Dark Devotion: Dark Series 3 (13 page)

The next, he was on four, his body substantially larger than it had been before. It was covered in dark hair that insulated him against the cold Boston night. His new mouth, filled with sharp curved teeth, was just another weapon in his arsenal. His paws flexed into the unforgiving street surface, his nails scraping loudly. He was at least two hundred and fifty pounds in his wolf’s body.

“Loki didn’t say anything about this,” one of the men said. Rhys’s sharp gaze cut to him.

Kill
, his wolf demanded.

A growl left his throat.

The sound seemed to snap the other two gods back into action. They came at him at the same time, but Rhys was more than ready. He was inhaling their fear, letting it strengthen him. One of the men threw himself at him, but Rhys merely batted him away with one paw. The other man jumped on his back, plunging a blade into his side. The steel slid through his ribs and nicked one of his lungs. Rhys immediately felt the injury, but it only enraged his wolf. Bucking wildly, he threw the god off him, rounding on him with a snarl. With his teeth on the handle, he pulled out the knife still lodged in his side and dropped it to the ground. The wound throbbed in time with his heart, but the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream was helping to stop the worst of the pain.

Rhys waited for the god to scramble to his feet before he struck; he was always one for equality, and never hit a person when they were down. Opening his mouth over the man’s thigh, Rhys clamped his jaws shut, snapping the bone in two.

Hello, agony.

The guy screamed out, the sound too delicious for Rhys’s wolf to ignore. He could feel his grip starting to slip. If he gave in completely to his beast, death and destruction were sure to follow. Like closing a mental fist, Rhys contained his wolf’s violent urges once more. It snarled in his head, fighting the command.

Rhys’s ears began to swivel as he heard the other brother get up. He readied himself for another attack, swinging around to face the enemy, seeing the blade he carried.

His upper lip pulled away from his fangs, showing the god his teeth, challenging him to take another run at him. At least the bastard hesitated for a moment. It just went to prove that there was some sort of survival instinct in there somewhere. Rhys just hoped that the god had had enough.

But he was wrong.

Once again, Rhys was on the receiving end of a launched attack. Off balance, he was driven to the ground. He snapped and snarled at the male on top of him, taking out hunks of flesh from his enemy’s side. Rolling to his feet, Rhys dumped the writhing god to the ground. The smell of blood – the sweet metallic taste on his tongue – was a siren’s call to the animal in him. Backing away from the pair, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying his best to keep his wolf at bay.

He forced the animal into the steel cage at the back of his mind, but before he could slam the gate shut, the wolf made a break for it. Rhys’s vision changed from color to black and white with shades of gray, and like the tide coming in, when the water went back out, so did Rhys’s hold.

*

When Rhys finally came back to himself, all he could see was red. All he could smell was blood. All there was, was blood. Like a river, it flowed down the gutters and into the drains; it pooled in the depressions of the asphalt. Only one body lay in a messy heap at his feet, what was left of the god’s hand still twitching with the last firings of his neurons. All that remained of the body was from the chest down. Rhys’s wolf had eaten the lower half.

The other god must have escaped his wolf’s rage.

What had he done? Yes, he’d wanted to kill them, but not desecrate their bodies. Not even animals did that. It was kill or be killed, not kill then eat the remains. Of course, Rhys’s beast was not like any animal he’d ever known. It was something else. Its soul was dark and poisonous. Its mind was driven by nothing more than thoughts of
blood
and
kill
.

He ran his tongue over his muzzle, coating it in even more blood.

Fuck, he felt so … dirty.

Above his head, a raven cawed, the giant black bird taking flight. There was a sharp intake of breath behind him, and Rhys whirled around to face a young woman. How there weren’t any other witnesses to his destruction was a goddamn mystery. The only explanation Rhys could think of was the two gods had used some sort of magic to veil their actions. Rhys’s attention went back to the girl. Her eyes were wide and fixed. She took an unsteady step back, piquing his wolf’s attention.

Gods, no, no, no.

He willed the woman to stay where she was, not to move, not to run. If she ran, his wolf would follow and hunt her down.

Her foot slid back another step. Rhys snarled.

“P-p-please,” she said on a whimper.

He wanted to yell at her to freeze. He wanted to force his legs to walk away. He needed to forget about her, but his wolf – glut on blood and death – was at his strongest, and would continue to be at his strongest until exhaustion took over.

The woman stared at him for the longest time. He could practically see her brain whirring, the cogs turning. She turned and ran, and Rhys was powerless to stop what was going to happen next. His huge paws and long stride ate up the distance between them. He was so close that the bouquet of her fear was enticing, driving more blood into his muscles to run faster. No less than four feet from her, Rhys’s legs were cut out from under him. He smashed into the side of a building, not only hearing, but feeling the bricks crack and splinter from the impact.

He recovered quickly, a snarl in his throat.

Stepping from the shadows, the human’s savior revealed herself. It was the Valkyrie from the club, the one who guarded the door, the one who had peeked inside his head. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned, drawing a dagger from an ankle sheath. The blade was black, matching the tattoo on her neck. “The veil is fast disappearing. More humans will be able to see you and the destruction you’ve caused. Don’t add another body to your list of kills.”

She was speaking to Rhys as if he were a man rather than a wolf. When she’d looked into his head, had she seen what lurked beneath his skin and muscles, seen what was buried in his blood and bones?

“Shift back,” she commanded, the sound of her voice raking against Rhys’s sensitive eardrums.

If only it was as easy as that.

He shook his head.

“Fade then,” she ground out. “I’ve seen what you’re capable of. Get out of here. I won’t leave until you do.”

A sob leaked from one of the shadows, and Rhys realized they still had an audience. The humans didn’t know about the creatures and gods of the Nine Worlds. That was the way it had to stay. With his hold on the wolf strengthening, Rhys turned and loped away from the scene of his disgrace. He felt sick to his stomach to think that he would have killed that woman. The only crime she was guilty of was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He ran until the city was far behind him. Distance ceased to exist. All Rhys knew was direction. He didn’t slow until the smell of car exhaust and garbage was a memory and the scent of pine and white oak was sublimely overwhelming. The noise of the expressway was a dull drone in the background, but at least he’d found an escape. He didn’t know whether anyone had seen him as he’d left the city. He’d tried to stay in the shadows and under the cover of trees and shrubs.

His claws protracted into the loamy soil, and he let out a breath that was more about relief than anything else. In this kind of environment, Rhys didn’t mind being in his wolf’s skin – he only got edgy when there were humans around. His start in life had not been peaceful. Rhys never knew who his mother was. She had abandoned him as a baby, leaving him in the care of guardians. 

He’d asked who his father was a hundred times, and a hundred times the answer was
we don’t know
but not before they shared a look which was loaded with words that would never be said, never be revealed.

It wasn’t until his thirteenth summer that he had his first shift. The whole incident was pain wrapped in confusion and tied with a bow of murderous rage. He had fled into the woods, living like the wolf that had taken over his body. He had hunted anything that would fill his stomach – other light elves included.

After that first time, Rhys had removed himself completely from society. It wasn’t hard to do. His guardians thought he was dead, and he had no friends who would come looking for him. 

He had barely seen twenty summers when Galen had found him being beaten by a group of light elves. Rhys was stronger than them all combined, but he had wanted to die. He’d grown weary from sharing his body with the wolf; he was tired of the constant battle for control.

Death would have been welcomed.

But Galen had saved his life, and so Rhys pledged himself to the Mare, promising to protect him always.  

And now he was dead, and Rhys had failed. All he seemed capable of was bringing pain to whoever was close to him. As a wolf, his harsh bark of laughter was more of a huff, but the derision was still the same. He didn’t even know why he bothered to try. He thought he brought destruction when he let his beast take over, but he was wrong. Even as a man, he was equally as dangerous. That was why becoming a contract killer seemed to be the most logical career for him – he could get paid for doing what he seemed to do naturally.

He shook himself from the thoughts, and got lost like he had that first time he’d shifted. For hours Rhys’s wolf roamed around the forest of tall fir and maple, tracking the scents of white tail deer and of a coyote. It wasn’t hungry. It just wanted to stretch its legs for a little while. Now that it was free, it was going to take advantage of it.

It was only when the sun was starting to rise that the beast gave into its exhaustion. Retreating deeper inside Rhys’s mind, it finally let him fully take back the reins. The shift happened immediately. Just as before, muscles and tendons tore and knitted back together again, and he was left panting and naked on the forest floor. His whole body ached as he stood, and even after a quick stretch, he could still feel every bruise and every cut. His punctured lung was healing. He looked down to inspect the belly wound he’d got before the shift. All that remained was a puffy red scar.

Shutting his eyes, he thought about the cheap hotel room he’d rented while he was in Boston. The pull of the fade was a welcome one, and a moment later he was standing on the threadbare green carpet, staring at the nicotine-stained walls. If those two who had attacked him were working for Loki, it meant that the Trickster knew Rhys was here in Boston, too – looking for him, out for his blood. Perhaps his search was over. Perhaps he could sit back and wait for Loki to find him. He walked into the bathroom to get a better look at himself. His eyes were solid blue with no hint of his wolf peering through. With any luck, the beast would be satisfied with its little romp … until the next time Rhys had to fight and kill.

He sighed.

Two words: vicious cycle.

It was always the same.

Turning on the shower, he ignored the cold tap and made sure the water was as hot as he could get it. He washed the blood from his body and then fell into bed with the towel still wrapped around his waist.

*

Trapped.

Odin felt so damn … trapped.

He paced the length of his Oriental rug. All he could think was that Loki had the advantage now. Anger suddenly bubbled to the surface. His arm swept out, knocking his whiskey glass off the mantel and sending it crashing to the floor. Crystal shards were violently propelled all over the rug and hardwood floor, crunching under his shoes as he continued to walk back and forth.

He should
not
have been the one cowering inside his apartment.

He was the All-Father. People had feared him. People should
still
fear him.

Odin’s eyes returned to the TV screen playing mutely, watching to see if there were any more messages from Loki. He knew it wasn’t the last time he would hear from the trickster god. His only hope was that Rhys would find him before Loki could strike at Odin again. If the light elf failed, Odin had no doubt the next person he would be mourning would be Bryn.

Slumping into the wingchair, the All-Father rubbed at the tension headache forming. His entire plan hinged on Rhys. And he hated it.

He hated leaving the fate of his life in the hands of another. Standing up once more, he moved to the window overlooking Boston Common and opened it wide. Cold air swirled inside, piercing through his clothing and sending a chill through his body. Turning his face toward the sky, he closed his eyes and called his ravens back to him. Odin only had to wait a few moments until he heard the familiar sound of wind cutting through feathers. Huginn landed on the sill, his talons clicking on the stone.

Offering out his hand, Odin brought the bird to his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he looked into Huginn’s mind. The raven had been flying throughout Boston and further to the north in search of Loki, yet had found no trace of the god. Perhaps Muninn had had better luck.

Odin looked out the window once more. The bird was invisible as it flew through the dark night sky, landing silently and unexpectedly on the sill on the next window over.

“Come,” he commanded, holding out his arm. The raven landed easily, walking up his arm to sit on his other shoulder. “What have you seen?”

The raven cawed, letting Odin into its mind. He watched what had unfolded on the Boston street, growing more and more incensed with every second that passed. The attack on Rhys had been bloody and violent, but that was not what upset him. What really made him angry was that it was his own wolves who had attacked the light elf. Granted they were no longer his anymore, but Geri and Freki had been his loyal servants for over one thousand years. After the Fall, he had changed them into men in order for them to thrive among the humans rather than simply exist as wolves in the woods. What he couldn’t figure out though was whether the pair were acting alone, or whether they’d been sent by someone. If Loki had found out about Rhys, he would try to kill Rhys before Rhys could kill him. And if that were true, he obviously had no idea that Rhys was really his grandson.