Bound by Sin (31 page)

For Las and Christopher

No mother has loved her son more.

No son has loved his mother so well.

Cursed by Fire

Cursed by Ice

Bound by Sin

Forbidden

Forever

Forsaken

Forged

Nightwalker
(eBook)

Seduce Me in Dreams

Seduce Me in Flames

J
ACQUELYN
F
RANK
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the Immortal Brothers series (
Cursed by Fire, Cursed by Ice, Bound by Sin,
and
Bound in Darkness
), the World of Nightwalkers series (
Forbidden, Forever, Forsaken,
and
Forged
), the Three Worlds series (
Seduce Me in Dreams
and
Seduce Me in Flames
), the Nightwalkers series (
Adam,
Jacob, Gideon, Elijah, Damien,
and
Noah
), the Shadowdwellers novels (
Ecstasy, Rapture,
and
Pleasure
), and the Gatherers novels (
Hunting Julian
and
Stealing Katherine
). She lives in North Carolina and has been writing romantic fiction ever since she picked up her first teen romance at age thirteen.

jacquelynfrank.com

@JacquelynFrank

BY
J
ACQUELYN
F
RANK

M
axum clawed himself up out of the soil, spitting dirt, coughing it from his lungs with a roar of fury and frustration. He would think he would be used to it by now, used to the pain that came from the sheer weight of the rock and soil that pressed against him from all sides. Suffocated him from all directions. Filled every orifice, every crack, every crevice of his body as it fought to get inside of him—crushing him didn't seem to be enough to satisfy it.

He finally pulled himself fully free of the dirt and laid on the ground, panting and coughing. He spit. Spit again. It was a lost cause. Dirt caught between his teeth, stuck to his tongue.

And so it would be. It would always be. He was cursed. Cursed to be swallowed by soil and stone every night from dusk to juquil's hour.

He supposed he should be grateful. Until several full turnings ago he had been trapped permanently in the ground, held deep in the soil of the bottom of the ocean, with no reprieve. He had since been rescued from his permanent fate and been given this one instead, thanks to his brother Jaykun, who had won the grace of a god, just as easily as the four brothers, Dethan, Jaykun, Garreth, and Maxum, had won the fury of the gods with a single act of hubris over two centuries ago.

He and his brothers had climbed the highest mountain in the world that day, finding there a fountain of immortality blessed and protected by the gods—and they had dared to drink from its waters without permission from the gods. The backlash for their gall had been instantaneous and severe. Each brother had been sent to suffer, each in his own way, each at the hands of a different god, as payment for that hubris. Dethan had been cast into the eight hells by Weysa, the goddess of conflict and war. Garreth had been chained to that very same mountain, within sight of the fountain that had been the cause of his curse, doomed to freeze time and again thanks to the bitter ironic nature of the goddess Hella. Then the god Grimu had taken Jaykun and chained him to a star, dooming him to burn endlessly again and again. None of the brothers had been given quarter, none a reprieve…until Weysa had fetched Dethan out of hell and set him on a path that had resulted in all three of his brothers being released from their curses. But while his brothers were now completely free of their curses, Maxum enjoyed no such reprieve. In order to be freed from his curse the god who had given it to him must lift it. But the god in question was Sabo, the god of pain and suffering, who thrived on the agony of others. It was safe to say he would never have cause to free Maxum from his curse.

And so he had lived through four winters now with his “reprieve” hours, each day living free of the curse until dusk settled over him and the ground opened to swallow him whole all over again. He didn't know which was worse. Having been trapped with no reprieve from the crushing soil or to be given a taste of freedom and release only to have it snatched away each night by a devouring maw of dark, suffocating loam.

After a few minutes Maxum righted himself, feeling the pain of every bone that had been broken by the pressure of all that rock and soil pressing in on him. Cracked ribs, snapped thighbones, crushed arms. The agony of it was brutal.

But he was immortal and so he would heal from all of those injuries until he was as good as new…or as close to it as he could be. His head hurt, his ears ringing from what was no doubt a cracked skull. He couldn't get up and walk yet, so he dragged himself across the ground toward his campsite not too far away. Once there he rolled onto his bedroll and lay panting for breath, each one of those breaths torture thanks to his damaged ribs.

It had to stop. One way or another, he would put an end to this. The easiest solution required a god-made weapon removing Maxum's head from his shoulders. But then he would very likely be sent to the eight hells upon his death and that would only mean trading one torment for another—one far more permanent.

The other solution was much more impossible on the surface of it. Convince Sabo to free him from his curse. The idea of the god doing that was laughable. His brothers might have been lucky enough to get their curses lifted by their various gods, but there was no hope for it in Maxum's case. They all knew it. It was apparent in every pitying look his brothers had cast him. That was one of the reasons why he had left their company. That and the fact that his brothers had proven to be enviably happy and in love with their wives and it had just about made him sick to watch them.

But he didn't begrudge them their happiness or their curse-free existences. He was glad they were free. Glad they had found happiness. He was an uncle several times over now as his brothers wallowed in their joy and made babies with their wives. The most recent had been Jaykun and Jileana's son, newborn when last he had seen them. He would be two now and no doubt getting into all manner of troubles.

Part of him had wanted to stay, to enjoy what time with his family he could muster. But just as adamant was his need to do something about his situation. The plan had come to him shortly after Jaykun's son had been born. Sabo would never willingly release him from this curse, so that left him only one option.

Maxum had to kill the god.

He didn't even know if such a thing was possible, but he saw no alternative. Sabo's death was the only way he could end his own suffering. He had heard tales…tales of magical items that could be very powerful, possibly powerful enough to kill a god.

So he had left his brothers to go on a quest. Several quests really. He wasn't going to face a god with nothing but a single talisman that may or may not do the trick. He was going to hedge his bets and gather as many such talismans as he could. He was going to face down Sabo and he was going to do it fully prepared with anything and everything he could think of. Including, perhaps, the help of some of the gods.

For the gods were at war. There were two factions, each with six gods. Well, seven to five if you take into consideration that Kitari, the queen of the gods, was being held captive by Xaxis's faction, Xaxis being the god of the eight hells. His faction also included Grimu the god of the eight heavens; Diathus the goddess of the lands and oceans; Jikaro the god of anger and deception; and, lo and behold, Sabo, the god of pain and suffering.

The faction that warred against Xaxis's faction was Weysa's, the goddess of conflict. On her side was Hella, the goddess of fate and fortune, her husband, Mordu, the god of hope, love, and dreams. Meru, the goddess of hearth, home, and harvest, Famun, the god of peace and tranquility, and Lothas, the god of day and night.

With the help of Weysa's faction and his gathered talismans he had high hopes that it would indeed be possible to kill a god.

Now all he had to do was gather his talismans.

And win over an entire faction of gods.

Impossible?

Well, that remained to be seen.

M
axum slammed the hand of the large, stinking man who had challenged him down on the table. The rowdy gathering of men cheered and jeered, some thumping Maxum hard on the back in congratulations for winning the arm wrestle. Someone slapped a mug of ale into his winning hand and the reveling men began to sing a victory song in his honor.

Maxum moved away from the boisterous group and found a reasonably quiet corner of the inn, preparing to slowly enjoy the ale in his hand. He wasn't as drunk as the other men in the room, but he was going to catch up with them. They had been celebrating since sunset but Maxum had only joined them an hour ago—two hours past juquil's hour when he had finally clawed his way out of the ground. Once he had healed enough to walk he had come to the inn to join his men.

They were a motley crew; five in all including himself. Each with their own special talents and each necessary for him to obtain his next talisman.

He reached into the pocket of his pants and fondled the amulet they had retrieved just that afternoon—along with enough treasure to keep the men satisfied for quite some time.

This talisman was said to have great power; it made the wearer invulnerable to attack. He had not tested that yet so he didn't know if it was the truth. But a talisman like that would come in quite handy in a war with a god. For, as much as he was immortal, he was not invulnerable. He could be hurt and hurt badly. And there was that little bit about a god-made weapon taking off his head and ending it all right then and there. If there was one thing he could count on, it was that a god would have a god-made weapon in his hands.

He didn't take the amulet out, he didn't put it on. He would test it tomorrow, and he didn't want to flash it in front of the other patrons in the bar. He didn't want to invite a thief to take it from him. To try anyway. A thief was more likely to lose his hand than succeed.

Maxum took a swig of his drink and looked around the room. There were two women there. One was the barmaid and she was being kept quite occupied by the graspy hands of his men. There was Kyno, the big lumbering orc halfbreed with his shining bald head and large meaty hands that swung a spiked club like nobody's business. There was Dru, a slightly shy, slim figured, fiery-haired spirit mage who barely had twenty-five full turnings under his belt. There was Kilon, a slightly rotund archer whose arrows always hit their mark. And last but not least there was Doisy, a cleric, far more handsome than a religious man should be and with about just as much charm as could be fit into one person. He did not grab for the barmaid, instead preferring to tempt her with smiles and charm and wait for her to come to him. Smiles that were gaining him the fastest refills when it came to the ale in his cup.

What Maxum found interesting, however, was that his men weren't paying any attention to the other woman in the room at all. True, she was clearly a patron and should go about unaccosted, but though she was wearing men's leggings and a shirt and vest to hide her womanly curves, Maxum could see them all the same. She was a shapely thing, her close-fitting breeches leaving little mystery to the slender shape of her thighs and the cozy roundness of her ass. The vest hid her breasts for the most part so he couldn't get a good feel for their size, but he suspected they were enough to fill a man's hands.

She was toying with a bowl of the hot stew the innkeeper was serving for dinner, nibbling at a piece of the questionable meat within it. She noticed Maxum's regard of her and she returned it in kind, looking him up and down. He let her look and smiled at the interest he saw flickering in her eyes. And she had pretty eyes. A beautiful jade green to complement her silvery blond hair which she had plaited into two braids on either side of her head, covering her ears. He was disappointed by the style. He expected it was quite pretty when let loose. It would be straight, he surmised, like a silver-gold waterfall, reaching somewhere around her breasts. Those mysteriously hidden breasts.

She sat back a little, picking up her mug and taking a thoughtful sip. Then she stood up, skirted the boisterous goings-on in the center of the room, and came to stand before Maxum.

She was nearly a strap shorter than he was, slightly built—almost like a boy if not for those hips and…damn it, he wanted to see those breasts! But she had the face of a fairy, all fine bones and delicate points, right down to her small upturned nose with its gentle tip. She looked too genteel to be caught out in this kind of crowd in those kinds of clothes. She should be in a dress—with a corset that pushed up and showed off those breasts…wherever they were.

“A quiet corner,” he said with a nod to the other side of the table. “Come and sit.”

She regarded him for just a moment longer, but not because she was debating the wisdom of sitting with him. She had pretty much made up her mind to do that before she'd even gotten out of her seat. Still he didn't know exactly what was going on behind those jade eyes. It was one of the reasons he was glad she had come over.

“I didn't take you for the quiet corner type,” she said as she slid into her seat and put her mug down on the table.

“I prefer quiet corners. My men have other ideas.”

“You're celebrating?”

“Is it that obvious?” he said with a grin he knew was charming. His brothers had always said the gods had gifted him with charm, good looks, and a good singing voice—all great ways to woo the ladies. And they were right. He'd caught more than his fair share with that smile.

She smiled back and relaxed in her chair. “A little bit. They're throwing coin around like they could make it for themselves. They should be careful. It might attract the wrong element.”

Maxum chuckled richly. “We
are
the wrong element,” he said.

She laughed. It was a light, pretty sound but not a delicate little titter like the highborn ladies used. It was a laugh. A good, feminine laugh that made you smile to hear it. Maxum liked her more the more he discovered about her.

“What's your name?”

“Airianne,” she said. “But you can call me Airi.”

“A light, breezy sort of name,” he noted.

She grimaced. “Oh, now you're being unoriginal. I may have to rethink this whole situation.”

“Ah. Well, forgive me. I'll try to be more unique from here on out.”

Maxum found that ironic actually. He was as unique as they came. It was simply a matter of not wanting everyone to know about what set him apart from everyone else on the Black Continent.

She made a show of thinking about it, but then she shrugged. “I'll give you another chance if you tell me your name.”

“Wouldn't that ruin the mystery of it all?”

“I rather doubt there would be much mystery if I have to call you ‘You there!' the entire length of our short acquaintance.”

“Our acquaintance will be short?” he asked with an arched brow.

“Oh yes. If all it is based on is the mystery of your name then it will have to be short indeed. The moment I learn it, all would be over.”

“Hey, Maxum! Come roll at dice!” Doisy shouted at him from across the room.

Airi laughed. “There, you see? No more mystery, nothing to compel me to stay.”

“I'm sure I have other mysteries about me,” he coaxed her with a lopsided grin.

“Do you? Do you think I would find them interesting?”

“I know you would. I promise I won't tell you a thing about me. You can discover the answer to all your questions on your own, thereby entertaining yourself for quite a long while.”

“But I already know so much about you,” she said.

“Such as?”

“I know your name.” She winked at him. “And I know you do not like to be called Max.”

“How do you know that?”

“Your man is so drunk he would have called you by the most familiar name he uses to address you. Since he called you Maxum and not Max I can assume he has been trained very, very well not to do it…so well he remembers even when in his cups.”

“What else do you know?” he asked, leaning back and relaxing as he let his eyes roam over her again and again.

“Let's see…you are a mercenary.”

“How can you be so sure?” he asked, surprise tightening him up.

“You are well outfitted. You have spent a good amount of coin on your armor and that sword you carry. That blade was not made in any ordinary forge, I'll bet my life on it.”

She was right. The sword was his brother's. A god-made weapon and a gift from Weysa. Dethan had gifted him with it when he had told them he was leaving to “seek out his own life.” He hadn't told them his plans or his ultimate goal. But having a god-made weapon would be crucial when fighting a god. It was a fair bet that no ordinary weapon could inflict injury otherwise.

“But being well outfitted does not a mercenary make,” he pointed out.

“Ah…but here your friends give you away. A mage, an orc, an archer, and a religious man make for a pretty well-rounded group of skills. All quite marketable if someone is looking for a hired hand to help with this little or that problem.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “But you do not make all of your coin by being a sellsword, and I think selling your sword is just a means to an end. You have different goals in mind.”

“Now you can't possibly know that from sitting across the room,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Her insights were uncanny. A little too uncanny. He was beginning to suspect she was some kind of mage like Dru. A spirit mage could tell a lot about a person if the right powers were used.

“I know that from speaking with you. You are clearly an intelligent man. You don't throw yourself into revelry with abandon like your men do, you keep yourself separate from their behavior. That tells me a great deal about what kind of man you are.”

“It is an off night. Tomorrow I will get just as drunk as they are.”

“I think not. No sense trying to mislead me,” she said with a smile. “Just because I can see you doesn't mean you must try to hide.”

“But how do you know I have other goals in mind?”

“As I said, you are an intelligent man. An intelligent man knows he cannot sell his sword forever. Eventually he will get old and his body will not work quite the way it should. What will you do then? An intelligent man would have some other plan, something to take him into his golden years with relative ease.”

Maxum smiled. “I do have other goals, but not for the reasons you surmise. So you see, there are still many mysteries about me to keep you interested.”

“Perhaps,” she said, pausing to take a sip of her ale. “What about me? Can you not divine anything about me?”

Maxum narrowed his eyes on her thoughtfully. “You do not like to wear dresses.”

She burst out in a laugh. “How do you know that? How do you know these are not just my traveling clothes?”

“They are too well-worn to be used just for traveling. You've even mended your breeches at the knee, telling me this is likely your only set of clothing. Or perhaps one of two sets.”

“Very good,” she said, seeming impressed. “But that does not mean I don't like to wear dresses.”

“If I were a woman used to running about in the freedom of breeches and cotton, I would not want to stuff myself into the confines of a dress and corset where certain behaviors would then be expected of me. Like this, you have all the freedom in the world. Why would you want to give that up?”

“Well, it so happens you are right, but I still say it's a lucky guess.”

“No more or less lucky than your guesses.”

“What else?” she asked.

“Hmm…I'll bet you're a scrapper. You avoid fighting where possible, because you are clearly intelligent, but get you in the mix and you'll hold your own in spite of your size.”

“Oh ho! Now we're insulting?”

“Not at all. You're just being sensitive. I was merely stating an observation. It was a compliment actually…that I can see you holding your own in a fight even against a larger opponent.”

“And what makes you think this?”

“You've got two daggers on you, one on each thigh. That tells me you're proficient with them left- and right-handed…a marketable skill if ever there was one. They are short daggers so that means you're used to fighting up close and personal. You travel alone, which means you're pretty confident you can take care of yourself. You're too clever to mislead yourself on that count so…that makes you a scrapper.”

“Very good.” She gave him a light round of applause. He nodded his head in gracious acceptance.

“There's one other thing,” he said.

“And that is?”

“You're seriously thinking about having sex with me.”

She laughed, a bright short burst of sound. “Am I, now? What makes you say that?”

“You got up and came over to me.”

“I could just be looking for a diverting conversation. How does sex come into the picture? If I wanted sex I could choose any of your men.”

“As I said, you came over to me instead of joining my men. That shows you have taste and are discerning. You didn't want to be alone tonight, so you thought I might provide you with a little companionable distraction.”

“Distraction equals sex?”

He ran his eyes down over her, letting her see his appetite, which had grown considerably in the time they had been talking.

“It does in my book. And you haven't thrown your drink in my face and stormed off. That's also telling.”

She smiled, stood up, and crossed over to him. She sat in his lap and wound her arms around his neck. “And does the idea have any appeal to you at all?”

“What do your deductive powers tell you?”

“That it does indeed have merit. A great deal of merit,” she said, shifting her bottom a little on top of a steadily growing erection. He hadn't planned on getting friendly with anyone tonight, didn't really engage in it at all these days, his goals consuming his time and energies. But for some reason she appealed to him a great deal and now that he had started thinking about having sex with her, he found he couldn't stop thinking of it. The idea of running his hands all over that fair, delicate skin—all the while knowing she was just as tough as she was soft—that was more than alluring to him.