Later he would have the opportunity to punish himself for having been so easily fooled by his enemies. There would no doubt be years of brooding and self-recriminations and cold-blooded plans to ensure he never repeated such a mistake. That was, after all, what he did best.
For now, however, he was utterly consumed by a rage that had no bounds.
Desmond's one miscalculation in his elaborate scheme was in the fact that Styx was newly mated.
He was not the cold, calculating Anasso who would consider his situation with a detached logic. That Styx would easily realize that he was outgunned, outnumbered, and outmaneuvered. He would understand that the most sensible means of keeping Darcy safe would be to concede to the vampire's demands.
This Styx was a rabid animal who only knew that his mate was in danger and that he would kill anything and everything that stood in his path.
Feeling the power beginning to thunder through his body, Styx glanced up as Jacob returned from the house with the pen and paper clutched in his meaty hands.
Unaware he was mere moments from death, Desmond smiled as he glanced down at the kneeling Styx.
"Well, Styx, it appears that your ruling days are about to come to an end. Do you have any last words?"
The wind began to whip and the ground shake as Styx slowly rose to his feet.
"Just one." His hand lifted toward the growingly puzzled face of his opponent. "Die."
Chapter Twenty
A peaceful hush bathed the elegant mansion. Well, the peace bathed all but Darcy's luxurious rooms.
Realizing that she would be getting no more sleep until Styx had safely returned, Darcy had foolishly allowed herself to be lured into a game of checkers with Levet.
Both of them were seated cross-legged on the bed as Darcy studied the board with a sudden frown. She was no master player, and her attention had been more finely tuned on listening for the return of Styx than on the pieces on the board. Still, she was not so poor a player, or so deeply distracted, that she couldn't tell when she was being well and truly swindled.
Lifting her head, she flashed her tiny companion a frown. "You cheated."
"Moi?" Levet pressed a gnarled hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Do not be absurd. Why would I cheat when I am so obviously the superior player?"
"Superior? Ha." Darcy pointed toward the board. "I was kicking your ass."
Levet gave a small sniff. "I am wounded, cherie. Mortally wounded."
"What you are is a low-down cheat," Darcy corrected. "Each time I glance toward the window you move the pieces on the board."
"Pooh. I have never heard such slander. My honor is above reproach."
"Then how did you get kinged when you haven't even made it across the board?"
Levet gave a flap of his wings that sent the pieces flying off the board and across the bed in a shower of plastic color.
"Checkers, fah. Such a stupid game," he complained as he hopped off the bed and paced the carpet. "What we need is a real challenge."
Absently collecting the checkers and returning them to their box, Darcy shot her companion a suspicious glance.
She didn't know much about gargoyles, but she suspected that Levet's idea of a challenge and her own might be worlds apart.
"What kind of challenge?"
"Something that takes real skill. Something that demands both a keen intelligence and the talent of a well-honed athlete." Pace, pace, pace. Back and forth the tiny gargoyle crossed the carpet until at last coming to a halt with a snap of his fingers. A rather neat trick with fingers as thick and gnarly as his. "Aha, I have it."
Setting aside the checkers, Darcy scooted to the edge of the bed. "I'm afraid to ask."
"Bowling."
Darcy blinked and then gave a startled laugh. "Good grief. You've got to be kidding."
"What?" Levet puffed out his chest. "Bowling is an ancient and noble sport. The sport of kings, in fact."
"I thought that was chess."
Levet offered a superior lift of his brows. "And just how many kings have you known?"
Kings, yeah right.
There were all sorts of royalty hanging out in Goth bars and cheap boardinghouses.
"Let me think. Ah ..." Darcy pretended to consider. "That would be none."
Levet gave a smirky flap of his wings. "I, on the other hand, have known hundreds of kings. Some of them quite intimately."
Darcy held up a hand. "Okay, we're going into the realm of way too much information."
"Very droll." Levet rolled his eyes. "By intimate I mean that I graced their castles for several centuries. You would be amazed what an enterprising demon can learn when perched outside a bedroom window."
Darcy grimaced. "Ick, I can imagine."
"Of course, when it came to the queens, well, let's us just say that my intimacy was—"
"Enough." Darcy firmly interrupted. She wasn't up for a detailed account of gargoyle sexcapades. Not tonight. Not any night. "I'm not going bowling."
Levet planted his hands on his hips and stuck out his bottom lip. Great. A pouting demon.
"Have you ever tried it?" he demanded.
Darcy shivered before she could halt the betraying gesture. "When I was a teenager."
Easily sensing her unhappy memories, Levet moved forward with a curious expression. "What happened?"
"The first ball I threw went through the back of the alley." She smiled with a grim humor. "The manager asked me to leave immediately, and later that night so did my foster parents."
Levet made a soft sound as his pretty wings suddenly drooped with regret.
"Oh, Darcy, I'm sorry."
She shrugged. "Shit happens."
"Yes." He screwed up his face. "It certainly does."
Darcy gave a small chuckle as she shrugged off the ugly memory. Somehow, when Levet was near things didn't seem nearly so bad.
On the point of suggesting a rousing game of hopscotch or "toss the gargoyle from the roof and see if he can really fly," Darcy felt a strange prickle race over her skin.
She turned toward the door absolutely certain that there was someone moving down the hall.
Two someones.
Both vampires.
She could ... smell them, dammit. Even through the thick walls and heavy door.
Obviously she had been spending way, way too much time in the company of demons.
"Someone's coming," she murmured softly.
Levet briefly closed his eyes before snapping them back open with a frown.
"The two vamps whom Styx has taken under his protection." His nose was still clearly better than hers. Or perhaps he possessed other mystical, magical means of peering through the wall. "I thought that Dante had ordered them to hide in the tunnels until their chief is eliminated."
"Eliminated?" Darcy wrinkled her nose. Werewolf or not, she would never become accustomed to casual killing. "Yeesh."
Levet flashed a wicked smile. "Offed? Poofed? Gone to the big blood bank in the . . ."
"Levet," she hissed as she moved to the door and pulled it open. The two vampires were indeed standing just outside, the pale faces expressionless and their bodies eerily still. Like two mannequins propped in position, she acknowledged with a tiny shiver. For some reason their presence . . . troubled her. As if there was something brewing beneath those frozen faces that they were taking care not to reveal.
Her hand tightened on the door even as she attempted to dismiss her strange desire to slam it shut. Not only was she being ridiculous, but a mere door would never halt a determined vampire. Instead, she forced a smile to her lips.
"Yes?"
They bowed in unison, although the tall, dark-haired woman managed to straighten far faster than the hulking blond Viking.
"Mistress, forgive our intrusion," the woman said in a cool, flat tone.
Mistress? Well, that was a new one.
"You're not intruding. Can I help you?"
The tall male, with a long, blond braid and broad face, took a slight step forward.
"We received word from the Anasso."
Darcy lifted a hand to press it to her racing heart. "From Styx?"
"Yes."
"He's here?"
"No, he has dealt with the traitor and now has returned to his lair," the man said, his tone as flat as his expression. "He wishes us to accompany you so that you may join him there."
Darcy frowned. It wasn't like Styx to send others to do his bidding. Especially when it came to her. If he wanted her near then he came to her; he didn't send someone to fetch her like she was a dog.
"Why didn't he just come back and get me himself?" she demanded.
The Viking appeared momentarily baffled. As if the question was too much for his poor brain to process.
With a smooth ease the female stepped into the awkward breech.
"I fear he was... injured during the battle," she said.
"Injured?"
Darcy's knees went weak as a dark wave of panic threatened to cloud her mind. Styx, hurt? No. Oh lord, no. She couldn't bear it.
