* * *
Jameson drummed his fingers on the edge of the weapons cabinet in his closet. This was a special room only Andy knew about. He’d sent Lindy out with a wad of cash and instructions to pamper herself.
He hadn’t even slept with her first. The image of downy wings still haunted him.
Wings. Glorious and proud. He’d once had a pair, and he’d stroked many others during the throes of ecstasy. The only times he saw wings now were when he was hunting an angel to kill.
He ran a finger along a Daemon blade. The first one he’d obtained for himself. Cool to the touch, they didn’t burn his skin like metal from his own realm now did. At one time, he’d thought the metal was the key to gaining access to Numen, but his experiments with both Daemon and Numen metal had proved that inaccurate. They were good for shedding blood though, and blood seemed to be the key.
He turned away from his weapons display and shed his suit jacket. Next off were his shoes, then his shirt and pants. He selected a maroon UNLV hoodie and blue jeans. He stuffed his feet into athletic shoes and put on a ball cap. It’d help hide his eyes. The Daemon blade that he’d admired earlier was shoved into the pocket of his sweatshirt.
Before he left, he phoned his assistant. “I’ll be out for a few hours. If Lindy returns, find something to keep her busy. Send her down to the club or something.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But report back to me if she talks to anyone.” She had a lot of freedom and he made it his business to watch his back.
“As you wish, sir.”
What would he do without Andy? He tucked the phone into his pants pocket and took his private elevator down to the main level, but instead of heading out to where his driver waited on call, he went for the private garage.
A plain black sedan got him where he wanted to go when he wanted to go incognito. For funsies, he drove past the front of his club. It was a dark diamond in the rough of the surrounding neighborhood.
He smiled at the line and those who glanced his way, unaware he was the one in the car. Some nights, he stepped outside and mingled with his disciples. They did important work, which for him meant they kept angels distracted doing the good work down here on Earth. He’d gotten some excellent research done because his people were the subject of angelic attention. It was how he’d perfected entering the Mist.
And tonight, he was going to do it again.
Tonight, he’d go to one of the older casinos, the type the locals and snowbirds liked to frequent. Hunting was getting harder in Vegas. The angels were growing cautious, working and traveling in pairs.
He smiled. Because of him.
He would’ve preferred his little self-built empire stayed secret, but that meddlesome watcher from a few months ago had been too astute for her own good. Yet he remained untouchable, thanks to the demons who guarded his place and used the offerings of his disciples. Warriors couldn’t get close. Daemon numbers were too great around his club. The force Numen would need to stop him would attract too much attention.
But they had increased their number in the area and what kind of fallen would he be if he didn’t turn the change in events to his advantage?
Pulling into the lot of an old casino the size of an entire town under one roof, he parked and strolled to the entrance. Keeping his head down, he studied his surroundings through the smoky din. It’d take an entire load of laundry and at least one shower to get the smell of cigarette smoke off him.
The snowbirds were his target and easy to spot. They were older and wore clothing that looked like they could hit the beach at any moment. Originally from cooler climates, they flocked to Vegas for the weather and cost-effective vacations. Not many angels trailed them. These humans’ lives were winding down, and they no longer engaged in any activities that would attract the attention of a watcher.
But…sometimes they had enough emotional turmoil going on in their head to attract a demon. And where there were demons, there would be angels looking to rid the human world of their interference.
Planting his butt on a stool, he fed a few bucks into a slot. Going through the motions, he let his gaze relax as he discreetly scanned the crowd. Watchers were nearly invisible as they did their work. He spotted none.
Had his gamble on this place been all for nothing? Stede suspected him, rightfully so. Jameson had amassed his little devoted army to storm Numen’s borders and, more importantly, to fund the whole process, to fund his ability to amass more followers.
But if he could get into Numen on his own? The power alone that he’d have striding through the realm. A fallen. Back in Numen.
Try to forget me after that.
Revenge first. Control would come after, but he wanted revenge. He wanted to look into the face of every senator who had ordered his wings be carved from his back. Then he’d take theirs.
Ah, there. Standing behind a man in his sixties was a fresh-faced warrior. Young and inexperienced, she’d wandered away from her pack. She blended as best she could, wearing a baggy sweater and a ball cap with plain blue jeans.
Jameson read her expression. The young warrior thought this was a simple symaster coercing a retiree into dropping his meager fortune into one slot, convincing him it’d end in a big win. Then once the funds were gone, the retiree would spiral into a despair dismal enough to allow the archmaster the symaster served to hijack his soul.
This situation was ideal.
He studied everyone near them. No other warriors that he could see. No watchers. No one was about to die, so no chaperones were waiting to usher them into bright white light.
Perfect.
He put more money in his machine and waited just like the warrior. Waited for the retiree to get up and take a leak—and given his age, it wouldn’t take long. Like the warrior, Jameson didn’t care to do his business in public. It was bad enough that he’d traded an ounce of his blood for weapons from an archmaster. If he’d known he was chasing down the wrong rabbit hole, he would’ve told the one called Sandeen to piss off.
But Sandeen had kept coming back for his blood. There was something there. His blood was the key. He could feel it. It was the reason he couldn’t stay in the Mist for long and the reason he couldn’t go beyond it into Numen. Losing his wings had changed him in more than one way. It was like he was his own kind. No longer an angel, but not human either. Just fallen and all that entailed.
Finally. The retiree stumbled off his stool and lurched toward the restrooms, the warrior following in his wake.
He gave them a head start, then started after them, quickening his pace. He couldn’t be late, couldn’t let the warrior get the symaster into the Mist before he had a chance to shed her Numen blood.
Pushing through the door, he made it mid incantation. The retiree was bent over the sink, his eyes red and puffy, staring at the female murmuring next to him. The warrior had her hand on the guy’s shoulders like she was comforting him, but she was really in contact with the symaster.
Hurrying through the rest, the young warrior should’ve known to just abandon her attempts. Rushing her work would lead to discovery, but whatever. Either way worked for him.
He jumped next to the warrior and withdrew his blade. Slicing the warrior’s side as she was crossing into the Mist, Jameson went along for the ride.
Cool droplets surrounded him. He wiped the blood off the blade onto his hand as the warrior stumbled away, her hand pressed to her wound.
Jameson glanced at the disoriented symaster. It was humanoid, the size of a tall child, and scrawny. Scraggly hair dotted its scalp and its teeth looked like they were in dire need of an orthodontist.
As long as it stayed out of the way, Jameson would deal with it later. He faced the warrior. Not being officially trained, he had to use surprise to his advantage.
Diving for the female, he slashed his blade across her torso. As long as he shed angelic blood, the Mist wouldn’t work so hard to expel him. The warrior was fast and trained. Jameson twisted and ducked, gratef
ul she didn’t risk the time it took to release her wings from under the sweater.
Fire sliced through his thigh as the warrior spun closer. Damn. Her fist clipped his jaw. Jameson staggered backward. This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped.
Before he righted himself, the warrior jumped him, both of them landing on the ground.
Her young face was twisted, a snarl tearing through the air. Jameson wrestled, the female’s bloody blade coming too close to his face.
“Daemon scum,” she grunted.
“Wrong realm,” Jameson gasped. His strength was failing. As good as he was, he’d taken one risk too many with a trained warrior.
She stiffened, her rage turning to a grimace. His mouth fell open but only a strangled squeak came out. The symaster appeared above her shoulder, its mouth wide, revealing a row of wicked sharp teeth. It chomped into the warrior’s neck. And kept going.
Jameson rolled from underneath the dripping mess and gladly let the symaster finish its gleeful decapitation.
Bonus, he was covered in angel blood. The Mist’s effect diminished, but didn’t erase the urge to return to the human realm.
He watched the symaster as he limped around it. The creature wouldn’t be allowed to stay either. Like him, the Mist would repel it, Numen blood or not. And that was a problem.
He couldn’t have this creature know that he could cross into the Mist. His contacts in Daemon would find that much too interesting and ruin his plans. And if word got back to Stede… Well, Jameson might just find himself with a knife buried in his chest. Stede liked their partnership unbalanced. The enforcer knew his main advantage was his ability to cross through realms. As long as he didn’t get captured and his wings taken, he indeed was a necessary comrade. Kenton lacked the discipline to be of any aid.
The symaster was almost through the spinal cord. Intent on its work, it seemed oblivious to Jameson.
Until it paused to look over its bony shoulder, its fangs dripping blood. “Fallen,” it sneered.
“Demon.” He ignored the burn in his leg and attacked. Blade in hand, he shoved it between the bony ribs of the symaster.
The symaster shrieked and jabbed him with its claws. Then disappeared.
“Fuck.” Jameson spun around. Where had it gone? He couldn’t go back now. He was in the Mist, he had to see if he could get farther, or at least stay longer.
“Fuck.” He let the Mist repel him. Stumbling into the bathroom, he spotted the symaster and stopped as his brain registered what he was seeing.
The symaster. As himself. In the human world. Its scraggly, gory body was here on its own. Jameson wasn’t the only one shocked. The creature was poking and prodding at itself, jumping up and down to look into the mirror.
Jameson looked around. The bathroom was now empty and the symaster still needed to die.
He pinned it between himself and the counter. He was too strong for the symaster. Jameson made quick work of the process but as soon as the symaster’s head was detached, it dissolved in his hands. The body vanished at the same time.
He rose. His leg throbbed, but the injury was shallow enough. It’d heal and he could hide the limp. But this… He looked at his hands, then to where the symaster had once been.
This was more than intriguing. There was only one reason why a demon would suddenly be able to exist as itself on Earth. Demons and angels had been battling in the Mist for centuries and no demons had ever ended up like this. But the symaster had stabbed him. Gotten his blood on itself.
That explained why Sandeen was so interested in his blood. With it, he could walk the realm as he was, no human host required. One step closer to having the freedom angels had.
Demons freely roaming the world. His blood could do that.
This was exhilarating. If he could do this, he would damn well get back to Numen. He just had to figure out how to keep anyone else from discovering this interesting little tidbit.
Chapter 10
Mother’s attention bored into him. Jagger resisted pulling at the collar of his robe. He’d managed to talk her into waiting in the sitting room as he and Felicia straightened themselves up.
How mortifying. His own mother nearly walking in on him in flagrante with Felicia Montclaire. Mother had merely tolerated Valerina, and his ex had been as well-bred as they came.
Technically, so was Felicia. But it was not only her reputation, but that of her parents Mother wouldn’t find so palatable.
He avoided looking at where Felicia reclined on a settee, her long leg bouncing over the edge of the short arm. She’d changed into black leggings, but they didn’t hide a thing. He couldn’t help but think that they shouldn’t. Those legs should be admired. He wanted to worship them with his tongue.
He forced his attention back to the ultimate mood killer. Mother. And her companion.
Mother’s—he couldn’t say boyfriend. The male had been in his class as a kid, and while his Mother and Mateo were both adults and could do what they wanted, it was a relationship he preferred not to imagine his mother in.
He’d wonder at Mateo’s motivation, but the male was so obviously smitten and devoted that Jagger felt sorry for him. Chanel Hancock’s heart wasn’t a glacier affected by climate change. It was solidly ensconced in an impermeable ice world.
“You didn’t contact me when you returned.” The undercurrent of reprimand was as familiar as the back of his hand.
The one he’d just had down Felicia’s pants. The one that was no longer coated in her scent because he’d had to reluctantly wash up before meeting with Mother. But his fingers still tingled from Felicia’s heat. She’d almost exploded in his hands and while he was dismayed to have missed out on it, he should be thanking Mother.
Knowing what Felicia felt like, and how her touch drove him wild, was dangerous to him as a male, especially in this type of environment.
And of course, there was how she’d destroyed his life, saving him from a life with Valerina. No—ruining a life with Valerina.
She’d tasted so sweet, though. Like strawberries. They’d had the same breakfast. Would she taste just as sweet if he—
Mother’s brow lifted. He hadn’t answered her nonquestion. “I did not notify you. I apologize.”
Felicia’s leg stopped bouncing.
“I heard about the attack on you.” And you didn’t tell me that either. Though he doubted Mother touched mundane human items like a phone. “You are well?”
“Mmm.” Mother watched him steadily. “I may as well tell you the good news.”
His stomach twisted. Was she syncing with Mateo? He would be happy for her, but he was trying to even himself out emotionally. His erection had run away and hid after Mother had hollered his name, but it’d roared back in the shower, urging him to take care of it.
He would’ve if, one, Mother hadn’t been waiting for him. He had no wish to have a discussion with her after he’d masturbated. And two, he didn’t think it’d help. His hand would never compare to Felicia’s touch. It’d be like sating his thirst with stagnant pond water after having a sip from the clearest spring in the world.
He was acutely aware of Felicia’s interest in the “good” news.
“Yes, Mother?”
“I’ve secured a proposal between you and Persephone Nassim. Congratulations.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. He thought he’d heard incorrectly but Felicia’s eyes were as wide as saucers.
“She’s a lovely choice, yes?” Mother’s expression was placid, like she was asking about the weather.
“A p-proposal? What the fuck for?” He’d never spoken to Mother in such a way, but now was the time.
Her back went rigid and she regarded him with the look she’d used to diminish senators over the years. “Julian, watch your tongue. You’re not a common vagrant.”
“Numen doesn’t have vagrants,” he said irritably. The sharp look from Mother should’ve gutted him, but he didn’t care. “Mother, I’m an adult. I have a job that
I’m in the middle of right now. I don’t have time to work around an engagement, much less court a potential mate.” He didn’t want to court anyone. The thought made stomach acid claw up his throat.
“You’re now linked to the daughter of one of the most powerful senators in the realm. It should draw that attention away from you.”
“Or center it on her.”
Mother’s facade cracked. The corner of her mouth turned down for a heartbeat before returning to the flat line he was accustomed to. “She’s a coddled angel surrounded by servants. She’ll be fine. Meanwhile, I can’t allow you to be sequestered here with Ms. Montclaire. Can you imagine the talk?”
Felicia swung her leg down and scooted to the edge of the settee. He sent her a warning glare, but she ignored him. “No, I can’t imagine. How would they talk?”
Mother’s expression could’ve frozen hell over. “My dear, don’t patronize me. You know exactly what they’ll say and why.”
“Only fools unable to think for themselves would believe gossip.” Felicia rose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I learned a long time ago that I don’t need to suffer fools.”
Ice crystallized in his blood. No one talked to Mother like that. No one had ever called her a fool. Felicia marched out before Mother could reply. And Mother always had an adequate reply.
Even steeped in shock at Felicia’s audacity, he worried that she’d taxed her wings to the point of pain. She’d been walking fine earlier. Did her wings hurt now? Time may be limited, but she needn’t be miserable while strengthening them.
“I never cared for her father,” Mother muttered.
What difference did that make? “She is my charge.”
“No. I’ve been briefed by Director Vale. You are also a target and don’t need to have more danger drawn to you because of your proximity to her.”
“Did Director Vale say that, or did you make the decision for him and me?”
Mother arched a brow. Had she seriously not expected his resistance? He wasn’t going through with it. Persephone was a gorgeous angel. She was also young and spoiled, and he doubted she’d tolerate his line of work.
Wicked Fire: Angel Fire, book 2 Page 10
