was out to destroy my entire family, but she was a real wildcat in the sack. The crazy ones always are. That’s probably why they’re my favorite.” A pause. “Although, I once slept with a centaur who liked to—”
“Don’t start with one of your stories.” Irish threw a stick at him. “Besides, they’re never yours. You collect them from other people.”
Scowling, Cameron said, “And how do you know?”
“Because the one you’re telling is mine, idiot.”
“Who are you calling an idiot, half-wit?”
“I’m not a half-wit, you fool.”
Children.
What else did Torin know about his new enemy?
Curators were created before humans. Once spirits of light, they were tasked with the safekeeping of the earth, bound to it and its seasons. But everything changed when they betrayed their leader, the Most High, and mated with the fallen angels who’d attempted to usurp him as supreme ruler of the highest heavens. What the Curators hadn’t understood until too late? The fallen were cursed with eternal darkness of the soul, and that curse would soon spread among their race.
Their offspring—like that of humans and fallen angels—were known as Nephilim...and even demons.
Backtrack. Curators were spirits—without bodies. How Keeley had gotten one, he couldn’t fathom. But she had done it. Otherwise she couldn’t have been imprisoned or thrown those rocks at him. Or ended up underneath him when he’d pushed her out of harm’s way...
Not going there. He’d harden—again.
He needed brimstone. But as scorching hot as the rocks were, there was no way he could carry one to Keeley, hold her down and rub it against her. And, anyway, he didn’t like the thought of scarring all that flawless skin. The simpler solution was to scar himself. Wards worked both ways, after all.
He sheathed the handgun at his waist and swiped the tattoo equipment from Cameron. “Gonna borrow this. Hope you don’t mind.”
The warrior gave a spot-on impersonation of Chuck Norris. He once made a Happy Meal cry. He strangled an enemy with a cordless phone. He destroyed the periodic table because he only recognizes the element of surprise.
But I’m worse.
Torin’s smile was a cold invitation to hell as he removed his gloves. “You’re welcome to try to reclaim your stuff, but you’ll walk away with a hacking cough and an inability to ever touch another living creature without starting a plague. Totally up to you.”
Silence.
That’s what I thought.
He carefully unhooked the motor, then tinkered with it to give it more juice. He found a thick steel pipe, and with a few more parts, created a makeshift jackhammer to crack through layer after layer of hard earth. Sweat poured from him, but it was a good sweat. From honest labor. Missed this.
When the motor died, he used his hands. His companions never issued even a token offer to help, just continued eating their stew. Fine. They wouldn’t share in the reward. And rewarded he was.
Two feet down...four...six...eight, making sure to leave grooves along the wall so that he could climb out, he discovered a small patch of brimstone. The quarter-sized rocks were exactly as he remembered, black with gold cracks throughout, and hot, close proximity causing him to blister.
He climbed out of the hole and stuffed his gloves in his back pocket, then worked a little more magic with the steel pipe, using it and a branch to create a pair of tongs. Back inside, he managed to scoop up one of the rocks. The branch caught fire on the way up, but he made it to level ground before the end turned to ash and the rock dropped.
Victorious, he sat down beside it.
The Terrible Trio gaped at him.
“Here,” Winter said, speaking up for the first time. She strolled to him with a feminine swagger he’d seen many try to emulate but only a rare few ever perfect, and eased between his legs.
He should have responded to that, but there was zip, zilch, nada happening down below, and tendrils of annoyance wafted through him. Why Keeley and not her?
Winter reached for him, saying, “Let me help you.”
Torin scooted away from her, snapping, “This is your final warning. Come this close again, and you’ll lose a hand. Make a play for the rock, and you’ll lose even more.”
Cameron snorted. “Something you should know about my sister. She always wants what other people have.”
Her eyes glittered with determination and, granted, even that was a lovely sight. She was lovely.
Zip. Zilch. Nada.
He didn’t like the thought of Keeley, and only Keeley, being able to affect him.
His reaction to her would make a great porn title, though. The Lonesome Chub.
Dude. Enough!
“Save yourself a battle,” she said, waving her fingers at him. “Give me the brimstone.”
“Do it,” Irish said. “I don’t want to have to take sides.”
Like he hadn’t already. He might be the keeper of Indifference, but some part of him valued the girl. The longing gazes he cast her hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“You should have helped me dig,” Torin said.
“And dirty these nails?” She shook her head. “Never.”
“Tell you what,” Torin said. “I won’t give you the brimstone, and in return for your understanding, I won’t kill you. How’s that?”
Slowly, as if every step was agony, she walked away from him. “Fair enough.”
Pretty words. But she was already planning that battle she’d promised him, guaranteed.
Oddly enough, he wasn’t excited by the prospect of another worthy opponent.
Done with distractions, Torin rubbed his arm against the rock. Once on the front, once on the back. That’s all it took. There was an immediate burn, his flesh and muscle cooking. He almost bellowed. Fine. No almost about it. He bellowed and he cursed, then fell to his back panting. The scent in the air...enough to gag. Bits of brimstone bonded to tissue, scarring him, never allowing total regeneration.
Winter dove for the rock.
Uh, uh, uh. He kicked it down the hole before she could snatch it and hurried to cover it with dirt.
“Like I said,” he announced when he finished. “You didn’t help me dig.”
“Like I said,” Winter echoed. “Battle.”
“Mistake, my man.” Irish
