Wicked Deeds on a Winter’s Night (Immortals After Dark #4)(11)
Author: Kresley Cole

As she lay there, staring up blankly into the dark, the incubi began to stir once more.

Starved for centuries but unable to die, these beings truly were the living dead. They were maddened from their never-ending captivity and deprivation, yet they retained their brutal strength.

Soon they would rise and continue their nightly attacks on the five below – striving to stamp out the immortals as if they were foreign, thieving trespassers who’d broken into the incubi’s home, intending to steal their precious sacrificial headdresses.

And what of her? She’d feared they would try more "unnatural crimes," but so far, other than sinking their teeth or claws into her legs to drag her out of their way, or forcing her to eat and drink things she couldn’t even contemplate without retching, the incubi had kept their hands off her.

It wasn’t time for a swan dive just yet.

Though she couldn’t communicate with them – if they opened the yawning blackness of their mouths, nothing came out but screams or worms – Mari somehow comprehended things about them, like what they expected from her.

They kept her alive, because they wanted to die.

Once beautiful demons, born to seduce sexual energy from females, they’d been rendered into monsters.

And Mari had realized that they knew they were.

On that ledge in the blackness, she’d truly recognized for the first time in her life that some creatures who went bump in the night might hate that they did.

The incubi had sensed great power in her, and believed she could destroy them, but if she could speak their language, she’d tell them they had the wrong girl. Mari was what was known as an underachiever, which even an underachiever knew was sociology code for "overfailer."

She was famous in the Lore for the simple fact that one day she might be worth being famous. All hype – no substance. That was Mari.

Everyone in the covens expected her to do something epic and always kept an eye on her. They wanted her to be worth "awaiting." Even other factions in the Lore monitored her with anticipation because, while most witches possessed the strengths of one, two, or very rarely, three of the five castes of witches, Mari was the only witch ever to possess the strengths of all of them.

In theory, Mari was a witch warrior, healer, conjurer, seeress, and an enchantress.

A potential perfect storm of badassness.

In reality, Mari had lost her college scholarship, couldn’t manage even the simplest spells, and kept blowing things up. She couldn’t even balance her checkbook.

Had competing in the Hie been a shaking her raised fist, I’ll show you attempt at redemption? Well… yes.

Now she was paying for it. The incubi could never free her – not when they themselves were prisoners for eternity. If her coven hadn’t scryed her by now, they never would. The jungles around the tomb were teeming with humans, guerilla armies, but they fought and shot all around the temple without ever attempting to enter. How ironic. They had no idea what battle erupted inside each night.

And Mari knew the werewolf would never return. How could she have desired someone so cruel that he would leave them all to wither away here? Some in the Lore whispered that, at heart, the Lykae were nothing more than ravening beasts from nightmares.

Bowen MacRieve must be. Why else wouldn’t he come? Or at least send someone?

Perhaps he was already dead from her spell. If he somehow still lived by the time she got out of this, she was going to kill him. She didn’t know how she’d do it, just that it would be slow.

When the incubi began to rise all around her, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to lose herself in dreams of making the Lykae pay.

Bowe sat propped against the scalding wall of the cavern, cradling his arm. Though barely able to remain upright, he was determined not to give in to the temptation to lie down.

Through the haze of agonizing heat, he stared at the Fyre Dragán slithering back and forth through the lava, waiting for him.

When sweat dripped into Bowe’s remaining eye, he moved to wipe it away, but his hand was gone. He knew it was, endured the pain constantly, and still he tried to use it.

The beast that lived inside him desperately wanted to live, but as for Bowe himself, he could take a bloody hint. For over two weeks, he’d been trapped, unable to discover a way out or a way across the pit. He’d never anticipated that this cavern would end without another exit.

If he couldn’t escape, as an immortal he could waste away here, never dying, becoming a shadow of himself. And Bowe knew no one was coming for him. Not even resourceful Lachlain, his cousin and king, could find this place. The coordinates here were known only in esoteric corners of the Lore – or by the vampire, and Sebastian Wroth would probably relish knowing Bowe suffered.

His body was wracked, his will gone. He should step down into the fire. Struggling to live on under these circumstances seemed even more cowardly than ending it.

Hell, for nearly two centuries, his clan had been expecting him to step down in some way.

I’d wanted oblivion. This would be the way to get it.

But he’d vowed revenge against that vampire. And he longed to make the witch pay for his unbearable defeat. As far as he was concerned, she’d ensured he lost the competition. The Valkyrie and vampire had only capitalized on weaknesses Mariketa had provided.

Bowe suspected she and the other five had long since escaped the tomb; now he was the one trapped. He consoled himself by recalling the nasty surprise they’d been in for. Before he’d left he’d destroyed not only their vehicles but their CBs and sat-phones as well.

Yet stranding the witch in the jungle wasn’t nearly enough retribution for what she’d done. He’d failed. Because of her.

He felt like he’d lost Mariah all over again. He’d allowed himself to have a glimmer of hope, to envision his mate back by his side. And he’d been smug about winning.

Until Mariketa had cast her spells over him…

The bloody witch invaded his thoughts. He would try to remember Mariah and instead would see glimpses of stormy gray eyes and red lips. He hated the witch for that, hated that he couldn’t picture his mate’s face. When he slept, he dreamed only of Mariketa.

Bowe had been untrue to his mate in thought – and deed.

The fire serpent roared, as if impatient for Bowe to make up his mind. After several attempts, Bowe managed to rise, swaying at the precipice of the pit.

End it now. It was cowardly to live on.

He felt an unexpected flare of guilt. Mariketa lives still…

Why in the hell would he be concerned about his enemy?

Recognition hammered home. When he’d been gazing into her eyes, he’d known she was enthralling him. But he hadn’t known how deeply she’d done it or how permanently.

He wasn’t suffering the effects of only one spell.