"Need one alive for questioning," Strider told him.
"You're asking for a miracle."
Bullets began flying in quick succession, beating all around them. Strider grinned, a feral flash of teeth completely at odds with his pretty-boy face. He pointed to the always-silent, always-reserved Amun, a dark slash in the quickly falling night, who lifted a tranq-gun.
"You out there, cowards?" a Hunter called.
"Come and get us," Strider said. "If you can."
Paris nodded in understanding and sheathed his weapon. They were to keep one alive. If possible. With a semiautomatic in hand, Paris wasn't sure he'd remember to keep things nonlethal.
Strider leapt into motion, staying low to the ground. He disappeared around a bush. A few seconds later, a scream echoed through the island, pain-filled and shocked. One down. Only five left.
Each of his inhalations heavy in his ears, Paris jolted forward. Amun kept pace beside him, and they whipped around half walls and rocks and slid against the moss-covered floor. He saw his target, a human he might have passed on the street without glancing twice. Tall. Average face. Average build. The menacing, hate-filled gaze gave him away, however.
"Always hoped I'd get a chance to face you. Be the one to bring you in." Grinning, he aimed the barrel of his 9-mil at Paris's leg and squeezed the trigger. Aiming so low prevented Paris from ducking, which he knew had been the Hunter's purpose. Most people ducked, and if he did, the bullet would sink right into his heart, temporarily stopping him cold. So Paris leapt, flying at the shooter and intending to tackle. And when the bullet hit him, it lodged in his leg. Painful, but not debilitating.
He slammed into the Hunter and they propelled down, smacking into hard stone, debris ripping at their exposed skin. Amun was there a second later, aiming the tranq-gun and shooting the bastard right in the neck.
At first, the struggling Hunter gave no sign he'd been hit. But when Paris punched him in the face, nose cracking under the pressure of his fist, the man couldn't even lift his hand to feel the damage. Finally, he stilled altogether and Paris rose, panting.
"Hope yousuffer" the man managed to croak. "Deserve it." His eyes closed.
Still, the gunfire raged around them.
Strider was there a second later and gave Paris another smile. "Ready for the next one?"
"Absolutely." He didn't glance at his throbbing thigh. There would be time to patch himself up later. He'd have to remove the bullet; it hadn't gone all the way through and he could feel the little metal cylinder abrading his muscle.
Of course, he'd have to find a woman and screw her to heal.
Once, he would have laughed happily at that. More and more, he hated himself, his actions, and the women who accepted him. Better a woman than a man. His stomach clenched at that. As dependent on sex as he was, he had to be with someone. If he couldn't find a woman
"Come on," he growled, and he, Amun and Strider joined the fray.
Blood dripped from him onto the ground, leaving a crimson trail that blended with the puddles left over from Anya's storm. His legs shook and he stumbled once.
He never found another target; the Hunters had already been defeated. All but one were dead, and that one was sleeping. Three of Paris's friends had been shot, and Lucien had to flash Gideon back to the fortress in Buda to recuperate, his stomach riddled with holes.
Suddenly tired, Paris sank to the ground. Water and blood soaked his pants, and it probably looked as if he'd wet them, but he didn't care. I didn't get to kill anyone, he thought with disappointment. He wanted a Hunter to jump from the bushes. He wanted to attack that Hunter. Wanted to slice a blade through the man's throat. Wanted to stab over and over and finally, hopefully, release some of the turmoil inside himself.
As he dug his fingers into his throbbing wound, Lucien flashed the living Hunter to their dungeon. A dungeon that had gone virtually unused for centuries and now seemed to welcome a new occupant every day. They might as well place a welcome mat in front of the fortress with all the traffic they were getting.
Paris didn't find the bullet until a few minutes later, when Lucien returned. The warrior was pale, shaking.
"You okay?" Paris managed to work past clenched teeth. Fuck, that hurt! The metal was slick and kept slipping from his grip.
"He awoke and stabbed himself with a little knife he'd stuffed in his pocket before I even set him down. Got me in the neck, too." Blood oozed from a perfect hole in Lucien's neck. "Now I'm being summoned to transport the others." Even as he spoke, his eyes glazed over and his body slowed its movements.
Death had called him to action. No telling how long his spirit would be gone as he and his demon escorted souls to heaven. Or hell. He could have taken his body, but probably hadn't wanted to deal with his aching neck.
Paris sympathized. What would it take to get the bullet out of his thigh?
When he finally achieved success, his shaky arm fell limply to his side, the compressed metal tumbling out of his fingers. Strider plopped beside him, unharmed, and motioned to his bleeding wound with a tilt of his chin.
"Maybe work on your reflexes for next time."
"Fuck you."
His friend grinned. "I'm flattered, but have to decline. You know I don't swing that way."
Paris's head fell back and he stared up at the lightning storm still shielding the temple. "I walked right into that one."
"Well, not everyone can be as smart and as beautiful as me."
Strider had to have the last word, so Paris pressed his lips together and didn't comment. To distract himself, he scanned the temple to see what the others were doing.
Amun stood off to the side, observing as usual. Blood coated his left hand. His bullet had gone straight through, lucky bastard. Lucien's body was still vertical, still unmoving. Sabin was polishing one of his blades.
Just like home.
He rubbed his temples in an attempt to assuage the on-coming ache, idly studying the rest of the occupants. Danika was laughing at
Paris's eyes widened. What the hell? Danika? Here? Shock pounded through him as he lumbered to his feet. A wave of dizziness joined the shock, causing him to sway, but he managed to remain upright. In the trail of blood and water leading to his feet, shimmery images had formed a living wall.
"Do you see that?"
"See what?" Strider asked. "Lucien? Dude should've taken his body with him. Why'd he leave it, anyway?"
"No. That." Shock only intensifying, Paris pointed.
Strider arched a brow. "Sabin? Yeah. Ugly as always, but that's no reason to look ready to vomit."
"No, the woman."
There was a heavy pause. Then, "What woman?" Now Strider sounded confused.
Paris was confused. The images were in full color, different scenes playing throughout, as though separate movie screens had been erected. The only common thread, he realized, was the star of the show: the lovely Danika.
In all of them, she hovered in the shadows, merely watching those around her. Much like Amun. In some, angels frolicked happily. In others, demons laughed evilly. In the final scene, however, Danika stood front and center. Her left arm was outstretchedand Pandora's box rested in her palm.
He hadn't seen the box in thousands of years, but he remembered every corner, every embossed jewel, every facet of the object that had led to his downfall. Nothing about the box had changed. Ivory bones taken from the body of the dying goddess of oppression were fused together, forming a deceptively small square. Rubies, emeralds, diamonds and sapphires sparkled from their midst.
When Promiscuity realized what it was looking at, the demon roared, clanging through Paris's mind, desperate to destroy the very thing that had bound it so torturously for so long.
Smash the box. Smash it!
"I can't. It's not real."
The demon paid no heed to his words. Smash!
Despite the screams inside his head, Paris hobbled closer. In that final, living portrait, Danika stretched the box out farther, as if offering it to him. She even winked at him.
His jaw nearly hit the floor, the pain of his wound forgotten. What the hell?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"HOW ARE YOU FEELING, Danika?"
Danika perched on the edge of Reyes's bed, her head between her legs, her breathing shallow and rough. She couldn't seem to fill her lungs, only seemed to scratch them with what little air she dragged in. An hour had passedan eternity, maybesince Aeron had delivered his "I think I killed her" when speaking of Danika's grandmother.
She'd demanded every detail from Aeron, and what he'd said had meshed with what Stefano's men had seen. I carried her into a building. She was already bleeding, already hurting. I raised my claws. She screamed. That is all I know.
Danika's shock had worn off, and grief, sorrow and fury had taken its place, blending together inside her. She couldn't remember leaving the cell. Didn't recall walking into Reyes's bedroom. He must have carried her here. As Aeron had carried her grandmother to her death?
"I need to see them," she managed to gasp out. "I need to see my mother and my sister." Did they know about Grandma Mallory? Had they witnessed the terrible event? Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God. Tears flooded her eyes. She would find them, tell them if they didn't know, and then she would come back here and stab Aeron in his blackened heart.
No, scratch that. She would stab Aeron first. Then she would have at least one piece of good news to pass on to her family. The thought failed to cheer her.
Warm, strong hands curled on her upper arms and slowly dragged her up. The dark that haunted her dreams was suddenly weighing down her present. But Reyes loomed in front of her, determined to save her. "I am sorry this happened, angel. I am."
Her chin trembled and her throat constricted. "You're sorry?" she said, her fury blooming ahead of all the other emotions in an effort to save herself. "You played a part in this, you fucking bastard, so you can leave me the hell alone. She was a good woman. Caring and tender. Loving. Admit it. You're happy she's gone, aren't you? Aren't you?" she screamed when he didn't reply.
"I am not happy. Your pain hurts me."
"And you love to be hurt, right?"
"Danika, I" A pause, heavy, oppressive. "Aeron said he thinks he killed her. Perhaps he did not. Perhaps she survived."
"An eighty-year-old woman against a supernaturally strong demon?" She laughed without humor. "Please."
Reyes's fingers bit deeper, almost painfully, as he shook her. "Don't you dare give up hope."
"Hope." She uttered another of those humorless laughs. "Hope is a demon worse than your Pain."
Reyes released her as if she'd suddenly sprouted horns and stabbed him with them. Wait. He would have liked that, she thought darkly, and wouldn't have moved away. Guess he'd released her as if she'd tried to kiss him again.
"Answer me true. Did you make that comparison because of your hate for what might have been done or because you believe Hope truly is a demon?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
She shrugged, going numb again, so numb she couldn't make herself care about the conversation anymore. "Both." What a roller coaster she'd been on these past two days. It was too much.
"How do you know Hope is a demon?" he demanded. "Humans always think of Hope as good and wonderful and right."
"So it's true?" What else was out there, stealing joy and destroying lives? "I should be surprised."
"How?"
Another shrug. "Grandma Mallory used to tell me stories. I thought they were harmless, her mind's way of coping with the chaos of her life."
"In this," he admitted reluctantly, "she was right. Hope is indeed a demon. A monster now housed inside an equally treacherous immortal warrior."
Like you, she almost said but stopped herself. Reyes had not proven himself to be evil. "You know himit?" Her lips curled in distaste. "Again, why aren't I surprised? Grandma told me Hope purposely raises expectations, makes people believe there's a potential for a miracle, and then he crushes those expectations, leaving nothing but ash and despair." Stefano was right. The world would be a better place without a demon like that.
"We are not all like that," Reyes said, as though he'd read her mind. "Hope was given to a warrior like me, yes. Galen was his name. But he was a corrupt man possessed by a corrupt demon and combined they are more dangerous than anything in this fortress. When I knew them, they delighted in uplifting and then crushing those around them."
She wrapped her arms around her middle, cold again. So cold. From fury to nothing to this. A torturous gamut. She'd feared this day for two weeks, dreaded learning that her amazing grandmother had been murdered while Danika was too busy running to help her.
Reyes's gaze bored into her, piercing like a laser. "I need honesty from you, Danika. Did you hear any of what you've just told me from the Hunters?"
"No." They'd mentioned nothing about either Galen or Hope.
A moment passed in silence, she and Reyes staring at each other. What he was thinking, she could only guess. That she had to die now and there could be no more saving her? That she would go back on her word now that she knew her grandmother was dead?
Sweet Grandma Mallory. Memories of a long-ago night played through her mind. Stars had twinkled from the sky as she and her grandmother made camp inside her tree house.
Lie back, baby girl, and Grandma will tell you another story.
Shuddering, Danika had climbed into her sleeping bag. Cool night scents floated on the breeze, but they had failed to calm her. Grandma's stories were not like the fairy tales her sister liked to read her. "Will this one scare me?"
"Maybe. But it's okay to be scared sometimes. I don't want you to be like me. I want you stronger, better equipped to deal."
"I don't want to deal. I don't like to be scared."
"No one does, but feeling the emotion is good. Gives you a chance to prove you're stronger than it is."
"O-okay. I'll listen to the story."
"That's my girl."