The Darkest Pleasure

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ROME. A place of majesty, steeped in history and opulence, violence and pleasure. No matter where a man stood in this magnificent city, the sea would sing to him, innocent and tranquil; the sky would respond with a song of its own, a peaceful melody of fading light.

Neither calmed Paris.

He stood at the edge of the Temple of the Unspoken Ones, hidden beside his friends. Waiting. The eerie temple—sometimes he would swear he heard tortured screams on the wind, rising above the sweet melody of the waves—had risen from the sea not too long ago, shrouded from the human eye until recently. Now workers swarmed the area, buzzing back and forth, cleaning and searching the crumbling corridors for glimpses into the past. They didn't know that the gods planned to use the temple to bring mortals full circle. Once they'd worshipped and sacrificed at the altars of their heavenly creators, soon they would worship and sacrifice again.

No matter what their desires were, he was sure.

The rising of the temple, and its counterpart in Greece, was merely stage one. At least, that's what Paris surmised. He was perhaps the most human—the most earthbound—of all the Lords of the Underworld, and the others might scoff if he offered an opinion on their new sovereigns, the Titans. But Paris liked to think his immersion in humanity added to his understanding of all things spiritual. Having spent so much time among mortals, he knew their emotions well. Greed, jealousy, the desire to be loved.

Yes, there was definitely an overlap between mortal emotions and godly ones.

What were the Titans if not greedy for the power that had once been theirs; jealous that the Greeks had reaped the bountiful harvest sown by their hard work; and desiring the adoration and worship that had been denied them for thousands of years? Their wants and needs had not been considered during their time in prison, so now they would indulge their every whim.

And yet, this insight did not help Paris. He couldn't figure out how to fight them. They had amazing powers, could flash from one place to another with only a thought, could control the weather and observe the world and its citizens unimpeded. They could curse with one hand and bless with the other. Paris had a demon who liked to fuck. A demon who weakened without sex and wasn't much of a weapon in any game but seduction.

No question who would win a fight.

If he did nothing, however, his friends could be obliterated. Hunters, his most hated enemy, could be made into guardians of peace and prosperity. Paris wondered if the dominoes had already been set in place for just such a reality and if only a small gust of wind was needed to begin the downpour.

What could he do, though?

Find Pandora's box, yes. That way, he and his friends couldn't be separated from their demons. It would kill them, for once they'd melded, they'd become inseparable, death or insanity their only other options.

He felt so damn helpless. He felt raw, constantly angry. He felt…empty. And all of that negative emotion was wrapped in hot threads of fury. His Sienna was dead. He'd burned her body in a funeral befitting a warrior and scattered her ashes. She wasn't coming back.

Who should he blame? The Hunters? The gods?

Himself?

Who should he punish? Who should he slay in retribution?

An eye for an eye, he'd been taught the first day of his creation. If a warrior failed to mete out the proper penalty for crimes against him, his enemy would view him as weak, attacking over and over again, never ceasing, confident in victory. What was a man to do when the enemy might very well be himself?

"Ready?" Anya asked.

Paris glanced up, pulled from his musings by her excitement. The warriors surrounding the goddess nodded at her, just as eager as she was. They were bordered by shadows, easily skipped over amid the hum of animated activity inside the temple. Humans were collecting rocks and gently scraping at moss.

"Here goes." Anya smoothed her hands down her perfectly flared hips, fingers catching in the diamonds studded at her waist. She fluffed her long, pale hair. "You boys had better be properly impressed by my powers and fawn over me accordingly when I'm done."

Murmurs of "Yes, Anya," and "We will, Anya," rose among them. Even the Lords were afraid of her.

Though Anya had lost many of her powers when she had chosen Lucien over her eternal freedom, giving up her most beloved treasure to be with her man, she was still the creator of disorder and could wield a storm with only a thought.

Paris counted five Hunters among the workers, the mark of Infinity on their wrists. The mark of death, in Paris's mind. Blame them for Sienna's death. They recruited her, filled her head with their lies. Hurt them as she was hurt. His hands fisted at his sides.

"The things I do for my men," Anya murmured, then strolled into the midst of the humans.

Paris watched as their motions slowed before stilling altogether. Conversations faded to quiet, then to utter silence. Everyone turned and stared at the magnificent beauty wearing a too-short black skirt and a transparent lace-up-corset top.

"Excuse me, but who are you?" someone finally asked. A human, no tattoo on either of his wrists. Short, balding, a bit overweight. A name badge hung from around his neck. Thomas Henderson, Global Society of Mythological Studies. "Do you have clearance?"

"Absolutely, I do." Her sensual lips lifted in a grin, even as she lifted her elegant arms. "I wouldn't be here otherwise, now would I, sweetcakes."

His brow puckered in confusion. "What's your name? Everyone on the list is already here, and I don't remember adding another name."

"No need to check again. A storm's coming." Lightning suddenly lit the sky, gold in a canvas of pinks and purples. The wind kicked up, whipping Anya's hair in every direction. "You should go home."

All of the men were staring at Anya in awe and lust they couldn't hide.

"Mine," Lucien said, watching her with desire in his mismatched eyes.

Paris had to close his eyes for a moment. I want one of those. I want a "mine."

Maddox looked at Ashlyn that way. Reyes looked at Danika that way. It was as if the women hung the moon and stars. But what had such a thing gotten Reyes? Grief, most definitely. A death sentence followed the woman everywhere she went, and more than that, Sabin believed she had joined the Hunters and was gathering information for them about the Lords and Pandora's box.

Sabin wanted her dead, like, yesterday. Had even palmed a gun last night while Reyes slept, meaning to plant a bullet in Danika's brain and save Aeron from a fate the warrior had once considered worse than death. Lucien had stopped him. Somehow, someway, Danika's presence calmed Reyes's need for pain. Since her arrival, he hadn't jumped from the fortress roof or pursued any of his usual dangerous activities. He cut himself, yes, but the death wish was clearly gone.

A Lord could not ask for more.

It's what they all craved: peace after an eternity of war and agony and blood. How could they knowingly steal that miracle from one of their own? They couldn't. So they'd left Reyes to deal with the woman alone. Well, not alone. Torin, Kane—the keeper of Disaster and a man you could not take anywhere without lightbulbs shorting out and plaster falling from ceilings—and Cameo remained in the fortress, monitoring the computers, guarding the home from invaders. Oh, and William. Not that Paris had any confidence in the man's skills.

Violence, Disease, Disaster and Misery together. Now, that should be fun, Paris thought dryly. Grinning, he shook his head. Sienna would have loved to get her delicate little hands on that information. She would have—

What amusement he'd entertained died a fast death, leaving him once more barren inside and sporting a fierce frown. He had to stop thinking of her. She was dead. Burned. A hated enemy, besides.

Fat raindrops blazed from the sky like arrows, slamming into the ground, pummeling everywhere but where the warriors stood, some hitting the ground so viciously they rebounded onto Paris's freshly polished boots. Hail soon followed, beating like fists.

"Hurry!" someone called.

"The storm's getting worse," another shouted.

Footfalls echoed. Paris was reminded of hamsters running inside a wheel as the humans raced to their boats. With every second that passed, the rain increased in volume and intensity; the hail grew thicker, heavier. Golden bolts of lightning offered a frantic, electric dance. Thunder boomed; dust and debris filled the wind-churning air.

Anya's storm was alive, magnetic, the tiny hairs on Paris's body standing at attention. He closed his eyes for a moment, only a moment, wishing that electricity would infuse his body, killing the hardened man he'd become and returning him to the carefree man he used to be.

When the last of the humans had sped away, the storm rose…until it formed a dome around the temple. No one would be able to see past it to the warriors who would soon be searching the grounds. Not even someone in the air, camera staring down.

"Clear?" Anya asked.

"Clear," Lucien told her.

Slowly she lowered her arms. The rain and hail thinned, catching on and staying outside that dome. The rumble of thunder died.

As the chaos around the temple faded, Paris scanned the area. He caught the glint of silver, the barrel of a gun peeking from behind one of the still-standing marble walls. Anticipation zinged through him as he palmed a gun of his own. Hunter.

For thousands of years, he'd left the battling to Sabin and his crew. He'd tried to live a good life, uneventful and repentant. After all, he'd once helped cast the world into darkness and despair by releasing Pandora's demons. He deserved nothing better.

Now, his past sins no longer mattered. He hated the Hunters more than he hated himself. And after Sienna…

"Hunter," Lucien muttered, his blades already unsheathed. "Eleven o'clock."

"Mine," Paris told him.

"I see him," Sabin said, "and I'm wondering why you get all the fun."

"Mine," Paris repeated.

Sabin rolled his eyes. "I counted six earlier, and I'm betting they're all here, waiting."

Six? "I counted five."

"You miscounted," was all his friend replied, checking the chamber of his .45.

"Every single one of them does not have a gun and those guns are not 9 mm semiautomatics," Gideon the liar said.

Excellent. A shoot-out.

Paris blocked the stream of memories trying to batter their way into his mind: deafening shots, zipping bullets, a feminine gasp of pain. "They haven't seen us or they would have started firing already."

Lucien didn't reply. He disappeared, there one moment, gone the next. He reappeared next to Anya and said something Paris couldn't hear. Anya nodded and seemed to be caught in the center of a small, whipping tornado a moment later. Then the tornado rose above her, creating a thick wall between Hunters and Lords.

The first blast sounded, the first bullet flying. But it hit the wall of wind and fell to the ground, useless.

Lucien was beside him again a second later, Anya nowhere to be seen. Her protests echoed, though. "—tricked me. The wall was to save you, not protect me so you could flash me." He must have taken her home. Or above the dome to continue wielding the storm. Another shot rang out, and one of the Hunters yelled, "Demons!"

"They came," someone said gleefully. "Must be our lucky day."

"You know the rules."

A third shot. The wind wall had fallen away. Rock exploded and dust spewed behind Paris as the bullet slammed just above his shoulder. He ducked, already crouching forward.

"We'll circle around in opposite directions," Lucien said, "and meet in the middle when every one of them is dead."

"Let the blood flow," Paris muttered, and then his gaze locked with Strider's, whose eyes were the same cerulean shade as his own. Strider was the keeper of Defeat and could not lose, no matter the circumstances, without severe consequences and excruciating pain.

"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 you…suffer…" 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 outstretched—and 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?