The Darkest Pleasure (Lords of the Underworld #3)(52)

Neither calmed Paris.

He stood at the edge of the Temple of the Unspoken Ones, hidden beside his friends. Waiting. The eerie temple - sometimes he would swear he heard tortured screams on the wind, rising above the sweet melody of the waves - had risen from the sea not too long ago, shrouded from the human eye until recently. Now workers swarmed the area, buzzing back and forth, cleaning and searching the crumbling corridors for glimpses into the past. They didn't know that the gods planned to use the temple to bring mortals full circle. Once they'd worshipped and sacrificed at the altars of their heavenly creators, soon they would worship and sacrifice again.

No matter what their desires were, he was sure.

The rising of the temple, and its counterpart in Greece, was merely stage one. At least, that's what Paris surmised. He was perhaps the most human - the most earthbound - of all the Lords of the Underworld, and the others might scoff if he offered an opinion on their new sovereigns, the Titans. But Paris liked to think his immersion in humanity added to his understanding of all things spiritual. Having spent so much time among mortals, he knew their emotions well. Greed, jealousy, the desire to be loved.

"The Darkest Pleasure"

Yes, there was definitely an overlap between mortal emotions and godly ones.

What were the Titans if not greedy for the power that had once been theirs; jealous that the Greeks had reaped the bountiful harvest sown by their hard work; and desiring the adoration and worship that had been denied them for thousands of years? Their wants and needs had not been considered during their time in prison, so now they would indulge their every whim.

And yet, this insight did not help Paris. He couldn't figure out how to fight them. They had amazing powers, could flash from one place to another with only a thought, could control the weather and observe the world and its citizens unimpeded. They could curse with one hand and bless with the other. Paris had a demon who liked to f*ck. A demon who weakened without sex and wasn't much of a weapon in any game but seduction.

No question who would win a fight.

If he did nothing, however, his friends could be obliterated. Hunters, his most hated enemy, could be made into guardians of peace and prosperity. Paris wondered if the dominoes had already been set in place for just such a reality and if only a small gust of wind was needed to begin the downpour.

What could he do, though?

Find Pandora's box, yes. That way, he and his friends couldn't be separated from their demons. It would kill them, for once they'd melded, they'd become inseparable, death or insanity their only other options.

He felt so damn helpless. He felt raw, constantly angry. He felt...empty. And all of that negative emotion was wrapped in hot threads of fury. His Sienna was dead. He'd burned her body in a funeral befitting a warrior and scattered her ashes. She wasn't coming back.

Who should he blame? The Hunters? The gods?

Himself?

Who should he punish? Who should he slay in retribution?

An eye for an eye, he'd been taught the first day of his creation. If a warrior failed to mete out the proper penalty for crimes against him, his enemy would view him as weak, attacking over and over again, never ceasing, confident in victory. What was a man to do when the enemy might very well be himself?

"Ready?" Anya asked.

Paris glanced up, pulled from his musings by her excitement. The warriors surrounding the goddess nodded at her, just as eager as she was. They were bordered by shadows, easily skipped over amid the hum of animated activity inside the temple. Humans were collecting rocks and gently scraping at moss.

"Here goes." Anya smoothed her hands down her perfectly flared hips, fingers catching in the diamonds studded at her waist. She fluffed her long, pale hair. "You boys had better be properly impressed by my powers and fawn over me accordingly when I'm done."

Murmurs of "Yes, Anya," and "We will, Anya," rose among them. Even the Lords were afraid of her.

Though Anya had lost many of her powers when she had chosen Lucien over her eternal freedom, giving up her most beloved treasure to be with her man, she was still the creator of disorder and could wield a storm with only a thought.

Paris counted five Hunters among the workers, the mark of Infinity on their wrists. The mark of death, in Paris's mind. Blame them for Sienna's death. They recruited her, filled her head with their lies. Hurt them as she was hurt. His hands fisted at his sides.

"The things I do for my men," Anya murmured, then strolled into the midst of the humans.

Paris watched as their motions slowed before stilling altogether. Conversations faded to quiet, then to utter silence. Everyone turned and stared at the magnificent beauty wearing a too-short black skirt and a transparent lace-up-corset top.

"Excuse me, but who are you?" someone finally asked. A human, no tattoo on either of his wrists. Short, balding, a bit overweight. A name badge hung from around his neck. Thomas Henderson, Global Society of Mythological Studies. "Do you have clearance?"

"Absolutely, I do." Her sensual lips lifted in a grin, even as she lifted her elegant arms. "I wouldn't be here otherwise, now would I, sweetcakes."

His brow puckered in confusion. "What's your name? Everyone on the list is already here, and I don't remember adding another name."

"No need to check again. A storm's coming." Lightning suddenly lit the sky, gold in a canvas of pinks and purples. The wind kicked up, whipping Anya's hair in every direction. "You should go home."