Breaking Fate

by Georgia Lyn Hunter

  Ear-splitting chaos erupted. Animal-like, hairless beasts with red-hued skin and black talons fell on Blaéz, shredding his skin. Vicious pain tore through him. He welcomed the agony. It gave him the momentum he needed. Detonating several monsters on him with a thought, Blaéz propelled free and hurled himself at Maloch, slamming his fist in the demon’s face. Bones crunched.

  Indeed, cage fighting had its perks.

  “This isn’t over,” Maloch snarled, blood gushing from his broken nose. “I will find what’s closest to you and destroy it!”

  “Over my dead body.” And since he couldn’t die — he snatched a demon’s axe, jumped onto a ledge and flung his body off, hurtling into the air with his weapon swinging. Heads rolled, bodies turning to black sludge. Maloch swung the fiery whip like a lariat, Blaéz dodged, but the tail caught him dead across his back. Pain simmered as his flesh split.

  “Don’t you know pain is what drives me?” Blaéz released the axe with deadly aim, but, unfortunately, the trajectory was skewed as demons jumped him. Maloch evaded death, the weapon slicing him in the shoulder instead. Maloch screeched.

  Jacked on his own pain, Blaéz tore through the demons around him, turning them to ash, and went after Maloch. He flashed out from the cavern. Blaéz skidded to a halt, panting heavily.

  The cavern began to waver… Blaéz shook his head to clear the fog inside his skull and staggered.

  Demons and monstrous beasts rushed him, sensing his fault line. He was weakening, his strength waning from his wounds. He had to get out of here before he passed out and set himself up as a prize for the scourges.

  With darkness swamping him, he stumbled away and hoped he’d make it back through the portal in time…

  Chapter 20

  “Blaéz, come on, man — wake the hell up!”

  Blaéz’s mind exploded awake. An unadulterated surge of power flared through him; so pure it felt as if he’d been strapped to a megawatt livewire. His body protested. He wanted to crawl back into oblivion when an eerie, familiar pale light filled his gaze.

  “Christ.” He shoved Aethan’s hand off his chest and sat up on the dirt-encrusted cement floor of the dank Delaney subway. “That bloody power should be bound.”

  “Yeah, well, tell the seraphs. Maybe I’ll get some peace from it, too.” Aethan's voice lacked heat. There was only acceptance in his tone now.

  His head fuzzy, the stink of dampness and decaying waste drifting to him, Blaéz glanced around. Rats scuttled away along the broken sidings. Great. He was sharing floor space with the varmints of New York. He pushed to his feet and braced a hand on the damp, filthy wall to steady himself.

  “Those are bad wounds,” Aethan said, rising too and gesturing to Blaéz’s back. “Managed to heal most. What happened?”

  Blaéz barely heard the warrior as he struggled through the haze in his mind, his thoughts zipping to one person only. “Darci?”

  “Safe. She’s worried about you — you’ve been gone days, man.”

  “How long.”

  “Three.”

  Shit.

  About to dematerialize, he stopped and met his friend’s concerned gray eyes. No way could he reveal the truth to Aethan. So, he nodded. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Next time you're hurt, hell, shoot me a message, I’ll come get you. Or find another place to bed-down instead of this damn demonii hunting ground. Those fuckheads would have captured you just to torture for fun.”

  And he’d had a lifetime of that already. Blaéz dematerialized back to the castle. As he took form, he stumbled. Propping a hand on the wall, he inhaled a clean breath of sea air and green forest. Warm noon sunlight beat down on him. He shoved open the door and, with an unsteady gait, staggered inside.

  There, he got the first whiff of himself. He stunk to high-heaven from the stomach-roiling sulfuric reek of Hell. He needed a shower to wash off the filth. If only it were that easy to get rid of the voices roiling in his head.

  You will never escape…

  “Celt.”

  At the rigid tone, he turned. Michael bore down on him, his gaze taking in Blaéz’s bloody, ripped shirt. “In that state, you’ll be a damn target for every evil out there. You’ve been gone days.”

  Blaéz leaned a nonchalant arm on the banister, more to keep himself upright and not fall flat on his face. “Yeah. Busy. Couldn’t get to the castle on time. But all limbs are accounted for.”

  Absently, he watched the vein on Michael’s temple pick up pace.

  “What’s going on? You have your female now. I thought she stabilized you, gave you what you need?”

  At the terse words, Blaéz asked, “Is that why you allowed Darci to live here? Hoping to get me under control? I am what I've become. Away from her” — he flicked a hand upstairs — “I'm back to the same abhorrent creature you let stay here. Out there on the street, the compulsion is undeniable. I head for the cages so the shit inside me is leashed. Unless you plan on me taking Darci on patrol, too?”

  “You’re trying my damn patience, Celt. Your soul pulls at you to go to that place, you think I don’t know that? Or your struggles against it? I'm not your leader to just dump crappy jobs on you; I was there, too. I saw what happened.” His shattered blues glowed, the silver light flaring through the cracks. “We all have shit to deal with—”

  “You should have left me down there. I'm not worthy to be a Guardian.” And wasn't that the bone-stark truth. Blaéz’s knees caved, his grip tightened on the newel post.

  “Left you?” Michael snapped. “We were all spewed out onto this realm, had nowhere else to go. Gaia gave us a way out.”

  “Ahh, the mother goddess. She didn't get much of a deal with me, did she? Just an immoral empty vessel. Pity she didn't see fit to end me, instead of giving me a sword and a mate’s dagger…” Blaéz rubbed his neck, the prickles on his nape multiplying. “What the hell do I do with a mate’s dagger when nothing resides inside here—” He thumped his fist on his chest. “Who in their right mind would want an aberrant fuck-up like me anyway? Darci sure doesn't. I should have never brought her here. I cannot give her what she wants—”

  Zip the fuck up, Celt!

  At Michael’s savage telepathic intrusion, Blaéz hissed, teeth clenching. He struggled to calm down as anger buzzed through him like a livewire. Dammit. He should have known the moment he started to lose his temper that Darci was close.

  Get your self together and that wound seen to. “You’re off patrol.” Michael shook his head and stalked off, probably at how deep Blaéz had dug his own grave.

  He didn’t want to look up, and yet he did, and felt like he’d walked into a brick wall as he met wounded sunflower eyes. Darci stood on the first landing, not the second. Guilt like a lead ball rolled into his belly. She had to have heard everything. Indeed, he’d rather face the Arc’s inquisition than this female who’d wormed her way into the void in his chest.

  Blaéz trudged upstairs, past her and struggled to keep his steps steady. With his strength waning from the taint of the hellish whip, he almost toppled into their room. She grabbed his arm. “You’re bleeding.”

  He pulled away. He didn't want her touching him, not while Hell’s filth still covered him. Besides, the last time he saw her, she’d shut him out because he couldn’t give her what she wanted. That stung big time, but more, something inside him hurt that he wasn't enough.

  You will never be… you soulless deviant…

  Jaws tight, Blaéz sidestepped her. As he pulled off his ruined t-shirt and it cleared his head, he found Darci in front of him. Eyes fierce. “Don’t ignore me, I was worried sick—”

  “—because of me?” He cast her a level look, balling his shirt. “You shouldn’t. It’s just sex between us like you once pointed out. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.”

  Pain seeped in her eyes. “Yes, I said that, you big jerk. But you were the one keeping secrets, not me.”

  He didn't need to have his sins thrown at him. He knew exactly what h
e’d done.

  But with her so close, her warmth drew him like a damn moth. He wanted her beneath him, to be inside her, the only way he’d ever feel warm again — godsdammit! He had to get away from her. In frustration, he thrust his fingers through his clipped hair and stumbled into the dressing room.

  Images from the last time in this very place rebounded like a whiplash in his mind. The disbelief — the pain in her eyes when she realized he couldn’t give her the things she wanted. “You want out, is that what this is?”

  Darci stopped at the doorway, her expression tightening. “You were gone. For three days…”

  That she didn't answer him, his gut twisted into a hard lump. With barely leashed violence, he flung his shirt aside. Tell her of his living nightmare? Of the innocent lives he’d taken, every fucking time he’d been hauled back to that shithole?

  Teeth gritted, he struggled to unfasten his pants button. His fingers fumbled, felt too stiff. Fuck this. He lurched into the shower and opened it to a full blast. The warm spray nailed him hard. The splattering sounds barely drowned out the sly laughter in his head.

  She will never be yours…

  Steam filled the cubicle but nothing could warm the frozen void inside him. Or block what he’d done. His throat tightened at the pain strangling him, had no idea if it was his or hers. He slid down the tiles and banged his head against the wall as the water beat down on him.

  How the hell did he even begin to tell her about the horror he still lived?

  ***

  Darci paced the length of the bedroom, anger and frustration warring within her at Blaéz’s harshness. This cold man with the empty eyes who’d come back from God only knew where, she didn't know.

  What had happened to him?

  The things he’d flung at Michael bounced around inside her head. How could he think so little of himself — hate himself so much? Immoral? Why would he say that? She looped around the bedroom as questions pounded her. An abhorrent? Because he needed pain to feel?

  As her anger faded, the worry that had plagued her since he’d disappeared morphed into concern. Obviously, he’d been in some kind of fight. The acrid reek of gun smoke, sweat, and blood covered him, and there was a healing lash across his back.

  More, he felt too cold when she touched him, almost as if he’d frozen inside out… She slowed to a stop, something wasn’t right.

  Well, whatever it was, that stubborn, rock-head man wasn’t going to get away with this. She would have her answers. Spinning around, she stomped through the dressing room and into the bathroom filled with the sounds of rustling water. And couldn’t see him. Panicked, she flung open the steam-filled shower door. And there, she found him.

  “Blaéz!” She darted inside to where he sat in the corner still in his leathers and boots, as if he’d given up halfway while undressing. Water beat down at the two of them now, drenching her within seconds. She shut off the faucet and lowered to her knees. “What is it — what’s wrong?”

  He lifted his head, blinking away the water. When he just stared at her, she ran her fingers through his short hair, needing to touch him. “I know I shut you out the other day. But” — she pulled in a deep breath — “I needed time. I didn't mean to hurt you. Never.” How could she? When he already carried the scars of his torture. “If something’s wrong, talk to me — don’t shut me out.”

  His eyes squeezed tight as if in pain. He dropped his head against the tiled wall. “You should walk away, leave, and never look back. I'm not broken, Darci. At least pieces have a chance of being patched. Healed. I cannot be put right, ever. I may look like a man, but inside it’s an abyss filled with nothing but darkness.” His dull gaze met hers. “I shouldn’t have brought you into my life. I’ll taint you. Ruin you. And that I cannot bear.”

  His torment hidden from the world but freed with her near — the only time he could feel — formed a vise around her heart. “No, Blaéz—” she struggled to get the words past her own tear-lodged throat. “That’s not who I see. You’re a Guardian. You protect humans who have no idea you exist, and most of all you give me the only thing that matters. You. I'm exactly where I want to be.”

  “You don’t know… don’t know what I am!” Anger and torment laced the words wrenched from deep within him.

  “Then tell me,” she said softly, brushing away the water running down his face from his hair. Heavy silence cloaked them. Her warrior with so much pain buried so deep inside of him. God, she longed to help him, to heal the fractures in his mind.

  Blaéz rose in a squeak of wet leathers and pulled her up with him, and out of the cubicle. He took the bath towel from the rail and rubbed her dry.

  “What do you mean that I don’t know what you are?” she asked, her gaze roaming his pale features. He didn't look at her, just gave her a gentle push in response. “Go. Change. We’ll talk after.”

  Her wariness growing, Darci walked into the dressing room then glanced back. Blaéz’d opened the vanity cupboard and pulled out a glass bottle with brown liquid, like the one Týr had given him when he’d gotten hurt. Uncorked it and took a drink.

  She undressed and changed into a zip-front khaki skirt and a white top. Retrieving her cell from her wet jeans, she pushed it into her pocket. As she tied her damp hair into a ponytail, Blaéz emerged from the bathroom, completely naked and slowly made his way to the closet.

  He was leaner than the other warriors, but powerfully built. All smooth, hard muscles, and coiled violence. And yet he moved like an old man. Her chest tightened. What had happened to him?

  He pulled on a pair of jeans, buttoned up and then he just stood there. Hands gripping the shelf, knuckles bone-white, he stared at a stack of t-shirts.

  She crossed to him. “I like this color the best,” she teased and drew out a black tee from the all black pile, hoping to lighten his mood. A nerve twitched in his rigid jaw. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be as bad as losing his soul, could it?

  “Blaéz, talk to me.”

  The muscles on his arms and back bunched as if only his skin held him together. The bumpy, crisscrossing scars on his back made her heart ache knowing how he’d gotten them. She studied the new lash across the width of his back. A red scab was forming. It looked a lot like his old scars. Her breath caught. “Blaéz!” She grasped his arm, her voice cracking in fear. “That new wound on your back — it’s just like the others. What happened?”

  After an endless moment of silence, he said, “I was in Hell.”

  “I know. It’s where you lost your soul—”

  “No. I mean when I left you three days ago, I was back in Hell.”

  A chill swept through her. She stepped away from him. “You went back there? God in heaven, why — why would you do this to yourself?”

  He exhaled roughly and finally faced her. “It’s not something I can avoid, and trust me, I have tried. I cannot escape it because Maloch has me by the bal— he has my soul.” He stared past her as if drawn back into his past.

  “After centuries in Tartarus, I remember little else, except mind-numbing pain. My first jailor was a sadistic son-of-a-bitch who inflicted pain any way he could. Maloch came across me in the last century of my incarceration. Changed places. He’d usually come to me with suggestions to join him… At first I thought it was for the armies he controlled. As young as I was, I was the Hand, the most dangerous in The Morrigan’s army. When I rejected his offer, he strung me up and whipped me.” Blaéz’s expression became stone. “Then I realized, he wanted more, he wanted me…”

  “Blaéz, no,” she whispered, distraught.

  The nerve on his jaw pulsed harder. “It didn't go that far, but I was tied down and played with. For some reason, he wanted my “yes” more. I wanted to kill the bastard many times over. When Michael’s first attempt to free us fell flat, I was punished. Maloch was furious. I was his fucking plaything, one he refused to let go. I got strung up and paid the price. No healing this time. Those scars remained. Soon after, we did escape. Then the f
irst red lunar appeared quarter ways into the year, and I realized the truth.”

  “Red lunar?”

  “It’s a demon’s blood moon, one that I can see being tied to Hell. I cannot fight the compulsion. I can hold it off for a while, but in the end, I am still drawn back because of my soul…” He took the t-shirt from her limp fingers and pulled it on. His movement’s jerky, nothing like the suave man she knew. He picked up another pair of boots from his closet.

  Darci rubbed her shaky hands down her skirt. “What happens then?”

  “When I'm yanked back there?”

  “Yes.”

  “He likes to see me break my Guardian’s oath, torture the damned. He can’t touch me now, the way he used to, so he found other ways to try and break me.” He stared at the boots he held. “At first it just used to be torturing the damned — they mattered little to me — then he took to capturing humans. He’d brutalize them to get me to do what he wanted. I may be a cold, soulless bastard, but I couldn’t leave the innocent in that hellish place…”

  “To set them free, you killed them,” she said in understanding. Her heart ached for him, for the indignities he’d suffered, and continued to suffer because of a perverse, narcissistic demon. So she simply slid her arms around his waist and hugged him.

  He stiffened for a second, then the boots he held hit the floor in a thud and his arms wrapped around her. He buried his face in her neck, a shudder wracking his big body. She could barely breathe at his tight hold. Didn't care.

  “It’s all a fucking game to him. A sick joke he indulges in.”

  “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. God, she wanted to go down to Hell, find the demon bastard, and kill him herself. No more, she’d never allow Blaéz to suffer such humiliations again. Ever.

  ***

  She was sorry? It floored Blaéz that Darci would comfort him after what he’d revealed. She was mortal, she should run from him, but she didn’t. A tenderness grew, took hold of him.