The wrath, p.1
The Wrath, page 1
Praise for Gena Showalter
“One of the premier authors of paranormal romance. Gena Showalter delivers an utterly spellbinding story!”
—Kresley Cole, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“I love this world and these alpha males—this is Gena Showalter at her best!”
—J.R. Ward, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on Shadow and Ice
“Gena Showalter never fails to dazzle.”
—Jeaniene Frost, New York Times bestselling author
“Showalter...rocks me every time!”
—Sylvia Day, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Showalter writes fun, sexy characters you fall in love with!”
—Lori Foster, New York Times bestselling author
“Showalter makes romance sizzle on every page!”
—Jill Shalvis, New York Times bestselling author
“A fascinating premise, a sexy hero and non-stop action, The Darkest Night is Showalter at her finest.”
—Karen Marie Moning, New York Times bestselling author
“Sexy paranormal romance at its hottest! The Gods of War series is my new obsession.”
—Christine Feehan, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on Shadow and Ice
Gena Showalter
The Wrath
To Jane Ladling. Not once did you complain when Jill Monroe and I left you in “utter peril.” All so I could work on The Wrath. Okay, so perhaps there’s a slight chance you maybe possibly did complain once. Perhaps five or ten or more times, but no higher than twentyish.
To Conrad Ryan. Not once did you threaten to arrest me when I took a wee bit longer than originally planned, keeping you in quote, unquote agony. Did you need to write me the ticket though? No. But I love you anyway.
To Jill Monroe and Naomi Lane. Because.
Gena Showalter is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of the spellbinding Lords of the Underworld series, the entrancing Gods of War series, two young adult series—Everlife and the White Rabbit Chronicles—and the highly addictive Original Heartbreakers series. She’s hard at work on her next novel, a tale featuring an alpha male with a dark side and the strong woman who brings him to his knees. You can learn more about Gena, her menagerie of rescue dogs and all her upcoming books at genashowalter.com or Facebook.com/genashowalterauthor.
Contents
Prologue
Eons Ago
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Prologue
Excerpted from The Book of Stars
Author unknown
Warning: Living text subject to change
They are ancient warriors, evil to the core and loyal only to one another. Known as the Astra Planeta, Wandering Stars, Warlords of the Skies—the beginning of the end—they travel from world to world, wiping out enemy armies. Drawn to war, they turn even the smallest skirmish into a bloodbath.
To glimpse these brutes is to greet your death.
Having no moral compass, they kill without mercy, steal without qualm, and destroy without guilt. Their aim is simple, their goal fixed. Earn a mystical blessing to experience victory for the next five hundred years. A necessity in their endless war with Erebus the Deathless, for without this benediction, the Astra automatically acquire a curse. Five hundred years of utter defeat.—Page 1
* * *
The time has come to renew the blessing. One after the other, each of the nine will undergo an impossible task. Three have proven successful; the fourth must now demonstrate his worth. A merciless soldier, Azar the Memory Keeper recalls everything—except his own follies.
To win his challenge, he must face Lorelei the Incomparable, a perplexing goddess of desire. The charge is this: Resurrect her, then kill her all over again. But first he must face her husband, Rathbone the Only, a treacherous king of the Underworld who will stop at nothing to protect his beloved.
What will happen when these two powerful foes lock horns over a chosen female?—Page 12,847
Eons Ago
Eons ago
Thunder boomed and lightning flashed in a storm-blackened sky. Rathbone the Only removed his helmet, uncaring as violent winds pelted icy rain in his face. His blood-soaked hair whipped, obscuring his vision. He wiped his eyes, but the image before him never altered.
Lorelei the Incomparable, goddess of desire and his beloved bride, lay on the field of slaughter, motionless atop a pile of slain demons and their assortment of severed parts. Her crystalline irises stared at nothing. Her perfect lips remained parted with a silent scream. A drenched sable mane stuck to ashen skin, molding to exquisite features able to inspire lust in all who gazed upon her. But....
Something with claws had ripped open her chest and plucked out her heart.
Rathbone couldn’t bring himself to accept...hoped... “Lore!” Though he’d fought on the front lines for twenty-one straight days and nights without wavering, there’d been no one strong enough to fell him. Here, he dropped to his knees, his armor clanking. His weapons rolled from a once iron grip.
With a shaky hand, he gently caressed Lore’s glacial cheek. “Wake up, sweetness. I need you.”
They had plans. Toast his victory with a glass of ambrosia and make love. An adored custom. But nothing changed. Lore didn’t regrow a heart, as a deity of her capability should. She didn’t smile with delight and coil her arms around him, the way he so desperately longed. Didn’t tell him not to worry because she was soon to make his dreams come true.
“Wake up!” he bellowed, his voice hollow and broken. “Your king has issued a command.” They had agreed. He would fight until achieving victory, and they would rule this Underworld kingdom together. Mere minutes ago, that victory had finally come. This was to be a time of celebration, not devastation. “I completed step one of our plan. You must wake.”
Minutes passed in silence. The storm continued to rage, but she never revived, never responded.
Tears scorched his cheeks, mixing with freezing raindrops. His precious wife couldn’t be dead. She was the mate chosen for him by fate, and he required her. He’d accepted it at their first meeting when she’d oh so sweetly requested his aid.
“Lore. Please,” he croaked. “You must return to me.”
Still nothing.
A roar brewed deep in his chest, grief attempting to tear its way free of his insides. What had happened? Why had she come to the combat zone? She might be a goddess of desire, born with incredible power, but she was a gentle soul. Afraid of blood. Terrified of blades. She should be tucked away in the safety of their hideout, awaiting his summons.
“I’m sorry, Rath.” Hades, King of the Dead, patted and squeezed his shoulder. “She’s gone.”
Rathbone didn’t spare the sovereign a glance. He loved the sovereign like a father and even owed the male his life, but Lore wasn’t a subject they could discuss without coming to blows.
“You aren’t sorry.” He gathered the beauty close, her limp body hanging in his arms. “You hate her.” His jaw clenched. Hated.
“True. But I love you.”
That, he knew. Again and again, Hades had proven the truth of his claim. Though Rathbone’s mother had considered him a great disappointment, the King of the Dead had seen something special in him. Hades took him under his smoky wing and spent centuries training him to be a soldier without equal. Today, that training had paid off. After a gruesome year-long war, Rathbone won the right to rule the kingdom neighboring Hades’s. The Realm of Agonies.
Rathbone had lost much along the way. Soldiers. A fortune. His moral compass. But I will not lose my mate. “I committed the vilest deeds to defeat the former king,” he rasped. A famed warrior named Styx. “His land is now my land. The palace he built is mine to lay at the feet of my wife, so that is what I will do.” Rathbone’s volume grew until his speech overshadowed the newest clap of thunder.
Hades swiped his fingers over an increasingly frustrated expression. “You wed her, yet you maintain a stable of one hundred mistresses. Why is this lone female so important?”
“You answered yourself. They are my mistresses. She is my queen.” No one mattered more.
Lore was the one who’d encouraged Rathbone to establish the stable in the first place. As an ancient, she understood the customs of the gods in a manner he did not. Deities of their ilk kept paramours, she’d said, and a warrior of his renown should enjoy more than most.
Was any female more perfect?
“You cannot bring her back to l
Bring her back. The words echoed inside Rathbone’s head. Yes! He could do it. The ancients possessed a way, and Lore had taught him how as a just in case.
“Give me your chisel,” he commanded. The King of the Dead was never without one; Hades relished carving his initials into the bones of his enemies.
The sovereign frowned at him. “Why?”
“I will etch the Song of Life into her bones.” Rathbone kissed Lore’s brow before easing her to the rain-soaked pile of dead demons. Instinct demanded he teleport her somewhere safer, drier, and cleaner, but she’d told him location mattered. Death screeched its evil at him here, so here was where he must respond. “We’ll be together again, sweetness. I’ll give you more time—then I’ll give you the world. I swear it.”
“Rathbone—”
“You won’t change my mind about this.” He ripped the neckline of her gown, and the gauzy pink material split down the middle, revealing pale, slender curves he wanted healed now. The quicker he began, the better. But once he started, he couldn’t pause until he’d carved the last word of the song into the final bone. To pause was to ensure eternal death.
Since he would allow nothing to halt him, her return was guaranteed.
“You’re a fool if you do this,” Hades warned. “The Greeks are tricksters by nature. I should know! You should know. I guarantee she’s toying with you. See past your pride and rejoice that you’re free. Move on.”
Rathbone pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “You’ve never loved a female the way I love mine—”
“You comprehend nothing of my past, boy!” It was the first show of anger directed Rathbone’s way in centuries.
“Perhaps not,” he corrected, “but it’s obvious you do not comprehend the depths of my pain. Otherwise you’d understand the impossibility of moving on. Now, give me your chisel.”
Hades huffed with disgust but tossed the tool to the ground, just within reach. “Very well. I’ll let you continue. You are insolent, and you could use the life lesson. Just know your regret is assured. And, though I refuse to watch you throw away your future for a female you were using as a surrogate mother, I’ll take great delight in laughing in your face when you realize the error of your ways.” That said, the king stalked off.
“I’ve never used Lore as a surrogate mother,” Rathbone snarled at the king’s retreating back.
The male didn’t turn or slow. He simply lifted a hand with his middle finger extended.
With a huff of his own, Rathbone focused on the current task and palmed a dagger.
Inhaling and exhaling a deep breath, he braced for what came next...
Begin.
He cut into Lore. As quickly and seamlessly as possible, he freed bone after bone. Taking apart the female he loved broke something inside him, but he didn’t stop. They would be together again. Soon.
He would allow nothing less.
1
Present day
Rathbone tossed the liver he held into a bucket and wiped his bloody hands on his apron. All the while, the vampire strapped to a bed of stone sobbed. Of course, the blood-drinker’s chest cavity currently gaped open, displaying what remained of his vital organs, so the tears weren’t exactly a shocker.
They occupied a cell in Rathbone’s dungeon. Moans of pain and misery echoed from every direction, creating the perfect soundtrack. The only downside? A grotesque, metallic scent saturated the damp, chilly air.
“Please,” the vampire cried. “I swear to you, I’m not a spy.”
“Why did I catch you spying then?”
“You didn’t—I swear on the life of my beloved. I got lost. Was searching for—”
“Be quiet or I’ll remove your tongue,” Rathbone warned. He’d heard enough excuses and lies.
The male blubbered a few seconds more before going silent.
“May I go now?” a third person asked.
Rathbone didn’t bother to face the visitor who’d dared interrupt the torture session half an hour ago. There was no need. Mystical eyes known as mátia covered his body, granting him a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view. Less apparel meant cataloging more details.
Today, he’d opted to go without a shirt. Since the apron strings hid little, he was able to observe the cell from every angle. Each element registered in unison, crafting a three-dimensional picture in his head.
A fae prince stood near the exit. Well, the spirit of a fae prince. The mystical defenses surrounding the Realm of Agonies prevented anyone from teleporting in without a special key. In fact, if someone attempted it, their spirit was ripped from their body, bound with enchanted chains, and whisked straight to Rathbone. If they tried to walk in, they had to first overcome countless traps.
The vampire had walked. The prince had gambled with teleportation. Both were suffering because of their choice.
“Let’s recap what you’ve told me so far,” Rathbone said to the fae, his tone casual. He reached for a crimson-stained dagger on the wheeled cart at his side, sending the vampire into another round of sobs. “Your name is Bogart. You are the consort of a harpy, and you’ve come from her land, Harpina. Three months ago, nine warlords invaded the realm, slaughtered the males in their path and temporarily incapacitated the females. You would’ve died, too, but a harpy-oracle, also known as a harpacle, visited you days before and told you what to do during an invasion, even providing you with a blueprint to escape. Now the warlords and harpies are allies, working together to defeat Erebus Phantom. As payment for her kind deed, the harpy-oracle asked you to deliver this message to me. She has seen where the rest of my wife resides. For the right price, she’ll spill every detail. Do I understand you correctly?”
“You understand,” the prince confirmed with a sharp dip of his pointed chin. Despite the manacles around his wrists, he waited at attention, as a good soldier should, showing no reaction to Rathbone’s gruesome activities.
“Help me, Bogart. Please.” The wounded vampire struggled against his bonds. “I’m innocent! I would never spy on the King of Agonies! I’m not a fool.”
Rathbone cut out the immortal’s tongue, as promised. A fresh howl of pain morphed into a choking fit. He tossed the muscular organ in the bucket. “Tell me more about the harpy-oracle,” he commanded the fae, replacing the dagger with a scalpel. He’d used a different weapon for each removal. So far he thought he preferred the ice pick. But he might change his mind. He had sixty-four other weapons to utilize. “Every detail.”
“Her name is Neeka the Unwanted. She’s half harpy, half oracle, as I previously stated, and all sex appeal. Her addition, not mine. She instructed me to tell you she’s the owner and operator of Greater than Greatest at Finding Stuff. She also mentioned the vampire, who is indeed a spy. He came on behalf of the Astra, and he’s a herald of their newest task.” A pause. Then, “I’ll be honest. Neeka might not be entirely sane. Immediately after she explained the situation, I asked her a question, but she’d already forgotten who I was and what she’d said. She threatened to castrate me.”
Neeka the Unwanted. Not a name familiar to Rathbone. Had this harpacle spoken true or lied? For that matter, had this prince spoken true or lied? In the Underworld, you could trust no one at any time. Including yourself.
“Despite this supposed insanity,” he said, “you decided to do as she requested, three months late, putting your life in my hands because...?”
“I owed her, and I always pay my debts. But I’m not late. She told me when to come.”
Yes, but why would any oracle worth her salt summon an enraged King of Agonies to her doorstep? And that was exactly what she’d done with this stunt. Rathbone would be in her face before sunset. If he wasn’t convinced of her authenticity and talents, she would die on his table like thousands of others.
He didn’t like being reminded of his only failure.
The scalpel bent in his grip as memories assailed him. In a split second of time, he remembered how, all those centuries ago, he’d etched the Song of Life into Lore’s bones, one after the other. How innumerable demons had surrounded him while he’d chiseled, not to stop him or launch an attack, as he’d expected, but to wait. Each time he’d completed a bone, a small contingent of the creatures had collected it and fled, laughing. Because they’d known the consequences, just as he had. Rathbone couldn’t resurrect his wife until the pieces were reunited.
