by Michele Hauf
Or was it that wintergreen kiss that still tickled his mouth? And the feel of her body crushed against his like a sparrow clinging to a hawk. A glance to the bus spotted his prey.
“Is that something on her face, or is she that pitiful?”
“Demon residue, Belladonna. And she’s not pitiful, just in trouble.”
“If she’s with you, then yes, I’d call that trouble.”
She teased. The woman couldn’t begin to guess at he and Mersey’s earlier interaction.
“She was in the area when I destroyed a demon.”
“You’ve never exposed yourself to civilians before, Jack. Bad form.”
Belladonna always called things exactly as they were. Jack hated the sense of failure, but he always made a point of learning from it. And what had he learned tonight? Don’t mix business with pleasure.
“She’s not exactly a civilian. She…Well, there was another demon, and she captured it in some sort of crystal, then hightailed it out of there like she was all it. Her last words were that she had plans to take it out of the thing when she returned to base.”
“Base? What base?”
“Don’t know.” Belladonna’s sudden urgency put him on alert. “She called me a lot of names, too, but—what was that one…? Ah yes, a death merchant.”
“Oh, dear. Who is this woman?”
“Well that, Belladonna, is why I gave you a bell. I need all the information you can provide on her. I’m tracking her at the moment.”
He glanced up. The bus pulled to a stop. The capped head remained seated.
“Heading east toward Westminster on a double-decker. I don’t know what the deal was with the crystal, but if she tries to set it loose—”
“She must be in the know.” Jack heard a keyboard clattering in the background. “It is possible to imprison a demon within crystal for storage and later release. But you’ve got to know what you’re doing. Most importantly, you must have some talent. You didn’t compromise yourself, did you, Jack?”
He swiped a palm over his face, shaking his head. He hadn’t purposefully compromised himself, and yet, the woman had managed to fix her own ideas of his cover to him.
“Jack?”
“I didn’t say a thing. She thought I was a freelance demon hunter. No worries. She’d never pin me for P-Cell, because no one knows about us.”
The silence on the line was incredible. Jack glanced up and around the rearview mirror. The bus took off. The capped head was no longer in position.
He scanned the pavement where the riders had dispersed. No sign of a petite woman in an aviator cap and long coat. Shifting into gear, he took off after the double-decker.
“No one knows about P-Cell,” Belladonna agreed over the radio speaker.
“Unless…She specifically named you a death merchant? There’s only one group—Could be one of them.”
“Them?”
“You’re still new, Jack. There’s plenty P-Cell history you don’t know about. I’m going to search the database for your Mersey Bane. I’ll give you a bell if I find what I’m looking for. I believe in you, Jack.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
“You’ve got it in you to do great things,” Belladonna added. “Whatever you do, don’t lose the subject, or that demon.”
“No intention, Belladonna.” He hung up, and gunned the Range Rover to parallel the bus. No sign of the woman on this side. “Sod it, if she slipped off…”
Angry at his lack of control over the situation, Jack sped up to park behind the bus as it performed another stop. He ran out and sorted through the riders as they spilled from the bus. Pushing through to step up inside, he scanned the seats. It was empty!
“If you want to ride, find a seat,” the driver prompted. “Haven’t got all night, mate.”
Slamming his fist against the steel handrail, Jack jumped out to the pavement, right before a stairway that led down to the tube train. Intuition screamed that she’d taken the evasive maneuver. “She went underground. Sneaky. I will find you, Miss Bane. You’re not going to slip from my life like a demon misting in from the dark realm. This hunter never loses his prey.”
The depths of London’s underground system were brightly lit and smelled stale, and tainted with the metallic rub of wheels along the electric track. Hurdling the turnstile, he dashed out onto the platform and slipped into the same carriage he saw Mersey’s coat disappear onto just as the doors closed.
The carriage was packed, all seats taken and floor space crushed with standers. Must have been near a concert hall for the late crowd. Jack pushed through, but no one was cooperative. He didn’t want to force his way past the pregnant woman, so he gripped a teenager bopping to an iPod by the collar and hauled him out of his seat. Offering the seat to the pregnant woman, he slid by her as he slapped the teenager’s hand to a standing pole.
By the time he made the end of the carriage, there was no sign of Mersey Bane. He scanned back over the seats. The teenager flipped him off. How could he have missed her?
“Meowr.” A black cat curled beneath the seat of an old woman who worked her crochet with blinding speed.
“Someone brought a cat onboard?” What they didn’t think of. “Did you see a woman?” he asked those about him. “She wore a cap with goggles and had a long coat.”
No one paid him mind.
The carriage came to a stop and half the passengers pushed out. With one last scan around, Jack stepped out onto the platform. Scratching his head, he watched the train pull away. The black cat pawed at the closed door.
“Not good,” he muttered. “Not bloody good.”
Now who would protect Little Miss Attitude from the demon?
The connection between the familiar and the demon hunter could prove most conducive to his reentry into the Cadre.
The dread demon lingered in the otherwhere above London, following the sensory trail left behind by both of them. The girl trailed a stream of giddy urgency behind her. And the male couldn’t decide whether to be angry or release his lust.
Interesting.
Now, to send in a minion for a closer look.
The Cadre headquarters sat nestled in the lush St. Yve forest fifty miles southwest from London proper. It mastered half the Maybank manor, home to Lord Lawrence Maybank, Earl of St. Yve. A secret organization fronted by the Department of Anachronistic Research of London University, the order boasted a virtual who’s who of paranormal research academics.
As current head of the Cadre, the earl’s castle served as its headquarters, as it had for centuries. Set upon a man-made doubleterraced hill that had once harbored an ancient fortress, access to the manor was privileged. No outsiders could ever find a way in, thanks to the many magical shields set around the area. And if an innocent did wander onto Cadre ground—most likely, the surrounding forest—they would chance upon the threshold guardians, and thus, would forget ever trying to seek the Cadre in the first place.
Thanks to Mersey’s initiate level, access to the main grounds was cleared with but a flash of her smile at the sentinels who arched over the drive. Their wingtips stretched ten feet across and, though carved of stone, appeared amazingly lifelike. Which was the point. The stone gargoyles didn’t move, but they were alive and observant, ever watchful. Mersey left her little white Volkswagen to the footman and stepped across the pebbled walk beneath the porte cochere. Nearby, hornbeam hedgerows were thick and bursting with growth, yet always trimmed perfectly. Too perfect, Mersey often thought, and, out of habit, she plucked a few leaves from the wall of hedge, allowing them to flutter in her wake to the manicured grounds. She smiled to know she could institute a bit of much-needed disorder.
Before her, the ancient limestone facade of the castle gleamed and beckoned all to enter. But the St. Yve manor rarely received visitors. Least not if those visitors knew what was good for them. While the earl was the head of the Cadre, his daughter, Lady Aurora, was in line to inherit the position, and it was she who dealt most f
requently with the initiates and handled the day-to-day running of the order. Though meetings and field assignments kept her quite busy, and Mersey rarely bumped in to her for more than a moment once or twice a week.
The mansion was quiet, the grand draperies pulled over the windows, and but a few dim lights that were always on in the corner of the foyer. Detouring on the way to her room, Mersey dropped off the demon-filled quartz in the dungeon with Squire Callahan, the storage manager—but she referred to him as demon storage dude extraordinaire. He was always over the moon to get a new specimen, and figured Interrogations would be able to work her magic before noon.
It was 4:00 a.m. by the time Mersey shuffled into her private rooms. Her favorite scent, a mixture of lemon and thyme, tinted the air. After she’d had to shift shapes in the subway, she was knackered. Shifting always drained her. She was surprised the hunter hadn’t figured her out. Maybe he wasn’t as in-the-know as she’d assumed. The manor offered private suites for initiates. Mersey’s room had belonged to her and her mother, and following her mother’s death, Mersey had remained. Only on her twenty-second birthday had she finally got up the courage to rent her own flat in London. She spent little time there, though. London didn’t feel right. This was where her memories remained. But she still wasn’t sure what home should feel like. Her flat didn’t offer homey vibes but neither did the manor. It was missing a certain presence.
A male presence.
You will know the one when he comes to you. Mysterious, and not terribly helpful, her mother’s pre-death portent.
Mirabelle Bane had been certain of Mersey’s future mate. Too bad Mersey hadn’t got the same memo. If there was a man out there—
looking for her—then roll out the red carpet, and show him the way, because she was ready. For love.
Perhaps a distraction like love would move her focus from her dissatisfaction with the Cadre. To remain here and continue to work for the Cadre, or to permanently leave for London and cast out on her own? It was the question that bothered her a lot lately. She loved her work, but felt more and more like an outsider here. There was never anyone around interested in chatting about simple things like the latest fashion fad or where the best nightclubs were. Mersey had but one real friend, Squire, yet she suspected he had a crush on her, while she thought of him as a brother. Everyone at the Cadre was focused on their jobs. Social life did not exist.
Mersey believed people were drawn to that which they most needed. And what was she drawn to? Of late, nothing in particular. Which didn’t bode well for her supposed needs. But she sensed it was no longer this manor or the people within it.
You were drawn quite close to Jack Harris.
Mersey sighed.
Her goggles were splattered with demon residue. Thick, oozy stuff that had dried and crackled. It would dissolve to dust and leave behind a reddish powder. Peeling off her residue-coated clothing, she then donned one of the thick terry monogrammed robes the house brownie always laid out on her bed, and wandered out toward the washer. She’d easily given Mr. Jack Harris the slip. And a slide up against his ankle. Bet he was feeling pretty ticked off right now. Smirking, she padded back to the bedroom and plopped onto the bed. Drawn to him? Yes, she had been.
The man wasn’t classic handsome. Alluring came to mind. That and strong. Attractive, in a macho, blast-’em-all-to-bits way. He’d smelled wonderful, like every dream she had ever had of masculine heroes saving the day. A bold, bent nose had mastered his face, and more razor stubble on cheeks and chin than hair on his head. The fierce blue eyes staring her down had done things to her insides. Made her forget things
—like the mission.
She never got distracted. Yet when Jack Harris had gazed into her eyes, he’d stirred up a sensuous, uninhibited side of Mersey she’d not known she possessed.
And why upon all whys had she kissed him?
Mersey caught her forehead in her palm with a smack. “You were such a Loose Lucy!”
This was not her modus operandi. Walking up to a proper stranger and planting a smacker on him? She wasn’t uncomfortable around men, but generally Mersey waited for a first—official—date to snog. It had been that sensation in her heart. That dark glitter of invitation. Well, she’d read it as invitation, a cry for her to step inside and become a part of his world.
“It wasn’t awful,” she muttered. In fact, it had been very good. Let’s do it again soon good.
“Think of the mission,” she chided.
It wasn’t every day she ran into a demon hunter while out reconnoitering. In fact, it had never happened before. She needed to identify his alliances and ensure his objectives did not interfere with the Cadre’s mission.
Was he a freelance hunter as he’d claimed? There was one other organization in the area that would send out a man on such a dangerous mission, but they were stealth and covert. Much like the Cadre. They were rivals with her people, for the very reason she had witnessed—the idiots simply blasted. Death merchants, the lot of them. There was so much to be learned by safely capturing the para and later interrogating it. All demons were not harmful to humans. In fact, most humans required demons for their existence. How else to know the deep, dark wanting of desire or the exhilarating fear of terror? Mortals called their darkest demons to them, without knowing, and experienced a wondrous realm of emotion and human experience.
And if any man thought to indiscriminately remove those experiences from this world, then Mersey had in mind to change his perception.
Jack stomped into his flat and set his weapon on the floor. Always keep it handy, and by the door was the most necessary place. He had weapons in every room and near all the windows. Survival skills learned during his stint for the British Security Service. MI5 had further bolstered his covert skills.
Now, if only he could remove the demons from his dreams. Real guns didn’t work in dreams. Even the imagined ones fired—and struck—
without results. Like the evening he’d fired his pistol at the dread demon stalking closer to Monica. It hadn’t felt the impact of the bullets at all. Jack’s efforts had been most ineffective.
And tailing one petite bird had further proven his ineffectiveness.
“Bloody. Incapable,” Jack muttered as he stalked down the hallway. He tugged out the UV-tipped dagger from his belt and tucked it away in the storage cubby in the hall, followed by the belt. Tearing his shirt over his head and unzipping his trousers, he strode into the bedroom and shucked off his clothes so he stood in only his black boxer briefs.
Stretching his arms and twisting at the waist, he worked at the tension that clutched his spine. The tightness taxed his flexibility and he had to strain to reach behind his opposite shoulder. But he knew how to take care of job stress.
Jack grabbed the gravity boots on the floor at the end of the ironframed bed.
“Sodding…” he muttered as he stomped toward the inversion bar installed near the ceiling at the midpoint of the hallway. “Idiot…stupid…
gorgeous!”
She had been a pretty bird, no doubt about that. Even beneath the comic-book attire and demon residue. Those eyes. When had he ever seen eyes so big and bright and—that kiss!
Made it difficult for a man to remain morose, which he’d mastered, thank you very bloody much. What else could he be after all he’d seen in his lifetime?
But he knew deep inside, there was a soft part of him he wasn’t so familiar with. Had Mersey seen that soft side? To think it was okay to step up and kiss a man who towered over her by a foot and who had wielded a semiautomatic weapon? That irritating softness must scream out to the world like some kind of welcome mat. How not to crawl into a hole and tuck away his heart from inspection with a microscope and teasing, roaming female hands?
“Girl’s carrying a load of trouble in her pocket. Should have never let her get away. Bugger it!”
Slapping on the boots, he then gripped the bar suspended high in the narrow hallway and, swinging up his feet, locked in. He
let go and hung upside down.
For a few moments he hung there, allowing the blood to rush to his head, reveling in the gush of skull-squeezing fluid that pushed out all other thoughts. His back lengthened and he twisted his shoulders to stretch out his spine.
This always felt first-rate after a long day. Good old military exercise to get the blood pumping and force out the toxins that he’d taken on during the course of the day. And man, did he take on the bad stuff. Morose was an excuse. Jack strived to shift beyond the horror and make his experience worth something. To others. All his adult life, he had refused to allow others to be hurt through terroristic methods. And demons were the ultimate terrorists.
Pressing his bent arms close to his body, he curled up at the waist and went for that first muscle-stretching crunch. One. Two. He wouldn’t stop until he reached one hundred.
Seven.
He’d let the girl get away. She still lived in his senses. He should have been able to track that lemon scent like a bloodhound. Thirteen. Fourteen.
Already the sweat began to build. That meant the toxins were purging. His gut tightened, working his abs, and his quads strained. To stuff a demon in her pocket like that? What if the thing had got loose on the underground? Or later, when she was all alone, heading back toward base.
Base? What a nutty piece of demon-chasing fluff.
And yet, Belladonna had got him to wondering. Rarely did Belladonna not immediately have the answer to any question. Further research in the database must mean something important. Them? Who were the mysterious them Belladonna had mentioned?
Twenty-eight.
Sweat dripped up the bridge of his nose and ran down his forehead. Yeah, he liked the world upside down and sweaty, and all alone. Alone was good. Alone meant he wasn’t responsible for anybody or anything. Just himself. The way it should be.
Thirty-three. Jack increased the pace of his pull-ups. Thirty-four. We protect the world from the otherside. P-Cell’s motto. He’d adopted their motto and their ask-no-questions policy. It worked for him. Demon hunting had become routine—yet always a challenge—
