because of fear. Not this time. Not with something as important as the All-Key.
“Do this, keep the key safe for me, and I will grant you a boon,” Cronus said. “Anything you wish. Anything that is in my power to give, of course.”
Suspicion danced in the warrior’s eyes, and Cronus knew he was weighing his options. Refuse the king, and face punishment. Accept, and face potential trickery. Betrayal. But for the prospect of such a reward, he would not say no.
“I think we both know what you want,” Cronus pressed. “A chance to touch a woman without sickening her and starting a plague.”
Breath caught in Torin’s throat, and Cronus knew that he had him. “Can you give me that chance?”
“In a way. What happened to the vial of water the angel Lysander gave you?” If there was but a single drop left, Torin could touch a woman, then feed her the droplet and save her, for the water healed any wound on any creature. Would he be able to touch her after that? No, but his condition would have been met.
“Gone. And the angels won’t give us any more.”
Unfortunate, but understandable. The angels had to endure terrible, terrible things to even approach the River of Life from whence the water came. Cronus himself had never dared go near it. “There is a woman…I will force her to meet with you. You can touch her all you desire, and she will never sicken.”
“Yeah, uh, no thanks. I want to pick my own woman.”
“That, I cannot give you, and that was not the bargain. You wanted a woman to touch. I can give you one.”
A long while passed in silence while Torin considered the offer. “Is she dead?”
“No. She lives.”
“Old? A child?”
“No. She is neither too old nor too young.”
“How will I be able to—”
“Answers were not part of the bargain, either. Decide!”
Finally Torin nodded, as Cronus had known he would. “Very well. You have a deal.”
He did not allow himself to smile. When the All-Key left him, its powers would leave Rhea. He could imprison her. Have her at his mercy—or lack thereof.
What he did not mention to Torin: the All-Key wiped the memory of the one who gave it away. Except Cronus’s, and probably, because of their connection, Rhea’s. Cronus had created the key, and so had ensured it would never adversely affect him. However, no one else, Torin included, was extended the same courtesy.
When Torin bent his knees, as if to push himself into a stand, Cronus shook his head and reached down. “Stay there. This might hurt a bit.”
ON THE OTHER SIDE of the heavens, Lysander stepped from the cloud he shared with his Harpy mate, Bianka, his wings spread and gliding just enough to leave him hovering in place.
“I am failing you,” Zacharel said, the words gritted. The snowstorm that followed him constantly increased in ferocity, the flakes catching in his eyelashes, between the feathers of his wings, weighing them down.
“You have not failed me, and you
He rallied and said, “While she thinks she will be able to walk away from Paris in a few days, the pair has grown closer. Worse, she now carries his darkness.” He’d seen the shadows swirling in her eyes after he’d carted Paris away from her.
“The war grows ever closer,” Lysander replied. “She will still be of great use to us.”
“Are you sure? Cronus has tricked her, convinced her to aid him. I expected him to lie to her, but I also expected her demon to catch on. He hasn’t. And now that Paris has learned of his marriage to her, he will fight for her to the death.” He’d thought Paris would never learn of the connection, which was the only reason Zacharel had helped tattoo him. Had he refused, Paris would have done it anyway and begun resisting him ahead of schedule.
“Cronus is a greedy fool, but Paris has surprised me. He might have shared his darkness with her, but she has shared some of her light with him.” Lysander thought for a moment. “If he wants her as I want my Bianka, he will not part from her easily.”
Too true. Passion, desire, lust, whatever you wanted to call that wild craze to mate, still remained completely out of Zacharel’s realm of understanding, yet he could not deny
Like magnets, Paris and Sienna were drawn to each other. They fought for each other, and parting would destroy them on some fundamental level. That he’d once thought to convince Paris to willingly walk away from her had been foolish. Force would be needed.
“Whatever you wish me to do,” he said, bowing his head, “I will do.”
Lysander expelled a weary sigh. “We need her. No matter what, we need her. Do whatever you must to convince her to side with us. If that’s not enough, simply take her.”
IN THE DEPTHS OF HELL, Kane sank in and out of consciousness. As vulnerable as he was when he slept, he much preferred it to the crippling pain of having his guts tucked back inside his body and his flesh stapled back together. Then, when the staples failed, having that battered flesh cauterized with liquid fire. He felt like someone had parked a bus on his chest, done some donuts, then let the passengers stampede off.
And the laughter…oh, the laughter from his demon. Disaster loved this. Loved the pain, and the degradation, and the helplessness. Kane imagined this was exactly how Legion had felt when she’d been stuck down here.
He should have supported her better. Should have tried to help her. Not that Kane wanted help himself. Part of him still wanted to die.
The horsemen—Black and Red—were saviors as well as tyrants. When he’d screamed as they “doctored” him, they’d next taped a ball gag in his mouth. When he’d thrashed, they had chained him down. They weren’t cruel about it, though; they were matter-of-fact, as if they were doing him a favor. A reason he wouldn’t take them with him when he kicked it.
Red stood over him now, blowing cigar smoke in his direction. “You up for a little poker yet?”
Whenever the pair realized he was awake, they always asked the same question. That one. He shook his head, unsure why a game of cards was so important to them.
“Bummer.” Genuine disappointment shone in his features. “Soon, though.”
Kane nodded in agreement because he didn’t know what else to do, and closed his eyes. Without any resistance on his part, he drifted back to his favorite place, a black void of nothingness.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER spending the entire night making love to Sienna, Paris showered, threw on clothes someone had brought him from home, weaponed up and ensured Sienna’s crystal dagger rested on the nightstand, ready for her use if it proved necessary. Though he hated leaving her, he exited the bedroom and entered a whole new world.
Apparently Danika, the current All-Seeing Eye, had foreseen that terrible things would take place at the fortress in Budapest, and she’d sensed staying close to William was the only way to survive. So here they all were, one happy family—though how his friends had so quickly installed a weight room, a wet bar and a media room in the castle, Paris might never know.
He concentrated on the changes as he stalked the halls, so he wouldn’t think about his woman sleeping peacefully in his bed. Naked, sated, rosy from his mouth and his hands and his body. Wouldn’t think about the breathy sounds she’d made, the way she’d cried his name and begged for more. Wouldn’t think about the way she’d made
Maybe at first he’d been obsessed with her without really knowing her. But he was learning her. Underneath her prim and proper exterior, and even underneath that iron spine of stubbornness, she was soft and gentle.
