Immortal, Insatiable, IndomitableBy: Olivia Gates
Vidar, an immortal in the service of the Norse god Loki, is ready to die—until he lays eyes on the most beautiful mortal he’s encountered in centuries. Not only is Kara sexy and eager to be ravished by him, but she also defends him from minions of his enemy…making her the only human to ever put their life on the line for him.
Vidar and Kara soon enjoy the unbridled ecstasy they seemed destined to share. Yet they know they can’t be together for long. Vidar can sense that Kara will die soon—unless he can find a way to make her immortal, too….
Death must be your heart’s desire.
Vidar slammed his glass down on the counter. The crack went off like a shot in the first lull in the marrow-jarring music the mortals had been writhing to since he’d walked into the club an hour ago.
Damn Loki and his riddles.
The bartender’s head jerked up, his hand freezing on the way to pour a sixth shot of vodka. “Want something else?”
Vidar fisted a wad of money from his inner pocket, threw it on the counter. “Just leave the bottle. And bring me another one.”
The bartender hesitated. Vidar wondered if he’d mention an alcohol consumption limit or ask for his car keys.
Nah. As burly as the man was, he was eyeing him with the wariness he was used to seeing in mortal men’s eyes when they saw him. This man knew violence, could estimate his chances against other men. Against him, he’d rightly calculated them to be none. And that was based solely on the pissed-off vibe Vidar was radiating.
He wondered what the man would think if he knew he could take out the hundreds of men around them without breaking a sweat.
The way he felt right now, he was itching to do that.
The man must have sensed it, too. He did as ordered, though to his credit, with utmost reluctance.
Vidar fleetingly considered reassuring the bartender that he wasn’t breaking any professional code. Having the metabolism of a shape-shifting immortal, he could drink a swimming pool’s worth of Midgard’s—Earth’s—hardest liquor and it would barely smooth his frown. The only time he’d been drunk had been a millennium ago, after he and his team had released Alvar from Fenrir the Wolf’s clutches. And then only because he’d celebrated by going through two barrels of mead imported direct from Asgard.
He frowned into the colorless liquid in his glass. His fellow Lokians wouldn’t touch that stuff at the threat of a hit from Mjolnir. Daven had been pounded by Thor’s Hammer in a wager between Thor and Loki that he would. He hadn’t.
But Vidar’s fellow Lokians didn’t trawl bars and nightclubs for recruits. They’d taunted him that he did so because puny mortals’ liquor was all he could handle. Either that, or he’d grown lazy.
He hadn’t volunteered the real reason. That he’d grown indifferent. Finding recruits had ceased to matter decades ago.
And then, he had found many of his candidates in such places, where outcasts went to blend in. His days of being creative in looking for recruits were long behind him. The extra effort hadn’t proved more effective, and recruits found in joints like this one actually ended up lasting longer. All he had to do while he cast his senses out on search was endure the cacophony and legitimize his presence by downing overpriced, ineffective swill.
He’d better find someone to recruit here. He wasn’t in the mood for another wasted night.
But what else was new? He’d had centuries of wasted nights. To say he was sick of it all was the understatement of the literal millennium.
That was why he’d invoked Loki at dawn that morning for a one-on-one.
Loki had taken his sweet time answering, had appeared around noon. After an hour of enduring the god talking up his latest TV channel acquisition and how he planned to use it to invade Normals’ minds, and showing off his new clothing line’s threads, he’d cut him off. Loki had his undying allegiance and all, and for millennia he’d actually enjoyed listening to him plot and brag, but not today.
Today it was over. He wanted to quit.
He should have, centuries ago.
It had been that long since he’d known his job was futile.
He couldn’t speak for the others, but being one of the twelve Originals of Loki’s Legion hadn’t turned out as advertised. He’d signed on thinking it was the ultimate cause, upholding Loki’s purpose in searching out Gifted outcasts, recruiting them, fostering them, and swelling the ranks of his army for Ragnarok, the Final Fate of the Gods, where they would help him survive that battle in which all the gods were supposed to kill one another, then take over this fucked-up world. All Vidar had managed to do so far was watch his recruits burn in the flames of self-destruction, disintegrate in the maelstrom of madness or wither in the abyss of depression. Rinse and repeat. Ad infinitum.