by Liz Meldon
“It’s not like they’ll stay retired after we bust down the front door,” Liam croaked as he exchanged a quick look with Edgar. “We won’t get five feet into the lobby before they show up and light us on fire.”
“My ward will also diminish the angels’ light,” Cordelia insisted. “However, it will lessen our power too, which is why we will need the numbers your,” she pursed her lips, as if offended at the idea, “organizations can provide.”
“So, everybody’s weakened?”
“The light will still burn you, but it won’t charbroil you,” Alaric interjected. “The downside is that we need Cordelia to stay conscious and present for the entire assault. Protected. If we lose her, we lose the ward. Timing is crucial.”
“Entry into the building will come courtesy of a few fine-tuned hand grenades,” Cordelia said, looking to Silas with an arched brow. “I trust I can rely on you to recommend the very best manufacturer Hell has to offer?”
The demon grunted in acknowledgement, and Moira bit her lip, still unsure where the mobsters stood. Dressed to impress, the heads of the demon mob families had shown up today in tailored suits, their hair styled and their arrogance high. No matter how hard they tried, however, they couldn’t match Malachi, Alaric, and Cordelia. The wealth discrepancy between the two sides was obvious, even to Moira. Her trio looked polished and put-together, classic and elite. Even Cordelia’s black lace dripped opulence, outshining the other demons by a mile.
It was a tactic, of course. Moira’s fitted black trousers, white silk blouse, and spike-shouldered leather jacket didn’t exactly live up to her companions’ splendor, but at least she looked like she belonged. Malachi and Cordelia knew how to play this game better than the rest—the game of Hell’s social politics. No one needed to say a word; it was obvious just looking between the two sides who was more affluent, who commanded more respect.
Alaric had even reserved them the swankiest conference room on the top floor of the Styx, the lone five-star hotel in Farrow’s Hollow, which Moira had only just learned was demon-owned and -operated. Beyond that, Alaric’s presence at the meeting would suggest Verrier’s involvement, which Malachi and Cordelia were banking on to keep the other demons—the lesser demons, supposedly—in check.
Moira didn’t give a fuck about social politics, be it Earth’s or Hell’s. She just wanted Severus back. However, if this was the best way to make that happen, then she could dress up and muster a stoic, snobby persona to get through the meeting. All that mattered was the end result: the mob families backing them next Wednesday night, two and a half weeks after Severus had been taken, when she and the others would break into Seraphim Securities.
To pull it off, they would need the numbers to go up against angels. The five of them plus both of Alaric’s handlers just wouldn’t be enough—not by a long shot.
Malachi had been ridiculously excited about the idea this morning, about all the carnage the night promised.
And about rescuing Severus. He had been sure to mention that too as Moira and Ella glowered at him.
“And what exactly do you get out of this?” Silas dipped his head in Malachi’s direction. “Don’t tell me we’d be putting all this work in for a fucking leech.”
“We heard your brother was taken,” Liam added.
Edgar shot her one of his smarmy smirks, and Moira felt her cheeks starting to grow hot. Licking her lips, she avoided his gaze and dug her fingertips into her thighs. All she needed was to keep her mask up. She had gone into today expecting a bit of needling, and now that she had fully recovered from the injuries inflicted by Aeneas and had a grasp on her light, Moira had hoped her confidence would carry her.
But the mention of Severus managed to find a chink in her armor.
Inhaling deeply, she pushed her shoulders back, trying not to react to the way they all sniggered about leeches. Even Malachi snorted; the demon knew his audience.
“My brother can rot in those prison cells for all I care—I’m not here for him.” He fiddled with his nails again, expression verging on amusement. “I’ve been stuck in Hell for centuries. Now that I’m back, I think it’s time to upset the established order. I want to unleash a little chaos. Is that really so surprising?”
The four demons huddled in, muttering amongst themselves, and Moira met Malachi’s eye briefly. The slightest twitch of his brow said everything: shut up and let me run this.
“Look,” Silas said when the group finally settled back in their seats, “here’s our issue.”
Malachi raised his eyebrows, lips thinning. Across the table, Alaric appeared to be holding back a smile, and Cordelia stared down the mob heads like they were the biggest band of idiots she’d ever had the misfortune of knowing.
“We like to know who we’re dealing with,” Silas continued as he swept his greasy hair back, the others nodding along like black-eyed puppets beside him. “What you’re proposing—it’s been something of interest to us for decades. I don’t think there’s a demon topside today who can honestly say they haven’t dreamed about overthrowing the angels, eh? So, fine. Consider us interested. But…”
Malachi took a deep, dramatic breath, and if she’d been able to see his pupils, Moira was one hundred percent certain he would have rolled them.
“We like to know who we’re throwing our hats in with,” Henrik carried on. “Silas, Liam and I have been running Farrow’s Hollow for the last seventy-five years—”
“Give or take,” Cordelia interjected, smirking at the group. “There have been…others.”
“But we have a real solid, professional relationship,” Henrik said, gesturing to his companions. “We may fight here and there. We might have a moment of shifting alliances within the mob circles. We may even—”
“Get to the point,” Malachi growled. The floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the conference room, offering a panoramic view of downtown Farrow’s Hollow, rattled in response. Moira swore that, just for a moment, Silas and his boys looked nervous.
“The issue is,” Silas continued as Henrik slumped down in his chair, cowering, “we know you, Malachi. The Saevitia clan reputation is nigh untainted and has been for centuries. Same with your cousin. Best witch in the business, some say. And Alaric Crowley, well, we can assume he’s here with Verrier’s blessing.”
Alaric merely tipped his head to the side, expression unreadable. In reality, Alaric’s dad had no idea any of this was happening. Moira had watched the hybrid swear his bodyguards to secrecy when his mob networking started shortly after Severus was taken. So, unless someone had squealed, Verrier was out of the loop.
“It’s this one,” Liam concluded, his tone somewhat smug as he pointed to Moira, “we don’t know, don’t trust.”
Jaw clenched, Moira deferred to Malachi for a response. The chaos demon merely shrugged, waving her off as though she was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things—never mind that he had purposefully seated her on his right-hand side.
“Moira is most certainly here for my brother,” he told the room.
“Not a spy for the angels then, huh?”
A flash of anger shot through her, and Moira scoffed, lifting a challenging eyebrow at the sex trafficker who dared question her integrity. “No.”
“She has her part to play,” Malachi carried on. “I will vouch for her. Hell hath no fury like a woman on a mission—or whatever the fuck the saying is this century.”
“Yes, well, you see,” Edgar said as he stood, then pushed away from the table and strolled toward her. He’d seemed taller when seated; standing, he couldn’t have been more than an inch or two above Ella’s very dainty five-foot-four. Still, Liam’s lackey walked like he was six feet tall, his chest puffed out, the gold chain around his neck catching the bright lights above. “We just don’t know what good she’s going to be for us. We’re all well aware of your abilities, but your little half-breed here is a wild card. Not that we don’t trust you—”
“Oh, no?” Malachi leaned forward, lungi
ng like a cat who’d finally cornered the mouse. “Because from what your toad is saying, Liam, I’m inclined to disagree.”
“I speak for our entire organization when I say that we want to know what she brings to the table,” Edgar insisted. Moira stiffened at the sound of him stopping dead behind her, his presence vibrating softly in her peripherals. Still seated, Alaric glared up at the demon, and Moira’s eyes snapped hard to the left when Edgar swept her hair back, tucking it behind her ear.
“Everyone should have an equal part in this,” Liam chimed in, leering at her openly now as his little minion continued to fiddle with her hair. Seething, Moira looked to Malachi, who appeared to be enjoying the shift in the conversation. In fact, she could have sworn there was a little smile tugging at his lips.
“Why don’t you loan her out to us for a few days?” Edgar’s too-warm palm settled on the curve of her neck, just beyond the spikes on her leather jacket’s very defined shoulder, his thumb stroking her beneath her hair. “Give her a spin. We’d all like to see what she can really do. I’m sure none of us will have a problem signing your contract then. Consider it an act of good faith.”
In an instant, Cordelia started toward them, her black eyes narrowed, but Malachi snatched her arm before she got very far. Begrudgingly, the witch fell back into place, her scowl pinned on Edgar. Down the table, the other demons watched with bated breath, the air stilling as Edgar dragged a sharp fingernail up Moira’s throat, then traced the shell of her ear.
This was it.
Her moment to put them all in their place.
“Yeah. Moira, he’s a demon. He’ll survive. Alaric said I need to set firm boundaries.” Ella’s voice echoed in the back of her mind. Firm boundaries. Right.
“You know,” she started, fighting to keep her voice even, to swallow the flood of disgust at the feel of his finger grazing her jaw, “I am so sick of demons thinking they have the right to put their hands on me.”
In a flash, her hand snapped around Edgar’s wrist, and Moira yanked him forward as hard as she could. As he stumbled into the table, she stood and wrenched his arm straight up, forcing an unnatural bend to his elbow. She then pinned him down by the back of the neck, slamming his face onto the table, towering over him, glaring, her blood like fire coursing through her veins as the demon mobsters chuckled.
“Oh, naughty,” Edgar sneered, cheek pressed flat to the mahogany, black eyes swiveling up to seek her out. “I don’t mind a girl who can play rough—but just remember I bite back. Actually, maybe you boys can give us a minute here…”
She ignored his goading, his thinly veiled innuendos, and concentrated on her light. Since the breakthrough with Ella and Malachi, Moira found she didn’t need to focus so hard on rescuing Severus or protecting her loved ones to bring the power to the surface. Now, a mere flicker of the incubus’s face across her mind had her palms glowing.
And when they sparked to life now, Edgar’s string of filthy innuendos died on the tip of his tongue, replaced by raw, guttural shrieks that had his companions shooting to their feet. Her light poured out of her, burning every inch of bare skin she touched—Edgar’s wrist, the nape of his neck. She pushed harder, drawing out higher-pitched squeals from the demon wriggling beneath her, unable to escape her grasp.
Malachi shielded his eyes with a wince, but as soon as Liam started to protest, taking a few steps in Moira’s direction, Alaric was on his feet, a gun drawn. The mobster paused when she looked his way, her gaze sharp and precise—knowing that when he looked into it, he would see the angels of Seraphim Securities glaring back. Moira might not have been one of them, but she could do some serious damage too; it was time the assholes who ran this city learned that.
Edgar’s cries had weakened, turned hoarse and pitiful the longer she held him. Just for good measure, Moira wrenched his arm up harder and moved her other hand to his cheek. His skin bubbled and split beneath the light, what was once white and oily now red and cracked. Finally, when his cheek had swollen up enough to connect with his nose, when the pus and ooze of his blisters ran down his arm, weeping out from under her fingers, Moira called it off.
She still couldn’t explain how it worked, but the light seemed to know when she was finished. Like flicking a switch, turning off the tap, suddenly the pure white light was just gone.
“H-help…me,” Edgar whined, blood creeping along the side of his face, his arm. Moira stared down at him, adopting a mask of disinterest as she kept him pinned, a mask she had learned from watching the chaos demon beside her.
“The next one of you to touch me without my permission will get full power,” she warned, staring each one of the mob family heads in the eye. “I may not be one hundred percent angel, but I can one hundred percent fuck you up. Is that clear?”
It was a lie—one suggested by Alaric, actually, as they’d ridden the elevator up to the conference room. If she needed to show her power, tell them whatever they saw was only a tenth of what she could actually do. Keep them guessing. Keep them frightened.
Slowly, Silas, Henrik, and Liam nodded, neither daring to look at the other for confirmation. It was exhilarating, the sudden rush of power. Moira had felt so helpless in this supernatural world, beaten down by her run-in with Diriel, disappointed with her inaction in Hell. Finally, she was a player in this game.
Finally, she could let go of her fear—even just a little.
A quick glance at Malachi found him smiling like a proud papa, his head cocked to one side as he surveyed a singed Edgar. It suddenly endeared him to her—his restraint. It was like he had known all along that she could handle herself just fine now. When he looked up to her, she took the slight flicker of his brow as permission for one final act of brutality—Edgar’s last reprimand for putting his hands on her.
Moira released the mobster’s neck, then wrapped that arm around his bicep and pushed on his wrist, applying enough pressure to break his elbow. Edgar screamed one last time, the sound starting off strong before going feeble, his broken arm falling limp at his side when she released him.
“And I don’t want to hear the word leech in this conversation again,” she snapped, watching as the demon weakly scrambled backward, only for his legs to give out the second he stood upright. He collapsed in her chair, pus oozing and blood dripping, half his face so swollen that he was nearly unrecognizable.
“We…can all be civil, I suppose,” Liam said after a beat, breaking the silence from the far end of the table. “As long as you return the favour.”
“I’m here because I want Severus back,” she told the trio, fighting harder now to keep her voice even, her eyes prickling with tears. “I’m not interested in angel alliances. I don’t care if you guys defeather every single one of them, but I’m here. I’m not dead weight. Don’t speak to me like I am.”
“Noted,” the demon said tersely. “Don’t flambé my men.”
“If they behave themselves, I won’t have to.”
Malachi snorted. “And here I’d been thinking an angel hybrid would be boring, eh boys?”
The trio half-heartedly returned his smile with less enthusiastic ones of their own, and, sensing her little stunt had accomplished what it needed to, Moira faced Edgar with a scowl.
“Get out of my seat.”
The demon tried and failed to lift himself up, so she grabbed him by the front of his cheap suit and dragged him away. While he was heavier than she’d expected, she managed to toss him aside. Only then did Alaric sit back down, gun holstered. A snap of Cordelia’s fingers cleared all the blood and pus off Moira’s seat, and once she tucked herself in, Moira dug her fingertips hard into her thighs to hide the fact that she was shaking like a leaf.
“Well!” Malachi clapped his hands together, everyone except Cordelia flinching at the sound. “I think we all know what we each bring to the table now. Can we count on your support? Naturally, we will meet again to discuss the assault in thorough detail. It will all come down to timing and precision. Can I trust your dogs to
follow orders?”
Silas’s eyes narrowed. “Unflinchingly.”
“Excellent,” Malachi crooned, noticeably delighting in the demon’s discomfort. Beside him, Cordelia dug out a rolled piece of yellowed parchment paper from the depths of her black skirt, then handed it over to her cousin.
“A contract,” she stated, producing a feathery quill with a flutter of her fingers, which she also passed to Malachi. Without hesitation, the chaos demon signed it as she spoke—with a thin stream of blood dribbling out her left nostril. “Consider it a pledge of loyalty. We will back you so long as you do not default on this arrangement. I will be taking it straight to an oathkeeper in Hell when we conclude the meeting.”
Moira watched Malachi, Cordelia, and Alaric scribble their signatures at the bottom of the paper, unable to decipher the Latin text from across the table—or at all, honestly. After the trio had signed it, Cordelia split the tips of each of their forefingers open, and they added a bloody fingerprint next to their names. Kitten heels clacking across the dark hardwood floor, Cordelia sauntered to the end of the table and set both the contract and the quill in front of Silas first. The demon looked to his companions for a moment, hand hovering over the quill.
“Imagine all you could do in Farrow’s Hollow,” Malachi purred, “without an angel holding your leash. That is what I’m offering you, friends.”
Finally, Silas conceded, and soon enough, all three had signed the contract, bloody fingerprints and all. Edgar, meanwhile, sat on the floor next to Liam’s chair—forgotten.
At first, Moira thought they wouldn’t include her, but suddenly there the contract was in front of her, Cordelia hovering over her shoulder as she shakily added her name to the bottom of the list. With some difficulty, the witch sliced into Moira’s fingertip, needing a bit of extra pressure to break the skin. Ignoring the churn of her stomach, Moira stamped the parchment in red—wishing she knew what the hell she was signing.
“No backing out now, gentlemen,” Malachi said with a chuckle. He stood, buttoning up his crisp black suit jacket, then pressed his fingertips to the table. “In a week’s time, Seraphim Securities will be no more.”
