Temptation at Twilight: Lords of Pleasure (2 page)

But the thought of defeat was unacceptable.

Dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, he slipped out of his quarters and went in search of his brothers. Aldric was nowhere to be seen, but in the library, Soren found Luc. The resort’s resident golden boy was sprawled on the sofa with his nose stuck in a book, no doubt the latest crime thriller. Soren was always amazed that his hyperactive sibling could settle long enough to get into the story.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Soren asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Not really.” Luc didn’t look up.

“Where’s Aldric?”

A shrug. “How should I know?”

“You haven’t seen him at all?”

“Hmm . . .” He shifted to get more comfortable and flipped a page. “Nope.”

Soren fielded a surge of annoyance. Little brothers never changed, whether they were twenty-three years old or four hundred. And this one existed to drive him and Aldric out of their minds on a regular basis.

“He
did
return from the meeting with the Council, didn’t he?”

“Got no idea.”

“Satan’s balls, Luc! Put that down while I’m talking to you.” Pushing away from the door, Soren walked into the room and stood glaring at his brother.

“Right at the good part,” Luc grumbled. With a false put-upon scowl, he lowered the book and laid it on his chest. “Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when—”

“Yes, I know. You’re going out to stir up the priestesses again, right?” Soren’s silence was answer enough. His brother was no longer faking his irritation as he sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and set his book on the coffee table. “You won’t be satisfied until you’ve run us all into the ground, looking for a solution that doesn’t exist, and pissed off every witch in the Southern Coalition on top of that. Helena is
dead
, brother, has been for a long time, and nothing is going to bring her back.”

Pain stabbed his gut, the words more agonizing than his earlier recollections of the woman he loved. Even more so than her loss. He stared at Luc, unwilling to examine why. A tiny inner voice spoke up anyway, whispering that perhaps the quest itself had become more of an obsession than the reason for it, and he ruthlessly quashed the idea.

“I’ve never forced either of you to tag along,” he snapped. “Stay here if you want. I really don’t care.”

Spinning around, Soren stalked out, ignoring his brother’s muttered curse. Whether Luc agreed with his actions or not, the kid would follow. He always did, if for no reason other than not wanting to be left out of any adventures—even the useless ones. When he heard Luc’s boots thudding on the tile behind him, Soren stifled a grim smile.

His brother remained silent until they were in the back of their limo. “Who’s on your list tonight?”

Luc’s curiosity was spurred in spite of himself, just as Soren thought. Soren took his time in answering, knowing part of this night’s agenda would meet with even more disapproval than the seemingly futile endeavor itself.

“Two priestesses who live in New Orleans proper. They are both descendants of powerful witches I consulted when Helena . . . was killed.” Such an understatement for the brutality of his mate’s death. He swallowed the lump that threatened to strangle him.

“If neither of them was able to help you bring back Helena,” Luc pointed out reasonably, “I doubt their descendants have the power, abilities being passed down as they are.”

He restrained a surge of temper. Barely. “True. But I have to try. And if they can’t . . .”

Soren paused a couple of beats too long. Luc arched a blond brow, waiting. “There is another. She lives deep in the swamp. I have a boat ready to take us there.”

“She who?”

Soren held his gaze, unflinching. “Leila Doucet.”

Luc’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened in disbelief. “God’s blood! What the fuck is going on in your head to even think of putting yourself—all of us—on the radar of that hell-spawn? Do you know how much trouble Aldric’s had in blocking that bitch from grabbing a seat on the Council?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you know she’d do anything to obtain that seat, right?”

“I know, but—”

“And you also know that if you give a venomous snake like her any opening at all, she’ll slither right inside and wait for the opportune moment to deliver her deadly bite in order to gain what she wants! The things she’s done—”

“Been
accused
of doing,” Soren corrected. “None have been proven.”

Luc snorted. “Tell that to the poor bastard she fucked to death. The man was Fae, brother. She left him a dried husk, drained of his magic and his life! No normal witch should’ve been able to do that!”

“Normal witch? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“Don’t mock me.” Cool blue eyes narrowed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to. Just trying to infuse some levity.”
And failing
. “Anyway, the Council hasn’t proved she’s the one who drained him,” he repeated. “She freely admitted they had sex and claimed he was fine, not to mention thoroughly satisfied, when she left him that night.”

“What else was she going to say when facing swift execution?” his brother parried incredulously.

“I’m not blind to her questionable character, all right? But if neither of the two in the city can help me, Doucet’s my last resort.” In this century or any other, because he didn’t know whether he could take the disappointment any longer. Yet the thought of giving up twisted his guts once again.

“She’s wicked, Soren. You’d place us all in danger for the merest hint of hope from a user like her,” Luc said softly. It wasn’t a question.

Impasse. Despite Luc’s adventurous spirit, he and Soren would never agree on this point. Falling silent, Soren looked out the tinted window of the car at the night. Absently, he noted an old truck parked on the opposite side of the road as the limo approached, obviously broken down. He didn’t see a driver inside, but it was difficult to tell from his position in the car, not to mention in the blackness that cloaked the swamp at this hour. Then the limo passed, and he brushed aside a tinge of guilt for not ordering their driver to stop. Immediately, he was again immersed in his own misery.

Never had he felt so isolated. So lonely. When even Luc argued against the wisdom of his actions, perhaps it
was
time to quit. No matter how much it hurt.

 

 

Harley Vaughn waited until the sleek black limo had passed, traveling in the direction from which she’d come—what the hell was a fancy car like that doing out here in the boonies, anyway?—then got out of her ancient pickup truck, slammed the driver’s door, and stalked to the front.

“Thanks for the assistance,” she muttered, giving the retreating taillights a glare. Huffing in annoyance, she crouched, turning the evil eye to the flat tire as though her anger alone would be enough to reinflate the damned thing.

“Shit!”

Just great. Stuck in Creepsville at night with a broken-down piece of crap and no spare tire. Snakes and gators would be the least of her worries if she didn’t get moving, quick, and find someone to help with the tire. Maybe there would be a house or a gas station down the road. Standing, she wiped her hands on her worn jeans and listened intently. Soft peeps, croaks, and blurps drifted in the heat, and some of the tension eased from her shoulders. Those were good, normal sounds. It was the absence of them that counted, when all went deathly still and the smaller, more vulnerable creatures cowered in fear. Then a body had better be on alert.

Not that she was helpless and quivering in terror. Simply cautious. Humans had occupied the bottom of society’s hierarchy since the Great War had decimated the planet, making way for the global rise of vampires, demons, Fae, and shifters, and the formation of the Ruling Council, which was now divided into several territorial coalitions. The fallout was a history lesson older than time—the weaker beings succumbed to the more powerful and existed to serve their desires.

Slavery had become commonplace in the decades that followed, mostly due to the economy, and was largely voluntary. In recent years, there had been no shortage of humans and other creatures who were down on their luck and in need of work. A place to belong. To survive. That meant signing over their lives and security in exchange for the pleasure of their masters.

Others sought the auction block to fulfill their fantasy of being owned and used by an insatiable, immortal master. A vampire or demon lord or a Fae royal were the masters of choice, though one wasn’t guaranteed his or her preference. Uncertainty, of course, was part of the thrill. Several people whom Harley had known, both friends and mere acquaintances, had fallen prey to their own dark desires, had freely given their bodies and souls to experience the ultimate erotic highs—providing blood and sex to their masters in a variety of kinky and sometimes lethal ways.

A select few even died while screaming in ecstasy as they came.

So she’d heard.

Despite the sweltering night, Harley shivered, rubbed her arms, and began to walk. Her nipples had stiffened to poke at her thin blouse, and she told herself it was just the illicit direction of her thoughts. A natural reaction, that was all. She absolutely was not titillated, not the
least
bit interested, in becoming a predator’s plaything, the mouse to his hungry cat.

Was
not
. Especially after the dismal outcome of her first attempt.

Warmth chased away the chill, especially between her thighs, and she sighed. Okay, so she was a lousy liar. There was a certain erotic mystique to the idea of granting an immortal complete control over her body, knowing that once she did, she was his to do with whatever he wished. But that didn’t mean she’d ever be stupid enough to follow through again, no matter that
she
was one of those folks fallen upon hard times.

The darkness pressed in around her and she picked up her pace, scanning the impenetrable gloom on either side of the road. She was still much too far from New Orleans proper. She’d be lucky to make the outskirts of the city before nightfall.
Damn that limo driver for not stopping to help!
Again she wondered why the car had been heading away from the city rather than into it.

Suddenly, she became aware of the total, complete stillness. A heaviness in the air that had nothing to do with the temperature. Her steps faltered and stopped, and she listened. Her heart jackhammered in her chest and the blood rushed in her ears. The night creatures were hiding, and not because of Harley’s unthreatening presence. Which meant she’d better do the same, and fast. Whirling, she looked behind her, trying in vain to see how far she’d walked from the broken-down truck. She’d run back, lock the doors, and take refuge there until morning.

The sense of something out there, stalking, prickled her skin, and she ran—

Straight into a solid black wall. She bounced back with a screech, head snapping up as two hands grabbed her shoulders, long, cold fingers digging in painfully. Gasping, she peered into her captor’s face and her stomach lurched at the glowing red eyes set in a sharply angled face, brutally beautiful as only his kind could be.

“Let go of me, demon,” she cried, jerking futilely in his hold.

A deep rumble of amusement sounded in his broad chest. “A spitting cat. Why, those are the best kind. So much more fun than the ones that simply die of fright. Wouldn’t you say, Zenon?”

Harley froze.
Two of them!

“Great Hades, Valafar! You always snare the best ones, you bastard,” the second demon declared in admiration, sidling close. “Tell me we’re not selling this one right away.”

Blinking, she cleared her throat and interrupted, trying a friendly approach. “Um, it’s great to meet you both, especially now, since my stupid truck has a flat. If you’d just give me a lift into the city, I’d be grateful.”

The pair exchanged a glance before the second one, Zenon, spoke up. “Did you hear that, Val? She’ll be
grateful.
”

“
How
grateful is the question,” Val mused, pulling her flush against his hard body. And, boy, was every inch of him solid as a rock, including the ten inches or so pressing against her tummy. The demons exchanged a knowing glance.

Harley looked between them but couldn’t see the nuances in their expressions very well in the dark. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out she’d landed right in the frying pan.

She just hoped that didn’t mean literally.

The few demons of her acquaintance rarely did favors, and never without expecting the moon in return. She had nothing to bargain with except herself, and she’d be damned lucky if they ever let her go. They weren’t to be trusted, but what choice did she have? It wasn’t like she could escape.

And that shouldn’t give her the tiniest of perverse thrills—but it did.

Licking her lips, she said, “I’m sure we can reach an understanding.”

Val dipped a claw into the V of her blouse and sliced downward, neatly shearing the material in half all the way to the hem. “I’m positive you’re correct.”

“Hey! That’s my last good shirt!”

“Where you’re going, sweet, you won’t need clothing,” he said softly.

Her pulse quickened and she found herself leaning toward him.
Mmm, they both smell so good.
Earthy and masculine. Totally the opposite of what she would’ve thought, but then again, their kind were masters of seduction.

“Let’s go before someone else gets wind of her and makes a challenge for our prize,” Zenon urged.

“As if they could best us.”

“Of course not. But who needs the trouble?”

“Good point. Hold on, gorgeous.” Turning Harley so that her back was against his front, Val wrapped an arm around her middle. She had about a half second to realize what he was going to do. And then the demon launched into the air with a great flap of his wings.