Читать книгу The Darkest Whisper - Gena Showalter - Страница 12

PARIS SLOUCHED in the backseat of an Escalade, Strider at the wheel and completely unaware of speed limits. Though the sun was shining on downtown Budapest, you couldn’t tell it from where Paris was sitting. The windows were tinted so thickly the interior was cast in gloomy shadows. Anya, Lucien’s lover and the minor goddess of Anarchy, had stolen the vehicle from gods knew where—along with a matching second and a Bentley for herself—just before they’d left for Egypt.

You don’t have to thank me, she’d said, smiling beatifically. Your horrified expressions are gift enough. The cars are very upscale gangster, if I do say so myself. And let’s face it. You guys were in serious need of a makeover and these wheels do the job.

Unfortunately, Paris had gotten stuck in the same car as Amun, who was gripping his head as if it was about to explode; Aeron, who couldn’t stop glowering—dude needed his little demon friend, Legion, like, stat—as well as Sabin and his Harpy.

Sabin couldn’t keep his eyes off the dangerous, throat-eating woman, and hadn’t lost his hard-on since kissing her on the plane. Understandable, sure. She was incomparably lovely, with golden eyes almost diamondlike in their purity, lips as red as Eve’s apple had probably been and a body that defined the word temptation. And that strawberry hair was a miracle all its own. But she was a Harpy who’d been found in the enemy’s camp and therefore not to be trusted for any reason.

Maybe she’d been abused like the other prisoners. Maybe she despised the Hunters as much as he did. Maybe…

But maybe wasn’t good enough to earn his trust. Not anymore. She could be Bait, a pretty trap the Hunters had set and the Lords had welcomed with open arms.

Paris didn’t want Sabin ending up like him: craving an enemy with every fiber of his being but unable to have her.

A minute, an hour, a month, a year ago—he didn’t know, time no longer mattered to him—he’d been ambushed by Hunters and imprisoned. Because he played host to the demon of Promiscuity, he needed sex to survive. Sex every day, at least once, but never with the same woman. In that cell, strapped to a gurney, he’d grown so weak opening his eyes had become a chore. Not wanting to kill him before they found Pandora’s box—without it, the death of his body would have freed his demon, allowing it to wander the earth, crazed, unfettered—they’d sent her in. Sienna. Plain, freckled Sienna with her elegant hands and untapped sensuality.

She’d seduced him, strengthening him exponentially. And for the first time since his possession, Paris had gotten hard for the same woman twice. In that moment, he’d known she belonged to him. Known that she was his—his reason for breathing. The reason he’d been spared death all these thousands of years. But her own people had shot her down as Paris absconded with her.

She’d died in his arms.

Now Paris was still forced to bed a new woman every day, and if he couldn’t find a woman, he had to find a man, even though he’d never been attracted to his own sex. A fuck was a fuck to the demon of Promiscuity. A fact that had long since plunged him down a spiral of shame.

Yet nowadays, no matter who his bed partner was, he had to picture Sienna’s face to get hard. He had to picture her face to finish the job, because every cell in his body knew the person underneath him was wrong. Wrong scent, wrong curves, wrong voice, wrong texture. Wrong everything.

Today would be the same. Tomorrow, as well. And the next day and the next. For an eternity. There was no end in sight for him. Except death, but he didn’t deserve death yet. Not until Sienna was avenged. Would she ever be?

You didn’t love her. This is madness.

Wise words. From his demon? Himself? He didn’t know anymore. Could no longer distinguish one voice from the other. They were one and the same, two halves of a whole. And both of them were at the breaking point, ready to snap at any moment.

Until then…

Paris patted the bag of dried ambrosia in his pocket and let out a sigh of relief. Still there. He now carried the potent stuff with him wherever he went. Just in case he needed it. Which, more often than not, he did.

Only when the ambrosia was mixed with human wine did the alcohol do what it was supposed to do and numb him. If only for a little while. Every day, though, it seemed like he had to add more to achieve the same buzz.

He’d just have to ask his friend to steal more. Gods knew he deserved a few hours of peace, a chance to lose himself. Afterward, he would be refreshed, stronger, ready to fight his enemy.

Don’t think about that now. Soon as he reached the fortress, he had a job to do. That came first; it had to. He forced his eyes to focus on his surroundings, his mind to blank. Gone were the multihued palaces, humans traipsing from one side of the streets to another. In their place were thickly treed hills, abandoned, forgotten.

The SUV popped a rocky ledge and ascended one of those hills, dodging trees and the little presents he and the others had left for any Hunter stupid enough to come gunning for them. Again, that is.

About a month ago, they’d stormed inside and blasted the hell out of his home, a home he’d lived in for centuries, forcing the warriors to patch up quickly before heading out on another trip, another battle. New furniture had been needed. New appliances. He didn’t like it. There’d been so much change in his life lately—women in residence, the return of an old frienemy, the eruption of the war—he couldn’t handle much more.

The fortress came into view, a towering monstrosity of shadow and stone. Ivy climbed the jagged walls, blending home into land and making it nearly impossible to differentiate between the two. The only thing that set them apart was the iron gate that now surrounded the structure. Another addition.

Eagerness suddenly saturated the cool air. Bodies tensed, mouthfuls of oxygen were held. So close…

Torin, who watched them from inside the fortress on monitors and sensors, opened that gate. As they meandered toward the tall, arching front doors, Aeron squeezed his armrest so tightly it snapped.

“A wee bit excited, are you?” Strider asked, glancing at him from the rearview mirror.

Aeron didn’t reply. There was a good chance he hadn’t even heard the question. His tattooed face registered determination and anger. Not the usual indulgent expression he wore when about to see Legion.

When the vehicle stopped, the entire group jumped out. Glaring sunlight beat down on his body, making him sweat under his T-shirt and jeans. Gods, was it even this hot in hell?

Soon as she emerged from the car, the little Harpy stepped to the side, delicate arms around her middle, eyes wide, face pale. Sabin tracked her every movement, not even looking away when he jerked out a bag and another toppled to his feet.

How could something as vicious as a Harpy be so timid? It just wasn’t possible; it didn’t fit. She was like two pieces of two different puzzles, and now Paris was thinking the girl should have been blindfolded on the way to the fortress.

Hindsight. They could always cut out her tongue to keep her from talking, he supposed. Maybe cut off her hands to keep her from signing or writing.

Who are you?

Before Sienna, he would have been the one fighting to protect the female. That he wasn’t now, that he actually wanted her injured, should have filled him with guilt. Instead, he was angry that he hadn’t done a better job of guarding his friends against her. All possible threats had to be eliminated. Throughout the years, the other warriors had tried to convince him of that but he’d always resisted. Now, he understood.

It was too late to do anything to her, though. Sabin wouldn’t allow it. Guy was wasted. Even before the rift that tore Lucien’s group from Sabin’s, Paris didn’t recall ever seeing Sabin this intent on a woman. Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. If the girl’s timidity wasn’t an act, then Sabin would destroy her, one bit of her self-esteem at a time.

Maddox emerged from the second Escalade, a dark slash in Paris’s periphery. The keeper of Violence didn’t bother grabbing his bag but pounded swiftly up the porch steps. The doors swung open and his pregnant female flew outside, laughing and crying. Ashlyn leapt into his arms, a blur of gold, and he swung her around. They were locked in a heated kiss seconds later.

It was tough to imagine the savage Maddox as a father—even if the baby ended up half demon like the Lords.

Next came Danika, who halted in the doorway and scanned the crowd for Reyes. The lovely blonde spotted him and squealed. As if that squeal was a mating call of some kind, Reyes palmed a dagger and stalked to her.

Possessed as he was by the demon of Pain, Reyes could not feel pleasure without physical suffering. Before Danika, the warrior had had to cut himself twenty-four/seven to function. During their stay in Cairo, he hadn’t had to injure himself once. Being away from Danika was pain enough, he said. Now that they were reunited, he’d have to cut himself again, but Paris didn’t think either of them minded.

With a growl, Reyes swept her into his arms and the two disappeared inside the fortress, Danika’s giggling the only remaining evidence they’d been nearby.

Paris rubbed at a sudden ache in his chest, praying it would go away. He knew it wouldn’t, though. Not until he’d had his ambrosia. Every time he was around these couples so obviously in love, the ache sprouted and stayed, a parasite that sucked the life right out of him, until he drank himself into a stupor.

There was no sign of Lucien, who had flashed home rather than endure the long plane ride. He and Anya were probably locked inside their room. One small favor, at least.

He noted that the Harpy had watched the couples as intently as he had. Because she was fascinated or because she hoped to use the information against them?

No other females were in residence, thank the gods. No one Paris could seduce and eventually hurt when he screwed her over for someone else. Gilly, Danika’s young friend, now lived in an apartment in town. The kid had wanted her own space. And they’d pretended to give it to her, not telling her that her home was wired to Torin’s surveillance systems. Danika’s grandmother, mother and sister had left, as well, and were now back in the States.

“Come,” Sabin said to the Harpy. When she failed to comply, he motioned her to his side.

“Those women…” she whispered.

“Are happy.” Confidence layered every syllable. “Had they not been so eager to be reunited with their men, they would have greeted you personally.”

“Do they know…?” Once again, she had trouble finishing her sentence.

“Oh, yes. They know their men are possessed by demons. Now come.” He waved his fingers.

Still she hesitated. “Where will you take me?”

Sabin pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He was doing that a lot lately, it seemed. “Come inside or don’t, but I’m not waiting out here for you to make up your mind.” Angry footsteps, the slam of the door.

Anyone else he simply would have picked up and thrown over his shoulder, Paris suspected. Her, he allowed to choose. Smart of him.

The Harpy glanced left and right, and Paris braced himself to give chase. Not that he thought he could catch her if she decided to kick it into hyperdrive as she’d done inside that cavern. But he was prepared to fight her if necessary.

Another red flag started waving in his mind. She could get away, here and now. Even earlier, before they’d boarded the plane. Hell, she could have escaped while they camped in the desert. Why hadn’t she? Unless she was Bait, as he’d suspected, here to learn everything she could about them.

Though she had denied it, Sienna had been Bait. She’d kissed him even as she’d poisoned him—and she’d merely been human. What kind of damage could this Harpy do?

Let Sabin worry about this one for now. You have enough on your plate o’fuck.

Finally, she decided to follow Sabin and headed inside, her steps tentative.

“The prisoners are in need of interrogating,” Paris said to no one in particular.

Cameo flipped her dark hair over one shoulder and bent to grab her bag. No one tried to help her. They treated her like one of the guys because she preferred it that way. At least, that’s what he’d always told himself. He’d never tried to treat her as anything else because he’d never wanted to sleep with her. Perhaps she would have liked to be pampered upon occasion.

“Maybe tomorrow,” she said, her tragic voice nearly making his eardrums bleed. “I need to rest.” Without another word—thank the gods—she marched inside.

As well as Paris knew women, he knew beyond any doubt that she was lying. There’d been a sparkle in her eyes, a rosy flush to her cheeks. She’d looked aroused, not tired. Who did she plan to meet?

She’d been hanging with Torin a lot lately and…Paris blinked. No, surely not. Torin couldn’t touch another being skin to skin without infecting it with disease—as well as everyone that person encountered, causing a plague to sweep the land. Not even an immortal was safe from harm. That immortal wouldn’t die, but would become like Torin, unable to know the caress of another without severe consequences.

Didn’t matter what they were up to, really. He had work to do. “Anyone?” Paris said to those remaining. He wanted this shit over with, like, now. The sooner he finished beating information out of the Hunters, the sooner he could barricade himself inside his room and forget he was alive.

Strider whistled under his breath, pretending not to hear him as he edged toward the front door.

What the hell? No one appreciated violence better than Strider. “Strider, man. I know you heard me. Help me with the interrogation, yeah?”

“Oh, come on! At least wait until tomorrow. Not like they’re going anywhere. I just need a little me time to recover. Like Cameo, I’ll be ready to go bright and early. Swear to the gods.”

Paris sighed. “Fine. Go.” Were Cameo and Strider a couple, then? “What about you, Amun?”

Amun nodded his assent, but the action tossed his equilibrium into the shitter and he collapsed on the bottom step of the porch with a moan.

Barely a second later, Strider was at his side and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Uncle Stridey is here, don’t you worry.” He hefted the usually stoic warrior to his feet. Would have carried him if it had been necessary, but with Strider as a crutch Amun was able to throw one foot in front of the other, only stumbling occasionally.

“I’ll help with the Hunters,” Aeron said, stepping up to Paris. The offer surprised the hell out of him, truth be told.

“What about Legion? Girl probably misses you.”

Aeron shook his head. His hair was cropped to his scalp and that scalp glistened in the sunlight. “She’d be on my shoulders right now if she were here.”

“Sorry.” No one knew better than Paris how it felt to miss a female. Though he had to admit he’d been surprised to discover the wiry little demon was a female.

“It’s for the best.” A veined hand scrubbed Aeron’s tired face. “Something’s been…watching me. A presence. Powerful. Started about a week before we left for Cairo.”

Paris’s stomach tightened in dread. “First, you have a nasty habit of keeping that kind of information to yourself. You should have told us the first time you noticed it, just as you should have told us what happened with the Titans the moment you returned from your heavenly summons all those months ago. Whoever’s watching you could have alerted the Hunters about our trip. We could have—”

“You’re right, and I’m sorry. But I don’t think it, whatever it is, works for the Hunters.”

“Why?” Paris demanded, unwilling to let it go.

“I know the feel of those hateful, judging eyes on me and this isn’t like that. This one is…curious.”

He relaxed somewhat. “Maybe it’s a god.”

“I don’t think so. Legion isn’t afraid of the gods but she’s damn afraid of whoever this is. That’s one of the reasons she’s so amenable to going to hell for Sabin’s recon work. She told me she’d return when the presence was gone.”

There was worry in the guy’s tone. Worry Paris didn’t understand. Legion might have been a tiny demon with a penchant for tiaras—which they’d discovered not long ago, when she’d stolen one of Anya’s and paraded around the fortress in it, proud as could be—but she could take care of herself.

Paris turned in a circle, intent. “Is your shadow here? Now?” Like they needed another enemy. “Maybe I can seduce whoever, whatever, it is away from you.” And kill it. No telling what it had learned already.

A single shake of Aeron’s head. “I honestly don’t think it means us harm.”

He paused, slowly released a pent-up breath. “All right, then. We’ll deal with that later. Just let me know when it returns. Right now, we’ll take care of the dungeon full of shitheads.”

“You sound more human every day, you know that?” Aeron had said that before, but for once, he didn’t sound disapproving. There was a whistle as he unsheathed a machete from the loop at his back. “Maybe the Hunters will resist.”

“Only if we’re lucky.”

TORIN, KEEPER OF DISEASE, sat at his desk, but he faced the door of his bedroom rather than the monitors that linked him to the outside world. He’d watched the SUVs pull into the driveway and had instantly grown hard. He’d watched the warriors emerge and had had to palm himself to assuage the sudden ache. Watched as one by one they’d entered the fortress. Any moment and—

Cameo slipped quietly inside his chamber and shut the entrance with a soft snick. She flipped the lock, and for several ticks of the clock, kept her back to him. Long dark hair tumbled to her waist, curling at the ends.

Once, she’d allowed him to twirl a few of those ends around his gloveless finger, careful, so careful not to touch her skin. It had been his first true contact with a woman in hundreds of years. He’d almost come, just from the feel of those silky strands. But that small touch was all she’d permitted, all she could ever permit and all he could ever risk.

Actually, he was surprised they’d risked even that much. With his gloves on, sure. The chance of infecting her was nil. But tendrils against skin, silk against warmth, female against male? That required bravery and trust on her part and desperation and foolishness on his. Hair wasn’t skin, but what if he’d slipped? What if she’d fallen against him? For some reason, neither of them had been able to make the consequences matter.

Last time he’d touched a woman, an entire village had been wiped out. Black Plague, they’d called it. That’s what was inside him, swirling in his veins, laughing in his mind. For years afterward, Torin had scrubbed his skin until the black blood poured from him. Cleansing himself of the virus proved impossible, however.