Nightfall

by Elizabeth Hartwell

  Nightfall

  Gods of War Chronicles Reverse Harem

  Elizabeth Hartwell

  Contents

  Also by Elizabeth Hartwell

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Preview: Guardians of Magic

  About the Author

  Also by Elizabeth Hartwell

  The Gods of War Chronicles:

  Book 1 - Huntress

  Book 2 - Nightfall

  Book 3 - Armageddon

  Guardians of the Fae Series:

  Book 1 - Guardians of Magic

  Book 2 - Guardians of Hellfire

  Book 3 - Guardians of Moonlight

  Don’t want to miss a new release? Sign up to my Newsletter. You will not be spammed and your information will never be shared.

  Prologue

  The Gods

  The ethereal plain is wide and flat. It’s idyllic, of course, but then again, most places in the immortal realm are. Green grass pads underneath the Trickster’s feet as he crosses it, his eyes locked on his target, the one-handed god currently practicing with his spear in the middle of the field.

  Surrounding him are five warriors, immortal in their own right after being reborn into the service of the one-handed god. Each is a noble warrior from an ancient line.

  The Spartan, his nude body gleaming with sweat and oil, the knots and lines of scars etched upon his body unable to distract from his face, so beautiful that even in his own time, poets would compose epics about the bravery and beauty of the thrice-blessed champion of Olympia nicknamed Kallistos.

  The Roman, his leather armor not hiding the thick, barrel-like chest or the curling of his hair. In his hand he holds a gladius, his helmet currently cocked back, and the Trickster wonders if he looked this nonchalant before he singlehandedly defended a bridge against an entire Etruscan army.

  The Samurai, his beard and wild hair untamed even by millennia of service to the god who brought the so-called greatest of all swordsmen into his service. He carries two swords, his eyes wide and intense as he glares at his foe, determined to strike him down, not out of hate but from the love of combat and the honorable pursuit of perfection that led him to crafting the so-called Book of Five Rings before his death.

  The Mongolian Princess, her petite size no hindrance to her skills with the bow, the horse, or as a wrestler. In her first life, she’d been praised by no less than Kublai Khan himself and had an open challenge. She’d marry the first man to defeat her in a wrestling contest. All he had to do was put up a single horse as a wager. She died single and ten thousand horses richer.

  The Trickster’s personal favorite, however, is also the youngest, a blond from England who always dresses in blinding plate armor, his long curly locks of hair inspiring more than a few tales from bards and troubadours throughout all of Medieval Europe. While an unfortunate victim of love’s arrow, the Trickster suspects that he was more the victim of the love goddess Sulis than anything else. Either way, he stands ready now, his helmet off and a smile nearly as shiny and flawless as his armor on his face as he faces his opponent.

  But for the five matchless warriors, Loki’s eyes pause to take in the magnificent form of one of the most powerful of the gods, the way his towering body, broad shoulders, and chiseled muscles stand in stark relief to his dusky skin. He chuckles. No wonder the god before him stood as the model for countless martial gods over the centuries in the Earth realm.

  The god hears him approach and holds up a hand to his partner, and the knight nods, saluting with his sword before he and his companions withdraw across the field to give their lords some privacy. Still, Loki notes, they are not so far away that if he tries something, he won’t catch an arrow through the eye or through the balls for his troubles.

  “You know, Loki,” Tyr says as he twirls the eight-foot-long spear around his head before thrusting it forward so quickly that electricity crackles from its tip and a small sonic boom echoes across the field, “you could join me for practice.”

  “And stain these clothes?” Loki asks, brushing invisible dirt off his dark green trousers. “I just had these made. Besides, don’t you have five training partners who represent the best humanity has to offer?”

  Tyr stops, planting the butt of his spear into the ground before turning to look at the Trickster more closely. “I see you’re still obsessed with that movie representation of you. It’s been how many centuries since then?”

  “Too many. I was just starting to become popular again,” Loki jokes. “Meanwhile, you were constantly misrepresented as a blond.”

  “At least they got the hammer right,” Tyr points out.

  Loki laughs. “Although I never did quite understand how it is that you show up one time with your spear, and those Norse knuckleheads remember your name correctly. You show up another time with your war hammer, and they screwed it up for all time.”

  “Names do not matter. Actions do,” Tyr replies, pulling his long, twisted hair behind his back. “What did you seek me out for, Loki? Our paths do not cross amiably often, and my friends are eager to finish their practice. We have a feast to enjoy later.”

  Loki nods in understanding. In the past, Tyr’s words were certainly true. The devious, scheming Trickster versus the wise and honorable Lord of Martial Valor and Learning, a naturally conflicting rivalry that had sparked for millennia. For Loki, it’s been fun. Move and countermove, thrust and parry, cat and mouse. Much like Tyr’s constant practice with his spear and hammer, Loki saw their engagements as practice, sparring since time immemorial.

  “My dear Tyr, just because you and I have had our . . . disagreements doesn’t mean I don’t look upon you fondly,” Loki says with a wide smile. He looks pointedly at the five warriors who accompany Tyr everywhere, the true Valkyrie even though their genders don’t match up . . . mostly. “You know that steel sharpens steel, and there is nothing in this entire realm that I think sharpens my steel as well as matching wits with you.”

  “Hmm. You certainly didn’t feel that way when I bound you to the Hursag for a thousand years,” Tyr points out. “Although I do admit to taking some pleasure in it.”

  “Well, I did cost you your left hand,” Loki replies, nodding toward the stump at the end of Tyr’s left arm. “But this is a unique situation. We are practically brothers now.”

  Tyr cannot deny Loki’s argument and sighs, nodding. “True. I did not expect Tym to have fallen for the Huntress. But I can understand. She is worthy of his love.”

  “Mmm, she is a delicious-looking little distraction, isn’t she?” Loki asks, holding up his hands when Tyr gives him a stern look of warning. “Hey, I’m not saying anything other than that Lance seems to have found himself a beautiful woman to love. And she loves him as well, from what I can tell. I’m happy for our offspring, even if they haven’t offered up the words of commitme
nt to each other yet. Though it’s Sulis’s area of expertise, I expect they’ll be sharing their bonds soon enough. I just wish I’d been a bit more instructive to Lance on the art of female pleasure.”

  “From what I can tell, he seems to be more than satisfying her,” Tyr says, plucking his spear out of the ground. Never one to be distracted by Loki’s banter, he turns away from his bodyguards to walk across the field in the opposite direction, Loki following him as Tyr conjures up a simple cloak to cover his upper body, looking like a cross between an ancient Greek and an ancient Viking. “But let us discuss our parenting styles later. We have been thrust into an unfamiliar situation—hesitant allies.”

  “True. But hey, maybe we can finagle this into a three-way with Sulis?” Loki teases before sobering. “Come now, Tyr, you look like you’re being forced to eat your vegetables.”

  “I’ve spent the past few hours practicing, trying to figure out a way we can coexist in our efforts against Bane, and must admit I am stumped.”

  Tyr expects that Loki will deflect his criticism with a joke or anger. He’s surprised, however, when Loki sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down. “Tyr, believe me or not, but I have always looked upon you with respect and admiration. Our disagreements are not about the goal but the path. You are a god of order, service, loyalty . . . rules. I hate that. Those words are acid upon my very heart. I’ve always been about freedom, unfettered by rules or traditions.”

  “Is that why you sent Fenrir after my hand?”

  Loki shrugs, pursing his lips. “Would you believe that I just wanted him to teach you that you’re not the end all, be all of heroism on this plane? I didn’t expect him to actually hurt you, and I certainly never expected that he’d actually sever and then swallow your fucking hand. But you just had to try and fight the thing and rip its tongue out, didn’t you? Regardless, we’ve always been about the same goal, peace and the maximum development of the human race.”

  Tyr thinks about it, then nods. “Most of your actions could be seen as helping humanity . . . from a certain point of view.”

  “Now who’s quoting ancient movies?” Loki teases, a ghost of his smile reappearing. “Either way, we seem to have found our paths merging for the time being. We face the same threat. If Bane gets his way, it doesn’t matter if it’s loyalty or freedom that we value. Humanity will be crushed under his heel.”

  “Agreed, but our hands are tied for the most part,” Tyr says, leaning on his spear and looking over his shoulder. In the distance beyond his retinue, the heavenly sky darkens, leading to the mountains that they know are the normal home of the lord of darkness and the underworld. “The Allfather has decreed that we are unable to interact on Earth except through our offspring.”

  “True, but that’s why you have me,” Loki says with a chuckle, patting Tyr on a heavily-muscled shoulder. “If any immortal knows about getting around the Allfather’s decrees, it’s me. Am I not right?”

  “Perhaps,” Tyr agrees reluctantly. “What do you propose?”

  “Propose? I’m hardly one for marriage,” Loki jokes with a laugh. “Come, let us go visit Sulis and see if perhaps the goddess of wisdom and light can shed some upon our thoughts and stimulate a little growth.”

  Tyr rolls his eyes. “You want to be stimulated, all right . . . but just because our grandchildren have fallen for one of Sulis’s descendants does not mean you have a snowball’s chance in Hell.”

  Loki shivers. “If you don’t mind, don’t mention Hell. It’s hard enough to keep a joke going as I try to figure out a way to stop Bane and his machinations. Say, have you seen Adonis recently?”

  “He wants to kill you.”

  Loki nods as the two gods start to walk away from the darkness. As they do, Tyr’s guardians follow at a discreet distance, always ready to serve their master, lord, and friend. “Some things never change, it seems.”

  Chapter 1

  Cerena

  For nineteen years, I’ve been aimed at one task, one purpose.

  I’ve been the ultimate student of the last gleaming citadel of untouched humanity in a world twisted and corrupted by our own folly.

  Or that’s what I thought.

  Then, in one mission, I’ve learned that everything I’ve held dear is a lie.

  The gods of myth and legend are real.

  And I’m descended from one of them.

  Now, I’m an outlaw, a fugitive from my own people, and with my companions, perhaps the last best hope to prevent Hell on Earth.

  I am the Huntress.

  And Hell hath no fury like my scorn.

  The trees are relatively thick, a rarity in the lands I grew up in. Around Solace, except in the single park within the walls that contained pure bluegrass grown from stored pre-war seeds, greenery is restricted to the scrubby grass, a few stunted bushes, and crops.

  It’s the same in most of the Scorched Earth that I’ve been able to see. I guess I should count myself lucky. In the regions closer to what used to be the major cities, the land is still so irradiated that any plants that manage to live are twisted, horrible mutations. I’ve seen them, predatory weeds that will take over a field, killing every normal plant and leaving behind beautifully green but deadly leaves.

  There are even stories coming from the Eastern Wild Lands of a certain kind of flower that, if the wind is just right, will kill simply with its pollen. Golden Death, they call it, and it’s only by pure luck that it’s restricted by the mountains and the winds to blowing mostly over the oceans.

  But most of the Northern Range is safe, and for the past three weeks it has been our home. Well, safe isn’t the right word for it, at least not for ‘normal’ people. When you have to count the number of deadly predator species in the dozens, from droogs to night bears to anarattlers . . . well, there’s a reason the human population of the Northern Range is small, at least until you get to the other side and the winter stalkers start making their claims.

  It’s not a challenge for my group, at least, and as Lance and I move through the woods, looking for our dinner, I take a moment to reflect on the beauty surrounding us. “Lance?”

  “Hmm?” Lance asks, his knives ready at his side. He’s got his Gauss pistol by his side, but only for self-defense. The damage one of the two-millimeter-sized rounds would do to any animal would ruin it for food purposes. “Feelin’ horny, sweet cheeks?”

  It’s hard not to roll my eyes as Lance laughs softly. “Is that all you think about? Sex?”

  “No, but it’s a lot more fun to think about that than the rest of our reality,” Lance says, shrugging. “I wish we could have gotten back to that firehouse and raided the stores there.”

  I nod, regretting for not the first time over the past few weeks my habit of making painstakingly accurate reports to the Hunter system. But I did, and the little cache of supplies I’d hoped to raid was already cleaned out before we could get there. It was then that we turned north and headed for the mountains, hoping to lose ourselves in the thick forests. “I would have liked some new boots.”

  “As nice as some fresh boots or fresh clothes would be, I could really use a week to just hunker down and catch some sleep.”

  “Thought you didn’t need sleep,” I reply, holding up a finger as a stag comes into view. As magnificent as he is deadly, the mutated deer with antlers as sharp and deadly as steel spikes stands the undisputed king of the herbivores in the forest, his nose quivering and his eyes scanning the area around him, even though I can see his blindness from here.

  Not that it matters. Like bats, werewolves, or other creatures of the night, the stag has hearing that can probably pick out our breathing even from fifty yards away. With echolocation as sharp as sonar, there’s very little chance to take the stag. Still, I have to try, and I carefully bring my crossbow up. It’s a new addition to our arsenal, picked from our vehicle as we fled from Solace pursued by Hunters, but before I can take aim, Lance laughs. “Let him go.”

  The stag, spooked, disap
pears between the trees, and I lower the crossbow, resisting the urge to shove the business end up Lance’s ass and pull the trigger. “Dammit, Lance! Why did you ask to come along on this hunt if you were going to spend the whole time scaring away all the animals?”

  Lance laughs again, shrugging. “I wanted to get away from camp. Sleep’s good, but putting up with Blender Boy is becoming a royal pain in the ass.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” I growl, proceeding on. “Lance, we’ve spent the past three weeks on the move, never getting to rest in one location for more than twenty-four hours, and you’re worried about how Brandon is starting to deal with coming back from the dead? Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope,” Lance says, still smirking. “Come on, sweet cheeks, you know he’s rubbed you the wrong way over the past three weeks too, and I’m not just talking about being too rough between your legs. He’s practically gone bipolar.”

  “Okay, wait,” I interrupt, holding up a hand. “You, the self-proclaimed grandson of a god, who’s got no problem being in this weird as fuck situation we find ourselves in where I’m having sex with two other men, both of whom are also from immortal lineage, is saying that Brandon’s mood swings after literally coming back from the dead are a problem? Seriously?”