Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

No sooner had Teague said, ‘I’ll take that as a yes’ than Ronin had hurled the hellfire orb at him. It hissed and spat as it whooshed through the air as fast as any bullet.

Sharply leaning to the side, Teague managed to dodge it. The orb crashed into a tree behind him, causing pieces of bark to clang against one of the wagons.

That was when the tension in the air seemed to explode.

Shedding his tee, Teague emitted a sharp, distinctive whistle and then sliced a hand through the air. His bloodhounds hurtled across the clearing, heading right for Ronin’s hounds, while the ravens flew at the intruding flock at top speed.

Similar gestures from Ronin had his own hell-animals moving. Casting Teague a dark grin, he lifted his chin. “I’d tell you to enjoy watching your pets get torn apart, but you’ll be a little too busy being torn apart yourself.”

Kicking off his shoes, Teague had to smile. “You really think a pack of chupacabras will take us down?” He shook his head and then shoved down his jeans and underwear. “My demon will end whatever stands between it and you. And when you’re forced to free your steed in your own defense, it’ll ravage your demon until the steed retreats out of terror. Then?” Teague pinned him with flinty eyes. “Then I’ll kill you.”

Flushing, Ronin glanced over his shoulder at the waiting pack and called out, “Now!”

Snarling, the chupacabras charged, fast and focused. So fast that dirt clouded the air as they skidded to a non-too-smooth halt when the Black Saints teleported in front of them.

The fallen angels pounced both figuratively and metaphorically. Some wrestled the creatures to the ground. Others slammed them with glowing, ultraviolet balls of fire.

Shift, Teague telepathically ordered his clan, who were now as naked as he was. As one, they released their beasts in billows of ash and smoke.

As the gray haze cleared, Teague’s hellhorse flattened its ears and bared its teeth at the intruders. Every beat of its heart pumped rage through its veins. A rage that wound its muscles tight and caused a pounding in its ears.

The steed stared down the leader of the trespassers. Ronin. A male the hellhorse had long ago decided had lost his right to live.

He would die tonight. Those who had arrived with him would die. The steed wanted their blood in its mouth and under its hooves. It wanted to bite and tear and maul them.

And it would.

Several chupacabras skirted around the fallen angels. They rushed at the steed’s clan, their flaming eyes narrowed, their lips peeled back, their muzzles covered in foam.

Pawing the ground, the hellhorse let out a roar-scream that was a pure battle-cry. The steed then galloped toward the approaching chupacabras, knowing its clan would follow. It went for the broadest creature, exhaling a stream of hellfire.

A high-pitched yelp tore out of the chupacabra as flames engulfed it, causing its pace to falter. But only briefly. It came at the steed again with a vicious growl.

The chupacabra leaped up to bite into the hellhorse’s neck. The steed flinched its head back, narrowly missing the creature’s jaws, and rammed a hoof into its attacker’s chest. A whine gusted out of the chupacabra as it flopped to the ground.

Baring its teeth in a satisfied grin, the hellhorse moved swiftly. It stomped on the creature’s skull, neck, and flank, avoiding the sharp spines. Bones snapped and crunched beneath its hooves, and the cloying scent of blood poured into its nostrils.

Dead.

Abandoning the corpse, the steed turned to the nearest chupacabra—it was aiding its pack-mate in attacking one of the hellhorse’s clan. The steed lunged and closed its jaws around the chupacabras’ head. It bit hard. The skull caved in. Blood squirted into the hellhorse’s mouth.

Relishing the taste of blood and death, it dropped the corpse just in time to brace itself for impact—another chupacabra was almost upon it. They collided, all hooves and paws and teeth. The fight was ugly and brutal.

The steed snarled as the burn of sharp claws raked its skin. Feeling warm liquid trickle down its coat, it bit into the creature’s muzzle, injecting its venom into its bloodstream. Venom that weakened it fast. Before long, the hellhorse was holding its foe’s neck in a lethal, suffocating bite.

It dumped the fallen chupacabra on the ground and then charged at the next threat. With each new enemy, the hellhorse went in fast and hard—its aim to cause maximum damage swiftly. It intended to save its strength for its duel with Ronin’s demon.

Around it, the steed’s clan battled other chupacabras. Fallen angels attacked the rest of the pack. Airborne birds bit and raked at others. Hounds savaged and clawed their foes.

Ronin and the other trespassing hellhorses continued to do nothing. They remained still. Watchful. Were probably waiting for the clan to be killed, or for them to be so weak they were easy prey for the hellhorses.

A mistake.

Teague’s steed never made easy prey. Neither did its clan members.

The battlefield was a cacophony of sounds. Hellfire flames hissed and spat. Bones snapped and crunched. Ultraviolet orbs whooshed and crackled. Roars, snarls, yelps, screeches, barks, and grunts blended with the perverse laughter coming from the Black Saints.

The chupacabras were fast and vicious and tireless. They didn’t give an inch. Didn’t back down. Didn’t give mercy. But they stood no chance against their opponents.

Not against the fallen angels’ raw power and primitive brutality.

Not against the hellhorses’ arsenal of vast strength, incredible speed, lethal venom, noxious smoke, and fiery breaths.

Still, the pack fought on.

Turning away from a dead chupacabra, the hellhorse quickly lunged at another. It savaged the creature with its teeth and hooves; reveled in its yelps, enjoyed its pain, relished the sight of its injuries. The chupacabra weakened more and more under both the pressure of the attack and the effects of the steed’s venom. A brutal kick to the head finished it off.

The hellhorse stood still a moment, its sides heaving as its breaths sawed in and out of its throat. It could feel blood dripping down its coat; could feel the heat of many injuries. Bites. Claw marks. Puncture wounds that came from chupacabra-spines.

Amped up on adrenaline and bloodthirst, it shelved the pain and ignored the fatigue that threatened to invade its muscles. It wasn’t difficult. Not when each inhale fed its hunger to kill, the air laced with the drugging scents of blood, pain, and fear.

Another chupacabra charged at it. Clashing, they tore into each other. Fierce. Pitiless. Targeting existing injuries. It was—

The hellhorse flinched as teeth sank into its wounded flank. Refusing to remove its gaze from the opponent in front of it, the steed body-slammed its second attacker. It heard a crack as the creature collapsed to the ground. In its peripheral vision, the hellhorse saw it attempt to rise; saw it fail as one of the clan pounced.

Satisfied, the steed exhaled a powerful gust of hellfire that swept up the badly injured creature before it. The chupacabra backpedaled, yelping in pain. The hellhorse moved quickly. It clamped its jaws around its enemy’s skull and shook it viciously, tasting spurt after spurt of blood.

Something barreled into the hellhorse’s side. The jarring move almost knocked it over, causing it to drop the dying creature. It whirled fast, seeking the chupacabra that had dared blindside it. They clashed as they leaped at each other.

They were both brutal in their attack. Skin tore. Blood dripped. Chupacabra-bones cracked. As the creature’s wounded rear leg crumpled beneath it, making it topple to the ground, the steed took advantage—pouncing, stomping, crushing its skull.

Once its enemy was dead, the hellhorse puffed a breath out of its nostrils as it took a moment to look around. Its clan and their hounds were wounded but still fighting. Two dead birds from Ronin’s flock lay on the ground among feathers, bodies, ashes, and tufts of fur. The number of chupacabras had greatly fallen, but the Black Saints were still standing—battling.

As another chupacabra came at it, the hellhorse took a brief moment to wonder where its harpy was. Then it flew at its enemy.

Failing yet again to rip open the net, Larkin screeched in fury. The piercing sound burst up her eagle-form’s throat and echoed around the van so loud Holt winced. So she did it again. Louder.

Sighing, he slid his gaze skyward for a moment. “There’s no point in trying to tear the net, Larkin. No amount of biting or clawing will damage it.” He spoke like she was being childish by fighting to free herself.

He didn’t know her at all if he thought she’d sit back and bemoan her situation like a poor little damsel. Just as tenacious, her demon battered at her insides, refusing to admit defeat; intent on surfacing and getting to the male who not only held them captive but acted as though it was his right.

He rolled his eyes when she resumed raking and biting at the net. “Settle down. We’ll be at the airport soon enough. I have a private jet waiting there. Unfortunately, it will be an uncomfortable flight for you, since you must remain within the net, but there’s sadly nothing I can do about that.”

Oh, there was. He could free her, for one thing.

Larkin went very still as she felt Holt’s psyche push at the mental wall she’d erected. She would have done her best to strengthen it if it wasn’t essential that she didn’t waste any psienergy right now.

His brows slid together. “That barrier of yours should have weakened at this point. You apparently made sure it wouldn’t be easy to tear down.” His eyes narrowed. “You truly were determined to keep me out, weren’t you?”

Absolutely. That was why it worried her that she could feel her psi-energy leaving her in tiny little dribs and drabs. The wall would soon buckle under the strength of his mental shoves if she didn’t hurry to free herself.

Once more vigorously attacking the net with her beak and talons, she ignored his put-out you’re wasting your time sigh.

He idly adjusted his cufflink. “I will cut away the net once we’re at my home. I have a cage in my cellar that prevents telepathic exchange. Once inside it, you’ll be able to shift back to your normal form.”

Larkin wasn’t sure what bothered her more—that he planned to put her in a fucking prison of some sort, or that he seemingly felt she should be thankful that the net would be replaced by a cage.

Well, no one was going to coop her up anywhere.

She’d get free of this net. She would. And then she’d go to Teague—no other eventuality was acceptable.

It was killing her that she had no way of knowing if he was okay. The battle was likely still waging—she couldn’t imagine that it would be over so fast. Not when it seemed inevitable that Ronin would have turned up with a small army, the coward.

“You’re no doubt thinking that Knox will suspect me of being responsible for your disappearance,” Holt mused, leaning back against the van, still oh so casual and oh so confident that he had the upper hand. “I’m sure he will. Just as I’m sure he will come to my home in search of you.”

Knox wouldn’t pay Holt a mere visit to look for Larkin if she disappeared. No. He’d shit fury all over this fucker’s doorstep, sure to the bone that it was the cambion who held her captive. Knox wouldn’t care to ask questions. Wouldn’t bother to tread carefully. Wouldn’t give one shit that there was a chance he was wrong, because killing Holt would be nothing to him in any case.

In sum, the cambion had signed his death warrant by taking her. If she didn’t kill him, Knox would.

“He won’t find you. Nor will Tanner, if that is your hope. The cage will even keep a hellhound’s nose from sensing your presence.” Holt inched up his chin. “Face it, Larkin, you have no way of escaping me. Stop fighting. Accept your fate. Accept that I am your fate—always have been.”

She had no need to accept anything. Because she knew something he didn’t.

He carried on talking, pressuring her to cease opposing him; to resign herself to the situation; to see that this was ‘for the best’.

She ignored him . . . right up until his mind once more tried bypassing her protective wall.

Satisfaction flashed across that face she wanted to slap. “Ah, the barrier is not quite as well-fortified as it was before. The process may be slow going, but it is working.”

It was, dammit. It was working well.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then all but attacked the net. No, she was not bonding with this motherfucker. She’d be stuck with him for life, even if she never became his captive. Because she wouldn’t be able to kill him in revenge. To do that would be to quite possibly kill herself—anchors generally didn’t survive the breaking of an anchor bond, at least not without turning rogue, so she’d need to keep him alive.

She couldn’t stand the thought of having a connection with him for the rest of her days. It made her skin crawl and her belly do a slow, nauseating roll. Her demon would for sure—

There was a slight give in the net. As if a seam somewhere had popped.

Larkin’s pulse did an excited leap. She forced herself not to go to work on the material with a renewed, energized effort. It would make him suspicious. She couldn’t have that.

So she kept chewing and raking at the same pace as before, letting him think she was merely refusing to accept that her attempts—in his point of view, at least—were fruitless.

They had never been fruitless. He simply hadn’t known it.

The truth was . . . a demonic harpy eagle could chew through anything, even if that ‘anything’ was boosted by power or magick.

The same applied to a few other breeds of demon who could shapeshift into avian forms. None of them advertised it, since it gave them an edge in certain situations—such as the one she was in right now.

“You’re not going to stop trying to get out of that net, are you?” He sighed, as if disappointed in her. “So stubborn.”

She let out a fuck off screech. He jumped slightly. Which would have delighted both her and her demon if they weren’t too worried for Teague to find any amusement in anything right now.

Holt’s nostrils flared. “There is no sense in being angry with me,” he snapped, defensive. “You are at fault for the position you’re in.”

Say what?

“It would never have come to this if we had only formed the bond when we first found each other. But you refused. You held back from me—your own anchor—instead of trusting me from the outset like you should have,” he reprimanded, as if he hadn’t done things that would justify her failure to do so.

God, he was such an ass.

Feeling another testing shove against the wall in her mind, Larkin would have hissed if she could have.

Holt’s brows knitted. “The barrier should have cracked by now.” He hummed. “You have more mental strength than most people I know. But I don’t see why you’d bother putting up such a resistance. You can’t possibly sustain it.”

Yeah? Watch me, asshole.

There was another give in the net. Not as if a seam had popped, but as if a few threads had torn. Ha. Soon enough, it would split. It had to.

“If you think I’m wrong, you’re lying to yourself. We will form the bond, Larkin. There’s no avoiding it. There never was. If you had just made your peace with that long ago, things would be so different now. I wouldn’t be at risk of turning rogue. You wouldn’t have been angry and hurt all these years. In fact, you would be firmly settled in my lair, and we might even be ruling it together.”

She stopped chewing, shocked. Together?

“You once accused me of only pretending to care for you, but it wasn’t true. My feelings for you were genuine. I envisioned us being co-Primes of my lair.” His mouth set into a bitter twist. “But that would never happen now, would it? Too much has passed that tainted what could have been.”

There would never have been anything romantic between them, even if he’d been the world’s best anchor. She simply didn’t view him in that light.

His eyes turned glacial. “And then there’s fucking Sullivan.”

Not whatsoever liking his scathing tone, she took a moment to shoot Holt hate eyes before going back to chewing the net.

“I saw how you look at him. He means something to you. Matters enough that I think you would actually go as far as to leave your lair—something you refused to do for me—to be with him.”

Honestly . . . she thought there was little that she wouldn’t do for her hellhorse.

A dark smirk curled Holt’s lips. “Unlucky for you, that won’t happen. You’ll never see him again.”

God, it would really be great if he would stop talking about Teague, because it was already difficult for her to fully concentrate on the seriousness of her personal situation when she was inwardly obsessing over the hellhorse’s safety.

Even as she told herself that Teague would be fine, fear for him curdled in her stomach all the same.

By now, he would have noticed that she hadn’t showed yet. He would be wondering why she hadn’t yet arrived. She hoped he wouldn’t worry that something was wrong. He didn’t need to be distracted right now. He needed to—

Her heart jumped as more threads in the net tore. Yes. It was only a matter of time, hopefully mere minutes, before the material would split.

Awesome. Except for one thing. The split might be audible.

If Holt heard it tear, he’d move to restrain her. That meant she’d need to be prepared to act fast. She’d need to move so swiftly that he’d be unable to get a hold on her or blast her with hellfire.

She didn’t think he would kill her. He needed her. Or, more to the point, he needed the anchor bond to ensure that he didn’t turn rogue.

But that didn’t require her to be unharmed.

Given that he was quite clearly pissed at her for a whole multitude of reasons and blamed her for his current near-rogue state, she suspected he’d have little problem causing her pain. Especially if he and his demon were raging over her repeated rejection.

Holt had many aggressive abilities. And she knew what his favorite method of disabling and torturing people happened to be. He liked to utilize his power to generate enough heat in his hands that by merely touching a person he could liquify their bones.

Lovely, right?

It meant there’d sadly be no slow death for him. She didn’t have the luxury of granting herself or her demon that indulgence. She’d need to kill him quickly before his sentinels interfered.

Holt lightly brushed one hand over the other. “You should probably know that, once the dust has settled, I have every intention of wiping Sullivan from this planet.”

A screech of rage exploded from her mouth just as her demon’s furious scream echoed around her head.

Holt let out a dark laugh. “Oh yes, he really does matter to you.”

Angry breaths heaving in and out of her, she glared at him. No way would he get even the chance to harm Teague. Holt would be dead soon enough. He just didn’t know it yet.

“So sad that it isn’t a two-way street,” he taunted. “His demon may have branded you—yes, I heard all about it—but that means little. Teague would never have committed to you, and neither would his beast.”

Her demon cracked its knuckles, raring to slam its fist into this fucker’s dick. Or maybe just pluck out his eye . . . and make him eat it.

Though Larkin wanted to screech at him yet again, she didn’t. Because she recognized what he was trying to do: Distract her. Anger her. Tire her out emotionally so that he’d be more easily able to power through the mental wall that stood between them.

Not happening.

Refusing to take the bait, she focused on the net once more.

There was nothing genuine in the look of sympathy he offered her. “I suppose you now know how it feels to want more from someone than they’ll ever be willing to give you. Not nice, is it?”

Snarky bastard.

“You may believe I’m wrong; may think that he cares for you as you do him. But even if he does, he wouldn’t have claimed you. Hellhorses rarely take mates, and it’s been said that Sullivan avoids relationships more than most do anyway. He prefers to simply sample whatever flower in the field he comes across.”

More determined to get to the prick than ever before, her inner demon renewed its efforts to surface, beating at Larkin’s insides.

“He’ll move on soon enough. He might ponder over your disappearance. Might even vaguely worry about it. But he won’t grieve it. Won’t put his life on pause to look for you. Not that it would do him any good if he did. He’ll never find you.”

Pausing, Holt leaned forward. “No one will ever find you. You’ll be with me for all time. Bound to me for all time. There will be no escape. Not physically, not psychically. And whenever you find yourself hating your life, remember that the blame for your situation lies squarely with you.”

Material split. Holt froze. The net’s buzz of power winked out. And Larkin inwardly smiled.

Sinking its teeth into the vulnerable throat of a chupacabra, Teague’s steed heard a voice bark out an order to shift. Its gaze sought Ronin. Narrowed. He and his fellow hellhorses were beginning to shed their clothes.

A sense of twisted anticipation coursed through the steed. It dropped the dead creature it held and turned to fully face its main enemy, conscious of its clan flanking it. The beast snorted in disgust at the cowardice of the invaders, who had waited until their opponents were injured and tiring before acting; until the only chupacabras left were presently toys of the Black Saints.

Panting hard, the steed puffed out a thin cloud of smoke with each breath. The fighting and blood loss had taken a toll on it, and the adrenaline-dimmed pain refused to be shelved any longer. But the thought of finally going head-to-head with Ronin’s beast energized the steed.

It yearned to sink its teeth into the flesh of the one who had brought this fight to its land. It was eager to wreak vengeance for every slight Ronin had ever committed throughout the years. Merely recalling those incidences made a red haze cloud its vision and a growl vibrate in its chest.

Naked, Ronin swallowed hard, as if nervous. He should be. His life had reached its expiry date.

Smoke and dots of floating ash began to build around the trespassers. When the smoke cleared, seven hellhorses stood in their place. The beasts shifted from foot to foot, neighing and shaking their heads.

Ronin’s stallion was slightly smaller than Teague’s demon. Less muscular. But it was powerfully built, and it stood solid and at the ready.

Unintimated, Teague’s beast boldly locked its gaze with that of its adversary. It was utterly confident it could take down its foe, even as it acknowledged that it would be no simple win. Teague’s steed didn’t care that it would be a challenge. It liked that.

The chupacabras had been too easy for it to defeat. But against another hellhorse, the beast had no great ‘edge’. Its venom would not be lethal to another of its kind, nor would the noxious smoke. This would be a battle of strength, speed, will, and power.

As it glared at its enemy, they both danced from foot to foot, each sizing up the other. Geared up to start the fight, Teague’s steed scuffed the earth with its hoof, kicking up a small cloud of dirt—a dare, a challenge, a taunt.

Ronin’s demon peeled back its lips to expose its teeth. It charged, its fellow invaders still flanking it.

Teague’s steed bucked with a roar-scream. And then it bulleted across the clearing toward its approaching enemy, jumping over corpses. Its clan followed the steed, heading for the other hellhorses.

The two sides reared up and clashed in a ferocious storm of teeth, hooves, and hellfire. A storm that made the evening echo with roars and growls and the smack of hoof against flesh.

Scorn. Loathing. Fury. Bloodthirst. Vengeance. All of it pounded through Teague’s hellhorse and fueled its every lunge and blow and bite.

Ronin’s stallion was not as weak as the male with whom it shared its soul. It was strong. Deadly. Trained. Fearless.

It attacked hard. Fought with sheer cunning and viciousness. Targeted existing injuries—deepening bite marks, striking bruises and burns.

Teague’s steed was equally brutal. It didn’t merely sink its teeth down, it tore out chunks of flesh. Every gush of its enemy’s blood tasted of victory and vengeance.

His beast caught its foe’s ear between its teeth and gave a sharp twist of its head. The enemy reared back with a pained sound as half its ear was ripped away. Teague’s steed spat it on the ground, a feral satisfaction whirling in its gut.

Its sides heaving, Ronin’s demon growled low in its throat, scraping the earth with a hoof. Extending its head, it exhaled a blast of hellfire.

Teague’s stallion danced backwards to avoid it, but the hot flames licked at its muzzle, searing the skin. The steed vigorously shook its head as if it would shake off the pain. A pain that ramped up its need to vanquish its enemy.

Its nostrils flaring, the hellhorse rushed its foe again. It rammed its scalding-hot hooves into vulnerable spots; hammering at the kneecaps, determined to crumple the forelegs.

Ronin’s stallion fought back hard, its own coat now covered in almost as many patches of blood and charred skin. Blisters pebbled parts of its flesh, particularly that of its face.

Around them, the other hellhorses continued to rear up and attack again and again. The battle was as primal and savage as it was animalistic. Neither side showed signs of backing down.

Fatigue soon began to creep up on Teague’s beast again. Its lungs hurt from the noxious fumes, making it hard for the panting steed to catch its breath. Its blood seemed to sting from its foe’s venom in its system. The pain added to those of its injuries, distracting it; threatening to weaken it.

The other hellhorse sensed it was tiring. Tried to take advantage, upping its speed. But Teague’s demon was still too fast for its opponent to find the opening it needed.

Recalling each of Ronin’s slights and crimes, the steed embraced its fury. Used it. Channeled it.

As Teague’s beast gave a hard kick to its opponent’s badly burned shoulder, Ronin’s beast swiftly backed up with a sound that rang with both rage and pain. Its muscles bunching, it breathed out another blast of hellfire.

Teague’s demon had anticipated the move and danced aside, evading most of the blast. A little of the flames blazed across its badly blistered flank, leaving a trail of white-hot pain in its wake. Furious, the steed snapped its teeth and charged yet again.

The two demons once more quickly became caught up in a deadly duel, their coats damp with blood and sweat. On and on they fought, ferocious in their determination to win.

Teeth sank down, making blood spurt. Hellfire raced over skin, causing blisters. Red-hot hooves singed coats with every bruising hit.

The reflexes of Ronin’s demon steadily became slower. Its strikes lost some of their force. Its balance began to suffer due to its scuffed and battered kneecaps.

A loud, wheezy yelp sounded. Baxter.

Teague’s beast faltered. Rage rushed through its system, and a roar of blood thundered in the steed’s ears. Snarling, it struck harder. Faster. Angrier.

Ronin’s demon began to fall back under the pressure, its attempts to attack becoming attempts to merely defend.

Taking advantage, Teague’s demon dove in again and again, its goal—need—to maul and dominate. Soon, its foe began to tire even more. Its responses and attacks grew slower and weaker, but Teague’s hellhorse didn’t let up.

It had a point to make. A message to deliver. A punishment to administer. And that was what it would do.