Immortals After Dark 07 - Kiss of a Demon King

every six days or so. Sabine only hoped she hadn't burned one recently.

    "Why don't you call Lanthe in here and ask her yourself?" Sabine said, making him scowl. For some reason, Omort had always loathed being near Lanthe and had decreed that the two sisters would never be together in his presence.
    "Exactly how long do I have to set this snare?" she asked.
    "You must intercept him within the next two hours."
    "I go at once." She had little time to hatch a plot, which irritated her. She adored plotting-devising plans and subplans and contingencies-and half the fun was the anticipation of a trap about to be sprung. She would dream up scenarios for months, and yet now she had only mere hours.
    Before she could leave, Omort leaned down and murmured at her ear, "If there were any way around your sleeping with this beast, I would have found it for you."
    "I know, brother."
    She did believe him in this. Omort would never willingly give her up, because he wanted Sabine all for himself and had since the first time he'd seen her. He'd said there was something in her eyes he'd never seen before-the dark knowledge of what it was like to die. Something he could never know.
    He covered her bare shoulder with a clammy hand, sounding as if he'd just stifled a groan at the contact.
    "Do-not-touch, Omort." She gritted out the words, making her plaits appear to be striking vipers
    until he removed his hand. Sometimes she had to remind him that she was as treacherous as the serpents he worshipped.
    She turned immediately, giving him her back instead of taking three steps away before turning to exit the chamber. When she passed the well, she darted her gaze to it.
    Soon . . .
    "You won't fail me?" he called after her. "Rydstrom must not reach his brother."
    "Consider it done," she called back with utter surety. How hard could it be to capture a demon?
    2
    A prize so rare it was fabled . . .
    Rydstrom sped his McLaren down a deserted levee road, his headlights cleaving through the swamp fog. That crazed energy within him, the inexplicable tension, had spiked to a fever pitch.
    Omort could be killed.
    One hundred miles per hour. One hundred and ten . . .
    With a sword forged by Groot the Metallurgist.
    Rydstrom had waited so long for this, he had a hard time believing it was happening now.
    Although he didn't trust the demon Pogerth, Rydstrom trusted his ally, Nix-the Valkyrie soothsayer who'd arranged their meeting.

    Nix had said that this campaign was a chance to kill Omort-Rydstrom's last chance. Either he would succeed in destroying the sorcerer or he would fail forever.
    By all the gods, it was possible. But for payment, Groot had asked for the impossible. Or so it would seem.
    One hundred and forty miles per hour. Though Ryd-strom had hung up the phone with his brother minutes ago, he was still slack jawed. Cadeon-the most untrustworthy and least dependable being Rydstrom had ever known-had informed him that he was already in possession of the prize Groot demanded in exchange for
    the sword.
    Cadeon had reluctantly agreed to meet Rydstrom at their customary place north of New Orleans with the payment in tow, but Rydstrom still had half an hour to reach him. There was plenty of time for Cadeon to back out-if he hadn't already.
    At that thought, Rydstrom floored the gas, surging to one hundred and sixty miles per hour.
    Not fast enough. He would give his right hand to be able to trace once more. Yet Omort had bound that teleportation power in him and in Cadeon. Rydstrom had never felt as frustrated by that curse as right now. So much at stake.
    Yes, Cadeon had already found the prize. But he would not be keen to give it up.
    He'll run. Rydstrom had to get to him before he could. Long moments passed with him deep in thought over his brother. Knowing Cadeon would let him down, he accelerated even more.
    One seventy . . .
    Rydstrom would die for his people. Why wouldn't Cadeon-
    Eyes stared back at him in the headlights. Not an animal, a woman.
    He slammed on the brakes and swerved, the vehicle skidding out of control.

    * * *
    The screech of tires peeled out into the night as the demon's sports car began to spin wildly.
    But somehow he was righting it.
    "He's pulling it back." Lanthe sounded impressed. Sabine raised her hands and muttered, "1 don't think so, demon." Just when he appeared to gain control, she shifted the vision of the road, obscuring the bridge abutment to his sight. He sped directly into it.
    An explosion of sound