The Darkest Kiss

Her kiss had been sinful. Delightfully so. But the woman he’d held in his arms had not seemed evil. Sweet, yes. Amusing, absolutely. And, shockingly enough, vulnerable and wonderfully needy. Of him.

Why had she kissed him? he wondered yet again. The question and its lack of answer plagued him. Why had she even danced for him? With him? Had she wanted something from him? Or had he merely been a challenge to her? Someone to seduce and enslave, then abandon for someone more attractive, laughing at the ugly man’s gullibility all the while?

Lucien’s blood chilled at the very idea. Do not think like that. You’ll only torture yourself. What was he supposed to think about, then? Her death? Gods, he wasn’t sure he could do it.

Because she had aided him all those weeks ago, he now owed her a favor. How could he kill a woman he was indebted to? How could he kill a woman he’d tasted? Again? He gripped his knees, squeezing, trying to subdue the sudden rush of darkness flowing through him.

“What else do you know of her? Surely there is something more.”

Reyes gave another of those negligent shrugs. “Anya is cursed in some way, but there was no hint as to what kind of curse.”

Cursed? The revelation shocked and angered him. Did she suffer because of it? And why did he care? “Any mention of who was responsible for cursing her?”

“Themis, the goddess of Justice. She is a Titan, though she betrayed them to aid the Greeks when they claimed the heavenly throne.”

Lucien recalled the goddess, though the image inside his head was fuzzy. Tall, dark-headed and slender. An aristocratic face and fine-boned hands that fluttered as she spoke. Some days she’d been gentle, others unbearably harsh. “What do you remember of Themis?”

“Only that she was wife to Tartarus, the prison guard.”

Lucien frowned. “Perhaps she cursed Anya to punish her for hurting Tartarus in order to escape?”

Reyes shook his head. “If the scroll’s timeline was correct, the curse came before Anya’s imprisonment.” He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Perhaps Anya is exactly like her mother. Perhaps she slept with Tartarus and infuriated the goddess. Isn’t that why most women wish ill upon other females?”

The suspicion did not settle well with Lucien. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the scars so puckered they abraded his palm. Had they scratched Anya? he suddenly wondered. Beneath the damaged tissue, his cheeks heated in mortification. She was probably used to smooth perfection from her men, and would remember him as the ugly warrior who had irritated her pretty skin.

Reyes traced a fingertip over one of the empty glasses perched on the tabletop. “I do not like it that we are in her debt. I do not like it that she came to the club. As I said earlier, Anya leaves a trail of destruction and chaos everywhere she goes.”

“We leave a trail of destruction and chaos everywhere we go.”

“We used to, but we never enjoyed it. She was smiling as she seduced you.” Reyes scowled. “I saw the way you looked at her. Like I looked at Danika.”

Danika. One of the humans Aeron had been ordered to slay. Reyes wanted her more than he wanted to take his next breath, Lucien suspected, but had been forced to let her go in hopes of saving her from the gods’ brutality. Lucien thought perhaps the warrior had regretted the decision ever since, wishing to protect her up close and personal.

What am I going to do? Lucien knew what he wanted to do. Forget Anya, and ignore Cronus as Aeron had. To ignore the king of gods, however, was to invite punishment—just as Aeron had. His friends could endure no more. Of that, he was certain. Already they were poised on the edge between good and evil. Any more and they would fall, just give in to their demons and stop fighting the constant urge to destroy.

He sighed. Damned gods. The heavenly command had come at the worst possible time. Pandora’s box was out there, hidden somewhere, a threat to his very existence. If a Hunter found it before he did, the demon could be pulled out of him, killing him, for man and demon were inextricably bonded.

While Lucien did not mind the thought of his own demise, he refused to allow his brethren to be hurt. He felt responsible for them. If he had not opened the box to avenge his stinging pride at not being chosen to guard it, his men would not have been forced to house the demons inside their bodies. He would not have destroyed their lives—lives they had once enjoyed as elite warriors to the Greeks. Blithe, carefree. Happy, even.

He exhaled another sigh. To protect his friends from further pain, he would have to kill Anya as ordered, Lucien decided with a pang of regret. Which meant he would have to hunt the goddess down. Which meant he would have to be near her again.

The thought of being in Anya’s presence once more, of smelling her strawberry scent, of caressing her soft skin, both tantalized and tormented him. Even forever ago, when he’d fallen deeply in love with a mortal named Mariah, and she with him, he had not desired like this. A hot ache that infused every inch of his body and refused to leave.

Mariah …sweet, innocent Mariah, the woman he’d given his heart to shortly after learning to control his demon. By then, he’d lived on earth a hundred—two hundred?—years, time seemingly nonexistent, one day the same as any other. Then he’d seen Mariah, and life had begun to matter. He’d craved something good, something pure to wipe away the darkness.

She’d been sunshine to his midnight, a bright candle in merciless gloom, and he’d hoped to spend an eternity worshipping her. But all too soon, disease struck her. Death had known immediately she would not survive. Lucien should have taken her soul that very moment, but he had been unable to force himself to do it.

For weeks, the sickness ravaged her body, destroying her piece by piece. The longer he’d waited, hoping she would heal, the more she’d suffered. Toward the end, she’d begged, sobbed and screamed for death. Heartsick, knowing they would never again be together, he’d finally broken down and done his duty.

That was the night he’d obtained his scars.

Lucien had carved himself to ribbons using a poisoned blade; every time the wounds had tried to heal, he’d prayed for scars and carved himself up again. And again. He’d even burned himself until the skin no longer rejuvenated. In his grief, he’d hoped to ensure that no female would ever again approach him, that he would never again have to suffer the loss of a loved one.

He’d never regretted the action. Until now. He’d ruined any chance of being a man Anya could truly desire. A woman as physically perfect as she deserved a man equally so. He frowned. Why was he thinking like that? She had to die. Desire on either side would only complicate matters. Well, complicate them more.

Once again, Anya’s image etched itself into his mind, consuming his thoughts. Her face was a sensual feast and her body a sexual high. As a man, he howled with rage at the thought of destroying that. As an immortal warrior, well, he howled, too.

Perhaps he could convince Cronus to rescind his command. Perhaps… Lucien snorted. No. That would not work. Trying to bargain with Cronus was more foolish than ignoring him. The king of gods would only order him to do something worse.

Damn this! Why did Cronus want her dead? What had she done?

Had she spurned him for another?

Lucien ignored the haze of jealousy and possessiveness that fell over his eyes. Ignored the mine ringing in his ears.

“I am waiting,” Reyes said, breaking into his thoughts.

He blinked, trying to clear his mind. “For?”

“For you to tell me what happened out there.”

“Nothing happened,” he lied smoothly, and hated himself for the need.

Reyes shook his head. “Your lips are still bruised and swollen from kissing her. Your hair is in spikes around your head from where she plowed her fingers through. You stepped in front of her when we meant to take her, and then she disappeared altogether. Nothing happened? Try again.”

Reyes had enough to worry about without having to carry Lucien’s burden, as well. “Tell the others I’ll meet them in Greece. I won’t be traveling with them as planned.”

“What?” Reyes frowned. “Why?”

“I’ve been commanded to take a soul,” was all he said.

“Take a soul? Not just escort it to heaven or hell? I don’t understand.”

He nodded. “You do not need to understand.”

“You know I hate when you turn cryptic. Tell me who and why.”

“Does it matter? A soul is a soul, and the outcome is the same no matter the reason. Death.” Lucien slapped Reyes’s shoulder and pushed to his feet. Before the warrior could utter another word, Lucien strode out of the club, not stopping until he reached the very place he’d kissed—and lost—Anya.

In an unwieldy corner of his mind, he could almost hear her moaning. He could almost feel her nails digging into his back and her hips rocking into his erection. An erection that had not dissipated. Despite everything.

Need still clawed through him, but he shoved it aside and closed his right eye. Surveying the area with his blue eye—his spiritual eye—he saw a rainbow of glowing, ethereal colors. Through those colors he could interpret every deed that had occurred here, every emotion ever felt by visitors. Sometimes he could even determine exactly who had done what.

Having done this infinite times before, he easily sorted through the morass to find signs of the most recent activity. There, against the freshly erected and painted boards of the brand-new building, were sparkling stars of passion.

The kiss.

In this spiritual realm, Anya’s passion appeared a blazing pink. Real. Not faked, as a part of him had assumed. That pink trail glittered with a dazzle unlike anything he’d ever seen. Had she truly desired him, then? Had a creature so physically perfect found him worthy? That did not seem possible, and yet the proof was shining at him like a pathway to salvation in the middle of a storm.

His stomach tightened, heat shooting through him. His mouth watered for another taste of her. His chest ached, a sharp and hungry throb. Oh, to hold those breasts in his hands again and feel the nipples stiffen against his palms. To sink his fingers into her wet sheath this time and pump in and out, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She would come, maybe even beg for more. He groaned.

She has to die by your hand. Do not forget.

As if he could, he thought, hands fisting. “Where did you go?” he muttered, following the sparks to where she’d stood when she’d pushed him. Blue winked at him. Sadness. She had been sad? Because he’d said she did not matter? The knowledge filled him with guilt.

He studied the colors more closely. Interspersed with the blue was a bright, pulsing red. Fury. He must have hurt her feelings, and that in turn must have angered her. The guilt intensified. In his defense, he had assumed she’d been playing with him, that she hadn’t really wanted him. He hadn’t thought she would care whether he wanted her or not.

That she had utterly amazed him.

As he continued to sort through the colors, he found the faintest trace of white. Fear. Something had scared her. What? Had she sensed Cronus? Seen him? Known he was about to deliver her death sentence?

Lucien didn’t like that she’d been scared.

Every muscle tensed as he followed the muted trail of white. As he moved, he allowed his body to fuse with the demon of Death, becoming nothing more than a spirit, a midnight mist that could flash from one location to another in an instant.

Anya’s essence led to his fortress, he was startled to find. His bedroom, more specifically. Clearly she hadn’t stayed long, but seemed to have paced from one side of the chamber to another, then had flashed away to—Maddox and Ashlyn’s bedroom. Lucien’s brow furrowed in confusion. Why here? The couple was asleep in bed, twined together, cheeks rosy and flushed from a recent sexual marathon, he was sure.

Lucien tried to tamp down a sudden rush of envy before picking up Anya’s trail and flashing—Into an apartment he did not recognize. Moonlight seeped inside through cracks in the black window coverings. Still dark. Was he still in Budapest, then? The furnishings here were sparse: a brown, threadbare couch pushed against the wall, a wicker chair with slats that had come unraveled and would poke the sitter in the back. No TV, no computer or any of the other modern luxuries Lucien had grown accustomed to over the years.

From the next room echoed the clatter of one dagger slapping against another. It was a sound he knew well. He allowed himself to float toward it, knowing whoever was inside would not be able to see him.

He reached the doorway and gaped, waves of shock pummeling through him. Danika, the doomed woman Reyes lusted after, was thrusting two daggers repeatedly into a mansized dummy hanging from the wall. A dummy that, surprisingly, looked like a cross between Reyes and Aeron.

“Kidnap me, will you?” she muttered. Sweat trickled down her temples and chest, soaking her gray tank to her body. The long length of her blond ponytail was plastered to her neck. To work up such a sweat in so cold an apartment, she must have been at the exercise for hours.

Why had Anya come here? Danika was—or had been—in hiding. Temporarily letting her go had been the only way to give the mortal some semblance of a life before Aeron hunted her down on the wings of Wrath as the gods had ordered. And he would. It was only a matter of time before Aeron escaped the dungeon. Not one of the warriors had been able to bring themselves to take any more of his freedom by binding him with the only thing that could truly hold him: unbreakable links forged by the gods. So yes, Aeron would eventually escape.

Lucien was tempted to reveal his presence and talk to Danika, but didn’t. She had no good memories of him and would not be willing to help in his search for Anya. He worried two fingers over his jaw. Whatever the goddess of Anarchy’s purpose, she had clearly taken an interest in all things Underworld.

He was more baffled than ever.

There were no answers here, only more questions, so he didn’t waste another minute. He followed Anya’s lighted trail, which was now a bright red—anger was taking root again—and found himself flashing to—A convenience store. He believed that was what mortals called the small shop.

His eyebrows furrowed together. He was no longer in Budapest, he knew, for sunlight glowed brightly through the store’s windows. A multitude of people milled about, paying for fuel and buying snacks.

Unseen, Lucien ventured outside. A horde of yellow cars sped along a nearby street, and mortals rushed along the crowded sidewalks. He found a shadowed alley and materialized without anyone the wiser. Curiosity propelling him, he strode back into the store. A bell tinkled.

A woman gasped when she saw him, then looked away as quickly as possible. A child pointed at him and was reprimanded by his mother. Everyone backed away from him, inching as far from him as they could without seeming blatantly rude. There was a line leading to the cash register, which he bypassed without apology.

No one protested.

The cashier was a teenager, a boy who looked a lot like Gideon. Blue hair, piercings, tattoos. However, he lacked Gideon’s savage intensity as he smacked his gum and shuffled the money in his drawer. A quick glance at the tag on the boy’s shirt provided his name.

“Dennis, did you notice a pale-haired female in a short black skirt—”

“And ice-blue barely-there top? Hell, yeah, I noticed,” Dennis finished for him as he closed the register. Lucien recognized the accent. Hewas in the States. The boy’s gaze lifted, and he stilled. Gulped. “Uh, yeah.” His voice shook. “I did. May I ask why?”

Three emotions skidded through Lucien, none of them welcome: jealousy that another man had enjoyed the sight of Anya, eagerness that he was closer to finding her and dread that he was closer to finding her. “Did she speak to anyone?”

The boy took a step backward and shook his head. “No.”

“Did she buy anything?”

There was a heavy pause, as if he was afraid his answer would send Lucien into a rage. “Kind of.”

Kind of? When Dennis failed to elaborate, Lucien gritted his teeth and said, “What did she kind of buy?”

“Wh-why do you want to know? I mean, are you a cop or something? An ex-husband?”

Lucien pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Calm, stay calm. He fixed his eyes on the paling human, capturing Dennis’s gaze and refusing to release it. The scent of roses began to drift from him, thickening the air.

Dennis gulped again, but his eyes began to glaze over.

“I asked you a question,” Lucien said softly, “and now you will answer. What did the woman buy?”

“Three strawberry-and-cream lollipops,” was the trancelike reply. “But she didn’t buy them. She just grabbed them and walked off. I didn’t try to stop her or anything, I swear.”

“Show me the lollipops.”

With people moaning and muttering in protest at the delay—until Lucien glared at them and they quickly hushed—Dennis left the register and led him to the candy aisle. He pointed to a half-empty box of lollipops.

Lucien pocketed two, not allowing himself to smell them as he so badly wanted, and withdrew several bills. Wrong currency, but giving the boy something was better than nothing. “How much do I owe you?”

“They’re on me.” Dennis held up his hands in a pretend show of friendship.

He wanted to force the boy to take the money, but did not want to cause even more of a scene. In the end, he stuffed the bills back inside his pocket. “Return to your register,” he said, then pivoted to slowly survey the rest of the store. On the spiritual plane, there were millions upon millions of colors. Sorting through them proved tedious, but no one dared bother him and he was finally able to locate Anya’s unique essence.

His blood heated.

Everything about her, even the minute mist she left behind, called to him, drew him. And, if he wasn’t careful, would ensnare him. She was just so…captivating. A beautiful enigma.

Lucien left the store and returned to the abandoned alleyway, where he once again dematerialized into the spirit realm. He flashed to Anya’s next location—

And found her in a park. Finally.

Looking at her, the sharp ache returned to his chest and he suddenly had trouble drawing in a breath. Right now, she appeared serene, not at all like the temptress in the club. She sat on a swing, sunlight bathing her in a golden halo. Back and forth she rocked.

She seemed to be lost in thought, her temple resting against the chain that anchored the swing to the rail. That silky, silvery hair cascaded down her arms, wisping across her pixie face every few seconds as the wind rolled.

He was struck by a nearly inexorable urge to fold her in his arms and simply hold her.

Had a woman ever looked so vulnerable? Had a woman ever looked so alone? She licked one of the lollipops she’d stolen, the pink tip of her tongue flicking out, circling the rosy candy. His cock jumped in response. No. None of that. But the command failed to lessen his desire.

However long it takes, whatever you have to do, you will bring her to me, Cronus had said. Or all those you love will suffer.

Lucien felt a spark of anger leap through himself, but he quickly tamped it down. No anger. He was Death. Right now he had no other purpose. Emotion would only hinder him; he knew that well.

However longs it takes. Cronus’s voice once again echoed in his mind.

For a moment, only a moment, Lucien entertained the possibility of taking forever. An eternity. You know what happens when you hesitate. The one destined to die suffers a far worse fate than originally intended. Do it! Or your friends, too, will suffer a far worse fate.

Determined, Lucien materialized and stepped forward. Gravel crunched under his boots, and Anya’s head snapped up. Instantly their gazes locked. Her crystalline eyes widened, filling with such intense heat and longing they singed him.

Her mouth fell open in shock as she popped to her feet. “Lucien.”

The sweetness of her voice blended with the strawberries-and-cream scent she emitted. As his body tensed erotically, his resolve weakened. Again. Stay strong, damn you.

Not realizing the danger she was in, she remained in place, still peering over at him through the thick shield of her lashes. “How did you find me?”

“You are not the only being capable of tracking an immortal,” he replied, giving her only half of the answer.

Her gaze traced over him, so hot he thought she might be mentally stripping away his clothing. Women simply did not look at him like that. Not anymore. And that this one did… He was having more and more trouble controlling his reactions. His cock grew harder with every second that passed.

“So you’ve come to finish what we started, have you, Flowers?” She sounded eager.

“That is not why I’ve come.” He spoke the words precisely. There is no other way. You must do this deed.

Her lush red lips edged into a frown. “Then why—” She gasped and anchored one hand on her suddenly cocked hip. “Did you come to insult me some more? Because you should know, I’m not going to tolerate it. I am not unimportant!”

Oh, yes, he had hurt her, and the knowledge once again filled him with guilt. Foolish to feel guilt when he’d come here to hurt her irrevocably, but the emotion proved too strong to fight. Still he repeated, “That is not why I’ve come,” this time adding, “I’m sorry, Anya, but I’ve come to kill you.”

CHAPTER THREE

I’VE COME TO KILL YOU.

The words echoed through Anya’s mind, a bleak promise she couldn’t quiet. Lucien never joked. She knew that well. Had watched him all these weeks without seeing a single smile or hearing a hint of humor pass his exquisite lips. More than that, the spirit of Death radiated from him now, a skeletal mask glowing underneath his skin.

The scent of roses thickened the air, almost mesmerizing, beseeching her to do anything and everything he asked. Even die.

Her heart skipped a beat. She’d seen him take a soul before; it had been a morbidly beautiful sight, yet one she’d never thought to experience firsthand. Shewas immortal, after all. But she knew better than most that even immortals could be slain.

The night she’d cut the heart from the Captain of the Guard, ending his miserable existence once and for all, the prospect of mortality had become very clear. Of course, it had become even clearer after her arrest and subsequent imprisonment while the gods debated what to do with her.

Every day inside her cell, the bars had seemed to tighten around her and the screams and moans of the other prisoners had seemed to grow louder. Maybe they’d been her screams. Being unable to nourish her need to create disorder had hurt unbearably.

She’d quickly realized life, even for an immortal, could be ruined or ended too soon. And she’d decided to fight for hers, then and always. No matter what. Freedom, whether physical or emotional, would never be taken from her again.

The gods had thought otherwise. Ultimately they’d decided to make her a sex slave to their warriors. A fitting punishment, they’d said. She’d taken their captain; now she could comfort the captain’s army.

It would have destroyed her—mind, body and soul. Her determination might have withered. But her father had come for her, rescued her, despite the retribution he would heap on himself. Once again, she’d been free. Once again, she’d had a chance at the happiness she’d always craved.