Flame's Embrace

by Pillar, Amanda

  Why had he stopped her falling?

  She tensed at the sound of an advancing horse.

  Their master.

  If the Asshole hadn’t been approaching, they would have let her land face first. They had done before.

  Steadying herself, she grimaced. Bedecked in shining bronze armor, and sitting powerfully astride a warhorse, Lord Jerome was as handsome as sin. His dark skin blended into the burgeoning night, while his fearsome red horns gleamed in the torches held high by his guards. A small troop of demons fell into place behind him, their gazes watchful as their commander nudged his steed toward his prized possession.

  Kara could sense their scorn, even if he didn’t seem to notice it. To the Ignis, she would never be good enough for their commander.

  The Asshole swung down from his mount, then closed the distance between them. He was frowning. At what, she didn’t know: her grimy hair, her threadbare boots, the bruises on her wrists?

  His gaze burned as his eyes swept over her. “My brother comes.”

  None of the above, then. He didn’t care about her saddened physical state at all.

  So much for his ‘love’.

  She wet dry, cracked lips. “Is this a bad thing?”

  His focus dropped to her mouth. “Only if I thought he could beat me.”

  The surrounding demons sneered and smirked at the thought.

  Kara took a deep breath, tasting the blood and death on her tongue. There would soon be more of both, she could feel it in her bones.

  Lord Jerome raised a gore-encrusted hand to her face, his fingers hovering over—but not quite touching—her cheek. She fought to hide her revulsion.

  Phoenix demons may have once frequented the battlefields, but not she was not like the rest of her kind. The few that were left, anyway.

  If she never saw blood again, it would be too soon.

  “My brother will want to claim you as his mate. You must be vigilant. I will double the guards surrounding you.”

  Her chances of escape had been slim; they were miniscule, now.

  It seemed like the Ignis commander was waiting for her to speak. “I would not go with him,” she said.

  No, she would run from the lot of them, happy to never see another Ignis in her life. Six months, she’d been held against her will. Six months of walking, degradation…suffering

  “Our line will be shaped by the fire of a Phoenix,” Lord Jerome said quietly. “So the prophet said, and so shall come to pass.”

  Prophecies, Kara thought, are like wishes.

  They go bad.

  Screams and cries suddenly tore through the army, the scent of iron and fresh death permeating the air. Kara glanced over her shoulder, at the field newly filled with Ignis demons in gold-plated armor, charging the Asshole’s bronze-wearing troops.

  Lord Jerome spun, his face taut with fury. “Sorcery.”

  “Brother!” The shout echoed across the clangs of battle, the new voice gravelly, deep and filled with the promise of pain. “She is mine!”

  “Never!” the Asshole screamed back, spittle flying.

  More demons howled, more blood flowed, a never-ending tide wetting the ground, soaking the fields.

  Lord Jerome spun back to her, and suddenly, the manacles were gone, her wrists free.

  Shock held her immobile for a breath, for two.

  And then she turned, ready to run, run, run.

  But a hand yanked her back, pulling her against a metal-covered chest. “Mates live and die together, yes?” Jerome’s voice was low, desperate.

  “True mates,” she murmured.

  His hand roughly grabbed her chin, drawing it up, exposing her neck. His red gaze was solemn, righteous.

  Mad.

  “Then let us see each other again.”

  He slit her throat, the knife dancing quickly over her skin, parting her flesh, severing veins and arteries.

  The pain was sharp, fiery.

  She grinned. How foolish he had been.

  As her blood sprayed forth, joining that of the fallen Silask, the fallen Ignis, a rush of heat burned up from Kara’s toes, rising higher, higher, until her entire body screamed in an agony so intense, it bordered on pleasure.

  Fear blanked his gaze.

  He tried to shove her away, realizing at the last minute that maybe he wasn’t her mate, but she spun, embracing him.

  “Till death do us part,” she murmured.

  Then she laughed, gurgling on her own blood, as the fire of death consumed her.

  Chapter 2

  Casa de los Condenados, Sheol, now

  No, no, that just looked tacky.

  Godric stepped back from the dead Ignis demon and tilted his head to the side, as if that would inspire the artist in him. It didn’t. Then again, art had never really been his thing. He’d really wanted to use its intestines as mockery of a feather boa, but they wouldn’t stay put, sliding down the demon’s neck like wet sausages and puddling in its open fly.

  Godric tapped a gloved finger against his thigh.

  Maybe if he wrapped them around a horn? That might hold them in place.

  It wouldn’t hurt to try…

  But that also looked stupid, like the demon had raided a deli before being murdered. Godric shook his head in disgust.

  He’d just have to go with traditional, then. Moving back toward the corpse, he picked up the severed cock—removed while the fucker was still alive, still very much aware of what was being done to him—and shoved it into the open, silently screaming mouth.

  There.

  It wasn’t the hilarious scene he’d been painting in his mind, but it got the message across: here lies a guy who was a perverted waste of flesh.

  Normally, Godric didn’t give a shit about his marks. You need a guy dead; the guy would be dead. End of story. Sure, maybe he’d indulge in a bit of fancy posing if the mood struck him, and yeah, sometimes he drew things out a little, just because he could, but usually taking out a target was business.

  Strictly business.

  Except Godric had a deep, personal hatred of rapists.

  Having grown up in a demon den that had been filled with them, he’d learned you either joined in, or you got the fuck out.

  He’d done the latter, bargaining for a place in an assassination guild.

  Because when you were a Mortus, there weren’t too many job opportunities out there. After all, his kind weren’t the most feared demons because they cuddled kittens. And with his skin secreting a poison so virulent there was no known cure, well, there weren’t too many places he could go.

  Heading to the small, adjoining bathroom, he washed his gloved hands and checked his watch. The dampening spell he’d placed on the hotel room would end in about five minutes. He needed to clean up the scene and get the Hell out of the room before anyone caught him here.

  Back beside the body, he withdrew his phone and snapped a picture of the dead demon, complete with cock sandwich. He then sent it to his boss, along with a brief message: DONE.

  Seraphina didn’t take long to reply: MUST YOU PLAY WITH DEAD BODIES?

  WHO SAID I DID THIS WHEN HE WAS DEAD?

  No reply.

  She sure as Hell didn’t have a dark sense of humor. Apparently evil didn’t suddenly overcome fallen angels when they lost their wings.

  Too bad. Still, she let him stay at the Halcyon Guild, and she gave him the wet work some of the others didn’t want to do. She had tried to give him a partner, though; she liked to send people in pairs, but he preferred to work alone. Also, her suggestion had been a Reynard’s Imp, who would have just eaten the body.

  It would have totally ruined his little display.

  Time to bail. Taking one last look at the scene, he decided it was tidy enough—if you excused the blood and gore, which he did. Now he needed to make tracks.

  He listened at the door before he opened it a crack.

  He slammed it shut.

/>   Fuck.

  A huge golden eye had stared right back at him through the inch-wide gap.

  “Room service?” The woman on the other side of the door called.

  Why does that sound more like a question?

  “Not interested,” he shouted back.

  How the fuck was he going to get out of here?

  Sure, there was nothing illegal about assassination in Hell—if you were unlucky or dumb enough to get killed, that was on you—but if the family or friends knew who the killer was, there was nothing that stopped them seeking revenge.

  An eye for an eye, and all that.

  A fist banged on the door. “Room service.”

  Godric jerked it open, just wide enough to look out. “Not. Interested.”

  Two of those large, golden eyes were staring at him now, in surprise, framed by thick, sooty lashes. They were arresting, as was the rest of the woman’s face—cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, luscious, very kissable lips…all surrounded by long, bubblegum-pink hair. And her body—it was made for sex. Generous hips he could grip tight, and breasts that would overflow in his hands.

  Her tongue darted out to lick her lower lip, and yeah, Godric was ashamed to admit his cock may have jumped a little at the sight.

  It had been a while.

  “This is room 205?” she asked, voice low and smoky. Her left hand waved to a trolley on which sat a stainless-steel cloche, bloodwine bottle and an empty glass. She wasn’t wearing a uniform, but most of the employees at the Casa de los Condenados didn’t bother with formalities. Black was the preferred color; it didn’t show blood as much.

  “That’s what the numbers say on the door,” he replied.

  What would she sound like moaning?

  Better off not imagining that. She was no Mortus demon—her skin a warm caramel, glowing with health, no sign of the green tint that would mark her as one of his species—and sex with a non-Mortus was not something he was interested in.

  Fucking corpses wasn’t his thing.

  She frowned. “This room is checked out to a Mr. P. Jeremy.”

  “Sure is.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Mr. Jeremy is an Ignis demon.”

  Yeah, that was something he couldn’t pretend to be. Next time he’d have to bring an illusion spell with him.

  She was sniffing the air. He had no idea what kind of demon she was—Hell, she looked human enough, if not for those eyes—and he realized she might be able to scent what was left in the room.

  Godric gave her a cool smile and stepped through the door. He locked it, flicking a small spell at it as he did so. She wouldn’t be able to enter the room for a good twenty minutes. “I swapped rooms with Mr. Jeremy,” he lied. “Check the next one. I’m heading down for a drink; have a good night.”

  Finally close enough, he raised his hand and blew a cloud of white dust at her.

  She coughed in protest, and then looked at the trolley next to her, blinking in confusion.

  The spell wouldn’t last long—it just affected short-term memory. But it would give him enough of a window to leave, his face and presence forgotten.

  He tugged up the hood on his sweater and was whistling by the time he made it downstairs. The bar was a huge open space, filled with tables, and a counter running the length of one wall. He strode straight for the exit and was out the door before the patrons realized there had been a Mortus in the mix.

  Outside, he whispered the incantation for a Devilsgate and threw a handful of powder in the air, watching as it spun to form a fiery circle. He stepped through the glittering portal, out of Sheol and back into Tartarus and the Halcyon Guild building.

  Home.

  He was home.

  Chapter 3

  Casa de los Condenados, Sheol

  Goddamn it, the dust that asshole had blown in her face stung.

  Kara turned back to the door and waited until his footsteps receded before rubbing her eyes. It helped a little, but they still watered. Damnit.

  The powder had been a memory spell, Kara would put money on that. Too bad for him she’d had a counter enchantment inked into her skin a century ago, along with dozens and dozens of other spells to negate offensive magic. They’d cost her a pretty penny, but sorcerers were more than willing to bargain when the price was right.

  Watching him from the corner of her sore eyes, she pretended to fiddle with her trolley as he walked further down the hallway, his stride confident and casual, like he belonged right here and hadn’t just been found in a room that wasn’t his.

  Black sweater, black jeans, black gloves.

  Her eyes dropped down.

  She could bounce a coin off his ass, she knew it.

  What the fuck had he been doing in her target’s room?

  She’d done her research on Mr. P. Jeremy, and he wasn’t into guys, just teenage females. Of any species—the asshole wasn’t picky.

  Although, the stranger had been hot. Way too hot, really. With that intense stare, like she was the only one in the world worth noticing…mmm…

  Wait. Head in the game.

  So, if P. Jeremy was going to try batting for the other team—

  She rubbed her eyes again, just as the stranger reached the stairwell. She normally found manbuns hilarious, but this guy rocked his. Strong jaw, broad, clutchable shoulders, sexy, lying mouth. Yeah, she could picture the things she wanted to do to that tongue. Even the green-tinted skin was sexy.

  Focus, Ashmore.

  She let out a deep sigh. Magda was right. She needed to get laid.

  Too bad her curse had made her the world’s oldest virgin.

  Fucking witches.

  You do one thing…one little thing, and you’re paying for it for centuries. So what, she’d stolen the bitch’s boyfriend. It didn’t mean she should have been denied sexy-times until she found her true mate.

  She might never find him. Or her.

  Kara glanced over her shoulder; the stranger was gone, him and his delectable ass.

  She turned to the door and tried the handle; it froze in her palm.

  She swore, snatched her hand back, cradling it against her chest. Heat she could take, but the cold—

  Sneaky bastard had spelled it against entry.

  Quick fingers, too.

  Oh, now that was a thought she really didn’t need right now.

  But she could admire a sneak—even one who worked against her. Cunning had always been attractive. As long as he wasn’t a knight of some kind…

  She focused on the door handle, running over her list of options. The spell probably wouldn’t last long, but what had he done in there? Or had he been truthful, and the rooms had been switched rooms without anyone updating the booking sheet?

  Now I really want to know what’s in that room.

  “What are you doing?” Magda’s voice whipped down the hall, and it was cold, cold, cold.

  But then, it always was. Magda was a Scryer, a rare subset of Foraci demon. Ice all but ran in her veins; not that that was her ability. No, Foracis were mind-manipulators.

  They should never have been friends—Magda frozen by rage and Kara full of fire—but they balanced each other out.

  “Uhhh—” Kara’s stinging eyes surveyed the hall quickly while she tried to come up with a half-believable lie.

  Magda’s eyes narrowed as she approached. “You don’t do room service.”

  No, Kara worked the bar, where their Djinn boss, Lamar, could keep an eye on her. Distant cousins, the Djinn and Phoenix had an uneasy relationship, especially since her species was all but extinct. But that distant kindship had also made Lamar feel obligated to hire her.

  Magda came to a stop in front of her. Tattoos covered her right cheek, tracing down her neck to disappear under her shirt, her hair a cool slick of blue down her back. They were both as bad as each other when it came to dyeing their hair. Cold lavender eyes surveyed Kara. “What are you up to?”

 
“Why would I be up to anything?” Kara countered, lowering her throbbing hand and smiling sweetly, like her makeup wasn’t running down her face from her watering eyes.

  Magda didn’t fall for it. She lifted the cloche and studied the single cherry tomato that rested on the pristine white plate beneath it. “Interesting choice of meal.”

  It wasn’t really a tomato, but a spell designed to explode on contact with skin, burning like acid. Which Magda knew. She had the Sight, could read magic and its imprints. Kara had once offered a sorcerer a great deal for that power but had been told to wear Clear Sight powder as an eyeshadow, if that’s what she wanted. Apparently, there was no spell she could have tattooed to achieve the same effect. Which sucked, because Clear Sight cost a small ransom.

  “Who is in that room?” Magda asked.

  Kara reached out to take the cloche from her. “No one.”

  A single, dark eyebrow rose.

  “The guy just left.” There, that wasn’t a lie.

  “What guy?” Magda frowned.

  “The one you just passed on the stairs?”

  “I came out the office.” Magda pointed at an open room, four doors down.

  Damnit.

  “If he’s gone,” the Foraci demon said, handing her the cloche, “then why are you still here?”

  Kara let out a long breath. Fuck it. Magda was her best friend—Hell, her only friend—and she didn’t like lying to her. Well, not when she’d been so clearly caught out. Lies were only worthwhile if you could get away with them.

  “An Ignis demon checked into this room.”

  Magda crossed her arms over her chest, her black AC/DC shirt straining with the movement. “Not every Ignis demon—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Kara rolled her eyes. “I’m not a genocidal maniac.”

  Not totally.

  “Really? What about that guy last week?”

  Kara sighed. “I didn’t kill him.”

  Just broke both his legs and his arms. The Ignis demon had gotten aggressively handsy with one of the waitresses, and Kara hadn’t waited for Lamar to step in and end the altercation. Which he would have. Their boss didn’t tolerate any kind of shit in his establishment.