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Well, well. This particular change earned his whole-hearted approval.
From experience, he knew three days had passed since his death. And yet, Viola’s sweet perfume hadn’t faded in the slightest, roses eclipsing the putrid stench of past tortures. He breathed deeply, because he must. The drugging fragrance fogged his head, kindling little fires in his blood, somehow calming and inciting him to violence all at once.
Where was she now?
Brochan had paid good money for the mystical tattoo etched into his forearm. A blood link forbidden to Sent Ones. The connection kept him apprised of Viola’s emotional state and location. As she relocated, the map changed, allowing him to flash straight to her.
She had no idea he tracked her this way or that he remained aware of her emotions. No one did. It was his deepest shame. Oh, how far he had fallen. How much farther would he fall?
He studied the lines and dots staining his flesh. Ah. Currently, his goddess inhabited the mortal realm. Specifically, a place called Oklahoma. She’d visited the area before. A land where wolf packs easily blended with society.
What should Brochan do with her now that other Forsaken suspected she owned a key to Nevaeh?
He must craft a plan before their next interaction. He should also visit his brother’s keepers.
Hands fisted, he flashed to the Downfall, where McCadden worked. The immortal nightclub was housed in a building with four floors, the club itself on the bottom, with offices and living quarters up above. Located in the third level of the skies, it was easily accessible by anyone with wings or an ability to flash or teleport.
Two burly bouncers—both Sent Ones—stood guard at the red double doors in front.
“I will speak with Thane, Bjorn or Xerxes.” Brochan’s gravelly voice turned the command into a threat.
The pair knew him by sight and no longer reacted to his less-than-stellar appearance. Though they said nothing aloud and remained in place, Xerxes arrived in the doorway soon after. All Sent Ones wielded the ability to communicate telepathically. A fellowship Brochan had lost when he fell, his connection to his fellow warriors severed. Another reason to despise Viola.
The white-haired, scarred Xerxes stood as tall as Brochan and just as strong. Eyes the color of radioactive blood gleamed with a surprising amount of concern. He wore a white robe, golden wings arching over broad shoulders. Those wings revealed his rank: an Elite 7. The fiercest and most unrelenting of soldiers.
Despite Brochan’s fall from grace, he considered Xerxes an ally. “What’s happened?”
“There are Forsaken determined to capture McCadden and use him against me. Be ready.”
“Always.” Xerxes waved him inside. Trimmed nails tipped his fingers rather than repulsive claws. One of a thousand differences between them. “Come in and speak with your brother. He’s worried about you.”
“I will come inside. I will not speak with McCadden.” Until Brochan found a way into Nevaeh or handled Viola once and for all, he had nothing of value to offer the boy—man—he’d raised.
“Tell me why,” Xerxes insisted.
“No.” Brochan wasted no more time, flashing to the attic apartment he kept at the Downfall. The door remained closed and locked, no one able to witness his entrances or exits. He showered and changed into clean leathers but left his feet bare. As usual. Sharp demon claws tipped his toes, as well. The sight made his jaw clench.
After gathering an array of weapons, he returned to the barren wasteland he’d claimed as his personal territory. A world without water, foliage, or life he’d discovered a year ago. He resided in the realm’s only remaining structure: a dusty, musty palace topping a steep hill. The king and queen’s suite, specifically. Though Brochan conducted all business in the throne room. High ceilings allowed for easy flight.
Despite frequent visits, he’d left the palace in its abandoned state. A black cloth draped the throne. Material covered most of the portraits on the walls, as well. The visible images displayed past monarchs. Warlocks and witches. A lone skeleton leaned against the bottom of the throne as if someone had curled up in a favorite spot after doing their best to preserve the artifacts of a dead civilization.
As Brochan strode to the table he’d pushed to the center of the chamber, broken glass shards sliced his heels. The stinging injuries proved minimal, yet he left a trail of blood in his wake. Oh, well. This wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Books and ancient scrolls littered the tabletop, most depicting a tale about Viola. In his quest for vengeance, he’d managed to cobble together bits and pieces of her past.
The earliest known sighting? An obscure reference to a “beautiful, golden-haired goddess of the Afterlife, who fed on souls.” Origins unknown, said to be cold, cruel and heartless. The next mention told of a crime committed against the goddess Dione, first wife of Zeus. Both former power players among the Greeks. Reports suggested this golden-haired beauty slaughtered Dione’s servants for entertainment.
