The Darkest Surrender (13 page)

He’d tasted Kaia’s sweetness, had felt the wickedness of her curves pressed against him, and knew no mortal woman could compare. But he’d get over this infatuation, of that he had no doubt. Even Haidee hadn’t held his attention for long.

Haidee. Huh. He hadn’t thought about her much today, though she had consumed his brain for weeks. Classic Strider. Over the centuries, he’d been a major contender for the World’s Shortest Attention Span.

“Do you truly think you can win the games?” Tabitha asked Kaia.

“Yes.”

“Against
me?
”

“I hate to repeat myself, but yes.”

That’s my girl.
Well, his girl for now.

“Juliette might have won the last eight games, but that’s because I wasn’t allowed to fight. As you know, I’ve never
lost,” Tabitha said, stroking the medallion that hung from her neck.

Again, Kaia stiffened, a wave of hurt blasting from her. A wave quickly suppressed. Did the necklace hold some significance? He made a mental note to ask Gwen, as he was certain Kaia wouldn’t give him a straight answer. She never did.

“There’s a reason you’ve never lost. You’ve never fought me,” Kaia replied haughtily.

She is going to be killed.

The feminine voice stampeded through his head. Tabitha’s voice. The same voice he’d heard during orientation. Her attention hadn’t transferred to him, but he knew. “Like hell,” he muttered.

Kaia threw him a disbelieving, offended look. “It’s true.”

“I know that, baby doll. Wasn’t talking to you.”

“Oh. Well. Okay.”

Win!
There was a tremor in Defeat’s tone, but still, the little bastard wasn’t going to back down. They’d decided to aid Kaia, and they would. She would not be killed.

She is going to be killed—and there is nothing you can do to help her.

“Stop it,” he commanded, gaze narrowing on the woman responsible.

Tabitha blinked innocently. “Why is your consort speaking to me without my having addressed him first?” she asked Kaia. “Have you not taught him the proper order of things?”

So the little man wasn’t supposed to speak to the women folk without an invitation? Screw that. “Just stay out of my head, Harpy, or I’ll make sure you regret it. By the way, how’s the leg?”

She hissed at him.

Win!

I know,
Strider reassured the demon.
I told you. I won’t let anything happen to Kaia.

Kaia blinked, too, only she appeared shocked. She didn’t question her mother, though, and he wondered if she remained quiet because she knew her mother wouldn’t answer or because questioning her mother would have revealed ignorance and ignorance would have been perceived as weakness.

Harpies, man. Life seemed to be one big chess match for them. Ridiculous, if you asked him. And yeah, he got the irony. But he
had
to turn everything he did into a contest of wits and might. They didn’t, nor did they suffer afterward. They just did it for funsies.

“Don’t concern yourself with my man,” Kaia finally said, her chin lifting.

My man.
He kinda liked the sound of that.

His jaw clenched. This was pretend and he couldn’t let himself confuse pretend with reality.

“I’m surprised you won a fearsome Lord of the Underworld,” Tabitha said.

“I’m not,” Kaia replied with a shrug. “I’m pretty much made of awesome.”

Still not a flicker of emotion crossed Tabitha’s face. Not pride, nor disappointment. “I guess we’ll find out
exactly
what you’re made of tomorrow, when the games truly begin.”

P
ARIS
,
THE KEEPER OF
Promiscuity—or Sex, as Paris called the demon—clutched two standard-issue daggers as he slinked through the back-alley shadows. Standard issue
sucked.
Sure, they sliced and diced just fine, but up here, with gods, goddesses, vampires and fallen angels, slicing and dicing wasn’t enough.

Whatever. Keep going.

Never ceased to amaze him how similar the immortal world was to the human one. In this heavenly metropolis, there were bars, shops, restaurants and hotels. Not to mention drugs and those who sold them. Whatever you wanted, you could get.

Speaking of, I’ll want some ambrosia. Soon.
Already he was shaky from withdrawal.

No time to imbibe now. He couldn’t be late.

Couldn’t afford to so much as talk to anyone. One look at his face, one inhalation of his scent, and people—no matter their species or gender—threw themselves at him.

Perhaps he should have let them, he thought next. Sex derived strength from anything erotic, and Paris hadn’t yet supplied that crucial daily dose. But then, he hated sleeping with people he didn’t actually desire and tried to limit himself. And he’d get today’s influx of strength just as soon as he met with the goddess of weaponry.

The female owned crystal daggers that could morph into
any
type of weapon the holder desired. He could have
them, she’d said,
for a price.
No one ever wanted money from him, so he’d agreed to give her what she did want. Him. He’d whore himself, and that was fine. Whatever. He’d done so a thousand times before and would probably have to do so a thousand more. Eventually he’d get over the guilt and humiliation.

He needed those crystal blades to rescue the female he
did
want. Sienna.

His Sienna. Killed because of his actions, only to be brought back in soul form. A soul he could not see or hear. Yet.

Cronus, the god king, had enslaved her and paired her with the demon of Wrath. To keep Paris away from her, Cronus had then trapped her in another realm. He would pay for that.
After
Paris saved her. And he would. He had a three-part plan.

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.

S
IENNA
B
LACKSTONE 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 ensuing 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.