The Darkest Touch
The night-dark clouds undulated, screaming as they travailed...and finally gave birth to a violent storm. Daggers of ice pelted the land...the Unspoken One. Slash. Slash. Slash. The cuts went deeper than those Torin had given him, his skin tearing, blood leaking.
Grinning, she crooked her finger at him. The Unspoken One tried to plant his heels and remain in place, but he wasn’t strong enough to oppose the lasso of her power, and all too soon he stood only a few inches away from her, at the edge of the rupture. He’d hoped to harm her. Had hoped to harm Torin.
Now he died.
Torin swooped in low, running his dagger across the Unspoken One’s ankles. With a bellow, the beast dropped to his knees. But just before he landed, he twisted and once again swiped a beefy arm at the warrior. He missed. Torin rolled to a crouch several yards away, and even though the ice pelted him, too, causing the same slashing damage, he kept his narrowed gaze on the Unspoken One, preparing to launch another attack.
Can’t let him. My emotions...almost too strong to control...
If she wasn’t careful, Torin would be killed in a moment of chaos.
Where was the justice in that?
Deep breath in...out...but “almost” had already crashed and burned. She’d felt too much for too long, without any kind of outlet. She attempted to flash Torin out of range. Maybe she succeeded. Maybe she didn’t. The rage kicked down the walls of her defenses and burst from her; she lost track of her surroundings. Her spine realigned, healed and arched, causing her body to bow.
Howls of agony erupted—and they did not come from her.
The riiiip of skin.
The crrrack of breaking bones.
The pop of a body bursting. The whoosh of rushing blood. The splatter. The downpour of shredded organs.
Warm liquid splashed over her. Shrapnel beat against her.
But as quickly as the storm had come, it quieted. Keeley floated to the ground. She wiped her eyes to clear her field of vision. The Unspoken One had been reduced to debris—and none of it was identifiable. He would not be able to recover from this. He would never regenerate. This was it for him, the end.
Good riddance.
But...there was no sign of Torin.
Either she’d flashed him away as hoped, or he’d died, his guts mixed in the carnage. Remorse speared her straight through the heart. Because she might not get to exact the kind of revenge she’d hoped. Not because of—no, impossible—an underlying sense of loss.
I can’t miss him.
Or could she? Torin was Mari’s killer, yes, but he was also the only link Keeley had to the girl. Her only link to the land of the living.
She attempted to flash to him. When she stayed put, panic snuck in, an assassin to her calm. She could lock on anyone...except the dead.
Well, he wasn’t dead. He was a fearsome Lord of the Underworld, and he could simply be moving too quickly for her to pinpoint.
Yes, that had to be it.
She marched forward. He was out there, and she would find him. No matter where he hid. They would finish their war, and she would find another link to the land of the living.
Life, meet perfection.
CHAPTER FOUR
TORIN RACED THROUGH the forest, careful to avoid the traps he’d set—traps he would have set even without Keeley’s suggestion, thanks. Limbs slapped at his face and leaves tried to bite his cheeks, but he hardly noticed. One second he’d been preparing to launch a final attack against the Unspoken One, the next he’d been a good distance from the action. Keeley must have flashed him.
Why would she do such a thing? She wanted him dead, right?
Does the answer really matter? He needed his backpack, like, yesterday. He couldn’t let Keeley near his friends—his only family—and if that meant he had to put a bullet in her brain, so be it.
And the Worst Enemy in the History of Ever award goes to...the Red Queen.
Not because she was powerful enough to topple a building—though that certainly put her in the top tier—but because she could make a beast burst apart at the seams, raining blood and guts.
Seriously. She’d beaten that Unspoken One like morning wood with the same end result: an explosion.
Torin could imagine Keeley’s acceptance speech. I’d like to thank my victim. Without him and his internal organs, I wouldn’t be here.
In all the centuries of his life, he’d thought he’d seen the worst of the worst when it came to gruesome.
He’d been wrong.
He smashed through a wall of snapping foliage he’d spent hours erecting yesterday morning. A pitiful defense, but a guy had to work with what he had. Three of the prisoners he’d freed waited in camp despite his threats to kill first and ask questions later if anyone neared him. They expected him to find a way out of the realm.
So far he’d had no luck. Never mind Keeley’s threat.
Torin knew there were hundreds of different realms, some beside each other, some stacked on top of each other, and some even wrapped around the others. He just wasn’t sure how to get from one to another without the ability to flash.
“Hallo, mate,” Cameron said. “So nice of you to join us.”
The trio consisted of two males and one female. Cameron, the keeper of Obsession. Irish, the keeper of Indifference. And Winter, the keeper of Selfishness.
They were cursed with demons even though they hadn’t been among the immortals who’d opened Pandora’s box. But. When it came to evil, there was always a “but.” At the time, they were prisoners of the underground realm of Tartarus. And since there’d been more demons than Lords, a good chunk of the inmates were given the leftovers.
“Time to abandon ship,” he said. Keeley would be coming after him, and if the trio was anywhere near him, they would be nailed in the cross fire.
No one seemed to catch his urgency.
Whatever. He hadn’t signed on as their custodian. If they wouldn’t listen, they deserved what they got.
Cameron eased beside Winter, offering her a bowl of forage stew. The two were siblings, maybe even twins. Both had the same lavender eyes rimmed with silver, the same bronzed skin and hair.
“This little clearing has the best cold spring in the entire forest,” Cameron said, “and daddy needs his happy bath times.” He picked up the tattoo gun he’d created with metal parts he’d found lying on the ground and continued inking a currently indistinguishable picture on his wrist. Apparently he had a compulsion—obsession—to chronicle each of his imprisonments in his flesh. “We’re not leaving.”
“Then you’ll soon experience the joys of self-combustion.” It was as simple as that.
Irish perched on a horizontal tree stump, busy carving a branch into an arrow. He wasn’t as civilized in appearance as his friends. Two horns stretched from the crown of his head. Dark, straight-as-a-board hair hung to his waist, multiple razors woven into the strands. He had sharp cheekbones. Black, mysterious eyes. Hands permanently clawed. And while—for the most part—he had the top half of a man, he had the bottom half of a goat. Fur and hooves.
He was part satyr, part something else, and sensing Torin’s scrutiny, he glanced up. “Fack aff,” he said in his Isle-rich brogue. Hence the nickname. Real name—Puck something. Or maybe Puke something. Hard to tell when you couldn’t care less.
Torin shrugged. “Like I said, it’s your funeral. Enjoy it. Or not.” He dropped to his knees in front of his backpack and emptied his pockets. When he’d thrown Keeley to the ground, he’d frisked her and stolen—he frowned as he looked over the only item she’d carried—a hunk of bloody, scarred skin.
Well, why not? Hotpants McCuddlesworth was just the type to carry a souvenir of someone’s torture. Except, as Torin’s mind returned to the topple of the dungeon, the dust clearing, he remembered the wound on Keeley’s arm, a mess of crimson-soaked muscle. As if a hunk of skin had just been cut away.
He considered the scars more closely. Thousands of tiny orange flecks sparkled inside the tissue.
He frowned as he ran his thumb over the flesh. It was overwarm, the heat unnatural. From...flames? Maybe. Probably. But why wasn’t the flesh melting? Only bits of brimstone could burn bodily tissue without actually—
Brimstone. Of course. Sulfuric rocks with veins of lava running throughout, found deep in the earth, and—hell. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. This was meant to be a ward. The kind used to defeat the Curators.
Was Keeley a Curator? A parasite? Or had she hoped to protect herself from one?
If she was a Curator, she was one of the last of her kind—if not the last—and even more dangerous than he’d realized. Curators created invisible bonds with those around them, and like vampires, sucked them dry.
The bond is broken, she’d shouted.
Oh...damn. She was. She was a Curator.
Disease shuddered.
“Ever heard of the Curators?” he asked his unwanted guests.
A sharp inhalation from each.
“No,” Irish finally said, his tone dry. “We’re morons without a clue.”
Will take that as a yes. “One of them just escaped from the prison, and while that’s bad enough, she’s determined to kill me.” Would have done so already if not for the Unspoken One.
“Then you’re as good as dead, my friend.” Cameron never glanced up from his task. “Because I’m guessing Keeley is the Curator, and check it, that chick is loco in the noco. You get what I’m saying, my man? Her elevator only goes to floors F and U.”
“Got it. Thanks.” Jackass. Torin could talk smack about her all he wanted. But apparently if anyone else did it he wanted to hollow out their liver and fill it with rocks.
He busied himself, withdrawing the semiautomatic he’d packed, then the pieces of a long-range rifle.
“I tangled with a Curator once.” Cameron finished off a...rain shower? Ocean of tears? “She was out to destroy my entire family, but she was a real wildcat in the sack. The crazy ones always are. That’s probably why they’re my favorite.” A pause. “Although, I once slept with a centaur who liked to—”
“Don’t start with one of your stories.” Irish threw a stick at him. “Besides, they’re never yours. You collect them from other people.”
Scowling, Cameron said, “And how do you know?”
“Because the one you’re telling is mine, idiot.”
“Who are you calling an idiot, half-wit?”
“I’m not a half-wit, you fool.”
Children.
What else did Torin know about his new enemy?
Curators were created before humans. Once spirits of light, they were tasked with the safekeeping of the earth, bound to it and its seasons. But everything changed when they betrayed their leader, the Most High, and mated with the fallen angels who’d attempted to usurp him as supreme ruler of the highest heavens. What the Curators hadn’t understood until too late? The fallen were cursed with eternal darkness of the soul, and that curse would soon spread among their race.
Their offspring—like that of humans and fallen angels—were known as Nephilim...and even demons.
Backtrack. Curators were spirits—without bodies. How Keeley had gotten one, he couldn’t fathom. But she had done it. Otherwise she couldn’t have been imprisoned or thrown those rocks at him. Or ended up underneath him when he’d pushed her out of harm’s way...
Not going there. He’d harden—again.
He needed brimstone. But as scorching hot as the rocks were, there was no way he could carry one to Keeley, hold her down and rub it against her. And, anyway, he didn’t like the thought of scarring all that flawless skin. The simpler solution was to scar himself. Wards worked both ways, after all.
He sheathed the handgun at his waist and swiped the tattoo equipment from Cameron. “Gonna borrow this. Hope you don’t mind.”
The warrior gave a spot-on impersonation of Chuck Norris. He once made a Happy Meal cry. He strangled an enemy with a cordless phone. He destroyed the periodic table because he only recognizes the element of surprise.
But I’m worse.
Torin’s smile was a cold invitation to hell as he removed his gloves. “You’re welcome to try to reclaim your stuff, but you’ll walk away with a hacking cough and an inability to ever touch another living creature without starting a plague. Totally up to you.”
Silence.
That’s what I thought.
He carefully unhooked the motor, then tinkered with it to give it more juice. He found a thick steel pipe, and with a few more parts, created a makeshift jackhammer to crack through layer after layer of hard earth. Sweat poured from him, but it was a good sweat. From honest labor. Missed this.
When the motor died, he used his hands. His companions never issued even a token offer to help, just continued eating their stew. Fine. They wouldn’t share in the reward. And rewarded he was.
Two feet down...four...six...eight, making sure to leave grooves along the wall so that he could climb out, he discovered a small patch of brimstone. The quarter-sized rocks were exactly as he remembered, black with gold cracks throughout, and hot, close proximity causing him to blister.
He climbed out of the hole and stuffed his gloves in his back pocket, then worked a little more magic with the steel pipe, using it and a branch to create a pair of tongs. Back inside, he managed to scoop up one of the rocks. The branch caught fire on the way up, but he made it to level ground before the end turned to ash and the rock dropped.
Victorious, he sat down beside it.
The Terrible Trio gaped at him.
“Here,” Winter said, speaking up for the first time. She strolled to him with a feminine swagger he’d seen many try to emulate but only a rare few ever perfect, and eased between his legs.
He should have responded to that, but there was zip, zilch, nada happening down below, and tendrils of annoyance wafted through him. Why Keeley and not her?
Winter reached for him, saying, “Let me help you.”
Torin scooted away from her, snapping, “This is your final warning. Come this close again, and you’ll lose a hand. Make a play for the rock, and you’ll lose even more.”
Cameron snorted. “Something you should know about my sister. She always wants what other people have.”
Her eyes glittered with determination and, granted, even that was a lovely sight. She was lovely.
Zip. Zilch. Nada.
He didn’t like the thought of Keeley, and only Keeley, being able to affect him.
His reaction to her would make a great porn title, though. The Lonesome Chub.
Dude. Enough!
“Save yourself a battle,” she said, waving her fingers at him. “Give me the brimstone.”
“Do it,” Irish said. “I don’t want to have to take sides.”
Like he hadn’t already. He might be the keeper of Indifference, but some part of him valued the girl. The longing gazes he cast her hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“You should have helped me dig,” Torin said.
“And dirty these nails?” She shook her head. “Never.”
“Tell you what,” Torin said. “I won’t give you the brimstone, and in return for your understanding, I won’t kill you. How’s that?”
Slowly, as if every step was agony, she walked away from him. “Fair enough.”
Pretty words. But she was already planning that battle she’d promised him, guaranteed.
Oddly enough, he wasn’t excited by the prospect of another worthy opponent.
Done with distractions, Torin rubbed his arm against the rock. Once on the front, once on the back. That’s all it took. There was an immediate burn, his flesh and muscle cooking. He almost bellowed. Fine. No almost about it. He bellowed and he cursed, then fell to his back panting. The scent in the air...enough to gag. Bits of brimstone bonded to tissue, scarring him, never allowing total regeneration.
Winter dove for the rock.
Uh, uh, uh. He kicked it down the hole before she could snatch it and hurried to cover it with dirt.
“Like I said,” he announced when he finished. “You didn’t help me dig.”
“Like I said,” Winter echoed. “Battle.”
“Mistake, my man.” Irish tsked.
“Sharing is caring,” Cameron said. “Greediness gets you killed.”
“I’m your only ally out here,” Torin reminded them. “Dial down the threats or leave my camp.”
Winter scowled. The other two shrugged. They might not like him, but they needed him.
And I need to find my Curator. Where are you, Keeley?
He’d engaged in countless blood feuds throughout his long life, but this just might be the first one he’d ever actually considered...fun. He didn’t deserve to have fun, and it was certainly wrong of him, given the nature and gravity of the situation—but it’s too late to turn back.
This time he would be ready for whatever Keeley dished.
* * *
A ROPE SNAGGED around Keeley’s ankle. In a single heartbeat, she was whisked into the air and hung upside down.
Seriously? This again? She flashed to the ground.
One more mark on the ledger of Torin’s crimes.
Only forty-six hours into her hunt, and she was already on edge. He was alive, yes, but he’d evaded her. His traps had annoyed her.
Thunder boomed overhead. The sound bothered her, reminding her that another rain was due any day. One that would have nothing to do with her emotions. Have to be gone by then.
And where were Hades’s minions? She’d abandoned her plan to feed them bits and pieces of Torin. She just wanted them dead so she could concentrate fully on the warrior.
She stalked forward, pushing out streams of power to fell the trees in her path. I will find him.
How many times had she tracked an enemy with Hades? Countless. She was good. The best. A little rusty, perhaps, but she’d take determination over skill any day.
Whoosh!
An array of arrows flew at her. She easily dodged, spotting the manticore leaping from the branches of a still-standing tree. He had the head of a man, the body of a lion and a crossbow for a tail. She caught him with a stream of power, holding him in place. Then, with only a thought, she ripped off his skin, leaving it in one piece, and stuffed his bloody carcass back inside it—inside out. When he hit the ground, he stayed there, writhing.
Word of the Unspoken One’s death had spread, and creatures were out in droves, apparently ready for a five star dine and dash.
They must not have realized she was the infamous Red Queen.
A loud click clack captured her attention, her ears twitching. A laelap appeared around the corner, gunning for her. A metal dog that would never give up once it had spotted prey. It could be blinded, its legs cut off, blood pouring from the wounds, but still it would try to find a way to reach its intended victim.
Don’t have the patience for this.
Sighing, Keeley released another stream of power, crushed the creature into a ball and flattened him like a pancake. Tiny metals parts flew in every direction.
Torin’s masculine scent drifted by on a tendril of wind, claiming her attention. He was close!
Come out, come out wherever you are.
As she sniffed, she picked up the scent of three other prisoners, as well. Two males, one female. Keeley bit the side of her tongue until she tasted blood. Who was the female to Torin? His latest girlfriend?
Probably. He was too pretty to spend his nights alone.
The thought annoyed her, but she couldn’t fathom why. Unless... Yes, of course. Mari had been forever denied a chance at a happily-ever-after, so Torin should be, as well. It had nothing to do with Keeley’s sizzling attraction to him.
An attraction that hadn’t lessened with the passage of time, but grown.
I’m too smart to go through another bad-boy phase. Yes? Please?
But it was becoming harder and harder to convince herself that Torin’s appeal centered around her desperation, that any male would have affected her just as strongly. Only one male had emerald eyes twined with different shades of green, each brighter than the last. Only one male had those sensuous lips... What would they feel like against her skin?
Did he prefer a soft press...or a hard demand?
No! No pleasure. Not from him. Only revenge. She—
Tripped on a strategically placed vine and stumbled. As she regained her footing, she heard another whoosh. About fifty feet away a crossbow was anchored to a branch that was connected to the vine. She caught the arrow by the shaft before the metal tip could sink into her hammering heart.
Well, well. Another mark against Torin.
Flickers of anger. Thunder booming.
Perhaps she needed to expand her Kill Torin plan. Find him, torture him for being so irresistible, and then slay the girlfriend in front of him.
In a word—perfect! Mari would have been proud.
Keeley’s shoulder drooped, her chest aching all over again. Actually, Mari would have scolded her for such a plot. The girl would have said, her tone gentle, “Keeley, love, you yourself have killed many people, and every victim had a best friend left behind. You know this. Do not hate someone else for committing the same sin. And do not wallow in the past. It’s like quicksand and will keep you trapped. Forgive and move on.”
So wise, her Mari.
But...could Keeley allow Torin to walk away from the travesty he’d caused?
Can’t do it. Just can’t.
Her heart was broken. Only vengeance would spackle the pieces together again.
As she motored along, lost in thought, she stepped onto a dilapidated board. The center snapped and she fell, crashing into the bottom of a pit before she even realized what had happened. Her ankle twisted, and her knees buckled. Sharp pains exploded through her, but they were nothing she couldn’t handle.
Gold star, Torin. He’d done his job well.
A shadow fell over her. “It didn’t have to be this way, you know.”
Skin prickling with an insane amount of heat, she glanced up. The diabolical warrior stood at the top edge of the pit, the barrel of a rifle aimed at her head. Breath caught in her throat—but not because of the weapon.
He’s even more beautiful than I remember.
He’s also a thief. He stole Mari. My sunshine. My happiness.
“Really, Torin? Really?” she asked, as though disappointed, hoping to mask her humiliating reaction to him. Blood, heating right along with her skin. Every cell singing, begging for a rush of sensation only the press of male hardness against female softness could give. Hands, itching. To touch him. No, no. To kill him. Of course. For Mari. Sweet Mari. “Bringing a gun to a power fight? Not wise.”
“You don’t want to know everything I brought, princess.”
“You’re right—because none of it will help you.” She flashed to the top of the pit and smacked the weapon out of his hand before he had a chance to fire. The fragrance of sandalwood and spice drifted from him, and her mouth watered. One taste, just one. And then...
I’ll want more.
How was he doing this? How was he sweeping her up in a maddening storm of unstoppable chemistry, causing anticipation to build inside her until she shivered? Just by nearing her!
He stroked his white-hot gaze over her. His breaths began to come shallowly, and he licked his lips.
He lusts for me?
He might as well have touched her, so strongly did she react to the darkly intoxicating thought. The ache...too much, too intense. Overwhelming.