by Tessa Dawn
Amber sucked in air, tucked her lips around her teeth, and shook her head in a frantic nod. Her teeth chattered as she mumbled through the glove. “No…I’m sorry…please don’t hurt me.”
“That’s right, baby,” Tony drawled, sauntering toward the two of them. “There’s no need for all that drama when we’d rather be your friends. What do you say? Can we start over?” He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, and she had to fight the urge to gag. “Zeik!” he barked before she could reply. “Let’s do the damn thing and get the hell outta Dodge before we have a handful of cops to deal with.”
Amber’s eyes grew wide as saucers.
Do the damn thing?
What was he talking about?
Once again, Zeik was cool as a cucumber as he playfully tossed the revolver to Tony, like it was nothing more than a harmless toy pistol.
Tony caught it by the barrel, took Amber by the wrist, and placed the palm of her hand against the back of the grip, her finger around the trigger. “Squeeze a little, baby,” he whispered, turning the barrel away from his chest. “Don’t worry, it’s not cocked at the moment.”
Trembling like a leaf, Amber pulled back on the trigger.
“That’s it,” Tony crooned in her ear. “Just like that—good girl.” His hands still encased in gloves, he removed the pistol from Amber’s grasp, pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, and tossed the revolver back to Zeik.
Grunge snorted with indifference. “You sure about this, Rossi?” he said to Tony. “You absolutely sure you want the girl…her baby…and her baby’s daddy?” He shrugged a shoulder and cocked both brows. “It’s not too late to forget about the credit union…we can still plant the gun and make her disappear.”
Tony’s placid features contorted into fury as he narrowed his gaze on Amber. “Where’s your baby’s father?” he demanded, snatching her by the jaw. “Where the fuck does your boyfriend live?”
Amber’s eyes bulged in their sockets, and her mind started racing: What in the heck was he talking about now? And then she eyed the stroller and the strewn-about contents, and it all came crystal clear. “I don’t have a baby!” She rushed the words, terrified by their implications, but wanting to survive at least five minutes longer… “The formula…the diapers…it’s for my foster sister. I swear. There’s no boyfriend, and there’s no baby’s daddy.”
As quick as he’d angered, Tony cooled. He released her jaw and nodded at Grunge. “Yeah, I’m sure.” Then he raised his arm and gave Zeik a thumbs-up.
Zeik replied with a wink, and just like that, all three criminals worked quickly in tandem: Tony upended the stroller and scattered the contents about the floor, each and every item containing Amber’s fingerprints, while Zeik placed the gun just so behind the counter, making it look like Amber had dropped it in a panic—he even plucked a hair from her head and draped it over the barrel. Meanwhile, Grunge rifled through the diaper bag, retrieved Amber’s wallet, and checked to make sure she carried an ID—he tossed it on the sidewalk, about two feet outside the door, so it would look like she had dropped it as she fled.
Without pity or remorse, Tony slid the hood of his jacket back over his head, encircled Amber’s waist with his arm, and bent to whisper in her ear as the three of them left the convenience store. “I’m going to treat you like a queen—just wait and see—you’re gonna love your new life, I promise.” His hand slid down her waist to her hip. “And all this shit—it’ll never catch up to you, just so long as you do as you’re told. The police won’t find you; no judge will ever sentence you—you’ll be free as a bird as long as you never fly south…as long as you stick close to home.”
As Amber’s past disappeared, and her future loomed dark, Tony’s sadistic words drifted into the ether—and two haunting thoughts settled in her mind…
They hadn’t even asked Amber her name.
And what would become of Tina…
“Amber. Amber!” Marissa’s voice drew Amber away from the fog, jolting her out of her trance. “Girl, what the hell is going on? You’re a million miles away.”
“Oh,” Amber muttered, “sorry, Marissa. I guess I was just…remembering something…something I shouldn’t remember.” She immediately turned her attention to the present before Marissa could start asking questions. “Thanks for taking over my station—how did it go with that strange guy, anyway?”
Marissa took two strides forward, plopped down in an adjacent chair, and braced both elbows on the table. “You mean that gorgeous guy, the one at your counter? Not much to tell—he left the moment you headed for the vault. In fact, I don’t think he was here for a transaction. I think he was here for you.”
Amber bit her lip and cringed.
Damn…
Just damn.
She sat up straight and tried to play it off—after all, what could she say? He scared the shit out of me? I thought he might be a detective or a bounty hunter—maybe an enemy to the Cult of Hades, someone after Grunge, Zeik, or Tony?
“Yeah, he was kind of freaky,” she murmured. “Oh well, at least he left quietly.”
A shiver, colder than the ice in Zeik’s voice, thinner than the wiry strands in Grunge’s beard, and stonier than the glass in Tony’s green eyes ran down the length of Amber’s spine: Where do you live, Amber girl?
No, the man hadn’t left quietly.
That stare…
That voice…
The possession in his eyes…
She had seen that once before…in Tony’s.
And she didn’t have a doubt in her mind—the man with the sapphire irises and the predatory smile would be back—she was sure of it.
CHAPTER TWO
Deep in the bowels of the Pagan Underworld, in a firelit cavern situated toward the rear of Drakkar Hades’ gothic castle, Trader Vice, a notorious sin-eater, swept his long, wavy golden hair behind his shoulders and sat to attention on one of three blood-red leather sofas. Sinners’ Cave, as the pagans often referred to it, was a low-key lounge of sorts: a dark, circular chamber furnished with three crimson sofas, the trinity set in a semicircle; a floor-to-ceiling fireplace adorned with black, pitch-covered stones; and numerous liquid screens shaped almost like television sets, yet bearing the appearance of aquariums, each framed in medieval swords with witch’s pentacles etched into the pommels…all for pagan viewing.
And the sin-show had just gotten interesting.
Trader licked his full bottom lip, leaned forward, and stared more intently at an upper right screen. The likeness of Warren Simmons, the depraved manager of King’s Castle Credit Union, had flashed onto the fluid canopy, and the image was bisected by a thin green line—which meant that Warren’s most recent sin had been interrupted. And of course, that mattered to Trader because he fed regularly off Warren’s iniquities. Closing his luminous copper-colored eyes, he tapped into the anima of Requiem Pyre, chief sorcerer to King Drakkar, in order to borrow some extra divining, and then he slowly reopened his mystical peepers. Ah yes, the screen was clearer now: Warren’s dalliance with a seventeen-year-old girl had been broken up by a visitor, a visitor who had delivered—a box of chocolates?—to the credit union.
Trader stretched out his arm, angled his hand toward the screen, and rotated his wrist 180 degrees, turning the chocolates around to study them, and that’s when the liquid pool began to undulate, a stream of words slowly scrolling across the monitor in a snake-like missive: For Drak; the best-laid plans of mice and pagans often go astray.
Trader gasped aloud, and then he shuddered.
So, someone was provoking King Drakkar, and quite directly—someone had sent the pagan leader a message. The thought of incurring Drak’s wrath was so terrifying, Trader had to catch his breath and recompose himself. He couldn’t tell what the missive was scribed upon, nor could he see inside the container, the box concealing the chocolates, but if the sonic pulses emanating from the screen were any indication of the contents, there was something other than candy in that package.
&nbs
p; He stood to his full six-feet-five-inch height and strolled languidly toward the cavern entrance—it was time to alert his pagan brothers, to take a handful of demons and possibly some shades with him as he traveled to Denver…to Earth…to investigate.
No need to alert Drak’s chief counselor quite yet, nor would he involve the congress. The commission of sins and the interplay of sinners was Trader’s domain, all the demons’ domain, quite frankly, and their masters would require a full report: evidence, details, descriptions—not I saw something funky on the cavern screen.
The delicate nature of the mission acknowledged, the bottom line remained the same: Someone was confronting the lord of the underworld; the vision was vitally important; and time was of the essence. Trader couldn’t screw around with this one. No, he would make a beeline to the credit union, collect the box of chocolates, and then he would seek out his two demon brothers—Zeik Craven and Grunge Ahab—pagans who dwelled upon Earth disguised as humans, living ordinary lives with two unsuspecting companions: Antonio “Tony” Rossi, a card-carrying member in the Cult of Hades who had no idea he was living with literal, real-life demons, and Amber Carpenter, a worthless, innocent human girl who, one decade earlier, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
CHAPTER THREE
Axeviathon Saphyrius sauntered outside the King’s Castle Credit Union, strolled around the corner, and braced his palms on his thighs, leaning into the warm summer breeze.
Holy lords of the Pantheon, he had just met his dragyra.
Amber Carpenter.
And the female was a teller at King’s Castle Credit Union.
What. The. Devil.
She was beautiful, subtly exotic, with her long, slender neck; elegant, graceful hands; and dark amber coloring—those gorgeous eyes; that luxurious hair—and hell, that heart-shaped ass didn’t hurt one bit. But there was something else going on with Amber: The taint of demons was all around her, like a perfume she wore over her clothes, and maybe—just maybe—it was no big deal. She couldn’t possibly work at that bank and remain untainted…survive unblemished.
Still, all the Dragyr knew the deal: King’s Castle was a front for Drakkar Hades, pure and simple. The dark lord used the establishment to embezzle mortal funds, to make international loans to Earth’s most notorious sinners, and to manipulate the human realm to the pagans’ own ends. Needless to say, all the crimes went undetected—human law enforcement agencies were no match for supernatural pagans: evidence versus magic; a well-crafted sting versus the craft of divination; human courts versus Drakkar’s congress…
His chief sorcerer, Requiem Pyre…
His chief counselor, Killian Kross…
His omniscient powers of distortion and manipulation.
No, the pagans used—and typically staffed—the credit union to their own evil ends, and the Dragyr allowed the establishment to remain standing, not because they could not have destroyed it, but because it saved them a lot of time and effort. They could find their enemy quickly if needed, and they could also keep an eye on the pagans’ comings and goings, at least to some extent. They could keep track of relationships, the ebb and flow of money, new criminal dealings, and emerging, lucrative partnerships.
At the end of the day, it was better than being blind, better than being uninformed or kept in the dark. Besides, if the Dragyr wanted a war with their soulless pagan cousins—which, ultimately, they did not—they knew precisely where to fire the first shot.
Axe blinked his sapphire orbs and pinched the bridge of his nose, bringing his attention back to the present situation: Amber Carpenter.
His fated…
His dragyra…
The woman he had to not only claim, but convince to enter the temple in ten days’ time…for conversion.
Rebirth by dragons’ fire.
Holy.
Hell.
Axe hadn’t seen this coming.
Standing up straight, he stretched his back and popped his neck—he would let his lair mates know what had happened later. For right now, he needed to do a little reconnaissance, get the lay of the land, so to speak.
Glancing at the path of the sun, he made careful note of the time—it was 10:45 in the morning; Amber got off work at 4:30 PM; and Axe still had to meet Ghostaniaz Dragos later that evening, around 8 PM. The Genesis offspring—Ghost—was the progeny of Lord Dragos, the harshest and most unforgiving of the seven dragon gods, and as one of the original hatchlings, Ghost was temporarily restricted from traveling beyond the portal alone.
Following a recent pagan attack on Zanaikeyros, Axe’s own pantheon lair mate—who also happened to be the Genesis offspring of Lord Saphyrius—the Seven had banned their original progeny from traveling to Earth without escort. It wasn’t that the badass males couldn’t handle their own or make waste of any enemy they ran into—far from it; they were lethal, one and all. It was just too damn dangerous, plain and simple. The risk wasn’t worth the potential cost. In short, the gods were not willing to risk one of their firstborn sons, and the pagans were growing bold…restless…decidedly defiant. They were taking risks they had never taken before; they were gunning for a Genesis offspring, just to land a blow to the Seven; and the gods were reacting with uncommon caution. Plus—all that aside—Ghost needed to feed.
The dark, brutal—broken—dragyri needed to reanimate his fire.
And that required human essence and blood…
Since Axe was already earthside, on the mortal half of the portal, he had agreed to meet Ghost the moment the dragyri emerged from the gateway—to accompany the ruthless, haunted dragon while he hunted—and that meant Axe couldn’t take Amber with him. He couldn’t remove her from the human-realm…just yet.
But what he could do, he would.
He would make use of this downtime to check out her residence: 318 Syracuse Lane. He would see how she was living; find out if she stayed with family or a roommate; and if—gods forbid—she had a lover, a fiancé, or a boyfriend.
Who the hell was Tony, anyway?
He would learn who she hung out with and why.
He would investigate her employment, at least as much as he could, and then he would meet up with Ghost and play it by ear.
Would his actions constitute snooping—an unseemly invasion of Amber’s privacy?
Yeah—shit yeah—they would.
But what-the-hell-ever…
Axeviathon Saphyrius wasn’t made of hearts, unicorns, and flowers, although he considered himself a fairly decent, honorable male. Yet and still, he had no intentions of ending up in the Garden of Grace as a sapphire pillar—an eternal statue—having had his amulet removed by the gods and his immortal flame extinguished, simply because he had failed at one compulsory task: to claim his chosen dragyra.
Amber Carpenter worked at King’s Castle Credit Union.
And that was one helluva coincidence.
This wasn’t going to be an ordinary claiming…
As if there was any such thing.
CHAPTER FOUR
Trader Vice entered King’s Castle Credit Union with an entourage of shades behind him. As it was eleven o’clock in the morning, the sun was at its full zenith, and demons were not so easily disguised, he had changed his mind about bringing both species of pagans and chosen his shadowy kin, instead.
After all, the shades were also called shadow-walkers for a reason.
Skeletal and translucent in the light of day, gaunt and wispy if they hadn’t fed, they were barely detectable by the human eye; and their dark, inky forms—their dull, blotchy shadows—dotted the tile floors and clung to the walls like an invisible army of roaches. They crawled, they scampered, and they spread out like vermin, and all the while, the humans were none the wiser.
They had no idea that their lobby had just been infested by supernatural parasites.
Trader, on the other hand, was wearing his demon form, simply trying to blend in with the Homo sapiens, while greatly diluting his otherworldly power. There
was little he could do to mask his wavy golden hair or to conceal his luminous copper eyes—and being six-foot-five-inches tall didn’t help him camouflage his powerful body—but he was more than capable of compelling witless humans.
Keep walking.
Look away.
Nothing to see here, you inferior, noxious peasants.
Now, as he made his way across the lobby, down the hall, and around the corner to Warren’s workspace—the shadows scampering eerily behind him—he ducked into the air-conditioned office and cut a path to Warren’s desk.
The human wasn’t sitting in his chair; in fact, the entire room was empty, which was all well and good: one less nuisance for Trader to contend with, one less mind to deceive and control.
As expected, the box of supposed chocolates was sitting atop the manager’s desk, and the elegant gold paper, secured by a bow that had clearly been dipped in blood, jumped out like it had been wrapped in neon—it may as well have been bearing a sign that said: Hey, demon! Come and get us; we’re right here, asshole. Such was the taint of the Dragyr’s power emanating from the container.
Trader slinked behind the desk, dropped into Warren’s plush leather chair, and slid the base of the seat beneath the desktop, eager to explore the box and its contents. He had already read the missive on an upper right-hand scrying screen in the Sinner’s Cave. “Just what do we have here?” he hissed beneath his breath as he reached for the container, slowly unwrapped the blood-red bow, and carefully opened the lid. A shade, in the distance, scurried up the wall, scampered along the ceiling, and hovered directly above Trader, his muted, glassy eyes gleaming as he watched with equal curiosity and anticipation.
Trader gagged, drew back, and pinched the bridge of his nose as the noxious odor assailed him. A hand. A rotten, decaying, decapitated hand. He raised it by the tip of the pinky, dangled it at eye level, and studied what was left of the palm and the telltale lifelines.
