The Darkest Assassin (Lords of the Underworld 14.6)

To his delight, each rejection had infuriated and embarrassed her. Eventually, she’d stopped asking.

An agonized scream echoed through the cavern, jolting Bjorn from his dark musings. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, irritated. Distraction was the number one killer of warriors.

Again, he quickened his pace. When he reached the end of the darkened corridor, he paused to blank his features and raised his chin. Then, he entered Alana’s throne room. Ice-cold air enveloped him, breath misting in front of his face to create a dream-like veneer. Or a living nightmare. Different colored crystals dripped from the ceiling and glittered in the torchlight. Well, well. These torches hung from pikes, not people. Relief rained over him.

An army of Shadows lined the limestone walls. Surrounding the royal dais, a cenote filled with something akin to motor oil. And in the center of the platform, a throne of black mist.

Alana perched on it, her back ramrod straight and legs crossed. Impatient, she drummed her long, pointy nails against the chair arms.

She’d anchored her mass of silvery-white hair around a jagged ruby crown and changed into a more revealing scarf-dress the same shade as the rubies. A bejeweled ring adorned each of her fingers, and strings of diamonds ran down both of her legs, creating a skirt-like effect. Anytime she moved, the strands parted, showcasing more skin. On her feet, a pair of diamond slippers.

Beautiful on the outside, a hideous monster on the inside.

Xerxes would have loved the outfit, and maybe even the woman. The male went for cold-blooded, high-maintenance wenches he could tame. Yet Bjorn much preferred the silly T-shirt Fox had worn.

Spotting him, Alana grinned with smug satisfaction. “I must admit, your obedience is your best quality.”

He stopped twenty feet from Alana’s dais. Sent Ones were supposed to be beings of love, hating only demons, magic, evil words and actions, but not the person responsible for the magic, words or actions. But… Hate her!

One day, if the hatred continued to fester, Clerici would come to him and give him an ultimatum. Forgive and move on, or fall. And he would be right to do so.

A telepathic bond connected all Sent Ones. They were like a tree of life. Roots: the Most High. Trunk: Clerici. Branches: Elite 7, Warriors and Messengers. Infected branches had to be pruned, or the hate—the rot—would spread. The very reason Bjorn had contemplated falling, oh, about a thousand times.

The moment he fell, his wings would be ripped from his back. His ability to regenerate would end, and his connection to the Most High would fade. A huge price to pay to escape and hurt Alana. And it would hurt her. As a bonded pair, what happened to one, happened to the other. But. If Bjorn fell, Thane and Xerxes would fall, too. They would not let him suffer as a mortal alone.

Knowing he’d contributed to their deaths…

A consequence I will not survive. He would rather suffer.

“Take what you want from me, and let us part,” he grated. The urge to return to Fox strengthened by the second.

Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Is there somewhere you need to be, husband? Something you need to do, perhaps? Something more important than your wife?”

How he missed Fox’s candor. She did not mince words or pretend to be anything other than what she was: a killer through and through. Perhaps, if he channeled her aggression in the proper direction, he wouldn’t have to—

No! He had orders from the top—no mercy. So, next time they were together, he would kill her. No more asking questions or entertaining curiosity about her life. No more thinking about her body or all the ways he could pet and penetrate it. No more admiring different aspects of her personality.

“And now your mind has wandered,” Alana snapped, shattering his musings.

Focus! Infuriate her, so she’ll speed this along. Afterward, he would return home, as he always did. He wouldn’t go to Fox right away, though. He wouldn’t have the strength, and he did not want her to see him like that. Or anyone. She wasn’t special. Thane and Xerxes would take care of him. And he would feel their upset each time they neared; when he hurt, they hurt.

“What do you expect, Alana? I did not choose you as my wife. I do not love you. I do not even like you. Being in your presence fills me with hatred and disgust.” Be crueler. Make her explode with rage. “Every time we part, I scour off my skin to remove any hint of your stench. Did you know that? I consider our time together a hellish—”

“Silence!” Panting now, she uncrossed her legs, stood, and stalked toward him. Just before she reached the mote, black smoke seeped from her pores, her body suddenly intangible. Like a ghost, she glided over the oil, only to reform as soon as she reached the other side.

As she stalked closer to him, she exaggerated the roll of her hips. A sexually suggestive gait meant to drive a male wild. A sexually suggestive gait Bjorn found repulsive. He didn’t try to hide his grimace, making her narrow her eyes once again.

She stopped mere inches away, the scent of roses and ash emanating from her. “You bait me because you do not fear me. You do not fear me, because I’ve always been gentle with you during our…sessions. The gentleness ends now. Today, I show you the way my people enjoy syphoning power from a host.” With that, she stepped inside his body to drain his soul…

* * * *

Distrust hungered for a new victim. No longer content with whispering, he screamed accusations inside Fox’s head. You have been wiped of your portal-opening ability—your only ability. You will die in this cell. Galen will blame himself for your death and spiral. Legion will cry. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

She sat on the cot, her legs crisscrossed as she rocked back and forth. First, she fisted hanks of hair. Then she tugged. Then she beat at her temples. The bastard continued to bellow hellish nothings. Soon, she doubted her own capabilities. And her sanity!

The doubts kept her in a state of misery, his favorite food. The more he fed, the stronger he became, until he indulged too much and passed out for days. An endless, toxic cycle.

Perhaps she could distract herself? She forced her thoughts toward…Bjorn. Yes! His beautiful face made her stupid. How many extra muscles did he smuggle underneath his robe? Did he have any tattoos? Scars from before he reached the age of perfection and froze into his immortality?

Did he like to make love or fuck?

Whoa! Where had that question come from? Bjorn had a wife. A beautiful blonde. A beautiful blonde he seemed to despise. But so what? A wife was a wife. And, yeah, okay, when the two spoke, disgust had crackled in his eyes and tone. Still. They were married. Mare-reed. She gnashed her molars. Bjorn’s future belongs to another... She bit down harder, surprised her teeth weren’t grinding into a fine powder. The bastard had a wife, which meant he’d had no business staring at Fox during their first meeting. She would not be entertaining any thoughts about his dick today. Or tomorrow. Not until his divorce.

Qualifiers? Seriously? Fine! She would resist forever, no matter what.

Did she have the strength to resist, though?

Gah! Get it together, woman. Escape before he returns. Yes, yes. Esc

ape. She’d already searched the cell for anything she might be able to use as a weapon, and she’d found nothing. But. She was Fox the Executioner, and she did not simply await death.

Those thoughts angered the demon, and he shouted his anti-affirmations with more force. Tuning him out to the best of her ability, she jumped to her feet and rushed around, patting the walls, hoping to find a nail of some sort. If not, maybe she could pry a piece of jagged stone loose?

No nails. No stone. Until she flipped the cot upside down. Voila! Screws held the legs together. Fox eased to the ground, grains of dirt sticking to her legs. For one…two…three hours, she worked on loosening just one of those screws. Some of her fingernails ripped and bled, but eventually, she succeeded.

As she peered at the shard of ridged metal resting in her palm, a sense of triumph overtook her. She’d done it! She’d acquired a weapon. A small one, yes, but a weapon all the same.

Perfect timing. Shuffling footsteps sounded. She stood and hurried to right the cot. One leg would give the second she sat, so she’d have to remember to remain on her feet if Bjorn had returned for another chat. And why the hell was her heart racing at the thought of verbally sparring with him?

His scent reached her first. Rainstorms and sultry summer nights. Her head fogged. Her blood heated, and her nerve endings tingled. Finally, Bjorn came into view. Or rather, he stumbled into her line of sight, his feet dragging. He held onto the wall to remain upright, his fingers digging into the grout.

Horror punched her, leaving her gasping. He looked as if he’d lost fifty pounds! His cheeks were hollow now, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. No, not just bloodshot—bloody. Streaks of crimson dripped from his nose and ears. His sweat-soaked skin appeared two shades lighter than usual. Soot streaked his robe and dusted his wings.

Fox rushed closer and gripped the bars of her cell. “What happened?”

He offered no reply. His head remained bowed, seeming too heavy to hold up. He blinked way too rapidly, as if fighting to stay awake.