Sienna screamed and whipped around, using her own body as a shield for his. Except, one blade had already gone through her, as if she were nothing more substantial than mist. For whoever had thrown the weapon, she wasn’t. He could not see the dead, nor touch the dead, so neither could his blade.
The culprit was a large—really large—guy with pink hair and tattooed teardrops of blood under one of his eyes. He stood in the entrance of the cavern.
His punked-out features blazed with hatred. “How’s that for not fighting fair?” he snarled.
Paris shoved her behind him, and she stumbled from the force he used, falling into the water and sputtering. Her heart raced out of control as the two men slashed each other with their eyes. A physical slashing would follow, no question. Both were familiar with the dance of death, an undeniable truth as they got into position.
“How’d you find me? You know what, never mind. I don’t care. You tossed that dagger at my woman. For that I’m taking your throwing hand.” With a tug and a grimace, Paris removed the blade from his chest. His eyes glowed bright red, casting a crimson spotlight on the man he clearly wanted splayed on the chopping block.
“Your woman?” A snort, a sneer. The newcomer reached up and slid two serrated blades from a crisscross at his back. “What woman? It’s just you and me, demon.”
“I don’t give a flying flip that you can’t see her.” The words emerged on a growl, more animal than human. “She’s mine, and you brought violence to her door. For that, you’re losing your balls.”
“Is that so? Well, I say you hurt me over my woman, so now I’ll hurt you over yours.” He grinned without humor, metal glistening and whistling as he twirled the hilts.
“Doubtful.” Paris clasped the other crystal blade.
Another snort. “If you want to walk out of here alive, you’ll tell me where my goddess is.”
“You’re the one who likes more pain and less talking, right?” Paris said. “Come on, then. Come get your pain.”
Just like that, they were on each other. They fought faster than she could track. What she caught, like clicks of a camera: the pause as Paris pinned the punk, his boot coming down on a throat. The horrible suspension as a blade arched toward Paris’s midsection. The heart-stopper of hope as Paris swung for a knee, connected. The terrifying beat of time as Paris hit the ground, his opponent snarling on top of him.
And what followed thatwas a ballet of hammering fists and kicks with enough vigor to snap bones. Knees going for sensitive places. Teeth ripping. Claws tearing. Metal clanging. They slammed into walls, rolled around on the floor, hacked at each other. Blood splattered in every direction. Never had she seen anything more brutal.
They wielded their blades beautifully, horrifically. Annndyes, as promised, there went the newcomer’s throwing hand. Blood sprayed anew. That didn’t stop him from launching at Paris and going for Beat Each Other Senseless, round two.
So badly Sienna wanted to take out her new gun and fire, but the two were tangled together, and she was afraid she would shoot Paris. Having joked about nailing him in the back, she was now faced with the very real possibility and couldn’t risk it. More than that, the bullet probably wouldn’t hurt the punk, would probably soar right through him the way his blade had soared through her.
So…what could she do? Unsure, but knowing her current position helped no one, she slogged her way out of the water and stood. A cold blast of air hit her, making her shiver so vehemently her teeth rattled and ice crystals formed on her skin. A second later, the angel Zacharel towered in front of her.
“Stop them,” she pleaded.
His green eyes were hard, unflinching and totally focused on her. “Come. We will leave them to their battle.”
Her impromptu swim must have waterlogged her ears. She could not have heard him correctly. “Come with you, as in leaveParis behind?” Weren’t the two men friends?
“Yes.” He waved his fingers with definite impatience. “You grasped my meaning correctly. Paris would prefer you not be around such violence, I’m sure.”
“Don’t care. I’m staying.” Warriors like him and Paris were unfamiliar with denial, and took every measure of resistance as a challenge, she was learning. Before this one could leap at her, she held her hands up, palms out, and backed away from him.
Cowardly, perhaps, but effective. He frowned at her.
“I’m staying, and that’s final,” she added.
Paris sensed the new threat and unleashed an unholy roar. He dove on Zacharel, knocking the robed warrior down. The angel didn’t shove him off. Didn’t touch him in any way, in fact, and yet Paris propelled across the cavern and slammed into the opposite wall.
The pink-haired punk was on him a second later, the fight speeding into a new level of ferocity. But through it all, Paris never dropped the blade that had done a meet and greet with his heart. He cozied the tip, and then the hilt, up to those extra-special soft spots in the guy’s side and stomach, just as he’d showed her.
A pain-filled grunt, a black curse. Then the guy was slumping over and Paris was whipping back around, his crimson sights once again on Zacharel—who was now standing beside Sienna.
With a gasp, she skirted around the spring, creating as much distance between them as possible. “Back off, angel boy.”
Black brows winged into his hairline. “Hardly, demon girl. I do this to save you, to save thousands of others.”
Uh, what now?
“Walk to me, Sienna.” Paris was panting, bleeding, shaking, and the crazy, animalistic glaze hadn’t left him. “Now.”
With every fiber of her being, she wanted to run rather than walk to him. And she would have, if the angel hadn’t said, “I cannot let her do that, demon,” and appeared at her side in the next blink, taking hold of her wrist and locking down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OH, HELL, NO, PARIS THOUGHT. Two pansy wingers—one of them practicing, one of them fallen—were not gonna get the drop on him. He hadn’t killed the fallen, not yet, he’d just hurt the guy a little. Or a lot. Whatever. Now he wanted the bastard to suffer for a long damn time.
His need to protect Sienna burned hot. The fact that the fallen had interrupted their sexual play, the fact that someone other than himself had seen her delicate features overcome with desire, were reasons to kill. Savagely.
Zacharel he actually kind of liked, but that didn’t mean he’d tolerate interference in this matter. Only thing going for him right now was the fact that Sex was either asleep or hiding, and thankfully had no opinion.
“Let her go,” he snarled. He was losing blood fast, his chest like a waterspout that had sprung a leak. Hurt like a son of a bitch, and he knew he’d go down sooner or later. He was determined to make it later, when Sienna was safe.
The angel gave a single shake of his head. “Your temper is too fierce.”
So the hell what? “I’ve got myself under control.”
“Do you really?”
No. “I said I did, didn’t I? So let her go before I make you.”
“By taking my hand? My balls, as you told the fallen?” A pregnant pause, anger fighting to be freed from a man who clearly denied his emotions—but couldn’t fully suppress them. One day he would erupt, no question. “What will you do to yourself when you accidentally hurt your female?”
One stomping step, two. “Back off. Now.” The darkness inside him was so deeply rooted, he knew the stuff had moved in and set up shop and he’d never get rid of it, even when he and Sienna parted. Especially when they parted. Already he was going to sink into despair when he lost her, and if he allowed himself to relax with her, to like her that much more, he would only drag her down with him. That’s why he’d fought his emotions so hard after having sex with her.
Now he was glad for that. If he had to murder the angel, he would, and the darkness would be shooting out happies over the deed rather than remorse.