HELLISH DEBTS: BROKEN GODS BOOK ONE

by Brook Rogers

  As soon as I made it to the crater where I stashed my supplies, I—more or less—dumped the fairies on the ground. Urgency hammered through me. I ripped away the brush covering my things, swiftly strapped on my khopesh and knives, then got the holsters with the Kimbers on and snapped up my shotgun. Sweat dripped into my eye, and I dragged my arm over my face.

  So Dubhlain was going to nobly sacrifice himself for the damsel, was he? Too bad that’s not what I am.

  The druid was about to learn that this valkyrie didn’t run.

  Getting back to the clearing took a fraction of the time without the fairies to contend with. Still inside the trees, I dropped to one knee and sucked air through my teeth, grimacing.

  A creature easily twenty feet tall and half as wide circled the clearing. It had the long sleek body of a lion—its tail lazily flicking back and forth, flaunting the deadly spikes at its tip—but its giant head was a man’s. Every time it turned that cold blue-eyed gaze my way, I caught a flash of multiple rows of sharp teeth contained in its oversized mouth. It prowled the open area, occasionally scenting the earth.

  Hunting.

  I shouldered the 870 and waited. When the creature finally pulled even with me, I fired.

  A wrong, unholy scream tore from the beast’s mouth. As the creature reared back from my shot, a giant man wearing scraps of clothing jumped from above me. He sailed through the air, then latched on to the shaggy mane surrounding the beast’s human head.

  The huge lion tried to dislodge the rider, batting furiously with its paws, but the giant was quick. He swung up onto its neck and clamped down firmly with his legs. He’d make a hell of a bull rider, no doubt.

  Blood streamed from the beast’s eye where I’d hit it. It shook its head violently, and the giant slipped to the side but managed to drag himself back up. Squinting, I tried to figure out what exactly he was doing up there. Was he . . . digging?

  As I watched, the giant threw chunks of flesh ripped from the monster’s neck over his shoulder. He dug with a frenzy—like a child in search of the toy in a box of cereal. This had to be the most macabre treasure hunt I’d ever witnessed.

  Jacking another shell into the chamber of my shotgun, I bolted from the cover of the trees to try for its other eye. If I could blind the beast, we might stand a chance.

  Just as I lined up my shot, the lion focused its attention on me. It whipped its tail forward, and a spike sped toward me with frightening speed and accuracy.

  I abandoned the shot and rolled to the side, barely escaping impalement. The giant had finally been knocked to the ground, and I cringed when the lion’s claws swiped across his torso before he could get out of reach. Blood ran down his side, but he didn’t act injured at all, continuing to feint this way and that.

  The black tactical pants hanging off the giant’s frame were familiar. So were the tattoos decorating his arms. Surely I was wrong? How could he not have told me?

  The pair moved away, and I followed, managing to get off another shot once I was back in range. The lion flinched, but the meaty flank score didn’t do much damage. It did, however, get the creature’s attention.

  When that pendulous head swung around to face me, the giant man—in an insane move—grabbed hold of the beast’s tail and pulled. The lion roared, rank air washing over me. I dropped the gun and grabbed for my khopesh. A massive paw, the entire thing bigger than I was, hurtled in my direction, but I side-stepped, swinging the curved blade downward.

  A chunk of toe rolled away, but when the creature’s leg brushed me, my feet left the ground. All too soon, the earth rushed back up to meet me. Ribs crunched, and I sucked in a hissing breath to keep from vomiting. It took everything in me to stand up. Staggering, I cupped my broken side. Tiny puffs of air were all I could pull in.

  The beast had now turned its full attention to the crazy giant I suspected was Dubhlain. It lunged at him, gnashing those vicious rows of teeth. Dubhlain’s massive double ran first one way and then the other, in a deadly game of cat and mouse. Focused on the diversion, he didn’t see the lion sling another spike at him.

  I sucked in a breath to warn him, only to have it die with a gurgle before it left my throat. The tail spike pierced his leg. I expected to hear a cry of agony, but all that burst from Dubhlain’s throat was a roar of frustration.

  He struggled to move, but the spike had gone all the way through his leg and deep into the ground. He was a bug pinned alive to a specimen board. Sensing the victory, the creature sank back onto its haunches and prepared to spring.

  I had to do something, or Dubhlain was as good as dead.

  Tightening my grip on the khopesh, I started off at a lope. I took a deep breath and held it, despite the agony eating into my side and the dark blobs obscuring my vision. Hopefully, I wouldn’t pass out.

  Timing my approach to miss the swing of that deadly tail, I vaulted onto the beast. My free hand grabbed fistfuls of fur as I scrambled up and took off—half crawling, half running—down the monster’s massive back. It swung its head around to bite at me, but I dodged, then sprang into a flying leap. With both hands wrapped around the handle of my khopesh, I chopped down.

  I tucked and tried to roll into the landing, but my shoulder jammed into a depression in the hard-packed ground. It took the bulk of my weight, even with the roll. A shrill scream pierced my ears. I’m pretty sure it was mine.

  The creature rubbed its head on its shoulder, and part of its ear fell off with a wet splat. Keening, high and mournful, it trotted away. It glanced back every so often to make sure we weren’t in pursuit, splashed unhappily through the creek, and then disappeared from sight.

  I took my sweet time getting to my feet, because I was a big pile of hurt from the waist up. Every breath seemed to shove a burning poker through my ribs. My shoulder was dislocated too, the feeling partially gone in my fingers. That arm hung useless at my side.

  Steps slow and heavy, I started looking for the giant version of Dubhlain, hoping he was at least friendly. If he wasn’t . . . meh, I had a good run. I couldn’t have ripped my way out of a wet paper bag at the moment.

  Sweat rolled into my eyes as I searched, though the sting of it didn’t even come close to trumping the pain from my other injuries. Finally, I found his crumpled, now normal-sized form among some large rocks. He was lying facedown, unmoving, but he groaned when I nudged him with my boot. A nasty hole in his thigh oozed blood, and dirt and gravel matted the gashes down his side.

  He flopped himself over sluggishly, wincing but not crying out. Aw, damn. It really was Dubhlain.

  The Fates were probably having a good laugh at my expense right about now.

  I’d stupidly been holding out hope I was wrong, because everyone, including me, assumed his kind were wiped out in the twelfth century during the campaigns. The Normals had mandated their slaughter, frightened by these people who became terrifying, indestructible killing machines during battle.

  How the hell did he survive? And what was I going to do now?

  Shit.

  I was soul-bonded to a berserker.

  Dubhlain’s leg continued to bleed. I wasn’t sure how he’d managed to free himself from the spike, but it wasn’t anywhere near him. Since his shirt was long gone and his pants barely hanging on, I offered him my tank top to staunch the flow of blood. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take it off on my own. As much as it pained me, quite literally, to ask for help, I did.

  His eyes immediately heated.

  Studies have shown how differently men’s and women’s brains work in times of crisis. I was concerned with stopping the bleeding. Dubhlain, the one actually at risk of bleeding to death, was only concerned about sex.

  I gave an unladylike snort, then immediately regretted it when knives lanced my ribs. “Just forget it. I hope you bleed out,” I said through gritted teeth, then shuffled off in search of my shotgun. Bringing it had proven to be an excellent decision, especially considering I didn’t have any diamond loads for my pistols. If I ran into a
ny Fae, I wanted it with me.

  Dubhlain gingerly got to his feet. Figuring he would push the shirt issue, I didn’t expect the uncertainty in his voice. “Raywen, wait . . . would you let me put your shoulder back in?”

  I stopped shuffling. Maybe I was being too hard on him? The stupid bond did mess with our chemistry at the most awkward times, and he’d proven he could be a halfway decent guy when he wanted to. Plus, having both my arms working again appealed big time to my sense of self-preservation.

  “Fine,” I agreed wearily.

  He limped over to me without meeting my eyes. Wincing, he braced himself, took hold of my arm to position it, then froze. I’d just opened my mouth to ask what was wrong when he jammed my shoulder back into place.

  I yelled and swung at him with my uninjured arm, but the wild punch sailed over his head. Tears poured out of my eyes, and snot dribbled from my nose. The sudden swing sent fire screaming through my side, which, along with the matching pain in my shoulder, was making me lightheaded. My legs turned to rubber, and Dubhlain caught me before they gave out.

  “I had to do it when you were distracted. Otherwise you’d be too tense. Now, sit yourself down and let it pass,” he said.

  “Can’t.” I shook my head vehemently, wiping my nose.

  He cocked his head in curiosity.

  “Ribs . . . busted,” I forced out between tiny gulps of air.

  Understanding dawned on his face. He worked his hands under the hem of my shirt and wrapped them around my sides, his large palms spanning almost my whole torso. The contact made me flinch, but I tried to keep my breathing shallow, tried with compulsive swallows to keep my stomach’s contents down. I was concentrating on the tattoos on his ridged abdomen—wishing I could just go on and die already—when the tingling warmth seeped into me from his hands.

  My tense muscles loosened as the sensation spread, gentle and soft—heating my entire body, pooling between my legs, firing up a part of me that shouldn’t ever be connected to broken bones.

  I slowly raised my eyes to meet his.

  His hooded expression told me everything. Time slowed, and our lips met. Parting. Tasting.

  His hands slid up to cup my breasts. I hummed appreciatively against his mouth, and he grabbed my hip, pulling me against the hard ridge his pants didn’t really hide. One of my arms looped around his neck while my other hand trailed up his torso, mapping all the mouthwatering dips and bulges along the way.

  I flicked his tongue with my own. He let out a growl and boosted me up so I could wrap my legs around his waist to seek out that delicious friction. His mouth left mine to trail kisses down my neck. When he reached that sweet spot where my neck and shoulder met, he set his teeth and bit down. The walls of my vagina gave an impatient flutter.

  My body enthusiastically screamed yesyesyes! But my brain cautioned that this was a bad idea. We were in the Hell Plane, out in the open where anyone or anything could attack us. Eventually, I couldn’t push back the tide of logic anymore.

  “We have to stop,” I breathed, but my traitorous tongue darted out to trace the shell of Dubhlain’s ear. Miss Kitty was so pissed. Dubhlain shuddered and nipped the mate rune on top of my breast, sending sparks zinging to my clit.

  This was dangerous. Worse than facing off against any monster. The magnetic pull from the bond was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, and if what Dubhlain said was true, it couldn’t be undone.

  The ugly taste of fear finally penetrated my mood. I was happy on my own. Tying my life to a man’s was not on my list of things to do.

  I loosened my legs and pushed my upper body away, but his grip tightened on my backside; his head followed my retreat. A predator who’d finally caught its prey wouldn’t just let it go. I stopped and gripped his head, tipping it up to see his eyes. The pupils had constricted to tiny pinpricks, and the raw hunger in them shocked me. He was already so far gone I wasn’t sure I could pull him back. Was this his berserker?

  I’d never encountered another of his kind, and I knew next to nothing about them. Their berserkergang was legendary—inspiring awe and terror in their opponents. What if they were equally fierce when it came to . . . other things? Struggling would be a bad idea, but what was I supposed to do? The bond sat like a cold lump in my chest, giving me no hints as to how to reach him through it. I poked it with a metaphysical finger. No response.

  Mentally running through my other options, I relaxed back into his hold, and he gave a victorious purr. While he peppered kisses across my collarbone, I inched a hand down to my thigh sheath and plucked out a throwing knife. With my other hand, I gripped the back of his head, pushing his face into my cleavage and holding him there briefly. Then I snapped my hips back and buried the knife in his bicep.

  He roared in anger, and when his arms loosened fractionally, I pulled my knees up and pushed away from him. Taking a couple stumbling steps back, I drew and pointed one of my pistols. His physical form rippled and doubled in size. His chest heaved, and his lip curled.

  Holding my gaze, he ran his hand up his arm to the protruding knife hilt and pulled the blade free without even flinching. His gaze dropped to the knife in his hand, then darted back to me; something akin to betrayal flashed over his face. The bond gave a tug near my heart. Sure, now the damn thing was working.

  His body wavered like a staticky TV, and the tattoos on his chest flashed from black to purple. He tucked his chin down, the internal struggle obvious, and I kept my gun level.

  When he shrank back to his normal size, I lowered the Kimber with relief.

  We stood there for a moment, not moving. His head remained bowed, and sweat ran in rivulets down his face and chest. I wanted to ask if he was in control, but didn’t know how to do it without sounding like a douche. A fine tension hung in the space between us, and I’d put it there.

  Trying to shake off the uncomfortable moment, I busied myself with reholstering the pistol. When I straightened, he was looking at me apologetically—his eyes present and clear. I nodded at him, and the stiffness in his stance softened.

  “Gods . . . I’m sorry,” he stammered, running his hands into his hair. The sweat made it stand up all spikey, and I remembered him doing that in the dungeon too. He was unsure of himself.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a berserker?” I asked gently.

  He snorted. “When people hunt you down to exterminate your entire race, you learn to keep your mouth shut. I like my head being attached to my body, thanks.”

  “That’s not exactly something you keep from your mate. And for the record, what just happened didn’t inspire any warm fuzzies.”

  Sighing, he rubbed his chest. “I’ve never had him do that before. We usually work harmoniously. When you said we should stop, I tried to, but somehow he locked me out. All I could do was watch what happened.”

  I frowned. “Not really helping your case there.”

  Ruffling his hair again, he took a step closer. I tensed, and that hurt flashed once more in his eyes. “He likes you. A lot. I’ve never had him react this way to a woman. He recognizes a kindred spirit in you, lass, and thinks you’re a worthy match. It’s deeply respectful. But he also has this driving need to dominate you. I can’t push him back when it takes over.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. Tingles of pride coursed through me. Knowing that a warrior, feared by so many, thought of me as an equal? Heady stuff. But my own insecurity wormed in and ate away some of that goodness. Was it only his berserker that wanted me and not him? Because that was what it sounded like.

  Self-disgust slapped at me for even caring. I shouldn’t give a shit if just his berserker wanted me. I didn’t want them. Okay, I did want them physically, but not necessarily for forever. What I needed was space. Things spun out of control when I was within touching distance of Dubhlain.

  I snapped myself out of my little reverie and started to scan the landscape, finally spotting the 870. The healing magic of the bond had repaired my broken ribs; even my shoulder fe
lt good again. I jogged over to where the gun lay only to find the barrel bent beyond use, the synthetic stock and forearm crushed to pieces. Stupid man-lion and his big-ass feet.

  “The Manticore won’t come back, but we need to get moving,” Dubhlain said.

  “Manticore?” I fell into step beside him as he headed off through the trees. The bond had already healed his leg and side.

  He gave me an odd look. “You know, the monstrosity that just tried to kill us and shoots spikes from its tail?” His finger and thumb formed an imaginary gun, and he pretended to shoot me with it.

  I scowled. “Right, I was there. I remember it vividly. I just didn’t know it had an actual name.”

  “The Manticore guards the stone. It probably felt the pull of it, and that’s why it left instead of finishing us off. If we get on its trail, we can find it.”

  “What stone?”

  He stopped walking and just stared at me, so I planted my hands on my hips and stared right back. He kept expecting me to know things but never bothered to explain anything.

  “The Manes stone.”

  The world dropped out from under me. I’d been sweating a moment ago, but now a cold chill slithered across my skin.

  Oh gods, this was bad. Apocalyptic-scale bad. He needed to be damned sure about this before he went around telling anybody. Then again, Dubhlain didn’t strike me as the type to incite panic without good reason—which only intensified my fear. The search for a fire demon was frivolous compared to what now loomed before us.

  That psychotic Fae Queen had the key to the Underworld.

  Chapter 15

  I led Dubhlain back to where I’d left the fairies. Their color was a little better, but they still remained unconscious. He no longer had a shirt, and I wouldn’t be able to carry them all comfortably in mine, so I used my dirty clothes to make a nest inside my backpack. If I left the pack unzipped, they’d have plenty of fresh air.