The Darkest Promise. Gena Showalter
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leg burning and blistering. She curled into a ball to swing at him.
Damn it! Her hands were empty of branches.
He dragged her over rocks and gargantuan roots, ripping her shirt. Her flesh, too. Her head swam again, oblivion beckoning. She reached for another branch, any branch. There!
He straightened, lifting her off the ground foot-first. Dangling upside down only magnified her pain.
Remember, pain is weakness leaving the body.
She could do this. No, she would do this.
Cameo contorted and strained her body in order to swing forward...back...forward again, faster and faster, coming closer and closer to her enemy’s torso.
He flapped his wings as he soared higher into the sky—and provided a new lesson about pain.
Not sure how much more I can take.
Sweat drenched her and nausea boiled in her stomach, but still she continued swinging. Finally, blessedly, she was able to thrust the branch through the underside of his jaw, where no scales protected him, the end slamming into the back of his throat.
He jerked and roared, releasing her. Down, down she fell. She braced—her lungs emptied once again, the chambers in her bursting like a balloon.
Her pain was so strong, so shrill she could almost understand a man’s suffering when he had a cold.
She remained sprawled across the ground, praying for a quick recovery. Or death. Yeah, probably death. Her mutilated ankle throbbed in time to her distorted heartbeat as the organ regenerated. From her kneecap to her toes, she felt as if her skin had been baked like cheese on a pizza.
Though the dragon-snake tried, he failed to remove the branch; his wings refused to bend as needed. In the end, he could only return to his companion, drill his fangs into the beast’s chest and fly them both away.
She’d...done it? She’d won?
You’ll probably never walk again, Misery told her.
Wah, wah, wah.
“I’ll walk again,” she grated. Over the centuries, she’d had limbs severed and her tongue cut out. Her ankle would heal...eventually. The demon only sought to depress her.
Rathbone prowled from the tree and sashayed toward her. “Ask nicely, and I’ll let you ride me free of charge.”
“No, thanks.” Too fatigued to care if he hoped to lure her into a false state of calm simply to attack her, she said, “Where are we?”
His flinch was more pronounced this time. “We’re in the Realm of Grimm and Fantica, ruled by King Lazarus the Cruel and Unusual, the only son of the Monster.”
Lazarus. Her Lazarus. He was here. And he was king.
Go ahead. Find him. I want you to spend time with the male known as the Cruel and Unusual. Misery laughed his most vindictive laugh. I bet he hurts you in ways I’ve never managed.
The demon lied. Or maybe he’d spoken true. With him, she never knew what to believe.
Maybe she should return to Budapest.
Did Lazarus even miss her? she wondered again. What if they’d parted as adversaries?
Well, so what if they had? Everyone deserved a second chance. Besides, she had no idea how to return. And really, what did his “Cruel and Unusual” moniker matter? Many immortals referred to her as the Mother of Melancholy. Names were just that—names.
“Where is the king?” she asked, her bland tone maybe, hopefully masking her eagerness. Reveal nothing, hide everything.
The leopard traced his tongue over his lips, as if he’d just spotted breakfast. “Do I detect excitement?”
Ugh. Was he planning to charge her for info if he did? “You’d be the first to do so.” How true. And how sad.
“Now I detect desolation.” A calculated glint appeared in his neon eyes. “The plot thickens.”
“Why do my emotions matter to you, anyway?”
“Mysteries and puzzles intrigue me. Come. I’ll escort you to Lazarus. However, I’m no longer willing to help for free.”
Knew it.
“You will pay me a small escort fee,” he said. “But be warned, my pretty. People enter his territory...and they never leave.”
“Life is a game, and everyone you meet is an opponent.”
—Becoming the King You Are Meant to Be
—The Fine Art of Decapitation
Between one second and the next, a sense of disconcertment enveloped Lazarus the Cruel and Unusual. He frowned. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the sensation, but he wasn’t well versed, either.
Bottom line, it could mean nothing...or everything.
With a weary sigh, he detangled from two sleeping, clinging forest nymphs and rose from the bed and fastened the pants he’d refused to remove. His legs were not for public viewing. Ever.
Anyone who had the misfortune to glimpse him bare, well, he turned the culprit into stone.
No matter where Lazarus had resided in his life or in death, he’d created a Garden of Perpetual Horror. His own personal stone army. A little like the terra-cotta armies of Qin Shi Huang, the first Emperor of China.
The newest garden currently had twenty-three statues, and they were a truly magnificent sight to behold. Each conveyed a different level of pain and panic.
His favorite? The king he’d defeated when he’d seized the Realm of Grimm and Fantica. The male was forever frozen in a position known as the blood-eagle, his body prone, his ribs cut from his spine and snapped backward to resemble wings.
Cruel and unusual. My specialty. Stand in the way of what Lazarus wanted, and suffer.
Cool air stroked him as he donned his shirt. He strapped on the weapons he’d discarded only an hour before. The daggers clinked together, reminding him of the day he allowed a demon-possessed warrior to behead him. The day he escaped the shackles of the sadistic Harpy who’d enslaved him.
The day his life with the dead began.
To be honest, the physical and spirit worlds remained indistinguishable to him. He still breathed, still thirsted and hungered. Still craved the touch of a woman. He could do everything he’d done before...except return to the human world. The same was true for everyone else in the realm.
In fact, there was only one difference between Lazarus and the other dead: a heart still beat inside his chest. He wasn’t sure why he was the sole exception.
On the bed, the nymphs stretched and sat up. Plump breasts bounced, and tousled hair tumbled into place, sunny smiles blooming.
“If you can walk, we obviously need another go at you,” the blonde said with a silky purr.
The redhead beckoned him with a crook of her finger. “How about I pretend you’re a lollipop?”
They had no idea he’d found nothing but disappointment in their arms.
“I have duties,” he replied. Lately, no one could satisfy him. Climaxing had become a frustrating impossibility, even on his own.
At least he never had to wonder why.
He’d found his μονομανία. His obsession. Or, to be more literal, his own personal kink. Long ago his father, Typhon, had warned him about her, whoever she was.
Somewhere