The Darkest Surrender lotu-9 Page 14

  1. Obtain the crystal daggers.

  2. Find Arca, former messenger goddess. Rumor was, she knew where Cronus hid his greatest treasures.

  3. Find Viola, minor goddess of the Afterlife. Rumor was, she could teach anyone to see the dead.

  Boom, done. Simple, easy. Yeah. Right. Seduction was the only thing easy for him.

  Whatever he had to do, though, he would do. For centuries, Paris had dreamed of being with a woman more than once. Because of his demon, his body failed to respond to a lover after one release. So his relationships lasted only the one night. Except with Sienna. He’d had her, and then he’d immediately gotten hard for her again. In that moment, he’d known they belonged together—despite the obstacles that stood between them.

  She was a Hunter, his enemy. She had tricked him, drugged him and helped imprison him. Whatever. She’d also helped him escape, and that’s when she died. Shot down by her own people while in Paris’s arms.

  He’d relived that nightmare over and over again, thinking of all the things he could have, should have, done differently. Thinking about her final words of hate, her wish that he had been the one to die. She’d blamed him for what had happened, and rightly so.

  Yet still her soul had come back for him. Had escaped its heavenly prison and found him. For help? Revenge? He didn’t know and didn’t care. All he knew was that Cronus had carted her away before he’d gotten a chance to speak with her. She had to be terrified, confused and desperate.

  He could soothe her. He just had to find her.

  Want, his demon said, drawing him out of his mind.

  Dread flooded him. That command could mean only one thing.

  Paris focused, and sure enough at the end of the alley loomed a trio of ugly bruisers. Fallen angels, he would guess, who, for whatever reason, had given over to their dark sides. They couldn’t be gods, even minor ones, because no power pulsed from them.

  He had only to pass them and turn right, and he’d reach the goddess’s street.

  When they spotted him, they grinned greedily.

  I want, his demon said.

  You’ll get yours soon enough.

  Ignoring him, Sex blasted his special fragrance from Paris’s pores. Soon the scent of chocolate and expensive champagne thickened the air. From experience, he knew that every time the men breathed in, desire would flood them. Desire for Paris and Paris alone, even if they didn’t swing that way.

  Damn you! he growled.

  I want!

  His dread intensified as their grins faded and they began licking their lips.

  “You want by, you’ll get on your knees.”

  “We each get a turn.”

  “And I’ll be first,” the biggest one said.

  Paris slowed, but didn’t stop and didn’t change direction. Fallen angels were, in essence, little more than human. He could plow through them, no problem.

  Hurt…kill… A soft whisper, a dark urge, one that had filled his mind more and more lately. Not from his demon, but from deep inside him. He wasn’t sure why it happened, or what had caused it, but every time, he’d given in. Now would be no different. He would reach the goddess, and these men weren’t going to deter him. He would plow through them, true, but he’d make it hurt—would kill—when he did.

  In unison, the trio said, “Knees. Now.”

  “Actually,” Paris replied. “The only thing going down will be you.”

  He tossed both of his daggers in quick succession. The tip of one sank deep into the jugular of the guy on the right. The tip of the other embedded in a wall of golden brick, missing its mark.

  Sex whimpered, racing to hide in a far corner of his mind. His demon was a lover, not a fighter.

  The two remaining men watched, wide-eyed, as their friend collapsed, twitching as death approached.

  Hurt…kill… Having run even as he’d thrown, Paris barreled into them, his arms spread, knocking both of them to the ground. They pulled themselves out of their sexual stupors and rolled him to his back, their fists hammering at him.

  Vessels burst in one of his eyes, limiting his line of sight. His nose popped out of place. His jaw separated. The pain intensified with every blow, but still he fought. And fought dirty, going for groins, throats and kidneys.

  Hurt…

  Kill…

  The dark compulsions rose…rose…consumed. With a roar, he brought his legs up and kicked. Both men flew backward. He leapt at the one closest to him, pinning the guy’s shoulders to the concrete with his knees. One punch, two, three. Blood splattered.

  He hit and hit and hit, until the guy’s head lolled to the side, his swollen eyes open but glazed. Only then did he realize the other guy had jumped on his back and had been punching him in the head that entire time.

  Paris reached back, gripped a fistful of shirt and jerked. Guy soared over his shoulders and landed on top of his buddy, losing his breath. As Paris grabbed for the blade in his ankle holster, his opponent gathered his wits and swung a meaty fist, knocking him into the wall. Temple against brick, and brick won. Dazed, the blade was batted out of his hand.

  A booted foot slammed into his trachea, pushing him to his back and holding him down.

  The pressure increased as the guy unsheathed a dagger of his own, bent down and stabbed Paris in the stomach. An agonizing lance of pain. A searing hiss of air through his teeth.

  “That should keep you docile.” Looming over him, panting raggedly, scowling, the guy unzipped his pants.

  “Not a smart move,” Paris managed to croak out. Though instinct demanded he wrap his fingers around the guy’s ankle and shove, he inched his hand behind him, toward the hilt of his remaining blade. “You want to keep that thing, don’t you?”

  “Shut your mouth. Had you played nice, I would have let you go after I finished with you. Now…”

  Finally the boot lifted from Paris’s neck, then the guy was crouched between his legs, working at his zipper. Distracted. Good. Using the last of his strength, Paris swung his arm up. Another dagger found solace in a jugular.

  Blood gurgled from the guy’s mouth, shock and pain glazing his eyes. Paris ripped the blade free, but that wouldn’t save him. Crimson continued to flow, and he slumped over, on top of Paris, motionless…dead.

  Weak but determined, Paris pushed the weight away and lumbered to shaky legs. He gave himself a once-over. His clothes were ripped, stained and soaked in blood, his skin abraded, bruised and sliced. The goddess might turn him away the moment she saw him.

  Probably not a bad idea. She expected pleasure, and right now he was too pathetic to see to hers. On the flip side, he needed sex to heal. But if he used her to heal, taking his own pleasure while unable to see to hers, he wouldn’t be able to sleep with her a second time in exchange for the crystal daggers.

  Okay. Change of plans. Next female he spotted, he’d seduce, unleashing his demon, nothing held back. The thought sickened him, but whatever. Then he’d head to the goddess’s palace. He’d be late, but he could charm her out of any pique that tardiness might cause. Another sickening thought.

  Get over yourself. He’d chosen to travel this path. He would live with the emotional fallout.

  Resolute, Paris stumbled out of the alley.

  SIENNA BLACKSTONE HUDDLED in the corner, enveloped by tormenting shadows. Her wings—those ever-growing black wings, courtesy of the demon now inside her—pulled at tendons and bone she hadn’t known she had, shooting aches all through her body.

  Cronus had brought her here—wherever “here” was. A dilapidated castle guarded by gargoyles that came to life. Those gargoyles could see and hear her—unlike Paris, the warrior she’d hoped to find—and they ensured she remained exactly where she was. And when she actually fought her way through their fangs, horns, claws and tails, some kind of clear shield prevented her from stepping into the outside world.

  At first, she’d been terrified. Someone should have told her death would be a thousand times more horrifying than life. Over the en
suing weeks, she’d had to learn to adapt to all these supernatural creatures. Though she’d known demons existed and had once hated them, everything else was new to her. And now all she wanted was to get out of here so she could reach one of those demons. Hold him. Help him. But…

  She could leave only when she vowed to obey Cronus in all things. A condition she didn’t understand.

  Why did he so desperately want her obedience? Her aid? What did he expect her to do for him? He’d never said. But in his desperate bid for control of her, he’d even taken her to spy on her former colleagues. Hunters. God, the things they’d done…

  She was disgusted, and she was angry. She’d once hurt an innocent man—for them. She had struck when Paris was at his weakest—for them. She would have helped them kill the warrior if he hadn’t escaped with her. She had blamed him for her death, thinking he’d used her body as a shield. She had hated him for that. Now, she only hated herself.

  No, that wasn’t true. She hated the Hunters and everything they represented.

  Before she died—again—she was taking them down. Actually, she would help Paris take them down. Somehow, some way, she would leave this castle. She would find him once more. She would tell him everything she knew about his enemy. Every secret hideout, every battle plan, every strategy she’d ever heard whispered about. And if he still couldn’t see or hear her, she would tell someone who could, like his dark-haired friend. And then…then she was gifting Paris’s other friend, Aeron, with Wrath.

  Doing so would finally end her. Forever.

  That wouldn’t make up for the wrongs she’d done, she doubted anything could, but it was a start.

  You just have to find a way out…?.

  A sigh left her. She wasn’t chained, and she knew Cronus kept other prisoners here. They screamed and ranted and raved constantly. Unlike her, they didn’t have the run of the entire castle. They were limited to the bedrooms on an upper floor. The few times Sienna convinced herself to drag her winged self up the stairs, the demon inside her had gone insane, flashing all kinds of hateful images through her head. Images of blood, torture and death.

  The people upstairs…they were warriors, demon-possessed like her. She didn’t hate them, didn’t want to hurt them. She wanted to help them—but her demon wanted to punish them. Always punish.

  You can’t help them down here.

  I can’t hurt them, either.

  Arguing with herself. She laughed. She’d always forced herself to be demure, even somber. She’d always quashed any hint of temper and sarcasm. The fear of injuring somebody’s feelings, the shame of disappointing her loved ones had been too much. After her younger sister’s abduction, she’d had to be a rock. Causing more emotional turmoil would have destroyed her.

  Well, no longer. She was strong. She was capable. She was needed.

  She could overcome her demon and aid the beings upstairs. She could.

  For Paris.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE NEXT MORNING DAWNED bright and early. Too bright, too early. Kaia had stayed awake all night, her mind too active to snooze. So when she spotted the big orange glow of the sun, she glared and flipped it the bird.

  “Go away, you bastard!”

  Strider lounged on “their” bed, watching her with an amused glint in his eyes. He’d slept, sprawled out over every inch of the mattress. She’d paced.

  “Who’re you talking to?” he asked in a sleep-rumbling voice.

  A sleep-rumbling voice that turned her on. Damn him, everything about him turned her on. Be proactive. Nip this in the bud. “Maybe I was talking to you,” she snapped, stomping to the bed, grabbing a pillow and beating his chest with it.

  He didn’t bother raising his arms to protect himself. “Has anyone ever told you what a bundle of joy you are in the morning?”

  Bang. “No.” Bang.

  “Will you just sit down for a sec?” He ripped the pillow out of her hands and tossed it to the floor. “Geez. I need— I mean, you need a breather from all your worries.”

  “I don’t have any worries,” she said, plopping beside him. Lysander had taken them all up to the heavens and given them each a room in his cloud, where no other Harpy could reach them. She and Strider had shared, and no one, not even Lysander, could breech its perimeter unless they both gave permission.

  Never had she encountered such a kick-ass security system. Even better, misty walls of baby-blue acted as TV screens, revealing anything she requested to see. Her mother? Done. Juliette? Gag.

  The absolute best? Kaia had only to say, “I want a dagger,” and one would magically appear in her palm.

  No wonder Bianka had decided to shack up with a goody-goody. And really, Bianka would just have to take one for the team and do a little more of that shacking to convince Lysander to buy Kaia one of these. You know, so they could spend quality sis-time together. They were twins, after all, and Bianka needed her.

  “You started stressing the moment you got that text,” Strider said. “Five minutes after we got here!”

  That text. Ugh. Her stomach cramped as worry flooded her. Not that she’d admit it. The first Harpy Game, Tag, would begin in two hours.

  Team captains were too valuable to lose so early in the games and never competed in the first event. Instead, the four strongest, most violent members were chosen, and the captain merely prayed they survived.

  But though she was captain, Kaia had to compete.

  Last night, thanks to the cloud walls, she’d kept watch on her motel room. One after the other, Harpies from every other team had snuck inside, hoping to brutalize her. As if she would stay in a room she’d rented under her own name. Please. But that’s how stupid they thought she was. Worse, they would continue to come after her unless they were taught to fear her.

  That, she had learned from her mother.

  And so today she would teach them to fear her.

  The other three going in? Taliyah, Neeka—who Kaia had never seen fight, but Taliyah had recommended her, and Kaia trusted her older sis—and Gwen. Bianka was still pouting, but bottom line, Bianka was too damn sweet.

  Once, she’d BBQed another Harpy who’d trashed her appearance. Cool, right? Well, as the girl screamed and writhed, a guilty Bianka had raced off to fetch a glass of water for her. Who did that? Marshmallows, that’s who.

  “If you won’t sit still, at least tell Papa Stridey what’s bothering you.”

  There was that rumbling voice again, caressing her, seeping past her skin to fuse with her cells, becoming a part of her. It was clear the bud remained un-nipped. “I’m thinking that only prison rules are going to apply.”

  A laugh burst from him. “What does that mean? That you shouldn’t drop the soap? What, does round one involve multiple showerheads?”

  “Would you be serious?”

  He snorted. “You telling someone to be serious. Weird. But…” He sat up, his features lighting with interest. The sheet fell to his waist, revealing row after row of muscled strength. “Tell me round one involves multiple showerheads.”

  Her lips twitched, even as her mouth watered for a taste of him. “No, you pervert. No showerheads. I have to kill the biggest and the baddest my first day on the inside. That way, all the others will leave me alone.”

  “Smart. How can I help?”

  “By sitting in the stands and looking pretty.”

  “A given. But what can I do to help you win? That’s why I’m here, right?”

  As if she’d forget. He wasn’t here because he loved her, needed her, wanted to make something work between them. He was here to help her win that damn Paring Rod.

  He didn’t know about the Rod when he arrived. He likes you. You know that. Yeah, he liked her. Just not enough. She sighed.

  “Just…I don’t know, cheer me on.” Hearing him might strengthen her. It might also distract her, but they would find out together.

  “I can do that. You’re fun to watch.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Yeah?”
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br />   “Oh, yeah.”

  His voice had dropped, huskier than before, all kinds of innuendo in his tone. Her nipples tightened, and she had to jump to her feet and turn away from him to prevent him from seeing the evidence of her arousal.

  He’d watched her last night, when her Harpy had simply reacted to the threat around him, determined to protect him at all costs. He’d also watched her when she… She shuddered, remembering.

  Something had happened to her while she’d fought her mother’s soldiers. Something that had never happened before. She had burned. With rage, yes, but also with actual, literal flames. They had licked inside her, searing her cells, her organs, and leaving only ash. Or so she’d thought. Yet when she had stilled, she hadn’t noticed a single smear of soot on her skin.

  Now suspicions danced through her mind, adding to the already turbulent waters.

  Phoenix blood flowed through her veins, half of her genetic makeup. She’d met her father once, when he abducted her and Bianka, whisking them to the Land of Cinder. He—and all his kind, really—were utterly heartless, completely detached from emotion, as if any softer side was burned away in their constant fires. Not even her mother could compare, and that was saying something.

  Not only were they emotionally callous, they were physically formidable, too. Poison leaked from the Phoenixes’ fangs and claws. Their wings, which looked as smooth and delicate as the clouds around her, were actually tongues of blue flame. A single brush from those flames, and an entire building could be razed.

  There was a bright side, though. When a Phoenix burned something—or someone—the resulting soot was powerful enough to bring the dead back to life.

  Her dad had hoped his baby girls would be more Phoenix than Harpy, but the opposite had proven true, and he’d released them. After torturing them with his poison, of course. He’d scratched their biceps, just a tiny scrape for each of them, and they’d felt as if they’d been injected with a mix of acid, broken glass and Napalm. They had writhed and screamed for days.