Dark Desires After Dusk (Immortals After Dark #6)(3)

With his fangs sharpened in aggression, Rydstrom dismounted. He drew his sword as he strode toward Cadeon, raised it—and seemed surprised when Cadeon refused to back up.

But his brother didn’t understand; Cadeon should’ve died here. He had nothing to lose.

Cadeon didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, when the sword sliced down. A flicker of interest arose in Rydstrom’s eyes as he beheaded the assassin behind Cadeon.

“Do you want to avenge the deaths of these people, brother?”

Rage filled Cadeon’s chest at the idea, determination welling inside him. He grated, “Yes. I want to kill Omort.”

“How do you expect to do that without training?”

Cadeon’s peaceful existence had left him ill-prepared for war. “If you train me, I won’t stop until I have his head,” he vowed. “And once I do, I’ll pluck your crown from it and return it to you.”

After a lengthy silence, Rydstrom said, “A life driven by revenge is better than a life driven by nothing.” He turned for his horse, saying over his shoulder, “We camp in the forest this eve. Tend to your dead, then find me there.”

Cadeon would, because he wanted to destroy Omort. But he also wanted to atone for his failure.

Because of his decision to turn his back on his blood kin, Omort controlled Rothkalina—and Cadeon’s foster family was dead.

Revenge and atonement. Cadeon couldn’t do one without the other.

Yet as Rydstrom mounted his stallion, his soldiers gazed at Cadeon with an expression of hatred, tinged with disgust. They clearly thought Cadeon should die.

I had best get used to that look, he thought. Even at his young age, he knew he’d be seeing it for the rest of his life.

Or until I get that crown back . . . .





1





New Orleans

Present day

Stupid . . . safety lock,” Holly Ashwin muttered as she fiddled with the nozzle of the pepper spray in her bag.

With her free hand, she pushed up her glasses, casting another nervous glance over her shoulder. She’d thought she heard footsteps behind her in the night. Was she being followed—or paranoid?

For months, she’d had the sense that someone was watching her. Yet strangely it hadn’t bothered her before. She couldn’t explain it, but there had been an almost soothing quality to the presence she’d felt.

Tonight, all that had changed.

She sensed raw menace, and wished she hadn’t made the walk from the parking lot to Gibson Hall by herself. Usually her boyfriend escorted her to class, but Tim was at a symposium presenting their latest paper—alone, because her condition made it nearly impossible for her to travel.

The manicured lawns on the way to her classroom were unusually empty. No doubt there were widespread parties tonight celebrating the full moon, which hung heavy and yellow in the black sky.

There was enough light that she could see the bushes behind her trembling. In a growing panic, she broke off the nozzle of the spray.

“Crap.” She hastily abandoned her one weapon, tempted to snag one of the pill bottles in the pocket beside it for a dose of relief. Instead, she increased her pace toward her destination, the math building, brightly lit like a beacon.

Almost there. Her heels clicked along on the sidewalk—though they never landed on a crack, even in her rush. Apparently, obsessive-compulsive disorder was panic-proof . . . .

She checked her watch. She was on time, of course, but she was late enough that her Remedial Math 101 students would be in the classroom already.

A few yards left. Almost to safety . . . .

Once she’d made it up the six stone steps to the doors, she exhaled in relief. Inside, the hall was ablaze with fluorescent light. Made it.

Her class was in the second room on the right and would be filled with thirty-three very large and very loyal Tulane football players. Anyone thinking to frighten her would soon learn how a tackle dummy felt at season’s end.

Holly’s colleagues believed she’d drawn the short straw to have to teach Digits for Idjits, as some of the instructors called it. But Holly had actually volunteered for jock duty.

If she was to teach math, then why not instruct the ones who had exponentially more to learn?

And in truth, they were on their best behavior ninety-nine percent of the time. Though each Tuesday and Thursday night, some of the players always got there early to scribble sprawling messages for her on the blackboard. A fellow instructor had related to Holly that “the boys”—who were all of five or six years younger than she was—enjoyed watching her erase things in “those skirts.”

Holly wore old-fashioned pencil skirts with hemlines past her knees. Would she never catch a break?

She wondered what she’d be erasing tonight. Some of the past offerings included “Got it bad, sooo bad, I’m hot for teacher,” “I’ve been a naughty boy, Ms. Ashwin,” and “Professor + Ginger = Holly Ashwin.” They’d crossed the l’s to make them t’s.

So far she didn’t think any of them had noticed her need to erase every millimeter of writing on the board, or to arrange the chalk in the tray into perfect trios, even breaking a stick to achieve a multiple of three . . . .

Outside the door to her room, she took a calming breath and smoothed her tight chignon. After ascertaining that the clasp of her strand of pearls was directly in the center of the back of her neck, she tugged each sleeve of her twinset sweater until the ends perfectly hit her wrist-bones. She checked the backs of her earrings, then opened the door.