RedFire
Read on for a special preview of the next Gods of Midnight novel by Deidre Knight,
RED KISS
Coming from Signet Eclipse in June 2008
It had been a bumpy ride; that was the best River could say for the timeless languishing he’d done ever since the day he’d been tossed into the Wilmington River, the day he’d been tossed into the Wilmington River, cast there by their most vile and ancient enemy, Elblas Djiannas. He was the Persian Djinn who possessed one of the darkest souls ever encountered by River and his fellow Spartan immortals. This recent maneuver was just one of countless dark deeds, typical of his demonic handiwork.
At the time of the battle, River had been in dagger form, serving his Spartan master, Ajax Petrakos. They had a unique fighting relationship: River was capable of shape-shifting into a weapon in Ajax’s hand, and a strange symbiosis existed between the two fighters. For that particular battle in Savannah’s Bonaventure Cemetery, River had been transformed for too long—returning to human form had already proven impossible, even without any additional challenges.
For that demon centaur, it had been nothing to fling River into the fast flowing waters near where they fought that day. Just one less immortal soldier with which the entity had to deal. And Elblas had undoubtedly guessed the truth, too, which was that River was incapable of shape-shifting once submerged, at least not without drowning in the process. Worse than that, the longer he remained unreturned to human form, the more impossible a reversal would become.
Since that day, eternity had become even more bur densome for the immortal warrior. He remained shack led inside the same thin wedge of a dagger, a silver blade engraved with the intricate, masculine wings that he sometimes bore upon his back. Hawk’s wings, the glorious other half of his immortal nature, which afforded him flight and the independence his soul craved. Or at least they had. Now he could only yearn for such past freedoms, beg for his silver-black wings to once again grace his human form, his bare shoulders and strong back.
It was difficult to say precisely how long River had been bound in his prison, this dagger form he’d chosen to assume. The gift of being a shape-shifting warrior—the ability to assume whatever weapon the battle required—was both his blessing and his curse, granted to him by the war god, Ares himself, more than two thousand years earlier. Time became murky enough when you lived forever, but when you were trapped in inanimate form, the minutes bled together, a slow build toward insanity. Especially if you were locked in the form of an object whose main purpose was violence.
He was growing mad with his cravings for terror and bloodshed, just like the dagger he’d become. His darkest nature had become relentless, demanding an outlet—any release whatsoever—while day after day no reprieve could be found.
If he ever did manage to find freedom again—and how that would occur, he no longer knew—one fact was certain: There would be blood spilled. Probably the blood of an unsuspecting innocent, given his current descent into near insanity. If only he could keep the sex-lust out of the event this time, maybe then, somehow, it wouldn’t be as horrific as his imagination had begun to promise.
Inside his prison, River’s very soul shook with need; how was it going to be possible for whoever happened to free him, that poor human innocent, to escape the punishment of his darkest nature? Perhaps he was no better than Elblas after all, he decided with yet another failed attempt to tamp down his bloodlust, which was a losing proposition.
And as if his own true nature weren’t enough, lately others had begun whispering in his ear. All of them males, others who were trapped in voids of their own, that in between place that the restless dead sometimes occupied, a realm between Hades and Earth. One voice in particular, the one with the American accent, stayed persistent and demanding, for some reason eager that River break free of his captivity. These others seemed perfectly content for him to stagnate in the void right along with them, but not American, as he’d started call ing the nameless, faceless man. It seemed that was what the poor fellow wanted to be called, although his distant voice was so difficult to hear, River couldn’t be certain.
The ghostly male constantly pressed River toward es cape, whipping his trapped soul into a frenzy even as he apologized for doing so, explaining that he was depend ing upon River. For what, he never said, although clearly there was something American wanted from him. Still, the man did one hell of a job when it came to inciting a riot inside River’s mind and spirit. Even now, he felt the burning escalation begin all over again.
With a mental curse, he shook off this latest swarm of impulses and tried to understand where he’d found himself. For weeks nothing had changed, not after he’d been passed from human hand to human hand. After that there had only been darkness and quiet.
He surveyed the clues about him at the present mo ment. He could taste the steel of his own blade, felt it brushing against something soft like velvet, sensed the careful folds of paper about his weapon-body, too. Whoever had sealed him away had treated him kindly—much too kindly for a bloodletting, sex driven warrior like himself. He just hoped such gentleness wasn’t present when, gods willing, he burst free at last.
That was the very best for which he could hope. The worst? The worst was beyond imagining, a horrific min gling of murder and sex that he refused to contemplate. Still, he felt that burn grow in his steely core, day after numberless day, his sinister urges growing less controllable the longer he remained trapped.
Someone, he begged within his soul, please, someone find a way to free me. But if you value your life, your innocent body, don’t stick around once the deed is done.
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