Pleasure of a Dark Prince (Immortals After Dark, Book 7) – Kresley Cole

Thrymheim Hold, the Northlands Home of Skathi, goddess of the hunt In ages long past . Lucia the Maiden cracked open her eyes and found herself atop an altar, staring up at a furious goddess. Somehow her younger sister, Regin the Radiant, had found Skathi’s temple and had brought Lucia here. From one altar to the next, she thought deliriously as her fever raged. Pain roiled inside her broken body. Her fractured limbs . never had she imagined such agony. “You deliver this into my sacred place,” Skathi the Huntress of the Great North said to Regin, “and desecrate my altar? You court my wrath, young Valkyrie.” Regin—all of twelve years old, with Lucia’s blood covering her glowing skin—said, “What can you do? Torture my sister? Murder her? She has already survived the first and is about to succumb to the second without your aid.” “I could murder both of you.” In answer, Regin pursed her lips, looking as if she were sizing up Skathi’s shins for a good kicking.

Lucia struggled for consciousness, labored to speak. “Don’t hurt her, please . my fault, my fault . ” But her words were drowned out by a rumbling boom. This hold was carved into the heights of Godsbellow Mountain, shaken continually by thunder. Skathi asked Regin, “Why bring her here?” “Because you’re both neighbor and nemesis to the one who did this.” Had interest flickered in the goddess’s eyes? “The Broken Bloody One?” “Aye.” Canting her head at Regin in an appraising way, Skathi said, “You’re not even old enough to be a true immortal yet. For one so powerless and insignificant, you dare much, Valkyrie.” “For Lucia, I dare this and more,” Regin answered proudly. “Best be forewarned.” “Regin!” Lucia gasped. The girl had lost her mind. “What?” She stomped her foot.

“What’d I say?” Instead of smiting Regin, the goddess impatiently gestured for her guards, the legendary Skathians. They were renowned archers, all females who underwent grueling training rituals to serve the goddess. “Take the glowing one down the mountain. Make sure she does not remember the way back.” When Regin charged toward her, Lucia cried, “Nay, Regin . leave me!” The Skathians snagged Regin around the waist, forcing her out as she flailed and shrieked, biting them. Lucia heard one of them say, “Ow! You little ratling!” And then they were gone. Skathi regarded Lucia’s battered face impassively. “You worry for her? When she has been spared? You, however, will not last the hour.” “I know,” Lucia whispered.

“Unless you help me.” She caught Skathi’s gaze as she pleaded—a mistake to look directly upon the great and terrible goddess. Meeting her fathomless eyes brought on the sorrow and fear of all her prey over the ages. It sank over Lucia like a bitter frost. “Please . ” When Lucia held up her crimson-stained hand in supplication, the wound across her torso she’d been holding welled with blood, flowing over her sides. A fountain of sticky warmth coated the altar beneath her, surrounding her battered body, but it quickly cooled on the chill stone. Each drop lost left her shuddering harder, even more desperate. The pain of her injuries maddened her. “You made your decision, Valkyrie,” the goddess said in answer.

“And reaped what you sowed when you disobeyed those you were born to obey. Why should I help you?” Because I’ve only lived sixteen years, Lucia thought, but she knew that wouldn’t sway Skathi, a timeless being who could scarcely comprehend death—or youth. “Because I’ll do . whatever you ask of me,” Lucia said at last. The shuddering was getting worse; the altar beneath her was so cold. “P-pay any price.” “If I saved you, I would impart my essence to you. A being like you would bear my mark of favor and be tied to the bow forever,” Skathi said, strolling to an opening overlooking her mountain, guarded by miles of deadly woods that swallowed unwary travelers. Lucia barely remembered traversing the mystical forest as Regin dragged her across portals and dales for days. “Lucia, I’m taking you to Skathi!” “She will .

not help.” “She will! The Skathians fight him every five hundred years . ” Thunder boomed once more, the sound seeming to soothe the goddess. “Where my followers have sacrificed to become expert markswomen, you would simply be gifted with my hunting skills. An unequaled archer, better than them all. Why do you think you’re worthy of that? When they have trained so hard? When they are pure of heart—and body?” The Skathians lived by an ascetic code—and despised men. I understand why now. “They are not tainted as you are,” Skathi continued. “As you willingly offered yourself up to be.” Dim memories arose of her last nine days as prisoner of Crom Cruach—the Broken Bloody One, a monster with the face of an angel.

Had that animal bitten her? She refused to look down at her body, but she suspected he’d gnawed at her skin once she’d blacked out. And that she’d fought him before she’d mindlessly jumped from his lair—chunks of scaly flesh were still embedded beneath her claws. Lucia ruthlessly stamped out those visions of her captivity. She would never let herself remember them, especially not that last night. What happened in the dark. Blood streaming down my thighs. “I didn’t know . I never knew.” Regret washed over her. “I’ll s-sacrifice anything, Skathi.

” “Gifts from gods always come with a price. Are you ready to pay mine?” Lucia nodded weakly. “I can become . p-pure hearted. And I’ll shun men.” She must know I’ll never be fooled again. “Virgin from this day forward?” After a long moment, Skathi said, “You escaped the Broken Bloody One this time—courage, or cowardice, making you leap—yet Cruach will come for you in the next Accession if he escapes his jail.” Yes, but by that time I’ll be truly immortal. I’ll run farther, faster. “He shall merely do this again.

Unless . you fight him.” “I want to fight him.” She never wanted to see his hideous visage again. “Every five hundred years, he would become your bane and you his jailer.” “Let me live to face him.” Lying to a goddess? But Lucia was desperate. Skathi’s face took on a thoughtful mien. “Yes, I have decided to heal you and make you an Archer —so long as you remain chaste. Yet any time that you miss a target, you shall experience the pain you are about to suffer.

You shall always remember what brought you this low and never repeat this fall from grace. That will make you a Skathian.” Dizziness overwhelmed Lucia. She was so confused. “About to suffer?” This torment could not be worse? “Yes, pain to hone your mind. Agony to sharpen your resolve like a blade stone.” As she placed her milk-white hands over Lucia’s torso, Skathi murmured, “Ah, young Lucia, in the end, I believe you shall wish I’d let you perish.” The goddess’s palms began to glow with blue light. Brighter, brighter . Suddenly Lucia convulsed, shrieking as her infected wounds pulled taut, purging blood and pus, her fractured bones grinding as they knit together.

Her fingers clenched tight, her back arching—like a bow. “You’ll be my weapon,” Skathi cried, her face becoming a frenzied mask. “You’ll be my instrument!” On and on, the light burned, until abruptly there was none. Lucia was healed—but changed. A bowstring coiled around her body like a serpent. And in her trembling hands, a black ash bow and a single golden arrow had appeared. “Welcome back to life—to your new life. You are now an Archer.” Skathi met her eyes, and Lucia felt the weight of overweening dread, just as a thousand other souls had before her. “And, Lucia, you shall forever be nothing more.

” ONE Southern Louisiana Present day “Munro, you daft git, pass the ball!” Garreth MacRieve yelled at his kinsman over the thunder and howling winds. Tonight was their yearly skins-versus-demons rugby match—a tradition for Garreth and his clan, meant to take his mind from the anniversary this day marked. Garreth was barefooted, wearing only jeans and no shirt. Rain pounded in strengthening intervals, turning this abandoned grassy airstrip in bayou country into a mire of muck and turf. Sweat mingled with mud—and some blood. He almost felt . not numb. And that in itself was a feat. Munro flipped him off but did finally sling him the ball. The leather was coated in grit, mixing with the filth covering Garreth’s bared chest.

He feinted left, then sprinted right around two colossal Ferine demons, shoving his hand in their faces, stiff-arming them. As he ran, with his heart pounding in his ears, he could forget. The exertion and the aggression were both so welcome, he wanted to beat his bare chest. The swift Ferines surrounded him, so he tossed the ball to Uilleam, Munro’s twin, who took it in to score. His brothers-in-arms were strong and ruthless contenders, as was he. The beasts inside them loved to fight, to play. Rough. The demons responded to the goal with trash talk and shoving. Like a shot, Garreth was in the middle. “You’re raring to fight for an heirless king,” Caliban, the Ferines’ leader, sneered.

“Nothing new —you Lykae go through kings like I piss demon brew.” Of all the sore subjects to bring up, Garreth’s kingship was the one most infuriating. And on this day? He launched himself at Caliban, but Munro and Uilleam heaved him back. As other demons steered Caliban away from the scuffle, Munro said, “Save it for the game, friend.” Garreth spat blood in Caliban’s direction before letting the two lead him away to cool off. While Uilleam and Munro stayed with him, the other Lykae on the team made their way to the sidelines to mingle with the “cheerleaders.” The demons took the opportunity to take a timeout and drink demon brew. The only bad thing about playing with demons—one of the few species in the Lore that could contend with the Lykae in a physical contest—was their continual “brew breaks.” Only seemed fair that Garreth and his kinsmen shoot copious amounts of whiskey to mitigate their advantage. They swilled it straight from the bottle, each one with his own, the Lykae version of Gatorade.

Their cooler was full of fifths. “You’ve got to let this go, Garreth,” Munro said, taking a deep drink. Garreth swiped his hand over the back of his neck, getting the feeling that he was being watched. But then, he and all the other players were. Nymphs lined the field, oblivious to the rain, touching themselves and sucking on their own fingers as they impatiently waited for this game to turn into an orgy. He irritably gazed at the females. “Why’d you invite them?” he demanded. “Damn you both, I weary of this. Did you never think that I doona like nymphs?” “Nay,” Uilleam said with a swig. “Any being that sports a penis likes nymphs.

” Munro drained his bottle and added, “You canna argue with medical facts.” Garreth knew Uilleam and Munro meant well, but this was getting old. “I doona like them. They’re too . too . ” “Beautiful?” “Lusty?” “Easy,” Garreth said. “They’re too easy. For once I’d like to have a female give me a challenge. One that would no’ fall into bed with me because I’m supposedly a king.” When Munro opened his mouth to speak, Garreth said, “Aye, supposedly.

” Munro shook his head gravely. “And still you believe Lachlain will return.” The three had been round and round about this for one and a half centuries, since the time his older brother had vanished after setting out to hunt vampires. Uilleam and Munro told Garreth that he awaited Lachlain unreasonably. Best accept that his brother was gone, especially after so long had passed since his disappearance. One hundred and fifty years—to the day, this day. They said Garreth hadn’t moved on and accepted his responsibilities as king. They were right. “When will you believe he’s no’ coming back?” Uilleam asked. “Two hundred years from now? Five hundred?” “Never.

No’ if I still feel he’s alive.” Though vampires had killed the rest of his immediate family, for some reason, Garreth still sensed Lachlain lived. “No’ if I feel it as I do now.” “You’re as bad off as Bowen,” Uilleam said, finishing his own bottle—and opening another. Bowen was Garreth’s first cousin, a shell of a man since he’d lost his mate. He spent every waking moment in agony, yet he wouldn’t accept the loss and end his life as most Lykae males would have in his situation. “No’ like Bowen,” Garreth said. “He saw his mate gored, saw her death. I dinna see such proof with Lachlain.” No, I searched and searched and found .

nothing. “Game on!” a demon called. Garreth shook himself from his memories, swigged whiskey, then mustered to the field with his kinsmen. Caliban bared his fangs at his opponents, a gesture Garreth returned as the teams huddled up. Quick snap. Ball in play. Passed to Caliban. Garreth saw his chance, charging for him, pumping his arms for speed . faster . faster .

He leapt for the demon, tackling him with all his strength. As they careened to the ground, a length of Caliban’s horn snapped off, and he bellowed with rage. “You’re going to pay for that, Lykae!” For miles, Lucia the Huntress had been stalking her night’s prey, growing increasingly perplexed when the tracks she followed led her closer to what sounded like a battle, echoing with roars and curses. Mayhem? Without inviting the Valkyrie? And in our territory, too? If beings were going to trespass in order to war, they should at least have the courtesy to invite the host faction to the conflict. When she came upon the battlefield, Lucia canted her head to the side. Clash of the Loreans, she thought as she beheld modern gladiators—not at war, but at play. Immortal rugby. Winds whipped along the mile-long field, and lightning flashed above them, mirroring the intensity of the contest. It was like a ceremony celebrating . maleness.

Lucia easily recognized the horned players as demons, and she suspected their shirtless opponents were Lykae. If so, then the rumors were true. The werewolves were in fact encroaching on Valkyrie territory. She was surprised. In the past, they’d kept to themselves, staying at their sprawling compound outside of the city. Congregating at the sidelines, Nymph spectators trembled with excitement, likely seeing this as no more than a mud-wrestling match between brawny heartthrobs. A ruthless hit on the field made Lucia raise a brow. Not at the violence—she was a shield maiden after all—but at the unthinking violence. Though these Loreans all trespassed, they were oblivious to an Archer in their midst, one who could inflict serious damage—very swiftly and from a great distance. Levelheaded Lucia, as she was now known, didn’t comprehend unthinking.

But then she didn’t comprehend men. Never had. Luckily for them, the only violence she’d deliver this eve would be to her targets: two kobolds— vile gnomelike creatures—who’d been seen stalking human young to feed on. Her sister Nïx, the half-mad Valkyrie soothsayer, had dispatched her to these bayous to dispose of them. Lucia had asked Regin to join her, but she’d declined, preferring to play video games in the comfort of their coven over another “rain-drenched bug hunt.” Lucia had jumped at the chance. After donning a T-shirt and hiking shorts, she’d strapped on her leather thigh quiver, archer’s glove, and forearm guard. With her trusty bow in hand, she’d set out at once . Another brutal hit. She nearly winced at the impact from that one—a piece of horn skipped down the field like a lost helmet—but she wasn’t surprised.

Lykae and demons were two of the most brutal species on earth. Worse, one of those bare-chested males had caught Lucia’s attention. Completely. No matter how badly she wished otherwise, Lucia still noted attractive men, and as the teams skirmished, she couldn’t help but appreciate the power in his towering frame, his speed and agility. Though mud splattered his torso and a shadow of a beard swathed his lean face, she still found him handsome in a rough and tumble way. His eyes were a burnished gold color with rakish laugh lines fanning out from them. At one time, he’d been happy; he clearly wasn’t now. Tension radiated from his body, anger blazing off him. When those golden irises flickered a bright ice blue, she confirmed what he was. A Lykae.

A werewolf. An animal. His handsome face masked a beast, literally


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