Sweet Ruin

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 Møriør 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 Møriør 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 Møriør, 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 Møriør’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 Møriør 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, Blace 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 Møriør. 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 Nïx the Ever-Knowing,” Rune answered. “The primordial of her species.” According to the nymphs, Nïx 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 Møriør. 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 Nïx? 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, Nïx.

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.”