sliced her feet, but she maintained a steady pace, maneuvering through the thicket of trees. At least the temperature had cooled.
Seventy-two percent of men have cheated on their significant other. The demon’s voice whispered through her mind in an attempt to immobilize her. Twenty-four percent are actively cheating right this second. Forty-eight percent are smug rather than remorseful. How long do you think you’ll intrigue Lazarus? If you ever intrigued him at all.
Horrid demon! Always lobbing H-bombs of gloom. Was Lazarus her faceless lover or not?
Misery smoothly added, If he is, you should run. Considering what happened with Alex...
“Shut up,” she muttered, but the damage was done. He’d hit his target, reopening internal wounds.
Alex, a human who had lived in ancient Greece, had been her first and only love.
At the age of eight, a terrible sickness had rendered him deaf and, apparently, unworthy of his wealthy family’s love. He was cast out of the only home he’d ever known. After months of starvation, a “protector” saved him from the slums. A blacksmith with a sickening taste for children.
Apprentice by day, slave by night. A heartbreaking existence.
When Alex reached his teens, the blacksmith dubbed him too old and kicked him out. Alex snapped, introducing the blacksmith’s heart to his handmade dagger. Then he claimed the business as his due.
He poured his time and energy into metalwork, his talent indisputable. He’d been the only person Cameo trusted to make her weapons. The only male unaffected by the sorrow in her voice.
They fell in love, and for just a little while, she had verged on the edge of happiness. She’d craved more...but all the while, a shadow of foreboding had cloaked her like a second skin.
With every new dawn, she’d wondered why she remembered him. Why the demon hadn’t yet stolen her memory of him.
The answer had proved more atrocious than she’d ever dreamed.
In a vulnerable moment, she’d told Alex about her demonic companion. He’d decided she was worse than the blacksmith and arranged for Hunters, a cult of self-appointed slayers of immortals, to capture and torture her in the worst of ways.
Razor-winged butterflies took flight in her stomach. Did Lazarus know the truth about her? Did he care?
He must know. He was an immortal living among other immortal spirits. And he shouldn’t care. He was called cruel and unusual. He had a dark side of his own. Very dark. Pitch-black without any hint of light.
A sequence of high-pitched squawks rang out as a flock of birds leaped from treetops and scattered across the skyline, soon vanishing behind a wall of clouds.
Whoosh! Thud!
The ground shook. Cameo tumbled to her knees. Wheezing, fighting for oxygen, she reached for her daggers. Her missing daggers.
Damn it! She darted behind one of the bigger pink trees, shadows enveloping her. Adrenaline surged, strong and sure, but it couldn’t mask the sting of bark scraping through her shirt.
Another whoosh. Another thud. The shaking only worsened, trees toppling, the surrounding shrubs falling like dominoes.
Across the distance, a path cleared, and two flying beasts appeared. Some sort of dragon hybrid, maybe? They had red eyes, elongated snouts and teeth better qualified as short swords. Their bodies were long and coiled, but without arms or legs while their tails were thrice barbed. Resplendent scales reflected in the sunlight.
So...the two were flying snakes? Dragon snakes?
They soared above the remaining canopy of trees, their multipointed wings clipping branches and slicing through bark as if it were butter. One creature pursued the other. When he caught his prey, the two wrestled...playfully?
“Does the pretty miss require aid?”
The unfamiliar voice somehow turned the innocent question into a sexual promise. She glanced up—and had to swallow a yelp. A two-hundred-plus pound leopard perched on the limb directly above her, his neon-green eyes steady on her. His mangled tail wagged back and forth. One of his ears looked as if it had been chewed off, and his matted fur sported several bald patches.
Misery took an instant dislike to the animal and snarled.
The cat offered her a slow, toothy grin and batted a meaty paw at a fly. He actually speared the insect on the end of a claw. “I’m Rathbone, and I’m at your service...for a small fee.”
He could talk. He was a cat, and he could talk. And with that voice, he could make millions as a phone sex operator.
Had the Paring Rod transported her into a fairy tale, after all? The porn version? Browniebitch Does Twelve Immortals.
Was Rathbone a shape-shifter? No, impossible. Shape-shifters didn’t retain the ability to speak while in animal form. Although there were exceptions to every rule, right?
“I can save myself, but thanks for the offer.” Having lived over four millennia, she’d waged world wars, fought countless battles against immortal predators, humans with a grudge and monsters of myth and legend. Sometimes she’d lost, but mostly she’d won.
The leopard flinched. Hardly a surprise. Everyone always flinched. Some even cried. If anyone had actually liked her voice, she couldn’t remember.
Her hands curled into fists. Another memory Misery had stolen?
The dragon-snakes resumed their chase, nearly causing a full-blown earthquake this time, and she grabbed a branch to steady herself. Nope, not a branch, but Rathbone’s tail.
He wiggled his brows. “I’ve got something firmer you can hold on to.”
Surely he wasn’t referring to his...
He contorted to lick a massive set of balls.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
She released him and peeked around the trunk. The creatures approached at breakneck speed...only to pass her. She began to relax. A mistake. Of course. When had anything ever gone her way? Both dragon-snakes came to an abrupt stop before slowly pivoting.
Two sets of red eyes locked on her. Long, thin tongues swiped over saber-teeth, and drool dripped from the corners of their mouths. Drool...or accelerant? The pungent stench of something akin to gasoline stung her nostrils.
Well. She’d just been placed on the day’s menu.
In unison, the “chefs” hissed and bowed their spines, the scales around their necks flaring.
You have an eighty-seven percent chance of being deep-fried, never seeing your friends again and never finding Lazarus or the box.
No. She would fight, and she would win. If she died, Misery would be loosed upon an unsuspecting world; he would find new prey, devour sweet dreams, beloved hopes and any glimmer of happiness. He—
Had merely distracted her, the bastard.
Dual streams of
