“Ye gods,” he muttered to himself, “I’ve gone mad.”
Perhaps he’d handed over his brains as well as his heart. What would he lose next? His bullocks?
His dignity?
Shite! To this day, he still didn’t know how it was that he’d managed to let himself be dragged into the mess that was his wretched existence. Or come to care for a human the way he did his Val.
And was it any wonder given what his love had done to her?
He’d ruined her life.
Nay, he’d ended it.
Just as he’d done Aclima. He winced at a memory he could never bear to think about for long. If he did, it would drive him mad.
Furious at himself and the very gods who conspired against them, he downed his rum and fought against the raging anger that had become his constant companion, instead of the one person he’d wanted most by his side.
“What’s this? You’re looking a bit gloomy, aren’t you?”
Nibo glanced up from the spiced rum he was drinking to see the tall, dark menace who’d decided to join him in the crowded tavern where he sat alone at this midnight hour. Alone by choice, not because he was a mutant like the beast before him that everyone avoided because he was an ass. Which was why Nibo had deliberately chosen his solitary table that was tucked back into a shadowy alcove, thinking it would provide him with some degree of privacy and anonymity.
Bugger that. He should have known better. The damned, along with everyone else, were forever seeking him out. For all manner of reasons. Most of which normally pissed him off, and none as much as whatever stupidity would soon be spilling from this creature’s lips.
With an annoyed sigh over this unwanted interruption, Nibo raked a bored glare from the top of the dark hair, past his mismatched eyes, to the tips of his scuffed black boots. “Stating the obvious now, are you, mate?” After all, Nibo was the loa of the dead. Gloomy rather came with the territory.
As did a raunchy temper. And derelict disposition.
Though, given enough rum, he could be persuaded into bouts of cheeriness and debauchery. In fact, he could be downright giddy if the occasion called for it.
This, however, wasn’t such an occasion.
Though a good and thorough gutting and denutting of the beast before him might serve to cheer his spirits. At least for a moment or two.
“Come now, is that any way to greet an old enemy?”
Nibo smirked as he modified his welcome to a feigned mixture of jolly alacrity. “Jaden … as I live and breathe. To what do I owe this particular hell?”
A slow, beguiling smile curved his lips as Jaden stepped forward into the dim, buttery light cast by stinking tallow candles that made his one green eye glow with mischievous intent. That eye was a stark contrast to its deep, dark disconcerting brown mate.
They were the only imperfections in an otherwise well-proportioned face, framed by a mass of black wavy hair that fell loose about his wide shoulders in defiance of the modern fashion of powdered wigs or queues. But then Jaden had never cared what others did. Or what they thought of him, or of anything else for that matter.
Indeed, like Nibo, he’d left his black shirt untucked and open at the neck. There was no lace or trim of any kind. Or hat, either, as practical fashion could sod off for the night. Jaden’s heavy wool coat was plain except for the brass buttons that bore skulls on them. His black breeches were tucked into a pair of scuffed and worn boots. Plain and simple.
But there was nothing else plain nor simple about this warrior god. The worn ancient sword at his hip said as much, as did the threadbare leather hilt which testified to the number of lives lost to this god’s nefarious short temper.
More than that, ’twas oft speculated that a million virgins had lost their maidenheads to this scoundrel. As well as another million demons, who had vied for a place in his bed to curry a favor from him.
Nibo didn’t doubt that last bit at all. There was something about the demon broker that made him appealing to everyone. Even creatures like him who found the bastard repellent and intolerable. Yet, like a massive catastrophe, it was impossible to look away no matter how horrified one was of the blood and gore of the situation.
Jaden compelled. It was his sick gift.
Oblivious to the growing danger, Jaden stepped forward with his unique predator’s lope and sat down at the table across from him. Then, with a reckless disregard for his life, he reached for Nibo’s rum and took a leisurely swig.
“We have a problem.”
Nibo arched his brow. “Aye, we do. An asshole just stole me rum, and I want it back.”
With a laugh, Jaden downed the last of it and poured himself more. “The Malachai has escaped Azmodea.”
