The Darkest Secret. Gena Showalter
had said, his voice eerie, unnatural, as he’d splashed over the crimson river between their bodies. He was the evil one, and something in his voice had caused a blanket of ice to form around her soul. He’d had no face, and his feet hadn’t quite touched the floor. He was tall and thin, a black robe swathing him from head to toe, shielding every inch of him, floating around him and dancing in a wind she couldn’t feel. “They should have kept their promise.”
“Who are you?” she’d asked shakily, terrified and numb all at once. She had only stumbled upon this scene a few minutes ago and hadn’t quite processed what she was seeing.
Now, looking back, with the Bad Man’s warnings about the creature’s evilness ringing in her ears, she quaked. Despite her wonderings, the memory continued on.
“Who I am matters not. Who you are is all that matters,” the faceless being said. He scooped her up, obviously planning to leave with her, but she fought him with all her might. When he couldn’t subdue her, he stabbed her. Once, in the side, barely missing vital organs.
The pain that consumed her was devastating. And yet, with the pain, more of that aberrant cold stormed to life, seeping from her. A cold that didn’t just numb. A cold that raged liked a blizzard inside her.
And then, ice actually crystallized over her skin, seeping from her pores. What she was seeing couldn’t be real. Couldn’t possibly be real.
As the creature strode outside the hut, still holding her, she reached up and pushed at the face she still couldn’t see, skin meeting skin. He howled with an agony that matched her own.
For several seconds, neither of them could pull away. Perhaps they were locked together, frozen by the ice. Then he dropped her, and she scrambled backward, bleeding, hurting. Still howling, he disappeared, there one moment, gone the next. Leaving her reeling, uncertain of what had happened and how she’d done what she’d done.
“How are you going to repay these Lords, my darling Hadiee?” the Bad Man asked, drawing her back to the present. She didn’t like him any better than she liked the evil one.
Another answer that had been drilled into her head. One she wouldn’t forget, one that was as much a part of her as her arms and legs. Perhaps more so, because it was a shield of armor around her, keeping her safe. “Slaughter them all.” They were murderers, after all, and they deserved to die.
A pause, silence, and then soft fingers briefly ruffled her hair. “That’s a good girl. I’ll train you yet.”
A split second later, the image inside Amun’s mind changed. He realized he was no longer reliving a memory, her memory, but was now staring down at the girl. She was bathed in light, older, a woman now, and sleeping so innocently on a bed of silver silk.
There was something familiar about her name, even though he knew she had changed it. Hadiee then, but Haidee now. There was something familiar about her surroundings, too, but his mind refused to bridge the gap from questions to answers.
She had a shoulder-length crop of pale hair that she’d streaked with pink. Her face was lush in its femininity, despite the silver eyebrow ring she sported. Perhaps because her dark blond brows arched like a cupid’s bow.
Lashes thick enough to be a raven’s wing fluttered open, one moment fanning over the rise of perfectly sculpted cheekbones, the next framing eyes of pearl-gray, the next, fanning again. She fought to awaken, as if sensing his scrutiny, but failed, allowing him to continue.
Her delicate nose led to lips that reminded him of a freshly blooming rose. Her skin appeared eternally flushed, as if she were constantly lost to arousal, the undertones kissed by the sun. No, he thought next. Not just kissed by the sun, but sprinkled with its rays, as if she was lit from the inside, a thousand tiny diamonds crushed into her flesh. Not like the Harpies, whose luminous, multihued flesh rivaled the brightest rainbow. This woman, this Haidee, didn’t actually glow. She was simply beauty personified.
He could have watched her forever, he mused. She was his first glimpse of paradise in what seemed an infinite nightmare. But, of course, even this was to be taken from him.
Though he fought, the image shifted again, orange-gold flames suddenly filling his line of vision. Plumes of smoke curled upward, painting the acrid air with what looked to be a demon’s breath.
A city burned in front of him, huts crackling as timber fell and grass disintegrated. Mothers screamed for their children, and fathers lay facedown in the blood-soaked dirt, weapons protruding from their backs. All of them wore the same type of clothing little Hadiee—Haidee now, he reminded himself—had sported. Dark, threadbare linen, rough and stained.
He wasn’t the only one watching the destruction. Eleven warriors stood at his sides, their eyes glowing bright red, their skin merely a mask that concealed the hideous monsters lurking underneath. Monsters with sharp-tipped horns knifing from their skulls, poisonous fangs jutting from their mouths, and oozing scales rather than peach-tinted flesh.
Their gore-covered chests lifted and fell with the force of their breaths, their nostrils flaring. Their hands clenched around blades as their thoughts invaded his mind. More. They needed more. More flames, more screams, more death. For only when the entire world was flooded with the blood and bones of these precious mortals would they be satisfied. Fulfilled. Except.
Amun didn’t want to kill just then. He wanted to return to the little girl. He wanted to hold her close and tell her everything was going to be all right, and that he would save her from the Bad Man. He wanted to return to the woman. He wanted to curl beside her and hear her tell him everything was going to be all right, and that she would save him from the demons.
And he would. He would return.
Amun struggled to reach her. He didn’t care when skin tore and bone snapped. No, he welcomed the pain. Liked it, even. Perhaps too much. And he didn’t care when flames rushed to him, licked over him, hundreds of spiked tongues leaking acid. He welcomed the sting, because with these newest wounds, the bugs in his veins were finally freed. They raced out, crawling all over his body, the bed.
The bed. Yes, he was atop a bed, he thought hazily.
Suddenly he could feel the shredded sheets underneath him, every savage gash carved in his muscles, the pain so much greater than before, and not so welcome now. Worse, steel pressed into his wrists and ankles, preventing him from stanching the flow of blood or shooing away the bugs.
Though every instinct he possessed shouted that he continue to fight, he forced himself to stop thrashing. In and out he breathed, realizing the air was heavy and coated with decay. But underneath the rot, he smelled something else … something crisp, like the earth. Pulsing, vibrant life.
And beneath the flames, he could feel the sweetest kiss of winter ice, soothing his burns, gifting him with tendrils of strength. What—who—was responsible?
He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were sealed shut. He frowned. Why were his lids sealed shut? And the steel … chains, he thought as the haze began to fade. Binding him, holding him prisoner. Why?
A startling moment of lucidity.
He hissed in horror, even as he clung to every thought now forming in his head, praying he continued to remember. He was Amun, keeper of the demon of Secrets. He had loved, and he had lost. He had killed, but he had also saved. He was not an animal, a brutal killer, not anymore, but a man. An immortal warrior who safeguarded what was his.
He had entered hell, knowing the consequences but willingly overlooking them. Because he couldn’t bear to see his friend Aeron hurting, crazed with the knowledge that his surrogate daughter was trapped in hell’s torturous blaze. So Amun had gone, and had emerged with hundreds of other demons and souls all trapped inside him, writhing, screaming, desperate for escape.
But he was home now, and he needed to die. Had to die. He was a danger to his friends, the world. He would die.
There would be no comforting Haidee, nor taking comfort from the woman she’d become, for he could never