A Forbidden Passion: A Gods and Demons Novel

PROLOGUE

Is this the right guy? A male voice asked with an easily detectable southern drawl.

Yeah, that’s him. Gods, he looks awful. What did you do to him? Another male spoke. His voice was similar to the first in tone, but the twang wasn’t as obvious.

"What does the boss want us to do with him?" The first male spoke again, and the prisoner sensed a hint of sarcasm in his voice when referring to his boss as if his chief was someone he did not respect or have a good relationship with. This guy gave off the impression that he was an arrogant jerk.

Just get him cleaned up. There was no reason to do this to him. It looks like a horde of buzzards got to him. The second voice was slightly raspy and much more authoritative than the jerk’s. He’s probably lost too much blood. He’s going to have to feed. Maybe we can find some female who would let him sink his fangs in her. There was a titter of laughter. Fuckers.

These guys knew he was a Vampire? That was interesting. Immortals? He had been captured by others just like him? The prisoner smiled despite the thick cloth stuffed in his mouth. That would mean these bastards were working for his enemy and they were, unfortunately for the prisoner, pretty damn smart. The prisoner appreciated intelligence though where he could find it, even under the worse predicaments, like being tied up and immobilized. Not to mention slowly starving from blood loss.

Vampires suck. Get it? They suck. Damn it, I slay myself.

The prisoner was really beginning to hate this guy. What he would do if he could get Death’s cold, hard grip on this fucking asshole’s heart.

B, shut up. A third voice joined the other two. This speaker’s voice was tranquil and velvety, but still held a hint of southern intonation. The warmth of the sound appealed to the prisoner and normally his razor-sharp fangs would elongate and join the party, but he was so pathetically weak. He didn’t remember ever being this defenseless. Probably because this was the first time he had ever been in real danger. Under normal circumstances, he was the danger. If his kidnappers were immortals, they would have to be either Demons or Werewolves. He hated Demons with a passion. Out of the immortal factions out there, Demons disgusted the prisoner the most.

Physically, Demons blended in with mortals easily. They were usually on the taller side and exquisitely handsome, but their bodies didn’t give away any trace of being different. They didn’t have to hide from the sun, drink blood or cage an inner beast on the full moon. They simply co-existed with mortals until they were driven to extreme anger, lust or pain and then the Demon within would emerge, deadly, venomous and repugnant. Demons were nasty when they hunted and killed their prey. They would tear flesh from bone, often relishing in the pain they forced their prey to endure. They would drip their poisonous saliva onto their victims, watching with glee as their bones would burn and disintegrate to ash. Gods, the prisoner hoped these kidnappers were not Demons. But he had a disturbing feeling they were.

Get him to Dion and lock him in one of the dungeons there. It was the second male again with the hoarse voice, the obvious leader.

The prisoner was roughly brought to his feet. He had a mask of some thick canvas on his face and couldn’t see anything but pitch blackness. His hands were tied tightly behind his back by a coarse rope and even though he struggled through the bonds, he wasn’t getting any slack. He tried to dematerialize, but he couldn’t. Damn it. He was severely claustrophobic and the sack over his head was giving him serious anxiety. He was on the verge of having a panic attack. He had to breathe, but right now air was evading him. He was definitely drowning and he could only hold his head above the water for so long before he would get sucked under.

The prisoner searched his memories to distract himself from the present situation and tried to remember how he even got into this abnormal, fucked-up predicament. He vaguely remembered walking down an alley behind a local bar he often frequented in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. The bar had the best and wealthiest patrons. The client list was made up mostly of drug cartel and members of the Spanish and Bulgaria Mafia. Their blood was always rich in alcohol, freebased cocaine and other street candy that kept Death very happy for days. Whenever he showed up, no one messed with him. There was an unspoken understanding that he was different and he kept their secrets as long as they kept his.

He remembered his dark skin tingling with the familiar need to feed. He had walked into the dim bar and he had felt instant overwhelming heat even though the ceiling fans over the oval tables were working overtime. He had greeted a few familiar faces with a nod and then strode to the bar and ordered a Tequila and Lime from the barmaid who had flashed him a sensual smile and pulled her snug shirt down lower so that he could get a good look at some seriously sexy cleavage. She whispered hotly to him in Spanish, Quieres que me llevara a la cama? Want to take me to bed?

He shook his head, but lasciviously admired her briefly. She wasn’t what he needed that night. He was looking for something really special.

This was when the prisoner’s thoughts became muddled and he lost track of time and place. He recalled seeing two very good looking men walk into the bar and his instincts had flared. They weren’t regulars. They weren’t human. He had known by their scent and their size. They had seen him and occupied seats near him at the bar, casting glances at him every few minutes while talking intimately between themselves. They had even bought him a shot of straight Tequila which he had accepted with some trepidation. But turning down free Tequila was a crime in the prisoner’s book, so he had taken the shot. In addition, his eyes kept being drawn to the man with blue hair and a ridiculous amount of body art. He was definitely special.

The next thing he could recall was feeling woozy and leaving the bar a bit inebriated, which hardly ever happened to him. The prisoner was notorious for being a control freak and drinking too much alcohol was the fastest route to the land of Who Am I and Who Did I Just Drink and Screw? Control was a necessity, especially in his line of business. Turning a corner he had seen the man with the tattoos and blue hair under a muted street light. Driven by lust and hunger, the prisoner had started towards him only to be doused by some hot liquid to the face that had prevented him from dematerializing or seeing very well with his eyes. He had been critically incapacitated.

Now presently he struggled in his captors’ grasps, but they were inhumanely strong and they had claws that kept digging into his dark, branded flesh. He wanted to scream, but there was a gag in his mouth and he was struggling to draw in air. Finally, he was tossed into a room of some kind and the canvas was removed from his head. His eyes grew large as he took in the faces of his three captors. A tall, blond green monster removed the gag from his mouth. The prisoner vomited, spitting out blood and saliva from his mouth onto the clammy, concrete floor. He then raised his head and his unfocused eyes fell upon a fourth being that seemed to be illuminated in some light. But his eyes were ineffectual and he wasn’t certain of what he was seeing.

If he didn’t know better he would think that he was looking straight at the so-called King of the Gods. Well fuck-a-luck-a-ding-dong. Son of a bitch. The prisoner began to laugh hysterically like a crazy lunatic. He laughed and laughed the sound echoing disturbingly in the small cell, which was no doubt going to be the death of him.

Shut him up. The illuminated being ordered the blond monster. The green giant approached the prisoner menacingly with razor-sharp fangs bared.

Fuck. You. The prisoner said right before his world faded to black.

1

Screams of pain and horror vibrated and powerfully shook the stone walls surrounding Makaria. The shrill shrieks would have been deafening to anyone else, but for the beautiful and often inconspicuous Spirit of Death being comfortable with screaming, screeching, and overall disturbing behavior was a requirement of her job. Makaria reveled in the role she played in bringing judgment to those who failed to pay appropriate worship to her beloved father Hades, dreaded God of the Underworld.

For centuries Makaria led souls, typically unwillingly, into the dark, fiery pit of Hell to live out their eternal reward. If a soul had lived a mortal lifestyle disrespecting the Gods and Goddesses, after death, the soul was treated like an A List celebrity in Hell. The soul would receive preferential, red carpet treatment, but in Hell, that meant unspeakable, unimaginable torture. And the Oscar goes to—the asshole who didn’t know Hades is the true King of the Gods. Applause.

At present, Makaria was escorting one said asshole, who was putting up quite a struggle, through the Gates of Hell into Tartarus. She sighed in gratification. All around her was evidence of the misery and agony Hades and Hecate, Goddess of Witchcraft and Magic, bestowed upon their victims. Black, shadowy, evil spirits with long, black tongues spit at and taunted the male she was dragging along with her. He cowered and wailed almost clinging to Makaria for comfort as he limped along beside her.

Makaria was allegedly the more merciful of the minions whose job it was to transfer souls to Hell. In fact, prior to Thanatos’ disappearance about a week ago, she had been more responsible for taking souls to the Isles of the Blest than to Tartarus. Recently she was transporting Demon soul after Demon soul to Tartarus. Hades was desperate to locate Thanatos and was dispatching Zeus’ Demon soldiers like they were going out of fashion. Of course this was just fine and dandy by Makaria’s standards. Demons were such foul thugs.

Thinking about Thanatos and how he had gone unexpectedly missing made Makaria irate. Makaria pulled the steel chain wrapped around the male’s neck tighter and forced him to walk faster. Thanatos was Death. He was considered merciless, heartless and, thus, was despised by all mortals. What mortal did not fear death knocking at his door? What mortal did not cower and cringe when Death reared his lethal head? Death’s motto was one could run, one could hide, but he would always find his victim. Death certainly had a plethora of enemies. Any number of beings could be responsible for his vanishing.

Makaria forced herself to focus on her present task. She had minor sympathy for what would soon befall this male in Tartarus, but really his deplorable blubbering and wailing in her ear was starting to test her so-called sympathetic nature. She wanted to take her long fingernails and scratch his eyes out then force him to eat his own eyes. Her dear father Hades would love her for that particular twist and maybe even grant her some vacation time. This male had lived his pathetic life proclaiming allegiance to Zeus alone and had been a part of Zeus’ elite army of Demon warriors. This male was her enemy.

Shut up. Makaria finally screamed at the male hissing at him and penetrating him with an evil glare. Her sapphire blue eyes gleamed bright in the gloom of the passageway.

Please, please. He begged. I don’t deserve this. Help me.

Help him? He had aided the forces against Hades and he desired her help? Never. She could feel some compassion for what would happen to the male when he encountered Hades or wicked Hecate in Tartarus, but she would never help a corrupt soul escape his fate. Most especially any man who had lived to end servitude towards her father and allied with Zeus, her sorry-ass uncle.

Centuries ago, sometime after the Titanomachy, a divine war between the Titans and Olympians, Zeus and Hades had an argument. It was a typical, ‘I’m-a-stronger-God-than-you-are’