Home > Intensity (Nick Chronicles #8)(6)

Intensity (Nick Chronicles #8)(6)
Author: Sherrilyn Kenyon

And having babies.

Nick swallowed hard. “I thought that was the yellow.”

“No, the yellow is where you’ve changed it with the decisions you’ve made. And as you can see, it didn’t really alter anything. That green is someone else. Someone who shouldn’t have the ability to change anything in your life. And, kid, they’re shifting your future even as we speak.”

CHAPTER 2

Cyprian froze as a strange sensation went up his spine.

“Is something amiss, my lord?”

He cut a stinging glare to his obsequious minion. With greasy brown hair, and pock-marked skin, the slug demon was repugnant enough. That nasal tone only grated his nerves all the more. To the point, it was all he could do not to rip its head off and feast upon its organs. “Where’s my mother?”

“In her war room.”

He snorted at the pun given the fact that his mother was Laguerre … an ancient battle-goddess who didn’t so much as invent the art of war as she’d perfected it.

It was what she lived for. Blood. Mayhem. Utter and extreme violence. Those were her happy, go-to places.

Like him.

Reversing his course, Cyprian headed for the paneled study that held some of the deadliest artifacts in the known universe. Ancient artifacts that currently included his mother and her ex-husband, Grim.

Cyprian hesitated in the shadows of the doorway as the two of them poured over some matter with great intent. They were ever plotting against someone—many times for no other reason than they’d been given the wrong order at the local coffee shop.

Since his mother was a goddess, she didn’t appear more than a few years older than his teenaged body. But her beautiful, young looks were definitely deceiving.

As were Grim’s.

Much like Cyprian’s mother’s long languid movements that belied her quicksilver lethality. She’d deceived many fools to their graves with her slowness. They never realized just how swift she was to anger or stab.

Until it was too late.

Her dark hair fell to her waist in thick waves. It was a stark contrast to Grim’s lighter shade and stocky, muscled body. Together, the two of them had once led armies over the ancient world, destroying everything and everyone they came into contact with.

Good times that.

And why not? They were ancient gods of War and Death—the original riders who’d brought those concepts to the world of man and demon. Turmoil and chaos were what they lived for and what they both sought with every breath they drew forth into their not-so-human bodies.

Some thought that only Death could defeat War.

But Cyprian would take odds on his mother winning any fight between the two of them. She was vicious that way. Not to mention, she cheated.

They paused mid conversation to stare at him.

“Is something wrong?” his mother asked, making no attempt to hide her annoyance over Cyprian’s interruption. Which made sense, given that she could barely stand her son and had never glossed over that fact for anyone’s benefit.

Especially not Cyprian’s. Indeed, she’d gone out of her way to toughen him up with insults and degradations to ensure that his skin was thicker than any tank brigade on the planet. At the rate she’d set fire to his more tender feelings, he should have bought stock in flame retardant Kevlar.

“Do you not feel it, Mother?”

Laguerre hesitated before she punched at Grim. “He’s right. We’ve been discovered.”

Rubbing his arm where a bruise was no doubt forming from her blow, Grim shook his head. “Not possible. Besides, look again. It’s just another nosy zeitjäger who’s uncovered our most recent actions. Ignore him and he’ll go away. Or we’ll kill him if he pursues it. Either way, it’s of no consequence to us. I wouldn’t spend three seconds worrying over it.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Cyprian’s gut remained tight with his uncertainty. “What if this younger Ambrose has found another way back to challenge us?”

“So what if he has?” His mother gave him a tolerant, yet irritated smirk. “It would be centuries before your birth. He has no memory of you or his precious wife as neither of you has been born yet. And in our time he died in battle only minutes after he learned of your existence. So even if Ambrose returns here, there’s nothing to warn Nick about the future he’s trying to avoid—we’ve shielded it too carefully. None of them have a clear vision of what we have in store for them. Our magick is too strong. Not even his little Nekoda remembers it clearly, thanks to our allies. Everything is working as it needs to. Therefore, we don’t have to fear his interference. He knows nothing of his real destiny or any of those that are truly important. Trust in me.”

She said that, but the Ambrose Malachai had already screwed things up by coming to the past so unexpectedly and had forced them to venture here in order to repair the changes he’d wrought that had caused a fracture in their plans.

Altered the world where Cyprian had ruled as the grand demon overlord and fulfilled the Malachai prophecy that his father had forsaken. He couldn’t allow his father to screw things up again. This was what he’d been bred for and it was what he wanted.

All he wanted.

He jerked his chin at the red sfora on the desk near his mother’s hand. It’d been taken from the Atlantean god, Acheron, when they’d defeated him in the guise of Ambrose. With that orb, they had access to all destinies, as Acheron had been born the final fate of everything. “Have you looked at it lately?”

“At what?”

“To make sure everything is fine?”

She leaned back in the chair with a peeved glare. “You doubt me?”

Of course he did. The only thing he didn’t doubt was the sensation in his gut. That was irrefutable.

She was not.

More than that, she was expendable.

So he decided to call her bluff. “Well, if you’re so sure, can we not go home? Why are we still in this godforsaken time period if all is right in the universe, as you say? Surely, we’ve spent enough time here?”

The light in her eyes went out as the smile faded. “Don’t get cheeky with me, boy. I am your mother.”

To whom he owed nothing as her maternal instincts amounted to the size of the head of a tiny pin.

Which made the Malachai in him rear up at her confrontation. “You need to remember who serves whom … Mother. You may have given me life, but I allow you to live. And to serve at my leisure.” He cut a glare to Grim. “Both of you. Therefore, I suggest you do as you’re told and remember that though I might be in the skin of a teenager …” He exploded into his real demonic body, complete with horns and wings. “It’s only an illusion. I am the Malachai. Fully formed and unlike my worthless father, fully aware of who and what I am, and of all my abilities. And more than capable of destroying you both, even with your powers combined. Do not push me. Do not cross me. You are both my servants and nothing more.”

Never one to be intimidated, his mother rose to her feet to glare at him while her breath came in sharp, brittle gasps. “And you’d best damn remember that even with all your magnificent abilities as you proclaim, a Malachai cannot travel through time without assistance.” She raked a less than impressed stare over his body. “Even one who’s fully formed. You have no other allies who will work with you by choice. Nor do you know anything more than your father’s memories as they were.” She glanced to Grim then sneered at Cyprian. “Like it or not, boy, you need us. So don’t threaten me again, unless it’s your wish to remain here and never reach the future you want to return to.”

In that moment, it took everything he had not to choke her with his powers. To rip out her cold heart and feed it to the worthless snipe beside her.

But sadly, she was right. Every bit of it. For now, he needed her, whether he liked it or not. And he definitely didn’t like this bitter taste of gall in his mouth.

His breathing labored, he turned on a hostile heel and stalked from the room. Yet with every click of his combat boot heels, he plotted their deaths in his mind.

And his father’s.

“Your day is coming, Ambrose. The darkness dawns and I intend to ram it straight down your throat.”

   
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