Hearts of Darkness

by Kira Brady

  Kayla.

  Inside him, the beast rose bristling and spitting. It didn’t like another man touching her.

  Norgard paused feeding. “Run along, little doggy,” the Dreki said between nips of Kayla’s smooth skin.

  Hart didn’t move. Stupid, he knew. This was the Drekar Regent. His employer. The man who owned everything and everyone. The man who owned him.

  Kayla struggled faintly, like a butterfly flapping its wings.

  He really should leave, but his feet wouldn’t move.

  “Let her go,” Hart said. The beast looked out through his eyes, scenting its prey.

  Norgard turned his head. His irises were completely slit, snakelike. It was like looking at death himself. The Dreki was as far from human as he could get without Turning. Hart was no coward, but he wasn’t suicidal.

  Hart turned away. Norgard was right; it wasn’t any of his business. He’d watched Drekar feed before, plenty of times. The girl would recover as long as Norgard didn’t take too much. He strolled to the end of the alley, but her weak scream caught him between the shoulder blades and he stopped. Most Dreki victims were moaning in pleasure at this point, their senses overwhelmed by the iron musk that soothed their waking minds. It seemed Kayla was strong enough to resist.

  Hart took another step, listening to the rustle of clothing and the distant crash of waves against the seawall. He needed to leave and get on with his work. There were shipments to guard, people to kill. Pissing off a Dreki? Bad idea. His boss? Terrible idea. Especially when he was so close to paying off his blood debt. He needed to find the necklace and complete one more job; then he’d be free. Last thing he needed was to fuck it up playing some Lady-be-damned hero. Ha. He was the furthest thing from a hero.

  Fog seeped into the alley, coming toward him. Behind the garbage cans and in the crawl spaces between brick fronts, shadows collected. Around him, the Aether rippled and twisted. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

  Wraiths waited for their turn. Once Norgard drained the girl and left her here in a crumpled heap, the ghosts would push aside her weakened soul and possess her body. She’d be worse than dead before the first rays of sun split the horizon.

  The sound of ripping fabric cut through the dark alley.

  Hart didn’t know what hit him. The decision wasn’t conscious—it was instinctive. The creature inside him took over, vibrating with the need to hurt and kill. Enemy, it growled, and Hart felt the sharp pain of claws slicing through his fingertips. Aether flowed through him, waves of magic transforming him from nose to tail, a blinding light rolling over his body to Change skin and man to fur and Wolf.

  Norgard never saw it coming. The blow to his head sent him sprawling to the pavement. Hart was on him, tooth and nail, struggling to push back the madness that burned through every cell. His need to kill warred with the part of him that was still human. His body was Wolf, but he couldn’t give the beast free rein of his mind. No one would be spared if he did, not even the girl.

  Even through the bloodlust he could feel the girl behind him, could hear her whimpering, could smell the salty tang of her femininity and the sweet decay of the drug.

  A strange possessiveness crept through his anger, but before his brain could make sense of the feeling, Norgard attacked, claws extended. Norgard had a height advantage, but Hart weighed more and was built like a brick, boulders for shoulders and a rock for a head. His totem was twice as large as a wild wolf, but he was no match for a full-grown dragon. He couldn’t give Norgard time to Turn.

  Norgard landed a punch to Hart’s rib, and the Dreki’s poison-tipped knuckle-spikes felt like a red-hot poker.

  Hart compartmentalized the pain, shoving it ruthlessly aside as he fought against the onslaught. There was no room for anything but pulverizing his opponent and protecting his prize.

  Where had that thought come from?

  Shock made him slow, and his head snapped back from an uppercut to the jaw.

  Norgard danced on his toes. His inhuman irises glowed. His skin sparkled with thousands of tiny green-tinged scales. He was a hairbreadth away from sprouting wings and breathing fire.

  They circled each other, each breathing heavily.

  “Think, mutt. Why would you jeopardize your freedom, your very life, over some dumb bitch?” Norgard asked. He spit on the ground, his saliva tinged red with blood.

  Hart’s lips pulled back over sharp white teeth.

  Norgard blinked. “This is really over the chick?” He laughed in disbelief. “She’d never look at you twice, you deranged illiterate mongrel.”

  Hart didn’t care about the girl. He didn’t care about anyone. All he wanted was to pay his debt and get the hell out of here. But he couldn’t deny the low growl that emanated from his throat at Norgard’s mention of her.

  “No? That explains why you’re pacing now in front of her like a fucking guard dog. You would give her—a stranger—your back.”

  Lady be damned, Hart couldn’t deny it. He attacked, teeth ripping the sleeve off the Dreki’s coal-black suit.

  “Think carefully,” Norgard said. “I was robbed of the Kivati princess, and this female’s soul is almost as pure. I won’t be denied a second time tonight.”

  Hart silently agreed. He knew Norgard was playing with him. If the man shifted there was no way Hart could beat a twenty-foot-tall dragon. He surged forward and snapped at Norgard’s jugular, but missed as the Dreki spun out of the way.

  Norgard’s back slammed into the brick wall behind him. He used the wall as leverage to push himself forward in attack. “By Tiamat, you really are crazy, aren’t you?”

  Hart didn’t have a response to that bit of truth. He let blows glance off his muzzle like rain, unlike Norgard, who guarded his pretty mug and left his groin unprotected.

  It was the opening he’d been waiting for. Hart used his powerful back legs to strike the poor schmuck in the balls. Couldn’t do permanent damage to a Dreki unless you cut off his head, but Norgard was still man enough that the move dropped him like a stone.

  “Dishonorable,” Norgard wheezed.

  Hart would have laughed if he could. The Drekar had such a warped sense of honor.

  Norgard had had enough; he began to Turn. His skin glittered as his body grew. His shoulder blades widened, extended. His face lengthened to a snout. A ridge of razor-sharp spikes broke out of his skin from the tip of his flat head, down his scaly back to the end of his long, muscle-bound tail. The spike on the end thrummed against the ground and, with a whoosh, it crashed into the brick wall behind him. Steam puffed out of wide, slit nostrils.

  It was terrible to watch, ugly and twisted. A creature of nightmare. Dragon.

  Hart had one chance as death transformed before him—he had to reason with Norgard. He Changed, embracing the pain that tore his bruised ribs and battered limbs. The shock to the beast caused his vision to black in and out. Panting with exhaustion, he crouched on the cold cobblestones, naked but for the slave bands. “She’s Desiree’s sister,” he rasped. “Kayla Friday. You need her. Desiree left her clues. You can’t kill her until I get the necklace back.”

  A lie, but it was the only thing he could have said that would get through to the dragon. Nothing stood between a Dreki and his treasure. Anger, lust, hunger, revenge—all fell before the creature’s overwhelming avarice.

  Norgard towered above Hart, considering his options. Norgard could eat his prized operative, but Hart was as much Norgard’s possession as the necklace. Or, Norgard could force Hart to stand down with the power of the blood debt. The gold bands would burn Hart’s biceps, pulling his blood out through his skin, filling the magic runes along the surface of the bands until Hart fell unconscious from blood loss.

  The gamble came down to the necklace’s value. If it truly belonged to Kingu, it was worth hundreds of pure souls.

  The dragon breathed out a hot rush of air that smelled of burnt meat and cinnamon. His tail thrashed once, twice. He was angry, but he turned away from Hart and laun
ched into the sky. The ground shook as the huge beast pushed off.

  Hart dove to the side to escape being crushed.

  Norgard spread his membranous black wings and soared silently into the air. He disappeared against the cloud-dark sky over Elliott Bay.

  Hart lay on the hard, cracked asphalt and let his heart slow to a normal rhythm. He was still alive. Little surprised him anymore, but this did. The old Dreki must have a soft spot for him buried deep in his cold, unfeeling heart.

  He turned and found Kayla half propped against the brick alley wall with her shirt unbuttoned to her waist and no pants. Shit. He exhaled quickly at the sight of her naked legs. They went on for miles, all smooth latte skin that went up and up and . . .

  He tore his eyes away and clenched his fists at his side. The beast was too close to the surface. One look at that naked skin made the beast strain to burst free in a lust-crazed frenzy. Hart was drained of energy, too spent to Change. It was the only thing that saved her. A fine sweat broke out on his forehead and every nerve ending buzzed with energy. He had to get away from her. Lady be damned, he’d never come so close to losing it outside the full moon.

  He rose stiffly and collected his weapons from where they had fallen. His clothes had shredded when he Changed, but he had an extra set stashed inside the club, which he retrieved and quickly donned. He considered leaving her there in Post Alley—he certainly couldn’t trust himself to get near her—but he made the mistake of glancing one last time at those plump curves that screamed at him to touch and taste.

  On the other side of the alley, partiers came out for a smoke. The noise made his hackles rise. A growl rose in his throat.

  What was wrong with him? He wasn’t a damn taxi service, but he couldn’t very well ditch her here, half naked with those drug-clouded caramel eyes. Her pink cotton panties were all that stood between her and a good hard fuck.

  He picked her up, and she moaned. She was light, despite her generous body. He threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold with his hands on her smooth thighs to hold her steady. But then her round ass was right in his face. Her scent—arousal and wildflower—went straight to his head.

  This was a mistake.

  Too late to change his mind, he bounded off down the alley, his unnatural speed hidden in the dark night. Gloom cloaked the city like a blanket. Comforting, even as it hummed with midnight creatures.

  Ghostly skyscrapers loomed over him like drunken bones, the mausoleum of a once-great city. He ran past crack addicts and meth heads huddled in doorways. The mist ensured he would only be a passing blur. A dream. A nightmare in the endless depredation of the streets.

  He couldn’t leave her unprotected at her sister’s place. Instead, he ran south, under the broken streetlights, past the glass and steel structures, to Pioneer Square. It was the oldest part of the city and the most haunted. Metal fire escapes clung to the brick buildings like black skeletons. Beneath his feet twisted the Underground, the labyrinth of tunnels created when the streets were raised two stories after the great fire over a century ago. Milky glass cubes had been set into the sidewalk to let light down below.

  The shadows were thicker here, writhing and condensing in the pitted landscape. The Aether rippled. Death stalked.

  Just off King Street, near the old train station, he stopped and propped Kayla against the wall of an abandoned building. The empty windows leered down on them, but he couldn’t smell anyone—human or otherwise—nearby.

  Her head rolled to the side, but she managed to cling to the wall in a standing position. She whispered something through those bedroom lips. It sounded like a sigh, but not one of sadness or pain. A heated sigh. Breathy and wanting.

  The tempting bit of pink cotton between her legs had a small ribbon of lace circling each creamy thigh.

  He pulled his eyes away. “Wait here.”

  “Here,” she repeated, but it was obvious she had no idea what she was saying.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said slowly.

  She rubbed herself against the wall behind her. Up and down. Side to side. Like a cat needing a pet. Her eyes were unfocused. The sick sweet smell came off her in waves.

  He had little choice left. Leave her to die or bring her to his place. She couldn’t exactly tell anyone how to get there if she wasn’t conscious enough to respond to her own name. The thought of her among his things—exposing his secrets, invading his personal space—made him want to growl.

  But another part of him wanted to claim her. He’d found her, spared her, fought for her. She belonged with his other possessions, stashed away from the world.

  Hart banished that thought as soon as it came.

  An alley opened off to his left. A small cat-sized shape with a waving tail peeled out of the shadowy interior. A larger shape—small and androgynous, but clearly human—soon followed.

  Hart froze with a hand beneath his jacket.

  “A good night for hunting, I see.” The voice was low and female. She tossed something in the air and caught it again. The streetlight glinted off a spinning blade.

  “Stand aside, Grace,” Hart said.

  Grace laughed and tossed the blade. “Or what?” Another operative bound by blood in Norgard’s service, Grace had a special affinity for hunting aptrgangr. She sensed the Gate—unusual for a human—and could send the damned back through it. She stepped forward into a pool of light, illuminating almond eyes and sleek blue-black hair. A black hoodie and black jeans enabled her to blend with the shadows. Her too-seeing eyes were out of place in her youthful face. She took another step toward him and held out her knife, point forward. “Or what? How do I know you aren’t one of them?”

  “Stop pulling my tail,” he said. “The cat would tell you.” He looked pointedly down at the long-haired black-and-white cat.

  It brushed against his leg and purred.

  Grace sighed. “You’re no fun.”

  “You’re testy. Something up?”

  “Yes.” Grace cocked her head as if listening to a voice he couldn’t hear. She licked her lips nervously. “Gotta be careful. Something’s coming. I can taste it.”

  Hart sniffed the air experimentally, but caught nothing unexpected. He didn’t understand Grace’s gift. He picked Kayla up again.

  “What’ve you got there?” she asked.

  He shifted Kayla on his shoulder, uncomfortably aware how he must look with a half-naked, barely conscious woman over his shoulder. “A job. I’m pressing her for some, ah, information. For the job.”

  “Information,” Grace repeated. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross her face. He suddenly felt guilty.

  Kayla moaned and squirmed. He had to clamp his large hand more firmly on her rounded ass to keep her in place. He swallowed hard. His cheeks warmed uncomfortably.

  “Sure. Whatever.” Grace dropped into a crouch, dismissing him and his warm-blooded prize.

  A booty prize. Literally.

  “Got a question for you,” he said. “What’s a rune like an upside down R?”

  Grace brushed her knife against her thigh. “Raidho, reversed. Where did you see it?”

  He tapped the inside of his left wrist. “Carved here on a corpse. Silver needles found with the body.”

  She breathed sharply through her teeth. “Prevents the last journey. Anchors the soul to this side of the Gate.”

  Now why would a good girl like Desiree Friday want to haunt Seattle?

  “Bad juju, that. Especially at Nisannu.” Grace held out her hand to the cat. When he trotted over, she scooped him up in her arms and buried her face in his long fur. The cat stared at Hart. His little brown mustache twitched.

  “How do you set the ghost free?” It didn’t matter to his mission, but he couldn’t help asking. Kayla would want to know.

  “Hard to brand a ghost. If it goes aptrgangr you can brand the new body before you kill it. Draw Ehwaz to release it.” She drew a rune like a letter M in the air with her knife. “Then
Raidho, right-side up, to send it on its journey. Draw it in blood.”

  “I owe you one.”

  “Hurry.” Grace raised her head again and her eyes flashed silver. “The Gate is restless.”

  A shiver ran down Hart’s spine. Kingu waited on the other side, Norgard had said as much. Lady be damned.

  “Watch your back, Reaper.”

  “Stay to the light,” she murmured, stepping into the darkness.

  He swallowed his unease and strode into the dark alleyway. If anything had lurked there recently, it was now dead on the end of Grace’s spell-tipped blade.

  A Dumpster blocked the end of the lane. After setting Kayla down, Hart pushed it back to reveal a rusty green door, which creaked when he eased it open. He grabbed the girl again, entered the musty stairwell, and barred the door securely behind him. He hit a hidden switch, and outside, the Dumpster slid back into position. There were no lights to illuminate the rickety stairs or the peeling walls. The beast looked out of his eyes; he was born to stalk the night.

  Spiraling into the bowels of the earth, he carried the girl down and into the maze beneath the city streets. The gaslights shone through the thick glass plates in the sidewalk above, casting patches of murky light into the tunnel. Water leaked through, forming sewage puddles the rats played in. The trickle grew to a pour in the wet season—spring, fall, and winter—but he had found a dry enough set of rooms in a long-forgotten basement.

  Norgard ran a cartel of killers and thieves based in the Underground, far from the respectable Drekar business front in north Seattle. Cameras and runners monitored every entrance to the illicit lair, though no sane person came down here anymore.

  Hart avoided the traps that guarded his tunnel, dismantling and resetting them as he passed. He hesitated at his door, sniffed the air for signs of intruders. The only unusual smell in the musty air was Kayla. She squirmed like an eel on his shoulder. It was all he could do to hold on to her as she rubbed her thighs and stomach and chest against him.

  Lust grabbed him by the balls and held on tight.

  He stumbled through the door and slammed it closed with his heel. The locks set on their own. The familiar click of gears and thunk as the bolt slid home made him relax, but only an inch.