Rogue Rider

“Well?” Ares shouted. All around, hellhounds were closing in, sensing Ares’s anger and preparing to rip Reseph to shreds.

“Do you honestly think I don’t go over every minute in my head, trying to figure out what cracks I should have exploited? That I wonder what else I could have done to stop him? I tried, Ares.”

“You didn’t try hard enough!”

Anger at the situation, at himself, at Pestilence, all boiled over, and Reseph snarled. “I know that! And I hate myself for it.”

“Dammit, Reseph.” Ares rounded on him. “It isn’t just that. You’ve never fought for anything. At the first sign of conflict or commitment or emotion, you check out. You’ve always taken the damned easy road, and it pisses me off.”

“Easy? You think any of this is easy? I’ve changed, Ares.”

“Yeah? You fell in love for the first time in your life, and when the time came to fight for Jillian, did you? Or did you take the easy path and let her go because you don’t want to do the hard thing and control Pestilence?” Ares got in Reseph’s face, so close their noses almost touched. “Or did you let her go because you’re afraid to commit? Life’s too good with millions of hot females out there to f**k, isn’t it? How easy was it to walk away from the one female who has ever loved you enough to sacrifice a piece of her goddamned mind so you could turn around and go back to being the self-absorbed whore you always were? Do you care about Jillian at all?”

With a roar, Reseph slammed his fist into Ares’s jaw. His brother wheeled backward, and before he could regain his balance, Reseph tackled him. They went down in a tangle of punches and snarls.

“I love her!” Reseph shouted.

Ares had about twenty pounds on Reseph, and he used his weight to pin Reseph to the ground. “And I love Cara, but that didn’t matter to you when you tried to rape her!”

Oh… God. Reseph sucked in a harsh breath and sagged bonelessly into the sand. “Fuck. Ah… f**k, Ares. I’m sorry.”

Ares shoved to his feet and jammed his hand through his hair over and over, swearing constantly. “Logically, we all know it wasn’t you. But the wounds are deep. We get it. We love you. But we can’t trust you.”

Reseph’s stomach plummeted. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’ll help you as best we can. But you need to go somewhere else. We can’t risk Pestilence returning and hurting our families.”

“He won’t.” But even as the words came, Reseph knew they were hollow. He wanted to believe he could control Pestilence, but the evidence said otherwise. He couldn’t blame his siblings for being concerned, but he wondered if the old Reseph would have. Now that Reseph had found Jillian, he understood how powerful the need to protect someone was. Even if that protection was from yourself. Ares was wrong about the easy path shit. There was nothing easy about staying away from Jillian.

Still, Ares’s rejection stung. Bad. Even now, the hurt was welling up, threatening to overflow and morph into something that had been so familiar when his Seal was broken; horrific anger. Deep inside, Pestilence stirred.

Fuck.

“Reseph?”

“What?” His voice was hell-deep and warped. He had to get out of here before he proved Ares right and let Pestilence too close to the surface. But he’d use this rage, and he’d use it well.

“You need to level out, bro…”

Reseph ignored Ares and smiled as he opened a Harrowgate, because while he might not be able to repair the damage he’d caused to his family, he could take some measure of revenge for them.

It was time to give Pestilence a taste of his own medicine.

Twenty-nine

Underworld General Hospital, staffed by vampires, were-creatures, and demons, came to a screeching halt when Reseph entered through the ER doors with a werewolf cub in his arms.

Probably because three months ago, Pestilence had gone on a rampage inside the hospital, butchering hundreds of patients and employees before grabbing an ex-angel staff member to torture. His rampage was still evident in the cracked walls, smashed equipment, and the dented furniture.

Laughter clanged inside Reseph’s skull; Pestilence’s satisfaction at what he’d done. Reseph had been battling the bastard all day, engaging in an internal struggle to keep the demon from clawing his way too close to the surface. Most of the time, maintaining control wasn’t difficult… the problems came when Reseph’s temper surfaced. Pestilence provided an extra shot of adrenaline, more juice to fuel Reseph’s strength—both physical and mental. Things Reseph would never have been capable of before, like torture, were now far too easily considered.

But for the first time, Reseph could see the mental container he’d been kept in while Pestilence had been in charge. Now Pestilence was imprisoned inside, and Reaver’s assessment was accurate… the vessel was cracked, oozing Pestilence’s essence. How the hell was Reseph supposed to repair it?

“You son of a bitch.” Eidolon, head doctor and founder of UG, dropped the charts he’d been going over and came at Reseph like a bull, his eyes glowing with crimson fury. “How dare you set foot in my hospital.”

Waves of both fear and hatred radiated off of every person in the emergency department. Reseph felt their stares like lashes on his skin. He recognized some of them as Pestilence’s surviving victims, and there were far too many to count.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” Reseph said, cradling the squirming toddler against his chest. “This cub needs medical attention.”

“What did you do to him?” Eidolon growled.

“I rescued him from a slave trader.” And damn, that had felt good. Reseph had gone through Sheoul like a blade through butter, slaughtering dozens of demons who had served Pestilence. Taking out the slave trader, a Neethul who had been Pestilence’s right hand, had been the most satisfying.

So far.

Since being relegated back to Sheoul after the Apocalypse had been averted, the Neethul, Silth, had gone back to his first love—slave trading. Reseph had found him beating a werewolf cub who had been sold into slavery by his own parents.

Reseph, who had never possessed a cruel streak, had almost welcomed the cold stir of Pestilence deep inside, because it had allowed him to toy with Silth for a while. He’d relished questioning him about plans to bring Pestilence back, but the demon hadn’t known anything. No worries though, because Reseph had several more people to visit.

“Does he have a family?” Eidolon spoke through clenched teeth, his voice distorted with rage.

“His family sold him to the slaver in the first place.”

Eidolon took the child, handling him carefully despite the anger that had the doctor visibly shaking. The demon would welcome the chance to get in just one punch if he could. Reseph might let him someday.

“We’ll take care of him.” Eidolon gestured toward the emergency department’s Harrowgate. “Now get out.”

Gladly. Reseph got his unwelcome ass out of there and gated himself to Sheoul, where his next self-appointed mission was waiting. He’d gotten as close as he could get to his target without going in on foot—a lot of demons restricted the use of Harrowgates near their homes. No one wanted a surprise attack.

“Conquest, out.”

The tattoo on his arm writhed, turning to smoke before materializing as a white stallion next to him. Reseph didn’t waste time in leaping onto the horse and riding across the surrounding rocky plains. Smoke rose up from the ground, and a variety of creatures skittered out of the way of the warhorse’s hooves as Conquest galloped along a familiar trail deep in the exclusive Fangorg region.

Soon, a massive black mansion rose ominously out of the craggy side of a hill, the knotted trees surrounding it adding an extra layer of security. Those trees were carniverous, their sap running with acid that dissolved the flesh of anyone careless enough to touch the leaves or bark. The vines that crawled—literally—up the stone walls were just as dangerous, and remnants of their unlucky victims lay scattered on the ground, airy husks that blew around Conquest’s hooves as Reseph pulled the stallion to a halt at the entrance. He got a kick out of Pestilence’s frantic stirrings—this time, the demon wasn’t eager to kill.

This time, the target meant something to Pestilence.

Aw, Pestilence actually cared about someone. Good. This was going to make revenge so much sweeter.

Reseph dismounted, fed Conquest a sugar cube, and patted him on the neck. “Pestilence didn’t give you these, did he? I owe you a year’s worth.” Conquest pawed the ground, sensing Reseph’s mounting anger. Time to play. “To me.”

Conquest dissolved into a wisp of smoke and slid under Reseph’s gauntlet to settle on his arm. With the horse firmly in place, Reseph stalked into the residence. The guards didn’t stop him, although they stumbled all over themselves in confused chaos. Pestilence was supposed to be dead.

In a few minutes, the guards were going to wish their idol was dead.

The halls, decorated in the owner’s own paintings and sketches, were quiet, but ahead, in the gym-sized room, the sounds of both misery and pleasure grew louder with every step.

Reseph shoved open the massive double doors and walked into a den of lust. Pestilence had played here often, and Reseph’s mouth stung with bile. The whipping post had been a favorite, and so had the St. Andrew’s cross, where he’d cuffed his sexual partners and used a variety of the sexual and torture toys hanging from every inch of wall space.

Some of his partners had been willing to let him do what he wanted… even if it meant their deaths. But beyond the blood-filled pool in which a dozen people were currently involved in an orgy, unwilling victims languished in cages. They could be purchased for use, but Pestilence had gotten them for free.

Yes, you should be terrified. But also honored that I chose you for my pleasure today. There are those who beg to feel pain and pleasure at my hands and at the tip of my cock. So scream, cry, plead for your life. But know that many of these people will look on in jealousy. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">