Stalker (The Hunt Book 3)

by Liz Meldon

  “No, Moira.” Severus pushed away from the railing, closing the distance between them with a few steps of his own. “You deserve to live. I cannot guarantee that in Hell.”

  “This isn’t living! Hiding in your house isn’t living, Severus! I want to do something. I want to—”

  “Well, I’m afraid we don’t always get what we want, do we?” he remarked, fighting to keep his temper in check—fighting, and soon failing.

  “But—”

  “Enough.”

  Ella gasped when the windows rattled, Severus’s anger manifesting in the shuddering walls of the building around them. He regretted it as soon as the word left his mouth, but he couldn’t have her argue about this anymore. He couldn’t listen to her reasoning. He couldn’t look into those desperate eyes, seconds away from brimming with tears. He just couldn’t. Because then he would give in, and he would hate himself for it.

  “Maybe we should just take a breath,” Alaric suggested, breaking the tense silence. With a sigh, Severus finally glanced over at Moira, an apology brewing—but he didn’t find her frightened by his outburst. He didn’t see a cowering woman, but a fierce goddess enraged. His gaze dropped to her hands, half expecting to see them aglow. Tight little fists trembled at her side, and Severus knew that a breath wouldn’t quell the fire within her. So, he walked away.

  “Yes. Fine. A breath,” he hissed, grasping the thin metal railing and thundering downstairs. Overhead, he vaguely heard Alaric’s voice, followed by the gentle pitter-patter of feet padding toward the couch—Moira, most likely, seeking comfort from her human ally.

  None of them knew Hell as he did. Not Alaric, whose trips to Hell had always been with his father, with whom he was looked upon as the son of a prince. The hybrid was practically worshipped down there. Ella appeared to be on his side, but she knew nothing of the true Hell either, for it was hardly all fire and brimstone, but more mocking words and cruel laughter.

  And Moira. Sweet Moira—she had no idea what she’d asked of him. None. And the fact that she couldn’t accept his reluctance at face value enraged him.

  Hadn’t he done everything for her already? Hadn’t he acted in her best interest, his actions dictated by the desire to keep her safe and alive? The one time he had yielded and brought her along for the ride had fucked them all over—and Hell would be no different.

  His lips curled into a snarl, ignoring the way the inner demon scalded his esophagus with a fresh bout of acid reflux—clearly unimpressed with how he’d handled the situation.

  “Oh, what do you know?” he seethed, shoving his feet into his loafers by the door before digging his cigarettes out of a coat in the closet. “You hated it too. You were the reason we left in the first place.”

  Not that there was a we back then. Severus’s true self, the beast within, had fled Hell, and Severus’s human-friendly shell, curated by the hell-gate’s magic, had been picking up the pieces in Farrow’s Hollow ever since.

  Wrenching the front door open, he strode forth onto the sidewalk, holding a flicker of flame to the end of his cigarette before he stuffed the silver lighter back in his pocket. He took a deep, long drag, prowling back and forth across the breadth of the alley between the neighbouring apartment buildings. Pacing. Stalking. Like a caged animal stewing in his own anger, he finished the cigarette without even tasting it, then tossed the butt aside with a grimace.

  He couldn’t take Moira to Hell. Even if his family did offer her sanctuary, how could he face them again after all this time?

  No one had come looking.

  Did they think him dead?

  He kneaded his chest, hating the way it constricted at the thought. None of this mattered—he hadn’t asked after them, either.

  Moira mattered.

  Severus ceased his pacing when he realized he was being watched, and not by Gibson from his tinted apartment window across the street. Two demons stood before the flower shop at the base of the building Alaric’s hired babysitters rented an apartment in. One had the courtesy to carry a bouquet in the crook of his arm, but they were both watching him.

  Severus and Alaric had paid three different sources, none of whom were affiliated with the demon mob families, to spread rumors that Moira had left Farrow’s Hollow. Included in those rumors was the part about Diriel kidnapping her, just to add some credibility, but the emphasis was placed on the fact that the first angel-human hybrid Farrow’s Hollow had ever seen had fled the coop.

  For now, that had taken some of the heat off her, and Severus estimated in another month or two her novelty would blow over completely. However, there were some rather persistent fucks who liked to sniff around the alleyway—ordinary demons, like the two across their street, their dull, boring vibrations an affront to Severus’s sensibilities.

  Many in the Farrow’s Hollow demon community knew that Alaric Crowley had some link to said alleyway. After all, parking his garishly white Lamborghini in front of it wasn’t exactly subtle. Still, no one could crack Cordelia’s enchantments. No one was getting in. No one even knew the house was there. As far as they were concerned, Severus and Alaric waltzed into an alternate realm whenever they disappeared, with magic similar to the hell-gates propelling them away from Earth.

  Besides, Verrier’s involvement usually kept anyone from interfering.

  He did worry about angels dropping in on them, but in all the years they had lived there, Severus hadn’t found so much as a rogue feather around their property. Cordelia was a prodigy. Her magic was air-tight.

  Still, that didn’t exactly stop fuckers from looking, did it?

  He flipped the pair across the street the bird, but before he could march over there and take out a little of his pent-up anger on their skulls, Gibson appeared in the doorway of the flower shop. While Severus couldn’t hear what was said, he could assume Verrier’s name was dropped, and the demons scampered off less than a minute later. He offered the demon a nod, one that wasn’t returned, and then returned indoors, only marginally less annoyed now than he had been before.

  The day felt like it had dragged on forever, and it wasn’t four in the afternoon yet—and he still had three clients scheduled this evening. Cursing under his breath, Severus grabbed one of Alaric’s top-shelf bourbons from the bar under the staircase, cracked open the lid, and drank straight from the source. The liquid burned all the way down, quashing the inner demon’s temper tantrum and warming his core. Upstairs, he could hear the faint murmurs of a conversation, one he had no intention of rejoining anytime soon.

  Alcohol seemed like his best option. So, he settled at the breakfast bar, bourbon in hand, and brought the bottle to his lips again—hoping that by the time he finished it, all would be right again between him and Moira, and neither would waste another breath on the subject of Hell.

  Ha.

  He thought back to the desperation in her voice, the rage gathering around her like the tense stillness before a devastating storm. Moira wouldn’t let this go. She would fight him, passionately pleading her case, blindly putting her trust in him to keep her safe in the pit, pushing and pushing and pushing until he yielded. Again. And not for the last time, either—of that much he was certain.

  Her stubborn tenacity was one of the things that drove him positively insane, yet it endeared her to him, too. It lured him in, ensnared him, infuriated him.

  Severus took a large gulp of bourbon, knowing that, in the plainest sense—it was also one of the reasons he loved her.

  Chapter Four

  Moira awoke with a start the following morning, her heart racing as she tried to blink visions of a sneering, black-eyed Diriel from her mind’s eye. A familiar nightmare—she hadn’t quite shaken him yet. Lately, however, she had been able to go at least a few nights without seeing him. But the stress from her spat with Severus must have triggered the dream: she was back in that room, tied up and helpless, with Diriel piercing her spine. This time, Severus had been there, watching with a cold, unfeeling fury—always out of reach. He’d spo
ken, but Moira hadn’t heard him; she could only see his lips moving.

  Gulping down a shaky breath, she pressed a hand to her forehead and stared up at the ceiling of her third-floor room, exhaustion settling across her body like a thick, unrelenting blanket. This had been the first time in her entire month of living with Alaric and Severus that she’d spent a full night in the queen-sized bed they had bought her. The mattress was too hard and the pillows were too high—nothing like the comfort of Severus’s bed.

  Since the incubus had stormed out to meet his clients before they’d had a chance to settle things last night, it hadn’t felt right to climb into his bed when he returned home shortly after midnight. It had been difficult, listening to his familiar steps ascending the various stairwells. Sleeping with him had become a comforting habit, one Moira found herself itching to satisfy as soon as his door shut soundly one floor above. But she had stayed on the never-before-used mattress, with Ella by her side and a heaviness in her heart.

  Beyond the tension between her and Severus, she hadn’t thought it right to leave Ella by herself, either. Her best friend had offered to stay until things got sorted; as an apology for keeping her out of the loop, Moira had even offered to pay her rent for the entire summer at their shared home on the other side of campus. Ella fought both initially, the staying here and having her rent paid by someone else, but in the end she relented, especially when Moira explained that until Diriel was caught and the angel hybrid fervor died down, this was the safest option.

  Together, they had contacted their landlord about the change. Moira had the money to pay the entire house’s rent from her inheritance anyway, and she preferred having Ella with her now that she was in the know about everything. Alaric’s house was invisible to everyone who might want to hurt her or her loved ones. Ella was now in a fortress of safety and security.

  After everything had been decided, they’d even told their roommates not to worry, that they were just staying with Moira’s boyfriend—well, partying with Moira’s boyfriend, the lie that had been the easiest to sell—and they’d be back in the fall. Two someones named Alaric and Russ would be by to pack up Ella’s things; she had already started her very specific must-haves list.

  Hopefully all this would settle by the fall. With just over three months between now and the start of Ella’s final year and Moira’s do-over semester in their respective Master’s programs, Moira could only hope that the Diriel situation would be dealt with—and by extension, the unpleasantness with her dad.

  Last night, with Ella back in her life, she had been able to forget about all of it. They had cooked dinner together, spoiling Alaric with a roast, and the trio had played video games until the redhead had needed to go to work. With the house to themselves, she and Ella barricaded themselves in the third-floor bedroom Moira never used, continuing to hash everything out. To say her best friend had been distraught at the fact that Moira was so casually discussing a plan to kill another person was an understatement.

  “But why does he need to die?” she’d asked, exasperated and a little hungover. “And why are you so comfortable with it? Moira… You’re talking about taking someone’s life like it’s nothing.”

  “A demon, not a person,” Moira had argued, as if that made the idea any easier to swallow. “The rules are different in their world. For me right now, it’s kill or be killed, and Ella, I have to accept it if I’m going to survive.”

  In her opinion, the whole Diriel issue had put her between a rock and a hard place, and the fact that Severus couldn’t just get on board about her tagging along to Hell with him only made things more difficult.

  Sighing, she slowly untangled herself from Ella’s grasp; her sleeping best friend had snapped around her like a spider monkey when she’d woken up gasping. Temporarily freed, Moira sat up in the near pitch-black, windowless room, the only light trailing in from under the closed door. As she rubbed the sleep out of one eye, she tapped her phone, which had spent the night next to her pillow, then squinted at the blinding, too-bright screen.

  Nearly 5 AM. With only four hours of sleep under her belt, she really ought to try and get some more shut-eye. However, this was around the time she and Severus had been rolling out of bed for weeks—Moira’s mind didn’t want to keep sleeping. Her body wasn’t all that excited to get up, but she was awake now. Alert. Ready to start another day. No going back.

  So, with a heavy sigh, she slipped out from under the thin duvet cover, arranged it snugly around Ella, and then tiptoed to the bathroom. Toilet used. Face washed. Teeth brushed. Normally she would have tackled her unruly, obscenely long white locks too, but Ella had braided them into a thick crown around her head last night while Moira crushed Alaric at Mario Kart. Sleep had tugged wisps of white loose, and she smoothed them down, knowing they wouldn’t stay, before digging a grey wool cap out of her duffel bag and throwing it on.

  She hadn’t felt the need to cover her hair anymore—not after she had accepted it for what it truly meant. However, her white hair made her distinct, and Severus and Alaric both agreed that it would be best to keep it covered when she was out in public.

  As quickly and quietly as she could, Moira changed out of her sleep shorts and cozy tee, swapping them for a pair of old, comfortable jeans and a slouchy white T-shirt. The pants were finally starting to fit better after a month of eating the proper amount of food for her insane new metabolism, and the T-shirt was just a little sheer—enough so that she could see her deep purple bra underneath. She pursed her lips, studying herself in the bathroom mirror, then nodded in approval and crept out.

  Ella was still asleep when she stopped to check on her, hugging Moira’s pillow now rather than Moira herself. Tiptoeing away, she grabbed her cell phone and purse, then snuck out of the room and gently shut the door behind her. She paused for a moment, waiting, listening for movement. With nothing more than Ella’s soft, even snores buzzing inside the bedroom, Moira hurried downstairs. She continued to creep silently but swiftly, knowing Alaric would have only gotten home from the bar an hour or two ago. She carried along right to the ground floor—only to stop halfway down that final stairwell when she found Severus standing at the front window.

  He glanced over his shoulder, turning fully when she came to a stop. While his expression was more unreadable than she liked, much of yesterday’s hard anger had disappeared. The dark circles under his eyes told her that his night had been just as restless as hers, and she studied him for a moment in silence, gripping the thin metal railing, then finally offered a shy smile. “Hi.”

  Her heart beat faster when he returned the smile, even if it didn’t quite meet his eyes.

  “Morning.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to…go,” she told him, taking the rest of the stairs slowly and stopping when she reached the bottom. He already had his shoes on, the usual dark grey sweatpants and black T-shirt clinging to the muscular frame beneath.

  “I’m game if you are,” Severus remarked. While Moira couldn’t help but feel like he lacked his usual enthusiasm, at least he was here. He hadn’t forgotten—purposefully or otherwise. His gaze lingered on her face, the irises a near-perfect match to his pupils. Clearly he had stocked up last night with his clients; Moira swallowed hard, ignoring the sudden painful stab of jealousy in her gut.

  She had insisted he keep seeing clients for his own good. She wasn’t allowed to be jealous.

  “Yeah, of course.” She nodded, forcing her smile to stretch a bit wider. “Always.”

  “Right.” He headed for the door, gaze dropping at last. “I’ll fetch the car.”

  “Okay.” Moira reached out for him as he passed by, but he was out the front door too quick for her to catch. Her arm hung there for a moment, fingers grasping and outstretched, before it fell back at her side, limp.

  Something needed to change. She refused to let it carry on like this—not with Severus. One stupid fight, regardless of how important the issue, wasn’t going to wreck what they had.
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  So, she slipped her feet into her beat-up runners, shoved her phone in her purse, strung the purse across her body, and hurried for the kitchen. The boys had only seen fit to tell her after her daring escape attempt down the back of the building that there was an exit at the far end of the pantry.

  Given that she hadn’t even realized there was a pantry, imagine her surprise when they’d shown her a near-invisible door next to the bar under the stairs. It opened to reveal a fully stocked pantry, six shelves high and almost ten feet deep, at the back of which was a heavily fortified door that opened to the alley.

  Passing through the cool, dark space, a soft yellow glow emanating from the light that ran the full length of the room, Moira spotted two baskets of fresh blueberries on the fruit counter.

  “Pancake breakfast it is,” she mused, pausing to poke through the piles of plump little fruit. Ella was a fiend for pancakes of any kind, but blueberry pancakes had been the staple that Moira’s mom made for breakfast every Sunday when they all lived together. The thought made her smile, happier times flashing across her mind—only to be dampened by the faint roar of the SUV pulling into place behind the building. Moira attacked the various locks on the exit door with gusto, knocking them out in a tight fifteen seconds, which was a drastic improvement from the full minute it used to take her.

  Why everything had to be so damn complicated was beyond her. No one could even see the building—why did the back door need ten different locks of varying combinations?

  She stepped outside and breathed in the fresh morning air. Above, the sky shook off the darkness, the purply-black of night giving way to the rosy pink of dawn. As the door swung shut behind her, she glanced back, pleased that she could still see the building even if she was no longer touching it.

  Before Cordelia had gone back to summering in Hell—“I’m missing the height of the social season!” she’d proclaimed dramatically—the witch had carved her secret mark over Moira’s ribcage. A shoddily drawn pentagram, nothing more than a star encircled, now lived on her body forever, allowing her to see beyond Cordelia’s illusions. It technically allowed Moira to come and go from the building as she pleased, but she only ever went out with Severus—and only before sunrise.