The Darkest Whisper (11 page)

Did Gwen possess a special ability?

Every time he learned something about her or her origins, a thousand other questions presented themselves.

“But don't worry about your woman,” Anya added as if reading his thoughts. “Those types of powers don't develop until late in life. Unless she's a few hundred years old—or is it a few thousand? I can't remember—she probably hasn't tapped into her ability yet.”

Good to know. “Are they evil? Can they be trusted?”

“Evil? Depends on your definition. Trusted?” Slowly she grinned, as if she relished her next words. “Not even a little.”

Not good for his main objective. But damn, he couldn't picture sweet, innocent Gwen playing him. “From what Lucien told you, do you think Gwen could be working with the Hunters?” He hadn't meant to ask that; he truly didn't believe her capable of it. The only reason the thought was in his mind was Doubt. Doubt, for whom confidence and assurance were vile curses.

“Nah,” Anya said. “I mean, you found her locked up. No Harpy alive would willingly allow herself to be caged. To be captured is to be ridiculed, found unworthy.”

How would her sisters treat her when they arrived, then? He wouldn't allow them to castigate her. And shit. He'd left her locked in his bedroom. A spacious bedroom, but a prison all the same. Did she now view him as she viewed the Hunters? His stomach churned.

“Will you stay with her? Please.”

“Hate to break it to you, sweet chops, but if she doesn't want to be here, even I can't keep her here. No one can.”

Another human cry ripped through the room, followed quickly by immortal laughter. “Please,” he repeated. “She's frightened and needs a friend.”

“Frightened.” Anya laughed. But his intent expression never wavered, so that laughter began to fade. “You're kidding me, right? Harpies are never scared.”

“When have I ever demonstrated a sense of humor?”

As disdainful of mysteries as she was, Anya shook her head. “You've got me there. Fine. I'll babysit her, but only because I'm curious. I'm telling you, a frightened Harpy is an oxymoron.”

She would soon learn the error of that. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do.” Anya smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. “Oh, and if she asks about you, I'm going to tell her everything I know. Every detail. And I do mean
every
.”

Dread instantly speared him. Already Gwen was wary of him. If she knew half the things he'd done in the past, she would never help him, never trust him, never again look at him with that intoxicating blend of desire and uncertainty.

“Deal,” Sabin said darkly. “But you are in desperate need of a spanking.”

“Another one? Lucien gave me a good one this morning.”

In that moment Sabin admitted to himself that he'd never gain the verbal edge with Anya. He'd never intimidate her, either. No reason to even try. “Just…be gentle with her. And if you have any shred of mercy inside that gorgeous body, don't tell her I house Doubt. She's already afraid of me.”

Sighing, he turned and stomped to the dungeon below.

 

“W
HERE ARE THEY
?” Paris demanded.

A moan of pain was his only answer.

They'd been at it for what seemed like days, with no real results. Aeron's demon, Wrath, was flashing all kinds of sick images in his head, wanting to punish this man for his sins. Soon Aeron wouldn't be able to stop himself. If that happened, he wouldn't get answers. He
was ready to stop, regroup and try again tomorrow, allowing the remaining Hunters—they'd already accidentally killed two—to imagine what would soon be done to them. Sometimes, the unknown proved more intimidating than reality. Sometimes.

Paris, though, didn't look ready to quit. The man was possessed. By more than his demon. He'd done things to these humans that even Aeron, cold warrior that he was, couldn't have stomached. But then, Aeron was not the man he used to be.

Months ago the gods had commanded him to slay Danika Ford and her family and he'd fought diligently against the bloodlust that had subsequently consumed him. Fought against the images of those sweet deaths that invaded his head, his hand slicing their throats, his eyes watching their blood pour from them, his ears registering their last, gurgling breath. Gods, he'd craved those things, more than anything else in the world.

When the lust had finally left him—though he still didn't know why it had—he'd been afraid of taking another life, any life, lest he morph back into the beast he'd been. Then he and the other warriors had traveled to Egypt and a battle had raged. He'd been unable to stay his hand, the lust he'd feared overtaking him yet again, driving him.

Thankfully, he'd calmed down without harming one of his friends. But what if he hadn't? He would not be able to live with himself. Only Legion was capable of soothing him completely, and he was currently without her company.

His hands fisted. Whoever, whatever, was watching him had to be stopped before Legion could return. Somehow. Sadly, those invisible, penetrating eyes were not on him now. He was covered in blood and had a wadded-
up rag in his pocket—a rag that cradled one of the dead Hunters' fingers. The sight of him might have driven the voyeur away for good.

At first he'd thought it was Anya, playing a prank. She'd done something similar to Lucien. Legion was not afraid of Anya, though. Which made her probably the only fortress resident aside from Lucien who could make that claim.

“One last chance to answer my question,” Paris said calmly, tapping his dagger against the Hunter's pale cheek. “Where are the children?”

Greg, their current victim, whimpered, a stream of saliva gushing from his lips.

They'd isolated the Hunters, one to a cell. That way, the screams they elicited from one would drive the others mad, making them wonder what exactly had been done to their brethren. The scents of urine, sweat and blood already saturated the air, another added bonus.

“I don't know,” Greg blubbered. “They didn't tell me. I swear to God they didn't tell me.”

Hinges creaked. Footsteps echoed. Then Sabin was strolling into the cell, features tight with determination. Now things would get really bloody. No one was more determined than Sabin. With a demon like Doubt, that determination was probably the only thing that kept him sane.

“What have you learned?” the warrior asked. He pulled a velvet pouch from the back of his waist and gently placed it on the table, slowly unraveling the material to reveal the sharp gleam of different metals.

Greg sobbed.

“The only new information is that our old friend Galen—” Aeron said the name with a sneer “—is aided by someone he calls…you aren't going to believe this. Distrust.”

Sabin froze in place, the words obviously playing through his mind. “Impossible. We found Baden's head, minus his body.”

“Yes.” No immortal could have survived that. A head was not something that could be regenerated. Other body parts, yes, but not that. “We also know his demon is now wandering the earth, crazed from the loss of its host. There's no way it could have been found without Pandora's box.”

“It offends me that such words were even spoken. You punished the Hunter for lying, of course.”

“Of course,” Paris said with a satisfied grin. “He's the one who had to eat his own tongue.”

“We should put this one in the cage,” Aeron suggested. The Cage of Compulsion. An ancient, powerful artifact—and one that would supposedly aid them in their quest to find the box. Anyone they placed inside it had to do whatever the warriors commanded, no exception. Well, almost no exception. When Aeron had been consumed by bloodlust, he'd begged someone in the heavens to place him inside and command him to stay away from the Ford women.

But Cronus had appeared before him and said, “Think you I would create something as powerful as this cage and allow it to be used against me? Anything I set into motion cannot be stopped. Even with the cage. That's the only reason I agreed to leave it here. Now. Enough of this. Now is the time to act.”

Aeron had blinked and found himself inside Reyes's bedroom, a knife in his hand, Danika's neck so beautifully close…

“Nope,” Sabin said. “We agreed.”

They would not show the cage to Hunters—even doomed ones—for any reason, so that Hunters would never see what it could do. Just in case.

“Learn anything else?” Sabin asked, changing the subject.

But Aeron saw the gleam in the warrior's eye. Because the cage had been mentioned in mixed company, this Hunter would die after their session. “Just a confirmation of what the captive women told us. They were raped, impregnated, their babies meant to be used to one day fight us. Already there are half-immortal children out there being raised as Hunters, but Greg there doesn't want to save his fingers and toes and tell us where.”

The sobs became silent, the Hunter so scared his throat was closing. Any moment, he'd pass out.

Paris gripped him by the neck and shoved his head between his legs, the rope that bound him pulling tight on his wrists. “Breathe, damn you. Or
I
swear to the gods I'll keep you lucid another way.”

“At least he still has his voice box,” Sabin said dryly. He held a curved blade up to the light and flicked the tip. Blood instantly beaded on his finger. “Unlike his friend in the cell to the left.”

“My bad,” Paris said, but he didn't sound repentant. There was an almost maniacal gleam in those blue eyes.

“How's he supposed to answer our questions if he can't speak?”

“Interpretive dance,” was the wry response.

Sabin snorted. “You could have used your powers.” His faculty for seduction worked even on men.

“I could have, but didn't.” Paris scowled. “And I won't do so now, so don't ask. I hate these bastards too much to lay on the charm, even for information. I still owe them for the time I spent as their prisoner.”

Sabin glanced at Aeron, an unspoken
why didn't you stop him
drifting between them. Aeron shrugged. He had no idea how to deal with the fierce, violent soldier
Paris had become. Was this how the others had felt about him?

“So right now we're determined to learn the location of the kids?” Sabin asked. “That it?”

“Yes,” Aeron replied. “One of the Hunters admitted that they range in ages, anywhere from infancy to teenager. And yeah, they've been raping immortals that long. They were able to do so without getting caught because of their location. That cavern in Egypt was once a temple to the gods. It's protected, though no one knows by who—or how we bypassed that protection.

“Supposedly the kids are faster and stronger than any Hunter that has come before. Oh, and get this. Most of the incubators, as this bastard called them…they were immortals Ashlyn found.”

Ashlyn had the unique ability to stand in one location and hear every conversation that had ever taken place there. Before coming to Budapest, she'd worked for—hell, dedicated her life to—the World Institute of Parapsychology, an agency that had used her skills to hunt immortals. For “research,” they'd told her.

“We can't tell her,” Aeron added. “She would be devastated.” Learning she'd inadvertently been working for Hunters must have been bad enough; the discovery that her abilities had been used to help breed new Hunters might be too much for the gentle pregnant woman.

“We'll tell Maddox and let him decide what to leak to her.”

“Please, let me go,” Greg begged, tone desperate. “I'll take the others a message. Any message you want. A warning, even. I'll tell them to stay away from you. To leave you alone.”

Sabin lifted a vial of dirty-looking liquid from that velvet pouch. “Now why would I let you give them a
warning that I can deliver myself?” He popped the cap with his thumb and poured the stuff over his blade. There was a hiss and sizzle.

Greg tried to scoot his chair back but it was nailed in place. “Wh-what is that?”

“A special kind of acid I like to mix myself. It'll eat through your flesh, burn you from inside out. Vessels, muscle, bone, it doesn't matter. Only thing it can't eat through is this metal, because it's straight from the heavens. So, are you going to tell us what we want to know? Or am I going to shove this blade into the bottom of your foot and work my way up?”

Tears streamed down the trembling man's face, landing on his shirt and blending with the blood already caked there. “They're in a training facility. Everyone calls it Hunter High. It's a subsidiary of the World Institute of Parapsychology. A boarding school where the kids are kept as far from their mothers as possible. There they are taught how to fight, how to track. Taught to hate your kind for the millions you've murdered with your diseases and lies. The millions who have killed themselves because of the misery you spread.”

Excellent. Now he was sounding like the Hunters Aeron so loathed.