“Precisely.”
And maybe in a million, trillion, gazillion moments, being a dragon loved by a beast would be enough for me. But at the current moment I couldn’t begin to envision that place in time.
Once before I’d waited too long and learned the true meaning of regret. I was choking on that bitter taste now.
Raw. Endless. Grief. Raining. Eternal. Tears.
I closed my eyes against the burn of it and wondered if dragons could cry.
FOR A NOVEL CHANGE, Gustaine was happy to be small and inconspicuous.
The great god Balor was in a lethal mood today, killing the human bodies brought to him without even bothering to absorb their souls—a total waste of power!—just so he could enjoy each moment of pain and torture he inflicted upon them before they died.
Gustaine had little respect for those who reacted with ego and emotion over long-term planning for survival, it was against his cockroachian nature. Survival was paramount. Patient, subtle chesslike moves, plus yet more patience, guaranteed success. That was why he’d pledged fealty to the one called Ryodan for as long as he had. Of his many alliances over time, it was that cool, calculating beast that had commanded his respect. Like the cockroach, the beast-man would endure.
The Faerie prince was once a close second, but Cruce lied and the lethal ice-fire he’d charged Gustaine with planting at the abbey had damaged many of his individual parts. A single mind controlled his hive of bodies, and Gustaine counted each incremental part of himself precious. Felt the pain of them all. Hundreds of his bodies sported permanent scars from that battle, had been hobbled, crippled—like Balor was now.
Dani O’Malley had injured the great god, making Gustaine wonder if he’d pledged his services hastily. The Soulstealer was limping with a raw, jagged wound in his leg, charred at the edges.
Eons past, Balor had been one of the most powerful gods to walk the face of the Earth, and a merciful one. The Soulstealer had once alleviated the suffering of humans, walking battlefields, attending the lingering dying, removing their souls from their bodies to spare them the pain of slow death.
But the Faerie had come with stealth, abducted and tortured Balor for a small eternity, trying to kill him, all the while impersonating him to his tribes. The Faerie had destroyed half his face in their efforts to gouge that great killing eye from his body. But he’d slipped their clutches, even with his shattered leg, and returned to live up to every one of the horrific legends the Fae had sown about him.
Then been captured again by the Faerie and entombed in the earth.
There was no god alive that despised humans and Faerie more. For that reason alone, Gustaine would remain in his service a bit longer. See if Balor could turn his recent failure around.
“Gustaine!” Balor roared. “Show yourself!”
Hissing softly, Gustaine assembled himself into a small head deep in the shadows. “My lord and master, how may I serve?”
“Find her again! Dispatch your countless bodies and locate that bitch. I want to know the instant you spot her, where she is, what she’s doing, who’s with her, where she’s going. Get me concrete information this time!” he snarled.
He didn’t point out that he’d gotten Balor perfectly concrete information last time but the god had overestimated himself, and underestimated his prey. He loathed that he would have to leave enough of his bodies here with the destructive, raging god to remain in constant communication with him. Yet another master, yet more volatility. He’d give Balor wide berth until he knew her location, stay compressed beneath rocks.
Clearing his throat, he ground out, “How will you destroy her when she possesses such power?” Perhaps he should have allied with the woman. Anyone that could injure Balor was a potential ally worth considering.
Balor gave him a terrible smile, sharp teeth, loathing and rage. “Why do you think I made my camp here of all places? The benefits were countless. I already have something she cares about deeply, and when humans care, humans fall.” He turned in a whirl of long black robes and snarled, “AOZ, gather the other gods and get them here now. It’s long past time we rain down hell on this world.”
Do you wanna touch me there, where
LATER, RYODAN AND I met with Kat and the Shedon in a bona fide conference room beneath Chester’s that was decorated with the same sleek blend of muscle and elegance as the rest of his club. From snooping in his files while he was gone, I knew he had vast holdings, and imagined he held meetings here, preferring to keep his business private. I couldn’t picture him walking into a bank or an attorney’s office.
Part of the nightclub was open again, as Elyreum was a pile of rubble, and I could feel the powerful bass thrumming beneath my boots as I irritably tapped my fingers along to “Do You Wanna Touch Me” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Clearly, someone left Lor in charge of the music. Clearly, someone needed to drag him out of the eighties before he drove the clientele away. Clearly, they could pick a better song than one about people wanting to be touched. My only option right now was a Pillsbury Dough Boy poke in the belly.
When I’d called Kat earlier to fill her in on Balor, she’d swiftly proposed coming into the city for a meeting, saying she had information for us as well.
“It’s possible,” Kat was saying now, “this never would have happened but the Song enhanced whatever the Hunter left inside you, Dani.”
“It’s also possible,” Enyo said, “like the Fae, when one Hunter dies, another must be born; the way Christian and Sean replaced the Unseelie princes.”
“It’s also possible,” Colleen said, “with Hunters, if someone kills them, they automatically become the next one.”
“Not only is all of that irrelevant because it is what it is, it’s also possible,” I said dryly, “that I’ll only turn solid black and never become anything else.” I doubted that. But I was sick of talking about me. I was sick of thinking about me. “We called this meeting to discuss Balor, not me,” I reminded, scratching my arm through my glove. I was no longer icy to the touch but I was having random, sporadic bursts of itching beneath my skin, as if my cells were doing something I’d prefer they weren’t.
I was gloved, covered from head to toe, and bloody well hot. My hair was sleeked back into a braid, because I was afraid if I turned around fast, my long waves would fly out and kill someone. Holy crackling curls, my hair could kill someone!