The Darkest Pleasure (Lords of the Underworld #3)(43)
Author: Gena Showalter

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."

"The Darkest Pleasure"

"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.