkness inside him now, so much darkness, and that darkness would drive him to do what was necessary, no matter how vile.

He had no one but himself to blame, for he’d opened himself up to it. Just a fraction at first, like a crack in a window. But the funny thing was, once you welcomed in a breeze, there was no stopping what came next. A wind, a storm, thunder and lightning, until you could no longer reach the window to close it—and didn’t really want to anyway. That’s what this new darkness was. Evil in its purest form, an entity very much like Sex, urging him on.

Lie, cheat, betray, Paris thought. Here, now, like all the other times before.

He leaned down, softening his expression, forcing his demon’s desires to seep through his pores. Forcing his blood to heat and the musky scent of arousal to drift from him, as sultry as champagne, as heady as chocolate. If Sex wouldn’t use those pheromones, Paris would. He hated doing this, because, like everyone else, both he and Sex became mindless, flesh-hungry beings at the first whiff. Worse, the memories of what he forced people to do … to crave …

“Viola, sweetness. Talk to me. Tell me what I wish to know.” His tone was a sensual caress, blissful and sure, and yet, even with the pheromones affecting Paris, he wanted only one woman and Viola wasn’t her.

“I meant to thank you for my demon,” she went on, as if he’d never spoken. As if he did not currently smell like pleasure walking. “He’s the best! But then halfway to Budapest to track down your fortress, I forgot all about you. I’m sure you understand.” She fluffed her hair, looking away from him as she waved to someone at her right. “So, anyway, now that you’re here, thanks. Feel free to relay that to the others. Now you’ll have to— Argh! Who put a mirror there?” she ended in a screech.

Undiluted rage blazed from her expression for a single heartbeat, followed by rapturous ecstasy as she studied her reflection.

“Look at me.” She angled one way, posed, then angled another and posed again. “I’m gorgeous.”

“Viola.” Seconds passed, but she never stopped admiring herself. She even blew herself a kiss. Fine. They’d do this the other way. “I can make you beg for my touch, Viola. In front of everyone. And believe me, you will beg. You will cry, but relief will never be yours. I’ll make sure of it. But do you know what else? That’s not even the worst of what I’ll do to you.”

Several seconds ticked by, but she never offered a reply.

Fury …

Frustration …

Darkness … rising … He wanted to strike, to hurt, to kill.

He inhaled, held, held … smelled an infusion of roses … released the breath. Okay. Good. This time he was able to allow both emotion bombs to fizzle before detonation, calming him.

Perhaps Viola couldn’t help herself, he realized suddenly. As he knew very well, all of Pandora’s demons came with a major flaw. This could be hers. She was Narcissism, after all, a lover of self.

Testing his theory, he stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the mirror. Her entire body stiffened. Her gaze darted left and right, as if searching for interlopers who might have tried to harm her while she’d been incapacitated. No one had approached, and the tension drained from her. She breathed easier.

“I will gut the culprit!” she whispered fiercely.

Bingo. Her flaw, and one she clearly reviled.

“Concentrate on me, Viola.” He gripped her by the shoulders, squeezing harder than he’d intended and shaking her until those cinnamon eyes rose to meet his. “Tell me what I want to know and you’ll walk away from this unscathed.”

Still not the least bit intimidated, she shrugged off his hold. “So impatient. I should be used to it by now, but alas. Men falling all over me … still a burden.”

“Viola!”

“Fine. Let’s see what my worshippers have to say sooner rather than later, shall we?” She lifted her phone and read the screen. “Four hundred and eighty-five votes for Help him by giving him my number. Two hundred and seven votes for Are you stupid, climb him like a mountain, and one hundred and twenty-three votes for He’s mine, bitch, walk away.” She looked up at him, another smile taking root. “The little people have spoken. Yes, I will tell you about the souls.”

Urgency overrode his relief. “Tell me, then. Now.”

“Hey, you. Demon scum.” The harsh voice rang out from behind him.

Annnd one of the guys Paris had bumped into earlier was finally acting out. Paris ground his molars. His hands returned to the female’s shoulders. “Viola. Tell me.” She would tell him, and he would leave, finally beginning his search in truth.

“Get your hands off my female!”

Or not. Unleashed aggression dripped from the male’s tone, and the need for violence quickly resurfaced inside Paris.

Restrain yourself, common sense counseled. Victory is within reach. “A friend of yours?”

“I have no friends.” Graceful fingers reached up and hooked several tendrils of hair behind her ear. “Only admirers.”

“I’m talking to you, demon.” The male again.

Need rising … higher and higher … a thick black cloud that would not dissipate until blood ran in rivers at his feet. “If you want this admirer to survive, flash us out of here.” Popping from one location to another with only a thought always made him sick, but sick was better than distracted.

“I don’t,” she said. “Want him to survive, that is.”

“Are you listening to me, demon?” The tone was harsher, and far more determined. “Move away from her and face me. Or are you a coward?”

The cloud enveloped his mind, a single thought suddenly consuming him. The male was an obstacle in his path, blocking him from Sienna, and obstacles were to be eliminated. Always.

Another small voice of reason whispered through him, a beacon of gold amid an endless stretch of midnight. Zacharel … Current path … Destruction …

“Look at yourself in the mirror, goddess,” the male commanded. “I don’t want you to see what I do to the demon.”

Even as a curse tore from her mouth, Viola obeyed, angling around Paris as if she couldn’t help herself and hated herself for it. Just like that, she was once again enraptured by her own image, pinkie-waving and blowing kisses.

The golden whisper was destroyed. Death became inevitable. Paris pivoted on his heels to glare at his opponent.

Soon, blood would flow.

CHAPTER THREE

PARIS HAD GOTTEN ONE FACT wrong. He didn’t have an opponent. He had opponents. The knowledge caused a heady rush of eagerness to flood him. The day just kept getting better. Earlier he’d slain a handful of Hunters, and this hour’s selection—aka dessert—was a trio of fallen angels, each one bigger than the last. They were without shirts—the new fashion?—their scarred backs visible in the mirror at the top of the wall.

The frothing trio formed a solid wall of muscle on the other side of the bar, their arms crossed over their chests, their legs braced apart to evenly distribute their weight. A classic I’m-about-to-hurt-someone stance.

I want them, Sex said, as if that were some big surprise.

“You will not walk away,” he warned the men. Lately, he couldn’t afford to leave survivors. They had a nasty habit of returning for revenge.

“I’ve seen you around,” the one on the left said. “You smile and women fall at your feet, but I’m gonna change that when I rip your spine out of your mouth. Then I’m gonna tell your enemies where you are. Yeah, I know who you are, Lord of Sex. I also know the Hunters want the privilege of killing you.”

The one on the right flashed a grin, total I’ve-lost-my wings-and-I’m-glad evil. “Yeah. I like that idea. Maybe I’ll sign up with them, just to watch what they do to you when we’re finished, you dirty—”

The one in the middle, the biggest one, placed a hand on Rightie’s shoulder, silencing him. He had a bright white halo tattooed around his neck. That could mean he was only recently fallen, that he still had ties with the angels or that he liked to reminisce. Whatever. He would experience the same fate as his friends. “Less words, more pain.”

“Yes, more pain,” Paris agreed. He unsheathed his two favorite daggers, the clear, crystal blades glinting like rainbows in the light.

“Hey, no arsenals allowed inside,” the bartender bellowed. “Only fists.”

The entire bar stopped and quieted, clearly intent on watching.

“Feel free to try and pry mine from my grip.” That would mean more opponents, more bloodshed. More satisfaction.

“Unfair advantage,” someone else called.

Exactly. If you weren’t cheating, you weren’t trying. But, all right. Even lost to the decadent taste of violence as he was, Paris knew how to pretend to play nice. He commanded the blades to vanish from view while still remaining in his hands. Magical as they were, they obeyed.

“I don’t care what weapons you use,” Halo said.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Leftie unfolded his arms. “This is our territory, and we’re taking it back.”

“Now, we’ll make sure you never return.” Rightie fisted his hands, cracking his knuckles. “This is gonna be fun.”

“Fun. Yes. For me.” Paris approached.

The trio approached.

All four met in the middle. The moment Paris was within reach, he kicked Leftie while punching Rightie. Leftie hunched over, gasping for breath. Rightie died. Paris had punched with his invisible blade, sinking hilt-deep into the bastard’s carotid.

One down. Two to go.

Halo swung a meaty fist, but the low, straight line Paris had made with his body caused the former winger to encounter only air, the momentum spinning him around. By the time Paris jerked upright, Leftie had regained his stamina and jumped on him, attempting to rip out his trachea with claws that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Through dumb luck or talent, Leftie managed to angle his wrist when he realized Paris was shifting position, hitting the tendon that ran from neck to shoulder instead. There was a brutal rending before Paris shoved him off, the bastard taking hunks of skin and muscle with him.

Paris didn’t release him, though. He held on tight, even as Halo got back in the game and hammered at his face. He stabbed Leftie with a quick jab, jab. Kidneys first, to shock and disable. Heart second, to kill. Leftie died just like his friend.

Two down. One to go.

Paris released the now-lifeless body, heard the thump as it landed. Grinned. All the while, Halo continued to whale on him. Crack, crack. Pain in his eye, pain in his lip. Blood cascaded down his chin, stars winked through his vision, and Sex retreated to a hidden corner in his mind. Each new point of contact threw him backward into tables, knocking down glasses, chairs and people.

Finally he managed to dodge one of those fists. He regained his balance and spun low, intending to slash Halo in the back of the knee and hobble him. But the once heavenly being was used to dirty demon tricks and spun as well, darting out of the way just before contact.

An arm’s length away from each other now, they straightened and glared. Paris had yet to land a single blow on the man. He wanted to land a blow. Would land a blow. Then, when Halo was immobilized, Paris would slice him from navel to neck.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of alabaster, a ripple of molten gold amid the feathers of an angelic warrior, and the snow that had become Zacharel’s closest companion.

The man desires his woman as you desire yours. You would punish him for that?

The words drifted through Paris’s mind, rays of light scented with hope. To his shock, the darkness thinned and he thought, No, I don’t want to punish a man for going after the woman he craves. Even if I’m the obstacle he faces.

“I’ll probably regret this,” Paris said, gripping the invisible blade hilts tighter, just in case, “but I’m willing to let you leave. This is a one-time offer. Leave and live. That’s it. No negotiation.”

Halo scowled, his chin lifting, dark gaze narrowing. Whatever his name, there was no denying his punk-rocker appeal. His hair had been dyed the same pink as Viola’s phone and lashes. Tears of blood were inked at the corners of his eyes. A ring of steel protruded from the center of his lower lip. “I’m not leaving. She’s mine, and I will not allow you to have her, to use and discard her when you finish with her.”

Everything always came back to that, Paris thought, disgusted with himself and his demon’s need for sex. But then, the guy had said the one thing guaranteed to demolish his no-negotiation boast, so they’d try this a different way. “Does Viola want you in return?”

A hiss of fury. “She will.”

Same thing Paris had once thought about Sienna. Still did, if he were being honest. He hoped that there was something he could do or say that would change her mind about him and she would come around, want him the way he wanted her.

Did the fallen angel have a chance at success? Did he? Females were the most stubborn creatures ever created.

“Just so you know, I don’t want Viola.” He stepped to the left, again and again until they were circling each other, every second bringing Paris back to the man he used to be: honorable, concerned, valiant. This wouldn’t last, he knew, but he ran with it while he could.

“You lie!” Halo’s nostrils flared with the force of his inhalation. “I, who never before craved a woman, could not resist her. Everyone wants her.”

“Again, not me. I’m here for info that will help me save my woman. That’s it.”

A heavy pause as Halo flexed and unflexed his fingers, debating the truth of Paris’s claim.

Circle, circle. “Information only,” Paris reiterated. “I swear.”

“No.” He gave an abrupt shake of that pink head, his stubbornness a rival to that of a female. “I do not believe you. You carry the evil nature of a demon. You won’t be able to help yourself. You will lust after her, take advantage of her. Bed her.”

No, he wouldn’t. He was too close to Sienna, and he would wait for her as long as he could and survive. Fine. So maybe the truth was—he might. Survival had caused him to do terrible things. Maybe he should point out that Viola carried a demon, too. But then, Halo was past the point of thinking logically.

Paris sighed, the darkness rising again. “We finish this, then.”

Paris …

“No!” he gritted, blocking Zacharel’s voice from his head. “I tried your way. It didn’t work.”

He and Halo leapt at each other, meeting in the middle. Just as before, those meaty fists hammered at Paris. While the beating felt like stampeding demon hooves on his face, Halo’s midsection was left wide-open. But rather than take the kill stabs as Paris had done with the others—some of Zacharel’s light must have stuck around after all—he swept his arm low and sliced into Halo’s thigh, barely nicking his femoral.

Still the beating continued to rain, the fallen never registering the fact that he was going to bleed out if he didn’t leave and stitch himself up. Arms swinging, legs kicking, they fell into a table, toppled to the ground, rolled. Broken glass cut at Paris’s arms, his back. He landed several searing blows, accidentally slicing with his blades, until finally he sent Halo stumbling backward, out of range.

Halo stood, gasping for breath as he stepped forward once, twice. Then he stopped and frowned with confusion. At last his knees gave out. He dropped like a stone in the ocean. His once-tanned skin blanched to an unnatural chalk-white, his tattoos dimming. His eyes were suddenly fever-bright.

Fallen angels did not heal like immortals. They healed like humans: slowly. Or not at all.

“You … you …”

“Won.” Done, done and done. All three were felled. “Get some help, and you should recover just fine.”

“But you …” Incredulity bathed Halo’s punk-rocker features. “You won through cheating. That was a blade I felt. Multiple times!”

“Hate to break it to you, big boy, but cheating happens a lot. You might want to try it yourself. Besides, you said you didn’t care what weapons I used.”

There was muttering behind him.

Paris raised his arms and spun in slow motion. The crowd had yet to disperse, more concerned with collecting bets than escaping notice. “Who’s next?” Blood dripped from his still-invisible daggers, pooling on the floor.

Suddenly they all had somewhere else to be. The sea of faces parted, giving him a direct view of Zacharel. The angel had his arms crossed over the wide expanse of his chest. His expression was troubled.

“Still here?” Paris arched a brow in challenge. “You want a piece of me, too?”

Frowning, silent, Zacharel vanished.

Seriously. Why the interest?

Does it matter? Urgency shooting through him, Paris stomped to Viola, who still studied herself in the mirror. He sheathed his weapons and jerked her toward the door. “Come on.”

It was definitely time to go. One, he didn’t want to risk anyone else deciding to fight him. Two, seeing him talking to her might be more than Halo could handle. And three, she might have changed her mind about telling him what he wanted to know. He’d have to get physical.

Halo watched her with longing in his eyes—and just before the door closed behind Paris, hatred. Yeah. The dude would be back for revenge. Shoulda killed him. He still could. But Paris opted not to return to finish the job. If Zacharel reappeared and kicked up a stink, his game plan would be screwed.

“Hey,” Viola said, at last snapping out of her trance. She tugged at his hold. A cool wind blew past them, caressing the silky length of her hair along his arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I want her, Sex said, peeking from the shadows of his mind.

On a mission here. “I’m getting you to safety,” he lied. “You don’t want your admirers to swarm you, do you?”

She tugged harder. “Of course I do. Here’s a lesson about women. We like to be admired from afar, and then complimented up close.”

He seriously did not need lessons. “I meant your admirers weren’t paying you the proper homage. They don’t deserve your exalted presence.”

And wouldn’t you know it. Her resistance ended there. “You make an excellent point.”

Of course, she’d missed his sarcasm.

He arrived at an abandoned alley and stopped. Perfect. The moon was so close he had only to reach out to trace the soft, orange-yellow edges. Clouds were closer still, enveloping him in a fine, dew-scented mist. Though the area was well-lit, no one passing by would see what transpired within the narrow space.

He rounded on Viola, pressing her against the solid gold bricks of the building, invading her personal space to gain her full attention. Except, her attention had already moved to her phone, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

I want, I want, I want!

I hope you rot and die.

“‘Lord of Sex is bloodier than before and … ick … swollen. My eyes are not amused.’ Send.”

He claimed her phone and, rather than smashing it as instinct demanded, returned it to the inside of her boot. “You can Screech about this later. As for right now, you’re going to talk to me. What can I do to see the dead? Remember, your worshippers insisted you tell me.”

A pout of those lush lips, but she said, “Burn the body of the soul you wish to see and save the ashes. Speaking of, did I ever tell you about how I once saved the ashes of a—”

On and on she droned about what she’d done, then about herself, her life, and Paris tuned her out, a curtain of hope forming around his mind. He’d already burned Sienna’s body and saved the ashes. At the time, he hadn’t known why he’d done so; he’d only known he couldn’t part with what remained of her. And ever since, he’d secretly carried a small vial of those ashes in his pocket.

Somehow, he must have suspected he would need them.

When Viola at last quieted, he said, “There’s more to seeing a soul than saving the ashes.” There had to be. A few weeks ago, Sienna had escaped Cronus, had hunted Paris down, yet Paris hadn’t seen her.

He never would have known about her arrival if William the Ever Randy, another being who could commune with the dead, had not been with him and casually mentioned the dead girl at his feet. Of course, Cronus had swiftly tracked her down and dragged her back to her prison.

An act the Titan king would pay for.

“Duh, of course there is. Mix the ashes with ambrosia and tattoo the rim of your eyes,” Viola said. “You’ll see her, I promise. If you want to touch her, tattoo the tips of your fingers. If you want to hear her, tattoo the flesh behind your ears, blah blah blah. I remember a time when I—”

Once again he tuned her out. This he could, would do. Tattooing one’s self with the ashes of the dead might be disgusting to most people, but Paris would have done a lot worse. “Will I smell her? Taste her?” he asked, interrupting Viola’s monologue.

“Only if you tattoo the inside of your nose, lips and top of your tongue. One time, in Tartarus, I—”

“Wait.”

Enough! I don’t want her, Sex suddenly piped up. Find someone else.

Well, well. For once they were in agreement. “Is there anything else I should know? Any consequences I should be aware of—”

“Paris.”

The familiar voice came from behind him. Paris whipped around, sickness already churning inside his stomach. Whenever Lucien visited him, bad news was quick on his heels. “What’s wrong?”