3

      “The opponent you allow to live is the opponent who will stab you in the back.”

      —The Fine Art of Decapitation

      Cameo limped through a crowded village fair as the vendors hawked different wares, a gaggle of voices producing a jumbled sound track. The scent of spicy meats and candied sweets filled the air.

      She stopped abruptly. There, on a table shaded by an azure fruit tree, rested her boots. And her weapons!

      With an angry huff, she approached the seller, a tall man with a long, gray beard. The pain in her ankle flared, and the blisters on her hands stung.

      He spotted her and proudly waved his hand over her belongings. “See something you want?”

      “Yes. Your heart on a platter.”

      Tears welled in his eyes. And thanks to Misery, the influx of sorrow blinded him to her threat. “Today only, I’m offering each item for the bargain price of...of...” He quieted, his body suddenly vibrating with eagerness. “You live. You are living. Your body is alive!”

      Surprise danced hand in hand with her own ever-present sorrow. How did he know she’d passed through the Paring Rod without experiencing death?

      He attempted to mask his excitement with a faux aura of boredom. “I’ll buy the body from you. What would you like in exchange? The daggers? You’ll never find a better made pair.”

      “I know. Because I made them,” she grated.

      He flinched, the tears coming faster. “You want them, you have to buy them. I must recoup my losses, considering your friend charged me an arm and a leg. My servant won’t regrow the limbs for another month, which means I have to do all the heavy lifting myself.”

      Her friend? The only person she’d spoken to was—She hissed at Rathbone. “You stole my stuff?”

      The mangy feline who’d escorted her into town prowled around her ankles. “Meow?”

      Cameo bent down to grab him by the scruff, but he darted out of range. “You left me defenseless, you miserable excuse for a cat. I had to fight with sticks. Sticks! I will not pay your escort fee.” Wait. That sounded wrong. “I owe you nothing for your aid.” Not that the prick had aided her.

      “What can I say? Even I have to pay to play.”

      As a woman who’d been created fully formed by a king who’d demanded her service—Kill for me or be killed by me—she’d encountered many perverted immortals. Rathbone had to be the worst.

      “You.” Staring at the blisters now marring her hands, the vendor stumbled backward. “You’re the one. You harmed the sky serpents.”

      Gasps of dismay erupted from the crowd, buyers and other vendors moving to form a wall around her.

      As she scanned the masses, confused, Misery cackled with glee. Ten out of ten people agree. You’re a horrible person, and the world will be a better place without you.

      Depression oozed over her like boiling tar, adhering to her soul. A sensation manufactured by the demon. He wanted to control her.

      Calm. Steady.

      The click-clack of horse hooves hit her awareness, a welcome distraction. The crowd parted down the center, revealing an army of scowling soldiers.

      Everyone knelt and pointed at her. Accusing voices rang out.

      “Her!”

      “She did it!”

      “She’s the one you seek!”

      Cameo lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “You don’t want to fight me. I’m a highly respected friend of your king.” At least, she hoped they’d parted as friends. “Also, if you attack me, I will kill you.”

      Finding Lazarus had become her reason for breathing. Basically, he was the equivalent of an organ donor. If he shed light on specific memories Misery had stolen, he would give her a new heart.

      The warriors flinched as if they’d been punched. Scowls gave way to tear-glazed eyes and trembling lips. From the crowd, a chorus of sobs rang out.

      Only one soldier rode closer to her. Fading sunlight shone at his back and bathed his face in shadows.

      When he stopped to dismount a rare Pegasus—a winged warhorse—those shadows vanished, and bolts of electricity arced through her.

      He was utterly magnificent, the most beautiful male she’d ever seen. He radiated raw masculinity and sexual arrogance.

      His mass of jet-black hair spiked in wind-blown tangles. His eyes were dark, fathomless, with tiny pinpricks of light. Like stars! His features could have been chiseled from stone. He had a proud, blade-sharp nose, prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw darkened by stubble. His unnatural but oh, so delicious height was perfectly balanced by an abundance of muscle and sinew.

      Underneath the collar of his shirt, a wealth of tattoos peeked out. Roses with bloody thorns, a snake eating its own tail, a skull—several skulls—butterflies. On one hand, he had the word LOVE tattooed over his knuckles. On the other hand, he had the word HATE.

      Unease prickled at the back of her neck.

      His gaze raked over her, slowly, almost brutally, devouring her. As if she were a last meal and his only means of salvation. She shivered even as her blood heated.

      Misery hissed and kicked at her skull. Run! Run now!

      Afraid, demon? What an interesting development.

      Did the man possess power over evil? Or over Cameo specifically? Could he be the one she sought?

      Better question: Did she want him to be?

      “At last.” Ferocious tension and undiluted aggression radiated from him, making the most feminine parts of her soften. “We meet again.”

      Another shiver, courtesy of his voice. The husky timbre was as carnal as the rest of him. She licked her lips. “Again?”

      Unlike the leopard, the vendor, and everyone around them, the brute merely arched a brow at the sound of her voice. “Are you going to pretend we’re strangers?”

      “I wish I were pretending.” Her heart fluttered, and her knees trembled. “Who are you?”

      His study of her intensified, his dark eyes mesmerizing her so thoroughly she almost missed the phantom fingers brushing across her mind. Almost. She recognized the sensation and frowned. Was he attempting to read her thoughts?

      Anger sparked. Must protect my secrets.

      The few times she’d encountered an immortal with such an intrusive and dangerous ability, she’d slayed first and asked questions later.

      With a concentrated effort, she gave a mental push. The second he was out, she erected a mental shield.

      “You truly don’t remember me.” Steps clipped, he closed the distance...and oh, wow, he smelled good. Like expensive champagne and honey-glazed chocolate.

      She grew light-headed. When he cupped her face with big, callused hands and forced her gaze upon his, the sensation worsened, the simple touch searing her.

      “I am the one you seek,” he rasped. “I am Lazarus.”

      Confirmation shook her to the bone. She waited for a spark of recognition, prayed for it, but her mind remained a dark abyss of sadness, sorrow and...arousal? Her nipples puckered, her belly quavered and warmth pooled between her legs.