The Bastard (3 page)

Dawn crested the mountains, painting brilliant orange and pink across the ridges. The peaks and valleys awoke and the air smelled fresh and moist. But he didn’t stop to admire the spill of color as he drove into the underground lot. He jammed the truck into park and laid his brow on the steering wheel. The aftermath of battle was something he was long accustomed to, but a new sensation troubled him.

Her touch. A sweet heat had spread along his skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so warm. Despite the invention of central heating, despite having stood beneath sunlight so hot it blistered his face, he’d been soul-cold for a millennium.

It was more than her Scion bloodline. He’d saved others like her. That wasn’t what caused the thaw in his marrow. It was just her.

You have a fucking crush
.

Gen’s memory rippled through him and he jerked his head up. Women had always been his weakness. One had led to his First Death. He could be the biggest badass out there until a woman batted her eyes and then whack! He was a sap. And if they were like
her
, with innocent eyes and a gentle nature, might as well call the morgue, because he was a dead man all over again.

I’m a stupid pussy that never learns
.

Steel poured into his bones and he stiffened. Not this time. He wasn’t falling for a pretty face and a soft heart. For now, she was safe in the hospital, drugged and surrounded by people. He had a Forsaken’s duty ahead of him. He had to deliver Gen’s soul to its resting place.

Scores of Forsaken had fallen and he’d mourned each of them, but never like this. Nearly a dozen of his natural brothers had died before him, but none struck as hard as losing Gen. This loss went deeper than blood. It went into his soul and left a gaping hole.

You asshole. How the hell am I supposed to do this without you?

Chest heavy, he climbed from the cab. Concrete silence echoed his footsteps back to him as he strode toward the elevator. The doors closed with a soft sound and he jammed the black button at the very bottom of the panel. Lights flickered with the elevator’s descent. One Forsaken would never make this trip again. The leather soul-bag was soft in his hand and his eyes closed in memory.

He pulled the other pouches from his pocket before the doors slid open. In three steps, his modern clothing melted away, with only a pair of loose black silk pants replacing them. The Hall of Infamy yawned before him, shadows dancing behind the torches lining the circle. The electric lights were dimmed. Those false lights had no business in this place now.

The floor was white marble. A huge circle rimmed in gold held a black hand with the fingers spread wide. Framed by two pillars, an empty throne sat at the base of the palm. His bare feet made no sound as he took his place, never glancing to his right, to a place that would now stand empty forever. He didn’t have to look to his left either. He knew how few Forsaken stood around the circle’s rim. Only six remained.

Gen, I’m sorry
.

They all were dressed alike, in simple silk, hands clasped loosely behind their straightened backs. They all had the same brand burned into their skin. The handprint between their shoulder blades was meant to be a unifying mark.

They were the Forsaken, the dark side of the Awoken.

To Vike’s left, Rex stared directly ahead. The youngest in body, he looked twenty-five or -six. He was sculpted lean like a racehorse but was as vicious as a wolverine. With his dark blond hair cut classic and his skin unmarked, he could pass for any man on the street. He rarely did. That would be too plebeian for him. He liked attention, fast cars and faster women. He made no pretense that he’d fuck anything that moved as long as it was pretty enough. And that was negotiable if the pickings were slim. The number of notches on his bedpost was overshadowed only by the number of his kills.

Nomad rested one hand on his dog’s head. Vike had no clue what breed Omen was, but the mutt looked like a Mastiff crossed with a Doberman with just enough Rottweiler added to make him fuck-ugly. He was a huge, black killing machine on four feet. His master was just as lethal. Wrath chiseled into Nomad’s face like a smile on a statue. His favorite phrases included words like
Fuck
and
You
and
Asshole
. A trim beard was clipped close, but thick brown hair threatened to fall into his face. It wouldn’t dare in the Hall of Infamy. Here, everything was pristine and controlled.

Control described Myth to a T. Buzz-cut hair highlighted his proud brow and high cheekbones. Burnt-caramel skin shone in the firelight; the serpent tattoo wrapped around his six-and-a-half foot tall body seemed to slither and shift with the glow. The snake’s diamond-shaped head rested on his right hand, the forked tongue running down his middle finger. Myth could build a super computer blindfolded and hack into any top-security program like cracking eggs. The NSA would lick his nuts to get half his expertise. There wasn’t a document he couldn’t forge, a system he couldn’t crack or a bone he couldn’t break.

Dray was pure heavy metal music clashed with Christian iconography. Midnight black hair hung low past his wide shoulders but couldn’t hide the crucified red dragon on his back below his handprint burn. Rock hard arms sported more twisted images of skulls and flames but an ornate gold crucifix hung around his neck, winking in opposition to the silver rings in his nipples. Thick brows permanently drawn to a scowl shaded his deep-set unflinching eyes. Those eyes had watched thousands die. A groove next to his mouth marked where he’d smiled through their pain.

Directly across from Vike, the deadliest of them stood. Flames flickered in Zale’s pale eyes and gilded the top of his blue-black hair. Malice pulsed around him like a heartbeat. He never ate, rarely spoke, slept only when seriously injured. His too-perfect looks hinted at his unearthly birth, but for all intents and purposes, he was their general. Zale’s word, though seldom spoken, was law.

Every last one of them was a conqueror, used to taking charge and answering to no one. It wasn’t easy corralling a bunch of alpha mutts. It took a major She-bitch to do it.

Sela stepped from shadows, a monochromatic starburst of pink leather and sexuality. Even her long hair was pink, left loose to frame her face. A tight halter cupped her breasts, lifting them for inspection, but not one man dared to look too long. Skin-tight and shining, the micro-mini skirt sat low below her navel and hugged her ass like a drunken frat boy. Her pink thigh-high boots clicked the marble with each step.

Vike had seen her dressed as a queen and a peasant but the command in her eyes never changed. When she’d Awoken him, she’d been clothed as an English noblewoman and his mind had been firmly entrenched in his time-period. He was a Viking, a Berserker, a king. He would not bow to her; rather she would kneel before him.

Remembered embarrassment shook his head. He’d been a fool. Her laugh had echoed beneath the thunder that clapped. Or at least he’d thought it was thunder. It had been her fist slamming into his jaw with the full might of her Vangeli strength. His body had cemented to corded oak, unable to twitch or move while she laughed. A man had rarely bested him and to have been brought to his knees by a seeming slip of a girl shattered his pride.

Her haughty voice dripped with disdain as she listed his sins, his disgraces, those vile acts that had brought him into her focus. Slender but powerful fingers had yanked his head back, forcing him to view those who stood as witness to his shame. He’d counted eleven men in black trousers who stared at him with commiseration and one in foreign lamellar armor with a look of awe rounding his face as Sela spoke of murder, revenge, plots steeped in devious intention, men he’d killed and children he’d orphaned.

But then she’d helped him to his feet with uncommon grace and bid him welcome. All he had to do was serve her on her Holy mission. In return, his past life transgressions, grievous as they were, would be forgiven. He could one day find timeless sleep and a celestial reward, not have his soul cursed to
Helheim
. He wouldn’t even have to change his ways to do it. Evil was only evil when viewed through a specific lens.

His acceptance and pledge of loyalty had been swift and painful. One touch of her hand on his back had seared the vow into his flesh. Now he was forever marked as one of the Creator’s immortal soldiers, albeit one of dubious moral value. They all were.

Sela walked the circumference, pausing to look into each man’s face. The sensual roll of her hips and overt sexuality oozing from her tightened Vike’s throat. Her given name meant
The Beauty of God
and she was that, but something more deadly lurked in her frame.

She chose her weapons with care, be they fine-honed swords, poison-tipped lances or sniper-scoped high-powered rifles. Tonight, she’d chosen sex as her weapon. This frothy bit of too-tight leather exposing miles of creamy flesh was war gear of a different nature and, in that get-up, Sela was loaded for bear. It meant the threat was close up and personal.

Tension surged a thousand degrees. Something big was working behind the scenes and it pissed Sela off to the point where she was using her body as a diversion. Sweat broke along Vike’s brow. Damn, he wished weapons were permitted in this sacred hall. He could really use the grip of wood and steel to calm his sudden nerves.

She stopped in front of him and her smile faltered. She raised her eyes to his. Every color of the rainbow nestled with golden slivers to make her eyes the most beautiful he’d ever seen. Occasional mother figure, sometimes nursemaid, always a leader, Sela sassed with them as much as she demanded their servitude. She loved each of them and, if they were capable of love, they returned the feeling. Sela was their glue, holding them together like the shattered fragments of men they were.

“Are you well, my warrior?” Her voice was that of angels, sweet and lilting.

He handed her the three Leech-bags. “There were three of them and a mortal woman.”

“That wasn’t my question. Are you okay?”

“I’ll miss him.” His throat tightened as he handed her Gen’s bag.

Her fingers closed over his on the leather. “As will I. Hold him tight for a while longer.”

Sela pulled back her shoulders and crossed to her throne. She laid the Leech-bags on the nearby table as the electric lights blazed to brilliance. “We’ll lay Gen to rest, but first we have company from above.”

Above
. A collective groan reverberated. Well that partially explained her outfit. The Righteous were just that, righteous prudes. There was no sexual desire in Heaven so none of them had gotten laid in eons. Knocking them off-kilter would be as easy as a flashed nipple.

Sela’s raised palm called for silence. Vike swallowed his aversions. Like his team, he wanted to face the Righteous like he wanted a nitro enema. The Righteous were the flip-side to the Forsaken’s coin. The archangel Michael had Awoken them as a reward for bravery, faithfulness, goodness. Sure, some of them had killed thousands in their first life, but history called each one of them a hero. Vike preferred a dozen other four-letter words.

“Let’s give him something to look at, shall we, boys?”

She settled into her throne, the oversized seat making her look dainty and petite, a sugary bite of candy. A sultry-sly expression hooded her lids as she reclined. “Attend me, my warriors.”

They moved as one, the circle shifting and regrouping around her throne, facing the entrance. Vike rolled his head, loosening tightened muscles. This felt like a brewing battle.

“Bid him enter.” Her icy tone rang in jarring opposition to her relaxed posture. “And stay with him.”

Dray cracked his knuckles and stepped out of rank. Nomad followed, the muscles clenching in his cheek and making his trim dark brown beard twitch. Omen trailed behind him, his nails clicking on the marble floor. The two men took flanking positions, arms crossed and feet planted firm, a blockade of pure pissed-off strength and one vicious hound with a taste for blood.

The elevator doors slid open with a whisper. A blond man in ancient dress stared for a long moment before stepping into the Hall of Infamy. Firelight caught the dragon emblazoned on the long tunic of a Dark Ages knight. He was tall and powerfully built, a prime specimen of the human male. Young, perhaps only twenty-three or -four, he carried the serious air of a man who had seen death and not blinked. He didn’t blink now when faced with two Forsaken and a hell-mutt. He simply stopped, alert eyes darting around, taking note of each Forsaken’s placement.

His eyes fell on Sela and a smirk inched out. Confidence and condescension radiated around him. He stepped forward and his clothes vanished, leaving him in nothing but white silk pants. The knight faltered and revulsion thinned his mouth upon seeing his new clothing.

Vike’s lip twitched.
White
. Sela liked to make sure they remembered who the good guys were. Of course, good was a subjective word.

Smack in the center of his chest, the darkened handprint above his heart should have been a commonality. It wasn’t. It just showed how far apart the Forsaken and the Righteous were. Collectively, they were all the Awoken, but the two factions were as fundamentally far apart as night and day… or good and evil.

“Boys, let him come.” Sela toyed with a strand of hair.

Dray and Nomad glared, but stepped back. The knight ignored them and bowed before Sela, his back iron-stiff. When he rose, his gaze landed right where she wanted, smack dab on her raised and rounded tits.

A slant deepened around Sela’s eyes. “See something you like?”

For four long heartbeats, the knight stared. Then he tore his eyes away. Pink stained his cheeks. “Michael believes you’re failing.”

She snorted. “Tell Mikey I said to keep his sissy-assed opinions to himself.”

“He is Heaven’s Champion.”

“Big whoop. The threat there is nothing compared to life on this plane. He wouldn’t know modern battle if I shoved it up his ass.” A naughty smile played around her lips. “Actually, that might be sort of fun.”