And let them strike him.
Each kick, punch or slash of claws sent a ripple of satisfaction through him, had the darkness purring inside him, pushing him to seek more.
He did.
He surrendered to the dark wave, let it pull him under and savoured each blow they landed, every flare of fire and searing jolt of pain that struck him.
Leaving him only wanting more.
Daimon fought them, holding back his power as best he could, wanting this battle to last.
He gave up blocking them, closed quarters and took every blow.
He closed his hand around the front of one of the daemon’s throats and frowned when the male withered before his eyes, skin turning blue and eyes rolling back in his head.
No.
He wanted more.
He shook the dead male, growled when he didn’t respond and turned on his comrades, hurling the body at them. One took the bait, but another ran, leaving him with only two. He left himself open, inviting the pain, the darker side of his blood at the helm. Each slash of the male’s claws only made him grin.
Impudent wretch.
As if this thing was strong enough to best him.
He shot a hand out and seized the second male, hurling him at the first, knocking them both down.
The urge to leap on them was strong.
Daimon fought it.
Staggered back a step and tried to rein the darkness in, to bring it back under control.
But he didn’t want to. He wanted this pain. This oblivion. He needed it, because it was better than the other thing that awaited him if he regained control. Physical pain he could bear.
Emotional pain he couldn’t.
The two daemons leaped on him.
He closed his eyes.
Welcomed the pain as they ripped at him, snarling and hissing.
No.
He growled and ice shot up all around him, the shards so close that they cut him as well as impaling the daemons.
He breathed hard and the ice shattered, freeing him of its cage. He stumbled backwards, shaking his head, driving back the darkness, clawing back control.
He didn’t want this.
He didn’t.
Darkness was a living, writhing thing inside him. It whispered, coaxed and seduced, and all Daimon could do was listen to it, to be swayed by its black magic, to crave more of the violence that had come before.
The pain.
Was this how Esher felt?
He stared at the gate, at the rings that were shrinking, winking out of existence, and reached for the other side of it.
For Esher.
Pain flooded him again, anger and desperation following it, together with despair.
Esher.
He stepped forwards, heading for the gate, picking his way over the remains of the daemons.
His brother needed him.
It gave him the strength to fight back, to resist the darkness and step towards the light. Esher needed him and he wouldn’t fail his brother. He would be strong. He would do all in his power to conquer the darkness, the pain, and remain.
Ready for his return.
Esher needed him strong. He needed him to take care of Aiko. He needed him to be there for him when he came back.
So Daimon could bring him back.
Light flickered, the heavy pulsing weight of the power the gate emitted weakening, the connection between him and the Underworld fading with it as Marek finally finished sealing it.
His link to Esher faded too.
Physical pain gave way to emotional pain as the gate finally winked out of existence in the centre of the Stadio Palatino.
Marek collapsed on the muddy ground of the ancient monument, and Valen rushed to him, gathered him into his arms and looked at Daimon.
Daimon just stared at him, fatigue beating in every fibre of his being, mingled with the darkness that refused to release him now he had allowed it to take hold. Black thoughts whispered in his mind, terrible things that kept him skirting the edge of the abyss, kept him filled with agony and despair.
And rage the depth of which he had never felt before.
A twisted, dangerous need continued to consume him. He had been a fool to court the darker side of his blood, but he had been desperate for some release, for something he felt he needed even when he wasn’t sure what it was.
“I’m taking him back.” Valen weighed each word, eyeing him closely as his blond eyebrows slowly lowered over bright golden eyes. “You okay?”
Daimon managed a stiff nod.
He looked down at his left side, felt nothing as he watched blood trickling from the gash above his hip.
Darkness continued to writhe, to twist and snarl.
To murmur in his ear.
To taunt him with images of Cass with another man.
She was meant to be his.
He felt that deep in his soul, in the darkest corners of it where a possessive beast snarled and paced, tormented by the need to seize hold of her but fearing reaching out.
The fear always won.
It turned him in circles, always leading him back to the start, as if it enjoyed torturing him, making him feel he could win Cass only to throw a hundred moments at him when he had seen in her that she would never abandon her duty.
He wanted her, more than anything, but the thought he might come to know her taste, that he might find the courage to unleash his hunger and this desperate need for her only to lose her in the end, was unbearable. It would be torture far worse than having to endure centuries of loneliness because of his power.
Daimon stared down at the lacerations that covered his legs and chest, that littered his arms. What was she doing to him?
She was the wave. Washing over him to pull him under, letting him break for air only to suck him under again. She was killing him.
Another image of her with a faceless man flashed across his mind.
The darkness within him roared in response, flooding him with a need for violence, to lash out and strike at everything around him. The daemons were dead. There was no one
