The sound of clinking glass echoed into the dead silence and when the bartender was done, he set the bottle to the side and stepped back. A pronounced tick pulsed near his left eye and he swallowed nervously as he stood there, shuffling his feet, eyes shifting from Logan to the door. He was unsure. Afraid.
Logan tossed some cash onto the dark-grained bar and stood, his six-foot-six-inch frame unfurling with the uncanny grace of an animal, which considering his origins wasn’t surprising.
Tension settled along his wide shoulders as he reached for the glass, but along with it, a shot of anticipation. He was itching for a fight. He’d just not known it until now.
He tipped his head back. Amber liquid slid down his throat and he welcomed the smooth, sweet taste. It burned—all the way down—yet he closed his eyes and savored the sensation.
Logan had been pretty much everywhere—in the human realm and beyond—and he could say with certainty, Canadians knew how to brew their whiskey better than anyone else.
He let the liquid fire settle in his belly and then carefully set the empty glass back onto the bar. He arched a brow and nodded, a slight jerk to the right.
Now would be a good time for the bartender to leave.
Sweat beaded along the man’s top lip. It was quickly wiped away by a thick, meaty hand and then the bartender took a step back before he, too, disappeared into the shadows.
Logan slowly rotated his head and turned.
Two men stood just inside the door of the Neon Angel, their tall frames bathed in shadow. They were big. Well built and muscled.
And they’d not come to socialize.
Logan had no idea who they were, but judging from the otherworld scent that clung to them, he had a pretty good idea where they’d come from. But that was the tricky part, wasn’t it? Which realm did they call home?
No scent of demon twisted in the air and yet . . .
His hands fisted at his sides. He could take them. Hell, he wanted to take them.
“Shit, that didn’t take you boys long.” Logan nodded toward the now-empty bar. “You cleared the room in less time than it takes for a junkie with a needle in his vein to get high.”
Nothing. There was no expression or words.
Logan remained silent for a few moments and cocked his head to the side. He studied the two creatures—and creatures they were—there was not one drop of humanity in them. His nostrils flared as the subtle scent of pine drifted toward him once more and he frowned.
A memory stirred and with it a flush of heat, a dirge of anger.
Slowly his fists unfurled to hang loose at his side and Logan leaned back against the bar, crossing his long legs in front of him.
“I’m not much for one-sided conversation so unless you’ve got something to say I’d suggest you turn your asses around and leave.” Logan grabbed the bottle of whiskey off the counter. “ ’Cause I’ve got some drinking to do and that sure as hell is something I prefer to do alone.”
A low keening vibration rippled through the room—an invisible thread that electrified the air and sent his radar crashing into full-on red alert.
Bright light lit the men from behind, beams so intense Logan took a step back and winced. His skin burned as if it had been touched by flames and the control he had was fast slipping away.
Stars danced in front of his eyes and he shook his head aggressively as he moved forward, his mind emptying of all thought except one. Survival.
There was power here. Old, ancient power—the kind that always signaled shit was about to hit it. Hard. Logan was determined that any ass kicking in the immediate future would not involve his own.
The sifting beams of light sizzled and popped, and for a second he saw nothing but glitter, small pulsating fragments of gold that drifted on the breeze and whirled around the shadowed forms. They merged, twirling faster as the keening vibrations became louder, and they melted together into one large vortex of light.
Logan glared straight ahead, his gut tightening as the pine scent that hung in the air sharpened. It was fresh, tangy . . . and all too familiar.
His anger spiked as one form emerged from what had been two, a smallish, round bit of a man who looked nothing like what he truly was—Seraphim—and he was one of the original seven. Humans might call him angel, though in this form he bore no resemblance to the golden creatures popular in lore.
This was no cherub.
“Askelon,” Logan said smoothly, his anger in check, his facade calm.
“Let’s not be so formal, my friend.”
Glittery gold lamé lapels glistened against his gray jacket as the small man moved forward. His pants were ill-fitting, a little too snug around his generous belly, and his dress shirt sported gaping holes between the buttons. Something was smeared alongside his mouth—ketchup? And in his hand a bag of—Logan sniffed—candy was held.
Good to see his sweet tooth was still intact. “A little theatrical, even for you, don’t you think?”
Askelon arched a brow and shrugged his shoulders.
“Your bodyguards?” Logan continued dryly.
The small man laughed. “Ah . . . that was nothing. Parlor tricks really. I somehow doubt this room would have emptied if I stood alone and I do so want a private chat. We’ve lots to discuss.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed as he watched him walk to the bar, throw his bag of candy—which Logan could now see was filled to the brim with colorful Gummi bears—and with a little effort, settled himself onto the bar stool Logan had just vacated.
Pudgy fingers grasped a napkin and wiped away the stains on his face as Askelon turned to him. For a second his eyes shimmered—a weird translucent silver color—and Logan saw the power that shifted within their depths.
“Please”—he smiled and nodded—“call me Bill.”
“Bill?” Logan’s eyebrow arched in disbelief.
Bill grinned, shrugged, and proceeded to pour himself a glass of whiskey. “It’s plain, I know, but suited me at the time.” He poured one for Logan and handed it to him, raising his own in a toast.
What the hell do you want with me?
“I’ll explain in a minute, but first let’s drink, shall we? That is why you came here tonight isn’t it? To drink? Perhaps forget?”
So he was a mind reader now.
The tension that had fled moments earlier was back, pinching his shoulders as Logan reached for the glass and tossed back the tumbler full of whiskey.
The little round shit was responsible for his banishment as surely as if he’d—
“You know that’s not true, Logan.”
Logan’s chest heaved. He gritted his teeth and slammed the glass back onto the counter.
“Stay the fuck out of my head, Seraphim.” Logan moved forward until he was close enough to see the veins in the little shit’s eyes. His nostrils flared and his chest grumbled. Beneath his skin, the beast stirred.
“Your banishment was unfortunate.” Bill sipped the whiskey, his eyes shimmering as they regarded Logan closely. “But you knew there would be consequence when you joined the League.”
Logan snorted. “Yeah, well. Your so-called League can go screw itself.”
Bill set his half-empty glass onto the counter and twirled the liquid slowly with his finger as silence fell between them.
He turned to Logan and though his voice was soft, there was no mistaking the hard glint in his eyes. “That’s not how it works, my friend.”
Logan snarled and whirled away. He was a hellhound. His job was to retrieve souls that were beyond redemption and escort them to District Three—one of several levels in Hell—for processing.
He neither liked nor hated his job but he sure as hell was the best kind of animal for it. He was an elite hellhound shifter, born from the depths of Hell and destined to straddle the realms. His hunting capabilities were legendary, his sensory skills unparalleled.
Logan’s lips curled as the faint smell of pine tugged at him once more. He stared at the mirror that hung on th
e wall in front of him. At a reflection so bizarre it was laughable. Askelon had outdone himself. His human mask was nothing short of brilliant. No one would ever suspect the short, round, balding man was in fact one of the most powerful beings in existence.
Anger spiraled through him and Logan took a step toward Bill, uncaring that the ancient could dish out a hell of a lot of damage with nothing more than the flick of his wrist.
He growled and passed his hands through the thick hair at his nape.
“Why are you here?” The last time he’d seen the little fuck, Logan’s life had taken a header right into the fires of Hell. Literally. He’d defied direct orders from his handler because Bill had asked him to. He’d led a child back into the human realm—one he’d been ordered to retrieve for processing—and Logan had been brutally punished.
He’d been sentenced to the pit—the shithole beneath District Three. It was the one place in Hell that everyone avoided. If they were smart. It was saying something that a creature born of fire and brimstone had nearly been broken by it.
“I need your help, Logan.”
Logan paused, his face incredulous. “What part of shove your fucking League of Guardians up your ass didn’t you understand the last time?” He arched a brow and smiled, his lips tight in a sarcastic grin. “Or is this something else entirely? You pulling a Vader and crossing over to the dark side, Bill?” He flexed his arms, let his beast shift beneath the surface. “You want a ride down? Is that it?”
“The girl has been killed.”
“What girl?” A frown crossed Logan’s face. He didn’t like where the conversation was headed.
“The same girl you were ordered to drag to Hell fifteen years ago.” Bill sighed, rubbed his temples. “The one we saved.” If Logan didn’t know better, he’d think the little shit was tired.
“We? Seems to me I did all the work and had my ass kicked for thousands of years because of it.” Logan shook his head. No way was he getting involved again. “I’m done. I don’t give a flying fuck about that girl.” Did the Seraphim think he cared if the girl was dead? As far as Logan was concerned she’d been on borrowed time. If anything, she’d been granted a reprieve while he’d rotted beneath District Three.
Time moved differently there. In the pit. What had been fifteen years to the human girl had been nearly fifteen hundred for Logan.
“Tsk, tsk . . . language, my friend.” Bill turned fully and nailed Logan with a direct stare. “You should care. We all need to care.”
“You’re talking in circles, old man. You’ll need to elaborate.”
“She cannot perish. Her future is hidden in the fabric that binds us all, and it needs to be protected.”
“Seems like a moot point considering she’s already dead.”
Bill’s eyes narrowed. His face darkened. Gone was the pleasant, middle-aged human. In his stead a powerful, enigmatic creature stood. Two realities converged and Logan had to admit, the little shit’s mojo was impressive. Bill’s voice vibrated, falling in layers that encircled Logan and filled his head. There was no mistaking. The Seraphim was livid.
“She is not meant to die—not yet. Someone is trying to alter her destiny and I need you to retrieve her for me.”
“She’s not my problem. Find some other dog.”
“Oh but she is your problem. I need someone who can track her. Someone who knows her scent.” Bill leaned closer, his voice amplified even more. “Someone who’s tasted her soul.”
Logan had had enough. He growled, bared his teeth. “I don’t take orders from you. Not anymore. I don’t know why I ever agreed to it in the first place.”
Liar. If he was being truly honest, Logan could at least admit he’d only agreed to join the League because he hated Mallick’s guts. The demon was getting much too powerful as far as he was concerned. Something had to be done.
Bill sighed, grabbed his bag of candy, and helped himself to a generous amount. He chewed and stared up at Logan thoughtfully, though the hellhound was wary of the expression that now rested upon his features.
“You will do this for me.”
Logan crossed his arms over his chest and spread his legs. The Seraphim was going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.
Logan reached for the nearly empty bottle of whiskey and dumped the last of it into his glass. “You’ve wasted a trip, old man.” He was dancing on the edge. Tossing insults to one of the most powerful creatures in existence.
And he didn’t give a shit. Such was the way of it these days. His stay in the pit had altered him in more ways than one.
“You will do this because of your vow to the League and because I know your true origins.” The words slid between them. Silky. Dangerous. Bill’s ace in the hole.
Logan paused, the glass nearly to his lips. His throat tightened and his teeth clenched hard.
“I know who your mother is.”
The glass shattered in Logan’s hand as a snarl erupted from within his chest. His fist closed around Bill’s throat and he shoved the Seraphim back into the bar with such force that the walls shook, sending bottles and glasses crashing to the floor.
Logan’s skin shifted and the beast shone through, his eyes morphing to bloodred as he stared down at the small man held tight in his grip.
Several long moments passed and eventually Logan pulled back, curses in an ancient tongue flying from his mouth as he stepped away.
He closed his eyes, forced his body to relax, and crooked his head to the side. “Where’s the girl?”
There was a pause.
“Purgatory.”
Logan swore. “And her body?”
“The Regent Psychiatric Institute in Florida.” At Logan’s arched brow the round man finished quietly. “Morgue.”
The word had barely escaped Bill’s lips and Logan was already gone.
About the Author
JULIANA STONE is a writer, mother, and rock star. She lives in Canada with her family.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
By Juliana Stone
Wicked Road to Hell
His Darkest Salvation
His Darkest Embrace
His Darkest Hunger
Forthcoming
King of the Damned
Novellas
Wrong Side of Hell
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from King of the Damned copyright © 2012 by Juliana Stone
Excerpt from Wrong Side of Hell copyright © 2012 by Juliana Stone
WICKED ROAD TO HELL. Copyright © 2012 by Juliana Stone. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition MAY 2012 ISBN: 9780062096647
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062022646
FIRST EDITION
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