* * * *
Brochan drew in a breath and braced for impact. He held an unconscious Sent One against his chest. A male he’d never met. A soldier he’d plucked from the skies only minutes ago.
He hovered a mile from the veil, his wings gliding up and down. Farrow remained at his side. She, too, held an unconscious Sent One.
She nodded at Brochan. “I’m ready.”
“On three,” he told her. “One. Two. Now!” He flapped his wings with more vigor and jetted forward. A living arrow.
Farrow kept pace beside him. They sped toward the veil, faster and faster, building momentum, expecting to bypass the invisible barrier with the Sent Ones they held.
Closer…
Mere seconds away…
Impact! Brochan ricocheted back, his bones breaking, and his organs reduced to pulp. The Sent One soared through, skidding over the lush green grass. Farrow’s Sent One rolled beside him.
Pain registered as blood dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. By sheer will alone, he caught himself in the sky. Farrow labored to his side, a wing twisted at an odd angle. Gashes littered her face.
Guilt pricked him. “Another failure,” he said, swiping his tongue over his teeth. He stiffened as a sense of rising trepidation rippled across the bond he shared with his brother.
McCadden! “My brother needs me.” He flashed to the bottom floor of the Downfall, not bothering with niceties outside. The club’s walls materialized around him, revealing a raging battle in every direction. A horde of Forsaken had invaded.
Midian had kept his promise and now fought to acquire McCadden, in order to bargain for Viola.
The scarred Xerxes stood with the blond Thane and the bronze Bjorn, forming a circle. The trio killed Forsaken savagely, using swords of fire to strike. Like machines, they maimed their foes in a continuous stream, and they did it all while staying in place. Their golden wings spread wide to encompass the tattooed, pink haired McCadden and several females, creating an impenetrable shield the enemy couldn’t breach.
Farrow appeared at Brochan’s side, taking stock in seconds.
Merciless, Brochan threw himself into the fray, raking his claws and brand-new wing joints over anyone within reach. Soldiers dropped, sometimes three at a time, piling around him. He latched onto his next victim and ripped off the male’s head. Icy black blood spurted, spraying him.
What would his mate think of him now?
No thoughts of the goddess. One always led to a second and a third, fourth, fifth, until he considered nothing but returning to her. And she wasn’t his mate.
With a roar and a ram of his horns, he took out the next two—three—soldiers. He slashed and clawed. He shredded. But even still, he failed to boot the goddess from his mind. Why hadn’t he kissed and touched her while he’d had the chance? Why hadn’t he enjoyed her while she was warm and pliant?
Because I want her to want me as intensely as I want her, not because she thinks to use me.
Had her confidence crumbled yet? He wasn’t sure he could remain separated from her another week, much less another day. As soon as he’d sensed her deep slumber, he had checked on her. She’d never fallen asleep in the same location, had always huddled in a semi-secure spot. Behind a wall, after crawling past broken slats. A cubby hole in the floor. A beam anchored to the ceiling.
How small and fragile she’d seemed yesterday. The urge to curl up beside her had nearly overwhelmed him. Every day, she’d grown a little paler. Dark shadows had taken up permanent residence under her eyes. Her misery brought him no delight. Guilt did more than prick him—it gouged him.
Brochan’s gaze caught on McCadden, who witnessed the worst of his fury through a gap between Thane’s and Xerxes’ wings. His brother conveyed horror.
Brochan flushed as he assassinated the next flood of soldiers. Beside him, Farrow brutalized her opponents.
Like other Forsaken, he’d lost the ability to produce a sword of fire. Not Farrow. Though her ability had mutated, the sword becoming a grotesque whip. Thousands of teeth protruded from hundreds of tentacles braided together. As she swung her arm, the whip’s handle appeared in her grip. Tentacles lashed out, wrapping around different parts of a Forsaken, binding his wings and arms to his body and cinching his legs together, choking him until his head simply popped off.
Finally, only a handful of Forsaken remained, Midian and Joseph among them. Brochan’s gaze collided with Midian’s as he drove one set of claws into a warrior’s skull and burrowed the other into the male’s throat. With one fluid motion, Brochan ripped off his opponent’s head.
“This isn’t the end,” Midian spat just before he vanished. The other Forsaken retreated, following after him.
Brochan and those on his side lingered, on alert for a counterattack. Minutes passed without incident. He realized he still held the severed head. A head hissing curses, much to the shock of the Sent Ones and those they guarded.
“Burn the bodies. Burn everything,” he commanded. “Let’s find out if a Forsaken can truly revive from any death.” If not, perhaps a certain goddess of the Afterlife could do the deed.
Anticipation overshadowed his remaining fury, and he balled his free hand into a fist. Should he question her before she fell asleep?
As the Sent Ones ushered their charges far from the carnage, the bonding tattoo on Brochan’s arm heated. No, it was already hot. His burst of adrenaline had muted the mark’s power. Now, with the fighting over, Viola’s emotions inundated him, and he frowned. Fear? Excitement? He couldn’t tell.
“I must go,” he shouted at the others, then flashed to the fortress to confront his goddess.
Chapter Seven
Viola sang a ballad with the most beautiful voice in the history of beautiful voices as she scrubbed the master bedroom she planned to (secretly) share with Fluffy, who had yet to return from his errand. For once, however, she didn’t mind being alone. Not much, anyway.
With her worries eclipsed by expectancy, Narcissism had no ammunition to use against her and remained blessedly quiet. She’d even plotted a rock-solid strategy to deal with Brochan. Get this. When he returned home, Viola would ignore him. The worst punishment she could dish. Why, if he appeared right this second, she’d look straight through him.
So this idea had failed in the past, allowing other males to pretend they didn’t care, turning the tables on her. So what? Brochan would froth at the mouth, desperate to re-enter her good graces.
“What is that racket? What are you doing?” The questions thundered through the room, and she gasped, meeting the Forsaken’s gaze over her shoulder. He looked her over, his frown deepening. “You’re on your knees. Cleaning. Wearing the costume and a thong. And heels.” The storm faded from his expression, leaving incredulity. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Her stomach twisted as she threw her rag into the bucket of soapy water and scrambled to her feet, facing him. Oh, my. He appeared…wow. He was shirtless, his leathers hanging low on his waist, and ripped in several places. Black blood splattered bulging muscles and the tattoo on his forearm—crisscrossing lines and scattered dots.
He heaved his breaths and clasped a severed head. A talking head, dripping death onto her clean floor.