All worlds, for that matter. None cared for him and he cared even less for them and their outcome.
As if she sensed his darkening mood, Laguerre offered a smile. “It’s an interesting time you’ve chosen to escape in. The world has gone quite mad.”
Adarian yawned. “You’re boring me. Have you found my mother?”
She shook her head. “Apollymi is still in captivity. And Acheron refuses to release her.”
Damn him for it. Adarian wished he could do it, but since he was technically not Apollymi’s son, but rather her great-great-great-whatever-grandson plus a few generations, he was too far removed genetically from her womb to have the ability provide her the key to freedom.
Rather, all he could do was remember his link to the goddess, as each subsequent Malachai absorbed the memories of his father whenever he killed his sperm donor and rose to take his place—a special little nasty curse that Mot and Laguerre were directly responsible for since they had cursed Adarian’s great-great-whatever for attacking their daughter. As such, no reigning Malachai could ever quite shake the concept that Apollymi was his mother, given that he was directly descended from her first son Monakribos.
If only the goddess returned the loyalty. But as with all things in life, fairness was a fickle bitch, who forever went against his kind.
So, while the Dark-Hunter leader Acheron was viewed as a brother, he was a brother they all wanted to kill for the fact that he was one of the bastards who kept their mother imprisoned and was responsible for making sure the Malachai remained leashed to serve a master they hated while Acheron was free to do as he pleased.
And Adarian was sick of his collar. It’d long ago rubbed through his skin and left a bitter, chafing wound that wouldn’t heal. It didn’t matter to him that Vine and her Irini friends had opened the gates that allowed him to go free. He felt no sense of obligation toward her or anyone else.
Only an overwhelming need to destroy the world that had done nothing for him or his kind. There were only so many beatings a dog could take before it became rabid and went on the attack. And he’d passed that point long ago.
Now …
He wanted the throat of any and all who made the mistake of crossing his path. Particularly one bugger.
“Then bring me the heart of Acheron. We release my mother and she’ll burn down this world for us.” So what if she killed him in the process. He’d welcome that, too.
Laguerre watched as Adarian launched his wings from his back and then took flight through the grand set of windows. Stunned, she didn’t move until Mot rose behind her.
“Um … should we have told him that while Acheron’s death will definitely release Apollymi’s curse, it will leave her exceptionally pissed off at whomever is stupid enough to murder her beloved child?”
She passed a droll stare to her idiot husband. “I don’t think he cares.”
“Lovely. Then I nominate you for the task, as I’ve already pissed off and on one primal god too many. Since I’m not the child who calls one father, love, I think you’re better suited to the task anyway.”
Laguerre scoffed at his cowardice. “Believe me, one doesn’t rattle my aunt’s cage if one wants to keep their hand attached to their body. ’Tis why I have a wondrous compromise.”
“That is?”
Smiling, she went to the door and opened it. “Vine?” she called. “Adarian has an assignment for you.”
“What’s that long face for?”
Nibo paused at the sound of Brigid’s voice as she joined him where he sat drinking another round of kleren in the grand hall on their island home below the seas. It was here he was supposed to intercede on behalf of the living and the dead, taking special care of those like Valynda who’d died young and violently because of someone else.
Those like him, who should have left well enough alone and kept their interference out of someone else’s life.
There had been a time once when his job had seemed important. But centuries of needless, unending violence had taken its toll.
Now …
He was tired. Nibo didn’t understand this world. And he was disgusted from trying to figure it all out when really, crazy was crazy. And attempting to decipher fucking crazy just ripped your brains out, threw them on the ground, stomped them into oblivion, and made you join their ranks.
“I thought you’d be off with the others.” Nibo used his powers to push the padded chair out in front of him for her so that she could join him.
She accepted his invitation before she reached for the bottle he’d been making liberal use of and poured herself a drink. “Why bother? As you noted, they’re all fucking crazy.”
He laughed at her notorious “potty” mouth. “Stay out of my head, Maman Brigitte. You know I don’t like it when you make my brain your playground.”
“Few do.” She quickly knocked back the spiced rum before she poured another round for each of them.
