Benevolent Passion

by Amanda Pillar

  Godric quickly disappeared from view.

  He isn’t going to get Milly, is he?

  “I have kept these women alive for the past three decades!” Lady Eramine snapped. “If left to your ‘use’, they would have died.”

  “Nonsense. We are immortal.”

  “We can still bleed out. Or die from severe wounds. Many of these women are still young and not fully settled into their immortality.”

  Another crack sounded, and a welt appeared on Lady Eramine’s other cheek. She smiled, her teeth covered in blood, her gray eyes glistening ominously. “Is that all you can do?”

  This family is crazy.

  Lady Eramine was basically asking for more pain. More violence.

  Godric reappeared then, Milly following a few hesitant steps behind. Fear pinched her features, especially when she spotted Peony standing near the king.

  How could Godric have retrieved her? Yes, Peony had known that he was Mortus; but he hadn’t seemed like the kind of guy who would enable a rapist. He had seemed more complex; like the blonde female she’d met. That compassion and laughter could exist in a place like this. Godric was interested in ancient texts, in taking her around for a walk. In listening to her—at least a little bit, which was more than the king had done.

  Shows what I know.

  Then Peony registered Milly glancing between the king and her.

  Does she think I’m his executioner?

  Peony’s skin crawled at the idea.

  “Your Majesty.” Milly wobbled a curtsey, wincing with pain from the movement.

  He wants to take her to bed even now.

  The king’s eyes glittered; as if the injured woman was even more appealing now than she had been when healthy.

  “Come with me,” the king demanded.

  Milly’s eyes filled with tears, but she took a tentative step forward. Alvin grinned with relish.

  Peony stepped between the female Mortus and the king. “No.”

  Even though she was half-expecting it, the blow to her stomach made her muscles seize, and the air flee her lungs. Gasping, she clutched both hands to her abdomen as the king lashed out again, slamming the blade of his foot into her knee. Crying out, Peony dropped to the floor.

  Breathe, just breathe.

  Fighting for air, she raged at her helplessness.

  You’re wearing gloves, you could have hit him.

  But she wasn’t a warrior like Dru—she only knew basic self-defense.

  The king looked down at her on the floor, shaking his head. “Pathetic.” He stepped over her, toward Milly.

  Lady Eramine moved forward again, but this time Alvin lashed out with a blade. The knife sank deep into his mother’s thigh, and she grunted at the impact, but remained standing. Blood seeped from the wound through the dove-gray of her skirts.

  Alvin leaned toward her. “Get in my way again, and it goes in your heart.”

  Shock flashed briefly across Lady Eramine’s face before it smoothed to its previous calm. “You are a disappointment.”

  “That’s nothing new,” Alvin snapped in return. He reached a hand out to Milly, who stared at it as if it were a cobra poised to attack. “Come here, now. Or your head will join your brother’s in the display chamber.”

  Display chamber?

  Get up. Get up, stop being useless.

  Dru wouldn’t stand for this.

  Then again, half the Mortus den would be dead by now if Dru had a say in it.

  Peony tried to shove herself to her feet, but her knee protested, and she collapsed back to the ground. Lying there, weak and useless, her cheek pressed against the floor, she stared at the king’s legs. His shoes were black and polished to such a high shine, she could see her face reflected in them—wide eyes looking helplessly back at herself.

  Disgust welled up deep within her.

  Get up!

  As she propped her hands underneath herself to try and rise, she noticed a tiny patch of bare skin where the king’s pants leg ended and his shoe began. She mentally measured the distance between herself and the king.

  It was impossible. He’d crush her before she reached him.

  Try anyway.

  You must not break your promise!

  Milly placed her hand in the king’s, drawing Peony’s attention away from her internal conflict. Tears marked the girl’s cheeks, still mottled with bruises that had yet to completely fade.

  “I bestow on you an honor; stop wasting your tears,” the king said, smarmy now he had his way.

  He will kill her this time, and anyone who stands in his way.

  Peony ripped off her glove and stretched her arm out.

  “Uncle?” Godric called.

  The king turned slowly toward his nephew.

  Just do it.

  Lunging, she grabbed the king’s leg, her hand scrabbling under his trousers.

  “What are you—?” He kicked at her, but she rolled to the side.

  Grabbing on with a strength she didn’t know she had, she slid her hand around until bare skin met her exposed fingers.

  “You fucking whore!” He lashed out with his free foot, connecting with her ribs. She heard the crack before the pain hit her, sharp and penetrating.

  Fractured rib.

  Gritting her teeth through the agony, she dug her nails into his calf, until blood ran.

  Why isn’t he dying?

  She met Godric’s stare, calculating and intense.

  A low, agonized groan filled the room, fine tremors streaking through the king’s body. Peony let go and scrambled away, bile bitter in the back of her throat.

  What have I done?

  Seconds later, the king collapsed on the ground, seizing. Bloody foam frothed at his mouth, and his jaw worked, although no sound emerged.

  Then he was still.

  You have betrayed yourself.

  He had to be stopped. And with demons, there was only one way to be certain they wouldn’t come back after you...

  “You killed him,” Lady Eramine whispered, staring at the lifeless body of her son. She jabbed a finger at Godric. “And you helped.”

  “Me? I was standing over here, I did nothing.” Godric held both hands up, palms out, as if curiously amused by his uncle’s demise.

  I don’t understand these people...

  The older Mortus spun on Peony. “You cursed abomination—”

  “Come now, is that any way to talk to your long-lost granddaughter?” Godric asked, stepping over to Peony and offering her a gloved hand.

  Peony stared at it for a few moments, before taking it and allowing him to help her up. She hobbled over to a seat and collapsed, wiping sweat and blood from her face. Shock at her actions still surged through her. I am a murderer now. My word means nothing.

  Wait.

  “Did you say granddaughter?” Peony asked, mind catching on that statement, despite her ribs screaming at her.

  “I am fairly sure you are Uncle Clement’s daughter,” Godric replied.

  “Her lineage is irrelevant,” Lady Eramine said.

  “Fairly sure?” Peony said, ignoring her. “On what evidence?”

  She had no idea who her father was, so how could Godric know?

  “The fact you have gray eyes and look like Clement,” Lady Eramine snapped.

  “You suspected?” Godric shot his grandmother a surprised look.

  “I have eyes in my head, and Clement was my son. I also know he had found his fated mate before he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? As in ran away or died?” Peony asked. The hope that her father might still be alive was a new, painful sensation.

  “Murdered, mostly likely by Alvin. He never could tolerate competition, and your father had been named heir by my husband.”

  How fast her emotions crashed.

  “So, wait.” She held a hand up, her head throbbing in time with her knee and ribs. “My father was meant to be the king o
f the Mortus?”

  “You got it, princess,” Godric said.

  “Princess?” She gulped.

  “Well, queen now, I guess.” He shrugged, as if the statement was neither here nor there.

  “Queen?”

  A slow, satisfied smile crossed Godric’s face. “Your father was the rightful king. Therefore, you and your sister are ahead of me in the line of succession.”

  “There cannot be a queen, we only have kings,” Milly said in a quiet voice.

  “You forget the prophecy. ‘One day a daughter of the Mortus and Nephilim will rule; born of three worlds, she will be crowned in the presence of angels, and her touch will be deadly to all.’ I think she fits most of the criteria.”

  “Except you don’t see an angel around here,” Peony protested. “And my mother was human.”

  Her birth-mother, anyway.

  Selene, on the other hand... Her mother’s lineage was a secret that Peony had been forbidden to even think about.

  “I am happy to overlook that little detail,” Godric said.

  “You—” Lady Eramine growled.

  “What? Don’t tell me you were happy with Alvin’s rule. And since daddy-dearest has also been MIA for thirty years, it’s not like he’s going to come back and take over the Mortus. Or do you want the job, Grandmother?”

  “Don’t get cheeky with me, boy.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to take the crown,” Lady Eramine grumbled. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  Godric’s smirk disappeared. “Mine. Always mine.” Then he checked his watch and gave a low laugh. “Guess what?” he said, looking over at Peony. “It’s after midnight.”

  Chapter 30

  One moment, Z was standing in the mansion, the next, he was in a hallway that led off a cavernous stone-walled entryway. Dark basalt soared overhead, and the scent of sulfur and woodsmoke was rich and potent. His skin tingled with the bite of magic, and the taste of evil lingered on his tongue.

  They were back in Hell.

  Osiris clapped his hands and the surrounding smoke dissipated. He’d teleported them here without the use of a Devilsgate, which meant the deposed god was powerful. More powerful than he should be, considering his magical abilities should have been stripped during the Great Culling.

  So Azrael and Yael fought his brother, Set. And Yael cut off Set’s head, but Set supposedly still lives...

  Did the archangels know of this?

  That kind of immortality went against their teachings...

  Z scanned the hall—empty except for their small team of himself, Azrael and Osiris—and took note of the exits. He was careful to keep his healed wings tucked tight to his body. He didn’t want to give the enemy an easy target. Next to him, Azrael bared his teeth in what might have passed for a smile, if you ignored the unholy light in his eyes.

  “You have no idea how much I want to kill some of the assholes here,” he muttered, when he caught Z staring.

  Z couldn’t recall a single time when they’d worked together in Heaven that Azrael had cursed. In fact, Z had wanted to be like Azrael in another four hundred years. Not so anymore. We’ve all changed...

  “Yael is going to be so mad we left him at home,” Azrael added.

  Z wasn’t sure what he was meant to say to that. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, he’s still dark about me and Dru. The fact that we get to go on a killing spree without him? Jealousy to the max.”

  “Okay.” Z had already worked out that Yael would like nothing more than to slit Dru’s throat, but his loyalty to Azrael prevented it—barely. It seemed to Z that Yael was simply waiting for a good enough excuse; kill first, ask for forgiveness later.

  To be fair, Z wasn’t sure how successful Yael would be. Dru was an assassin, and a good one, from the sound of it. Plus, Z knew firsthand how strong Peony was, and she was a healer; she hadn’t spent years training to become the perfect weapon, like Dru.

  A few seconds later, Dru appeared from nowhere, holding hands with the male cambion who had healed Z back in the guild, and an imp whose dark eyes glimmered maniacally. It reminded him of Trick and the throbbing handprint on his torso.

  The sight of the cambion healer sent a ripple of dislike through him—why had Dru involved the guild?

  That hadn’t been part of the plan. All she had said was that she was going to grab a few extra weapons before meeting them here.

  Dru let go of the two newcomers and turned to them, her expression alert. The males studied the area around them within seconds, before focusing on Azrael, Z and Osiris.

  “Az,” Dru said, “this is Sylvester and Metcalf. Guys, this is Az, my man. Fuck with him and prepare to be knifed.”

  The two demons nodded, like the threat was par for the course.

  She waved a hand in his direction. “And this is Z.”

  “Dude is an angel,” the imp said, running his tongue over his lips.

  Dru frowned. “Bite him and you’ll piss off Peony.”

  “Why would that annoy Doc?”

  “She spent weeks healing him,” Sylvester replied, running a hand over his hair.

  “Pity. I always wanted to taste angel.”

  “Another time,” Sylvester said, voice consoling.

  I don’t think so.

  “Who’s the other guy?” Metcalf asked.

  “No one you need to remember,” Osiris said, his voice hypnotic.

  Z wondered if the god had just laid a spell on the two demons.

  Sylvester clapped his hands together and focused on Dru. “So, what’s the deal here? How do we rescue Doc?”

  Something like anger settled in Z’s gut—he didn’t like that this demon had a nickname for Peony. She was his healer. Nor did he like the fact that the other demon was a cambion and passably attractive.

  Peony didn’t need them—Z would save her.

  “If the rumors of the Mortus den are true, you’ll most likely find her in a harem,” Osiris said.

  “A harem?” Z asked. “There is more than one?”

  The idea of Peony being used by anyone made a red haze descend over his vision. He’d kill anyone who touched her.

  “From what I’ve heard, there are a few. One for the soldiers, one for the commoners, and one for the nobles.”

  “Sounds like too much hard work,” Metcalf said. “They should just do what we imps do—let the woman chose and be ready for when they’re in season.” He guffawed.

  “I’ve seen your men; the woman would have a tough time choosing which one to pick,” Dru muttered.

  Z wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult.

  “When did you see other Reynard’s Imps?” Metcalf demanded.

  “Let’s go rescue Doc, then worry about Dru’s murdering of your kind later,” Sylvester said.

  Z agreed.

  “Shall we find a few guards, hurt them, and find out where Peony is?” Azrael asked.

  “That was the original plan,” Dru said drily.

  “The original plan was to subdue anyone we saw here, but the hallways are empty,” Z said, studying the main tunnel.

  “Where to next?” Sylvester asked.

  Osiris nodded, as if coming to a decision. “I can’t be here any longer. My brother will detect me soon, and another war with Set is something I am not prepared to undergo just yet. Say my name three times when holding this and I will come to extract you.” The god handed Z a pebble, the edges smoothed over time by the flow of water.

  It looked like a regular rock, but his skin prickled where it contacted the stone. “Thank you.”

  Eyes the color of sunrise examined Z’s face, as if searching for an answer to an unasked question. “If you save Selene’s daughter, that will be thanks enough.”

  Then the god vanished in a cloud of black smoke.

  “Uh, you didn’t say there’d be any deposed gods involved in this,” Melcalf said to Dr
u.

  “There aren’t. He’s gone now.”

  “Hmph. Gods make everything worse.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Dru said. Then she turned to Azrael. “So, is Set still really alive?”

  The Dart ran a hand over her arm affectionately. “We can worry about that later.”

  She nodded.

  Z was on edge; the longer they delayed here, arguing over trivia, the more danger Peony was in. “Let’s go.”

  They slinked silently down the hallways, Azrael and Dru on point, while Sylvester and Metcalf guarded their backs. Z wasn’t too happy having two demons behind him, but he was the weakest one among them, so his position in the center made sense, even if it hurt his pride.

  In a small room with a delicate fireplace and vintage setting they finally encountered a guard. Cloaked, he stood at attention near an internal door, but dropped into a fighting stance when he spotted them.

  “Where’s my sister?” Dru growled, prowling toward him.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he launched an attack, shouting as he did so. Before he even landed a strike, Dru had him on the ground, razor-sharp claws at his throat. Her actions were so fast, Z had trouble tracking them.

  “Last time I was here, we established that I can kill your kind with these,” Dru said, flexing her claws. “So, I’ll ask again, where is my sister?”

  “Sis-sister?”

  “She looks like me. Hard to miss.”

  “I don’t know anyone like that.” The guard wet his lips, eyes flicking toward the door he’d been guarding.

  Z’s internal lie-detector screamed: the guard knew Peony.

  But Dru didn’t need telling.

  “I don’t like liars.” She slashed his throat. Blood sprayed in an arterial arc, and she stepped back with a sigh. She wiped her face with her sleeve, leaving smears of crimson behind.

  Z stared.

  This cold-eyed woman was nothing like his healer, despite sharing the same face.

  “Death is always so messy.”

  “The way you do it, sure,” Sylvester said. “But you don’t need to go around slashing throats to get the job done.”

  “What?” Dru looked defensive. “If I’d used my toxin, it would have been just as messy.”

  “I’ll have to teach you a trick or two.”