The Darkest Pleasure (Lords of the Underworld #3)(44)
Author: Gena Showalter

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.

"The Darkest Pleasure"

"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?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"HOW ARE YOU FEELING, Danika?"

Danika perched on the edge of Reyes’s bed, her head between her legs, her breathing shallow and rough. She couldn’t seem to fill her lungs, only seemed to scratch them with what little air she dragged in. An hour had passed – an eternity, maybe – since Aeron had delivered his "I think I killed her" when speaking of Danika’s grandmother.