The Darkest Passion

Voice of Truth. It will be gone from you forever.”

Automatically, her hand sought her throat. Lose her truth? She would rather lose her hands as Gideon had. How would she deal with Aeron doubting her, when she would know in her soul that what she spoke was true?

Her gaze flicked to him. So still, so pale. So gaunt.

“Think carefully,” Lysander said. “Every hour, every minute, the path you are on develops more dangerous curves. And do you know what I see at the end of that road, no matter the direction you take? Do you know what awaits you there? Death, Olivia. Your death. And for what? A few more days with him. A few more days with a man who made a deal with me.”

“Wh-what deal?”

“I vowed that if he can convince you to return to the heavens, I will try and convince the Council to spare his life as well as his demon companion’s.”

Her mouth floundered open and closed. In shock, yes, that Lysander was now willing to fight the Council when he’d always denied her pleas to do so, but mostly in hurt. This explained so much. Lysander’s secret visit with Aeron. Why Aeron hadn’t given her that last orgasm. Why he’d wanted her to see him fight, showing her the harshness of his life.

She meant nothing to him. Not really. How could she, if he were so eager to use her as a bargaining chip? And yet, he was still a man she admired. He was willing to do anything to save someone he loved. To save Legion.

If only that loved one could have been her.

“If I return with you, you can guarantee he will live?” she croaked.

“I can try.” Which didn’t sound like a guarantee to her. “What’s important here is that he agreed,” Lysander added before she could reply. “He’s willing to part with you to save himself.”

The hurt expanded, consuming her, choking her.

“Does that change your mind about this healing?” Lysander asked quietly. Hopefully. “This sacrifice?”

“No,” she answered without hesitation. Aeron had placed Legion’s well-being above hers, yes, but she’d expected that. What she hadn’t expected was to lose him before their time was up. Despite everything, she couldn’t lose him. “I still wish to make this bargain.”

Sadness filled Lysander’s eyes. “Then so it shall be done.”

As the last word left him, her vocal cords seized. For a moment, she couldn’t speak at all. Couldn’t even gurgle or gasp or breathe. She clawed at her throat, her mind fogging as ice and fire melded in her blood.

“It will pass,” Lysander said, suddenly in front of her and stroking her temple. It was what he’d done anytime she’d failed to bring her human charges joy. Offered comfort. He had always wanted the best for her, and clearly did now, as well. He was not a bad man, and she would do well to remember that.

As he’d promised, oxygen finally began to seep past her throat and into her lungs. The fire dulled, the ice melted. The fog dissipated. Grateful, she sucked in breath after breath.

“Would Aeron have done the same for you?” Lysander asked. “No. Do not answer. Just think about all I have said.”

She nodded. She would be able to do nothing else.

“Be prepared, sweet Olivia. Aeron could very well be injured like this again. I fear Rhea has given the Hunters water from the five rivers of the Realm of Hades.”

Olivia flinched. Such water used as a weapon meant certain death. A sip, a touch, and goodbye forever. Even the soul withered. The only way to combat the vile poison was to drink from the River of Life. A river even she didn’t know how to find.

“They’ve been making their own bullets and each of those bullets contains a single drop of that water.” He withdrew a small vial from his robe. “Aeron needs only a drop of this to heal. The rest I would hide. Just in case. Use it carefully, however, for when it’s gone, you’ll receive no more.”

River of Life? Hand trembling, she claimed the vial.

“But don’t think, even for a moment, that this will save him after his head is taken. And it will be taken, Olivia. An assassin will come.”

Her gaze fell. Lysander knew her well; she had been thinking along those lines. No matter. She shook her head, tossing away her disappointment and renewing her determination. She would simply find another way.

“I thought you meant to petition the Council for him.”

“And so I shall. We know the results such a petition will wield. He does not. They were lenient with you, but then, you are one of us. He is a demon. There will be no leniency.”

Would telling him do any good?

“How you worry me, Olivia.” Lysander sighed. “I will leave you to your task.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

GIDEON, KEEPER OF LIES, tossed and turned atop his bed. His boxers were glued to his sweat-soaked skin, his bandaged hands—or lack thereof—throbbing painfully. Blood had beaded on those bandages and as much as he’d healed, that hadn’t happened in weeks. Regression?

He was asleep but still aware, which was weird as shit, and trapped in the thickest darkness he’d ever come across. Again weird, if not technically true. Not for his demon, at any rate. The darkness inside Pandora’s box had been just like this, suffocating and maddening. Something Lies hadn’t stopped screaming about since entering the strange realm—screams that blended with the ones layering the darkness. Thousands and thousands of discordant shrieks, each one more tortured than the last.

Clawing his way out proved impossible.

“Gideon. Gideon, man, wake up. You’re not supposed to sleep.”

He heard Paris’s voice, wanted to obey, but again, he couldn’t. The darkness was too cloying, wrapping around him, holding tightly, nearly drowning him. And then he did drown, losing that thread of consciousness altogether. Can’t breathe…

The gloom parted, and he sucked in a greedy breath—only to scramble backward. Oh, hell, no. Spider!

Don’t calm, his demon told him.

You don’t calm! Panting, trying not to screech like a pussy, he flattened himself against the wall. The monstrous spider followed, those eight hundred legs stabbing into the ground, those beady eyes practically peering into his soul.

Enemy, Lies said. Meaning, friend.

Hardly. Shit, shit, shit. Every brain cell he possessed—all of which were trapped in that shit-haze of panic—suddenly let him know, in high-def detail, that he would be this creature’s dinner. He’d rather be set on fire. He’d rather be hanged. Hell, he’d rather be gutted.

“I’ll be so tasty,” he said desperately. Truth was, he’d taste like shit, but then, even in his dreams, he couldn’t say what he meant. At least, he didn’t think so. He’d never tried it. And wouldn’t. The consequences could be just as devastating as when he did so in real life. Pain, pain and more pain.

Memories of his last tangle with truth were fresh in his mind. A few weeks ago, he’d told a Hunter what he really felt—hate—and what he really wanted to do—hurt, maim, kill. All because he, who could spot a lie from a few thousand miles away, had been tricked into believing Sabin, keeper of Doubt, was dead, slain by Hunter hands. Stupid of him. But as the pain racked him, he’d thought what’s a little more and had volunteered himself for torture to save his friends from having to endure it.

That’s when he lost his hands to a hacksaw. They were now stubs with a few fingers. Even in his dreams. Therefore, he couldn’t defend himself properly against Mr. Hungry—who was still eyeing him as if he were a slab of beef as he tripped from one corner of the dream room to another.

Those corners closed in on him, the space shrinking.