by Alisa Woods
He didn’t seem too concerned about the people overdosing. Not that Zane expected him to care if people died—especially magickal types trying to enhance their abilities—but something strange was happening with his product right under his nose. It didn’t make sense that Pennies wouldn’t know what it was—or want to. So if he did, why not try to stop it? Especially when a serial killer was using Pennies’ drugs to harvest victims? Did he not know?
Berzerker’s kept looking over his shoulder at the shadows of the industrial district behind them, twitchy per usual, spoiling for the fight to come. The man enjoyed killing so much, sometimes Pennies could barely hold him back.
Holy shit.
What if Pawel was the killer? He had access to the drugs. He could probably pick and choose which ones to lace with his death-simulating magick. Not his own—he didn’t have those kinds of skills, or really any Talents at all. He’d have to buy it somewhere. And that was serious dark-art magick. High-level mage stuff. Could Pawel pull off that connection on his own? He was as strung out as the addicts who took refuge in Zane’s stairwell. No...
It had to be Pennies. At a minimum, Pennies had to know. He was helping his brother feed his sick fetish, hiding his murder spree in a wave of overdoses. Not enough to threaten the business or to trigger any pesky investigations, but just enough to give cover so Berzerker could keep killing. Only now one of the bodies had been dumped on the FBI’s lawn. Which made little sense if Pennies was trying to cover up his brother’s murder spree. Maybe someone else had put the body there—it was an obvious play for attention. Maybe one of his rivals?
Were the Midnighters trying to out Berzerker as the killer?
Zane frowned. Something didn’t fit. But he was more convinced than ever that Pennies knew something about the overdoses—Zane just had to figure out what. If he could, that might bring down the whole supply chain—of both the drugs and whatever dark magick they were lacing into it. That would tie the whole cartel to a shit-ton of murders-by-magick.
A rumble slowly grew out of the background noise of distant trains and scuffling, bored gang members. In the darkness, a traveling constellation of lights with one bright headlight was coming toward them.
“That’s our destiny, Pawel,” Pennies murmured, uncharacteristically quiet. “Arriving right on time.” He turned to Zane and grinned. “Once this is done, once we have Jankov’s network under our firm control, our way is clear for the truly important shipment coming tomorrow—”
Three quick bangs punctured the air. Zane reflexively ducked. Pennies and Pawel dropped below the cover of the concrete railing. Zane flung his mental reach out as far as it would go—but that was only about twenty feet. Everyone in range—on the bridge and below on the tracks—were all Dziki cartel. The Midnighters were no fools—they were taking shots from the cover of the darkened warehouses across the street. But if they wanted to take the shipment back, they’d have to stage a physical assault at some point.
Pennies was shouting at his men below—apparently, the bullets had found two of their marks. Pawel was scrambling on his hands and knees, keeping his head below the edge of the bridge railing and heading for the end with the stairs.
The train rumbled toward them, the squeal of the brakes cutting off all possibility of speech. Zane resorted to short, jabbing motions to tell Pennies that he was going down, closer to the ground level where the assault would almost certainly happen.
Pennies shouted Go! at him, a pinch-faced order whose sound was lost in the metal-on-metal grinding of the train coming to a halt right below them. Even with it right here, in their hands, they could hardly unload it with Midnighter snipers waiting to pick them off.
Zane crept-ran along the cover of the railing, following after Pawel, who had reached the stairs and was hurrying down. Pennies stayed behind, barking orders into a short-wave radio that connected him to his men. When Zane reached the top of the stairs, he could see at least one of the downed men—he was lying twisted in the street below, a pool of dark liquid spreading out from under him and running toward the gutter. Pennies’ other men had taken refuge behind concrete columns that held up the bridge between the half-dozen tracks. Zane jogged down to join them, keeping cover on the train side of the barrier. The long screech of metal-on-metal came to a sudden end, leaving a wake of silence behind.
If Zane knew Pennies, he’d planned for this—and was probably calling in his backup to pinch the Midnighter forces between, trapping and probably killing them. The world could do with fewer violent men like the kind that filled the Dziki cartel—and the Midnighters—but Zane would rather see them behind bars. Not only because he’d learned the hard way that justice was better served when the right men go to jail. He’d also seen how you could eliminate one or two key members of a gang, but there would always be another body to fill those spots. You had to take the whole thing down—the more dramatic the bust, the more demoralizing to those who might be tempted to step into the power vacuum.
Which was why Zane wanted to move sooner to end this standoff rather than later.
Unfortunately, they were pinned behind the bridge.
The train operator climbed out of his cabin but immediately scurried back inside when the Midnighter’s opened fire. One of the Dziki gang made the stupid move of trying to run between cover points—he now lay bleeding out on the tracks.
Zane could end this if he could just get close enough.
Suddenly, a phalanx of dark figures broke from the shadows. At first, Zane thought they were some kind of machine, but it was a single body made out of overlapping riot shields. They were held in a tightly-marching mass that bore down on them, crossing the street to the bridge. Someone in the center was an adept, given that balls of magickal energy kept launching from the midpoint of the battering-ram shield, splashing and sizzling against the concrete barriers which protected Zane and the other Dziki members. A few of Pennies’ men took shots—and Berzerker launched an erratic bolt of magickal energy that Zane was afraid might catch one of their own in friendly fire—but the riot shields must be bulletproof and magick shielded. The Midnighters had to think they were on the edge of victory, ramming their way to the train, but they were shoving right toward Zane.
And he was something they would not expect.
He waited until the last of them was within his reach—the first had already arrived at the concrete column and bashed his riot shield against Pawel—then Zane let loose.
All twelve stumbled… and then fell like a slow-motion child’s train that had suddenly lost gravity, tumbling one over another, writhing and moaning and gasping as they crumbled to the pavement. Each was engulfed in his own private sexual fantasies, unhinged and pulsing like mad.
The magickal blowback sent Zane to his knees.
Everything whited out. The train, Pennies’ men dying on the street, Midnighters jerking and writhing… all of it gone as the full force of their fantasies surged Zane’s mind. He gasped as he fell, the ground coming up hard and fast, smacking him in the face—but he hardly felt it. He was on fire with magick. It burned hot through him, electrifying every nerve, sizzling every muscle fiber, convulsing him with the rocketing pleasure of his victims. So many… so many. An endless tangle of bodies and heat and pleasure, the cruelest kind of ache, exploding and subsiding and building again, never truly releasing, never letting go. He’d never fed off so many at once. He’d never felt so much raw magick charge him—his very atoms were coming unglued.
He was killing them. All of them.
Even as that thought formed, it hung in his mind, impotent—he was unable to stop. Unable to breathe. Unable to move under the onslaught. He was lost… so lost…
The beast hungered and ravished and wouldn’t let go.
Something wrenched his face off the pavement. Then he was dragged, boots jangling. He was moving, but he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, there was only the surging orgy of a dozen minds unleashed by the cursed Talent that would kill him and them both.
Then the fantasies started to fade, the streaming magick flooding his body checked its pace… and then suddenly cut off. He sucked in air like he hadn’t had a breath in hours, gasping again and again.
But he could see. And hear. They’d moved him out of range.
“Incubus!” Pennies was shouting in his face.
Zane blinked dully at him.
“Ah, look at you!” But he was grinning. “I told you… a feast!”
Zane was on his knees on the pavement. Hands were holding him up. He shook them off, staggered up to standing, and nearly went down again, only barely catching himself on a chain-link fence that cordoned off part of the tracks.
Fuck. He looked back, and the dozen Midnighters were being helped to their feet by the Dziki cartel they’d been trying to kill minutes before. All were as weak and stumbling as Zane but for the opposite reason. He was amazed they were alive at all—he felt sure he’d drained them completely. But he’d stopped. Pennies stopped him.
“Thanks,” he said roughly, coughing as the dust in his mouth collected.
Pennies was laughing at him, then pointed a light-hearted finger in Zane’s direction. “You are a man who takes his work seriously.” He chuckled some more. “I like that.”
Zane rubbed his hands across his face, finally trusting himself to stand upright without clinging to the fence. He was still swimming in magick, bursting with it, but now it was more like an insane high and not something that would tear him apart.
Pennies shouted commands at his men. A couple jogged toward the transfer rigging to apparently take hold of the container the train had brought and move it to the awaiting truck. Business as usual. And nothing Zane needed to be involved in.
Pennies swaggered back toward him. “I’ll text you when we’re ready for tomorrow’s shipment. This one is important. I need you back to whatever-the-fuck is normal for your kind. So go home and sleep it off.” He was smirking.
Zane nodded but stopped when the movement threatened to tip him sideways.
“Oh, and one more thing.” Pennies waved at the operators of the transfer crane to proceed. “When you come tomorrow, bring the girl.”
“I told you…” Zane’s voice was still rough. “I’m not done with her.”
Pennies’ good mood dimmed. “I told you I wanted her back. Alive. I have plans for her.” Some of his good humor returned in a magnanimous smile. “But I’ll have another girl for you, then, all right? Got to keep my favorite weapon well-fed.” He waved a dismissal at Zane. “Go enjoy her for another day. But don’t fuck up and kill her, incubus. I mean it when I say alive.”
Zane nodded, once, then swallowed down the queasiness as he staggered his way back to his car. Goddammit. Whatever Pennies wanted with Ever, he was way too attached to it. No way Zane could show up without her and not catch hell for it. Yet if this shipment were crucial to Pennies’ plans, and if he were covering up for Pawel’s serial-killer habit, then Zane might be able to bring the entire thing—the Dziki cartel and the Resurrectionist case—all down at once.
But how could he do that and keep Ever safe? He couldn’t figure that out while high-as-fuck on magick. He slumped into his car and waited for the worst of the dizziness to pass.
He’d be lucky to get home in one piece.
Chapter Eight
Ever was half-asleep when she heard the door creak open.
She’d left the light on in the kitchen, so when she lifted her head from the arm of the couch, she could clearly see Zane stumble into the tiny apartment. He didn’t seem steady—like, at all. He was breathing heavy, his footfalls thudding as he shoved his keys in his pocket and braced against the narrow kitchen counter by the door.
Only when she swung her legs down and sat up, did he notice her—and with a startled reflex that quickly turned to relief. “Sorry I woke you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” A quick look at her phone on the floor said it was past midnight. She scooped it up as she rose from the couch, then stuffed the phone in her pocket. She hadn’t bothered to change into the pajamas she brought in her backpack, figuring Zane would be home any minute… only he’d been gone forever. She hesitated then shuffled forward when he didn’t leave his spot next to the counter. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed visibly and ran a hand across his face.
She edged closer. Even in the severe light of the single kitchen bulb, his eyes were dilated like crazy—his normally deep brown irises were almost entirely black. “Are you… drunk?”
He snorted a laugh. “I am so drunk.”
“Okay.” Fuck. What was she supposed to do with that?
He squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace—either pain or regret, she couldn’t tell. Then he swung his gaze to her. “I fed tonight. Had to. A dozen people.” His words were just a touch slurred.
She frowned. “Oh… is that a lot?”
He laughed—loud and sloppy—then just shook his head at the counter. It wasn’t a no… more like the question was ridiculous.
She should be afraid—she should be terrified. An incubus was standing before her, high on magick, telling her he’d just fed on a dozen people. And yet, she had no fear he would attack her. Maybe she should, but all she felt was concern—he looked like he was going to be sick.
“Sorry, I don’t know much about incubus feeding habits,” she said, tersely.
That wrenched his attention to her, then he blinked, slow and lazy, like he was seeing her through some drunk-on-magick haze. “You’re really not afraid of anything, are you?”
“Sure, I am.” She was a little offended. Did he think she was stupid?
He pushed away from the counter and closed the distance between them. He stopped just inches away, then peered down at her, breath heavy, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. “You’re not afraid of me.” It was a challenge.
She lifted her chin and met his intoxicated gaze. “You can hardly stand up straight.”
A smile spread across his face, slow at first, then turning into a laugh so pure—so innocent, which seemed such a strange word to apply to Zane Walker, incubus FBI agent—that she couldn’t help her own smile. Even though she was certain he was laughing at her. Then his humor faded, and he looked at her like she had all of his attention, as meandering and fuzzy as that might be.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered. “And strong. So much magick.” His gaze was wandering her face and body now.
She felt the heat of her own response. And she shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t, not to that. But it wasn’t menace—she could tell the difference. These were words he didn’t mean to let out. “You’re drunk.”
His eyes found hers again. “You should be afraid. Of me.” He swallowed, once again looking like he might get sick. “I’m dangerous.” But he said it almost like an afterthought, his attention now drifting to the short hall that led to his bedroom.
The one with the wall of whips.
Just how dangerous was Agent Walker? Ever still couldn’t find it anywhere in her soul to gauge it. “I think you’re in danger of being sick.”
His gaze came back to her, a small crinkle at the corner of his eyes laughing at her. “If I wasn’t already drunk on a dozen men…” Then he just shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’d be the same.”
She frowned. “What?”
But he didn’t answer, just wagged a finger in her face. “You can’t stay here. Pennies wants you back.”
“What?” That popped her eyes open.
“S-okay for tonight.” His words were slurring more. He staggered around her, heading toward the bedroom.
“What do you mean, it’s okay for tonight?”
“He doesn’t want you until tomorrow,” he called out, still stumbling forward. “Talk in the morning.” Then he shoved on the door to his bedroom, and it gave way—he nearly fell into his room.
She strode forward, intending to demand an explanation, but Zane recovered from his stumble and slammed the door. He probably didn’t even know she
was following after him, but it was a solid slam in her face. She just stood, wavering, in front of the door. Should she knock? Yell? He couldn’t just drop that thing about Pennies coming after her and go to sleep.
She raised a fist to knock—but then music started up inside. Not too loud, not enough to wake the neighbors, but the rhythmic electronic rumble meant she would have to pound on the door to be heard. She nearly knocked anyway, when a snap sound made her freeze.
What the—
It came again… this time with a grunt. It was unmistakable. A flush of cold rushed through her. An image came back of him punching the wall in the alley, bloodying his knuckles, dripping red on the alley floor. The pain helps, he said. The cold pooled like ice water in her stomach as she backed away from the door.
Ever grabbed her backpack and stood in the middle of Zane’s apartment, staring at the front door. Should she run? Leave before… what? He lost control? He was drunk. From feeding. Yet he was inflicting pain on himself. Still trying to keep control. Always keeping control. She didn’t doubt that she was safe with him—not earlier and not even now.
She brought her backpack to the bathroom and changed into her black silk pajamas. Through the doors and the paper-thin walls, she could hear the music. And the heart-jolting occasional snap of Zane’s self-imposed method of restraint. She finished changing and washing and hurried back out to the couch, burying herself under the blanket up to her chin. She couldn’t force her eyes to shut. She flinched with every whip-strike.
