Shadow World

by Gaja J. Kos

  Fine, I might have enjoyed kissing Breccan. But wanting to fuck him and craving a soul-deep bond were two entirely different things.

  It must have been the exhaustion messing with me. That, and my growing frustration at absolutely everything that had ganged up on me lately.

  The one good thing that came from scowling at myself was that I hadn’t even noticed entering Maribor’s southwestern suburbs.

  I halted my progress only for long enough to gather my bearings, then veered left, and followed the streets all the way to the unassuming building that acted as the gang’s “day” headquarters. A burly-looking suntanned werewolf nodded when I passed him at the entrance, and a second, a demon that probably belonged to Alin’s court, opened the door for me. Who said gangsters couldn’t be gentlemen?

  I stepped into a gorgeous office bathed in midday light, the rays reflecting off Ilya’s golden hair. The vamp lifted his gaze as I approached, then stood and smiled broadly.

  “Hello there, Crina.”

  The lasso of bottled magic hit me out of nowhere.

  “Did you know you father’s head is worth quite the bounty?”

  Chapter 10

  The power formed a grazing noose around every inch of my skin, my flesh, pinning me in place.

  I reached for the magic within. If I could change form, my atoms would adjust and slip through the barrier.

  But when Ilya pulled a gun from under his desk and leveled the barrel at me, I froze.

  No shift was faster than a speeding bullet.

  It was the one rule every demon learned about as soon as we could walk.

  Ilya might not be able to sense my intentions, but he knew me well enough to expect something along those lines. And with his vampire reflexes…

  “Yelena put out a bounty on my father?” I asked as if my death sentence wasn’t a mere squeeze of a trigger away.

  Ilya cocked his head to the side, amusement evident. The bastard.

  “Not Yelena. Hieraven. The old boy must want Vuyasin quite badly since he’s willing to give up a small fortune for his retrieval.”

  The gun, the ward, my entire unnerving predicament took a back seat as the information registered. What the fuck had my father done?

  This sure looked like a make-a-fuckton-of-enemies spree from where I was standing. A touch too extreme, even by Vuyasin’s standards.

  “You’re wasting your time with me, Ilya,” I said as steadily as I could with the shitload of anger surging through my veins. “I don’t have the faintest idea where my father is. And I don’t know what the fuck he’s stirred. I’m hunting him down for Yelena. Bounty or not, you’d be wise to stay out of the way.”

  Threats laced my words, but Ilya only laughed, his turquoise-and-gold eyes gleaming with mischief. The invisible bonds dispelled so abruptly I nearly ended up sprawled across the hardwood floor.

  “Relax,” he drawled and lowered his Smith & Wesson. “I’m not after your father.”

  “Then why this?” I motioned to the magic that was now gone. Then the gun he’d just stored in a drawer. “What are you playing at, Ilya?”

  Ilya returned his undivided attention back to me once the drawer shut with a click, and flashed me one of those come-hither grins that had successfully lured me into his bed all those years ago.

  “Wanted to ruffle your feathers, that’s all.” He lifted a single shoulder in a casual shrug. “The way your nose scrunches up when you’re pissed is fucking adorable.”

  “Asshole.”

  “As if you didn’t know that already.”

  I snorted, then strode over and parked my butt on the desk. Ilya’s gaze swept down my skin-tight clothes before it came to rest on my face. He didn’t bother to mask the hunger. Well, shit.

  Not only did my demonic sexual appetite purr at the appreciation blazing in his eyes, but the vamp was just as hot as I’d remembered him. I had done my best to steer clear of his turf, hoping that if I didn’t see the temptation, the damn thing would cease to exist.

  No such luck.

  He traced a finger down the top of my hand. An innocent caress that kicked my desire into overdrive.

  His mouth twitched when I shivered. “What can I do for you, Crina?”

  In all fairness, I could think of several things I wouldn’t mind him doing for me—to me—but in the end I settled on the one that wouldn’t leave me naked and writhing beneath him. I lowered my gaze to his sensual lips to shield myself from the blinding sunlight pouring in from the window. Right.

  Maybe if I repeated that enough times, I might start believing it, too.

  “Augmentation powder.” My voice was hoarser than I wanted to admit. “I need some quality stuff to add a bit of juice to a summoning.”

  “Vuyasin’s?”

  I nodded. Ilya swept a curly strand behind my ear.

  Gods, his touch should be illegal.

  I swallowed, resolutely ignoring the heat burning between my thighs, and said, “He’s proven to be quite the slippery bastard. And Yelena will have my skin if I don’t retrieve him for her.”

  “She threatened you.”

  Something akin to concern flashed across his handsome face when I nodded again, the tips of his fangs showing.

  “I’ll have my men bring out the good stuff. I might not be interested in claiming a bounty, but you know I’m more of an exception than a rule.”

  Sadly, it was the utter truth.

  If he had heard of Hieraven’s offer, then most of the Shadow World did, too. And possibly a nice slice of this one, as well. Now that I thought about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if Hieraven’s bounty was the reason behind Yelena’s deadline. If it took me longer than three days to locate my father, someone else was bound to track him down.

  Ilya tapped a message on his cell phone then placed the gadget aside. His desk wasn’t cluttered, just a few papers here and there, and a slender laptop perched on one side, next to an opaque-black glass, hiding the blood within. He’d never been a public feeder.

  With elegant moves, Ilya stacked the papers in a neat file on one end, and once the space was cleared, tugged me across the table until I landed neatly in his lap. The warmth of his body flooded my senses.

  Before I could even consider what I was doing, my hands were tangled in his golden, sunlit curls, his breath mixing with mine.

  “I’ve missed you, Crina,” he whispered.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “But you know we would never stand a chance. Selfish workaholics and all that.”

  His hand traveled beneath my jacket, higher, knuckles skimming the side of my breast. “We don’t have to stand a chance to enjoy one another.”

  My answer came out as no more than a groan. I leaned into him, then brushed my lips against his. His fangs grazed my tongue, and a roll of pleasure cascaded through me.

  Ilya deepened the kiss.

  I arched my back as his fingers kneaded my nipple. Gods, I wanted more. I shifted my body so that I ended up straddling him.

  “You’re right,” I rasped, then gently nicked my tongue on his fang to give him the taste of me he’d always loved.

  A knock cut through the room like a damn gunshot and sent me crashing back into the table.

  “Boss, I have the merchandise.”

  My head whipped around at the unknown voice.

  A young werewolf with a shock of silver hair barged into the office, a black pouch secured in his hands. I was torn between getting the fuck out of Ilya’s lap and staying there as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Given my already skyrocketing levels of mortification, I really didn’t want to make the situation any worse.

  Unfortunately, the deer-caught-in-the-headlights look I was likely sporting and proved impossible to shake did enough damage that my actions would make little difference.

  “Thank you, Devan,” Ilya said, completely unfazed, and stroked my back. “I’ll notify you if we need anything else.”

  The werewolf, bless his professional soul, placed the pouch
on the desk, then walked out the door without acknowledging anything more than my presence. If he thought seeing me in his boss’s lap was weird, it didn’t show.

  Kind of made me wonder just how much of a regular occurrence that was. Jealousy that had zero ground for even existing reared its head on the wings of the bitter thought.

  “You conduct a lot of business while women straddle you?”

  Ilya’s laugh was sinfully melodic. “Would you believe me if I told you you’re the first one?”

  I huffed and got up, although a part of me—the one I really didn’t want to listen to—believed him. If not for anything else, then for the fact that Ilya was simply too business-oriented to get sidetracked by a pretty face and banging body occupying his lap.

  “How much do I owe you?” I weighted the pouch in my hand, then undid the strings and peered inside.

  Damn, he hadn’t been kidding about the good stuff.

  Ilya waved my question away. “I’ll put it on your tab. Pay me once you’re in the clear.”

  “Not even going to demand a kiss?” I teased—and instantly regretted it when Ilya stood, his lean, yet corded body looming over me.

  “Are you offering a second round, Crina?”

  I rose on my tiptoes, a smile dancing across my lips as I brought them up to his mouth. “Nope.”

  Ilya’s answering chuckle kept me company long after I was nothing but atoms, speeding out the door.

  The one benefit of not having a table in my living room any longer was the extra space. I shoved the couch against the wall, blocking off the lower shelves that thankfully stored nothing important, then got down to work.

  With excruciating slowness, I traced every curve and swirl of the summoning sigil in chalk, which took up the better part of an hour—plus two coffee refills. I wrote down Vuyasin’s name in the center of the design, using my own blood. It wasn’t the exact standard procedure for summoning, the name instead of a mark, but for low demons who didn’t have crests—or refused to acknowledge them—a plain old name spelled out in even plainer letters worked just fine.

  It would have been better if I had something of his to include in the ritual—a hair or nail or something of the sort that originated from his body, but I’d make do.

  Mindful not to smear anything, I opened the pouch of Ilya’s augmentation powder and retraced everything, letting the shimmering silver dust fall upon the lines I had already drawn. Including the blood. The ingredient settled, merging seamlessly with the base until the substance wasn’t powder any longer, but an opaque, film-like thing. Pretty, too.

  I rocked back on my heels and peered out the window. The sun was still up. Would be for a while.

  Though the ritual was set, I couldn’t actually perform it until night descended fully and moonlight powered the design. Of course, given Ljubljana’s fickle weather, it might still fuck me over and present an overcast night, but I was hoping for the best.

  Not that I had much of a choice.

  I got up, grabbed my wallet, cell phone, and jacket, then stashed a couple of blades in my boots. Might as well do something worthwhile while I waited.

  But first, food.

  After what felt like ages, I used my front door and stomped down the stairs like a regular joe. It didn’t take me long to remember why I opted for an out-the-window exit most of the time.

  While my place was cool, if a little on the banged-up side, the stairwell boasted ominous stains and had that moldy, damp scent to it that weighed heavily on the lungs. If my downstairs neighbor gave a fifth of the fuck about the state of things here that she did for the going-ons in my apartment, I was willing to bet the stairwell would have looked like something out of the Ritz. Sadly, it was me she used all her scrutiny on. Fabulous.

  The buzz of traffic pressed against my ears when I emerged on the sidewalk, a blend of skidding breaks and nervous honking that signified Ljubljana’s rush hour had reached its peak.

  The Chinese restaurant was distastefully packed, so I walked farther down the street to the cozy little vegan place I visited whenever I felt like having a bit of a change to my usual fast-food nutrition. Its glass front wall revealed there were several unoccupied tables, and when the swirl of vegetables and spices fluttered to my nostrils when someone opened the door, I all but hurtled myself inside.

  As always, I claimed the seat that offered the best view of the space—a habit that was ingrained in my very essence and impossible to break—then looked around. A waitress tended to the tables despite the partially self-service counter they had going on at the far end by the kitchen entrance. The restaurant constantly vacillated between service and self-service, so I was never quite sure what I would walk into. This half state struck me as the most amusing of all the adjustments I’d seen so far.

  Once the petite brunette made her way over, I ordered a plateful of pasta, with arancini for the appetizer. The salad, she informed me, I could make by myself. All right.

  I stepped into the queue behind three human college students who appeared to be dead set on taking all the fragrant beets. I waited for them to scramble, then loaded some green salad and tomatoes into my bowl. Hungry as I was, I needed a little something to hold me up while I waited for the arancini. Last of all, I snatched a packet of Aceto balsamico, then returned to my table, stomach growling loud enough to overpower the feel-good music suffusing the space.

  A few more people had poured in in the meantime, though the overall volume of chatter and clinking dishes remained pleasantly low. I tackled the Aceto, swearing when the little nook in the side didn’t provide easy opening like the label said. Mindful not to spill the damn thing all over the place once it ripped, I infused my pull with a touch of demonic strength.

  The packet flew from my fingers.

  I jerked to the side and caught it before it hit the middle-aged man at the table beside mine—then kept on falling as the glass front shattered in a hail of bullets.

  Chapter 11

  A scream rose through the air. Then several others.

  I crawled across the floor and kicked down a table for cover as bullets pelted in my direction.

  Fuck. If it hadn’t been for the slippery Aceto, that first one would have lodged in my fucking brain.

  Glass rained from the framed pictures lining the walls, the tint of blood mixing with the dryness of chipped plaster.

  As abruptly as the attack began, it stopped.

  I peeked from behind my measly cover, making myself as small a target as possible in case this was just a fake lull. But no shots came.

  A woman was bleeding on my left—a flesh wound by the looks of it—and another lay eerily unmoving, half hidden behind a table among shards of ceramic and glass. The brunette waitress’s frantic voice screeched the address of the restaurant into the phone clutched in her bruised hand. The man who’d been sitting beside me recovered while I listened to the call. He crouched over the injured woman and began tending to her with what little supplies were at hand. A few others followed his example.

  With the sudden teamwork, and the ambulances on their way, I left the wounded behind and scrambled out of the restaurant.

  All my senses set on wide, I sifted through the power signatures riding the air, but with Ljubljana’s rush hour in full swing, there were too many threads to single out the one belonging to the shooter. I searched for any sign of excitement, adrenaline, sadistic pleasure—even disappointment. Something tugged at me from the direction of the city center, but vanished before I could get a lock on it. Shit.

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  My cue to go.

  I veered into the first alley I could find to get away from the myriad of frightened and curious glances, then broke myself down into atoms. For a generous moment, I just lingered there, allowing the shock to filter out of my system.

  The sirens grew louder.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been shot at. But it was definitely the first incident involving civilian casualties.

&nbs
p; I rubbed my eyes and exhaled.

  Collateral damage never sat right with me.

  When I got my hands on the fucker who’d shot up the restaurant, they would pay for every last drop of spilled blood.

  I took the long way around once I finally moved, giving the street and the vegan restaurant, now overflown with cops and ambulances, wide berth. Still, the echoes of the attack raked their talons down my thoughts.

  Had Ilya’s warning already come true?

  Though if someone wanted to catch my father, taking a hit at me seemed like a fucking waste of time and resources.

  Unsure what to do with the incomplete information, I opted for the only thing I knew would set my mind straight.

  I focused on my job.

  Sacred Skies’s HQ was situated just south of the city center. Unlike ArcaneWings and its offices on one of Ljubljana’s main, upscale streets, the location itself indicated the firm wasn’t as elite as they’d like it to be. Probably why they had to resort to spying and sabotage to gain an upper hand.

  Since the building was partially open to the public, I had no difficulties floating in straight through the front door. Bypassing security was a breeze as well, even the inner ring that cordoned off the private sector of the structure.

  A ward. A guard. And ID scanner.

  Perfectly acceptable if one suspected only corporeal individuals of attempting unlawful entry.

  Passable for non-corporeal entities, too.

  But a walk in the park for me.

  After the shit days that had piled up recently, I was thankful that something, at least, was going my way.

  Dust and bits of gods-knew-what stuck to my particles when I shimmied beneath the door separating the corridor from the conference room. Seven men of various species occupied the faux leather seats at the oval table. Including the CEO.

  David Lebar wasn’t what I would call a remarkable man—though even if I hadn’t studied his photo in Breccan’s file, there would have been no mistaking his position. He all but oozed slimy importance spiced with a pinch of arrogance.