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“Are you going to suggest I kiss you for good luck or strength or whatever it is your sex demon needs?”
That earned the warrior a two-fingered salute.
“So that’s a no?” William asked.
Paris worked his jaw. “Here, let me help you off the cliff to the drawbridge.” With no more warning, he shoved William over the ledge. He thought he heard a fading, “So not cool,” from the bastard as he fell … fell …
Splat.
Sex gasped in outrage.
“Not exactly a nice thing to do,” Zacharel said, but there was a gleam in his eyes, one Paris had never seen before. Something akin to amusement.
“What’s your plan?” Paris asked him.
“Only time will tell.”
“You’ll wait here, right?”
“Perhaps.”
All righty, then. With the angel’s cryptic nonanswer ringing in his head, Paris snapped a blade between his teeth and scaled the jagged rocks, down, down, his hands rapidly torn to ribbons. Vines slithered from cracks, stroking over him, attempting to shackle his wrists and ankles. Dangling by one hand, he stopped long enough to slice through the nearest green stalk.
Another soon came at him, and he sliced through it, too. But damn, they were everywhere. One wound around the arm he was using for balance. His heart tripped over itself with dread—and anticipation. He glanced down at the bridge. No other way.
Paris carved into the vine holding him, kicked the rocks with his legs and fell. When he hit bottom, he really hit bottom, jarring the air from his lungs.
Suddenly William loomed over him, scowling, snarling and bloody, his suit dirt-stained and ripped. “Do you know. How many strands. Of hair I lost. On my way down?”
Whatever. “Math was never my thing, but I’m gonna say you lost … a lot.”
Electric-blues glittered with menace. “You are a cruel, sadistic bastard. My hair needs TLC and you … you … Damn you! I’ve gutted men for less.”
“I know. I’ve watched you.” Paris lumbered to his feet and scanned the rocky bank they stood upon, the crimson ocean lapping and bubbling in every direction. The drawbridge was only a fifty-yard dash away. “Don’t kill the messenger, but I’m thinking you should change your dating profile to balding.”
Masculine cheeks went scarlet as the big bad warrior struggled for a comeback.
No more playing. It’s D-Day. Soon, I’ll rescue Sienna, Paris thought. Maybe she would stay with him for a few days. If so, they could make love, over and over again, and for just a little while, he could pretend they had forever.
Or maybe she would leave him immediately. They wouldn’t make love even once, and he would be forced to take someone else just as soon as the door shut behind her.
Who was he kidding? She would definitely leave him. There were too many obstacles between them. His demon. Her demon. The fact that he’d slept with her and then countless others. The fact that he’d inadvertently used her body as a shield, saving himself. Her former occupation. The fact that she’d tricked him into lowering his guard so that she could drug him and allow the Hunters to capture him. The fact that she had watched as he was tortured. The fact that she hated him.
And maybe, once he’d saved her, he would realize she was not the one for him. Maybe he would be the one to leave her. Maybe he would find that he truly couldn’t sleep with her again. That he’d made a mistake.
Maybe. But he was still doing this.
“One of these days you’re going to wake up,” William finally said, “and I will have shaved you. Everywhere.”
“Won’t make a difference. Women will still want me. But you know what else? What I did to you wasn’t cruel, Willy.” He offered the warrior a white-flag grin. A trick. A lie. “This, however, is.”
He grabbed William by the wrist, swung the man around and around before at last releasing him and hurling his body directly onto the bridge. Frayed rope whined, and boards broke beneath his muscled weight.
William lay there, trying to catch his breath and glaring daggers at Paris. On the castle parapets, the gargoyles unleashed a chorus of battle cries.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHOULD SHE OR SHOULDN’T SHE? Hours had passed since Cronus’s ultimatum and departure, but the same question still rolled through Sienna’s mind. Should she give herself to Galen, perhaps saving her sister, perhaps succumbing to her captor’s deception, or should she continue to resist, possibly causing her sister’s continued torture?
Another question, one far more important: If there was a chance she could save Skye, even the most minute chance, shouldn’t she take it? She’d vowed to do anything, everything, and Galen fell into the category of anything, didn’t he.
Well, hell. There it was, laid bare, with no sugar-coating. The answer was a resounding yes. She’d spent her life searching for Skye. If necessary, she would spend her death searching, too. At least now the blinders were off, and she knew the monster she was to seduce.
In bed. With Galen. She tried not to vomit.
She wished she were stronger, more capable, the outcome assured. She wished the battle for Skye could be waged on her terms, without Cronus there to pull her puppet strings.
And maybe … maybe she could arrange that. If she escaped this hellhole before the king’s return, she could go to the keeper of Hope, torture him for the information she wanted and then kill him, without screwing him.
In theory, that was easy. In reality, it was probably impossible. A bitter laugh—the only kind she had stored inside her lately—escaped, mimicking the sudden chill in the air. She shivered. She’d tried to escape this castle time and time again. While she could open doors and windows that led outside, she couldn’t step or crawl beyond them. Her entire body would shake, pain would lance through her, a thousand needles pricking at her, and she would collapse, pass out.
The pain she didn’t care about. She could endure. But the passing-out thing? There was no way to combat that.
She was curious to know whether or not someone else could pass through. And the good news was, there were three candidates upstairs who could put that question to the test. All she had to do was free them.
Time to pay them another visit, she thought with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. And what had caused such a huge drop in the temperature?
Her wings scraped the scarred marble floor as she lumbered down a hall, around a corner and into the wide, spacious ballroom. Her heart sank when the walls fell away and the memories Cronus had plucked from her mind began to play out. At her left, a young Skye began screaming for help. At her right, a horde of Gargl, as she’d heard Cronus call the gargoyles that served as sentries here, dragged a slumped-over but very much awake Paris.
Sienna stopped, a sudden lump growing in her throat. Paris. Her body went hot and cold at the same time, goose bumps spreading over her skin, embers igniting in her veins. Cronus certainly knew how to torment her, didn’t he? He knew exactly what images would drive her mad.
And this one … whoever created him had outdone himself. How hauntingly lovely Paris was. No mortal could ever hope to compare to him. No other immortal or mythical god could ever measure up. He possessed a face designed for the luxuries of the bedroom as well as the savagery of the battlefield. Eyes of vivid blue seductively lined with kohl she’d never before seen him wear, and hair a concerto of colors. Black, brown, even a few strands of flax. A tall body, muscled in the most delicious way.
He was perfection personified, and he was nothing more than a mirage. Still, she wanted to run to him so badly, to smother him with kisses as she begged for his forgiveness.
Forgiveness she did not deserve.
At least he wasn’t injured in this memory. A small comfort, but she had to take them where she could find them.
Another vision unfolded behind Paris, a second horde of Gargl carrying a second dark-haired warrior. This man was just as tall as Paris, just as muscled and, miracle of miracles, almost as lovely, but he was definitely injured. Bite marks covered his arms, and horn punctures created a canvas of pain on his chest. Odd. She’d never had a vision of him before. Didn’t even recall meeting him.
Her gaze returned to Paris. Two of the Gargl were … humping him? Yes. Their tongues were hanging out, their lower bodies gyrating against him. Why would Cronus show her something like that? To make her jealous? Of the Gargl?
Something was … off about this, she thought.
Before she could puzzle it out, Wrath slammed against her skull, again and again, distracting her. Her temples throbbed in tune with his motions even as the heat cranked up inside her, defeating the cold, leaving her sweating and flushed. Any time a memory of Paris materialized, both the demon and her body reacted this way.
Heaven … hell … Always when they saw flashes of Paris, Wrath uttered those two words. He can help us.
“I know he can,” she whispered, no longer surprised when she found herself talking to the beast. “And he is certainly our heaven, isn’t he?” Her only ray of hope.
Well, well. Look how far she’d come. From hate to … love? Did she love him? Surely not. She hardly knew him. But if he were more than a cruel, heartless trick meant to bring her to heel, she could have learned about him, she thought wistfully.
“Sienna?” Paris’s voice, deep, harsh, rasping, uniting them once again.
Another shiver raked her as her gaze locked with his. Her entire body jolted with awareness. Enough, she almost shouted. You’ve tortured me enough. I concede.
“Sienna!” It was a hoarse cry layered with desperation and expectation. “Sienna!”
“Enough!” There was no holding the command inside this time. Tears burned her eyes. Her chin trembled, knocking her teeth together. She fisted the edges of her shirt lest she reach out to touch him as the Gargl carried him past her.
In the beginning, she had believed the illusions to be real. She had thrown herself into them, her failure to connect destroying pieces of her—the only pieces she still liked.
Heavenhell. Help. Help!
“Sienna!” Paris fought so fervently against his captors, twisting, turning, kicking, hitting, that one of his shoulders popped from its socket. “I’m here for you. I won’t leave without you. Sienna!”
HEAVENHELL. HELP!
She felt as if iron balls churned in her stomach, their swift motions tossing bile up her throat. She released her shirt to dig her nails into her thighs, cutting skin, trying to reach bone. Steady. Though she wanted to do something, anything to calm Paris, she knew the more she did, the more he would fight. This isn’t real. He isn’t real.
“Sienna!”
Finally the group disappeared around the corner, and if they had been real, they would have been headed for the dungeon. Paris continued to rage, and she very nearly chased after him, mirage or not.
“I’m sorry,” she rasped. “So sorry.”
Wrath whimpered.
Though she wanted to collapse, curl into the fetal position and sob, she forced her mind to clear and her feet to move in the opposite direction. Just like that, another memory flickered to life, playing beside her as she walked. Her long-deceased mother sat in the dark, nursing a glass of vodka.
I wish you had been the one taken! Great, gut-wrenching sobs. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, honey. I’m so sorry. Slap. I hate you! Get away from me. More sobs. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hurt you.
Other families had suffered similar grief, similar fights, and Sienna tried not to let this recollection affect her. And anyway, it was safer than the vision of Paris. Still, she did her best to tune it out and concentrate on her task. Freeing the demon-possessed immortals upstairs, learning from them.
Cronus might have commanded the Lords to find and capture the other hosts of Pandora’s evil, but the Titan king had never stopped searching himself. Now, three were chained in the bedrooms above. Obsession, Indifference and Selfishness. And not a one of them knew she was here.
Because she hadn’t yet learned to fly and wasn’t sure she’d ever develop the strength to do so, Sienna climbed the winding staircase. The tips of her wings caught in the frayed carpet at least a thousand times, razing her already sore muscles. Her thighs burned from the exertion necessary to propel herself upward. Twice she had to pause to hunch over and catch her breath.
When she reached the landing, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. The warriors up here sensed weakness of any kind, even if they couldn’t see its source. And when they sensed weakness, they beat at the clear, invisible doors that contained them, tossed out the vilest of obscenities and vowed all kinds of retribution, as if she were responsible for their confinement.
Come on, come on, you can do this, you can make it. Look what you’ve survived already. The pep talk worked. There you go. Good girl. The first bedroom she passed was Cameron’s. Hadn’t taken Sienna long to figure out he was host to Obsession. He was a creature of habit and because it was twilight, he was stretched out on his floor, doing push-ups. Up. Down. Up. Down.
As always, seeing him caused Wrath to erupt in a frenzy of movement. Pain exploded through her head, a precursor to images the demon would next throw into her mind. Violent images from Cameron’s past. Bloody battles, a woman in his arms, limp, dead, then one of himself, cursing at the heavens, screaming … screaming … vowing revenge …
Sienna hurried past, but not before the very real image of his bronzed, glistening skin, sweat dripping along the sexy ridges of his muscles, was seared into her brain. His hair was a richer, deeper shade of bronze and plastered to his head. His eyes were downcast, but she knew they were a startling lavender rimmed with silver.
In the room next to his was Púkinn. Indifference. Upon seeing him, Wrath went lethally quiet. A reaction Sienna didn’t understand, and the demon wouldn’t explain.
Púkinn’s Egyptian heritage shone through the sharpness of his bone structure and the sensuality of his dark eyes. His hair was long, black and straight as a pen. The rest of him, however, was more beast than man. Horns stretched from his scalp. His hands were permanently clawed, his legs muscled and furred.
Cameron called him Irish, because, despite his looks and ancestry, his voice dripped with the seductive accent of the isles. Sienna thought of him that way, too.
Finally, she reached Winter’s room. Selfishness. Wrath was ambivalent about her, neither tossing out images nor shooting out lances of menace, something else Sienna didn’t understand.
Winter had her hip cocked against the jamb and her arms crossed over her middle. Her coral-painted nails drummed a steady song of impatience. She looked so much like Cameron they had to be blood-related. Bronzed skin, bronzed hair and lavender eyes rimmed with silver. Mile-long legs, curves that weren’t just dangerous but fatal.
The lushness of her femininity would have been a perfect contrast to Paris’s exquisite masculinity.
Sienna tensed, the thought alone causing thrums of jealousy to wrap around her chest and squeeze. He’s mine.
No, he wasn’t, she forced herself to think, and he would never be. She’d tried to reach him, but he’d been unable to see her. And that was probably for the best. After everything she’d done to him, all the ways she’d hurt him, he would never be able to trust her.
“Who the hell is out there?” Cameron growled. He’d become obsessed—naturally—with ferreting her out. And perhaps she shouldn’t have visited so many times, but even before today, she’d planned to free them. Somehow, some way. “I know someone’s out there. Reveal yourself. Now.”
“We’re dealing with one of Cronus’s spies, I’m sure,” Winter said, her voice as smooth and sultry as a caress. Her gaze almost, but not quite, met Sienna’s. “I heard him talking earlier.”
“I … will … gut … you,” Cameron seethed. He wasn’t talking to Winter, but to Sienna. He might grouse at Winter, snap at her and sometimes even scream at her, but he never threatened her. And if anyone could find a way to slay a ghost … thing—or whatever she was—Sienna was willing to bet it was Cameron. Because, and here was a shocker, he wouldn’t stop until he had what he wanted.
“Do your tirades never end?” Irish asked, that accent giving her a case of the oh-mys.
“Actually, Irish, you mythological douche,” Winter fired back, “they don’t, and he’s going to tirade all over your ass if you don’t shut your mouth.”
“Someone should have spanked you a long time ago, little girl.” Irish.
“Touch her and you’ll soon be eating your own balls. And they’ll just be the snack pack. Main course will follow.” Cameron.
Sienna didn’t mind their bantering. This was mild in comparison to what they’d thrown at her. Besides, they only had each other. And while they loved to snipe and snark at each other, they united the moment Cronus appeared, their mutual hatred bonding them.
She held out her hand, reaching for the clear shield that blocked her from Winter’s room. Contact. She sighed when the barrier refused to yield. Yesterday she had palpated the top half, searching for any vulnerable pockets. She’d found none. Today she would tackle the bottom half.
“Sienna!” Paris’s voice echoed off the walls. “Sienna! Where the hell did you go?”
Something lurched in her chest, and she was once again fighting tears. Damn you, Cronus. Of all his torments, this was the worst. Her hands continued to move along the shield, quaking now.
“Sienna!”
Those scalding tears flooded her eyes and splashed down her cheeks, leaving burning tracks. The memories had never followed her before. When she moved to a new room a new one would appear, one horror exchanged for another. This was the first ever to dog her.
And … she stilled, frowned. This couldn’t be a memory, she realized, the answer to her earlier concern finally slipping into place. As far as she knew, Paris had never been to this castle, and she’d never seen the Gargl anywhere else. So, the two had never fought in her presence.
Could he … Was he …
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Sienna!”
Another beat.
