The Darkest Promise. Gena Showalter
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Long raven hair had tumbled down an elegant back, curling at her hips. Eyes of liquid silver had peered at the world with innate sadness, and delicate features had appeared as breakable as glass.
There’d been no lightning bolt to proclaim, Her, she’s the one. Instead, she’d intrigued and interested him. But at only five foot seven, she was too little and delicate for him. He was over seven feet and weighted down with solid muscle.
He’d thought, With a single touch, I can damage her irreparably.
He’d left without saying a word to her.
The second sighting occurred at the Harpy Games, a type of Olympics for the bloodthirstiest women on the planet. His μονομανία had been a spectator, perched in the stands, cheering for a friend. Once again sadness had clung to her like a second skin.
A spark of longing had heated his chest, and he’d thought, I’d like to see her smile. No, I’d like to make her smile.
A strange desire to entertain. Other people had cringed and cried anytime she’d spoken. Why had he come alive? Why had compassion roused inside him for the very first time?
Again he’d walked away without saying a word, and in the ensuing weeks his obsession with her had grown, until the mere thought of her awoke every cell in his body with lust. Even now he hardened painfully, savage need clawing at his insides.
The third and final sighting occurred when she’d used the Paring Rod to enter the spirit realms. Then. That moment. He experienced the lightning strike of primal aggression and possession.
He’d thought, I will have her, whatever the cost.
Her name was Cameo, and she was the keeper of Misery. She was an infamous Lord of the Underworld. One of thirteen warriors who’d stolen Pandora’s box. Or rather, she was a glorious Lady of the Underworld.
A memory teased him, and he couldn’t resist seeing her, even in the fabric of his mind.
“Do you ever laugh?” he’d asked her as they’d headed to his kingdom...where he’d planned to taste every inch of her...feel her wrapped around him, hear her moaning his name.
He’d burned for her. He’d ached.
“I’ve been told I have,” she’d replied, her tragic voice as addictive as any drug.
“You don’t remember?”
“No. Joy isn’t something that sticks.”
He’d wanted to stoke her joy as much as her passions. At the time, he hadn’t cared about the tiny shards of crystal growing over his thighs. Nothing had mattered more than toppling her defenses, getting her inside his home—and him inside her.
Now he cared.
Lazarus’s mind jumped to another conversation they’d had, when he’d begun to make progress with her at long last.
“Have you ever had a boyfriend?” he’d asked.
Those liquid silver eyes had filled with wry humor. The first sign of amusement she’d ever displayed, and he’d rejoiced. I’m getting to her. “I’m thousands of years old,” she’d replied. “What do you think?”
He’d decided to tease her, knowing the expansion of her good humor would displace more of the sorrow. “I think you’re a spinster virgin starving for a little man-meat.”
She’d gone from wry to angry in a split second, all hint of sorrow gone. “I’ve had several boyfriends, and I’m no virgin. And if you call me a slut, I will cut out your tongue.”
“No, you won’t. You want my tongue where it is. Trust me.” Please. A woman’s trust had never been so important to him. “But I’m curious. How many boyfriends?” How many men would he turn to stone for daring to touch what belonged to him?
She’d stiffened. “None of your business.”
Craving another outburst of anger, hoping it would lead to passion of a different sort, he’d said, “Too many to count. Noted. What are you like in bed?”
She’d scowled, revealing her perfect white teeth, and he’d actually trembled as if he were a young lad with his first female. “You will never know.”
He’d never stopped burning for Cameo. Never stopped aching. But now that they were separated by life, death and a thousand different realms, he had new perspective. He’d been a fool, allowing sexual desire to dictate his actions. Nothing mattered more than strength.
A harried knock sounded at the door, breaking into his thoughts. His mind beat him to the exit, ensuring he wasn’t walking into an ambush.
The guard wrung his hands, unwilling to meet Lazarus’s gaze. “The sky serpents... Majesty, we just received word. Someone...” Gulp. “Someone not only injured the two...but came close to killing...”
Rage exploded inside him, but when next he spoke, his voice conveyed only calm. “Where are they?”
“The garden, Majesty. The healer has been summoned.”
Lazarus could have flashed to the garden—moving from one place to another with only a thought—but he liked walking. Liked his ability to move about unimpeded by crystals.
He stalked through the palace, the opulence of stolen treasures and the luxury of hand-carved furnishings whizzing past him. The ceiling was high and tiered, embellished with a frieze that arced across two marble fireplaces. Colorful stained glass glinted in the windows, and elaborate mosaics decorated the floor.
Outside, waning sunlight cast golden rays over a hilly terrain that overflowed with flowers.
What would Cameo think of such lush beauty? Would she smile at last?
Desire joined his rage, seething inside him.
“Majesty.” One of his advisers raced to his side, short legs working overtime to keep up with Lazarus’s swift pace. “Lucifer sent another emissary, demanding an answer to his query.”
Lucifer the Destroyer, known for deriving pleasure from the torment of others, was one of the nine kings of the underworld. He ruled over demons and Greek gods, and he was currently at war with his father, Hades, another king of the underworld.
Weeks ago, Lucifer invited Lazarus to join his alliance. In exchange, he’d vowed to return Cameo to the Realm of Grimm and Fantica.
Lazarus had toyed with the idea of accepting. Cameo...once again within reach...driving him insane with desire...
Weakening me. “Have the emissary escorted to the dungeon. I’ll slay him at my earliest convenience.” Tempt him and suffer.
“Yes, Majesty. Of course.” The adviser raced away.
A family of butterflies joined Lazarus, fluttering overhead. Along with the sky serpents, butterflies had come to the realm in droves, as drawn to him in death as they’d always been in life. He’d never known why.
An older woman—the healer—joined him, as well. She carried a basket of salves and bandages.
Together they topped the hill, the injured sky serpents coming into view at last. One was splayed on the ground, black blood streaming from his left eye. The other writhed in pain, a petrified branch holding open his jaw.
The rage inside Lazarus darkened. Sky serpents were extremely loyal but equally predatory, with the instincts of a sociopath. But they were his sociopaths, the equivalent of a cowboy’s prized horse. They fought for him without hesitation.
He worked the branch free and, alongside the healer, patched up both creatures. Within a few days, the two would be as good as new. In the meantime, they would suffer as torn muscle and flesh wove back together.
“Whoever did this will pay. You have my word.” Finding the culprit would be easy. Sky serpent blood always left blisters behind.
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