The Darkest Seduction

He seriously did not need lessons. “I meant your admirers weren’t paying you the proper homage. They don’t deserve your exalted presence.”

And wouldn’t you know it. Her resistance ended there. “You make an excellent point.”

Of course, she’d missed his sarcasm.

He arrived at an abandoned alley and stopped. Perfect. The moon was so close he had only to reach out to trace the soft, orange-yellow edges. Clouds were closer still, enveloping him in a fine, dew-scented mist. Though the area was well-lit, no one passing by would see what transpired within the narrow space.

He rounded on Viola, pressing her against the solid gold bricks of the building, invading her personal space to gain her full attention. Except, her attention had already moved to her phone, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

I want, I want, I want!

I hope you rot and die.

“‘Lord of Sex is bloodier than before and … ick … swollen. My eyes are not amused.’ Send.”

He claimed her phone and, rather than smashing it as instinct demanded, returned it to the inside of her boot. “You can Screech about this later. As for right now, you’re going to talk to me. What can I do to see the dead? Remember, your worshippers insisted you tell me.”

A pout of those lush lips, but she said, “Burn the body of the soul you wish to see and save the ashes. Speaking of, did I ever tell you about how I once saved the ashes of a—”

On and on she droned about what she’d done, then about herself, her life, and Paris tuned her out, a curtain of hope forming around his mind. He’d already burned Sienna’s body and saved the ashes. At the time, he hadn’t known why he’d done so; he’d only known he couldn’t part with what remained of her. And ever since, he’d secretly carried a small vial of those ashes in his pocket.

Somehow, he must have suspected he would need them.

When Viola at last quieted, he said, “There’s more to seeing a soul than saving the ashes.” There had to be. A few weeks ago, Sienna had escaped Cronus, had hunted Paris down, yet Paris hadn’t seen her.

He never would have known about her arrival if William the Ever Randy, another being who could commune with the dead, had not been with him and casually mentioned the dead girl at his feet. Of course, Cronus had swiftly tracked her down and dragged her back to her prison.

An act the Titan king would pay for.

“Duh, of course there is. Mix the ashes with ambrosia and tattoo the rim of your eyes,” Viola said. “You’ll see her, I promise. If you want to touch her, tattoo the tips of your fingers. If you want to hear her, tattoo the flesh behind your ears, blah blah blah. I remember a time when I—”

Once again he tuned her out. This he could, would do. Tattooing one’s self with the ashes of the dead might be disgusting to most people, but Paris would have done a lot worse. “Will I smell her? Taste her?” he asked, interrupting Viola’s monologue.

“Only if you tattoo the inside of your nose, lips and top of your tongue. One time, in Tartarus, I—”

“Wait.”

Enough! I don’t want her, Sex suddenly piped up. Find someone else.

Well, well. For once they were in agreement. “Is there anything else I should know? Any consequences I should be aware of—”

“Paris.”

The familiar voice came from behind him. Paris whipped around, sickness already churning inside his stomach. Whenever Lucien visited him, bad news was quick on his heels. “What’s wrong?”

CHAPTER FOUR

LUCIEN, KEEPER OF DEATH, stood tall and strong, a powerful presence even through the haze of mist that enveloped him. Like Viola, the warrior could flash from one location to another with only a thought. His dark hair was a mop of tangles sticking out in spikes. His eyes—one blue, one brown—were bright with concern. Dirt smudged his scarred cheeks, and there were rips in his wrinkled shirt and pants.

“Since I told you not to come back for me until I texted you, I take it that’s not why you’re here.” Out of habit, Paris palmed his blades. “You better start talking.”

Lucien’s gaze strayed to Viola. “Get rid of her first.”

The “her” in question straightened her spine with a jolt. “Oh, no, he didn’t. I’m not some pretty a man can just toss aside whenever—oh, hey. You’re Anya’s man.” The indignation left her, and she waved happily. “Hi! I’m Viola. As if you couldn’t guess. My reputation for awesomeness precedes me, and I’m sure Anya has mentioned me countless times.”

She knew Anya, the minor goddess of Anarchy? A woman who had more balls than most men—because she’d cut them off the guys stupid enough to get in her way and kept them as souvenirs. Well, of course Viola knew Anya. They might have “minor” in their respective titles, but they were both major pains in the ass.

Lucien’s dark brows drew low. “No, she never—”

“Stops talking about you,” Paris rushed out, halting his friend before he insulted the egomaniac. He ran his hand along the front of his neck, his fingers taut as a blade, the universal sign for cut that out or die.

“Yes,” Lucien lied, frowning. “She mentions you all the time.”

Viola laughed, a tinkling sound of amusement. “No need to state the obvious, you darling boy. As if I’m not aware of how often I come up in conversation.”

“You should probably Screech about seeing Anya’s man,” Paris said. “Maybe describe him. Post a picture.

Whatever.”

Expression serious, she said, “Ixnay on the picture. Those are reserved for my image, otherwise my fans get twitchy. But the other thing … totally. Description is one of the many areas I shine in, since I shine in everything.” She grabbed her phone and typed away. “Hair of indigo and eyes of crystal and chocolate, he stands before me …”

Paris met Lucien’s confused stare. “She’s the keeper of Narcissism, and she only registers conversations about herself.” Clearly. “You can talk freely with me.”

Lucien’s eyes widened, and he studied Viola anew. “Another keeper? How did you find … Why isn’t she …? Never mind. Doesn’t matter right now.” His focus whipped back to Paris. “I’m here because Kane’s missing.”

The sickness returned to burn a path up Paris’s chest, stopping to play a game of tonsil hockey in his throat. “How long?”

“Just a few days. He and William were together. Someone captured them, took them into hell to execute them. Maybe Hunters, maybe not. Another group attacked the first. William says the cavern they were in collapsed and knocked him out before the men could do anything to him. When he woke up, he was in a motel room in Budapest. Without Kane.”

Paris rubbed a hand down his face. “Is Kane still … alive?” He had trouble speaking that last word, much less thinking it. If his friend had been slain while he’d been chasing tail, he would never forgive himself.

“Yeah. He is. He has to be.”

Because they couldn’t stand the thought of living without him. “You putting together a posse to search for him?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Who do you have so far?”

“Amun, Aeron, Sabin and Gideon.”

Nasty fighters, all of them. If Paris were missing, he’d want the same guys looking for him. Seriously, the only team capable of getting better results would be Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers and Hannibal Lecter.

Amun was the keeper of Secrets, and there was no greater warrior to have on your side. The man was like a worm in your brain, able to ferret out in seconds information you’d buried for years. In fact, there was nothing anyone could hide from him. So Kane’s location? No prob.

Aeron was the former keeper of Wrath. He’d recently been beheaded and given a new body, and that’s when his demon had merged with Sienna. But even without his darker half, Aeron liked to make his prey squeal before he moved in for the kill. Anyone who’d hurt Kane would pay. Repeatedly.

Sabin was the keeper of Doubt, a warrior of unparalleled strength and determination, and he had a vicious streak that caused hardened criminals to soil their pants in fear. He got into your head, reminded you of your weaknesses, and basically turned you into a slobbering bag of self-recrimination before he savagely murdered you—with a grin on his face.