Stygian

  And he was …

  Lost still.

  Adrift in his own loneliness.

  He felt weird in Kalosis with Stryker and Zephyra. While he spent most of his time in Katateros, he was isolated in one room.

  Forever solitude.

  It was all he’d ever known.

  Oh well. It was what it was. At least he didn’t have the guilt anymore. That was something new, at least.

  Those were his thoughts until he opened the door to his room to find it completely empty. As in stark empty. Like a buffet after Simi and her sister went through it.

  What the hell?

  Had they cleared out his stuff for another baby?

  Stunned and a little pissed off, Urian turned around and went to find Alexion. “Where’s my stuff? Did we get robbed?”

  Alexion stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Xyn came and got it. I assumed you knew.”

  That only confused him more. “Where’d she take it?”

  He shrugged.

  Seriously? The bastard had no comment? Double hell.

  Frustrated that they’d play this game, Urian pulled out his phone and called her. “Xyn? Where’s my stuff?”

  He’d barely finished the question before he was teleported to her cavern. Urian hung up his phone as he glanced around the fancy massive place she’d made for herself. Glittering and open, it held all manner of high-end electronics and expensive furnishings. His dragonswan had exquisite taste. But then, she always had.

  In the center was what appeared to be a giant tree staircase. And when Xyn came down it wearing a slinky green negligee, he felt his throat go dry and a part of his anatomy stand to attention in great appreciation of her lush curves that had always set his body on fire.

  “You okay?” she asked as she slowed her pace.

  “Not sure … am I in the right place?”

  She laughed as she closed the distance between them. “Is this not what you wanted? Did I read you wrong?”

  “I don’t know. What did you read?”

  Her cheeks turned bright pink. “Oh my God, Urian! Are you back with your wife?”

  Why was she so pissed off at him? “Ex-wife! No!” He caught her arm as she started away and he finally realized what she’d done. “You moved me in with you?”

  She gave him a no-duh glare. “Isn’t that where we were headed?”

  Before Phoebe had shown up, yeah. But after that … “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  Her features softened to a tenderness that made his heart beat faster. “We don’t change our minds.” She kissed him tenderly, then took his hand to lead him toward the sofa. “I put your console there with your headset. And I bought you a comfy gaming chair.”

  Unable to believe his eyes, Urian stopped her as he realized how much attention she paid to the smallest details of his habits and likes. Tenderness choked him.

  “Sarraxyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Love you. And I won’t take you for granted. Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  For the one thing he’d never had in his entire existence. A place where he felt wanted. Where he belonged. “For giving me what I’ve never had before … a home.”

  EPILOGUE

  Xander shrugged his jacket off. What a screwed-up night. The Dark-Hunters were now allied to the Daimons.

  Hell had frozen over.

  Yeah. He’d finally lived long enough to be shocked. His mother and Confucius were right. If you sat by the river long enough, you would eventually see the bodies of your enemies float by.

  Strange, strange, strange.

  “Brynna! You’re not going to believe the shit that happened tonight!”

  He frowned when he didn’t find her waiting up for him.

  Weird. She always waited up for him to come home.

  “Brynna?”

  Xander went through the house, looking for his Squire. “Bryn?”

  Was she ill? A bad feeling came over him. This wasn’t normal.

  Suddenly scared, he pulled his phone out to check voice mail.

  The first two were junk. But the third one …

  It made his blood run cold.

  The voice was one he didn’t know.

  We have your Squire, Dark-Hunter. It’s a brave new world. And if you don’t do what we say, we’ll send her back to you in pieces.

  Read on for a preview of

  Available now from Piatkus

  Copyright © 2017 by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  PROLOGUE

  In the Year of Our Lord 1715, July 31

  Off the Shores of Cape Canaveral, Florida

  “Well, we learned a vital lesson here today, me mateys. You canna keelhaul a demon no matter how hard you try for it. The rotten crafty beastie bastard won’t be having none of it.”

  Half the crew turned to stare agape at Captain Paden Jack. The other half rolled their eyes and cursed him, then questioned his saintly mother’s impeccable reputation, as well as the legitimacy of his parentage and all his intelligence.

  If they weren’t about to die, he’d take a mite more offense to their sordid insults. But right here, right now, as he looked past them and saw the great, heinous monster what was rising up from the darkest swirling depths off their port bow, insubordination seemed like a wee bit of a petty concern.

  Never in all his years at sea had Paden beheld anything like its twisted, inhuman form, and he’d seen quite a lot. Its leathery skin literally boiled and caused the water ’round it to bubble with the same noxious fumes—a fetid sulphuric stench that exploded the moment it contacted the fire left from all the attempts they’d made to lay the beast low.

  Nothing had worked. Not a single trick.

  His quartermaster staggered back. “The sea is the devil and that wicked bitch takes pity on none.”

  Aye, Paden couldn’t agree more. They were done for. To the watery locker they be headed, with every last man-jack here.

  At least those who weren’t headed straight for hell.

  Strange how he felt no fear, what with his assured damnation looming. And he should. You’d think that given the sins of his past and all the things he’d done in this life, they’d be haunting him now. Yet all Paden felt was an untoward kind of peace with it all.

  This was the way of it. He’d known this day would come for him—sooner, rather than later—the heartbeat he’d accepted his destiny by taking up his mother’s sword and embracing the blood that flowed within him. It always did for ones such as he. His only regret was that he’d be taking his crew with him for the journey down.

  And that he’d be breaking his promise to marry Letty on his return. But the greatest burn of all was that his poor baby sister would be left alone in this world, with none more to look after her.

  That his great, horrific burdens would now fall to her tiny shoulders.

  Damn shame, that. Cammy deserved better than what the fates had dealt the lass. They’d be coming after her now to pick up the mantle their ancestors had cursed them with. But there was no use lamenting for it. God and all His saints had turned a deaf ear to his pleas and prayers long ago.

  His quartermaster, Edmond, passed a sorry stare to him before crossing himself. “What be your orders, Captain Jack?”

  “Abandon ship, Mr. Symmes. Save as many as you can.”

  It wasn’t until after Symmes had relayed those orders that he realized Paden had no intention of joining them in their escape.

  Safety wasn’t his calling this day.

  Instead of trying to find room on a dinghy with the others, Paden was rolling barrels of gunpowder closer to the port bow, where the beast still tried its best to devour them whole.

  “Captain? What are you about, man?”

  Paden handed his quartermaster his cutlass and flintlocks. “This fine ship be me ladylove—me one true mistress and owner of me hell-bound soul. It’s me duty and honor to escort her to her final destination. And be damned if I’m letting that bastard there have her wi
thout taking a piece of him with us. Get yourselves safe. Think naught of me anymore, Mr. Symmes. God be with you as I know He’s never been with me.”

  His gaze sad, Ed hesitated. But a moment was all he had, as the demon slammed against the ship, knocking her sideways and causing her to list. “It’s been me privilege, Captain.” He held his arm out to Paden.

  “Mine as well.” He shook Ed’s hand. “Now off with you, quick.”

  Ed ran as the ship tipped dangerously, spilling more men over her side.

  Retrieving the linstock from the deck where one of their powder monkeys had abandoned it as he fled for the dinghies, Paden waited until the last of the boats had dropped. He pulled a striker and flint from his pocket and lit the cord so that he could ignite the powder.

  The demon started after his fleeing crew.

  “Hey now!” he shouted at the beast. “Where do you think you be headed, you filthy, odiferous bung!” He waved the linstock over his head to get the demon’s attention back on him as he struck the side of the ship with the end of it, making as much racket as he could.

  It worked.

  Snarling, the demon turned and, with a hell-born cry, made straight for Paden.

  His heart pounding in anticipation of what was to come, he waited for their inevitable confrontation.

  This time, the beast dared to climb aboard.

  That’s it, ye filthy bastard. Come get some of me. Leave me crew in peace.

  With no real form, the gelatinous mess slithered across the deck and rose up before him with dark, soulless eyes.

  Refusing to show his fear, as it would only make the beast stronger, or to back down before it, Paden stood his ground with every bit of grit he possessed. “Aye, you want me, don’t you? You know what I am, and I know ye for the evil in your heart.”

  Possessed of great bulbous eyes, it slobbered and drooled and reached with one taloned hand.

  Just as it would have slashed him open, Patrick Michel Alister Jack lowered his linstock to the keg of gunpowder that lay between them and set the barrel ablaze.

  The last sound he heard was deafening, and it ended with a bright flash and one massive explosion of pain.

  1

  In the Year of Our Lord 1716

  Jamaica

  “Way I hear tell it, that one’s so bad, he whups his own arse thrice a week.”

  Eyes wide, Cameron Amelia Maire Jack burst out laughing at the unexpected, dry comment she overheard above the raucous tavern voices and music. Until she caught sight of the man it was directed toward. That sobered her quick enough.

  Holy mother of God …

  There was no way to miss that giant mass of human male as he swept into the crowded room like the living embodiment of some ancient hero.

  Nay, not a hero.

  A pagan god.

  At least six and a half feet tall, he towered over everyone else there, and had a shoulder width so great he was forced to turn to the side to come through the doorway, and stoop down lest he decapitate himself with the thick, low-hanging beam. A feat he accomplished with a masculine grace and swagger that said he’d done it enough that it was habit from years of experience.

  Which made her wonder how many times as a boy he must have whacked his head afore he learned to instinctively duck like that.

  With a quick swipe of his massive hand, he removed his black tricorne hat and tucked it beneath his muscled arm, exposing a thick mane of unbound, wavy sable hair that gleamed in the dull candlelight. He held a set of rugged features that appeared chiseled from stone—in perfect masculine proportions.

  Never in her life had she beheld his equal in form, strength, or grace, but it wasn’t just the unexpected sight of him. He possessed that raw, commanding presence that was unrivaled by king or commander. An air of noble refinement that was offset by an aura of bloodthirsty intolerance, cool indifference, and utter ennui.

  He was lethal, no doubts there. Beguiling. More than that, he was an enigmatic study of warring contradictions that quickened her heart a lot more than she wanted to admit to anyone, especially herself.

  In a festering den of inhospitable inequity and evil, this man reigned as its supreme emperor. And while his two companions were dressed in brightly colored brocades—like the other vain occupants of the room—this one, in stark contradiction, wore a somber black wool coat, breeches with plain brass buttons, and an unremarkable dark brown waistcoat. Even his cotton shirt and neckerchief were as black as his hair and boots. Like a Quaker … and yet his demeanor and weaponry said he didn’t partake of their religion or peaceful ways.

  The only color on his body was the bloodred hilt of a barbarian-styled cutlass. And a flashing ruby signet ring on his pinky that caught the light.

  But for his fierce stance, deadly demeanor, and the firm hand that stayed planted on the hilt of that sword, he could easily pass for a respectable man. Nobleman even.

  Until one met that cold, dark, intelligent gaze that saw everything around him to the most microscopic detail.

  She could literally feel him tallying the strengths of everyone in the tavern and sizing them up for their every weakness of character and physical flaw.…

  As well as their caskets.

  He was exactly the kind of unnerving male that caused her and Lettice to draw straws on his entrance back home in the Black Swan to see which of them would be stuck for the night waiting on his table.

  And Cameron always cheated to make sure she wasn’t the one left with it. Something that would bother her conscience a lot more but for the fact that it was Lettice’s father who owned the Swan, and while Nathaniel Harrison would guard his daughter’s reputation and well-being, he wasn’t nearly as circumspect when it came to hers. Especially when placed against his need for profit. He’d sell all but his daughter for that.

  Even his own mother, and probably his wife to boot.

  Not wanting to think about that, Cameron scowled at the men flanking the newcomer. His companions were much more the typical pirate or privateer fare one would expect to find in such a sordid place. The one to his right had a mane of long brown hair he wore tied back in an impeccable queue, along with a well-trimmed beard, and eyes so light and merry a blue they glowed in the dim light. Each of that man’s fingers held an ornate ring—no doubt plunder from some unwary ship he’d raided—if not some unfortunate corpse. Still, he seemed amicable enough.

  While many Caribbean pirates had a tendency to pierce their earlobes, this one had chosen to place a small gold hoop in his left eyebrow, just off its arch. His elaborate burgundy and black coat was widely cut at the waist—in the latest fashion craze. And where the beguiling and dangerous captain had chosen a plain black neckerchief to wear, this pirate’s cravat was stark white silk, and trimmed in layers of decadent lace.

  The man on the left was dressed in a peacock blue silk coat that covered an insanely ornate gold waistcoat. One so fine a silk that it shimmered in the light like water. He wore a small white wig that concealed his hair color, but judging from his skin tone, dark eyebrows, and the careless whiskers that dusted his well-sculpted cheeks and jawline, she assumed his hair was as dark as his captain’s. Yet where the captain had a set of coal black eyes, his were a deep shade of hazel blue.

  While his mood and countenance weren’t as dark and sinister as his captain’s, he was nowhere near as jovial as their companion, either. She’d guess him as the quartermaster.

  Or a hangman.

  The three of them swept past her without so much as a glance in her general direction, letting her know they saw her as no threat whatsoever—which was fine by her. Last thing she wanted was to be crossed up with such terrifying and deadly men.

  They made their way to the back of the tavern to an empty table. The large, burly guard who’d been keeping it reserved for them inclined his head, then went to fetch their drinks.

  Something he returned with so quickly that it no doubt set a speed record for the inn. From her years of working in such an establis
hment, she knew it said much about his fear of angering the three newcomers, and even more about their temperaments and personalities. These men did not like to be kept waiting, nor did they want to be interrupted once settled.

  For the first time, Cameron’s courage faltered as she watched the men begin a private and intense whispered conversation.

  What are you doing, Cam?

  This was what she’d come for—to speak to Captain Devyl Bane and enlist his aid.

  Maybe it’s not him.

  She knew better. He was just as he’d been described. Darker than sin and more dangerous than dancing with the devil’s favored handmaiden. There was no one else it could be. The witch-woman had told her to look for a captain who’d take her breath and leave no doubt in her mind that he was the bane of the devil himself.

  That definitely described the man in the center of the other two.

  No one could be deadlier or more sinister.

  “Greetings, governor. You be wanting some company, like?”

  Cameron winced as an attractive prostitute plunked herself down on her lap. Because Cameron was dressed as a man and passing herself off as one so that she could travel unmolested and with ease, the prostitute had no idea she was wasting her time there.

  Grinding her teeth, Cameron caught the woman’s hand before it drifted to a part of her body that would scandalize them both. Cameron shook her head sharply.

  “What? You mute?” She reached to touch Cameron’s face and smiled wide. “That’s all right, love. Don’t be needing no words for what I do best, no ways. Fact is you be getting more your money’s worth if’n we don’t be speaking no how.”

  Cameron caught the woman’s wrist again and reminded herself to toughen her voice and lower it an octave. “Not interested, me sweet. You’re not me type.” She cast her gaze meaningfully toward the three men.

  The prostitute laughed. “Ah … can’t says I blame you there. They each be so fine you can’t help but crave a bite of those backsides and pray for lockjaw.” With another winsome smile, she sighed. “Best of luck to you, mate. Way I hear tell it, though, you don’t got a chance with none of them.”