by Larissa Ione
Lore had forgotten all about the male in the shadows, but now he shifted slightly, his black, waist-length hair seeming to absorb all the light in the room. It was as if the dude wore his shadow like a cloak. That was seriously fucked up.
A sinister smile split Deth’s face wide open. “The target,” he said, “is Kynan Morgan. The very human you brought back to life.”
The ground shifted beneath Lore’s feet. Oh, holy hell. Though Lore had saved Kynan’s life, he hated him and really wouldn’t mind putting him in the ground. But Jesus… if he killed the human, Lore would spend the rest of his sorry life looking over his shoulder. He’d have every Aegis Guardian on the planet aiming to gut him with a stang, which would be pleasant compared to what Gem and his brothers would do to him.
Deth leaned in close, so close Lore could feel the ugly demon’s heat on his face. “You have your assignment. You will kill Morgan—using your death touch—and retrieve his amulet within ninety-six hours. And if you refuse or fail, Sin will die.”
Sin, whose favorite saying was now becoming ironic reality.
No good deed shall go unpunished.
No fucking shit.
By sparing his brothers, Lore might have condemned his sister to death.
Rariel couldn’t contain a smile as he watched Lore exit Detharu’s chamber. He’d waited so long to put his plan into motion, and now that the ball was rolling, nothing could stop it.
“Why did you specifically request Lore for this job?” Detharu stood at the hearth’s edge, his normally white skin taking on the orange of the flames like a chameleon’s. Unlike most, Rariel could see the Molegra demon’s true form, though he wished he couldn’t. The eyeless man-shaped creature was one of the most repulsive demons Rariel had ever come across.
“He has a reputation as being one of the best,” Rariel lied.
Lore did have a reputation for excellence at his job, but that wasn’t why Rariel had chosen him. Rariel had chosen him because by giving Kynan, a Marked Sentinel, life, Lore had become the only being other than an angel who could take it away.
Detharu nodded, still facing the fire. “I’ll be sorry to lose him. And Sin.”
Yes, Rariel had been curious about this Sin person Detharu had dangled over Lore’s head. “Is she his mate?”
“Sister.”
Rariel’s breath caught. Sister… “Is she an assassin?”
Detharu turned around, his sausage-body undulating grotesquely. “She is. Ruthless and cunning, like her brother.”
Oh, this was perfect. Poetic, even. “Then I want Sin for the other target.”
“Same time frame?” Deth asked.
“Yes.”
The assassin master shuffled to his throne. “The rush job will cost you quadruple, as it did with Lore.”
“I’m paying quadruple because my insistence on using Lore is depriving you of him as a slave.”
“Double then. Take it or leave it.”
Rariel could leave it and go with another assassin, but the brother-sister thing gave him shivers of pleasure. “Done.”
Detharu smiled, his pale, shapeless lips forming a deep fissure that revealed tiny, pointed teeth. “Tell me, why is this amulet of Morgan’s important to you?”
“It’s a bauble. Worthless except as a trophy.” The truth, that it was a priceless bargaining chip that would get Rariel everything he wanted, was not something he would share with anyone, let alone assassin scum.
The demon seemed to buy the lie. “Come then,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “We’ll feast on the sweet flesh of a newly hatched huldrefox while we draw up the contracts.”
Furry little huldrefox hatchlings weren’t cheap, and with what Rariel was paying, the bastard could afford to eat them—or the young of any species—every day if he wanted to. Still, Rariel couldn’t scrounge up much in the way of bitterness. Not when centuries of planning was about to yield results.
Oh, yes. He could almost hear Idess’s screams of misery already.
The icy whisper of a hand caressed his arm, reminding him of the debt Rariel had yet to pay. Because Rariel wasn’t the only being in the room who was after revenge.
And after what Roag’s brothers had done to him, Rariel couldn’t blame the demon at all.
Two
Idess was close to the end. She could feel it. Could practically taste it, and as she stood at the top of Mount Everest and gazed up at the heavens, she could picture it.
An icy gale whipped up the snow around her, but she didn’t notice despite the fact that she was wearing low-waisted, cropped cammy pants, a tummy-revealing tank top, and hiking boots. As a Memitim, the only class of angel that was born, not made by the direct hand of God, she was impervious to the elements. Was impervious to most things that could harm others. Soon, even those few things that could hurt or kill her would no longer be a threat. Soon, she would Ascend, would earn her wings and join her fully transitioned angel mother, brothers, and sisters in Heaven.
Not that she cared about seeing many of them. With the exception of her brother Rami, she knew few of her siblings very well, most not at all. But she couldn’t wait to see Rami, had spent the last five hundred years since he Ascended in solitude and loneliness.
The only contact she had with people was when she shopped, a favorite pastime, and when she fed, a necessary evil she despised. “Feeding is the curse of our father,” Rami had said. “It reminds us that no one is perfect, and that we must all resist temptations of the flesh, lest we allow corruption to blacken our souls.”
Rami had feared that she would enjoy the physical contact feeding on Primori required, and that she’d gradually succumb to sin.
He was right to worry. Drinking blood did more than deliver the brief infusion of power Memitim needed to maintain their ability to flash. It also temporarily connected them psychically to their host, forcing Memitim to, for hours, feel what the Primori felt, whether it be anger, sadness, lust…
Oh, Idess couldn’t wait until the day she Ascended and didn’t need to engage in such intimacies anymore. As it was, she despised feeding so much that she had a tendency to walk a fine line with it, holding off until the last possible moment.
“It’s almost over,” she shouted to the sky. The wind ate her words, but she knew she’d been heard. In Heaven, they heard everything.
The thought brought an instant twinge of fear to her gut, because in truth, she hoped that wasn’t the case. She hadn’t exactly been… an angel.
Still, she was close to being one. She now had only two Primori to watch over, and one of them was the jewel in her crown.
Kynan Morgan was a Marked Sentinel, a human who had been charmed by an angel. Sentinels couldn’t be hurt or killed except by a being of angelic origin, which usually meant that they didn’t rate Memitim watchers. But for some reason he did, and she had been chosen to protect him from the infinitesimal chance that someone could get past his charm. On the other hand, he was immortal, which meant that she could have to guard him for hundreds of years. Thousands, even.
But she didn’t think so. Her other Primori, a werewolf, was long-lived but not immortal, so once he died or had fulfilled whatever destiny made him critical to the fate of the world, she would be left with only Kynan… and everyone knew that Memitim never guarded only one Primori.
Surely the honor of keeping Kynan safe would fall to one of her brethren, and she’d earn her wings for a job well done.
She couldn’t wait.
Earth sucked, as humans these days liked to say.
Sighing, she visualized the living room of her Italian villa and flashed from the mountain to her house. She’d been born nearby, and even after thousands of years, she still felt the pull that brought her home every day.
The soles of her boots clacked on the beige and gold stone tiles as she moved toward the kitchen. Usually she’d turn on the stereo, get some Mozart going, but excitement still stirred her blood, and hunger rumbled her stomach.
She eyed the
fruit bowl on her dining room table and the dish of fine Italian chocolate on her kitchen counter, waffled… and then reached for a pomegranate.
Fruit is nature’s blessing, Rami used to say. We shouldn’t defile the bodies God gave us with spirits and unhealthful sweets.
Sure, none of that could hurt her, but Rami had been devout and pure, even before he’d been plucked out of his human life at the customary age of nineteen to become a Memitim, and as her teacher in all things holy, he’d been a strict taskmaster. Which, she thought, as she palmed a candy, was all the more reason to indulge now and then. She actually looked forward to his giving her a stern lecture when she finally saw him again.
A faint twinge streaked across her right wrist. Odd. She twisted her arm to view the two quarter-sized Primori marks on the underside. Chase’s heraldi had been there for eight years, was the same color as her skin, the thin lines raised like a brand or the outline of a fresh tattoo. But Kynan’s was new, only three weeks old, and she still hadn’t gotten used to seeing it. Frowning, she looked closer. The edges were pink… swelling rapidly… it began to burn, glow, and she dropped the candy with a gasp.
Kynan, one of the few untouchable people on the planet, was in danger.
Lore stood at the entrance to an upstate New York mansion, fists clenched and watching Kynan search the huge-ass sitting room, S-shaped stang in one hand and holy water in the other. Apparently, Croucher demons had set up shop in the dwelling, and Kynan intended to take them out before the wealthy family who lived there got too talky about what was going on. And before someone got hurt.
The Aegis to the rescue.
Bunch of do-gooder, holier-than-thou hypocrites. Lore had never liked Guardians all that much, but the dislike had turned to downright hatred two decades ago, when one of his contracted hits had been a Guardian who’d pissed off the wrong demon. The Guardian had been good enough at his job that he’d nearly taken Lore out.
Almost getting whacked wasn’t what had annoyed Lore—he’d deserved it for letting his guard down. What had gotten Lore all worked up was the fact that the Guardian had used some seriously underhanded, sleazy methods for catching and killing demons, including keeping cages full of baby demons to torture until adults came to save the little ones.
Lore didn’t harbor a whole lot of love for demons, but there were some things you just didn’t do. Er… yeah. Lore’s hypocrite switch flipped at that, because some of those things you just didn’t do had been done by him during his hell years as an assassin. He shot Kynan a glance, and okay, Lore had no qualms about putting that guy down. They’d been enemies since they first identified each other as competition for the same woman. Back then, Lore had hoped for an opportunity to take the guy’s head off, which made the fact that Lore had brought Kynan back to life after he’d been bled out so ironic. Then again, he’d only resurrected Kynan because he’d hated seeing Gem in pain.
This time, he wouldn’t have to see it.
The slave-bond on Lore’s chest pulsed, marking time in the countdown to his deadline, and there was no sense in waiting. Lore strode inside, his boots striking the black-veined red marble and announcing his presence with no subtlety whatsoever. Lore never had been subtle.
Instantly, Kynan swung around. “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was a knot of suspicion and snarl, and yeah, there was no love lost between them.
Lore didn’t remove his glove; too obvious. He’d power-punch his death special through the leather. “I want to call a truce.”
Kynan snorted. “I hadn’t heard that hell froze over.”
Funny guy. Lore almost regretted having to kill him. Almost. “True story. I figure the more I get to know my brothers, the more you and I will have to see each other, and I’m thinking brawls at family picnics are frowned upon.”
“Clearly you don’t know your brothers,” Kynan said wryly, and Lore experienced a weird sensation… as if maybe he could like the human under the right circumstances.
Ruthlessly, he shoved aside the candy-ass sentiments and grew a set. His sister’s life was at stake, here. “Well, that’s sort of the point of hanging around with them.” Not that that was going to happen. He’d made Sin a promise, and this time, he wouldn’t fail her. “So what do you say?”
Skepticism put shadows in Kynan’s denim-blue eyes, and Lore’s palms dampened with sweat. “I haven’t thanked you for saving my life.”
“No need.” Actually, some serious sucking up would be cool, considering how much pain Deth had put Lore through for using his power of resurrection.
“Bullshit.” Kynan jammed his stang into the weapons harness criss-crossing his chest, the sound of metal sliding home into its leather housing ringing out in the cavernous space. “No way am I letting you hold that over my head for eternity. I’ll thank you, and somehow, I’ll make us even.”
They’d be even when Kynan was the guest of honor at his own wake. And wait… eternity? What the hell did he mean by eternity? Lore eyed the gold chain hanging around Kynan’s neck, the one Lore was supposed to grab after killing him. Wraith had given him the crystal amulet… did it bestow magical protection or longevity?
Well, there was only one way to find out. “Fine. I accept your thanks. Truce?” Lore offered his hand, let his gift fire up with so much power that his arm burned from the top symbol at the crook of his neck to his fingertips. If he took off his jacket, he knew every glyph would be glowing like a brand.
For a long time, Kynan just stood there. Take it, take it… Lore made a come-on gesture with his fingers, hoping the guy would get with the program. Finally, Kynan nodded.
And held out his hand. “Truce.”
Idess materialized inside a house—an expensive one, judging by the decor. Instantly, an intense itch flared up between her shoulder blades along the twin marks where her wings would someday sprout. They were like twin demon sensors, and right now, they were screaming warnings.
In the center of a richly decorated but spacious room, Kynan was facing off with a huge male clad in black leather. The male must be a demon, and somehow the source of the danger vibes that buzzed through her as though she was gripping an electric wire. But how could he be a threat to Kynan? The male wasn’t a fallen angel; she’d sense that.
Still, Kynan’s heraldi was searing her arm, so the impossibility of the situation didn’t matter. She flashed between the two men, using the element of surprise and her superior strength to slam her palms into the stranger’s massive chest and heave him across the room.
“What the—” He hit the wall with a resounding crack, the impact so forceful that plaster and dust came down around him. He shook his head, flinging white wall particles from his short, nearly black hair.
Idess summoned a scythe, the Memitim’s signature weapon and very handy for separating a head from a body. She hated to kill—as the daughter of an angel, she was a giver and protector of life, by nature—but she would do anything to ensure the safety of her Primori. Anything, thanks to the more violent genes passed down by her father.
She swung the weapon in a graceful arc—Kynan hit her from behind, and her aim went awry as he slammed her to the floor.
“Idiot!” she spat. Kynan clearly didn’t realize that she was there to protect him, and didn’t it just figure that he’d come to the aid of the very man who was there to kill him. She rolled, saw the flash of a stang as it plunged down-ward, felt the whisper of metal as it grazed her shoulder.
Then the demon was there, his gloved fist coming at her so fast she barely had time to twist away. Blocking his next punch, she leaped to her feet and swept her leg out, catching him in the shin, and though he grunted, he didn’t go down.
Kynan attacked from her flank, landing what would, on a human, have been a knee-breaking strike, and darn it, she didn’t need to be fighting both of these guys. Spinning, she nailed Kynan in the jaw with a powerful, but measured punch. Shock flickered in his eyes before they rolled up in his head and he crumpled to the ground.
>
Pivoting, she faced the remaining male. He swung at her. She blocked. Slashed with the scythe. Caught him with an ax kick that knocked him backward, but only for a moment. He was big, but he moved like a panther, dancing lightly on his feet, every blow controlled and more often than not landing on her body.
Surprised by his skill, she lost momentum, and in a series of impressive moves, he made her spine intimate with the wall and was on her, his forearm jammed into her throat and his six-foot-six body pinning her. His fingers circled her wrist and held it at her hip, rendering the weapon useless. For the moment.
“Who the fuck are you?” The male’s ebony eyes, framed by long, lush lashes any female would kill for, glittered with anger and little gold flecks.
“Seeing as how you’re a murderer, I’d say you don’t have the right to be indignant.”
“Seeing as how I could kill you with one more pound of pressure on your larynx, I’d say that your being a smart-ass is pretty damned stupid.” He leaned into her a little more, so they were chest to chest and his lips were brushing her cheek. “But you’re hot, and I’ll bet you fuck like you fight, so I can forgive your lack of brains.”
This cretin was—what was the popular saying in this decade—toast? Yes, this cretin was toast. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”
He tightened his grip on her wrist. “Who sent you?”
“God.” She jerked up her knee. He shifted, and she struck only a glancing blow to his groin. Still, he sucked air. Nice.
“Bad girl,” he snarled, taking her to the floor with a hook to the back of her leg and a firm shove to her neck.
He dropped, coming down on top of her. With a quick thought and a flick of her hand, the scythe morphed into a dagger. She struck out, catching him in the shoulder. He hissed and yanked sideways as the blade cut through his leather jacket and into his flesh.
Score one for the bad girl. She rolled out from under him, stabbing him in the thigh on her way. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils, a tantalizing scent for the part of her that must feed once a month, but more important, it told her that this male was of both human and demon descent.
