I will find her. His father, too. No longer a child awed by a parent, Lazarus reviled the male. Typhon had committed many crimes against his mother, but rape was a line no one should ever cross.
The pair would join the Garden of Perpetual Horror.
One of the forest nymphs leaned forward to rake her nails down Lazarus’s chest. “Word has spread throughout the kingdom, you seek a bride. Is this true?”
“Very.” He’d found his μονομανία, yes, but soon afterward he’d lost her. Desire for her still boiled in his blood and blistered his bones, and yet he’d made no effort to find her. The last time they were together...
His chest tightened with something akin to fear. The last time they were together, she’d begun to weaken him.
He rubbed a hand against his thigh, caught the motion and inwardly cursed. Along the surface of his skin branched thin, crystalized rivers. Poisoned veins. The beginning of his downfall.
He’d collected ancient texts to research the legends about his father’s familial line, hoping to find a way to save himself. A fruitless task. Anyone who’d ever developed crystal veins—if anyone ever had—had kept quiet, just like Lazarus and Typhon.
Broadcast your weaknesses today, lose your life tomorrow.
So. He would fortify his defenses, instead. He would wed a vicious, bloodthirsty woman with a large army at her disposal. She would strengthen him, never weaken him. And he would ignore his burning desire for his μονομανία all his days, lest he track her down and attempt to convince her to return to his kingdom.
His μονομανία would spell the end of him.
“Come back to bed, and I’ll show you why I’m your best choice,” the nymph offered with a coy smile.
Mind reading was another ability Lazarus possessed, thanks to his mother. His head filled with the other nymph’s thoughts as she considered ways to kill her friend and hide the body.
“I’ll show you better,” she rasped, batting her lashes at him. “Pick me.”
The females tended the roses in the Garden of Perpetual Horror. They were lovers, not fighters, and lacked the necessary malice to be his wife.
He had to be ready for war. One day Hera and his father would end up in the afterlife. Everyone did. The Harpy who’d imprisoned him would end up here as well, and he’d have all of his enemies in one place.
Fighting rage, he gnashed his teeth until he tasted blood. The Harpy. Juliette the Eradicator. A bitch without equal.
“Return to your duties,” he said, and the nymphs pouted.
His stride long and sure, miraculously unimpeded by the damage his μονομανία had done, he opened his mind to search for any hidden dangers that might be awaiting him in the hall as he exited the room.
Two of his soldiers leaped from their posts to follow him.
Lazarus hadn’t learned their names. He preferred to maintain emotional distance and considered affection another form of weakness.
The moment you decide to trust another being, you lose the battle.
He turned the corner and said, “Have any disturbances been reported in the village?” The sense of disconcertment remained. If someone had hurt a person under his care...
No. Wouldn’t happen. No one would dare to raise a hand against one of his people. The consequences were too great. There was no trial, only punishment.
“No, sir.”
“And the sky serpents?” Upon his arrival to the spirit realms, the creatures scented him, abandoned their homes and entered what was—at the time—enemy territory, determined to serve him as they’d once served his mother.
Like him, they dreamed of killing his father.
Rumors claimed Typhon slept the sleep of the dead, but the truth was more complicated. He was entombed by the same crystals now growing inside Lazarus. He wasn’t dead or asleep, but immobile and aware.
“Two of your sky serpents were spotted in the forest a few miles away,” a guard said. “They were playing chase.”
“I wish to speak with them. I want a contingent of soldiers mounted and ready to leave in ten minutes.” Whatever the problem, he would find it. And he would end it.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” The speaker rushed off.
Lazarus soared inside his private bedchamber, leaving the second soldier in the hall. He stripped, showered off the scent of frustration and sex and dressed for war, donning a shirt made of thin, lightweight metal links and black leather pants. The weapons he returned to their rightful places, anchoring semiautomatics under his arms, short swords at his back and daggers at his waist and ankles.
Every piece, including the kris, bore his personal seal—a sky serpent eating its own tail, forming a never-ending circle. An outward sign of his possession and, he supposed, a sign of his station.
A king by force. A drug dealer by choice. A lover by necessity.
Ambrosia grew in the realm, and he used it to his advantage. Since the purple flowers were the only substance capable of intoxicating an immortal, he oh, so generously gifted the rulers of surrounding kingdoms with a weekly shipment, ensuring their dependence—on him.
The women he bedded kept his mind off everything he didn’t have. Revenge, life...his μονομανία.
Lazarus opened a dresser drawer and traced his fingertips over the diamond knuckles and dagger pendant he’d procured for her. A wasted effort, considering he would never see her again.
He remembered the first time he’d seen her. An immortal walks into a bar...
Long raven hair had tumbled down an elegant back, curling at her hips. Eyes of liquid silver had peered at the world with innate sadness, and delicate features had appeared as breakable as glass.
There’d been no lightning bolt to proclaim, Her, she’s the one. Instead, she’d intrigued and interested him. But at only five foot seven, she was too little and delicate for him. He was over seven feet and weighted down with solid muscle.
He’d thought, With a single touch, I can damage her irreparably.
He’d left without saying a word to her.
The second sighting occurred at the Harpy Games, a type of Olympics for the bloodthirstiest women on the planet. His μονομανία had been a spectator, perched in the stands, cheering for a friend. Once again sadness had clung to her like a second skin.
A spark of longing had heated his chest, and he’d thought, I’d like to see her smile. No, I’d like to make her smile.
A strange desire to entertain. Other people had cringed and cried anytime she’d spoken. Why had he come alive? Why had compassion roused inside him for the very first time?
Again he’d walked away without saying a word, and in the ensuing weeks his obsession with her had grown, until the mere thought of her awoke every cell in his body with lust. Even now he hardened painfully, savage need clawing at his insides.
The third and final sighting occurred when she’d used the Paring Rod to enter the spirit realms. Then. That moment. He experienced the lightning strike of primal aggression and possession.
He’d thought, I will have her, whatever the cost.
Her name was Cameo, and she was the keeper of Misery. She was an infamous Lord of the Underworld. One of thirteen warriors who’d stolen Pandora’s box. Or rather, she was a glorious Lady of the Underworld.
A memory teased him, and he couldn’t resist seeing her, even in the fabric of his mind.
“Do you ever laugh?” he’d asked her as they’d headed to his kingdom...where he’d planned to taste every inch of her...feel her wrapped around him, hear her moaning his name.
He’d burned for her. He’d ached.
“I’ve been told I have,” she’d replied, her tragic voice as addictive as any drug.
“You don’t remember?”
“No. Joy isn’t something that sti
cks.”
He’d wanted to stoke her joy as much as her passions. At the time, he hadn’t cared about the tiny shards of crystal growing over his thighs. Nothing had mattered more than toppling her defenses, getting her inside his home—and him inside her.
Now he cared.
Lazarus’s mind jumped to another conversation they’d had, when he’d begun to make progress with her at long last.
“Have you ever had a boyfriend?” he’d asked.
Those liquid silver eyes had filled with wry humor. The first sign of amusement she’d ever displayed, and he’d rejoiced. I’m getting to her. “I’m thousands of years old,” she’d replied. “What do you think?”
He’d decided to tease her, knowing the expansion of her good humor would displace more of the sorrow. “I think you’re a spinster virgin starving for a little man-meat.”
She’d gone from wry to angry in a split second, all hint of sorrow gone. “I’ve had several boyfriends, and I’m no virgin. And if you call me a slut, I will cut out your tongue.”
“No, you won’t. You want my tongue where it is. Trust me.” Please. A woman’s trust had never been so important to him. “But I’m curious. How many boyfriends?” How many men would he turn to stone for daring to touch what belonged to him?
She’d stiffened. “None of your business.”
Craving another outburst of anger, hoping it would lead to passion of a different sort, he’d said, “Too many to count. Noted. What are you like in bed?”
She’d scowled, revealing her perfect white teeth, and he’d actually trembled as if he were a young lad with his first female. “You will never know.”
He’d never stopped burning for Cameo. Never stopped aching. But now that they were separated by life, death and a thousand different realms, he had new perspective. He’d been a fool, allowing sexual desire to dictate his actions. Nothing mattered more than strength.
A harried knock sounded at the door, breaking into his thoughts. His mind beat him to the exit, ensuring he wasn’t walking into an ambush.
The guard wrung his hands, unwilling to meet Lazarus’s gaze. “The sky serpents... Majesty, we just received word. Someone...” Gulp. “Someone not only injured the two...but came close to killing...”
Rage exploded inside him, but when next he spoke, his voice conveyed only calm. “Where are they?”
“The garden, Majesty. The healer has been summoned.”
Lazarus could have flashed to the garden—moving from one place to another with only a thought—but he liked walking. Liked his ability to move about unimpeded by crystals.
He stalked through the palace, the opulence of stolen treasures and the luxury of hand-carved furnishings whizzing past him. The ceiling was high and tiered, embellished with a frieze that arced across two marble fireplaces. Colorful stained glass glinted in the windows, and elaborate mosaics decorated the floor.
Outside, waning sunlight cast golden rays over a hilly terrain that overflowed with flowers.
What would Cameo think of such lush beauty? Would she smile at last?
Desire joined his rage, seething inside him.
“Majesty.” One of his advisers raced to his side, short legs working overtime to keep up with Lazarus’s swift pace. “Lucifer sent another emissary, demanding an answer to his query.”
Lucifer the Destroyer, known for deriving pleasure from the torment of others, was one of the nine kings of the underworld. He ruled over demons and Greek gods, and he was currently at war with his father, Hades, another king of the underworld.
Weeks ago, Lucifer invited Lazarus to join his alliance. In exchange, he’d vowed to return Cameo to the Realm of Grimm and Fantica.
Lazarus had toyed with the idea of accepting. Cameo...once again within reach...driving him insane with desire...
Weakening me. “Have the emissary escorted to the dungeon. I’ll slay him at my earliest convenience.” Tempt him and suffer.
“Yes, Majesty. Of course.” The adviser raced away.
A family of butterflies joined Lazarus, fluttering overhead. Along with the sky serpents, butterflies had come to the realm in droves, as drawn to him in death as they’d always been in life. He’d never known why.
An older woman—the healer—joined him, as well. She carried a basket of salves and bandages.
Together they topped the hill, the injured sky serpents coming into view at last. One was splayed on the ground, black blood streaming from his left eye. The other writhed in pain, a petrified branch holding open his jaw.
The rage inside Lazarus darkened. Sky serpents were extremely loyal but equally predatory, with the instincts of a sociopath. But they were his sociopaths, the equivalent of a cowboy’s prized horse. They fought for him without hesitation.
He worked the branch free and, alongside the healer, patched up both creatures. Within a few days, the two would be as good as new. In the meantime, they would suffer as torn muscle and flesh wove back together.
“Whoever did this will pay. You have my word.” Finding the culprit would be easy. Sky serpent blood always left blisters behind.
The pair mewled in thanks.
Determined, Lazarus left them in the hands of the healer and headed to the stables to join the contingent of soldiers he’d instructed to arm up.
The hunt was on.
3
“The opponent you allow to live is the opponent who will stab you in the back.”
—The Fine Art of Decapitation
Cameo limped through a crowded village fair as the vendors hawked different wares, a gaggle of voices producing a jumbled sound track. The scent of spicy meats and candied sweets filled the air.
She stopped abruptly. There, on a table shaded by an azure fruit tree, rested her boots. And her weapons!
With an angry huff, she approached the seller, a tall man with a long, gray beard. The pain in her ankle flared, and the blisters on her hands stung.
He spotted her and proudly waved his hand over her belongings. “See something you want?”
“Yes. Your heart on a platter.”
Tears welled in his eyes. And thanks to Misery, the influx of sorrow blinded him to her threat. “Today only, I’m offering each item for the bargain price of...of...” He quieted, his body suddenly vibrating with eagerness. “You live. You are living. Your body is alive!”
Surprise danced hand in hand with her own ever-present sorrow. How did he know she’d passed through the Paring Rod without experiencing death?
He attempted to mask his excitement with a faux aura of boredom. “I’ll buy the body from you. What would you like in exchange? The daggers? You’ll never find a better made pair.”
“I know. Because I made them,” she grated.
He flinched, the tears coming faster. “You want them, you have to buy them. I must recoup my losses, considering your friend charged me an arm and a leg. My servant won’t regrow the limbs for another month, which means I have to do all the heavy lifting myself.”
Her friend? The only person she’d spoken to was—She hissed at Rathbone. “You stole my stuff?”
The mangy feline who’d escorted her into town prowled around her ankles. “Meow?”
Cameo bent down to grab him by the scruff, but he darted out of range. “You left me defenseless, you miserable excuse for a cat. I had to fight with sticks. Sticks! I will not pay your escort fee.” Wait. That sounded wrong. “I owe you nothing for your aid.” Not that the prick had aided her.
“What can I say? Even I have to pay to play.”
As a woman who’d been created fully formed by a king who’d demanded her service—Kill for me or be killed by me—she’d encountered many perverted immortals. Rathbone had to be the worst.
“You.” Staring at the blisters now marring her hands, the vendor s
tumbled backward. “You’re the one. You harmed the sky serpents.”
Gasps of dismay erupted from the crowd, buyers and other vendors moving to form a wall around her.
As she scanned the masses, confused, Misery cackled with glee. Ten out of ten people agree. You’re a horrible person, and the world will be a better place without you.
Depression oozed over her like boiling tar, adhering to her soul. A sensation manufactured by the demon. He wanted to control her.
Calm. Steady.
The click-clack of horse hooves hit her awareness, a welcome distraction. The crowd parted down the center, revealing an army of scowling soldiers.
Everyone knelt and pointed at her. Accusing voices rang out.
“Her!”
“She did it!”
“She’s the one you seek!”
Cameo lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “You don’t want to fight me. I’m a highly respected friend of your king.” At least, she hoped they’d parted as friends. “Also, if you attack me, I will kill you.”
Finding Lazarus had become her reason for breathing. Basically, he was the equivalent of an organ donor. If he shed light on specific memories Misery had stolen, he would give her a new heart.
The warriors flinched as if they’d been punched. Scowls gave way to tear-glazed eyes and trembling lips. From the crowd, a chorus of sobs rang out.
Only one soldier rode closer to her. Fading sunlight shone at his back and bathed his face in shadows.
When he stopped to dismount a rare Pegasus—a winged warhorse—those shadows vanished, and bolts of electricity arced through her.
He was utterly magnificent, the most beautiful male she’d ever seen. He radiated raw masculinity and sexual arrogance.
His mass of jet-black hair spiked in wind-blown tangles. His eyes were dark, fathomless, with tiny pinpricks of light. Like stars! His features could have been chiseled from stone. He had a proud, blade-sharp nose, prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw darkened by stubble. His unnatural but oh, so delicious height was perfectly balanced by an abundance of muscle and sinew.
The Darkest Promise--A Dark, Demonic Paranormal Romance Page 3