The Darkest Secret. Gena Showalter
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until he acted. Strider would have no choice but to step up to the plate and knock the ball out of the park. Because … His hands curled into fists. Because this woman, this walking atrocity …
His teeth gritted, and his jaw clenched so tightly the ache shot through his temples and straight into his brain. He experienced the same reaction every time he considered what she’d once done. This woman had helped decapitate his friend Baden, once keeper of the demon of Distrust.
Strider could never forget or forgive that fact.
The savage beheading had taken place thousands of years ago, but the pain inside him was as fresh as if it had happened this morning. Along with his friend, a piece of his own soul had died that day, and as the girl had learned during their trek to this fortress, a good portion of his heart had withered, too.
Mercy wasn’t something he possessed. Not anymore. Most especially not for her.
He thought he’d killed her in vengeance already, all those centuries ago. Recalled the slash of his blade, the crimson tide of her blood and the metallic stench of death wafting on the air. The sound of her body slamming into rock, her last gurgle of breath. Yet here she was, alive and well and driving him flipping insane.
Maybe he had killed her. Maybe she’d been reborn. Or maybe her soul had been stuffed inside another body. Or maybe this chick was more immortal than he was and had somehow healed after the beheading. He didn’t know, didn’t care.
All that mattered was that she was Hadiee of ancient Greece. Well, she called herself Haidee now. From Hade-ay to Hay-dee. Evidently she’d changed the spelling and pronunciation for “modernization.” Not that he gave a shit. He called her Ex, short for Demon Executioner, and that was that.
The proof of her crimes rested in her eyes. Those wintry, callous gray eyes. In the pride that dripped from her voice every time she spoke of that fateful night—I just loved the way his head rolled. Didn’t you?—and the stark tattoos etched into her back. Tattoos that kept score. Haidee 1. Lords 4.
She deserved everything he and Sabin would do to her.
“I’m taking her to the dungeon,” he said, and he’d never heard such a combination of relish and regret in his own voice before. Once again he started forward, throwing over his shoulder, “If you’d be a sweetheart and let Doubty-Poo know …”
“No can do, Stridey-man. There’s, uh, something you gotta see.” A blast of fear mixed with dread and grim expectation accompanied the words.
Strider halted, one foot raised midair. He straightened, still-sleeping baggage nearly sliding to the ground. Slowly he turned, adjusting Ex, and faced Torin, his own sense of dread sprouting as he spied his friend’s now pallid skin. White dusted with tiny rivers of blue. “You said everything was fine. What’s wrong?”
Torin shook his head. “No way to explain until you’ve seen. And I said everything was fine for the most part. Now come on.”
“The girl—”
“Bring her. She’ll be guarded, you’ll see.” A wave of
Torin’s hand, and he was racing up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Dread increasing, Strider followed, Ex bouncing on his shoulder. If she’d been awake, she would have lost her breath, over and over again, grunting from the pain of having her stomach repeatedly slammed into his bone. She also would have fought him with a skill matched by few.
Too bad the drugs had been so potent. A good fight would have settled his nerves.
What was so important that Torin didn’t want him taking a few minutes to lock an abominable Hunter away?
His thoughts splintered the moment he hit the landing.
All he could do was gape. Angels. So many angels. No wonder the house had been redecorated. Divine intervention and all that. Angels did like them some pretties.
They stood along the wall, the only space between them filled by the arch of their wings. White feathers laced with gold, the wings of warriors. Their scents perfumed the air, a collage of orchids, morning dew, chocolate and champagne. They ranged in height, though none were shorter than six foot three, and though they wore girly white robes, their muscle mass rivaled Strider’s.
Most were male, but all were demon assassins trained to hunt, to destroy, and when warranted, to protect. Since they didn’t rush at him, ripping swords of fire from the air, as he knew they were very capable of doing, he assumed they were here for the latter.
He studied them, searching for answers. Twenty-three in total, but not one of them glanced in his direction. They kept their eyes straight ahead, their stances taut, their hands anchored behind their backs. Not a sound did they make. Not even the rasp of breath.
Physically, they … entranced him. And yeah, it was embarrassing as hell to admit that, even to himself. But the sheer magnetism of them was stunning. Hypnotic. A drug for his eyes.
They possessed all different shades of hair. From the darkest of midnight to the palest of snow, but his favorite was the gold. So pure, so fluid, a king’s ransom that had been melted and mixed with the dazzle of summer sun. Rich, vibrant. Almost … alive. No way he’d be teasing any of them about such prissy locks, though.
They might not be attacking him, might not even be looking at him, but death radiated from them.
Someone cleared his throat.
Strider blinked, Torin coming back into focus. His friend occupied the center of the hallway. Probably had the entire time, only Strider had lost sight of anything but the angels the moment he’d spied them. Yep. Em-bar-rass-ing.
“Why?” was all he asked.
Torin understood. “Aeron and William took Amun into hell on a rescue mission. And yeah, they got Legion out of there. She’s alive, healing, but Amun.”
Strider filled in the rest and wanted to punch a hole in the wall. The keeper of Secrets had new voices in his head.
He’d been with Amun for thousands upon thousands of years. Eons, what seemed countless millennia. He knew the warrior’s demon absorbed the darkest thoughts and deepest mysteries of anyone nearby. Things long buried, horrific, gruesome. Unwanted, humiliating. Soul-changing. And if Amun had been in hell, where demons roamed in their purest form, his head was now churning with all kinds of evil. Malevolent whispers, wicked images, both drowning the essence of who he was.
Or rather, who he’d been.
“The angels?” Strider gritted out. Yeah, he knew it was rude to discuss the beings as if they weren’t there, but he simply didn’t give a shit. He didn’t love many people, but he loved the other demon-possessed residents of this fortress. Even more than he loved himself, and that was a whole hell of a lot.
“They wanted to kill him, but—”
“Fuck no!” he roared. Anyone touched his friend, and they’d lose their hands—followed by their limbs, their organs and, when he tired of torturing them, their lives.
He hefted Ex off his shoulder and into his arms before easing her to the floor and stalking forward, already reaching for a blade.
Defeat sensed his need to destroy and laughed. Win!
“Stop.” Torin raised his arm to ward him off, even as he backtracked to maintain distance. “Let me finish, damn it! They wanted to kill him, were supposed to kill him, but they haven’t. Won’t.”
Yet hung in the air like a noose around his neck. Strider chose to ignore that noose—for the moment—and stopped, already panting and sweating with the force of his instant and white-hot rage.
Win? his demon whined.
No challenge has been issued. Therefore, he could back off without consequences.
Oh, he thought he heard, a whole lot of disappointment