Prologue
Crone gazed through heavy lidded eyes at his master as he sucked the meat off a chicken carcass, as if it were his last meal. From time to time, he’d toss a scrap at his beloved Irish setter and laugh while looking at Crone, who was forced to sit at the old warlock’s feet. Crone vowed from the first day of his servitude, he would kill the bastard. Yes, Morden was old, and he was powerful, but Crone was confident he would one day succeed.
“Are you hungry,” Morden asked, laughing hysterically. “You’re a Jinn, certainly you can conjure your own meal.”
Crone fisted his hands and clamped his jaw tight. The only words that would escape his mouth would no doubt get him beat, or worse; the warlock could refuse him the time to see to his brother's needs.
Morden jerked on the chain attached to the mystical silver band around Crone’s neck. “Answer me!” the warlock demanded.
“Fuck you,” Crone snarled. So much for keeping his mouth shut. He’d been at the bastard’s beck and call for three years and he’d had enough. “Do your worst.”
Morden smiled. “Oh, I intend to. You may be my best assassin, but you still lack manners. I will have your respect.”
Crone didn’t stop the laughter that bubbled to the surface. “You fat fucker. One must earn respect, and you can’t get that from torturing a man. The only thing you’ll ever earn from me is a blade shoved into your black heart.”
The warlock leaned as far forward as his fat belly would allow. “You should know that you cannot kill me, and your threats will only earn you pain.”
Crone snorted. “I’m numb to your beatings.” He’d had his flesh stripped from his body, his eyes gouged out, his chest ripped open, and his beating heart pulled from its resting place and laid before him. He’d been forced to drink a vile concoction that caused his gut to burn, and the vomiting episodes had been like swallowing fire in reverse. The worst, though, was his inability to shift. Morden’s magic choker held Crone in his human form. Unable to shift to smoke put Crone on edge. Jinns needed to shift like they needed to breathe and got pissy when they were unable. Usually they worked off their steam with a good fuck, but that had been taken away from him as well. Morden found great amusement in displaying his sexual exploits in front of Crone, who had sported a raging hard on for far too long.
That too made for a pissy Jinn.
“You might be able to bear my pain, but I will finally break you. I’ve waited for that moment since I first tricked you into becoming my assassin.”
Morden liked to take credit for Crone's predicament. However, it was the love for his brother Armand that caused his current state of affairs. The bitch genie, Cyndel had cursed his brother to live as a powerless immortal in the human realm below them. Armand built a decent life in Spain with Crone's help, but when Cyndel finally tired of Crone's many threats, she'd shut him out. He had been the only family member allowed to visit and assist Armand. When she banned Crone, he'd done something he never thought he would. Begged on his hands and knees to be allowed back into Spain. After much thought, Cyndel agreed with one condition.
Crone becomes indentured to Morden.
Crone’s past victim swept through his mind. Once his master placed the death mark on his prey, and Crone was ordered to murder, there was no stopping him. His mind may still be very much coherent, but free will was gone, and his body only obeyed Morden. After the first couple of kills, Crone learned how to mentally shut down. He’d distance himself from his prey, and with the precision of a well-oiled machine, he’d carry out his master’s wishes. It didn’t matter the age or sex of the victim. If Morden commanded the death of a woman or child, Crone must obey. There was one comfort, however; Crone held control over how he killed his victims.
The young warlocks were dealt with as swiftly and painlessly as possible. The older men... Many of them, warriors and often warlocks, wished to prove their magic was stronger; hence, a bloody battle would ensue. It was the only time Crone was allowed to use his Jinn magic, and he had gained a reputation. Crone, the son of Efrain, middle brother to Armand and Lazaro, was a force to be reckoned with. He wasn’t proud of the fact his name caused terror among so many immortals, but one thing was certain. He would gain his freedom one day, and Morden would die by his hand.
He flashed Morden a lazy gaze. “Give it your best shot.”
“I will do precisely that.” The warlock snapped his greasy fingers and several of his slaves appeared, taking away empty dishes and wiping down the table. When they’d finished, two others dragged in a struggling female. She too wore a silver collar around her neck, indicating her magic was suppressed. Most likely a witch and definitely not here of her own free will.
“I’m in the mood for some entertainment,” Morden announced, pushing his chair back and standing.
Crone stiffened but said nothing. Things never went well when the warlock was bored and a female brought in tied as this one was; it usually meant Morden would rape her and make Crone watch. He schooled his features while his insides burned with fury, and he thought of ways in which to torture the warlock once he freed himself.
Morden moved to his cushioned armchair across the room, while his slaves pushed the dining table against a wall and rolled out several furs onto the marble floor. The lights dimmed to a soft glow, and someone released Crones chains. Not a good sign.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Morden asked with a slight chuckle in his voice.
“You’re a disgusting pig. Why don’t you for once pretend you’re a decent immortal, and let the girl go.”
The warlock’s mouth twitched. “Tell you what. I am a reasonable man and to prove it, I’ll let you fight for her life.” He snapped his fingers. “Bring the girl to me.”
Crone shot a glance at the witch whose black robe was yanked from her body, leaving her nude. A pretty girl with creamy skin, full breasts, and straight black hair that fell to her rounded hips. She definitely would cause a stir among the men. Morden’s minions shoved the girl and forced her to kneel on the furs at the warlock’s feet.
“Now. Fight the Sataric and win then I’ll free the female. Fail? She dies.”
Crone cringed. The Sataric, a beast of Morden’s own making, had a human body with the head of a bull and stood seven feet tall. This battle could go on for some time. Of course, he could refuse and let the woman die. After all, she meant nothing to him, but her pleading gaze bore straight to his soul. For once, he could save a life rather than take it.
“Bring on the beast and give me my power,” Crone demanded.
Morden snapped his fingers, and a rack of weapons materialized next to where the warlock sat. “No magic, but you may chose a weapon from this rack.”
Crone snarled as he walked over and made his selection. He picked up a battle-ax with leather strips that crisscrossed a dark wood handle, giving an excellent grip. It was long enough for a good swing. He flexed his biceps and wielded the instrument, delighted with the way it moved and how the bat shape blade’s edges cut through the air.
“I’ll take this one.”
Morden nodded. “Wise choice.” He waved to his minions. “Send in the Sataric.”
Crone knelt next to the girl. “What is your name?”
“Tara,” she whispered.
“Don’t fear, Tara. I have every intention of winning.” He jumped to his feet as the beast entered through the gate. “You are an ugly fuck.” He braced himself for attack.
Seven feet of pure angry beast charged him. Crone shifted to the right, out of harm’s way. One thing was certain, these were dumb creatures and predictable. He’d fought them before and won so was confident he’d claim victory this time. All he needed to do was be patient and stay out of the way of the enormous horns. Eventually the beast would tire. Again, the Sataric lowered its head and charged, but this time Crone was too slow. A horn caught him in the side and tossed him like a rag doll. Pain shot through him, and he hit the ground and rolled, losing his weapon. Blood poured from the open wound.
“Now that just pissed me off.” He pushed to his feet as the beast turned to make another run. Crone spotted his battle-ax in the center of the room. He made a split-second decision to run for it, dropping to his knees as he slid across the floor. Scooping the ax up, he leaped to his feet seconds before the beast was on him.
He swung.
The blade made contact just above the Sataric’s knee, taking his leg clean off. The creature dropped with a blood-curdling scream. Crone needed to hurry and finish or the beast would grow another limb. Before Morden or his minions could interfere, he wielded his weapon and sent the head rolling across the floor, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.
Crone threw down his weapon, ignoring his pain and the open wound. He marched toward Morden and Tara. “I beat your piece of shit pet, now let her go.”
Morden rose. “That was too fast.”
“Really? You should have picked a more fitting challenge. Face it, I’m the best fucking assassin you’ve ever had.”
“Today you will learn your place.” Morden grabbed Tara’s hair and jerked her to her feet, but she showed no pain or fear. Her nakedness obviously didn’t bother her, as she stood tall ready to accept whatever fate handed her. “I’ll free the witch.” He produced a dagger and before Crone could react, he planted it deep in her chest.
“You son of a bitch!” Crone shouted and dropped next to Tara, whose blood now stained the fur.
“I freed her of her miserable existence. She should be thankful to you for that.” Morden and his slaves vanished, leaving Crone alone with Tara.
He pulled her head into his lap. “I’m so sorry.” His stomach flipped as he realized he’d done this. He might as well have held the blade himself and shoved it into her gut. Images played through his mind of the many ways he was going to torture the warlock. “I swear to you here and now. When I am free, I will avenge you. He will pay for what he has done.”
She looked at him, her eyes clouding. “I-I believe you are a man of your word.” She coughed blood, and he gently wiped it away. “My family... Protect.” A rattled breath. “May my ancestors watch over you.” She drew her last breath, and he watched the life vacate her brown eyes.
“May your ancestors guide you home.” He kissed her forehead and vowed revenge would be his.
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