The Wrath

Book 4: Rise of the Warlords

by Gena Showalter

Genres: Romantic Fantasy; Fantasy Romance; Shifters

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter returns with a new book in the tantalizing Rise of the Warlords series, featuring a brutal Hell king and the irresistible beauty who upends his world.

 

For centuries, Rathbone the Only, King of Agonies, has existed for one purpose: recovering the enchanted bones of his slain wife to bring her back to life. He's never been closer to success. But a new enemy has risen. A band of deadly war gods who have thirty days to destroy her or suffer the consequences. With time running out, Rathbone hires a maddening harpy-oracle, unaware she has an agenda of her own.

Neeka the Unwanted is a fierce warrior on a mission: stop Rathbone and the gods. She's seen the future if either is victorious, and it's horrifying. She'll do whatever proves necessary to forge a new path, even seduce the ruthless royal from his purpose. What she can't predict? How the intense male will shatter her hard-won defenses along the way.

As Rathbone battles unexpected betrayals, cunning foes and the wild temptress he craves with every fiber of his being, he knows he must choose: hold on to a cold dream or embrace a new flame.

Rise of the Warlords
Book 1: The Warlord (9781867230885)
Book 2: The Immortal (9781867251187)
Book 3: The Phantom (9781867272731)
Book 4: The Wrath (9781038901149)

Release date: February 6, 2024

Publisher: Harlequin

Print pages: 384

Sample

Prologue

Excerpted from The Book of Stars

Author unknown

Warning: Living text subject to change

They are ancient warriors, evil to the core and loyal only to one another. Known as the Astra Planeta, Wandering Stars, Warlords of the Skies—the beginning of the end—they travel from world to world, wiping out enemy armies. Drawn to war, they turn even the smallest skirmish into a bloodbath.

To glimpse these brutes is to greet your death.

Having no moral compass, they kill without mercy, steal without qualm, and destroy without guilt. Their aim is simple, their goal fixed. Earn a mystical blessing to experience victory for the next five hundred years. A necessity in their endless war with Erebus the Deathless, for without this benediction, the Astra automatically acquire a curse. Five hundred years of utter defeat.—Page 1

---

The time has come to renew the blessing. One after the other, each of the nine will undergo an impossible task. Three have proven successful; the fourth must now demonstrate his worth. A merciless soldier, Azar the Memory Keeper recalls everything—except his own follies.

To win his challenge, he must face Lorelei the Incomparable, a perplexing goddess of desire. The charge is this: Resurrect her, then kill her all over again. But first he must face her husband, Rathbone the Only, a treacherous king of the Underworld who will stop at nothing to protect his beloved.

What will happen when these two powerful foes lock horns over a chosen female?—Page 12,847

 

Eons AgoEons ago

Thunder boomed and lightning flashed in a storm-blackened sky. Rathbone the Only removed his helmet, uncaring as violent winds pelted icy rain in his face. His blood-soaked hair whipped, obscuring his vision. He wiped his eyes, but the image before him never altered.

Lorelei the Incomparable, goddess of desire and his beloved bride, lay on the field of slaughter, motionless atop a pile of slain demons and their assortment of severed parts. Her crystalline irises stared at nothing. Her perfect lips remained parted with a silent scream. A drenched sable mane stuck to ashen skin, molding to exquisite features able to inspire lust in all who gazed upon her. But....

Something with claws had ripped open her chest and plucked out her heart.

Rathbone couldn’t bring himself to accept...hoped... “Lore!” Though he’d fought on the front lines for twenty-one straight days and nights without wavering, there’d been no one strong enough to fell him. Here, he dropped to his knees, his armor clanking. His weapons rolled from a once iron grip.

With a shaky hand, he gently caressed Lore’s glacial cheek. “Wake up, sweetness. I need you.”

They had plans. Toast his victory with a glass of ambrosia and make love. An adored custom. But nothing changed. Lore didn’t regrow a heart, as a deity of her capability should. She didn’t smile with delight and coil her arms around him, the way he so desperately longed. Didn’t tell him not to worry because she was soon to make his dreams come true.

“Wake up!” he bellowed, his voice hollow and broken. “Your king has issued a command.” They had agreed. He would fight until achieving victory, and they would rule this Underworld kingdom together. Mere minutes ago, that victory had finally come. This was to be a time of celebration, not devastation. “I completed step one of our plan. You must wake.”

Minutes passed in silence. The storm continued to rage, but she never revived, never responded.

Tears scorched his cheeks, mixing with freezing raindrops. His precious wife couldn’t be dead. She was the mate chosen for him by fate, and he required her. He’d accepted it at their first meeting when she’d oh so sweetly requested his aid.

“Lore. Please,” he croaked. “You must return to me.”

Still nothing.

A roar brewed deep in his chest, grief attempting to tear its way free of his insides. What had happened? Why had she come to the combat zone? She might be a goddess of desire, born with incredible power, but she was a gentle soul. Afraid of blood. Terrified of blades. She should be tucked away in the safety of their hideout, awaiting his summons.

“I’m sorry, Rath.” Hades, King of the Dead, patted and squeezed his shoulder. “She’s gone.”

Rathbone didn’t spare the sovereign a glance. He loved the sovereign like a father and even owed the male his life, but Lore wasn’t a subject they could discuss without coming to blows.

“You aren’t sorry.” He gathered the beauty close, her limp body hanging in his arms. “You hate her.” His jaw clenched. Hated.

“True. But I love you.”

That, he knew. Again and again, Hades had proven the truth of his claim. Though Rathbone’s mother had considered him a great disappointment, the King of the Dead had seen something special in him. Hades took him under his smoky wing and spent centuries training him to be a soldier without equal. Today, that training had paid off. After a gruesome year-long war, Rathbone won the right to rule the kingdom neighboring Hades’s. The Realm of Agonies.

Rathbone had lost much along the way. Soldiers. A fortune. His moral compass. But I will not lose my mate. “I committed the vilest deeds to defeat the former king,” he rasped. A famed warrior named Styx. “His land is now my land. The palace he built is mine to lay at the feet of my wife, so that is what I will do.” Rathbone’s volume

grew until his speech overshadowed the newest clap of thunder.

Hades swiped his fingers over an increasingly frustrated expression. “You wed her, yet you maintain a stable of one hundred mistresses. Why is this lone female so important?”

“You answered yourself. They are my mistresses. She is my queen.” No one mattered more.

Lore was the one who’d encouraged Rathbone to establish the stable in the first place. As an ancient, she understood the customs of the gods in a manner he did not. Deities of their ilk kept paramours, she’d said, and a warrior of his renown should enjoy more than most.

Was any female more perfect?

“You cannot bring her back to life,” Hades said, giving his shoulder another pat, “but in time you’ll recover from her loss.”

Bring her back. The words echoed inside Rathbone’s head. Yes! He could do it. The ancients possessed a way, and Lore had taught him how as a just in case.

“Give me your chisel,” he commanded. The King of the Dead was never without one; Hades relished carving his initials into the bones of his enemies.

The sovereign frowned at him. “Why?”

“I will etch the Song of Life into her bones.” Rathbone kissed Lore’s brow before easing her to the rain-soaked pile of dead demons. Instinct demanded he teleport her somewhere safer, drier, and cleaner, but she’d told him location mattered. Death screeched its evil at him here, so here was where he must respond. “We’ll be together again, sweetness. I’ll give you more time—then I’ll give you the world. I swear it.”

“Rathbone—”

“You won’t change my mind about this.” He ripped the neckline of her gown, and the gauzy pink material split down the middle, revealing pale, slender curves he wanted healed now. The quicker he began, the better.

But once he started, he couldn’t pause until he’d carved the last word of the song into the final bone. To pause was to ensure eternal death.

Since he would allow nothing to halt him, her return was guaranteed.

“You’re a fool if you do this,” Hades warned. “The Greeks are tricksters by nature. I should know! You should know. I guarantee she’s toying with you. See past your pride and rejoice that you’re free. Move on.”

Rathbone pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “You’ve never loved a female the way I love mine—”

“You comprehend nothing of my past, boy!” It was the first show of anger directed Rathbone’s way in centuries.

“Perhaps not,” he corrected, “but it’s obvious you do not comprehend the depths of my pain. Otherwise you’d understand the impossibility of moving on. Now, give me your chisel.”

Hades huffed with disgust but tossed the tool to the ground, just within reach. “Very well. I’ll let you continue. You are insolent, and you could use the life lesson. Just know your regret is assured. And, though I refuse to watch you throw away your future for a female you were using as a surrogate mother, I’ll take great delight in laughing in your face when you realize the error of your ways.” That said, the king stalked off.

“I’ve never used Lore as a surrogate mother,” Rathbone snarled at the king’s retreating back.

The male didn’t turn or slow. He simply lifted a hand with his middle finger extended.

With a huff of his own, Rathbone focused on the current task and palmed a dagger.

Inhaling and exhaling a deep breath, he braced for what came next...

Begin.

He cut into Lore. As quickly and seamlessly as possible, he freed bone after bone. Taking apart the female he loved broke something inside him, but he didn’t stop. They would be together again. Soon.

He would allow nothing less.

 

1Present day

Rathbone tossed the liver he held into a bucket and wiped his bloody hands on his apron. All the while, the vampire strapped to a bed of stone sobbed. Of course, the blood-drinker’s chest cavity currently gaped open, displaying what remained of his vital organs, so the tears weren’t exactly a shocker.

They occupied a cell in Rathbone’s dungeon. Moans of pain and misery echoed from every direction, creating the perfect soundtrack. The only downside? A grotesque, metallic scent saturated the damp, chilly air.

“Please,” the vampire cried. “I swear to you, I’m not a spy.”

“Why did I catch you spying then?”

“You didn’t—I swear on the life of my beloved. I got lost. Was searching for—”

“Be quiet or I’ll remove your tongue,” Rathbone warned. He’d heard enough excuses and lies.

The male blubbered a few seconds more before going silent.

“May I go now?” a third person asked.

Rathbone didn’t bother to face the visitor who’d dared interrupt the torture session half an hour ago. There was no need. Mystical eyes known as mátia covered his body, granting him a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view. Less apparel meant cataloging more details.

Today, he’d opted to go without a shirt. Since the apron strings hid little, he was able to observe the cell from every angle. Each element registered in unison, crafting a three-dimensional picture in his head.

A fae prince stood near the exit. Well, the spirit of a fae prince. The mystical defenses surrounding the Realm of Agonies prevented anyone from teleporting in without a special key. In fact, if someone attempted it, their spirit was ripped from their body, bound with enchanted chains, and whisked straight to Rathbone. If they tried to walk in, they had to first overcome countless traps.

The vampire had walked. The prince had gambled with teleportation. Both were suffering because of their choice.

“Let’s recap what you’ve told me so far,” Rathbone said to the fae, his tone casual. He reached for a crimson-stained dagger on the wheeled cart at his side, sending the vampire into another round of sobs. “Your name is Bogart. You are the consort of a harpy, and you’ve come from her land, Harpina. Three months ago, nine warlords invaded the realm, slaughtered the males in their path and temporarily incapacitated the females. You would’ve died, too, but a harpy-oracle, also known as a harpacle, visited you days before and told you what to do during an invasion, even providing you with a blueprint to escape. Now the warlords and harpies are allies, working together to defeat Erebus Phantom. As payment for her kind deed, the harpy-oracle asked you to deliver this message to me. She has seen where the rest of my wife resides. For the right price, she’ll spill every detail. Do I understand you correctly?”

“You understand,” the prince confirmed with a sharp dip of his pointed chin. Despite the manacles around his wrists, he waited at attention, as a good soldier should, showing no reaction to Rathbone’s gruesome activities.

“Help me, Bogart. Please.” The wounded vampire struggled against his bonds. “I’m innocent! I would never spy on the King of Agonies! I’m not a fool.”

Rathbone cut out the immortal’s tongue, as promised. A fresh howl of pain morphed into a choking fit. He tossed the muscular organ in the bucket. “Tell me more about the harpy-oracle,” he commanded the fae, replacing the dagger with a scalpel. He’d used a different weapon for each removal. So far he thought he preferred the ice pick. But he might change his mind. He had sixty-four other weapons to utilize. “Every detail.”

“Her name is Neeka the Unwanted. She’s half harpy, half oracle, as I previously stated, and all sex appeal. Her addition, not mine. She instructed me to tell you she’s the owner and operator of Greater than Greatest at Finding Stuff. She also mentioned the vampire, who is indeed a spy. He came on behalf of the Astra, and he’s a herald of their newest task.” A pause. Then, “I’ll be honest. Neeka might not be entirely sane. Immediately after she explained the situation, I asked her a question, but she’d already forgotten who I was and what she’d said. She threatened to castrate me.” 

Neeka the Unwanted. Not a name familiar to Rathbone. Had this harpacle spoken true or lied? For that matter, had this prince spoken true or lied? In the Underworld, you could trust no one at any time. Including yourself.

“Despite this supposed insanity,” he said, “you decided to do as she requested, three months late, putting your life in my hands because...?”

“I owed her, and I always pay my debts. But I’m not late. She told me when to come.”

Yes, but why would any oracle worth her salt summon an enraged King of Agonies to her doorstep? And that was exactly what she’d done with this stunt. Rathbone would be in her face before sunset. If he wasn’t convinced of her authenticity and talents, she would die on his table like thousands of others.

He didn’t like being reminded of his only failure.

The scalpel bent in his grip as memories assailed him. In a split second of time, he remembered how, all those centuries ago, he’d etched the Song of Life into Lore’s bones, one after the other. How innumerable demons had surrounded him while he’d chiseled, not to stop him or launch an attack, as he’d expected, but to wait. Each time he’d completed a bone, a small contingent of the creatures had collected it and fled, laughing. Because they’d known the consequences, just as he had. Rathbone couldn’t resurrect his wife until the pieces were reunited.

Back then, he’d been forced to allow the thefts. Having begun the Song, he couldn’t pause his task without slaying Lore for good. In the end, he’d retained only the last bone he’d etched. The others, he’d soon learned, had been sold to the highest bidders.

Familiar fury bubbled, but he tamped it down. During the ensuing centuries, Rathbone had tracked the missing pieces to distant worlds, removed them from inside immortals and various creatures, found them buried underground and hidden in mazes. Now he required only six. A clavicle, an ilium, two metatarsals, the left femur, and her skull.

Though he’d never ceased his search, thousands of years had passed since he’d heard the slightest rumor about the goddess. Suddenly this Neeka could deliver everything he lacked?

A lie. Surely.

“You may go,” he told the fae. “You’ve passed on your message.” And assured the harpy-oracle’s apprehension. “If you return, I’ll kill you. Then I’ll collect everyone you love and kill them too. Eventually. No telling how many years I’ll keep your consort in my stable first.”

For dramatic effect, he shoved the crooked scalpel into the vampire’s heart. The ensuing screams provided the perfect amount of extra. Rathbone’s specialty.

As the fae’s spirit was yanked from the cell and restored to his body, wherever that happened to be, the blood-drinker regrew his tongue. Excellent.

Rathbone grabbed a pocket saw. Though he tried to focus on the newest remodel of the vampire’s mouth, his thoughts continually returned to the harpy-oracle. He might not know her, but he’d heard of the

 Astra Planeta. Nine sky gods who did in fact wage war against Erebus Phantom, a death god. Their rivalry rekindled every five hundred years. According to legend, the combatants followed the same pattern for each conflict. The Astra invaded a new world, subjugated its people, and completed a series of impossible tasks while Erebus worked to defeat them.

What if the vampire had come from the Astra’s camp, as advertised? A spy sent ahead of a new task involving Lore.

“If you pass out before you answer my remaining questions,” he said when the male grew too weak to shout, “things will be worse when you awaken. That, I promise you.”

Too late. The prisoner went quiet, sagging into unconsciousness.

Anger blended with impatience, singeing deep. Rathbone dropped his newest weapon on the tray, metal clattering against metal. If he couldn’t get answers from the vampire, he might as well visit the harpy-oracle sooner rather than later.

He geared to flash to Harpina, intending to hunt her down. A prickle on his nape bolted him in place. Another intrusion was imminent. Who dared approach him this time?

A spirit wearing a long robe the color of pitch appeared beside the door, exactly where the fae had stood, his wrists also bound by chains. Disheveled white curls framed a pale face with thick black brows, ebony irises, and a large, hooked nose.

Well, well. Erebus Phantom himself.

Curious, Rathbone stood, wiped his hands on the apron, and pivoted to face his newest guest. His casual expression endured, revealing nothing of his emotions. Another specialty. He’d learned early: anything other than total confidence invited more problems.

“May I help you?” he asked with a deceptively pleasant tone.

“You may. But first, introductions should be made. I am Erebus the Deathless, son of Chaos the Abyss. And you are Rathbone the Only, son of Argus the All-Seeing.”

“Thank you for the reminder I didn’t need. I assure you, I haven’t forgotten who I am or who helped conceive me.” Most beings tended to identify him based on his accomplishments rather than his sire, a notorious being he’d never met. A true shapeshifter like Rathbone, able to shift into anything or anyone. Argus had been covered in mátia, too. A reason he was chosen to serve as a bodyguard for Hera, queen of the Greeks and Rathbone’s mother.

From what he’d pieced together, Hera had slept with Argus, hoping to spawn an army of protectors just like him. She’d gotten pregnant, as intended, but thanks to her jealous husband things hadn’t progressed as she’d probably envisioned. Her withered crone’s heart hadn’t helped matters, either.

“Very well. I’ll skip the pleasantries and platitudes. I come bearing news.” Erebus spread his arms as far as the shackles allowed, seemingly unconcerned by his captivity. “Soon, an Astra Planeta named Azar the Memory Keeper will be given thirty days to resurrect and murder your beloved Lore. The survival and ascension of all Astra depend

on his triumph. As you can imagine, Azar will cross any line to succeed.”

The Astra Planeta again. Motions clipped, Rathbone removed his apron, giving the mátia an unrestricted view of his guest. “Let me guess. You are a kind, benevolent being here to aid my quest to ensure Lore’s well-being.”

“I’m honest enough to admit I’m neither kind nor benevolent,” the god replied with a cunning grin. “But. I’m certain we can aid each other. I seek to destroy the Astra Planeta, after all, and you wish to obtain revenge against the one who killed your wife the first time...who just happens to be Azar. As you can see, our end goals are aligned.”

Rathbone arched a brow. “If you expect me to believe you or assume I need your assistance, you prove only your stupidity.” This wasn’t the first accusation to come forth against the supposed assassin. Those who wished to manipulate him into trouncing their enemies used to reach out daily. The claims had stopped when he consistently exterminated everyone involved, including the messengers.

“Oh, no,” Erebus said with a shake of his head. “I would assume nothing about you or anyone else. I know you need my assistance. I’ve glimpsed a myriad of futures and without me, your darling Lore meets her ultimate end one way or another. And I don’t expect you to trust me—yet. That will come. Consider this a token of my good faith.”

Cunning smile reemerging, Erebus tossed something small and white in Rathbone’s direction. As it soared through the air, it slipped from the spirit realm into the natural, becoming solid. He caught it and jolted, his breath hitching. In his palm rested a metatarsal with a swirling X chiseled in its center. The smallest mark of the Song of Life. Not a fake, either. Every cell in his body vibrated with welcome, as if a part of him had come home at long last.

“During your war with the Astra, I can be of further use to you,” Erebus said, confident. “How much further is up to you. For now, I’ll leave you with a nugget about your future. Once the warlords are officially informed of your involvement, Azar will pay you a visit. You will give chase. One day, you’ll notice your wife’s face tattooed on his body. When you do, don’t allow yourself to stare. You’ll become trapped in the memory of her death, and Azar will end you.”

“Or the memory proves your involvement.” Always a possibility. “You fear me too much to take me on.”

Erebus chuckled. “Fear you, puppy? No. Heed my warning or don’t. Until we speak again, great king.” The god bowed at the waist then vanished by choice rather than force.

Rathbone’s mátia remained glued to the tiny bone resting in the palm of his hand. After all these centuries. For too long, his life had been a puzzle missing pieces: incomplete. Now...

One step closer.

Deep in the tattered remains of his heart, hope sparked anew. To bring Lore back...to finally taste vengeance for her death... He would do anything.

A sense of urgency bloomed. Rathbone closed his fingers around the precious bone and flashed to his secret room. A doorless

 chamber beneath his palace, with bejeweled walls, colorful tapestries, and ornate adornments collected across the ages. Two golden thrones perched upon a round dais. A his and hers. Lore’s remains were preternaturally anchored to her seat, bathed in eternal torchlight.

The moisture in his mouth dried as he lowered to his knees and set the metatarsal in its proper place, completing her right foot. Oh, the satisfaction...

Trembling, he petted her femur. “Forgive me for the delay, sweetness.” How he missed her gentle nature and even gentler touch. “Today marks a new day for us.” If any of what Erebus had said was true, the Astra named Azar was soon to die screaming.

Craving answers, Rathbone flashed to Harpina. Not to find Neeka, but to seek out this Azar. To observe and study. Having visited the land upon occasion, he had only to picture the palace to materialize inside it. He shifted his appearance mid teleport, arriving as a tattered book in the royal library.

A crowd of harpies stalked the aisles. As intended, none noticed him. Few beings ever did when he took an inanimate form. He looked and listened, hunting his prey. Flashing deeper into the palace, he transformed into whatever fit the aesthetic. A forgotten dagger. An oval mirror on the wall. An at-home guillotine. Eventually, his search proved fruitful. He caught whispered conversations about a “sexy slice of man beef,” which ultimately led him to the Memory Keeper’s private bedroom. Antique furnishings had been pushed against the walls to make space for gym equipment.

On the mantel in the shape of a cat figurine, Rathbone studied the object of his interest. A big man. Black and bearded. Azar wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, hiding any tattoos that decorated his torso. Different faces marked his arms. Those images moved, jumping from one location to another. None belonged to the unrivaled Lore.

Incredible power radiated from the Astra, creating a force field of some sort. He bench pressed over six tons at a speed almost too swift to track. Under his breath, he rasped, “Forget. Forget. Forget.”

Forget what? And how can I exploit the information?

Suddenly the Astra erupted from the bench, a tri-pronged dagger in each hand. He scanned the room, the tattoos on his arms freezing in place. Utter calm and icy determination overtook him.

Never, in all Rathbone’s days, had he beheld sharper focus on another warrior. No doubt this soldier cataloged every detail around him, large and small.

Azar’s gaze shot to the cat figurine and narrowed.

He senses me? Shock punched Rathbone. No one sensed him. Now, he simmered with indecision. Stay or go?

Better question: Had the Memory Keeper killed Lore or not? Would he come for her once her bones were reunited?

As the Astra stalked closer to Rathbone, vines of resolve pierced centuries of disappointment and frustration, growing thicker, harsher, bringing a new purpose to his existence. Suddenly, his objective

 became clear. Protect the bones he owned, whatever the cost, and locate the rest, finally gifting his kingdom with its queen. Then, in homage, lay Lore’s killer at her feet.

He refused to team up with Erebus, regardless of the god’s astonishing gift. The Deathless’s treachery was too well-known. But the harpy-oracle, Neeka... She was a mystery. A possibility.

Was she an ally worth having? He would find out. Perhaps she despised the Astra for what they’d done to her people and her world. Maybe she’d seen the future and opted to side with the winner. Whatever the reason for contacting Rathbone...

He would dig into her life, hunt her down, and force a face-to-face.

 

2

Neeka the Unwanted, harpy-oracle extraordinaire, gold star entrepreneur, and all-around genius, thank you, glanced at the ex-husband who despised her. She couldn’t blame him for his sentiment, considering she had murdered him on three separate occasions. Though she only accepted blame for the first death. Her version of a divorce. It wasn’t her fault the Phoenix lord continually rose from the dead.

Presently, she occupied a small cage in Ahdán’s travel tent. He perched in front of her, sharpening a blade. His (failed) attempt at intimidation.

“Why are you looking at me as if I betrayed you?” he asked. “Especially considering the violence you’ve employed to kill me. ...