From the book

Midnight. The witching hour, some say. Since it was 12:07 A.M. and I was standing over a dead body, I had to agree.

The victim, William H. Steele, a thirty-six-year-old Caucasian male, six feet four, approximately two hundred and thirty pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, lay naked across a bed of crisp winter leaves. Moonlight spilled in every direction, and withered foliage mockingly framed his muscular physique. He bore no open wounds, no bruises. In fact, not a single blemish marred the perfection of his skin. He was only recently dead; heat still radiated from him and curled into the icy night sky.

Alien Investigation and Removal agents, also known as A.I.R., were scouring the area, meticulously searching between every blade of brittle grass, every grain of dirt. The faint murmurs of their chatter echoed in my ears. I tuned them out and intensified my focus on the body. The man's legs were slightly spread and bent at the knees. One of his hands rested behind his head, and the other was bound to his penis with a -- what the hell was that? I crouched down. Eyes narrowed, I reached out with a gloved hand and slid one finger under the material. A pale blue ribbon, tied in a perfect bow.

I scowled. Was he supposed to be a gift?

Yes. Yes, that's exactly what he was, I realized, my scowl deepening. Frost gleamed in his hair like diamonds against dark velvet, yet he hadn't been outside long enough to acquire the frost from nature. He was a gift that had been posed to look carnal, seductive. Alluring. To the average citizen, he would have appeared eager for a long night of sexual gratification.

To me, he just looked like the corpse that he was.

His eyes were fixed straight ahead, his lips slightly blue, and he wasn't shivering from the cold. A dead giveaway, if you will. Besides that, his testicles were as smooth and shiny as marble, not shriveled like I supposed every other man's out here were.

With a wry shake of my head, I pushed to my feet.

Perhaps my assessment was callous and indifferent; perhaps my humor was misplaced. Dead bodies were the norm in my line of work, and I couldn't allow myself to view this man as an actual person. If I did, I'd have to acknowledge that he once had hopes and dreams, thoughts and feelings. I'd cry for the family he left behind, wonder about the life that had once pulsed through his veins.

I couldn't do that and still hope to function. With tears came distraction, and with distraction came death. My first year of fieldwork, I had spent more time crying for victims than hunting for their killers, and I had almost become a victim myself. I glanced down at my wrist. The inky blackness of my glove didn't quite meet the cuff of my jacket, leaving a small patch of skin visible. That skin boasted a tattoo of the Grim Reaper's scythe and was just one of my many reminders to remain unemotional.

I'd gotten the tattoo after recovering from a nasty beating, courtesy of a pissed-off other-worlder. While I'd been lost in my grief for a victim I couldn't even remember now, an energy-absorbing Rycan attacked me from behind -- and kicked major huntress ass.

I had vowed never to cry again. And I hadn't. Tears were a weakness only civilians could afford.

I am an alien huntress. I am part of the A.I.R. team, working with or against the New Chicago PD -- whichever suits me at the time. Every night I stalk and kill other-worlders, and whether I'm investigating a death or causing one myself, I have to shove sentiment aside, find humor where I can, and...

From the book

Chapter One

As I lay in the rafters of the Old West Cattle Co., surrounded by dust, shadows, and the smell of stale hay, anticipation raced through me. I cradled an A-7 pyre-rifle in my hands, the barrel aimed at a steep angle. Below me, several halogens hung strategically from the walls, giving me the visibility I needed, but at the same time shielding me from view. No one wanted to stare up at those harsh lights.

To be honest, I didn't like staring down at them.

The warehouse boasted no furniture for my target to hide behind. Only people (human and alien), dirty floors, and weapons. Right now, a crowd of other-worlders teased and taunted two naked, whimpering females banded to the far wall. The bastards who weren't participating were watching, waiting their turn. My anticipation for the kill increased, and I gripped my gun tighter. The tormentors were having such a lovely time, but my fun would come when I broke up the party with a few rounds of deadly fire.

See, I'm paid by the government to destroy other-worlders so vile, so disgusting, they can't take a chance alien rights advocates will get involved in the case. I'm not A.I.R., Alien Investigation and Removal. I'm worse.

Just a little longer, Eden. Information first. Kill second. EenLi (my target) and his compadres were abducting humans and shipping them off-planet to sell as slaves. I needed to know where they were storing the human "cargo" before deportation. More than that, I needed to know how they were hopping from one planet to another.

Oh, I knew they were using interworld portals -- the same portals they'd used to invade our planet. I just didn't know where or how to find these portals.

I should have known exactly where they were. I'm an alien. A Raka. A golden one, some humans call us, because our hair, skin, and eyes resemble liquid gold. But I was conceived here and raised by a human. The portals are as much a mystery to me as they are to every other Earth-born.

One of the women screamed, slicing into my thoughts. A man was pinching and twisting her nipples, laughing while he did it, laughing while she writhed and sobbed in pain. My finger twitched on the trigger. Hold. Hold.

Tonight I'm going to prove I'm as capable as any man -- as any human. Over the years I've been delegated the easy marks, the ones requiring no more skill than a blind man in a virtual game. Since my father is also my boss, he's the reason for my lack of hard-core cases. I know he hopes to protect me, but I'm long past the need.

My success tonight is critical. I took this case against his wishes, and I would not fail.

I had my target in sight: EenLi Kati, a.k.a. John Wayne and Wayne Johnson. He was a thirty-something Mec, average height, with eerie, narrow white eyes. We didn't know a lot about Mecs, only that they had some control over the weather and preferred hot, dry climates.

Like every Mec, EenLi possessed opalescent skin that glowed different colors with different emotions. He was the leader of this elusive group, and right now his skin glowed bright red. The bastard was pissed.

Dressed like a desperado from the past -- hat, boots, and spurs -- he stood in a shadowed corner, arguing fiercely with another Mec known as Mris-ste. The latter wore boots and spurs, but had opted not to wear a hat. Who did they think they were fooling? Cowboys. Please.

They spoke in their native tongue -- a halting, guttural rhetoric of clipped syllables and high-pitched timbres. Languages were one of my specialties, and I'd...

From the book

Chapter One

When people look at me, they automati-

cally assume I'm dark and weird. Why

can't they see the truth? I'm just a girl,

trying to find my place in the world.

-- From the journal of Jade Leigh

God, I hate school.

I'm sitting in trig, listening (not really) to Mr. Parton drone on and on about angles and measurements. As if I care. As if I'll ever use that stuff outside of this classroom.

Honestly, I'd rather be anywhere else. Even home, where my dad begins almost every conversation with, "You should lose the black clothes and wear something with color." Puh-lease. Like I want to look like every Barbie clone in Hell High, a.k.a. Oklahoma's insignificant Haloway High School. Ironically, Dad doesn't appreciate the bright blue streaks in my originally blond/now-dyed-black hair. Go figure. That's color, right?

With my elbows resting on my desktop, I dropped my forehead into my upraised palms and closed my eyes. Mr. Parton continued to blah, blah, blah (or, as he'd tell you, talk), and his superior, I-know-the-answers-therefore-I-am-God voice grated against my nerves.

Was I surprised? No. He always talked to us like that, as if we were dumb for not already knowing how to work math equations we'd never encountered before. He even got mad when we asked questions -- God forbid we actually learn, right? -- and generally treated us like total dumbwits.

Fifteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds before bell. Translation: fifteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds of me wishing for an apocalyptic destruction of the universe so my misery would end.

What had I done to deserve this kind of torture? Talk back to my dad? Who didn't? Ditch a few classes? Show me one person who hasn't. Pierce my nose? Well . . .

"If Miss Leigh will give me the honor of her attention," Mr. Parton snapped, "I'll explain the relation between sins and chords."

I didn't glance up, didn't want to encourage him. Really, when would this end?

"Are you paying attention, Miss Leigh, or are you praying you never come into contact with a wooden stake?"

Several students chuckled.

I still didn't bother looking up, but I did react to his taunt. "No, I'm not," I gritted out. I think the man enjoyed making fun of me more than he liked teaching. Not a single day passed without a snide comment from him: Why don't you do everyone a favor and stay home tomorrow, Miss Leigh? You're the reason I need ulcer medication, Miss Leigh. Your poor father, he must need a lot of therapy, huh, Miss Leigh. I'd heard it all. "FYI," I added, "your comment doesn't make you fright, Mr. Parton."

"Fright." Avery Richards snorted. "That's such a dumb word."

"Just say cool like the rest of us," someone else said.

I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment -- and hated myself for letting them see any hint of upset.

Mr. Parton tapped his foot impatiently. "Mind sharing with us what you were doing that's more important than listening to what I have to say? If anyone in this classroom needs to learn, it's you."

Okay. Now I'm officially pissed. "If you must know, I'm thinking of less painful ways to kill myself than from your lesson. Kevin."

My classmates erupted into laughter, and I heard the shuffle of their seats as they turned to glance at me. They may not like me, but they always found my irreverence amusing.

Mr. Parton...

CHAPTER ONE

Reyes stood on the roof of his Budapest fortress, five stories up, his feet balanced precariously on the highest ledge. Above him, moonlight seeped red and yellow from the sky, blood mixed with fickle gold, dark mixed with light, wounds freshly cut in the endless expanse of black velvet.

He gazed down at the gloomy, waiting void beneath him, the taunting ground opening its arms as if begging to embrace him. Thousands of years, and I’m still reduced to this.

Frigid wind blustered, ruffling his hair in every direction, tickling his bare chest, the hated butterfly etched up onto his neck, and the remembered lifeblood splattered there. Not his blood, though. No, not his, but his friend’s. Every stroke of hair against that phantom evidence of life and death was like kindling thrown into the fire of his blazing guilt.

So many times he’d come here, wishing for things that could never be. So many times he’d prayed for absolution, relief from his daily torment and the demon inside him responsible. . . relief from his utter dependence on self-mutilation.

His prayers had never been answered. Would never be answered. This was what he was, what he would always be. And his agony would only increase. Once an immortal warrior to the gods, he was now a Lord of the Underworld, possessed by one of the many spirits once locked inside dimOuniak. From favor to dishonor, beloved to despised. From happiness to constant misery.

He ground his teeth. Mortals knew dimOuniak as Pandora’s box; he knew it as the source of his eternal downfall. He and his friends had defiantly opened it all those centuries ago; now he and his friends were the box, each holding a demon inside himself.

Jump, his demon beseeched.

His demon: Pain. His constant companion. The tempting whisper in the back of his mind, the dark entity that craved unspeakable evil. The supernatural force he battled every damned minute of every damned day.

Jump.

“Not yet.” A few more seconds of anticipation, of knowing most of his bones would shatter on contact. He grinned at the thought. The razor-sharp bone shards would cut his injured, swollen organs and those organs would burst like water balloons; his skin would rip from the excess fluid, and this time the lifeblood that drained would be his own. Agony, such blissful agony, would consume him.

For a little while, anyway.

Slowly his smile faded. Within days -- hours, if he failed to hurt himself badly enough -- his body would heal itself, totally and completely. He would wake up, whole again, Pain once more a commanding force inside his mind, too loud to be denied. But oh, for those few blessed ticks of the clock before his bones began to realign, before his organs began to weave back together and his skin to reconnect, before blood once more pumped through his veins, he would experience nirvana. The ultimate paradise. Rapture of the sweetest kind. He would writhe in the exquisite pleasure the pain brought with it -- his only source of pleasure. The demon would purr with utter contentment, so drunk on the sensation it was unable to speak, and Reyes would experience such blissful peace.

For a little while. Always, only, a little while.

“I do not need another reminder about how fleeting my peace is,” he muttered to drown the depressing thought. He knew how quickly time passed. A year sometimes felt like nothing more than a day. A day sometimes felt like nothing more than a minute.

And yet, both were sometimes infinite to him. Just one of the many contradictions of life as a Lord of the Underworld.

Jump, Pain said. Then, more insistently, Jump! Jump!

“I told you. Just a few seconds more.” Once again Reyes glanced at the ground. Jagged rocks winked in that bleeding moonlight, the clear puddles surrounding them rippling in the wind. Mist rose like ghostly fingers, summoning him closer, wonderfully closer. “Plunging a blade into your enemy’s throat kills him, yes,” he told the demon, “but then it’s over, done, and you have nothing left to anticipate.”

Jump! A snarled command, impatient and needy, a child throwing a tantrum.

“Soon.”

Jumpjumpjump!

Yes, sometimes demons really were like whiny human children. Reyes shoved a hand through his tangled hair, a few strands ripping from his scalp. He knew of only one way to shut his other half up. Obedience. Why he’d even tried to resist and savor the moment, he didn’t know.

Jump!

“Maybe this time you’ll be sent back to hell,” he muttered. A man could wish, anyway. Finally, he splayed his arms. Closed his eyes. Leaned . . .

“Come down from there,” he heard a voice say from behind him.

Reyes’s eyelids popped open at the unwelcome intrusion, and he stiffened. He rebalanced but didn’t turn. He knew why Lucien was here, and he was too ashamed to face his friend. While the warrior understood what he dealt with because of his demon, there would be no understanding what he’d done.

“That’s the plan, coming down. Leave and I’ll see that it gets done.”

“You know what I meant.” There was no hint of laughter in Lucien’s voice. “I need to talk to you.”

The dewy scent of roses suddenly saturated the air, thick and lush and so unexpected in the late-winter night that Reyes would have sworn he’d been transported to a spring meadow. A human would have found the aroma hypnotic, lulling, almost drugging, and would have done anything the warrior asked. Reyes merely found it annoying. After thousands of years together, Lucien should have known the fragrance held no power over him.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said tightly.

Jump!

“We’ll talk now. Afterward, you may do whatever you please.”

After Reyes admitted his newest crime? No, thanks. Guilt, shame and grief might bring emotional pain, but none would soothe his demon in any way. Only physical suffering offered relief, which was why Reyes had always guarded his emotional wellbeing so diligently.

Yes, and you’ve done such a great job at it.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, unsure who had whispered that sarcastic little gem. Himself or Pain. “I’m in a bad place right now, Lucien.”

“As are the others. As am I.”

“You, at least, have a woman to comfort you.”

“You have friends. You have me.” Lucien, keeper of the demon of Death, was tasked with escorting human souls to the hereafter, whether the hereafter was heaven or the deepest fires of hell. He was stoic, ever-calm – most of the time. He’d become their leader, the man every warrior residing in this Budapest fortress turned to for guidance and aid. “Talk to me.”

Reyes didn’t like to deny his friend, but he told himself it was better that Lucien did not learn the terrible thing he’d done.

Even as Reyes thought it, he recognized the lie for what it was: a shameful lack of courage on his part. “Lucien,” he began, only to stop. Growl.

“The tracking dye has worn off and no one knows where Aeron is,” Lucien said. “No one knows what he’s doing, if he’s the one who slaughtered those humans in the States. Maddox said he called you right after Aeron escaped the dungeon. Then Sabin told me you left Rome and the Temple of the Unspoken Ones in a hurry. Want to tell me where you went?”

“No.” Truth. He didn’t. “But you may rest assured Aeron is no longer able to slaughter humans.”

There was a pause, the rose-scent intensifying.

“How do you know for sure?” The question possessed a bite.

Reyes shrugged.

“Why don’t I tell you what I think happened?” Where Lucien’s tone had been sharp before, it was now threaded with expectation. And fear? “You went after Aeron, hoping to protect the girl.”

The girl. Aeron had kidnapped the girl. Aeron had been ordered by the new gods, the Titans, to murder the girl. Reyes had taken one look at the girl and allowed her to invade his most private thoughts, color his every action and reduce him to a lovesick fool.

With only a glance she had changed his life, and not for the better. And yet, the fact that Lucien refused to say her name pissed Reyes off royally. Reyes desired that girl more than he desired a hammer to the skull. For Pain, that was saying something.

“Well?” Lucien prompted.

“You’re right,” Reyes said through tight lips. Why not admit it? he suddenly thought. His emotions were in turmoil and remaining quiet had only roused them further. More than that, his friends could not hate him anymore than he hated himself. “I went after Aeron.”

The admission hung in the air, heavy as shackles, and he paused.

“You found him.”

“I found him.” Reyes squared his shoulders. “I also . . . destroyed him.”

Rocks crumbled under Lucien’s boots as he stalked forward. “You killed him?”

“Worse.” Still Reyes did not turn. He peered down longingly at the still-waiting ground. “I buried him.”

The pounding of footsteps ceased abruptly. “You buried him but did not kill him?” Confusion drifted from Lucien’s voice. “I do not understand.”

“He was about to kill Danika. I could see the torment in his eyes and knew he did not want to do it. I cut him down to slow him and he thanked me, Lucien. Thanked me. He begged me to stop him permanently. He begged me to take his head. But I couldn’t do it. I raised my sword, but I just couldn’t do it. So I had Kane collect Maddox’s chains and bring them to me. Since Maddox no longer needs them, I used them to lock Aeron underground.”

Reyes had once been forced to shackle Maddox to a bed every night, cursed to stab his friend in the stomach six hated times, knowing the warrior would awaken in the morning and Reyes would have to kill him all over again. Some friend I am.

After hundreds of years, Maddox had come to accept the curse. Restraining him, however, had been a necessity. As the keeper of Violence, Maddox tended to attack without warning. Even his friends. And as strong as the warrior was, he would have rent man-made metal in seconds. So they’d commandeered links forged by the gods, links no one, not even an immortal, could open without the proper key.

Like Maddox, Aeron had been – was -- helpless against them. In the beginning, Reyes had resisted using them on his friend, not wanting to take even more of the warrior’s freedom. Sadly, as with Maddox, employing them had become a necessity.

“Where is Aeron, Reyes?” Underneath the question was a command laced with the authority of a man used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted. A man who ensured there were severe consequences for any type of delay.

Reyes wasn’t frightened. He simply hated to disappoint this warrior he loved like a brother. “That, I will not tell you. Aeron doesn’t wish to be freed.” And even if he did, I do not think I would free him.

There lay the crux of Reyes’s guilt.

Another pause slithered between them, this one strained and expectant. “I can find him on my own. You know I can.”

“You have already tried and failed or you would not be here.” Reyes knew that Lucien could flash into the spirit world and follow a person’s unique psychic trail. Sometimes, though, the trail faded or became tainted.

Reyes suspected Aeron’s was tainted, as the warrior was not the man he used to be.

“You’re right. His trail ends in New York,” Lucien admitted darkly. “I could continue my search, but that would take time. And time is something none of us can spare right now. Already two weeks have passed.”

How well Reyes knew that, for he’d felt every day of those weeks like a noose tightening around his neck, one worry stacking upon another. Hunters, their greatest enemy, were even now searching for Pandora’s box, hoping to use it to suck the demons out of each and every warrior, destroying man and locking away beast.

If the warriors wished to survive, they had to find the box first.

Chaotic as life now was, Reyes was not ready to end his permanently.

“Tell me where he is,” Lucien said, “and I’ll bring him to the fortress. I’ll bolt him inside the dungeon.”

Reyes snorted. “He escaped once. He could escape again, even with Maddox’s chains I’m thinking. His bloodlust gives him a strength I’ve never encountered before.”

“He’s your friend. He’s one of us.”

“He’s warped from bloodlust, and you know it. Most of the time, he is not aware of his own actions. He would kill you if given the chance.”

“Reyes – ”

“He’ll destroy her, Lucien.”

Her. Danika Ford. The girl. Reyes had seen her only a few times, talked to her even less, but still he craved her with every ounce of his being. Something he didn’t understand. He was dark, she was light. He was anguish, she was innocence. He was wrong for her in every way, and yet, when she looked at him, his entire world felt right.

He knew beyond any doubt that the next time Aeron reached her, the warrior would savagely murder her. There would be no stopping him. Not again. Aeron had been ordered to kill Danika – and her mother and her sister and her grandmother – and was as helpless against the gods and their powers as everyone else. He would do it.

Reyes’s temper flared and he had to glance at the rocks below to calm himself. Aeron had resisted the gods’ dark task at first. He was – No. He had been a good man. But with every day that had passed, his demon had grown stronger, louder inside his head, until finally it overtook his mind. Now Aeron was the demon inside him. He was Wrath. He obeyed. He slew. Until those four women were destroyed, he would live only to hunt and kill.

Except, inside Danika’s temporary apartment those fourteen days, four hours and fifty-six minutes ago, there had been a small part of Aeron that had known the crimes he committed. A small part that hated who and what he had become and desired death above all things. Desired an end to the torment. Why else would Aeron have asked Reyes to kill him?

And I refused him. Reyes couldn’t bring himself to hurt another warrior. Not again. Still. What kind of monster left his friend to suffer? A friend who had fought for him, killed for him? Loved him?

There had to be a way to save both Aeron and Danika, he thought for what, the thousandth time? He’d spent countless hours pondering, but still did not see a solution.

“Do you know where the girl is?” Lucien demanded, cutting into his musings.

“No, I do not.” Truth. “Aeron found her, I found Aeron, and that’s when we fought. She ran. I didn’t follow her afterward. She could be anywhere by now.” Best that way. He knew it, but he was still desperate to know her location, what she was doing. . . if she lived.

“Lucien, man, what’s taking so damn long?”

At the second intrusion, Reyes finally turned. Paris, keeper of Promiscuity, now stood beside Lucien. Both men were facing him, eyes narrowed. Beams of crimson moonlight fell around them but not on them, as if those colored rays were afraid to touch the evil that even hell itself had been unable to contain.

Immortal that he was, Reyes saw them clearly, gaze cutting expertly through the darkness.

Paris was tall, the tallest of the group, with multicolored hair, pale otherworldly skin and eyes so pure a blue not even the most fanciful poetry did them justice. Human women found him mesmerizing, irresistible, constantly throwing themselves at him and begging for a single touch. A heated kiss.

Lucien, though mated now, was not so lucky. Human women stayed far away from him. His face was hideously scarred, grotesque even, giving him the appearance of a bedtime monster found only in fairy tales. Didn’t help that he had mismatched eyes – a brown one that saw the natural world and a blue one that saw the spiritual world -- and both crackled with the ever-after.

Both men were corded with the kind of muscle mass only hours of daily physical exertion could provide. They were loaded down with weapons and ready to fight at any moment of any day. They had to be.

“I don’t recall deciding to throw a party up here,” Reyes said.

“Well, old age will wipe your memory like that,” Paris replied. “Remember, we need to discuss our next plan of action? Among other things.”

He sighed. The warriors did what they wanted, when they wanted, and no biting remark would stop them. He knew that firsthand, because he was the exact same way. “Why aren’t you out researching Hydra’s hiding places?”

Lush lips better suited for a woman thinned into a mulish line. Paris’s eyes flashed the kind of agony Reyes usually saw staring back at him from his own mirror, replaced all too soon by the warrior’s usual irreverence.

“Well?” Reyes prompted when there was no answer.

Finally his friend said, “Even immortals need coffee breaks.”

There was obviously more to the story than that, but Reyes didn’t press. I am not the only man with secrets. Several weeks ago the warriors had split up to search for Hydra, a cranky half-snake, half-woman. . .thing who was guarding several of King Titan’s favorite “toys.” Those toys – weapons, really -- were supposed to lead them to Pandora’s box. So far, they’d only managed to snag one. The Cage of Compulsion. They had only the barest clues about the locations of the others.

“Yes, but when faced with extinction, coffee breaks lose their importance. And yes, I realize I need to do more. I will. After.”

Paris shrugged. “I’m doing what I can. The US is a huge damn place.” Without switching his attention from Reyes, he asked Lucien, “Did he tell you where Aeron is or what?”

One of Lucien’s black brows arched toward his hairline. “No. He didn’t.”

“Told you he’d be difficult.” Paris frowned. “He hasn’t been himself for weeks.”

Reyes could say the same about Paris, he realized as he noticed lines of fatigue and stress around the usually optimistic man’s eyes. Perhaps he should press Paris for answers. Clearly, something had happened to his friend. Something major.

“We’re running out of time, Reyes.” Accusation coated Paris’s words. “Cooperate. Help us.”

“Hunters are more determined than ever to end us,” Lucien added. “Humans have discovered the Unspoken Ones’ temple, limiting our access yet increasing that of the Hunters. We’ve only found one artifact out of four, but all are supposedly needed to locate the box.”

Reyes arched a brow, mimicking Lucien’s earlier expression. “You think Aeron can help with any of that?”

“No, but we do not need discord among us. Nor do we need the distraction of worrying about him.”

“You can stop worrying,” Reyes said. “He doesn’t want to be found. He hates who and what he is, and he hates us seeing him like that. I swear to you, he’s content where he is or I would not have left him.”

The door to the roof burst open and Sabin, keeper of Doubt himself, stalked through, dark hair dancing in the breeze.

“For fuck’s sake,” the man said, throwing up his arms. “What the hell’s going on?” He spotted Reyes and comprehension instantly dawned. He rolled his eyes. “Damn, Pain, you sure know how to spoil a meeting.”

“Why aren’t you researching Rome?” Reyes asked him. Had everyone stopped working in the half hour he’d been on the roof?

Gideon, keeper of Lies, was close at Sabin’s heels and prevented the warrior from answering with a sober, “My, my, how fun this looks.”

In Gideon Speak, “fun” meant boring. The man couldn’t utter a single truth without experiencing debilitating pain. Pain, exactly what I need. If only Reyes simply had to lie to receive it, how easy life would have been.

“Shouldn’t you be helping Paris research the States?” Reyes demanded. He didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “This is starting to feel like a damned circus. Can’t a man do a little sulking and self-mutilation in private?”

“No,” Paris said, “he can’t. Stop stalling, and stop changing the subject. Give us the answers we want or I swear to the gods I’m coming up there and laying a big wet one right on your mouth. My boy is hungry and looking to feed. He thinks you’ll do just fine.”

Reyes didn’t doubt Promiscuity wanted to bed him, but he knew Paris, and knew the warrior preferred women.

Get rid of them. Reyes studied his newest guests. Gideon was dressed entirely in black, with hair dyed electric blue, eyebrows pierced in several places, the silver studs gleaming, and charcoal-rimmed eyelashes. Humans found him cut-your-heart-out scary.

Sabin wore all black, as well, but his brown hair, brown eyes, and square, guileless face didn’t make him look as if he would kill anyone who approached him – and laugh while doing it.

Both men were stubborn to their very cores.

“I need time to think,” Reyes said, hoping to play on their sympathies.

“There’s nothing to think about,” Sabin replied. “You will do what’s right because you’re an honorable warrior.”

Aren’t you? Perhaps you are as weak as the human girl you desire. Why else would you hurt those who love you like this?

Ouch, he thought, cringing. He was weak. He was -- “Sabin,” Reyes growled as realization set in. “Stop sending doubts into my mind. I have enough of my own.”

The warrior shrugged sheepishly, not even trying to deny it. “Sorry.”

“Since our meeting is clearly not canceled,” Gideon said, “I’m not heading into the city, not visiting Club Destiny, and not screwing a few screams of pleasure out of a human female.” He disappeared behind the door a second later, shaking his head in exasperation.

“Don’t cancel the meeting,” Reyes told the others. “Just. . . start without me.” He glanced over his shoulder, gaze starting in the sky and falling slowly. Night’s sinister canvas still waited, beckoning him to finally leap. “I’ll be down in a few.”

Paris’s lips twitched. “Down. Funny. Maybe I’ll meet you down there and we can play Hide-the-Pancreas again. Forcing you to completely regenerate rather than simply heal always amuses me.”

Even Lucien grinned at that.

“Oh, oh, I wanna play! Can I hide his liver this time?”

At the sound of Anya’s sultry voice, Reyes stifled a groan.

The white-haired goddess of Anarchy rushed through the doorway and threw herself into Lucien’s now-open arms, her strawberry fragrance drifting on the ever-increasing wind. The pair cooed and cuddled like lovesick idiots for an eternity, lost in each other, the world around them forgotten. It had taken Reyes a while to warm to the woman. She belonged in Olympus, home to the very beings he detested – strike one. She left chaos in her wake, something as natural to her as breathing – strike two. But in the end, she had aided every warrior here, and had blessed Lucien with a happiness Reyes could only imagine.

Sabin coughed.

Paris whistled, though the sound of it was strained.

A pang of envy tightened Reyes’s chest, squeezing at the heart that would soon stop beating. The heart he wished he did not possess. Without one, he would not have wanted Danika even though he knew he couldn’t have her.

Didn’t matter, he supposed. She would never want him in return. Most women did not appreciate his particular brand of pleasure and sweet, angelic Danika would hate it more than most. Even being near him had terrified her.

Perhaps, though, he could have won her over, seduced her, softened her toward him. Perhaps. . . but he refused to even try. The women he bedded always succumbed to his demon, became drunk on it, addicted to its predilections. They developed their own need for pain, lashing out and hurting everyone around them.

“Someone gather the others,” Reyes said, sarcasm dripping from the words and hopefully hiding his inner agony. “We’ll make this a reunion.” What was Danika doing right this second? Who was she with? A man? Was she cuddling against him as Anya was cuddling against Lucien? Was she dead, buried as Aeron was buried? His hands curled into fists, his nails elongating into claws, slicing skin and stinging beautifully.

“You can shut it, Painie,” Anya said, facing him. She burrowed her head in the hollow of Lucien’s neck, blue eyes peeking through thick strands of pale hair. “You’re wasting Lucien’s time, and that seriously irritates me.”

Bad things happened when Anya was irritated. Wars, natural disasters. Reyes’s weapons left in the rain to rust. “He and I have already spoken. He has the information he desired.”

“Not all of it,” Lucien said.

“Tell him or I’ll push you,” Anya said. “And then I swear to the gods – bastards that they are! – that while you’re recovering and unable to stop me I’ll find your little girlfriend and mail you one of her fingers.”

Just the thought caused a red haze to curtain his eyes. Danika. . . hurting. . . Do not react. Do not allow fury to swamp you. “You will not touch her.”

“Watch your tone,” Lucien told him, tightening his grip on his woman.

“You don’t even know where she is,” Reyes said more calmly, marveling at how protective the once stolid Lucien was.

Anya smiled a secret smile.

“Anya,” he warned.

“What?” she asked, all innocence.

“Aeron needs to be with us,” Lucien said.

“Aeron is no longer up for discussion,” Reyes growled. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see the torment in his eyes. You didn’t hear the pleading in his tone. I did what I had to do, and I’d do it again.” He spun away from his friends. Glanced down. The puddles were now undulating fiercely against the jagged rocks lining the ground. They were still beckoning.

Deliverance, they whispered.

Just for a little while. . .

“Reyes,” Lucien called.

Reyes jumped.

From the book

New Chicago

Sometime in the near future...

I'd always loved the night, where anything could happen and everything usually did. The forbidden...the unexpected...the bad. Nothing seemed real in the ethereal light of the moon. Sins were easily forgiven. Why not play? everyone thought -- I had once thought. Why not enjoy?

At the moment, loud, gyrating music pounded through the darkness, vibrating with so much force the ground shook and the trees swayed. In the center of a forest clearing, my friends danced around a blazing fire, and in the flickering gold and shadows their hands were everywhere. Their mouths were kissing hungrily, their bodies moved to the rhythm of the rock, fast and erratic. Sexual.

Those who weren't dancing were lounging against the circling trees, drinking beer, laughing, and smoking Onadyn, or "Snow Angels," as we called the cigs -- the drug of choice for humans nowadays. It was a deoxygenating drug meant only for the aliens who had invaded our planet so many years ago. A deoxygenating drug that made humans, who needed oxygen to survive, feel as if they were soaring through the heavens, untouchable and invincible (if it didn't kill them).

"I should know," I muttered under my breath.

I'd flown for years before being forced into rehab. (Twice) I'd been too wasted to recall the first, but I remembered the second very well, the memory of it burned into my brain.

My mom had picked me up after school one day. Uncaring of her reaction, I'd smoked a Snow Angel just before she arrived. Not enough to pass out, but just enough to fragment my thoughts and emotions, making me loopy, disoriented, and a total pain in the ass.

Nothing could touch me when I was like that. Not anger, not fear, not sadness.

She'd known what I'd done the instant she spotted me -- the glassy eyes and blue lips always gave users away -- yelling in front of the other kids waiting for their parents, "Damn you, Phoenix! Is this how you put your life back together?"

Some of the kids around me snickered; some stared at me with disgust. Still uncaring, I didn't sit up, just continued to lounge on the steps. The sun was shining, bright and warm. Maybe I'd spend the rest of the day here.

"I asked you a question, young lady."

"And I didn't give you an answer," I'd replied with a laugh. "Now hush."

"Hush? Hush! You're ruining your life, you're ruining my life, and you don't even care!" She abandoned the car and stomped to me, scowling down at me. "I'm supposed to go to work, but I can't leave you alone like this. No telling what you'll do."

I laughed again. "You're a waitress. It's not like you make a difference in the world. And you know what else? Whatever I do is my business, not yours."

Hurt washed over her face, but she squared her chin. "Whether I make a difference or not, my job is what pays for your food and your shelter and your clothes." She grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "Your actions become my business when you steal my hard-earned money to buy the very drugs that are killing you. Your actions become my business when you run away to God knows where and I don't see you for days."

"Just, I don't know, shut up and go away or something. You're ruining my buzz." Dizzy, I tried to push her hands away but didn't have the strength. That, too, made me laugh.

She didn't reply for several strangled seconds, just stared at me as if I were a bottle...

From the book

1

A few months later...

Have you ever stumbled upon a secret you wished to God you'd never learned? A dark and dangerous secret? A secret people would kill to protect?

I have.

And, yeah, I almost died for it.

My name is Camille Robins. I'm eighteen and in my last month at New Chicago High, District Eight.

It all began on a balmy Friday evening when my friend Shanel Stacy borrowed her parents' car and picked me up...

"I can't believe we're doing this," I said, already breathless with anticipation and nerves. I slid into the passenger seat.

"Believe it, baby," Shanel said as she buckled into the driver's side. With a few clicks of the keyboard, she programmed the Ship's address into the car's console, and we eased out of my driveway and onto the street.

Because sensors kept the car from hitting anyone or thing and because computers navigated the roads, we didn't have to steer or even keep our eyes on our surroundings. We could chat and consider all the things that might go wrong at the famous nightclub.

Get caught lying to our parents -- a possibility. We'd told them we were staying the night with another friend of ours. A friend we'd invented. Get thrown out -- another possibility. We weren't rich or fabulous like the usual patrons. Make fools of ourselves -- the biggest possibility of all.

Neither one of us had style.

Shanel studied me, her intent gaze starting at my dark hair and stopping on my boots. Underneath, my toenails were painted blue to match my eyes. "Why do you look like you're one second away from barfing on the floorboards?"

"I'm not good at clandestine activities. You know that."

"This isn't clandestine. This is fun."

"Fun?" So not the word I would have used.

"Oh yeah." Shanel smiled slowly. "Fun." But a moment passed in silence and she lost her grin. Her expression became pensive. "I wish I was an Outer."

Outer. Aka alien. My face scrunched in confusion. "Why?"

"Think about it. Some of them can control humans with their minds. I could make boys fall in love with us; I could force people to notice us; we could become the most popular girls at school -- no, the world -- with only a thought."

Sounded good in theory, but...I have nothing against Outers, I just don't want to be one, no matter what their powers are. They lived and walked among us, but some people still hated them and treated them as less than, well, human. I've seen them teased and taunted unmercifully. I've seen them pushed and beaten.

I wanted to be noticed, but I wanted it to be for something good.

Besides, Outers didn't look like us. Some of them had horns. Horns! And not just on their heads. Some of them had blue skin and multiple arms (ick), some of them excreted a gooey green slime (gag). Some of them changed color with their moods (okay, that wasn't so bad).

"What if those mind-controlling powers you want so badly came with a price? Like green scales and fish breath?" I asked. Yeah, some of them had those, too. "Would you still want to be an Outer?"

Shanel shuddered.

I'd take that as a no. Shanel and I were "Invisibles," not seen or heard by our school's elite, but even our socially non-existent lives were better than those of the Outers. "So, uh, do you think he'll be there?"

She didn't have to ask who he was. Erik Troy. Gorgeous, delectable, mouthwatering Erik Troy. A boy who rarely glanced in my direction, despite the fact that staring at him had...

From the book

CHAPTER 1

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The disturbing clatter whined inside Jaxon Tremain's mind, playing without permission or welcome. He laughed bitterly. He didn't know how long he'd been locked up in the dank little cell. A week? An eternity?

Perhaps an endless dirt nap loomed in his future. Yeah, undoubtedly. He should be glad. It would be another endless ticktocking, except there would be no pained awareness, no crazed waiting for death to -- finally? blessedly? regrettably? -- come.

Survived worst, he thought, trying to comfort himself.

Once, he'd been shot and burned with a pyre-gun. An accident during training, but his shoulder still bore the fireseared scars. Another time, he'd been undercover, ratted out, then weighed down with steel beams and tossed into a muddy man-made river. Water and grime had filled his mouth, stinging like acid down his throat, into his lungs. When he'd miraculously fought his way free, he'd been surprised to find his skin still intact, muscle still glued to bones.

Once, he'd been stabbed in the kidney. A straight cut, all the way through, severing one of his favorite organs. Foolishly, he'd turned his back on a suspect one second too long and adios, old friend.

Sometimes that's all that was needed. One second.

The words echoed in his mind. One second was a single tick. Or tock. He laughed again, but the laughter soon turned to gagging and the gagging to coughing, the coughing to choking pain.

"I'm going insane," he muttered when he calmed. Not that the words were understandable. "Tickity, tockity, tickity, tockity." How many more were left for him?

Couldn't be many.

Being an Alien Investigation and Removal agent for New Chicago certainly has its perks, he thought dryly. 'Cause when an agent needed help breaking his nasty breathing habit, he got help.

Since Jaxon's abduction, a group of aliens had whaled on him so many times he'd lost count. They'd probably whale on him a thousand times more, fists flying at him in tune with that fucking clock. Tick, tock. Another laugh. Yep. Insane.

The otherworlders had beaten him because he'd refused to answer their questions. Even when screams had erupted inside his mind, loud and discordant, mortality in every pitch, he hadn't caved. Remembering the screams, he shuddered. Perhaps all the men and women he'd killed over the years had risen up, their souls fused with his as they finally made themselves known, determined to be heard at last.

Now, at least, the screams were buried somewhere deep, replaced by that damn clock. A small price to pay, he supposed.

Unfortunately, his body's suffering had only intensified.

He'd been punched in the mouth until his teeth shredded his gums. His tongue was the size of a baseball, so big he couldn't even move it to ensure he was still the proud owner of all those pearly whites. His nose was broken, yet somehow the scent of urine still taunted him, blending with the metallic aroma of dried blood and sweat. His, a thousand others.

His eyes were swollen, leaving only tiny slits. Not that there was much to see. Murky darkness failed to live up to its promise of sweet oblivion, revealing four barred walls, a plastic-lined floor to better clean any gore, and old-fashioned metal chains that continually sliced into his wrists and ankles like razors.

Those chains rattled as he shifted to a more comfortable position against the bars. Big. Mistake. He winced as intense pain ripped...

CHAPTER ONE

Every day for hundreds of years the goddess had visited hell and every day Geryon had watched her from his station, desire heating his blood more than the flames of damnation beyond his post ever had. He should not have studied her that first time and should have kept his gaze downcast all the times since. He was a slave to the prince of darkness, spawned by evil; she was a goddess, created in light.

He could not have her, he thought, hands fisting. No matter how much he might wish otherwise. She would not want him. This...obsession was pointless and brought him nothing but despair. He did not need more despair.

And yet, still he watched her this day as she floated through the barren cavern, coral-tipped fingers tracing the jagged stones that separated underground from underworld. Golden ringlets flowed down her elegant back and framed a face so perfect, so lovely, Aphrodite herself could not compare. Eyes of starlight narrowed, a rosy color blooming in those cheeks of smooth alabaster.

“The wall is cracked,” she said, her voice like a song amid the hiss of nearby flame -- and the unnatural screams that always accompanied them.

He shook his head, positive he had merely imagined the words. In all their centuries together, they had never spoken, never deviated from their routine. As the Guardian of Hell, he ensured the gate remained closed until a spirit needed to be cast inside. That way, no one and nothing escaped—and if they tried, he rendered punishment. As the goddess of Oppression, she fortified the physical barrier with only a touch. Silence was never breeched.

Uncertainty darkened her features. “Have you nothing to say?”

She stood in front of him a moment later, though he never saw her move. The scent of honeysuckle suddenly overshadowed the stink of sulfur and melting flesh, and he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes in ecstasy. Oh, that she would remain just as she was...

“Guardian,” she prompted.

“Goddess.” He forced his lids to open gradually, slowly revealing the glow of her beauty. Up close, she was not as perfect as he had thought. She was better. A smattering of freckles dotted her sweetly sloped nose, and dimples appeared with the curve of her half-smile. Exquisite.

What did she think of him? he wondered.

She probably thought him a monster, hideous and misshapen. Which he was. But if she did think so, she did not show it. Only curiosity rested in those starlight eyes. For the wall, he suspected, not for him. Even when he’d been human, women had wanted nothing to do with him. They’d run from him the moment he’d turned his attention to them. He’d been too tall, too brawny, too bumbling. And that before he’d resembled an ogre.

Sometimes he’d wondered if he’d been tainted at birth.

“Those cracks were not there yesterday,” she said. “What has caused such damage? And so swiftly?”

“A horde of Demon Lords rise from the pit daily and fight to break out. They have grown tired of their confinement here and seek living humans to torment.”

She accepted the news without reaction. “Have you their names?”

He nodded. He did not need to see beyond the gate to know who visited on the other side; he sensed. Always. “Violence, Death, Lies, Doubt, Misery. Shall I go on?”

“No,” she said softly. “I understand. The worst of the worst.”

“Yes. They bang and they claw from the other side, desperate to reach the mortal realm.”

“Well, stop them.” A command, laced with husky entreaty.

If only. He would have given up the last vestiges of his humanity to do as she wished. Anything to repay the daily gift of her presence. Anything to keep her just where she was, prolonging the sweetness of her scent. “I am forbidden to leave my post, just as I am forbidden to open the gates for any reason but allowing one of the damned inside. I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

Besides, the only way to stop a determined demon was to kill it, and killing a High Lord was another forbidden act.

A sigh slipped from her. “Do you always do as you’re told?”

“Always.” Once he had fought the invisible ties that bound him. Once, but no longer. To fight was to invite pain and suffering—not for him, but for others. Innocent humans who resembled his mother, his father and his brothers – because his true mother, father and brothers had already been slain -- were brought here and tortured in front of him. The screams…oh, the screams. Far worse than the ones that seeped from hell. And the sights . . . He shuddered.

Had the pain and suffering been heaped upon him, he would not have cared. Would have laughed and fought all the harder. What was a little more pain? But Lucifer, brother to Hades and prince of the demons, needed him healthy, whole, so had found other ways to gain his cooperation.

The memories would forever haunt him. Or would have, if he’d required sleep. He remained awake, every hour of every day.

“Obedience. I expected differently from you,” she said. “You are a warrior, so strong and assured.”

Yes, he was a warrior. But he was also a slave. One did not cancel out the other. “I am sorry, goddess. My strength and assurance changes nothing.”

“I will pay you to help me,” she insisted. “Name your price. Whatever you desire shall be yours.”

If only, Geryon thought again. He would ask for a single taste of her lips.

Why limit himself, though? he wondered next. Whatever he desired. He could ask for a night in her arms. Naked. Touching. Tasting. Yes. Yes. Every muscle in his body clenched. In arousal. In desperation.

In despair.

No. He could not risk the suffering of the innocent-—why do you bother with them?—-simply to sate his craving for the lovely goddess. So have a kiss? A night with her? No again.

Finally I know true torture. He ground his teeth. Why did he bother? Because without good, there would only be evil. And he had seen too much evil over the centuries. He would not be responsible more.

“Guardian?” the goddess prompted. “Anything.”

Untouchable

by Kresley Cole

PROLOGUE

Reyes, once an immortal warrior for the gods, now possessed by the demon of Pain and living in Budapest, entered his bedroom. He was drenched in sweat and panting from the force of his workout. Because he could not experience pleasure without physical suffering, the burn in his muscles had excited him. Was exciting him.

As always, his gaze sought out his woman and he palmed the blade they preferred to use during their loveplay. She was sitting at the edge of their big bed, lovely features drawn tight as she studied the canvas in front of her. A canvas she’d propped on an easel and lowered so that she had a direct view. Blond hair fell to her shoulders in wild disarray, as if she’d tangled her fingers through the thick mass multiple times, and she was chewing on her bottom lip.

Sex could wait, he decided then. She was troubled, and he would be unable to think of anything else until he’d solved this dilemma for her. Whatever it was. He sheathed the blade.

“Something wrong, angel?”

Her eyes lifted and landed on him, worry in their emerald depths. She offered him a small smile. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, why don’t I help you figure it out?” Anything that bothered her, he would dispatch. No hesitation. For her happiness, he would do anything, kill anyone.

“I would like that, thank you.”

“Shall I shower before I join you?”

“No. I like you just how you are.”

Darling woman. But he didn’t like the thought of dirtying her pretty clothes. He quickly grabbed a towel from the bathroom and rubbed himself dry. Only then did he settle behind his woman, his legs encasing hers, his arms wrapping around her waist. Breathing deeply of her wild storm scent, he rested his chin in the hollow of her neck and followed the direction of her gaze.

What he saw surprised him.

It shouldn’t have. Her paintings were always vivid. As the All-Seeing Eye, an oracle of the gods and one of their most cherished aides, she could peer into heaven and hell. And did, every night, though she had no control over what she witnessed. Past, present, future, it didn’t matter. Every morning, she painted what she’d seen.

This one was of a man. A warrior, clearly. With that muscle mass, he had to be. A gold collar circled his neck, cinching tight. He was on his knees, legs spread. His arms rested on his thighs, palms raised. His dark head was thrown back, and he was roaring up at a domed ceiling. In pain, perhaps. Maybe even fury. There was blood smeared all over his chest, seeping from multiple wounds. Wounds that looked as if his skin had been carved away.

“Who is he?” Reyes asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”

Then they would reason this out as best they were able. “Was he from heaven or hell?”

“Heaven. Definitely. I think he’s in Cronus’s throne room.”

A god, then? A few months ago, Titans had overthrown the Greeks and seized control of the divine throne. So, if this man was in Cronus’s throne room, chained up, hurt, and Cronus was leader of the Titans, that must mean the warrior was a Greek. A slave who had been punished, perhaps?

“You saw only this image?” Reyes asked. “Not what got him to this point?”

“Correct,” Danika said with a nod. “I heard him scream, though. It was…” She shuddered, and his arms squeezed her in comfort. “I felt so sorry for him. Never have I heard so much rage and helplessness.”

“We can summon Cronus.” Cronus wasn’t too fond of Reyes and his fellow Lords of the Underworld—the very men who had opened Pandora’s box, unleashing the evil from inside. The men who had then been cursed to carry that evil inside themselves. But the god king hated their enemy, the Hunters, more, because Danika had seen Galen, the leader of the Hunters, chop off Cronus’s head in a vision. Now the god king was determined to kill Galen before Galen could kill him. Even if that meant soliciting the aid of the Lords. “We can ask him if he knows this man.”

A moment passed while Danika pondered his suggestion. Finally, she sighed, nodded. “Yes. I’d like that.” Then she surprised him by turning to him and offering the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. Well, all of her smiles were that way. “But it’s too early in the morning to summon anyone, and besides, I think you had other things on your mind when you entered the room. Why don’t you tell me about them?” she suggested huskily.

He was rock hard in seconds—that’s what she did to him. “That would be my pleasure, angel.”

She pushed him to his back, smile widening. “And mine.”