The Darkest Promise (Lords of the Underworld #13)

Was she possessed?

The tornado died, and Hera appeared once more. Cameo was ready. She planted a foot in Hera’s midsection, using the goddess as a stepping-stone to wind her other leg around the bitch’s neck and take her down. As they fell, Cameo swung around to ensure she landed on top. Without pause, she shoved a dagger into Hera’s chest.

Hera grunted with surprise. Lazarus gaped, awed. That’s my woman.

The wound wouldn’t kill the goddess, but it would definitely weaken her. Blood pooled around her, and any move she made to free herself would only send the blade deeper.

Recovering quickly, Rathbone crouched beside her, savagely snapping the bones in both of the goddess’s arms. Hera screamed, the cries clearly rousing no compassion in Rathbone as he did the same to her legs.

“There.” The king wiped his hands together in a job well done. “She won’t move for a while. I wonder if breaking her jaw would shut her up? Never heard noises quite like the ones she’s making. Sounds like hell.” He rubbed his jaw with two fingers. “Yes, I think I will.”

Hera quieted.

“Or not. Good girl.”

Lazarus dug through the go bags and withdrew the Paring Rod, as well as the piece of pipe that had been taken from the Cage of Compulsion. His fangs and claws retracted, his adrenaline crashing. The crystals burned, growing closer to his heart.

Finish this. Before it’s too late. “Do you know where the portal is?” he asked Rathbone.

“I do.” He scooped up a handful of dirt from the floor and flung it at the right side of the temple. There was no wall, only a mile-long free fall to land, and yet the grains got caught in a large section of air, forming a doorway.

Finally. Something worked in his favor.

His gaze sought and found Cameo. Beautiful Cameo. “I love you. I will always love you.”

“Lazarus.” Sadness radiated from her. She reached for him. “Don’t say goodbye. Not yet. I’ll stay here with you. We can—”

He blocked out the raspy timbre of her voice and faced Rathbone. “Get her home safely.” Lazarus would stay here...forever. He would kill Hera. He would watch as her corpse rotted, content to know her spirit had entered the spirit realm. He would use the Paring Rod and pipe to make sure of it.

If his suspicions were correct and she actually housed a demon, she would end up in the prison realm.

Either way, she died.

As for Typhon, Lazarus would have hunted him down if he had more days. With Hera out of the picture, his father would be easier to kill. But Lazarus didn’t have more days, and had to resign himself to the knowledge that the bastard still lived. Knowing Typhon was trapped inside a crystal prison of his own softened the blow.

Rathbone scooped Cameo into his arms and headed for the portal.

“I’m not leaving.” She fought the warrior—fought dirty and didn’t pull her punches—but he never lost his hold on her.

Even without her memory, she wanted to help Lazarus.

His chest burned as he stalked to the goddess, doing everything in his power to mask his pain, intending to end her once and for all.

“I don’t know why, but I can’t get through.” Rathbone banged his fists into an invisible wall.

They were trapped? Had to be Hera’s fault. “Take down the wall,” he commanded her.

Panting, she yanked the blade from her chest and pointed the crimson-soaked tip in his direction. Her grip shook, but it was clear her bones had already begun to heal. “Give me...the box...”

“This isn’t a negotiation any longer. Take down the wall.”

With a screech, she jumped to her feet and launched into a full-on attack. She swung the sword at him, but he sidestepped her. Barely. Weakened, he tripped. As he stumbled, she changed her focus, attacking Cameo and Rathbone.

Lazarus roared a denial, but he needn’t have bothered. Rathbone blocked. Cameo pulled a sword from the sheath at his back and joined the fray. She thrust. Hera parried. Clang. Clang.

Lazarus jumped in the middle, blocking the next blow before delivering one of his own. The pipe met Hera’s skull. She careened to the side, but she wasn’t out any more than she was down for the count.

She rallied quickly and resumed the fight. She knew when to duck, jump and dodge. She knew when to spin and when to maintain her position, and what was worse, she delivered more injuries than she received. Lazarus was the recipient of most, his reflexes nearly completely shot. At least she was tiring, her motions slowing. Every time she breathed, she wheezed.

When Cameo landed a massive blow to her midsection, slicing through her stomach, Hera attempted to leave the temple. Any other day, in any other place, Lazarus could have flashed or dived in front of Hera to stop her. Today, he could only cast an illusion, the ability as strong as ever despite his physical limitations.

He conjured the worst of the worst. The monstrous form of Typhon in his prime.

Typhon had dark hair and dark eyes, like Lazarus, and his ears pointed at both ends, the tops so high and thick they appeared to be horns. Red flames crackled inside his nostrils and mouth. He had a barrel chest, with an image of Lazarus’s mother branded in the center, snakes curling from her scalp rather than hair.

From Typhon’s back stretched three sets of wings. One extended from the tops of his shoulders, the other from between his shoulders, and the last from his hip bones. The first two projected backward while the third wrapped forward, offering protection to his midsection and groin.

His legs were as thick as tree trunks and covered in scales veined with molten fire—with a single cut, the fire would spill out, burning to ash everyone who came into contact with the embers. His hands and feet were clawed.

Hera screamed and darted back. “You can’t...you can’t be here. Not like this. Your chrysalis...”

Chrysalis. The word rattled around in Lazarus’s brain. Like a butterfly’s chrysalis, made of pupa and silk, not crystal?

Lazarus...king...butterflies.

“He isn’t real,” she said. “He can’t be real.”

The last time Hera had faced Lazarus’s father, he’d been weakened, barely able to move. In the illusion, he was at full strength. A male she could not hope to best.

Phantom Typhon breathed a stream of fire at her, hitting the floor just in front of her. The flames ricocheted upward, several landing on her boots. She struggled to remove the footwear but ultimately succeeded. Blisters appeared all over her hands.

“You were saying?” Lazarus smiled. “If Typhon isn’t real, why are you burned?”

Hera’s mouth floundered open and closed. If she had been born with the ability to cast illusions, she would know the mind had the power to inflict the expected injury.