was affected.
Paris would hate him, and would, perhaps, do more than rage. There was no stopping that, not when so much darkness swirled inside him, a rot in his soul, far worse than any spiritual poison. But that wouldn’t stop Zacharel from fulfilling his duty.
Nothing would.
CHAPTER ONE
PARIS TOSSED BACK THREE fingers of Glenlivet and signaled the bartender. He wanted an entire hand and by right or might, he’d have it. Except soon after the single malt was poured, he realized an entire hand wasn’t going to cut it, either. Fury and frustration were living entities inside him, frothing and bubbling despite his recent fighting.
“Leave the bottle,” he said when the bartender made a move to help someone else. Hell, suddenly Paris doubted every drop of alcohol in a ten-mile radius would do the trick, but hey. Desperate times.
“Sure, sure. Anything you say.” Shirtless Boy Wonder released the bottle and beat feet.
What? He looked that dangerous? Please. He’d washed off the blood, hadn’t he? Wait. Hadn’t he? He looked down. Shit. He hadn’t. Crimson streaked him from head to toe.
Whatever. He wasn’t in a human bar, so no “authorities” would have a beef with him. He was in Olympus, though the heavenly kingdom had recently been renamed Titania. Once only gods and goddesses had been allowed here, but when Cronus reclaimed the realm, he’d changed things, allowing vampires, fallen angels and other creatures of the dark to come and play. A nice little screw you to the previous king, Zeus.
Call the bartender back, Promiscuity said. I want him.
Promiscuity—the demon trapped inside him, driving him. Irritating him. Remember when I wanted fidelity? Monogamy? Paris replied in his mind. Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?
A familiar growl sounded in his head.
Whaa, whaa, pout, pout. He downed the second alcoholic offering and quickly chased it with a third. Both scorched so good he enjoyed a fourth. The potent alcohol razed his chest, burned holes in his abdomen, and flooded his veins. Nice.
And yet, his emotions remained as dark as ever, the edges of that bone-deep fury and frustration un-smoothed. His inability to save a not-so-innocent woman he should hate—did hate, at least a little—but also hungered for, body and soul, drove him, a constant whip against his flank.
“If I asked you to leave, would you?” a monotone voice said from beside him. A voice accompanied by a blast of arctic air.
He didn’t have to look to know that Zacharel, warrior angel extraordinaire and infamous demon-assassin, had just joined him. They’d met not long ago, when the feathered axman had come to Buda to off Paris’s friend Amun. Had old Zach actually succeeded, two crystal blades would have been drilling into his spine at that very moment.
I want him, the demon said.
Screw you.
Finally. We’re on the same page.
Really hate you right now.
Once upon a time, the demon had spoken to Paris with annoying frequency. Then the stupid sex fiend had stopped, merely urging Paris to bed this person or that person, no matter their gender or Paris’s own feelings toward them. Now, the talking had started up again and it was worse than before, because he wanted everyone, especially the ones Paris felt no desire for.
“Well?” the angel prompted.
“Leave, when I had to beg Lucien to bring me here and I know he won’t be so accommodating next time? No, but I’d damn sure want to know why you gave a crap about my location.”
“I do not care about your location.”
True story. Zacharel didn’t care about anything, a fact you learned real fast in your dealings with him. “That’s my point, so get lost.”
As Paris nursed a fifth whiskey, he studied the smoke-stained mirror in front of him, covertly panning the area behind him. Bejeweled chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The walls were rose-colored marble, veined with glittering ebony, the floor a sparkling stretch of crushed diamonds.
Throughout the room, men and women talked and laughed. From minor gods and goddesses to fallen angels trying to work their way back into their saintly fold. Good luck with that in a bar. Morons. Anyway. There was probably a demon or two sprinkled among the masses, but Paris couldn’t tell for sure.
Demons were as sneaky as they were evil. They could skulk around in their own scales, proudly showcasing their horns, claws, wings and tails—and getting decapitated by warrior angels like Zach. Or they could possess someone else’s body and skulk around in their skin.
Paris had thousands of years of experience with the latter.
“I will leave, as you so succinctly suggested,” Zacharel said, “after you answer another question for me.”
“All right.” Something else Paris knew from experience: angels were freakishly stubborn. Better to hear the guy out, otherwise he’d find himself with a new shadow. He turned, facing the dark-haired stunner with eyes the color of jade, and sucked in a breath. Never ceased to amaze him, how magnetic these celestial beings were. No matter their gender—or how mind-numbingly dull their personalities—they drew and held your attention, every damn time. For some reason, Zacharel did so with more intensity than most.
But the magnetism wasn’t what caught Paris’s attention this time. Majestic wings arced over the angel’s broad shoulders, a turbulent fall of winter clouds with streams of gold winding and curling throughout, snowflakes raining from the tips like glitter in a globe.
“You’re snowing.” Captain Obvious, that’s me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I can answer you, or I can ask my question and leave.” Dressed in the long white robe that was customary for his kind, Zacharel should have looked innocent and prissy. Instead, he looked like the Grim Reaper’s evil twin: emotionless, as frigid as the snow he shed and ready to kill. “Your choice.”
No thought necessary. “Ask.”
“Do you wish to die?” Zacharel said it as simply as he’d said everything else, mist crystallizing in front of his mouth, creating a dreamlike haze and reminding Paris of the breath of life. Or death.
Definitely ready to kill, Paris mused. “What do you think?” he asked, because honestly? He didn’t know the answer anymore.
For centuries he’d fought to live, but now, now he constantly threw himself into the fire and waited to be burned. Liked being burned. What kind of sick prick had he become?
Unflinching, the angel held his gaze. “I think you want one particular woman more than you want anyone—or anything—else. Even death … even life.”
Paris pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. One woman in particular: the not-so-innocent one.
Her
