She moaned her disappointment, then closed her eyes for a moment and savored. Her skin plumped back up, and wow, she could have floated away on a cloud of bliss, forever lost.
“What is that stuff, anyway?” Cronus had never told her.
“Ambrosia.”
Huh. A substance consumed by the immortals, she recalled reading, used for pleasure and the reaffirmation of power. As she now knew, myths often misled, straight-up lied or barely touched upon the truth. “Why do I—”
“Nope. No questions about this particular subject right now.” He hooked the flask to one of her belt loops and tucked the baggie carefully in her pocket. “When you feel yourself going into withdra—I mean, when you feel yourself getting weak, take a few swigs. You’ll perk right up.”
“Clearly.”
He met her gaze, the blue of his eyes frosting over in seconds, turning the ocean into a river of glass. “You said you could go a week with what Cronus brought you, right?”
So. She couldn’t question him, but he could question her? She could have refused to answer, or demanded they trade answers. She didn’t. “Yes.” The change in him upset her, and she wouldn’t add to his obvious stress.
“What you just drank should last a few days.” He gripped her forearms and shook her. “I need you to listen to my next words. If you retain nothing else I say, retain this.”
“Okay,” she repeated, tensing as his anxiety bled into her.
“Never, under any circumstances, are you to allow someone to taste your blood. Do you understand? They do, and you are to kill them before they can escape you.”
“Who would want to taste my blood?” Humans? Impossible. They couldn’t see her or even sense her. Vampires? Maybe. The nocturnal creatures existed, but they wanted everyone’s blood. Why target a ghost of a woman?
A muscle ticked in Paris’s jaw, a sign of his growing anger. “You’d be surprised. Now promise me. Promise me you’ll kill anyone who does.”
“I promise.” Her hands fluttered to his shoulders, an offering of comfort. He was trying to tell her something without freaking her out. She knew it, sensed it. Trying to protect her, even though they were destined to part.
He released her to shove his hair off his brow. There were dark smudges on his fingers, she saw. Wanting to help him, even in so small a way, she took one of his hands and rubbed at the inklike spots. They remained. She frowned.
“They won’t come off. They’re tattoos,” he explained, no inflection in his voice. He’d gone very still, had even stopped breathing at her first touch.
Why would he tattoo smudges on his fingertips? Her eyes met his, a tangle of confusion and an ever-present desire. She ignored the first and concentrated on the latter, lifting the tip of his finger to her mouth and sucking.
His pupils did their pulsing thing, stretching, snapping back into place, stretching again. The scent of dark chocolate and expensive champagne drifted from him, enveloping her, fogging her thoughts, electrifying her already sensitized nerves. She bit his pad lightly, and a hoarse groan left him.
“Do you have any children?” she asked, then had to fight a wave of sadness. I can’t. Never again. To distract herself, she sucked his finger deeper than before, swirling her tongue at the root and sliding the appendage out with a pop.
The sudden topic switch didn’t faze him. “No. I always know when a woman is…I mean, Sex knows, and he wants her that much more, but impregnating a stranger is one of two things I’ve never let him force me to do.”
Her head tilted to the side. “What’s the other?”
“Lie with someone under the age of consent.”
How vigilantly he must have to fight for such concessions. She knew firsthand how powerful a demon’s compulsions could be. “Do you want them? Children, I mean. One day, with a woman you love?” Stop this. It’s too painful.
He offered a casual shrug, or tried to. The lifting of his shoulder was stiff, jerky. “I want you, here and now,” he said. “Let me have you. One more time before we head out.”
One more time, a thought as arousing as it was depressing. Refusal, however, was not an option. She hadn’t lied earlier. She would take him however she could get him. “Yes.”
A slight whistling behind her, a cold splash through her, and then Paris’s entire body jerked. His eyes widened, and his hands fell from her. He frowned, looked down. A blade hilt protruded from his chest.
Sienna screamed and whipped around, using her own body as a shield for his. Except, one blade had already gone through her, as if she were nothing more substantial than mist. For whoever had thrown the weapon, she wasn’t. He could not see the dead, nor touch the dead, so neither could his blade.
The culprit was a large—really large—guy with pink hair and tattooed teardrops of blood under one of his eyes. He stood in the entrance of the cavern.
His punked-out features blazed with hatred. “How’s that for not fighting fair?” he snarled.
Paris shoved her behind him, and she stumbled from the force he used, falling into the water and sputtering. Her heart raced out of control as the two men slashed each other with their eyes. A physical slashing would follow, no question. Both were familiar with the dance of death, an undeniable truth as they got into position.
“How’d you find me? You know what, never mind. I don’t care. You tossed that dagger at my woman. For that I’m taking your throwing hand.” With a tug and a grimace, Paris removed the blade from his chest. His eyes glowed bright red, casting a crimson spotlight on the man he clearly wanted splayed on the chopping block.
“Your woman?” A snort, a sneer. The newcomer reached up and slid two serrated blades from a crisscross at his back. “What woman? It’s just you and me, demon.”
“I don’t give a flying flip that you can’t see her.” The words emerged on a growl, more animal than human. “She’s mine, and you brought violence to her door. For that, you’re losing your balls.”
“Is that so? Well, I say you hurt me over my woman, so now I’ll hurt you over yours.” He grinned without humor, metal glistening and whistling as he twirled the hilts.
“Doubtful.” Paris clasped the other crystal blade.
Another snort. “If you want to walk out of here alive, you’ll tell me where my goddess is.”
“You’re the one who likes more pain and less talking, right?” Paris said. “Come on, then. Come get your pain.”
Just like that, they were on each other. They fought faster than she could track. What she caught, like clicks of a camera: the pause as Paris pinned the punk, his boot coming down on a throat. The horrible suspension as a blade arched toward Paris’s midsection. The heart-stopper of hope as Paris swung for a knee, connected. The terrifying beat of time as Paris hit the ground, his opponent snarling on top of him.
And what followed that was a ballet of hammering fists and kicks with enough vigor to snap bones. Knees going for sensitive places. Teeth ripping. Claws tearing. Metal clanging. They slammed into walls, rolled around on the floor, hacked at each other. Blood splattered in every direction. Never had she seen anything more brutal.
They wielded their blades beautifully, horrifically. Annnd yes, as promised, there went the newcomer’s throwing hand. Blood sprayed anew. That didn’t stop him from launching at Paris and going for Beat Each Other Senseless, round two.
So badly Sienna wanted to take out her new gun and fire, but the two were tangled together, and she was afraid she would shoot Paris. Having joked about nailing him in the back, she was now faced with the very real possibility and couldn’t risk it. More than that, the bullet probably wouldn’t hurt the punk, would probably soar right through him the way his blade had soared through her.
So…what could she do? Unsure, but knowing her current position helped no one, she slogged her way out of the water and stood. A cold blast of air hit her, making her shiver so vehemently her teeth rattled and ice crystals formed on her skin. A second later, the angel Zacharel towered in front of her.
“Stop them,” she pleaded.
His green eyes were hard, unflinching and totally focused on her. “Come. We will leave them to their battle.”
Her impromptu swim must have waterlogged her ears. She could not have heard him correctly. “Come with you, as in leave Paris behind?” Weren’t the two men friends?
“Yes.” He waved his fingers with definite impatience. “You grasped my meaning correctly. Paris would prefer you not be around such violence, I’m sure.”
“Don’t care. I’m staying.” Warriors like him and Paris were unfamiliar with denial, and took every measure of resistance as a challenge, she was learning. Before this one could leap at her, she held her hands up, palms out, and backed away from him.
Cowardly, perhaps, but effective. He frowned at her.
“I’m staying, and that’s final,” she added.
Paris sensed the new threat and unleashed an unholy roar. He dove on Zacharel, knocking the robed warrior down. The angel didn’t shove him off. Didn’t touch him in any way, in fact, and yet Paris propelled across the cavern and slammed into the opposite wall.
The pink-haired punk was on him a second later, the fight speeding into a new level of ferocity. But through it all, Paris never dropped the blade that had done a meet and greet with his heart. He cozied the tip, and then the hilt, up to those extra-special soft spots in the guy’s side and stomach, just as he’d showed her.
A pain-filled grunt, a black curse. Then the guy was slumping over and Paris was whipping back around, his crimson sights once again on Zacharel—who was now standing beside Sienna.
With a gasp, she skirted around the spring, creating as much distance between them as possible. “Back off, angel boy.”
Black brows winged into his hairline. “Hardly, demon girl. I do this to save you, to save thousands of others.”
Uh, what now?
“Walk to me, Sienna.” Paris was panting, bleeding, shaking, and the crazy, animalistic glaze hadn’t left him. “Now.”
