Kiss of a Demon King (Immortals After Dark 7)

Hettiah lifted her chin, but she'd paled. Sabine had in fact plucked an organ from her. On several occasions. She kept them in jars on her bedside table.

But Sabine refrained from this as much as possible, because whenever she fought Hettiah, it seemed to overly excite Omort.

"Besides, if the demon somehow resists this"-Sabine waved her hands over her figure-"I'll have a backup plan." She always had a plan B.

"You'll need it." Hettiah smirked.

Sabine blew her a kiss, the ultimate insult among the Sorceri, who stored poisons in their rings to be mixed into drinks-or blown into the eyes of an enemy.

"Capture him tonight, and then . . . begin." Omort sounded sickened. Not only was Rydstrom a demon, which most Sorceri viewed as little better than an ani­mal, the fallen king was Omort's blood enemy.

And the time had finally come for Sabine to surren­der her virginal-hymenally speaking-body and her womb to the creature. No wonder Omort had gone into a fury with the oracle.

Part of him lusted for the power Sabine could garner. And part of him lusted for her-or for women who resembled her, like the red-haired Hettiah.

He rose then, descending the steps to stand before Sabine. Ignoring Hettiah's huff of dismay-and the warning in Sabine's eyes-he slowly raised his hand to

her face.

His bloodstained nails were long, cloudy, and thick. When he pinched her chin, she said in a seething tone, "Now brother, you know I dislike it when men touch

my face."

When angered-like now-Sabine's surroundings appeared to rock and explode as though from an earth­quake, while winds seemed to gust in tempests. Omort hesitantly released her as the court attendees nervously

stamped about.

"I have the coordinates for the road Rydstrom will be traveling," Omort said. "Lanthe can open a portal from the dungeon directly to that location, and you can stop him there. It will be a perfect trap. Unless she's already lost her thresholds power."

Lanthe could still create portals. But her ability was temporarily weakened each time, so she could only

manage it once every six days or so. Sabine only hoped she hadn't burned one recently.

"Why don't you call Lanthe in here and ask her your­self?" Sabine said, making him scowl. For some reason, Omort had always loathed being near Lanthe and had decreed that the two sisters would never be together in his presence.

"Exactly how long do I have to set this snare?" she asked.

"You must intercept him within the next two hours."

"I go at once." She had little time to hatch a plot, which irritated her. She adored plotting-devising plans and subplans and contingencies-and half the fun was the anticipation of a trap about to be sprung. She would dream up scenarios for months, and yet now she had only mere hours.

Before she could leave, Omort leaned down and murmured at her ear, "If there were any way around your sleeping with this beast, I would have found it for you."

"I know, brother."

She did believe him in this. Omort would never willingly give her up, because he wanted Sabine all for himself and had since the first time he'd seen her. He'd said there was something in her eyes he'd never seen before-the dark knowledge of what it was like to die. Something he could never know.

He covered her bare shoulder with a clammy hand, sounding as if he'd just stifled a groan at the contact.

"Do-not-touch, Omort." She gritted out the words, making her plaits appear to be striking vipers

until he removed his hand. Sometimes she had to remind him that she was as treacherous as the serpents he worshipped.

She turned immediately, giving him her back instead of taking three steps away before turning to exit the chamber. When she passed the well, she darted her gaze to it.

Soon . . .

"You won't fail me?" he called after her. "Rydstrom must not reach his brother."

"Consider it done," she called back with utter surety. How hard could it be to capture a demon?

2

A prize so rare it was fabled . . .

Rydstrom sped his McLaren down a deserted levee road, his headlights cleaving through the swamp fog. That crazed energy within him, the inexplicable tension, had spiked to a fever pitch.

Omort could be killed.

One hundred miles per hour. One hundred and ten . . .

With a sword forged by Groot the Metallurgist.

Rydstrom had waited so long for this, he had a hard time believing it was happening now. Although he didn't trust the demon Pogerth, Rydstrom trusted his ally, Nïx-the Valkyrie soothsayer who'd arranged their meeting.

Nïx had said that this campaign was a chance to kill Omort-Rydstrom's last chance. Either he would suc­ceed in destroying the sorcerer or he would fail forever.

By all the gods, it was possible. But for payment, Groot had asked for the impossible. Or so it would seem.

One hundred and forty miles per hour. Though Ryd-strom had hung up the phone with his brother min­utes ago, he was still slack jawed. Cadeon-the most untrustworthy and least dependable being Rydstrom had ever known-had informed him that he was already in possession of the prize Groot demanded in exchange for the sword.

Cadeon had reluctantly agreed to meet Rydstrom at their customary place north of New Orleans with the payment in tow, but Rydstrom still had half an hour to reach him. There was plenty of time for Cadeon to back out-if he hadn't already.

At that thought, Rydstrom floored the gas, surging to one hundred and sixty miles per hour. Not fast enough. He would give his right hand to be able to trace once more. Yet Omort had bound that teleportation power in him and in Cadeon. Rydstrom had never felt as frus­trated by that curse as right now. So much at stake.

Yes, Cadeon had already found the prize. But he would not be keen to give it up.

He'll run. Rydstrom had to get to him before he could. Long moments passed with him deep in thought over his brother. Knowing Cadeon would let him down, he accelerated even more. One seventy . . .

Rydstrom would die for his people. Why wouldn't Cadeon-

Eyes stared back at him in the headlights. Not an animal, a woman.

He slammed on the brakes and swerved, the vehicle skidding out of control.

* * *

The screech of tires peeled out into the night as the demon's sports car began to spin wildly. But somehow he was righting it.

"He's pulling it back." Lanthe sounded impressed. Sabine raised her hands and muttered, "I don't think so, demon." Just when he appeared to gain control, she shifted the vision of the road, obscuring the bridge abutment to his sight. He sped directly into it.