It didn’t really matter, because his mother’s name was Pankov. So as a demon, when his mating mark appeared on his hand, it would be a P. For years, he’d felt it itching on his palm, but the marking hadn’t appeared yet. Something seemed to be holding him back, but he sensed it would happen soon. He kind of liked his last name. It was unfortunate he shared it with this miscreant.
Paelotin just looked at him. “I can’t believe you’re here actually trying to be threatening. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you when you were young. I should have.”
“You tried,” Paxton said softly. “And failed.”
Paelotin chuckled. “Yeah. Deep down you’re still a crying little bastard though, aren’t you? You may look all tough, and you may be able to fight, but we both know you’re nothing but garbage.”
“Do we know that?” Paxton asked calmly, his gut turning. Yeah, he felt worthless sometimes. That was because his father’s words still rang in his head. But now, he was bigger than the bastard. Tougher and most certainly deadlier. “You’re the one who got kicked out of the Realm. Talk about garbage.”
“You just had to protect that little bitch.”
Paxton grabbed him square on the throat and squeezed. “I strongly recommend you don’t talk about Hope like that. I came here to chat, but I’m also fine with killing you.”
“You think you could?” Paelotin lifted one arm and struggled to shove Paxton’s hold off.
Paxton could have easily grabbed him again, but he reached for his drink first. He needed answers, and he needed his father to be able to speak. “Who’s your contact in the Kurjan nation?”
“They’re all my contacts.” Paelotin’s chest puffed out. “I work with different ones at different times.”
“What about Drake?”
Paelotin grimaced. “The leader? Yeah, we’re best friends.”
“You want to level with me,” Paxton said, downing his drink in one gulp. The cheap liquor hit his stomach and flashed out, burning as it went. What was in that stuff? He poured himself another shot. “Start talking, or you’re not going to like the results.”
“What are you going to do, boy?” Paelotin asked. “I am more than ready to fight you. I spent half my life hitting you. I miss those days.”
It was odd he didn’t even want payback. This was for Hope. “Don’t forget you liked to kick too.”
“I surely did. Obviously not enough. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Paxton had expected the vitriol, but even so, he had to wonder. His memories of his mother were good. She was only around until he was maybe three or so, but even Hope had gotten to know her a little bit. She was soft, and she was sweet, and then she was gone. “What did my mother ever see in you?”
Paelotin looked at him and laughed. “Not much. She didn’t have another option.”
What the hell did that mean? Paxton never heard the story, though he’d asked many times. She had died at the end of the last war. His mother didn’t really know anybody from the main headquarters of the Realm because she worked as a soldier for an international squad, just like his father. “How did she die?”
“I killed her,” Paelotin said calmly.
Paxton coughed. “She died in a battle with the Kurjans.”
“There was a battle. But…” He shook his head. “She wanted to go back on a promise and, well, I couldn’t let her.”
Paxton’s ears rang, his stomach hurt, and his vision blurred. “A promise?” he asked. “What promise?” Whatever was in his system was slowly killing him, no doubt as the Kurjans had planned. “The Realm’s good at what it does; they would’ve known if you’d killed her.” This was just another of his father’s mind fucks.
“No. We were in the middle of a battle with some very, very, very angry Kurjans, with a couple of the Cyst thrown in. It was easy to fake her death, Paxton. Don’t be a moron.”
“You killed her? You really killed her?”
“Oh, with great pleasure.”
Everything inside Paxton wanted to attack, but he needed to remain strategic for now. There were facts to discover that could help Hope. “You always were a damn coward,” Pax muttered.
With that, Paelotin charged him. They flew off the stools, landing hard on the dirt-packed floor. People around them scrambled out of the way, some fleeing the bar, some just sidling away as if a brutal fight was a common occurrence.
Paelotin’s first punch nearly knocked off Paxton’s head, but he rolled with it, pulling his father with him. He punched upward twice and then scissored his legs around this monster from his past and flipped them over, punching twice more.
He could’ve done immeasurable damage, but instead, he secured his father hard against the ground. Not once in training or in battle had he inflicted more damage than was necessary, and though he might want to kill this bastard, he wouldn’t stoop to that. But he would get answers.
His father fought his hold for several long moments and then gave up, panting.
“Why?” Pax asked, his voice rough. “Why do you hate me so much?”
Paelotin, his teeth bloody, managed to smile. “Because you’re not my son, you little prick.”
Cymbals crashed in Pax’s head. “You’re lying.”
“Nope. Total truth.” Even wheezing, Paelotin laughed.
That was a good truth. “That explains the pictures I found of my mother.” The labels conveyed a different meaning now. She’d been taking him into the Realm, the two of them, for a new life. He was glad to know she’d tried to leave and save them both. “Does Santino know?”
“No.” Paelotin snorted. “The absent-minded professor doesn’t know about any of it. He’s truly one clueless bastard.”
Pax relaxed. Good. “Then who’s my father?”
The smile widened, and air bubbled out with blood. “Ask King Zane Kyllwood. Didn’t you ever wonder why he took such an interest in you?”
Chapter Eighteen
Hope cuddled up on the sofa in Paxton’s empty house, watching an old movie. She’d made herself at home, microwaving a huge bowl of popcorn and opening a beer. Through the years, when Paxton was home from his travels, she’d spent many an evening watching movies on that very sofa, so she knew exactly where to find the threadbare blanket she always used to keep warm.
It was sad he didn’t have a fireplace. Most houses in the subdivision had fireplaces; in northern Idaho, it got freaking cold. At least the blanket helped.
Several ancient texts and tomes were spread over the coffee table. For years, she’d spent every spare hour reading through legends and prophecies and found several that hinted at what must be done to kill Ulric. Her name was mentioned as well as the importance of the Lock, but there was a frustrating lack of detail. It was accepted that the blood of the three Keys was needed, but Hope was sure the Lock would have to give more than blood. Otherwise, there would be just four Keys.
Unless somehow, the blood of the Lock activated something in the blood of the Keys?
Ugh. Her head started to ache, so she removed the Advil bottle from her pocket and took three pills before sliding it back into place. For so long, all she’d had were questions. She picked up her phone and dialed.