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Logan glanced up at the child now held by Kraghten in one of the upper decks. His pale face stared out of the darkness—a beacon of uncertainty, the eyes unfocused. Logan feared he’d seen too much already and that his mind was damaged beyond repair. Was he to be another Kira?
“Are you fucking crazy?”
The harsh voice sounded so close to his ear that Logan tensed. He turned and gazed into the hard, unyielding face of his oldest brother, Zane. The hellhound stood inches from him, his tall, powerful body clothed in the requisite leather they all preferred. His features were similar enough to Logan’s that you could tell they were brothers, but Zane had a few inches on Logan, a few more pounds, and as the oldest of Santos’s sons, a hell of a lot more souls dragged to Hell to his credit. He was hard and unforgiving, but fair and loyal to a fault.
“I’ve been called worse.” Logan cracked a smile, though it faded quickly when Zane stepped closer and growled.
“What the hell are you thinking? Santos will kill you.” Like their father’s, Zane’s head was shaved, with an intricate pattern of tattoos covering most of his skull. The veins along Zane’s neck corded and stood out in stark relief as he pushed into Logan. “All of this for a fucking kid? A human? Are you kidding me?”
Logan’s eyes softened for a moment. As the oldest of his four brothers, Zane had looked out for him from the get-go. From the moment he’d arrived in this foreign, dark, and brutal place, Zane had had his back. Even when he’d defied their father all those years ago and brought Kira out of the darkness back into the human realm, Zane had defended him.
It was only because of Zane that Logan had finally been freed from the pit. He would always be grateful to his older brother, but he knew that Zane would never understand. How could he? The blood that ran through Logan’s veins was different from his brothers. The light was as much a part of him as the darkness, and he’d always been conflicted. He’d always been looking for something to hold him together. Hell, it was the reason he’d joined the League of Guardians in the first place.
But now he had Kira. She was the glue that kept him together—sane—and he would do whatever it took to get back to her. He just couldn’t sacrifice an innocent to do it.
Logan’s gaze moved upward once more until he settled on the young, pale, face that stared out into the madness.
“Logan, are you listening to me? It’s a fucking kid. Why are you doing this?” Sweat beaded Zane’s forehead. “Father will pulverize you and then you’ll end up in the pit, and this time there’s nothing I’ll be able to do to get your ass out of there.” Zane’s voice was hoarse. “Nothing. He’s been looking for an excuse to send you back ever since you got out,” he said with a frown, “which wasn’t all that long ago. How in the hell did you get your ass involved in something bad enough to warrant Lilith’s interest?”
Logan clasped Zane’s forearm. “I could use a good man in my corner.”
Zane stared at him long and hard, his strong features twisted in anguish. “Did you not hear anything I just said?”
Logan shrugged. “None of it matters.”
Zane growled. “How can you say that?”
How could he make his brother understand? The crowd was louder, the atmosphere angrier. Logan ran his hand through the tangled hair at his nape, a wince crossing his features as he did so. He was still sore from the punishment doled out by Lilith earlier. His gaze traveled upward. The viewing chambers were full. It wouldn’t be long.
Movement along the side of the cage caught his eye and Zane turned and looked up as well. They both watched as their father, Overlord Santos, walked out of his private room and stood along the catwalk that led to the cage. He flexed his muscles and squared his shoulders, as a cacophony of cheers rose to greet him.
Even from where they stood Santos’s eyes burned blood red, and when he smiled, his razor-sharp teeth glistened. At his side stood a shrouded figure, a small man they all knew—Merlin. In the human realm he’d been a sorcerer with unparalleled magick at his fingertips, but down here? He’d tapped into the darkness that clung to everything and he survived by doling out favors to those in power. Men like Santos.
“You’re going to need more than just a good man in your corner, brother,” Zane murmured. He reached into his pocket and grabbed a cell phone. He spoke quickly and then pocketed it, turning to Logan, his gaze fierce. “Let’s go.”
Logan turned without another word and followed his brother
up into the darkness that led to their private room. He had maybe ten minutes to prepare before he met his father in battle. Ten minutes in which to figure out how he was going to defeat Santos and get a safe pass out of District Three.
This time, forever.
AT THE EDGE of the arena, there where the darkness met the heat of the fire from below, a man stood, his body shielded from most of the crowd. He was tall, well built—his muscular arms covered in leather, his jean-clad legs encased in heavy boots. His blue-black hair was closely cropped, leaving his handsome face accessible to all. A strong chin, chiseled cheekbones, and wide forehead suggested noble lineage, but the eyes were what gave him away. That and the dragon tattoo that adorned his neck.
Eerie and incandescent, his eyes were pale and swirled with a strange silver color when he was angry. Or amused. Most of the time—like now—they were hidden behind a pair of silver aviators.
Samael’s gaze wandered the chamber, his body thrumming with energy. As the demon Lord of Chaos, this was the kind of food he craved. The kind of food he thrived on. As it was, there was lots to eat down here. He took a long drink from the flask he’d brought along, his gaze taking everything in as he leaned his shoulder against the hard stone wall.
Bob, his head bartender for Club Doom—a club located in District One and owned by Samael—stood several feet away with no idea that his boss was nearby. Samael’s gaze narrowed. Bob was supposed to be on duty, but no doubt his well-known gambling addiction held more sway than did the fear of reprisal.
Samael’s even white teeth flashed in the gloom. He’d deal with Bob later. At the moment his concern was the hellhound. Winters had gotten his ass into one hell of a mess. What the hell had he been thinking, challenging his father to the cage? Santos was one of the fiercest overlords in the underworld. His bloodthirsty persona was legendary.
It would take a fucking miracle for someone as young as Logan to defeat him.
Samael moved through the crowd of various otherworld creatures, inhaling the decadence—sex and drugs most prevalent. To his left a large snakelike demon screwed a human female. Propped on a table, legs spread with the demon thrusting between her thighs, she was a pathetic creature. Long, stringy, blonde hair fell about her face and she whimpered as Samael passed by, her dark eyes beseeching.
“Help me,” she whispered.
The scent of heroin and cocaine still clung to her, and Samael stopped for a second. His gaze penetrated her eyes, digging deeper until he saw her soul. Until he saw her sins. She’d offered up her own sister to a deranged boyfriend who’d raped and killed the young girl. The first of several young victims.
