MacRieve

FOUR

Glenrial, the Lykae compound outside of New Orleans

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER

Will was asleep, knew he was, but he dreamed lifelike scenes, all his senses engaged. The sounds of screams in the Order’s prison, the scent of death, the bloodcurdling sight of five starving succubae stalking him through wards filled with fire and dismembered corpses . . .

He wore a mystical collar that deadened his strength and speed to those of a mere mortal, and he was still weak from Dixon’s experiments, but the succubae were desperate to feed.

If they caught him, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself like this. As he loped down winding corridors, he tore at the collar, even knowing it was indestructible.

He prayed for his Instinct to guide him. But since his capture, that comforting force had gone from quiet—to silent.

Losing one’s Instinct was like losing one’s soul.

The five drew closer, need making them swift. He took off in a sprint, felt like he was running through mud, so slow. So human.

And still he was surprised that they caught him, stunned when numerous hands seized his limbs. With their unfettered strength, they threw him against the wall, bringing him to the ground. They easily shook off his blows, soon pinning him.

In their frenzy to claw off his clothes, they tore at his flesh, bombarding him with their strew. They flailed atop him, their limbs tangled, their dresses smothering him like a shroud.

He was suffocating, as if there were no air left on earth because only their scent remained. He fought them bitterly, but they were too frantic, too strong.

Succubae coaxed and poisoned, never attacking, yet these were mindless with hunger. Though their eyes glowed jade green, their gazes were vacant.

And at that moment when he knew they would win, the strongest one looked exactly like . . .

Ruelle.

She gripped his face, murmuring down at him, “Just look at you. Can you blame us, my love?”

His eyes shot open; he jerked upright from a spot on his bedroom floor, and promptly vomited the whiskey he’d imbibed before passing out.

A pair of fifths. What a waste.

There he sat on the cold wooden floor, covered in sweat, shuddering next to a pool of his own sick.

This should disgust him, the squalor of his suite should, but he was too far gone to care. He rubbed his palm over his bare chest, could still feel their claws ripping through his skin. Their scent lingered in his consciousness.

This was his worst nightmare—and over the weeks since he’d escaped the Order, he’d had it whenever he slept.

Another half-empty bottle on his desk called to him. He rose unsteadily, shuffling through the layer of clothes and trash covering his floor to reach it.

Also calling to him? In the top drawer was his open-ended ticket to Hungary. There, in a hidden pocket of forest, was the lair of the Fyre Dragán, a pit of unnatural flames hot enough to kill even a Lorean.

Otherwise known in the Lore as Where Immortals Go to Die. For Will, no other option was as tempting.

When a Lykae’s Instinct grew silent, it was time for him to take a bow. A pack was only as strong as its weakest member.

Me.

Will knew his brother sensed he wasn’t long for this world. Munro was out doggedly chasing down former Order prisoners—captives at the same time Will had been taken—to learn more about his brother’s ordeal and help him “beat” it. Fuckin’ fixer.

Will had refused to talk about what happened to him, saying only, “The last three weeks ripped the scab off a festering wound.” For all these centuries, he’d been riddled with guilt and self-hatred. Now he’d comprehended that only the hottest of flames could scour him clean.

They’d fought about Munro’s leaving, coming to blows as they so often did. They were two alphas who’d never separated in nine centuries; they fought routinely.

“Let me deal with this!” Will had roared. “I’ll have my revenge, and then we’ll put this to rest!”

Munro had roared back, “I see you drinking every day, staring at nothing, lingering in your beast state longer and longer. My Instinct tells me that you are dying. We’re no’ just twins, we’re cut from the same beast, and we’ve lived together for our entire lives. If you feel something, I feel it too. And this is bluidy agonizing!”

How could Will tell his twin that the only reason he’d fought to survive on that island was so he could mete out revenge and then die?

Yet today Will had accepted that there would be no revenge. His enemies were all out of reach in one way or another.

He glanced at the ticket to Hungary, imagining the scouring purity of such a fire. If he couldn’t have a clean life, he could seize a clean death. That was within reach.

Suicide. Just like Da . . .

He lurched toward the bathroom. After rinsing his mouth, he drank water from the tap, then peered into the mirror at the same reflection he’d seen for nearly a millennium.

His hair was more black than brown, and when he’d turned immortal, it’d been chin-length. He could cut it, but it would always grow out into that exact length, yet never longer. The stubble covering his broad jaw would never grow into a beard.

This face is the ruination of me. Ruelle had told him his features looked as if they’d been carved by a sculptor, his golden eyes tinted by an imaginative painter.

How he wished he could see the evidence of his continuous benders and hard living. Anything to alter his looks. To not look like the Uilleam MacRieve who’d gotten his family killed.

Will hated his own face. Which meant he sometimes hated Munro’s.

He scented his brother’s return just then. Speak of the devil.

Will had meant to be gone by the time Munro returned. He crept to his bedroom’s thick oak door. Even outside his room, the lodge reeked. Stale pizza and old beer.

This home away from home was a proud eight-room hunting lodge, complementing the main Glenrial residence of Prince Garreth. Inside, it resembled a fraternity house on Sunday morning.

Their two younger wards weren’t the tidiest of males either.

He heard Munro talking to them. “You two ever heard of a broom? Mayhap a trash bag?”

Rónan, the youngest at fifteen, yawned as if he’d just woken up; it was ten at night. “I’m no’ cleaning if the others will no’ lift a finger. Face it, cousin, Head Case is no’ exactly a stellar role model.”

Head Case? The blunt-spoken lad was a regular pain in Will’s arse.

“What happened to the cleaning crew I hired?” Munro asked.

“He scared them off.”

Will recalled that he’d been less than sober, his beast right on the edge.

He heard the refrigerator door open . . . promptly close. Meager offerings?

Rónan continued, “One of the girls tried to throw away a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. He roared, flashing his beast out there for all to see. No’ even trying to keep it down.”

I did try. At least a little.

The boy’s older brother, Benneit, said, “He’s only getting worse.” Twenty-three-year-old Benneit was also known as Big Ben, a giant even among Lykae. He was as quiet and unassuming as Rónan was brash and mouthy.

The two lads were fosters—Rónan because of his age, and Ben because he hadn’t yet mastered the Lykae beast inside him. When the boys had lost the rest of their family six months ago, Ben had fairly much lost any control he’d once garnered.

Will understood. Sometimes it was just easier to let the beast take over. Like a drug. Any time he was under duress, it surfaced, raring to take the pain for him.

He cast another glance at his plane ticket. It was one-way, of course.

“Where is he?” Munro asked.

“Where he usually is these days—passed out drunk,” Rónan seemed to delight in saying. “He has no’ left the lodge all week.”

Nor the Glenrial compound, not a single time since his return from hell.

“No’ that I’m complaining about Head Case,” Rónan said. “I like this foster family. The level of supervision here clearly benefits us all.”

Ben asked, “What did you learn on your trip?”

Aye, Munro, what news? Would he have learned all about the notoriously bloody prison break? All about the unspeakable things the mortals did to their captives?

“It’s as bad as the rumors milling around.”

Rónan said, “He was . . . vivisected?”

Dissected while still conscious. Will’s hand went to his chest, his claws digging into his skin.

“Some prisoners believe he was.”

Dr. Dixon, the Order’s head surgeon/researcher/psychopath, customarily opened up her chosen victim, then removed all his or her organs. While the being was aware.

A clammy sweat dotted his skin.

Ben said, “How could humans have captured him in the first place?”

“They have advanced concealment techniques and weaponry. He was likely electrocuted, then collared with a band that controlled his strength.”

Correct and correct. The humans had been clever, forcing each inmate into that mystical collar, a “torque” to neutralize the immortals’ abilities.

“His beast could no’ overpower this?” Rónan asked.

My beast could no’ rise. The collar had prevented it for the weeks Will had been imprisoned, the longest he’d ever gone since Ruelle.

Munro must’ve shaken his head in answer, because Ben said, “There’s more you’re no’ telling us?”

Munro hesitated. “The prison break . . . left all our allies there at a disadvantage,” he said, hedging. Oh, aye, Munro knows much.

In the melee that followed the escape, amid the chaos and fighting and explosions, some immortals had been able to remove their torques—the most evil ones.

Like the succubae.

Will’s worst nightmare was indeed running through a hellish maze of fire and blood while a pack of ravenous seed-feeders hunted him.

Only it’d happened. Except for Ruelle’s appearance, it had all happened.

The bottle of whiskey shook when he turned it up. How hard he’d fought not to be gang-raped in full view of a throng of Loreans. . . .

Munro finally answered, “Let’s just say that Will has every right to be in his current state. Does no’ mean we’re going to allow it any longer.”

Allow it? You should no’ even know about this, you nosy, self-righteous prick!

Ben said, “If he could just get revenge, he could beat this.”

“The ones responsible are out of our reach,” Munro said.

Utterly out of reach. Dixon had already been taken care of. Commander Webb—the mortal leading the Order—couldn’t be located, not even by the most powerful witches, wizards, oracles, or Sorceri. Magister Chase, a.k.a. the Blademan, who’d run the prison, had changed sides, now protected by powerful Loreans.

Nïx was untouchable.

When Will had gone to call her out over shafting him, she’d nonchalantly reminded him that he’d vowed not to tell anyone about their meeting. When he’d accused her of working with Webb, she’d coolly replied, “I use every means at my disposal to shape fate. The Order is a powerful shaping tool.”

And then she’d told him why he couldn’t exact vengeance against the Blademan. A verra disturbing reason why.

“I’m going to confront him with what I’ve learned,” Munro said. “If we come to blows, do no’ get between us, no matter what occurs.” The lads were still vulnerable to harm. “Why do you no’ go for a run?”

Just as Will heard Munro at the stairs, Rónan called, “Probably bad timing and all, but I wanted to give you a yo! concerning Head Case. While you were gone, I had some expenses I had to peg to his credit card. I put it right back into his wallet.”

That little prat came into my room and stole my card. At the thought of Rónan seeing him passed out, the back of Will’s neck heated. Which might’ve been a remnant of . . . shame.

Munro called, “Could give a shite, Rónan.”

“Beauty!”

With each of his brother’s steps, Will grew more enraged. Confront me, Munro? His beast was rising. His claws sank into his palms. If Munro cast him a pitying expression, he’d flay his brother. He’d whip his arse—

Munro entered. They shared a look between them.

With an “Oh, you sodding, self-righteous prick!” Will attacked.