Try As I Smite (Brimstone INC.)

by Abigail Owen

  Delilah sat slumped in her chair, elbows propped on her knees and her head in her hands. As his arrival disturbed the papers scattered across her floor, she jerked her head up, pressing a hand over her breast.

  Then whipped around to stare in his direction. “Alasdair? What—”

  “Your useless helper sent me back here,” he snapped. “I don’t have time for this.”

  She jerked to her feet and moved around the desk to stand in front of him, tipping her chin up. A glance showed him her shoes were off. Again.

  Why am I noticing that right now?

  She tracked his glance, spotted her bare feet as well, and went back around her desk to slip her shoes on.

  “What is it with you and shoes?” The demand slipped from him. The fact that he asked annoyed him even more.

  “Bare feet are more comfortable,” she said, coming back around to face him. “But not exactly professional.”

  Shock skittered through him that she’d answered at all. “Professional is the last thing you need to worry about with me.”

  “No. With you, I need the added height.”

  Added height? “What?”

  “You’re very tall.” Now she was speaking through stiff lips, as though reluctant to reveal this.

  “And that bothers you? Are you a height-ist? Short people unite?”

  “I need any advantage I can get around you.” The way she huffed as soon as the words were spoken told him she hadn’t meant to reveal that much.

  The fact was that those words sent a buzz through him of—what? Not power. More like satisfaction. Which was bad, because his focus should be on his more immediate problem.

  “I’m leaving now,” he said. “But next time, I promise not to intimidate you if you leave them off.”

  Earning an annoyed little growl. “You don’t intimidate me, jackass.”

  He struggled to shift with the roller coaster of emotions yanking him around. From protective, to frustrated, to turned-on as hell, to closed down, to pissed, to curious, to amused. “What do I do to you then?”

  Damned if he didn’t suddenly want the answer to have nothing to do with intimidation. Blood surged south as he waited for the words.

  Fuck. What was he doing? “Forget it,” he muttered. “Don’t answer that.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, but he ignored her. With jerking motions, Alasdair pulled his cell phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and dialed.

  “Aluron,” Micah answered after one ring.

  “I hit a dead end here,” he jumped straight into it.

  Delilah, meanwhile, was studying him with an impatient frown. Let her wait. She’d wasted his time today. See how she liked it.

  He continued issuing his orders. “Convene the Syndicate. See if they can get the demon inside Agnes to talk. Also, have them bring in Rowan Masters. The woman was raised by a demon. Maybe she’ll have something. We need information and a plan quickly.”

  “Understood,” Micah said in his ear. No hesitation in his guard’s voice. One of his better qualities. “What should I tell your sister?”

  “Nothing. Hestia will figure it out when she’s called in with the rest of the council members.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll be in touch as soon as I leave here.” On that note, he disconnected the call.

  “What did Hazah say?” Delilah asked impatiently.

  “That only you could help me. Before I could explain that you’d refused, she said something that sounded like a spell, tapped me on the chest, and—”

  Shock immobilized his tongue and the rest of him when Delilah reached up with almost frantic fingers and started undoing the buttons of his shirt.

  She had three freed before he came back to his senses and brushed her hand away. “What are you doing?”

  “Did she leave a mark?”

  A mark? He had no idea why he wasn’t simply walking out of here. He needed to get home, to his people who didn’t know yet what kind of terrible danger they were in. Maybe the urgency in her eyes as she waited for an answer got to him.

  Rather than simply leave, he lifted his hands and undid the rest, drawing back his custom-tailored shirt and vest. Sure enough, a small, star-shaped mark, glowing faintly pink, marred the skin over his heart.

  “What the devil?” he muttered.

  “This can’t be right,” Delilah whispered. She lifted her hand and brushed a single finger over the spot.

  Instantly, darkness closed in on him. Only he was still lucid. Still aware of his body…and Delilah’s. Her touch branding him with unwanted heat that swept through his blood and gathered in his rapidly hardening traitor of a cock. He wrapped a hand around her wrist to tug her off and caught the sound of her gasp in the darkness.

  Only he couldn’t step away or shake off her hand. As though compelled to keep her touch on him.

  “What’s happening?” he demanded.

  “Damn—”

  As fast as the darkness overcame him, it cleared. He blinked in the suddenly harsh light of day. Only, instead of late morning sun, it appeared to be watery light of an overcast afternoon sky, snow drifting down over a forested landscape outside. Instead of Delilah’s office with its glassed-in view of the Rocky Mountain peaks behind the downtown Denver skyline, he was standing in what appeared to be a bedroom in a medieval castle—stone walls with thick wood beams, fancy furniture including a massive wood-canopied bed and a carved chest at the foot. Animal-skin rugs of a certain exoticness told him this was a wealthy home.

  “Fuck me,” Delilah muttered.

  The curse on her lips was about the sexiest damn thing he’d ever heard, sending a pulse through his already throbbing dick, a reaction that served only to piss him off more. He glanced down to find he still held her hand against his bare chest.

  She noticed at the same time, and slowly stepped away, giving her wrist a tug when he didn’t immediately let go.

  “Is it me, or are we trapped in some kind of Dr. Who alternate universe kind of thing?” he asked. “Or maybe I’m going to wake up and this is a terrible dream.”

  Delilah did a rapid blink but didn’t answer. Instead, holding his gaze, she opened her mouth and called loudly, “Hazah? What in the seven hells are you doing?”

  Immediately, Hazah appeared in the room with them.

  Determined to send himself home, over whatever game was being played here, Alasdair flicked his hands open wide, only the magical electricity that was his to command at will didn’t condense in his palm like it should. In fact, nothing happened at all. He flicked his hands again. Nothing. A whispered spell resulted in fuck all.

  “What have you done?” Alasdair snarled at Hazah, trying not to panic. She’d taken his magic? How was that possible? How was he supposed to protect his people without it?

  Hazah gave them both an easy, mysterious smile. “I’m helping, my darlings. You’ll see.”

  Delilah snorted. “How does this help him with his demon—” She cut the word off, rubbing at her wrist through the cuff of her blouse. “With the problem?”

  “Don’t worry.” Hazah flapped a hand. “I’ll keep an eye on that while you’re occupied.”

  Occupied? “Occupied doing what?” Alasdair demanded, drawing himself up and setting a demanding stare on her that had cowed greater men and women than her. He assumed greater. Actually, he still didn’t know what she was.

  “I’ve arranged a little trip for you. Some things you both need to see if you’re going to get through tonight.” Spoken as though they hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Are you kidding me?” Delilah practically growled the words between clenched teeth. “Your timing is for shit.”

  A small, removed part of him had to admit to being impressed. At least he wasn’t the only one pissed about this.

  Hazah didn’t even blink. �
��I’ve bound you together for this journey, and where you are, magic doesn’t work, so don’t even bother to try, Mr. Blakesley.” Hazah flicked a glance at his hands, limp at his sides now. “Enjoy.”

  With a frilly wave, their “helper” disappeared.

  Alasdair turned to find Delilah standing with her eyes screwed shut, muttering to herself.

  “Want to explain that?” he demanded. “I have a fucking demon problem to deal with.”

  Her eyes snapped open, and, for a heartbeat, he swore contrition gazed back at him before she composed herself. “I know, but from past experience, there’s nothing we can do. Let’s just get through this quickly.”

  “The hell with that. I’m leaving.”

  “How?” she demanded.

  Alasdair ground his teeth together. He was in a castle, which meant he was far away from California where his people were, so walking his ass out of here was not an option. And his magic wasn’t working.

  “This is…” He shook his head, too furious to put words to it.

  “I know not being in charge of this”—she waved a hand between them—“is difficult. Especially for a man who apparently needs to control everything around him. When I first met you, I assumed it was a bit of a Napoleon complex.”

  “I’m six-three—”

  Her lips tipped in a Cheshire smile. “I didn’t mean short by that reference.”

  Napoleon complex, but not because he was small. So, what? He was a power-hungry tyrant?

  He scowled. It better not be the other small reference.

  “I mean, I understand the need for control, of course. It’s…necessary.”

  Alasdair tried to switch gears from the irritation of being compared to a tyrant to being placated for that facet of his personality, all while an imp of a smile peeked at him from the most unexpected source.

  Weeding through all that, his mind glommed onto the word “necessary.” A telling descriptor. As though she knew that truth for herself. Made sense. He’d known the first time they’d met that he was staring at a mirror image of himself. He searched for a response to any part of this conversation, or to her in general.

  “Listen up, goddess,” he snapped. “You got us into this, sending me to her. Now you get us out.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.” Seemingly oblivious to his reaction, Delilah continued blithely on. “But I promise, when it’s over, while I can’t help you directly, I’ll hand over every resource I have at my disposal for your use.”

  He crossed his arms and glared at her. Apparently he had no choice here. “What do we have to do?”

  …

  Delilah folded her hands in front of her, trying to project calm, even as she dug her bare toes into the thick wool of the achingly familiar bearskin rug covering the cold stone floor. These visions always felt so damn real and yet not at the same time.

  Damn her mother to one of the seven hells. Preferably the third one. Hazah hated that one the most.

  Alasdair wasn’t far off with that random, and unexpected, Dr. Who reference. Who knew the man had any association with pop culture of the human variety? She’d sort of assumed that, like the goddess Athena, he’d sprung to life a fully formed adult who’d eschew such common pursuits.

  “She did this to me as a child.” Actually, multiple times over the course of her life, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Did what, exactly?” The man was practically vibrating with anger.

  Trapped in a nightmare with a pissed-off warlock of incredible power was not where she wanted to be. Even if he couldn’t access his magic.

  The happy giggle of a child behind them had them both jerking around.

  A little girl of not more than three knelt on the cold stone floor in front of the fireplace. She hadn’t been there a second ago. Adorned in a dress of fine material with intricate embroidery at the hem and sleeves, but with bare feet, her black hair curling down her back, she petted Penelope, her cat. An early Christmas present from her father.

  “It starts now,” Delilah said.

  Alasdair jerked his gaze to her. “What is going on?”

  Forcing herself to look up, she grimaced. “You know Dickens’ classic story, A Christmas Carol?”

  He crossed his arms, muscles stretching the fine material of his jacket, spreading his undone shirt farther apart. Seriously, the man had to have some physical flaw, though darned if she’d found one yet. “What does that have to do with this?” he asked.

  Not the easiest thing to explain. “Hazah gave Dickens the idea for that story. She likes to use that trick to teach people…lessons.”

  Alasdair didn’t so much as move a hair on his beautiful head, but disbelief became palpable. “You’re telling me we’re about to be visited by the ghosts of the past, present, and future?”

  “Well…it is Christmas Eve,” she pointed out wryly. “But no. Not ghosts, exactly. More like lucid visions.”

  “To what end?”

  She blew out a long breath, the visible show of emotion uncharacteristic for her. “Choices and consequences,” she said. “When Hazah sees a future, she can see pieces of what lead up to it, like stepping-stones. She shows you that path.”

  “Why?”

  Delilah shrugged. In the past, it had always been a future where she’d broken the oath she’d made as a child. Clearly not what was happening here. “With the hope that you change the future she saw coming.”

  Alasdair blew out a breath. “Why can’t she just tell me how to change the future she saw?”

  “Because she doesn’t know. All she can see is the ending coming if you stay on your current path, not what happens if things change.”

  “I don’t believe this.” He ran a hand over his jaw.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Her lips twisted. “Hopefully, this is about your demon problem. A clue as to how to deal with it or what actions result in a worse situation.”

  He ran that same hand around the back of his neck. “I should have known coming to you was a mistake.”

  Ouch. His words struck deep, lodging under her skin in a way that she shouldn’t allow. She owed this man nothing. Besides, she was trying to help, in her limited capacity.

  “There’s no way out of it and no way to stop beyond going through what she wants us to see.”

  Please, Mother, no revealed secrets.

  She didn’t need this powerful man holding those over her.

  Chapter Three

  Alasdair was still contemplating a response when a high-pitched scream shattered the quiet that fell between them. Not the happy squeal of a girl at play. Instead, the heartrending cry of a child’s brokenness. They both looked down, only now the child version of herself was bent over the cat.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Delilah whispered along with the child version of herself.

  The pain in grown-up Delilah’s voice about took Alasdair’s knees out from under him. An inexplicable reaction when he was still fucking furious about being stuck here.

  But he knew for certain, after their encounters this year, that she didn’t share her emotions with others. Took one to know one. That she couldn’t hide her pain from him, while she watched what was apparently the young version of herself, got to him. Like a thousand needles in his skin.

  Child Delilah lifted her face to the heavens, cheeks red and blotchy and drenched in tears. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

  The little girl’s plea made that needle sensation only worse. Alasdair crouched beside the cat and even reached out to put a hand to its belly to make sure the animal was dead. With a jerk, he stopped himself short, realizing this had already happened. He couldn’t fix it for her.

  “What did you do?” Alasdair lifted his head to ask the woman standing back from the scene, arms wrapped around her middle.

  She didn’t pull her gaze from t
he cat, or maybe she couldn’t. “My powers got away from me. I was trying to train her to play dead, like a dog. A surprise for my father, who never liked cats. Only—” She swallowed hard, a shudder visibly passing through her.

  Fuck. He might not be able to help the child, but he could help the woman. Even if she didn’t deserve it. Alasdair got to his feet and deliberately stood in front of her, blocking her view. “Don’t watch.”

  She lifted her head. Gaze dull, dazed, she seemed to stare through him, so self-contained, it hurt to watch.

  Why was this bothering him so much? He’d hardened his heart to witnessing others in pain or peril long ago. A man in his position would be driven mad by the numbers of lost souls if he didn’t find a way to compartmentalize. Usually he could. He’d gotten good at it, given his childhood.

  Why not now? Why not with her?

  Jaw clenched against the sight of the sorrow clearly ripping her apart, Alasdair took her by the shoulders. “Look at me.”

  She focused on him with dark eyes so shadowed they appeared bruised.

  “It already happened,” he said. “It’s over. You don’t have to go through it again.”

  She blinked slowly, and an emotion flitted across her face that he didn’t quite catch. Dread, if he had to hazard a guess.

  “It’s not over yet,” the woman he shielded whispered.

  “I can make repairs,” the child version of herself said at the same time.

  Still blocking grown-up Delilah’s view, not letting go of her, Alasdair glanced over his shoulder to find the girl holding her hands over the cat. A soft glow came from her palms as she whispered words—vaguely familiar words tickling at his memory—over the body. The glow grew brighter, building and ebbing, and then the cat gave a shaky meow.

  “Impossible,” Alasdair whispered. He knew of no magic that could raise the dead.

  “Penelope.” The child cried and gathered the now very live cat into her arms, rubbing her tears against its white fur.

  “Lily?” a male voice called out, the urgent edge reflected in the man’s face as he hurried into the room. Dressed in the fashion of medieval court, tall and muscled, he could have passed for one of the gods with his blond hair, bronzed skin, and bright blue eyes.