Dark Awakened (The Devil's Assistant Book 2)

by HD Smith

  Quaid stood there, smirking.

  Chapter 7

  I’d been ordered to present myself at the office Saturday morning at ten. Quaid told me not to be late, which was why it was noon and I was just walking in the door. I didn’t want to go back to Death’s virtual prison—or give them a reason to kill him—and Harry hadn’t exactly stepped up to the plate to assist, so that left The Boss, and my old job as his assistant.

  I’d never planned to return to this place, but part of me wanted life to return to normal—at least my normal—which had become fairly screwed up lately.

  I guess I could refuse to cooperate unless he gave everyone dental. I smiled, considering what maintenance would say to that, as I stepped off the elevator.

  I stopped in my tracks, one foot half in the inner office suite, the other in the elevator lobby. It had been weeks since I was here last, so it shouldn’t have surprised me to see a new girl sitting at my desk.

  She had glossy black hair and more eyeliner than Cleopatra. Only her head was visible behind the reception enclosure, but I half expected her to be wearing biker leather with a metal choker, and at least one painful-looking piercing. I was somewhat disappointed when she stood, straightening her elegant pencil skirt. She grabbed her clutch bag, looking down her nose at me as she rounded the desk. Her designer gray pinstriped suit and matching Jimmy Choo’s looked way too expensive for the assistant’s salary.

  “It’s about time,” she said, throwing her hair back over her shoulder. “I’m so over this bullshit. He’s yours to babysit.”

  “What?” I said, barely getting out of her way as she shoved through the glass door.

  “Their meeting is running over,” she called back over her shoulder as her heels clicked across the marble tile. “I’d recommend you sit and wait until he fetches you.”

  I stood there, dumbstruck. She was in the elevator before I realized she’d just quit.

  I wasn’t just going to sit and wait to be fetched.

  I stopped, hand stretched out for the door handle, when I recognized the voices. The Boss’s meeting was with Harry and Mab.

  I sat down, as if waiting patiently, and closed my eyes. I slipped my presence into his office, hoping they’d be too engrossed in their discussion to notice me.

  I had to hold back a laugh when I saw them. The Boss was veiled to look like his twenty-five-year-old “son”, Conrad Bosh IV. This glamour of a young urban professional was supposed to be the next generation of Bosh’s—an empire started in 1790, when a young man named Tucker Bosh immigrated to New York City and opened his first business. Of course, every Bosh since then has been the Demon King. He creates a younger version of himself every few decades so no one gets suspicious why he’s not aging.

  This version sounded the same to me, but he looked very hip in his V-neck charcoal cardigan and stylish designer jeans. He stood there, relaxed, with his hands in his pockets, sporting fine Italian leather loafers, looking all GQ in his perfectly casual I’m-a-young-billionaire-who-doesn’t-need-to-wear-a-suit-to-call-the-shots ensemble.

  As if Harry and Mab had decided to play along, they too were sporting much younger glamours. Harry was wearing a navy and white polo with faded jeans and boat shoes. He even had a sweater wrapped around his shoulders. Mab looked young and carefree in her knee length pink sheath dress that screamed summer in the Hamptons. Both looked like they should be at a regatta, not an office in Midtown.

  “I don’t know why she’s mentioning the dead,” Mab droned. Pointing at The Boss, she said, “you’ll have to find out.”

  “The girl—the Name Caller—is dead, correct?” Harry’s stance was ridged. He stood there with his arms crossed.

  “Of course she’s dead. She’s been dead since the incident. I won’t speak of it again.” Mab spun away from them, as if the topic was too painful to discuss.

  I rolled my eyes; she was so faking it.

  “Fine, the Name Caller is dead,” The Boss said, still appearing relaxed, leaning against his desk as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “That makes the other names irrelevant, although I do believe, Sister, that you implied they were handled as well?”

  “They better all be dead,” Harry interjected.

  They were talking about the other girls as if this wasn’t the first time they needed to kill contenders. And for better or worse, Merryman lumped us all together, so why had the big three let me live?

  Mab waved her hand dismissively. “Without the fourth it doesn’t matter.”

  Merryman said to find the fourth. Did that mean Mab was lying? He’d wanted me to ask Harry—was that so he’d question her? If so, he wasn’t doing a good job. Could he not see her lies? And what incident was she referring to? Was that why the Name Caller was supposedly dead?

  “By the way, your pet is here—watching us,” Mab said, interrupting my thoughts.

  I stuck out my tongue at her—childish, but still rewarding. I opened my eyes, returning to my body.

  I didn’t have much time to think about the consequences of eavesdropping before the door to The Boss’s office opened.

  He stepped out, and looked at my old desk as if he had something to say to Glossy Hair, then he noticed that she wasn’t there.

  “She quit,” I said.

  He growled. Under his breath he muttered, “Third one this week.”

  Third one this week? What was he doing to get rid of them that quickly?

  He arched one of his bad boy eyebrows, which would have been more intimidating if it wasn’t Conrad Bosh IV’s signature “look”. Every tabloid in the human world ran a similar picture of him with the caption “Bad Boy Bosh” or “Trust Fund Baby” every other day. And all the pictures had that damn eyebrow cocked. I was kind of surprised he created such a reckless persona, but maybe all of his younger selves had a wild-child feel.

  “Come,” he barked, returning to his office.

  It wasn’t as if I wasn’t afraid of the younger Conrad, but his playboy attitude in the media just didn’t instill fear like his “father” did. “So, you’re having a hard time keeping an assistant? Honestly I’m not surprised, but what was Glossy Hair’s issue?”

  “Vivian,” he said, stressing her name, “was expecting to be the fifth Mrs. Conrad Bosh III. She was disappointed father wasn’t interested.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So that’s why you’ve been around lately?” I pointed to his glamour. He’d rarely held court as the younger Bosh while I was around. At least not in the office.

  He raised both eyebrows, then straightened and ran his hand through his hair, pulling away the younger, hipper twenty-something and replacing it with his normal Conrad Bosh III persona. Black on black suit—no tie—short hair, with silver streaks at the temples. Older face, stronger jaw, angular nose—the real Boss.

  I stood taller, as if on reflex. This version didn’t so much annoy me as scare the shit out of me, but I wasn’t going to show weakness.

  “You let me go. I don’t want to come back.”

  I balled my hand into a fist when he ignited his mark. Glancing down I saw the translation rippling across the four Ancient characters—“Protected by the Demon King”. Yeah, right.

  In my mind’s eye I could see the fiery red geode which represented The Boss’s mark. I could break his connection, therefore ending his control of the mark, by finding the geode’s other half and slamming it shut. This wouldn’t remove his blood from my body, or reverse any benefit I’d gained from being marked—like the ability to sense veils, which had been partially awakened five years ago when I joined the company—but I didn’t want him knowing I had that power. The royals—the big three—had no idea I’d broken the curse that bound my power when I let Mab mark me with her blood. I wanted to keep it that way.

  I’d been stupid to use any of my gifts so blatantly in front of them. I should have been more careful, but touching Death and bringing The Boss’s spell onto me triggered my ability to neutralize the spell, and once I’d trapped it in a ge
ode I’d given the immunity to Death without thinking. It was a powerful tool to have and I didn’t want The Boss, Harry, or Mab understanding exactly what that meant.

  I tightened my fist, wishing like hell I could slam the red geode shut and turn off The Boss’s control.

  The orangey red swirl of liquid fire under my skin burned.

  “Vacation time’s over, Claire.”

  “It wasn’t a vacation,” I said through clenched teeth. “You don’t own me. Let me go. Please.”

  His cold stare never wavered.

  Faint energy crackled as wisps of power formed around my left wrist. I closed my eyes and released my fist. Giving both hands a shake, I dissipated the building energy—before he noticed.

  “You should have left me with him,” I said, pinning him with my stare. “Death could at least pretend to love me.”

  Death and I weren’t star crossed lovers, or soul mates, or kindred spirits. And there was no way I’d be returning to his villa anytime soon, but The Boss didn’t need to know that. Death had been there when I needed him, and by a freak coincidence I could circumvent his curse and he could at least pretend to love me—that part was true.

  The Boss had no right to bring me back.

  “We agreed you’d stay out of my love life,” I reminded him.

  “Did we now? I seem to remember that being a part of the deal for your continued service. A deal you refused.”

  “Yes, a deal I refused. I don’t want anything from you—and will you please turn off this damn mark while we’re talking?”

  He sighed. I stared. He turned off the mark.

  “I hate you for what you did to Jack. I hate you for loving my mother. I hate you.”

  He opened his mouth to say something.

  I held up my index finger. “No, don’t you dare. I don’t want to hear it. I’m not working here. You want me to get a job, fine. I’ll get one at Starbucks or something. But I won’t be controlled by you. Not anymore.”

  “Claire,” he said, his voice calm and even, as if he cared.

  “Don’t Claire me. I’m not working for you. That’s non-negotiable.”

  He opened his mouth again.

  “No. There’s nothing you can say to change my mind.”

  He clinched his jaw.

  I stood my ground. I was never backing down from him again. “I’ll stay away from Death. I’ll live in the city. I’ll check in if you want, but I won’t work for you. That Claire is dead. You killed her when you had Jack retired.”

  I wasn’t going to roll over and be his property. Not this time.

  The tension was broken when a knock sounded at the door.

  “I’ll email you once I’ve found a job,” I said, turning to leave. “Don’t expect anything for at least a week. I won’t have you hovering.”

  I opened the door without waiting for a reply. Quaid stood there, hand raised, ready to knock again. I glared at him, and maybe there was snarling too.

  “Is that any way to treat your favorite demon?” he asked.

  “You killed my favorite demon,” I reminded him, stepping around his towering seven-foot frame. “Don’t think I’ll forget.”

  “I love you too, Claire.”

  I ignored him, pushing through the glass doors to the elevators.

  I slammed my hand against the down arrow. “I’m not going to look,” I muttered, pressing the button again. Who does he think he is? He doesn’t own me. I’m not going to look.

  I looked back.

  The Boss and Quaid stood in the door to his office. The Boss glanced at me, and Quaid raised and lowered his head as if agreeing to new orders. I turned away, hoping the conversation had nothing to do with me. I was over this heavy-handed bullshit.

  I slammed the button again. I wasn’t going to play their game. I had to find a job, but that would be on my terms. And I needed to talk to Omar. I had to ask him about the other girls. Mab claimed they were dead, but I didn’t trust anything she said. The book of prophecy had way more going on than the simple “you’re the girl” bullshit Mab had spoken of. Harry hadn’t questioned her enough. He should have asked for proof. I wouldn’t know for sure until I talked to Omar, but I was still convinced he might be Merryman. How else would Merryman have known about the prophecies in the book?

  Merryman said the fourth must be found and that I’d have to kill her—or she’d kill me. Well, Omar better have more answers when I see him. I wouldn’t go blindly into this like last time. Last spring he’d told me to visit the quads, which basically led to the hell that was now my life. I wouldn’t do that again. I needed real answers, not this follow fate BS everyone else seemed to be spouting.

  I looked up when a flash of light bounced off the elevator doors. I swept my gaze back to the office. It was empty now. The Boss and Quaid were gone. A glint of light sparkled from the ledge of my old desk. Some sort of light catcher wobbled back and forth as if it had been recently disturbed. I rubbed my arms as a chill ran through me. The ding of the elevator brought me out of my trance. I stepped forward without looking—stepping off into a black bottomless pit—or what maintenance called the Tucker Bosh express elevator shaft A.

  Chapter 8

  After a heartbeat of panic I realized I wasn’t falling to my doom. The black pit of nothingness I’d stepped into was actually a portal, not the empty elevator shaft at The Boss’s company. Within seconds my momentum had me landing face down on hard packed dirt, pushing the breath out of me. I coughed and wheezed from the dust as I sucked air into my lungs.

  I pushed myself off the ground, coughing again as I brushed the dust from my clothes. I was in a dry gorge, with impossibly high, sheer cliffs on either side.

  I spun around when I heard a horse’s whine. The horse was tethered near the smoldering remains of a campfire. An empty bedroll lay off to one side.

  A cold wind blew past me. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. My short-sleeve t-shirt and jeans weren’t suited for weather this cold; at least I wasn’t wearing flip-flops.

  A queasy sensation hit me, something I hadn’t felt this strongly since I was around thousands of veiled demons, pagans, and druids at Fight Night last spring. I had been given several company perks when I started the job five years ago—including the phone, watch, and translator—but the ability to sense veils had been nothing more than a necessity of the job. That was until my unintentional trip to Purgatory last spring when my simple ability to sense veils had been kicked into overdrive. I was now able to sense them, see through them, and know the origins of almost any veiled person—the big three and extremely powerful beings like Omar being the exception. But this was different. The sense was strong and I had no idea what it was hiding.

  I glanced around, but it was only me and the horse and the empty bedroll. Someone else had obviously been here. Was that who I was sensing? Were they still here?

  Turning slowly, I focused my power, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sensation. I stopped when a wave of energy flared up in front of me. I stared for a minute, but there was nothing there to see. Then the presence pushed forward. I took a step back.

  “Who are you? Why did you bring me here?” I asked.

  No answer. What was it waiting for?

  I closed my eyes and slipped outside my body.

  The shaped outline of a large man stood before me. It wasn’t like he was in the in-between with me; he was outside in the real world, just hidden. Instead of seeing him in full color I could only see an eerie ghost-like outline glowing with spikes of radiating sparks that danced around his true form. His eyes widened when our gazes locked.

  I opened my eyes, pulling my presence back into my body.

  “Show yourself,” I demanded.

  Nothing. He didn’t move or materialize.

  “You know I’ve seen you. Show yourself, or the Devil—”

  My bluff caught in my throat when I heard a laugh. I glanced around again, but there was nowhere to run. With walls the height of skyscrapers, I sure
as hell wasn’t climbing out of this pit.

  Without warning the sensations caused by his presence blinked from existence and he appeared in front of me. Startled by the sudden movement, I jumped back, only to be stopped by his strong grip on my arm.

  “Hello, lass,” he said, “that’s a neat trick you’ve got there.”

  Okay, so maybe it was the accent—vaguely Scottish—or it was the ruggedly handsome god of a man that stood in front of me, but I was momentarily speechless.

  Dressed in army-green cargo pants and a skin tight black t-shirt that molded around every well-defined muscle of his chest perfectly, he was simply gorgeous. His tousled blue-black hair was short, but needed a trim. His piercing cobalt eyes sparkled more than shined in the light, and his sun-kissed skin was somewhere between warm honey and a golden bronze. He sported a large don’t-fuck-with-me knife strapped to his thigh, and an angry-looking bullwhip hooked to his belt.

  And I still couldn’t sense what he was. I mean, Highlander came to mind, but nothing that told me which of the realms he belonged to. It wasn’t a universal rule that pagans were the blond-haired blue-eyed among us, or that druids tended to have brown hair and brown eyes, and I’d met more than one demon that didn’t fit the black hair, red eye combination, but nothing about this stranger was leaning in any direction.

  He was unique. No question about that.

  The rough feel of the fingerless gloves that clamped around my biceps snapped me out of my trance. Blinking, I shook my head. Who is this guy?

  He was big, maybe not as big as Quaid, but close—easily six-eight. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, but considering he had the power to make himself invisible, I was sure that meant nothing.

  He studied me with his cool, fathomless eyes. I swallowed. I wasn’t sure if it was the dust in the air or the fact that this big guy was towering over me, but my chest tightened and it felt hard to breath. I tried to raise my hand to his face. I could compel him to let me go. The touch magic was a side benefit of having Mab’s mark. I was fairly sure she could compel from a distance, but I had to be in physical contact to make it work. He tightened his grip, pinning my arms, which prevented me from touching him.