Sweet Ruin (Immortals After Dark 16)

The one woman he hadn’t been able to seduce.

Which was saying something, as his professions had always involved sex. He’d started young in the fey kingdom of Sylvan, because his queen had discovered uses for Rune, her husband’s halfling bastard.

Queen Magh the Canny had forced Rune to become an assassin.

With malice in her gleaming blue eyes, she’d explained, “Many of my foes could be tempted by a sensual creature like you. My assassins fail to get past sentinels, yet you would seduce your way into a place where no guards attend: the bedroom. Even if divested of your weapons, you’d carry death in your very blood. Your escapes would be easier still. With some help, you could pass as a full-blooded fey; who would suspect you can teleport like a demon?”

Keeping secret his potential for magicks and knowledge of runes, he’d learned fey ways and customs. He’d tapped into his demon side, learning to trace. The combination had made him unstoppable.

He’d had such success as a hitman that Magh had expanded his duties to become Sylvan’s secrets master, spying and interrogating—while still killing of course.

For all three pursuits, he’d used sex as a weapon, callously exploiting his targets’ weaknesses or perversions. There’d been little challenge.

He narrowed his eyes, scanning the streets for his voyeur. Maybe Lore females weren’t the only ones who liked a challenge.

Midnight neared. If he decided to show in that courtyard, would she be there? Perhaps she still had hopes of meeting him. His lips thinned. For coffee.

No. He refused to chase after her like some slavering lad. Captivation was as involuntary as captivity.

Remember how far you’ve come, from such humble beginnings.

With Orion’s help, he’d turned his life around. The Undoing wasn’t Rune’s friend, nor a father figure (as some supposed). Orion was . . . an idea. A feeling.

He represented triumph—something Rune hadn’t known until he’d sworn fealty to Orion.

Soon Rune would prove to be Sylvan’s undoing. How would that realm fare when he assassinated their present king, along with their entire line of succession . . . ?

Seeking focus, he reached for his most cherished possession, his talisman, a last gift from his mother. She’d been a Runic demon, one among a breed that could harness magicks through symbols. The talisman had been accompanied by a note that had raised more questions than answers. The runes themselves presented a puzzle he often contemplated.

He dug into his pocket.

Gone.

Gone? He froze. He would never have left it anywhere; had never in all these eons lost it. The nymphs wouldn’t have dared to steal it.

Realization. Only one other person had gotten close enough to him.

Under his breath, he muttered, “That beautiful little wench.” The voyeur had picked his pocket! Oh, she was good. He’d been hard as rock, stretching his trews taut—yet he’d never perceived her hand dipping beside his dick.

What a surprise.

What a bad girl.

He turned toward the courtyard. Bad girls got punished.

If she’d stolen anything but his most prized belonging, he could have grinned.

Back at her rundown motel room, Jo set Rune’s bone thingy among her other mementos. They lined the top of a picnic table she’d teleported from a park.

She’d stolen most of these items from her shells. Though she couldn’t feel through any of the people, for the most part Jo got to be them.

She’d inhabited a cellist during her concert and had received a standing ovation. She’d served coffee at Café Du Monde (and later she’d punished patrons who’d grabbed “her” ass). She’d crashed a bachelorette party and laughed with other girls, pretending they were old friends from camp.

At a grand southern wedding, she’d been a bride for a day. She’d danced in a candlelit ballroom and had given away her garter as her new husband gazed on with adoration. Later, violins had played into the night as her groom had made love to his bride. He’d looked into her eyes so intently, Jo had pretended he could see her.

Which meant she existed.

That groom’s voice had cracked when he’d made vows to her. I would die for you. I’ll love you alone for the rest of my life. You are everything.

Jo reverently traced her fingers over the dried roses from her stellar concert performance. With those, she could pretend she’d once been admired. With the tiara from that bachelorette party, she could pretend she’d belonged. A dollar-bill tip from Café Du Monde allowed Jo to believe she’d once been just a normal girl.

She straightened the cuff links stolen from her romantic groom. They were her favorites. She could rub her thumbs over them and pretend she’d once been beloved.

With a wistful exhalation, she scuffed across the worn carpet of her room. She would’ve liked to stay somewhere less shitty, but she didn’t have an ID, could never get one.

Because she couldn’t read the application form.

She turned to the banged-up set of drawers. One was filled with Thad memorabilia—scrapbooks and the Thadpack. She opened the drawer, brushing her fingertips over the nylon material. At times, her three years with Thaddie felt like a dream, as if it were just as imaginary as the rest of her life experiences.

She drew out her most recent scrapbook, filled with pictures of him holding up trophies or Eagle Scout badges or community service awards.

Wherever she’d ended up in the Southeast (she couldn’t stray too far from him) she had descended upon the closest library for a computer. Using the text-to-speech feature, she’d learned about his sports, charity work, and honor-roll grades.