The pair knew him by sight and no longer reacted to his less-than-stellar appearance. Though they said nothing aloud and remained in place, Xerxes arrived in the doorway soon after. All Sent Ones wielded the ability to communicate telepathically. A fellowship Brochan had lost when he fell, his connection to his fellow warriors severed. Another reason to despise Viola.
The white-haired, scarred Xerxes stood as tall as Brochan and just as strong. Eyes the color of radioactive blood gleamed with a surprising amount of concern. He wore a white robe, golden wings arching over broad shoulders. Those wings revealed his rank: an Elite 7. The fiercest and most unrelenting of soldiers.
Despite Brochan’s fall from grace, he considered Xerxes an ally. “What’s happened?”
“There are Forsaken determined to capture McCadden and use him against me. Be ready.”
“Always.” Xerxes waved him inside. Trimmed nails tipped his fingers rather than repulsive claws. One of a thousand differences between them. “Come in and speak with your brother. He’s worried about you.”
“I will come inside. I will not speak with McCadden.” Until Brochan found a way into Nevaeh or handled Viola once and for all, he had nothing of value to offer the boy—man—he’d raised.
“Tell me why,” Xerxes insisted.
“No.” Brochan wasted no more time, flashing to the attic apartment he kept at the Downfall. The door remained closed and locked, no one able to witness his entrances or exits. He showered and changed into clean leathers but left his feet bare. As usual. Sharp demon claws tipped his toes, as well. The sight made his jaw clench.
After gathering an array of weapons, he returned to the barren wasteland he’d claimed as his personal territory. A world without water, foliage, or life he’d discovered a year ago. He resided in the realm’s only remaining structure: a dusty, musty palace topping a steep hill. The king and queen’s suite, specifically. Though Brochan conducted all business in the throne room. High ceilings allowed for easy flight.
Despite frequent visits, he’d left the palace in its abandoned state. A black cloth draped the throne. Material covered most of the portraits on the walls, as well. The visible images displayed past monarchs. Warlocks and witches. A lone skeleton leaned against the bottom of the throne as if someone had curled up in a favorite spot after doing their best to preserve the artifacts of a dead civilization.
As Brochan strode to the table he’d pushed to the center of the chamber, broken glass shards sliced his heels. The stinging injuries proved minimal, yet he left a trail of blood in his wake. Oh, well. This wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Books and ancient scrolls littered the tabletop, most depicting a tale about Viola. In his quest for vengeance, he’d managed to cobble together bits and pieces of her past.
The earliest known sighting? An obscure reference to a “beautiful, golden-haired goddess of the Afterlife, who fed on souls.” Origins unknown, said to be cold, cruel and heartless. The next mention told of a crime committed against the goddess Dione, first wife of Zeus. Both former power players among the Greeks. Reports suggested this golden-haired beauty slaughtered Dione’s servants for entertainment.
Cold and cruel, Brochan understood. But heartless? No. No one loved harder than Viola. She loved herself utterly, madly, completely. So, clearly, she had a heart. It was shriveled, yes, but it was a heart nonetheless, which meant she did have a weakness. He had only to find it.
Brochan grabbed the scroll with a sketch of Viola. A type of mugshot, he thought the humans called it. Dione had meted out revenge, arranging for Viola’s incarceration in Tartarus, where she had spent centuries.
A young Viola peered up at him from the page, her expression startled, her hair wild and in tangles.
His chest clenched. He traced a fingertip across her lips and scowled. Beautiful on the outside. Monstrous on the inside. Selfish. Haughty. As brutal as advertised. Everything he’d once fought against in the skies. But…
She was also charming without effort. Wonderfully confident, no matter the situation. Never shy or soft-spoken, as his wives had been. No, Viola took what she wanted, when she wanted it, and let nothing stop her. A commendable trait. An insufferable trait. But even still, Brochan hungered for her.
Fool! Every foul thing she did, she did with one aim: to save that devil-dog. As if her bloodthirsty pet was worth more than McCadden. Or anyone.
If Brochan must watch his brother age and die, Viola must experience the same with her darling Fluffy. He expected—nay, he demanded—tit for tat.
Temper flaring, he fixed his attention on the story of the goddess’s imprisonment. For centuries, Viola languished in her cell, locked in solitary confinement. At some point, she became bonded to Narcissism.
According to the warden’s report, that bond was forced upon her. Brochan refused to feel sorry for her, however. He––
The tattoo on his arm heated, and he tossed the scroll with a huff. Viola was excited about something. On the prowl for a gullible immortal already? This could not be borne.
Fury bubbled inside him. But so did anticipation. The time for observation and hoping the goddess inadvertently revealed the key to Nevaeh ended now.
A quick plan formed. Bring her here. Imprison her until she gifts the key. Choose her ultimate fate. His lust for her hadn’t mattered, didn’t matter, and wouldn’t matter.
Decided, Brochan unsheathed a blade and flashed away.
Chapter Three
Not him. His aura burned too bright.
Not him. His aura indicated a rageful temper.
Not him. His aura spoke of fear. No courage.
Music blasted as Viola strutted through a crowded nightclub packed with wolfshifters, searching the sea of faces. Three days had passed since Brochan’s demise, and she’d barely thought of him more than a hundred times. Practically never when you considered that most people had trillions of thoughts a day. But…
She maybe, kinda, sorta did possibly, perhaps miss the stimulation of his insistent chase. Having such a dedicated bodyguard hadn’t sucked. At least Brochan could no longer stop her from feeding Fluffy or temporarily quieting Narcissism. Exactly what she planned to do tonight.
The fur-baby required a full battery recharge, and the demon demanded adoration. Winning a man’s heart provided both. For a short time, at least.
Two birds, one slightly distasteful stone. Hardly a big deal. The pangs now arching through her meant nothing.
For two days, she’d failed at her mission. But not tonight. Victory was critical. Soon, the demon would begin siphoning her confidence, leaving her vulnerable against the mountain of insecurities and loathing buried beneath her glorious self-assurance. A circumstance she abhorred—as anyone would. Her tears never ceased and fears constantly overran her mind.
Confidence was her drug of choice, and she planned to get smashed. So. Here we are. Viola endeavored to do what she hated and loved: charm someone into falling in love with her.
Exactly as she’d done to McCadden and so many others. Meaning, another family would be devastated.
Her chest tightened, squeezing her rib cage.
You deserve better, Narcissism whispered. Always better.
Yes. She did.
Tightening further… Why should she care about others, anyway? People might not mean to, may actively try not to or have the best intentions, but they always betrayed you. It happened without fail. But oh, how she yearned to torment the fiend the way he so often tormented her. If anyone deserved to suffer, he did. But how was she supposed to fight a monster responsible for her confidence?