by Liz Meldon
The blood seeped into his trousers now, grey sweatpants he had haphazardly thrown on the morning he and Moira fought. The third strike of the flogger had Severus snarling in agony, teeth gritted, eyes shut, the inner demon’s roars drowned out by the pounding of his own heart.
The fourth strike had him cursing.
The tenth strike had him screaming.
Seraphim Securities. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Moira lifted her chin as she glowered at the black and grey box across the street, its golden letters catching the light of the setting sun. She shouldn’t be here—because she couldn’t control herself in front of this building. Not anymore. Not when she knew, she just knew, Severus was somewhere inside, trapped, captured, in pain.
Maybe even dead.
No. She closed her eyes and dragged in a steadying breath.
He had been gone for three days now—three agonizing days, the same number she had been held by Diriel. Tortured by Diriel. Abused by Diriel. By midnight on the third night, Severus had come kicking down the door with a motley crew at his heels. She had been out of there. Rescued. Ready to start healing from the ordeal.
And where would Moira be at midnight tonight? Back at the house. Stewing. Worrying. Waiting for Cordelia to arrive from Hell so she could perform a location spell, one that would confirm Severus’s whereabouts. Alaric had gone to his high-and-mighty dad, begging for help, but had been told that if angels had taken Severus, they might as well start mourning him now: you don’t come back when the angels take you. Not anytime soon.
But Moira couldn’t accept that.
Neither could Malachi. Unfortunately, Severus’s chaos demon big brother didn’t know the local demons well enough to start making deals—or, as he would have preferred, cracking skulls. It had been three days of thumb-twiddling while Malachi and Alaric put a plan in motion.
And Moira had sat around, useless. Wanting to help, but not knowing how. Waiting for someone to call her about the incident at the stadium—for the police to show up at her old student house with questions nobody could answer. So far, nothing.
Unable to sit still that afternoon, she had snuck out without anyone knowing—Ella and Gibson included. Alaric’s daytime handler had been paying extra-close attention to the front of the house since they’d taken all the cars without permission the other day, that awful day, and Ella had been glued to Moira’s side since they returned home from the hospital, Moira battered but not broken. Determined. She was more determined than ever, but her priorities had changed.
Moira wanted Severus back. She’d stopped giving a single fuck about her so-called dad the second he blasted her through a concrete barrier at the stadium. Once she had the man she loved back, safe and sound, she would come up with a way to make Aeneas suffer. There had to be one. Angels weren’t the almighty end-all of supernatural creatures. She would find a weak spot. She had already told Malachi to ask Cordelia to bring up all the texts she had in Hell about all known supernatural beings.
“They’re in Latin,” Malachi had noted flatly, unimpressed with the request. “Or Aramaic. Do you speak either?”
“I took a beginner’s Latin course at school,” she’d snapped back, but that course had been years ago. “Maybe Cordelia can, I don’t know, spell them into English. Something.”
At least she was trying.
Today’s outing hadn’t been about trying. After she’d realized that the cool 1.2 million sitting in her account was the money Aeneas had used to buy her mom’s silence, Moira didn’t want it anymore. Not a penny. So, in an effort to keep busy when the hunt for Severus stalled, she started researching charities. Today, she had gone out and made a sizeable donation to the hospital her mom had worked at, and another to a children’s charity downtown—the very kind she had been interested in working with as an art therapist, before all this supernatural madness had started. A hundred grand. She’d written a check and dropped it off in the money donation bin, along with her contact information should the administration need to verify that it was, in fact, a valid check.
Walking around downtown, her hair out in the open for all to see, Moira had meant to go back to the house—apologize to Ella, who had been calling her for the last hour. She didn’t mean to worry her best friend; there were just a thousand things on her mind, and her fears for Severus had made her antsy, fidgety—emotional. Lately she had needed the space to clear her head, and her best friend just refused to give it to her. Ella meant well. Moira loved her to death. But she just needed time. The occasional bit of space. No more than two hours.
She had meant to walk home. Sit on Severus’s bed. Breathe in his scent, one of his shirts pressed to her nose. Eyes closed, she could have pretended he was there. Her mind could slow, the frantic thoughts vanishing just for a moment.
But here she was. Standing in front of the café they had frequented for two weeks when it all began, where they had sketched angels and eaten breakfast together.
Here she was. Glaring at Seraphim Securities. Hands burning. Eyes tearing. Lips trembling.
She probably looked crazy. Moira didn’t care. She just wanted Severus.
Give him back to me, you psychotic bastards.
He hadn’t deserved to be taken. He hadn’t deserved to scream in agony that day, surrounded by six angels, their light searing his skin. She remembered it later, the faint sound of flesh sizzling. He didn’t deserve any of it.
“I knew the risks when I fucking volunteered for this.”
Just because he’d known the risks didn’t mean Moira was okay with what had happened—with him taking the brunt of the danger, carrying the entire burden on his shoulders.
The building before her was closed now, the hours on the website listing Seraphim Securities as an 8–5 business like many of the other downtown corporations. The lights were dimmed in the lobby. Evening traffic rushed by her, workers eager to get home, get drunk, get out. At just after 6 PM, she hadn’t expected any of the angels to come strolling out—they usually left with the work crowd. However, when the huge double doors opened, she stiffened, half expecting to find Aeneas there.
Aeneas, not her dad. She refused to call him that anymore, not even in her own mind.
He hadn’t earned that privilege.
And she figured he never would.
Much to her surprise, out walked a familiar face—as familiar as one could be after a single meeting. He looked up sharply and stopped, their eyes meeting across the whiz of traffic. Zachariah, the angel who had interrupted Moira and Severus the morning they—well, Severus—had tried to seduce building plans out of Mary, the lobby receptionist. Back then, the angel had filled the doorway, his frame enormous, his voice booming. Bald. Black skin, blue eyes, and white eyebrows. He wore a tan trench coat over his suit today, his red tie slightly askew, and a briefcase hung off his fingers.
They stared at one another for ages, Moira shaking ever so slightly. Her eyes watered, but she refused to blink, refused to break first—to falter in front of a creature who could have just finished torturing Severus somewhere in that awful building. She didn’t recall him being there at the stadium, but he was one of them. She lifted her chin and took a step toward the curb. Head cocked, eyes slightly narrowed, Zachariah did the same.
Another step. He followed.
Moira still hadn’t blinked, still hadn’t backed down—until a wall of black came to a screeching halt in front of her. Spell broken, Moira stumbled away, catching her reflection in the SUV’s tinted windows. Her bruises had faded, though the ones on her body clung on longer than those across her face. The hospital had removed her wrist cast after she’d forced them to take another X-ray, proving it wasn’t broken. At the time it had been slightly fractured, and she’d worn a dressing home. The following morning, it was back to normal. Sore. Achy. Crackly. But functional.
Her energy hadn’t exactly bounced back yet. Apparently healing oneself tired even a hybrid’s body, but Moira had pushed through the exhaustion, nothing but Severus on her m
ind.
“Moira!” Ella barked as soon as the window rolled down. Malachi glared at her from the passenger seat, and her curly-haired bestie seemed even smaller than she actually was in the driver’s, hands clutching the steering wheel. “Are you insane? Get in the car!”
“I…” Moira stalked around to the front of the car, eyes wide and searching, but Zachariah was gone. She jumped when Ella laid on the horn, cheeks flushing as heads turned her way in passing.
“Your mother and I have been worried sick about you, young lady,” Malachi drawled as she marched back to the open passenger-side window. A smirk tugged at the corner of the chao demon’s mouth while Ella stewed beside him. “Get in this vehicle now.”
“Okay, tone it down,” Moira muttered, then met Ella’s slightly red honey-brown eyes. Guilt bloomed inside her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just had to get out.”
“We’ll discuss it at home.” Malachi popped his aviators—Severus’s aviators, actually, now that she’d taken a second look—up on his head, then tsked. “We are very disappointed in you—”
Ella slapped a hand over his mouth and leaned over him, the seatbelt stretched across her chest. “Don’t scare me like that, Moira. Seriously. Get in. Let’s get out of here.”
Moira shook her head before she could stop herself. “I can’t leave. I know he’s in there. I know he’s… He’s right there.”
Malachi grabbed Ella’s wrist, which looked positively breakable in his huge hand, and held it away from his face.
“And what do you intend to do?” he demanded. “Storm the keep all by yourself? Don’t be absurd. My brother doesn’t need a dead hero.”
“Let go,” Ella muttered as she tried to tug her hand back, only to smack Malachi’s arm when he wouldn’t immediately release her. The demon’s icy blues snapped toward her, his sinful grin making her cheeks red. With a sigh, Moira reached through the window and pinched the underside of his bicep, twisting the sensitive skin. He hissed, instantly letting go, his eyes black when he glared back at her.
“Move,” she ordered, hating to agree with Malachi—but he was right. She wasn’t doing anything to help Severus by glaring at Seraphim Securities all night. “If Ella’s driving, I have shotgun for life.”
“Am I supposed to understand what that means?”
“You ride in the back,” Ella insisted, stabbing the button on her armrest to unlock all the doors. Malachi glanced between them, as if trying to decide how serious they were, and when Moira opened the door for him, he rolled his eyes, human once more, and eased his long legs out.
Dressed in head-to-toe black, from the snug jeans to the also rather snug tee, Malachi looked like he belonged in the reception area of some high-end modeling agency, waiting to be told he had just landed a massive global campaign. Recently-sheared golden locks swept back, he had a smile nearly as breathtaking as Severus’s; Moira tried not to roll her eyes as a clump of teenage girls downright ogled him while he strolled languidly toward the back door, strutting like a prized peacock, every tail feather on display.
Good grief.
The guy might have been gorgeous, but his ego could rival the sun.
Shaking her head, Moira climbed into his abandoned seat and slammed the door shut firmly enough to scatter the teens, red-faced and full of giggles. After buckling herself in, she turned to the person she ought to be giving all her attention to, her guilt like a lead weight at the sight of Ella’s flustered face.
“Hey.” She touched her best friend’s arm gently. “I’m sorry. I went to donate some of the money like we talked about, and then my feet kind of just took me here after. I didn’t come here on purpose. Promise.”
“Well, answer your damn phone the next time you go out,” Ella muttered, and it was only then that Moira realized her best friend was shaking. Clearly this had upset her more than she let on, which wasn’t surprising—given what had happened the last time Moira snuck out. Fuck. Hating herself just a little bit more, Moira unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned over to wrap her arms around Ella as the SUV idled at the curb.
“I’m sorry,” she told her, squeezing tight as Ella continued to grip the steering wheel. “Really. I fucked up, and I’m sorry.”
Her best friend nodded, her mass of lustrous curls wrangled into a half-up, half-down style that probably had her neck roasting; no wonder the air-conditioning was on high. Moira lifted the mane up as best she could, blowing softly on Ella’s neck, not giving up until the woman laughed and finally hugged her back.
“Don’t scare me like that.”
“Never again. I promise.” She meant it, too. While she was determined as all hell to find and retrieve Severus, she didn’t need to give her best friend a heart attack in the process. Although Moira’s initial plan had been to have Alaric stash her away somewhere safe until Aeneas was dealt with, it seemed best for everyone’s mental and emotional health to stick together—for now.
“Then you’re forgiven,” Ella told her. Moira laughed, easing away just enough so that their eyes could meet.
“Good.”
“For Lucifer’s sake,” Malachi groaned from the back, “can we not loiter in front of angel headquarters please? Let’s goooooooooooo.”
He punctuated his impatience by pounding both their headrests, and Moira lunged back to smack him. The demon twisted just out of reach, grinning mischievously.
“He’s such a child,” Ella muttered as she switched on the blinker and checked over her shoulder before merging. Nodding, Moira plopped down in her seat and buckled in again.
“Like the brother we never wanted.”
“Mhmm.”
“Oh, you ladies love me,” Malachi purred, popping up between their seats. “Admit it.”
“No thanks.”
“Hard pass.”
“Honestly,” he muttered as the SUV slowed to a stop at a red light, “it was so much easier navigating topside gender politics when you lot weren’t allowed to voice your opinions—”
This time both Moira and Ella managed to smack him.
And a chuckling Malachi seemed all too happy to let them.
Chapter Two
Ella was never going to get used to this—any of it. Living with demons and hybrids. Seeing a man’s eyes go black at the drop of a hat. Watching a witch with insane scarring perform some creepy ritual over a map of Farrow’s Hollow while everyone sat there, faces tense but neutral, like it was no big deal.
She glanced at Moira, but her best friend was too fixated on the dot of blood shooting around the map as Malachi’s cousin whispered frantically to herself to notice. Ella’s next ally was Alaric, but she soon realized the error in that logic; from the second this Cordelia demon walked into the house, it had been obvious the redhead had a massive crush on her. Ella liked Alaric. The guy had a gorgeous accent and kind eyes, and she had enjoyed his relative normalcy in the midst of all this supernatural crazy. Not only that, but he was a nice, normal, even-toned guy.
Until Cordelia. Then he became a fumbling, bumbling, blushing teenager so overwhelmed by the demonic witch’s obvious flirtations that it was sad. When Cordelia was around, the hybrid only had eyes for her. Sighing softly, Ella risked a quick peek at the final member of the household huddled around the kitchen breakfast counter. Malachi’s full black eyes turned her way the second she so much as glanced at him, and, flushed, Ella pointedly stared back at the map instead.
Finally, the blob of Cordelia’s blood stopped in one spot, quivering for a moment, then sank into the city map Alaric had pulled out of his dashboard compartment. A thick silence blanketed the group as they leaned over the pinprick point.
“Seraphim Securities,” Moira said, her tone almost triumphant as she tapped the map a few times. “I told you he was there. I told you.”
“Well, it was the obvious choice, wasn’t it?” Malachi drawled, sitting upright on his barstool and crossing his arms; the chaos demon was so burly that it was a wonder the stool could handle both him and hi
s ego. “I think we all knew he’d be there, but the proof is damning, I suppose.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ella could practically feel her best friend bristling beside her; Moira had been desperate to go after Severus for days now, but the rest of the invisible house’s occupants had preached patience. Angels were supposedly the top dogs in Farrow’s Hollow—they all had to be smart about this.
“It’s just… Seraphim Securities is a fortress,” Alaric offered, his gaze trailing after Cordelia as she teetered around the counter, shuffling along in her huge Victorian skirt and tightly-laced corset. Ella eased to the side as the witch passed by, the hairs on her arm standing at attention, and glanced back at the sound of the water running. There she stood, this oddball woman with the bizarre sense of style, washing her bloody hand in the sink, humming under her breath. She looked high, honestly. Or like she was just coming down from a high, which wouldn’t surprise Ella. When she’d performed the locator spell, her eyes had rolled back into her head and she’d lost herself in a trance—stepping out of it was probably a little disorientating.
Right?
Maybe.
Maybe not. Ella didn’t have a clue when it came to demons; she was just working with whatever information she could glean from those around her, which, to their credit, had served her well so far. After she’d stabbed Malachi’s hand the day Severus went missing, Ella was pleased to note that the chaos demon hadn’t once invaded her personal space—physically, anyway. Those eyes had a knack for piercing right through her, whether they were demonic black or ice blue.
“So, it’s a fortress,” Moira said, her cheeks flushed. “So what? Severus is in there. They’re probably torturing him for whatever crime they say he committed… Probably some trumped-up charge from Aeneas—”
“Moira, I want him back just as much as you do,” Alaric countered, his hand inching across the map, as if to soothe her. “But, honestly, Father doesn’t even tangle with Seraphim Securities. He’s always given them a wide berth, and I think we need to take that into consideration.”
