by Liz Meldon
“Kurron, Kurron, Kurron.” He tsked at the demon, shaking his head as he stood. “No one likes a crybaby. Buck up, old chum. The tears are unbecoming.”
Kurron scowled up at him, shuddering as blood seeped out of his fingers. “F-f-fuck…y-y-y—”
“All right, don’t strain yourself. I think we both know where you were headed there,” Severus remarked. “Now, put an end to your suffering… Tell me where your boss is hiding and we’ll call it a day.”
“You’ll k-k-kill me no m-matter w-w-what—”
“Oh, you don’t know that.” Severus grinned down at him, hands on his hips. “I might surprise you. Come on. Give it a whirl. Play the odds, friend.”
The demon responded by spitting another mouthful of fresh blood at him, but this time Severus leaned slightly to the left to avoid the spray. Sighing, he shook his head in faux disappointment before clocking Kurron square in the jaw.
Severus hissed on the follow-through, straightening up to check his knuckles. Bleeding. So much blood these last few weeks; for the first time in his life, most of it had belonged to someone else.
When he glanced back, he found Kurron unconscious, a real heaviness to his body as it slumped this time.
“Fine. Brief pause,” he muttered, stalking back to the table to grab the towel and dab himself down. In the mood for a few shots of whiskey, he crossed toward the metal door on the other side of the room, its hue so faded that it almost blended with the cement walls and flooring. He paused, rubbing the towel at his chin before tossing it aside. Never one for torture before, Severus had worked his way through twelve of Diriel’s minions; he was starting to get rather good at it.
Or so he liked to think.
The objective of some torture was to extract information, and while the little weasels had squealed about Diriel’s business, his various homes and storage facilities around the city, the escorts he preferred to hire, how much he was embezzling from one of the mob families, no one had let slip his actual location—and that was what Severus needed. So, really, was he a skilled torturer?
Time would tell.
One of them would break. Severus would see to that. As long as he kept his strength up, they would find Diriel by the end of the month.
Unless none of them knew where their boss was hiding.
Which was a frustrating possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time a demon higher up on the food chain had kept their hired muscle out of the loop.
But someone had to know. Diriel had an annoyingly big mouth and a penchant for bragging. Someone had to know where he’d gone.
Before exiting the decidedly not soundproofed torture chamber, he pulled his phone from his pocket. No messages from Moira yet, though she usually checked in around dinner. The thought had him smiling softly; she had provided home-cooked meals—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—for the last three weeks, despite his and Alaric’s numerous protests that it was absolutely not necessary. She kept insisting the meals were one small way to repay them for all they were doing for her, and Severus didn’t exactly mind—she was a good cook, once she had figured out how to wrangle the oven.
A feat he had yet to accomplish without consulting the manual, and he’d lived in that damn house for years.
His ghost of a smile vanished when he saw that all three clients he had scheduled for tonight had confirmed. One of the things Moira insisted upon these days was that Severus continued seeing clients as often as he could.
“You need to be strong,” she had murmured as they held one another in his bed the morning after her rescue. “I don’t want to worry about you. Just… You can’t get it from me, so do what you need to do. I support it.”
He hadn’t believed her at first, but once he and Alaric really threw themselves into the hunt for Diriel, she’d put her foot down.
What she didn’t realize was that the inner demon was repulsed by all other women now. A wave of nausea hit Severus every time he kissed a client, and he had taken to touching them hard and fast as soon as they arrived, lulling them into a drugged sleep within the first ten minutes of their session. Because he would take so much, Severus had also started leaving the women in the rooms overnight, with notes left on the bedside table that a personal emergency had called him away, but thank you for a lovely evening as always, chat soon, xoxoxox—all that nonsense.
He had a little black book large enough that he’d been able to meet different clients these last two weeks, only repeating for regulars, like Pamela Prescott, who hounded him until he caved.
So, while he was in peak physical condition, he hadn’t had actual sex in over three weeks. Perhaps that was why he was such an adept torturer—he had to give the inner demon something. Moira may have crawled into his bed every night. She may have touched him, cuddled up to him, fallen asleep on top of him, but he hadn’t pushed for what she hadn’t offered.
As fiery as she’d been about extracting her vengeance on Diriel the night she’d been rescued, Moira needed time to heal—mentally, emotionally, physically. The inner demon almost seemed to understand, but all his sexual restraint had left Severus with a lot of pent-up everything.
He cast an unconscious Kurron one last look over his shoulder, then slipped out of the room. Standing guard at the end of the long, narrow corridor was Alaric’s daytime babysitter, Gibson. A stocky former debt collector, the demon had worked in Verrier’s services for years—the black fist of the organization, as it were. After Thompson’s untimely passing at the auction a few weeks ago, Verrier had switched up all of Alaric’s watchers, and Gibson had landed the daytime grind. He went wherever Alaric went from sunup to sundown, then monitored their home from an apartment across the street that he shared with Kingsley, the vampire who had replaced Thompson for the night shift.
“Gibby,” Severus said with a nod in passing. “Our little friend is unconscious. Give me a shout when he comes to.”
The demon grunted in acknowledgement, but he didn’t look at Severus—not in the eye, anyway. Sighing, Severus carried on without missing a beat. Most of Alaric’s demon handlers didn’t vibe well with him, so it wasn’t a surprise that some twat who barely clung to the edges of Hell’s high society would have an issue taking orders from an incubus. Still, he did as he was told—because that was his job.
And because Alaric had ordered him to.
Taking the sharp turn to the left, he strolled into a much larger room, which they had set up as a makeshift command center. The wall-mounted cameras in the torture chamber allowed Alaric and the bounty hunters—currently out scoping for more lackeys—to watch Severus’s sessions. Sometimes they had feedback. Occasionally the bounty hunters had new techniques to offer, having more experience extracting information than Severus. Alaric usually appeared pale-faced and somber; he’d never had the stomach for violence.
Kingsley, a gaunt fucker who could have been a perfect match for Cordelia in his Victorian-era attire, sat in front of the twin display monitors next to the entryway today. The vampire nodded when Severus strode in, then flicked his eyes pointedly over his shoulder. Frowning, Severus followed his line of sight—and gulped when he clued in to what Kingsley was hinting at.
“My lord,” Severus managed, adopting as respectful a tone as possible while he dipped into a sweeping bow. “This is an unexpected surprise.”
Across the near-empty room, normally used as furniture storage for both Rose’s Corner and The Inferno, stood Verrier. In the flesh. The statuesque former prince of Hell merely raised a white eyebrow in response, the bright lights overhead highlighting every feature of his aristocratic visage.
Even when Verrier stood next to his son, it was hard to connect the pair, but Alaric had always said he looked more like his mother. While Alaric was lean and copper-haired, green-eyed and freckled, handsome but not necessarily extraordinary, Verrier had presence. His broad, powerful figure was cloaked in a tailored black suit—Versace, as was his preference—and he wore his thick white hair, shoulder-length and straight, swept b
ack in a low ponytail. Haunting blue eyes stared Severus down, unflinching and unimpressed, while Verrier leaned on an onyx walking stick, a trio of small silver skulls at its head.
“I’ve been forced to relocate my shipments for weeks, boys,” Verrier mused, his gaze wandering the empty room with an air of nonchalance—a nonchalance that Severus didn’t trust for a second. With a sigh, Verrier strode forth to study the monitors, placing a firm hand on Kingsley’s shoulder when the blond vampire tried to rise. “Sit.”
“Yes, my lord,” the vampire murmured, doing as he was told, and Severus watched the former prince stare at the monitors with a distant, unfocused look in his eye.
“So, I thought I might see what my dear son and his little friend are up to,” Verrier continued. He lifted his walking cane so suddenly, so abruptly, that Severus flinched back when it prodded his chest. Verrier cocked his head to the side, turning his full attention on the incubus at last. “Torturing demons. You know I don’t approve of the way you corrupt my son.”
“I volunteered to help Severus, Father,” Alaric insisted from across the room. “We’re searching for Diriel, and nobody wants to talk.”
“Ah, yes, Diriel.” Verrier’s cheek twitched slightly as he sneered the demon’s name, disgust oozing over every syllable. “He kidnapped your hybrid, didn’t he? Tortured her? Likely searching for her wings…”
Severus swallowed thickly, his palms clammy under that unrelenting blue stare—a stare that suddenly reminded him of Moira’s. “Yes, my lord.”
“And now you wish to, what, extract revenge?” Verrier finally dropped the sharp end of his cane back to the floor, allowing Severus to draw a full breath once more. “Severus, I never took you for the vengeance type.”
“Moira won’t be safe until that worm is dealt with,” Severus told him. He lifted his chin, knowing Verrier would have obliterated anyone who had touched his Rose back in the day—and she had been completely human. “Alaric and I agreed that this is the best course of action.”
“Hmm.” Expression utterly unreadable, the former prince returned to the monitors, studying them over Kingsley’s shoulder. “And how much longer will you require the use of my warehouse?”
Severus cleared his throat, glancing swiftly to Alaric—did that mean Verrier approved of all this? His friend shrugged, then hurriedly crossed the room to stand next to him.
“We’re hoping to break this one today,” Alaric told his father. “He ranks fairly high in Diriel’s inner circle. Severus has been working on him for the last hour.”
“The nails are a nice touch.”
Severus’s eyebrows shot up, but he quickly composed himself when Verrier glanced his way. It was difficult not to react when Verrier bestowed you with a compliment.
“Thank you, my lord.” Sensing an opportunity, Severus gestured to the nearest monitor. “I thought I’d make him suffer a little. After all, he was the one who broke Alaric’s nose the night we rescued Moira.”
He pointedly ignored Alaric’s soft, disapproving groan, keeping his gaze trained on Verrier. The demon’s grip tightened around the head of his cane, and his eyes narrowed at the monitor before he looked to Severus sharply. The barely noticeable quirk of his brow was question enough; Severus nodded in confirmation. Alaric’s nose might have healed within a few days of the rescue, but Verrier’s rage over the matter had yet to cool.
The former prince unbuttoned his sleek black jacket in a single motion, then rolled it off his shoulders as Alaric continued to huff and puff beside them.
“Father, really—”
“Not a word.” Verrier thrust his jacket and cane at Severus, but a quick glance at the incubus’s bloodstained hands had him handing his effects off to Alaric instead. The hybrid accepted everything with another sigh, and as Verrier uncuffed his dress shirt and started rolling up the sleeves, he nodded to the monitors. “Turn those off.”
Kingsley complied in a heartbeat, and Severus watched the former prince go with a steady click, click, click of his spotless oxfords. Once Verrier was out of earshot, disappearing into the corridor from which Severus had recently emerged, Alaric gave him a hard poke in the middle of his back with his father’s cane.
“Sev, why do you have to provoke him?”
“I didn’t provoke,” he insisted, glancing at those dark monitors and wishing he could have an unfiltered view of the shitstorm headed Kurron’s way. “I merely…shared some information that your father found relevant—”
“Shut up.” He glanced back to find Alaric scowling. “I hate it when he does this and you know it.”
“Well, if it gets us the information that we—”
Screams echoed from deep within the torture chamber, far louder than any Severus had been able to draw out thus far. The trio in the command center fell silent, listening as Kurron begged and pleaded, screamed and howled, on and on for ten agonizing minutes, until it all just…stopped. As suddenly as it had started, an eerie quiet descended over the warehouse—until the familiar click, click, click greeted them from the corridor.
Verrier emerged in the same condition in which he had departed, save for a drop of bright red blood on his cheek. As Alaric helped him back into his jacket, he murmured something to his father, and Verrier brushed the blood away with a rather regal flick of his hand.
“Diriel is in Hell,” he said flatly, accepting his walking stick with a genuinely warm smile reserved only for Alaric. “He fled the night you took your hybrid back, and intends to stay there until all this blows over.”
Severus’s jaw clenched. Of course the coward had run to Hell. While on Earth he would be resigned to seek shelter in cities close to hell-gates, he had an entire realm below to make use of. Endless territory. Plenty of cracks and crevices to hide in. Severus had thought his low status below might have forced him to stay topside, to stay where he was relevant; clearly not.
“Bastard—”
“He was commanded to kidnap your hybrid, Severus,” Verrier remarked, his tone light and airy, as if making pleasant conversation. “Kidnap, torture, kill, I believe were the instructions issued by her father.”
Severus’s arms dropped to his side, a cold shockwave rippling through him. “W-what?”
“If we’re to believe the information that one has provided,” Verrier mused. When he nodded to Kingsley, the vampire turned the monitors back on—and the mess was incredible. Bits of Kurron splattered across all four walls of the interrogation room; Alaric blanched and turned away from the sight with a deep breath.
“Do you believe him?” Severus asked, wishing he sounded stronger—the news had just taken him by surprise. Moira’s father knew Diriel—and had ordered the wretch to kill her?
The news would break her.
“I do.” Verrier retrieved a pair of silk gloves from his pocket. “I wouldn’t have butchered him if I hadn’t.”
“Did he provide the name of the angel?” Severus knew he was pressing his luck, but if he had, it would save everyone a great deal of time and energy.
The former prince merely slid his hands into his gloves, the flash of a deep red mark on his palm, like a smear of blood, catching Severus’s attention fleetingly. As Verrier pursed his lips and shot Severus an irritated look, the incubus realized he had never seen Verrier’s hands before; they had always been gloved when he was out in public. He’d never questioned it before, either, but that mark—
“No. The rat provided no name. Just…the father.” Verrier sighed, shaking his head. “Her father.”
Severus shuffled back into the tables, slumping onto one as Kingsley continued to stare at the monitors, horrified.
“I trust that you’ll be attending dinner this evening,” Verrier remarked, addressing his son as he held Alaric’s face with one hand. When he nodded, the demon grinned and stroked his pale cheek. “Good boy. Seven o’clock sharp at our usual booth.”
“Yes, Father.”
While it seemed Verrier was on the way out, he made one last stop before
he departed. Turning sharply, he stalked over to Severus and slammed a gloved hand to his throat, startling him out of his racing thoughts. Verrier pinned him back against the wall, his expression passive but his gaze downright malicious as Severus sputtered.
“Don’t you dare entangle my boy with angels,” he hissed. “Do you understand, incubus?”
“Y-yes,” Severus stammered, the demon’s grasp crushing his windpipe like it was nothing. “Y-you know I-I’d never endanger him. Alaric is m-my dearest f-f-friend—”
“I will hold you to it,” Verrier remarked, choking him hard enough that Severus saw stars. “Should anything happen to him, I will rip you apart.”
“Father,” Alaric said with a groan. “Enough. Please. Sev would die for me. You know that.”
Finally, the demon released him, and Severus sank back to the table, wheezing, his crushed trachea slowly popping back to its proper shape. He shrank away when Verrier reached for him again, having no shame in cowering, but this time the demon merely dusted him off and straightened his shirt before marching out of the room. Click, click, click, click.
Gone.
“Always a pleasure when your father stops by,” Severus rasped, rubbing at his raw throat.
“Well, you didn’t have to bring him into it—”
“But now we know.” Now they knew that an angel was responsible for Moira’s torment, for her agony—for all the monstrous deeds that Diriel had done to her. Was she aware that her father had played a role in all of it?
“Do we tell her?” Alaric asked. He motioned for Kingsley to give them a moment, and the vampire disappeared down the corridor. Within seconds, they spied both handlers in the interrogation room, half-heartedly starting to clean demon innards off the walls.
“Good little servants, aren’t they?”
“Severus.”
He dragged in a steadying breath, then let it out slowly, his gaze distant, all the while knowing Alaric wouldn’t let him avoid the question forever. “I don’t know. She’s been doing so much better this week. I don’t want to undo that by…”
