The Darkest Promise--A Dark, Demonic Paranormal Romance Read online

  The tornado slammed into Rathbone, pitching him across the temple. The warrior crashed into the floor face-first. Then the tornado executed a sharp turn and slammed into Cameo. Lazarus shouted a denial as he stood. He expected his sunshine to fly backward, but the closer the winds came to her, the weaker they blew.

  Something had impeded Hera’s power. Cameo’s demon?

  No, the queen wasn’t sobbing. Pandora’s box? No, she wasn’t demon possessed.

  The way she’d shaken her head...

  Was she possessed?

  The tornado died, and Hera appeared once more. Cameo was ready. She planted a foot in Hera’s midsection, using the goddess as a stepping-stone to wind her other leg around the bitch’s neck and take her down. As they fell, Cameo swung around to ensure she landed on top. Without pause, she shoved a dagger into Hera’s chest.

  Hera grunted with surprise. Lazarus gaped, awed. That’s my woman.

  The wound wouldn’t kill the goddess, but it would definitely weaken her. Blood pooled around her, and any move she made to free herself would only send the blade deeper.

  Recovering quickly, Rathbone crouched beside her, savagely snapping the bones in both of the goddess’s arms. Hera screamed, the cries clearly rousing no compassion in Rathbone as he did the same to her legs.

  “There.” The king wiped his hands together in a job well done. “She won’t move for a while. I wonder if breaking her jaw would shut her up? Never heard noises quite like the ones she’s making. Sounds like hell.” He rubbed his jaw with two fingers. “Yes, I think I will.”

  Hera quieted.

  “Or not. Good girl.”

  Lazarus dug through the go bags and withdrew the Paring Rod, as well as the piece of pipe that had been taken from the Cage of Compulsion. His fangs and claws retracted, his adrenaline crashing. The crystals burned, growing closer to his heart.

  Finish this. Before it’s too late. “Do you know where the portal is?” he asked Rathbone.

  “I do.” He scooped up a handful of dirt from the floor and flung it at the right side of the temple. There was no wall, only a mile-long free fall to land, and yet the grains got caught in a large section of air, forming a doorway.

  Finally. Something worked in his favor.

  His gaze sought and found Cameo. Beautiful Cameo. “I love you. I will always love you.”

  “Lazarus.” Sadness radiated from her. She reached for him. “Don’t say goodbye. Not yet. I’ll stay here with you. We can—”

  He blocked out the raspy timbre of her voice and faced Rathbone. “Get her home safely.” Lazarus would stay here...forever. He would kill Hera. He would watch as her corpse rotted, content to know her spirit had entered the spirit realm. He would use the Paring Rod and pipe to make sure of it.

  If his suspicions were correct and she actually housed a demon, she would end up in the prison realm.

  Either way, she died.

  As for Typhon, Lazarus would have hunted him down if he had more days. With Hera out of the picture, his father would be easier to kill. But Lazarus didn’t have more days, and had to resign himself to the knowledge that the bastard still lived. Knowing Typhon was trapped inside a crystal prison of his own softened the blow.

  Rathbone scooped Cameo into his arms and headed for the portal.

  “I’m not leaving.” She fought the warrior—fought dirty and didn’t pull her punches—but he never lost his hold on her.

  Even without her memory, she wanted to help Lazarus.

  His chest burned as he stalked to the goddess, doing everything in his power to mask his pain, intending to end her once and for all.

  “I don’t know why, but I can’t get through.” Rathbone banged his fists into an invisible wall.

  They were trapped? Had to be Hera’s fault. “Take down the wall,” he commanded her.

  Panting, she yanked the blade from her chest and pointed the crimson-soaked tip in his direction. Her grip shook, but it was clear her bones had already begun to heal. “Give me...the box...”

  “This isn’t a negotiation any longer. Take down the wall.”

  With a screech, she jumped to her feet and launched into a full-on attack. She swung the sword at him, but he sidestepped her. Barely. Weakened, he tripped. As he stumbled, she changed her focus, attacking Cameo and Rathbone.

  Lazarus roared a denial, but he needn’t have bothered. Rathbone blocked. Cameo pulled a sword from the sheath at his back and joined the fray. She thrust. Hera parried. Clang. Clang.

  Lazarus jumped in the middle, blocking the next blow before delivering one of his own. The pipe met Hera’s skull. She careened to the side, but she wasn’t out any more than she was down for the count.

  She rallied quickly and resumed the fight. She knew when to duck, jump and dodge. She knew when to spin and when to maintain her position, and what was worse, she delivered more injuries than she received. Lazarus was the recipient of most, his reflexes nearly completely shot. At least she was tiring, her motions slowing. Every time she breathed, she wheezed.

  When Cameo landed a massive blow to her midsection, slicing through her stomach, Hera attempted to leave the temple. Any other day, in any other place, Lazarus could have flashed or dived in front of Hera to stop her. Today, he could only cast an illusion, the ability as strong as ever despite his physical limitations.

  He conjured the worst of the worst. The monstrous form of Typhon in his prime.

  Typhon had dark hair and dark eyes, like Lazarus, and his ears pointed at both ends, the tops so high and thick they appeared to be horns. Red flames crackled inside his nostrils and mouth. He had a barrel chest, with an image of Lazarus’s mother branded in the center, snakes curling from her scalp rather than hair.

  From Typhon’s back stretched three sets of wings. One extended from the tops of his shoulders, the other from between his shoulders, and the last from his hip bones. The first two projected backward while the third wrapped forward, offering protection to his midsection and groin.

  His legs were as thick as tree trunks and covered in scales veined with molten fire—with a single cut, the fire would spill out, burning to ash everyone who came into contact with the embers. His hands and feet were clawed.

  Hera screamed and darted back. “You can’t...you can’t be here. Not like this. Your chrysalis...”

  Chrysalis. The word rattled around in Lazarus’s brain. Like a butterfly’s chrysalis, made of pupa and silk, not crystal?

  Lazarus...king...butterflies.

  “He isn’t real,” she said. “He can’t be real.”

  The last time Hera had faced Lazarus’s father, he’d been weakened, barely able to move. In the illusion, he was at full strength. A male she could not hope to best.

  Phantom Typhon breathed a stream of fire at her, hitting the floor just in front of her. The flames ricocheted upward, several landing on her boots. She struggled to remove the footwear but ultimately succeeded. Blisters appeared all over her hands.

  “You were saying?” Lazarus smiled. “If Typhon isn’t real, why are you burned?”

  Hera’s mouth floundered open and closed. If she had been born with the ability to cast illusions, she would know the mind had the power to inflict the expected injury.

  As Rathbone returned his attention to the invisible wall, Cameo focused on the goddess, a weapon in hand, her brow furrowed with confusion as she watched the monster.

  Lazarus stepped toward Hera and winced. The crystals—pupa? Or perhaps a mix of both in his case?—were spreading even now, rising up his neck, over his cheeks and clogging his ears. Dead silence overtook him. He heard nothing, not even a tremulous ring. The substance filled his lungs. Breathing became more difficult.

  He had mere minutes left.

  Though he wanted to go to Cameo, to stare into her exquisite face
as he met his end, he lumbered toward Hera. The goddess had no place to go. Typhon’s fire surrounded her. She narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin. Ever rebellious against the inevitable.

  Kill the threat to my woman, welcome eternity. He swung.

  A look of horror contorted Cameo’s features. She screamed and lunged in front of Hera. No time to pull his arm back or angle the direction of the weapon. The Paring Rod pierced her chest. She gasped and shook. He roared.

  No! What had she done? What had he done?

  He’d hurt the woman he loved. He might have killed—

  No, no, no. “Why? Why did you do this?” He attempted to yank the Paring Rod out of her. Any moment now, the artifact would suck her spirit through a portal...but the tip of the weapon remained caught in her sternum. To remove it, he would have to remove her entire rib cage. Her lungs would collapse, and her already damaged heart would stop.

  The injuries would agonize her, but they would heal.

  First...he shoved the pipe over the Rod, sheathing it. “Live forever,” he commanded. “I demand the demon leave you. Demand your spirit remains inside your body. Do you hear me? I own the pipe and therefore the compulsion. It was a gift. I demand that you live. Obey me!”

  Blood poured from the corners of her mouth as she tried to speak.

  She was still dying.

  No! He gave a final yank, the Paring Rod at last pulling free. It took only half of her rib cage with it. Hardly a silver lining. Her back bowed as her legs and chest collapsed. She released another scream as her knees gave out, and he tossed the artifacts aside. Beneath her skin, veins of black appeared, tentacles seeming to writhe inside them. Her entire body seized.

  The demon was leaving her?

  Black soon turned to gray and gray to blue, until the tracery of veins beneath her skin appeared normal, healthy. Then a black mist rose from her shirt—no, not her shirt but the pendant underneath her shirt.

  Yes! Her demon.

  The mist hovered over her, neon eyes glowing from within. Those eyes locked on Lazarus. Fangs snapped at him before the mist darted out of the temple, unencumbered by the invisible wall.

  Had his Cami survived?

  Lazarus dropped to his knees, knew he would be frozen in this humbled position for the rest of his life, but didn’t care. He had to touch Cameo, had to learn her fate. Trembling, he smoothed his fingertips over the softness of her cheek.

  The healthy color had vanished, leaving her chalk white. She panted and wheezed. But she hadn’t entered the spirit realm. Why?

  “He’s...gone,” she said. “Misery...gone...cleansed...happiness...remember...”

  She remembered...Lazarus?

  He wanted to shout with joy. He wanted to sob. What would happen next? She couldn’t die. She couldn’t!

  “My apple!” Hera, who stood on Cameo’s other side, reached for the pendant.

  Rathbone caught her wrist and wrestled her away. Leaving Lazarus to his goodbye.

  No! Hell, no. This would not be Cameo’s end. Only his.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “She was...about to...stab you...”

  Hera had cast an illusion, then. And Cameo had thought she was saving him. Him, a man she hadn’t even remembered at the time.

  How could he let her go?

  Lazarus...king...butterflies.

  Butterflies had always been drawn to him. Why? Because like was drawn to like? Was he... Could he be...

  Caterpillars transformed into butterflies when they entered a chrysalis.

  Hydra, his ancestor, could not be killed. Typhon could not be killed. Chrysalis... As a spirit, Lazarus had passed through a portal meant for mortals. Because of the pupa—or forming chrysalis. Because it had caused his physical body to change...to regenerate?

  Because it strengthened him rather than weakened?

  Chrysalis... The butterfly could not escape without fighting free. Could he fight his way free? Would he be stronger if—when—he emerged?

  His father hadn’t fought his way out of his chrysalis. But then, his father had hated his μονομανία. He’d had no reason to fight. Lazarus loved his sunshine. And love trumped hate every time.

  Lazarus...king...butterflies.

  What if he could help Cameo with the pupa?

  What if he doomed her?

  No time to debate. Her breaths were coming faster now, were only growing shallower. Neither of them had any other options. Hera looked to be strengthening, the color returning to her cheeks. At the same time, the illusion of Typhon began to fade, just like the illusion around the apple had faded.

  With a grunt, Lazarus used the last of his strength to unsheathe a dagger and slice his wrist. He placed the wound over Cameo’s, letting his pupa and blood pour into her.

  His gaze remained locked on her—no movement, no pulse—as the pupa continued to grow and spread through him...no! Not yet! He had to know if she survived. Had to see her smile one last time. But the substance stabbed through his eyes, blinding him...then finally entered the chambers of his heart, leaving him aware of the world, but completely incapacitated.

  30

  “Every end heralds a new beginning. Never waste yours.”

  —How Boys Become Men

  —The Darkest Promise

  Subtitle: The Story of Lazarus and His Cameo

  Memories deluged Cameo, overtaking her completely. She lived in those memories, the rest of the world forgotten. She remembered every time she’d ever smiled or laughed.

  The time Torin told her, “If Disease spread Ebola rather than the dreaded man-cold, people would have a chance at survival!”

  When Maddox said, “You hit like a bitch. If bitches hit like Mack trucks.”

  When Kane had teasingly said, “The fact that Misery and Disaster couldn’t make a relationship work? One of life’s greatest mysteries.”

  She remembered the times she’d felt valued. When Sabin and Strider presented her with the heads of her torturers. When Amun took a bullet meant for her. When Lucien, Gideon and Reyes cooked a Thanksgiving meal, just because she’d mentioned wanting to spend the holiday like a normal person. When Paris and Aeron showed up at an immortal bar after she’d agreed to meet a shifter for a “night of fun you’ll never forget.” The shifter had run away after only ten minutes in her company, but her boys had stayed behind to dance with her. And later kicked the shifter’s ass, of course.

  Those warriors loved her without exception. And yet she’d allowed Misery to wipe her mind of each and every instance. Again and again he’d preyed on her fear of knowing—and losing—true happiness. He’d tricked her. Actually, she’d tricked herself. She hadn’t let herself believe good things could happen to her. She’d expected the worst, and she’d gotten it.

  She had created her own misery. Had welcomed her own destruction. Had cast her own emotional illusions, believing in them until they became her reality.

  Worst of all, she’d given up her memories of Lazarus because she hadn’t believed a happily-ever-after was possible.

  Lazarus! He’d played in the mud with her. Teased her, and protected her. He’d given her orgasm after orgasm, held her close, and loved her when she was unlovable.

  He’d...stabbed her.

  Yes. Yes, he had. But only because Cameo had leaped between him and Hera. Hera, who’d nearly stabbed him.

  Though Cameo had had no memory of Lazarus at the time, she’d remained highly attuned to him, aware of his every movement. Her body had ached, as if recalling his touch and only wanting more. The desire to stay with him had plagued her. He’d looked to be in great pain with every move he made, but even still, he’d kept moving through the temple, had kept fighting the goddess. Cameo had desperately wanted to ease him, to help and protect him.

  Had she retained he
r memory, she would have wanted the same things, only at a much more intense level.

  Oh, yes. She had created her own misery.

  Now Lazarus was...she frowned. Where was he? Last thing she remembered, he’d been crouched beside her. He’d slashed his wrist and—

  He’d slashed his wrist! Her stomach twisted into a thousand knots. He’d slashed his wrist as crystals grew over his flesh, no longer content to stay underneath the surface of his skin.

  What if he was dead? What if she was dead and he lived, trapped? What if—

  Nope. No more depressing thoughts without any gleam of hope. Whatever the circumstances, there was a solution.

  “—hell happened?”

  The voice cut into her awareness. Hades. Had she traveled to the underworld?

  “Hera can siphon abilities. She stole from Typhon and then Lazarus and used his power to cast an illusion.” Rathbone’s voice now. “Made Cameo think Lazarus was about to take a blow.”

  Another illusion. Well, Cameo couldn’t bring herself to regret her actions. The Paring Rod had done as its name implied, paring the demon from her spirit. The cut had been clean, and the spiritual wound cauterized by Lazarus. By her love for him, and his love for her. Misery hadn’t entered the box, however. The box had tried to suck him inside—they’d both felt its pull—but the demon had met with a block and bounced free.

  Now he roamed Hera’s realm. Unless he’d found a way out?

  “Where is Hera now?” William the Ever Randy demanded.

  “She escaped upon your arrival,” Rathbone grated.

  “So she lives.” Relief vibrated from Hades. “She is possessed by hundreds of demons. The moment she dies, they’ll be released. We must proceed with caution or Lucifer will use her and her fiends to his advantage.”

  Enough chitchat about Hera. Tell me about Lazarus!

  He’d given Cameo some of his blood. Her body had begun to heal. She owed him her life.

  Cameo fought her way through the mire of her thoughts. Consciousness beckoned...she fought harder...there!

  With a gasp, she sat up and blinked. Her gaze found the man she loved, and alarm choked her. He crouched beside her, his hand outstretched. Pupa mixed with crystals covered him from head to toe, molding to his body. Two butterflies perched on his head.