Sweet Ruin Read online

  She craned her head. Where was he? The sun would soon set. There! He was scampering into the room, dressed in a little black suit with tufts of dog fur on the pants.

  Looking from the pack to Thaddie, she realized he'd never fit. Maybe she could stuff the dog in there.

  She'd take Thaddie's hand, and the three of them would all ghost away together.

  He crawled up to sit in an older woman's lap. Jo had seen the lady visit before. She was MizB's mom, Thaddie's . . . "Gram." The old chick was explaining to him that she would live there from now on and help out around the house.

  Isn't that swell? Jo squeezed the pack. He's mine! Her necklace felt cold and heavy around her throat.

  Storm clouds gathered, thunder rumbling. Jo glared at the sky. Unlike her, Thaddie shouldn't be out in the rain.

  MizB came into the room, her eyes all puffy. She must feel like crap rolled over, but she wasn't crying, and her dress and hair were neat.

  Thaddie crawled from the old woman's lap to MizB's. Gazing up at her with those big hazel eyes, he asked, "Mama, where did Daddy go?"

  Jo swayed, her breath knocked from her lungs. Mama? Tears welled and spilled. He hadn't even called Jo that.

  If she took him today, Thaddie would lose a father and a mother. Would that mess him up beyond hope?

  The clouds opened up, rain falling as fast as her tears. Drops streamed through her; she must've gone into ghost-mode without noticing.

  MizB wrapped her arms around him. Jealousy clawed at Jo when he curled up against the woman with so much trust. Jo found herself clutching the Thadpack to her chest.

  Keeping a stiff upper lip, MizB answered, "Oh, sweetheart, remember? Daddy's gone to heaven to be with JoJo."

  Knife in gut. Knife in gut. Knife in gut.

  Jo stood in the worsening storm, heart shriveling--because she'd reached a conclusion about Thaddie's future.

  I won't be in it.

  She pressed her palm to the window. Though no imprint showed, she willed him to turn in her direction, to see her.

  But he didn't.

  Tears pouring, she hugged the Thadpack tighter. Between sobs, she whispered, "Bye-bye, Thaddie." She turned away, with no idea where to go.

  As night fell, she ghosted down the lonely highway with only the storm as her companion. . . .

  THREE

  The dimension of Tenebrous, Perdishian Castle, capital of the Elserealms

  Beings of power stirred in the echoing stronghold as Rune Darklight made his way through the immense black castle.

  He was the sole Morior who'd stayed awake for the last five centuries and was tasked with rousing the others when Tenebrous had ground through time and space to near its destination: Gaia.

  Also known as Earth. Rune had sounded the telepathic call moments ago.

  Boots clicking across the ancient stone floor, he entered the war room--a chamber with a massive star-shaped table and a wall made of blast-proof glass.

  Outside the glass, against a slate of black nothingness, images of worlds flashed by, as if from a film projector.

  He took one of the twelve empty seats at the table, propping his boots up on the gold surface as he awaited his allies. Or at least, he awaited five of them. Two seats remained vacant, and four Morior would slumber on; considering their natures, waiting to unleash them on Gaia was for the best.

  Abyssian Infernas, prince of Pandemonia, was the first to join Rune. Sian, as his compatriots called him, was over seven feet tall and muscled, with long black hair. He wore leather bands over his broad chest and dark trews.

  Rune could admit the prince of hells was as wickedly handsome as the devil who'd sired him.

  Sian turned his green eyes toward the glass wall. "Good, we're still a few days out. Gives us time to prepare." He took his seat at the table. "I haven't been to Earth in ages."

  "Much has changed. As you'll soon see." Rune had been the others' eyes and ears over the last five centuries, documenting every realm he'd visited. Once his allies had convened, they would delve into his memories, updating their speech and learning about these new times in which they would war.

  They were in for some graphic scenes; Rune had spent most of his years plowing slick nymph flesh.

  Out of habit, he slid an arrow from the quiver strapped to his calf. He tapped his forefinger on the arrowhead, collecting some of his black blood to draw symbols on the shaft. With those demonic runes, he could focus his fey magicks, amplifying a regular arrow into one of power.

  Allixta, the Overlady of Witches and the newest Morior, entered, sauntering toward the table. How she walked in such a skintight dress baffled Rune. A question for the ages. "Are we finally here?" Curses, her familiar, trailed her. The creature was an Elserealm breed of panther, so large its whiskers brushed her shoulders.

  "Close enough to wake," Rune answered.

  Adjusting the brim of her oversize witch's hat, she sank into her chair. Curses hopped atop the table, reclined its gigantic frame, then hissed at Rune.

  Rune hissed back, baring his demon fangs.

  "This is what I wake to, baneblood?" Allixta glared at his arrow. "Why spill your disgusting poison in the presence of others? Do you intend to cause offense?"

  Rune paused his drawing. As a dark fey, he had poisonous black blood, fatal even to immortals. "My dearest Allixta, if I've caused offense, it was unwittingly done--but a welcome development."

  Blace, the oldest vampire, suddenly appeared in his seat at the table, goblet of blood mead in hand. His dark-brown hair was tied back into a neat queue, and he wore an impeccable suit, though the shirt, cravat, doublet, and breeches were centuries outdated.

  "Good awakening, friend," Rune said. He liked the vampire. Blace provided welcome counsel. He was sparing with it, and usually dead-on.

  Blace swigged his libation. "I wonder what sights your mind will show us this time."

  Darach Lyka, the first werewolf, entered the chamber, still transforming from his wolven form. The primordial wolf wore only trews and carried a wadded-up tunic in one fist. Rune had little in common with the quietly intense Darach--other than a mutual loathing of Allixta--but Rune respected him.

  The best tracker in the worlds, Darach had proven invaluable in locating magickal objects. And on the few occasions when he'd mastered his beast and was able to communicate more easily, he'd shared keen insights, demonstrating a surprising cynicism for a man who'd risen from the dead.

  Now Darach struggled to reclaim his human body, compacting his nine-foot-tall werewolf frame. Fangs grinding, he clenched his fists tighter, his bones cracking into place.

  Each transition grew more difficult. One day Darach would transform into a beast and never return. Unless he found a way to keep his human form. Perhaps in the Gaia realm?

  In addition to the Morior's overarching aims, each of them coveted something from Earth and its connected planes, had traveled across the universe to collect.

  Most thought Rune wanted the throne of his home world. No, his desires ran much darker than that. As dark as his unnatural black blood. . . .

  Their liege, Orion--the Undoing--was the last to convene. He was a being of unknown descent, but Rune believed he was at least a demigod. Perhaps a full deity, or even an overdeity.

  Orion's appearance and scent had changed; he altered them regularly. Today he was a tall blond demon. At their last meeting, he'd been a black-haired giant.

  He moved to the glass wall without saying a word. He could remain silent for a decade. Before him, that line of ever-changing planets floated by as the stronghold passed one after another.

  Now that all the awakened Morior had assembled, the others began digging into Rune's mind. Their mental link was so strong, they could even speak to each other telepathically.

  He opened his memories wide for them, offering access to almost everything, at least after the first millennium of his life. He worked to conceal that earlier time of betrayals and violation.

  Within a few moments, Bl
ace raised an approving brow. "A dozen nymphs in one night?"

  Rune grinned. He'd bedded thousands of them, was a favorite of Nymphae coveys far and wide. They were excellent sources of information. "That was merely the first round. The real debauchery started a day later."

  Blace shook his head ruefully. "Ah, the vigor of the young." Rune was seven millennia old--young compared to Blace. "You come by your trailing name honestly."

  Rune the Insatiable. He buffed his black claws. "Wringing orgasms and breaking hearts for eons."

  Sian said, "Gods pity any female who loses her heart to you. I could almost feel sorry for your bedmates."

  "If one of my tarts is stupid enough to want more, then she deserves all the heartache in the worlds." He made no secret of his detachment during sex. He felt physical pleasure but no connection, no immediacy--no emotions. Outside of bedsport, he did. He knew amusement; he grew excited about upcoming battles. He experienced kinship with the Morior. But during sex . . . nothing.

  Which was unsettling, since he spent a good deal of his life tupping.

  "Tarts?" Allixta sneered. "You are such a whore."

  A former slave, he'd known his share of insults; most didn't bother him. Now his claws sharpened as he remembered his queen's words from so long ago: You possess the smoldering sensuality of the fey and the sexual intensity of a demon. . . . I have a use for you after all.

  Old frustrations made his tone sharp: "On the subject of whores, did I ever get around to swiving you, witch? For the life of me I just can't remember."

  Darach bit back a roughened laugh as he pulled on his tunic.

  Allixta leveled her green gaze on the wolf. "Something to say, mongrel?" Then she turned to Rune. "Trust me, baneblood, if I could stomach your befouled body long enough to bed you, you'd never forget it."

  Befouled. Rune loathed his blood. Worse, she knew how deeply he did. Some things in his mind were too prominent to disguise from prying eyes.

  He reached into his pocket, seeking the talisman he always kept near. Carved from a demon ancestor's horn and inscribed with runes even he couldn't decipher, it always helped him focus, reminding him to look toward the future--

  Suddenly Sian's head jerked up. "My brother is dead?" Sian's twin, the Father of Terrors, had been as hideous as Sian was physically flawless.

  Rune nodded. "Killed in a blood sport contest. Murdered in front of cheering crowds."

  Blace shook his head. "Impossible. A primordial like the Father of Terrors can't be killed."

  "He was slain--by a mere immortal," Rune said. "These days in the Gaia realms, they no longer fight one species against another; they've allied into armies. And more, these immortals don't just take down primordials. They assassinate gods."

  Allixta smirked. "Perhaps your dirty blood has finally rotted your brain. Deities can't be assassinated by immortals."

  He turned from her and addressed the others: "Several gods have perished, all in the last year. Including one of the witch divinities." While Allixta sputtered, Rune reeled off names of old deities, extinguished forever. He studied the set of Orion's shoulders for signs of tension.

  How would a god feel about the deaths of his kind?

  Orion just stared at the worlds flickering past.

  "Why do you trust this information from your . . . nymphs?" Allixta demanded of Rune.

  "Because I pay them well in their favorite currency: stiff fuckings with a stout cock. It just so happens I'm rich beyond measure."

  Before she could launch into a scathing response, Blace said, "These assassinations have occurred. Read his thoughts, Allixta. The information is there."

  "They seem connected," Sian said. "It's as if someone is trying to attract our notice. Our very presence. Who would dare?"

  "A Valkyrie named Nix the Ever-Knowing," Rune answered. "The primordial of her species." According to the nymphs, Nix had orchestrated these killings. "She's a soothsayer and a wish giver. Close to goddesshood."

  Orion often made allies of enemies--he had with Blace, Allixta, and two of the sleeping Morior. Would the god enlist the primordial Valkyrie?

  Orion raised his flattened palm. The projections slowed, then stopped on an image of a crimson planet. He tilted his head, perceiving things no one else could.

  Weaknesses.

  He could see vulnerabilities in a man, a castle, an army. An entire world.

  The Undoing slowly curled his fingers to make a fist. The planet began to lose shape, crumbling, as if he wadded up parchment.

  Was Orion mimicking the destruction? Or causing it?

  The world dwindled and dwindled, until it . . . disappeared. A whole realm--gone. The inhabitants dead.

  Orion turned to face the others. His expression was contemplative, but his eyes . . . dark and chilling, like the abyss Sian hailed from. His fathomless gaze fell on Rune. "Bring me the head of the Valkyrie, archer."

  No enlistment. Just death. Why not attempt to sway Nix? Two seats remained at the table, and a soothsayer was always an asset. Lore held that she was one of the most powerful oracles ever to live.

  Too bad she couldn't see her own future.

  Rune shrugged off his curiosity. He had no love for Valkyries anyway. They were staunch allies to the fey, a colonizing species of slavers and rapists.

  Judged by the company you keep, Nix.

  Rune knew she prowled the streets of a specific mortal city--a place of ready sin--from sundown to sunup. There was a large covey of water nymphs nearby. Tree nymphs as well.

  They had eyes and ears in every pond, oak, and puddle.

  In the name of duty, I'll pump them for information. As Rune had answered so many times over the millennia: "It is done, my liege."

  FOUR

  New Orleans

  PRESENT DAY

  Oh, gods, Rune, so close! Pleasepleasepleaseohgods, yes, yes, YESSSSSS!"

  When Jo's super-hearing picked up a third woman screaming her way to ecstasy--from the same location--her curiosity got piqued.

  Time to finish up with the guy she was strangling.

  She'd pinned him up against a brick wall, unmoved as he squirmed. He'd come into her territory, carrying a pimp cane?

  In Jo's mind, pimp cane signaled open season. Then the fucker had used it on a prostitute, a girl younger than Jo. The chick huddled on the curb, cheek swelling as she watched Jo delivering punishment.

  "You gonna come back here?" Jo asked, though he couldn't answer. She squeezed till things broke; this guy's windpipe was crushed. "Huh?"

  Staring at her eyes, he tried to shake his head.

  "You do. You die. Get me?" He attempted a nod. "And if you ever hit a woman again, I'll come for you. You'll wake up with me hovering over you in your bed, your very own nightmare." She flashed her fangs and hissed.

  He started to urinate--occupational hazard--so she tossed him across the adjoining parking lot.

  The girl gazed up at Jo. "Thanks, Lady Shady."

  My moniker. Somehow Jo's alter ego had morphed into some weird-ass villain protector of prostitutes. Could be worse. "Yeah. S'cool."

  As Jo dusted off her hands, she heard another scream. "Rune! Rune! YES!"

  All three ecstatic women had called out that Rune guy's name. This I gotta see.

  Though the girl was watching her, Jo went into ghost-mode. Invisible and intangible, she headed down Bourbon Street toward the screams, her feet never touching the ground.

  Since she'd arrived in the city a few months ago, she'd been doing a lot of spying. The uncanny things--and beings--she'd witnessed here had lit a hope in her she hadn't felt in years.

  No longer did she gaze at the stars, losing herself in dreams of having her brother back with her. No longer did she pass endless days and nights zoning out with comics or TV.

  Jo was zoning in.

  A wasted pedestrian stumbled through her, and shuddered. So did she. Tourists were rank. They sweated like crazy, gorged on mudbugs and garlic bread, and boozed to kingdom come, like pre-d
etonated puke grenades.

  Would she puke if she drank from them?

  She'd never bitten anybody. The smell--of whatever the guy had eaten for dinner, or the starch from his collar, or the slobbery pets he'd cuddled--warded her off. Or worse, he'd reek of cologne.

  Axe cologne.

  How could she put her tongue on skin saturated with that crap? Until someone invented a fang condom, she'd continue stealing from the blood bank.

  A few blocks off Bourbon, she came upon a high-walled courtyard. A water fountain splashed within. The woman was screaming even louder; the sound of slapping skin quickened.

  Hmm. Maybe Jo could possess one of the participants, live vicariously through her. Aside from an initial shudder, the "shells" never knew she was inside.

  Or Jo could pick their pockets. Her rent-by-the-week motel room was filled with loot. She pretended each stolen prize was a gift to her--a bridge to get to know someone better--just as she pretended each possession was a visit.

  A connection.

  Having never made a friend before, how could she know the difference?

  Her compulsions to steal and to possess others had grown worse lately. Maybe she needed a real connection. She'd had so little real interaction she wondered if she'd been resurrected at all.

  Sometimes, she had nightmares about floating away. Who would even notice her absence?

  As Jo eased toward the entry of the courtyard, a fourth woman's voice sounded: "It's so good, Rune! My gods in heavens! YES! Never stop, never stop! Never, NEVER!"

  Jo floated to the cracked-open wooden gate, peeking around to see a wicked scene.

  A half-dressed blonde was pressed against the ivy-covered courtyard wall by a tall dark-haired man with his pants at his thighs. The woman's lithe legs wrapped around his waist as he bounced her.

  Must be Rune. What kind of name was that?

  Three other stunning women were sprawled naked on a lounge sofa, heavy-lidded as they watched him pounding the fourth.

  This guy had just screwed them all? Line 'em up and knock 'em down? Ugh. Forget possessing any of them.

  Jo floated to the side to see him better. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and apparently he had serious stamina. He was attractive, she supposed. His eyes were nice, the color of dark plums, and she liked his thick black hair. It was carelessly cut and longish, with random small braids. But he had rough-hewn features--a fighter's crooked nose and a too-wide jaw.