Altered: A Beyond the Brothel Walls Novel

by Ryans, Rae Z.

  But my brother-in-law Veric died, and the fault had fallen to me. When I tried to sleep, I still saw the blood and heard his screams. Gunshots rattled in my head. He’d struggled with my ex-lover, Boric, and I had shot twice before fleeing. My stomach heaved at the memory, and my eyes reopened. Even in the safety of the abandoned church, gunpowder still burned my nose from the antique Colt .45 revolver.

  I yanked on the corroded-iron handles. The door groaned. Fresh air filled my lungs and chased away all warmth. Change waits, future waits, but I cared little for myself. The odd draw to the church altered its path toward the bar. Had to be a sign, but try as I might, my feet refused a faster pace.

  “He listened,” I whispered. “My sisters will be freed.”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Archangel Abaddon—Death

  Special Agent Dorian Fox

  Demons ruled the world, and everyone blamed me.

  My green eyes glowed beneath the brim of a black fedora and reflected in the nicotine-coated mirror lining the bar. I drew my hat down, hiding that which pegged me as different, and averted my gaze to the corner television. The show airing leaped from the more recent fiery brimstone and earthquakes to an old infomercial revolving around self-help books promising readers change.

  I rapped my knuckles on the bar.

  “What brings you in Agent Fox?” the barkeep asked, and placed a rocks glass on the counter before filling it with amber liquid. “Haven’t seen you in months.”

  Seven, but who was counting? “Meeting a client.” Music blared in the background, overpowering the television’s volume, but I scanned the rolling text at the bottom of the screen and disagreed with the program.

  Altering one’s self on the inside: A fool’s game.

  The barkeep strolled away and waited on another patron. I tipped my hat and slid the long coat from my shoulders. Punctuality points always fell in my courts; Belle was always late. Coughing on the rising smoke from my cigarette, I snuffed it out and swirled the amber liquid in my opposite hand before taking a lengthy sip. Its bitter burn erased neither my past nor shaped the future, but I was a glutton for punishment.

  Nobody changed overnight—not me, the guy two stools down, or even the bartender clanking glasses in the sink. I didn’t want to amend my ways, and doing so put the world at risk.

  Experience had taught me better than that. I tilted my head, following the scrolling words on the television: “Read this book and have a better tomorrow for only nineteen ninety-five.”

  “What a load of bullshit.”

  The bar door jingled, and I peeked over my shoulder. Junior Agent Belletrist Artois waltzed in, late as usual. Misfits parted faster than the Red Sea, her hips and bleached-blonde dreads swaying. I nodded to her, and her red eyes crinkled at the corners.

  A man grabbed her bicep, and Belle punched him in the gut without blinking. He toppled over, muttering to himself.

  She said, “Don’t you ever lay a hand on a woman without her permission. Boy, didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

  He dropped to his knees, shaking his head. I waited, though, to see how she handled the situation, since she was my responsibility to train. She leaned over him, her badge dangling around her neck, and the idiot tossed his hands up.

  “Sorry, ma’am, must’ve had too much to drink.”

  “That’s Officer Artois.” She shoved her badge in his face.

  Most didn’t like the law, and the Arcadian Bureau of Demonic Affairs made up the police, judge, and jury of New Halifax, Nova Scotia of the greater Arcadian stronghold. Didn’t matter what they were: witch, warlock, vampire, angel, demon, or a mix.

  Belle kept her eye on him while he backed away. After the man had taken a seat, she strolled to the bar. Flipping her bleached dreads, Belle asked, “Mr. Westcott isn’t here yet?”

  “Hell’s Belles, you took the call.” Westcott… where had I heard that name before? I scratched my beard.

  Belle fidgeted with her ABDA issued trench coat, hiding something as usual.

  “What’s he look like anyhow?” He could be anyone, but she hadn’t given me much information. She had taken the call, so it wasn’t abnormal. Meeting here and not in the office baffled me, though. “And why are we here?”

  Belle shrugged from her trench coat and ignored my second question. “He sounded cute over the phone. A little twang.”

  I waved at her comment, paying attention to the self-help infomercial since she evaded my questions. Did anyone believe this crap? No one flip-flopped their life in a matter of moments. Had we learned nothing from the past?

  “He said someone kidnapped his sister.”

  I nodded, my gaze glued to the ridiculous program, but she had my attention at kidnapped. After all, I assessed and retrieved those abducted or lured into slave trafficking. “But you don’t know what he looks like?”

  Belle laughed, shaking her Medusa-like dreads. “Spoken like a man. You just want to know if you can screw him.”

  I cracked my neck and burped before shrugging. My mind rarely ventured far from sex. We lived in the moment. Sometimes a moment was all I had.

  “You’re such a pig, Dorian.” She shoved my shoulder. “Somethings never change.”

  I grinned, but it fell. Change mandated time and commitments, and I had no time for altering my ways. I lit another cigarette, and the acid burn of rotten leaves and whatever else the company shoved inside smoldered in my throat. I stared at Belle until she spoke.

  “Sorry to burst your fantasy, but I didn’t think to ask.” She turned, half-facing me. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course not.” I blew out a puff of smoke, and she raised a brow, calling me on a bluff. “Don’t get your knickers in a bunch.”

  “Death’s having a dry spell,” she teased.

  I had his first name: Cain. But our departure had been for the best. I would’ve hurt him. Toxic, Death didn’t linger. Father shaped me as iniquitous as imaginable, and he fashioned me for a sole reason. To kill, not to love or care. The Archangel of Death and a Horseman of the Apocalypse. Nothing short of my father would ever change the simple reality and truth. Men like me deserved to be miserable and alone, hopping from man to man to satisfy our lustful cravings.

  My scarred knuckles rapped on the bar again for a refill. He nodded and reached for the whisky. The bartender refilled my glass, stretching his arm as far away from me as demonically possible.

  “Thanks.” I raised the rocks glass to my lips, grimacing at the brown sludge burning my throat, but he ignored me again. Since the world had erupted and Scotland had sunk into the ocean, Scotch whisky was impossible to find. Anyone who knew anything about Scotch would’ve known the others resembled melting plastic. Besides, whiskey with an ‘e’ wasn’t real Scottish or Irish whisky, but most of America hadn’t survived the Sundering either, leaving me with either moonshine or Canadian whiskey to tempt my palate.

  “Agent Artois, how nice to see you.”

  “He should’ve been here by now.” Belle tapped her nails on the bar. “I’ll take a Canadian Club.” She rose, smoothed over her leggings, and yanked at her holster shorts. The bartender drooled; she leaned over the bar and swiped her half-made drink. A long gulp later and she made a face, as if sucking on a slice of lemon. From her corset, she withdrew a wad of Arcadian dollars and counted out enough to cover the drink.

  I contained my humor, covering my mouth with my hand, and the bartender said, “No charge.”

  She slipped the bills into her corset. “You look like hell warmed over and tossed to the bit, boss.” Belle aimed her scarlet gaze at me, and I met it in the mirror, while drawing my hat lower to hide my eyes in the dim bar lighting. Her high-heeled foot kicked my stool.

  I tilted my head toward her and glowered, leaning over my drink, but she was right. Months had passed since I last cared for my appearance. Seven months, but who counted the time between lovers or ass-kicking sessions? Belletrist had insisted I trim my beard and shower. What mo
re did she want from me? “Hell’s Belles, woman, this isn’t a social call.”

  Belle is up to something.

  Ice rattled in my drink, clinking around on its own as a train approached, but the music blocked the whistle. My arm rested on the bar, cradling my chin. In the ten years she had worked for me, Belle could not tell a lie. Her gaze lingered over the bar and avoided me. Everyone had a tell, and her avoidance of eye contact reflected hers.

  “I told you to shave. You couldn’t even do that right.” Belle shook her head.

  I ducked to avoid her dreads slapping me in the face. Those suckers hurt, but she loved the style, and they made her look badass. The thought alone created a snicker and drew a glare from my Elioud partner.

  “I shaved.” I ran my hand over the dark stubble. “At least I don’t have weapons hanging off my head.”

  “Shaving implies you remove that crap you’re calling a beard from your face, and I so don’t have weapons hanging from my head. Mark loves my dreads.”

  Mouth gaping, I stared at her. How dare she bring my brother into the conversation? “If I find out you two are...”

  “What? Fucking?”

  My cheeks warmed, despite loving to cuss. “Yes, fucking, buggering, banging, shagging, or a little bit of how’s your father.”

  Belle tossed her hands into the air in a mock surrender, while trying to maintain a straight face, but she slipped and hunched over laughing. I flashed a small smile and savored another sip of battery acid parading as scotch. She didn’t like my brother, but I always had a laugh. He liked her. The only notion funnier than bringing the Archangel of War to his knees was someone doing the same to me.

  “Take that stupid hat off.” She smacked the fedora from my head, revealing disheveled locks. “Now the world can see your eyes.” Belle cringed. Her scrutinizing stare reached the top of my head, and combed her fingers through the tattered mass. She grabbed a fistful and yanked. “You need a haircut. This ain’t the sixties, and you’re too cute to be growing a mullet.”

  “You need to get laid.” Maybe then, she would leave my so-not-a-mullet-hairstyle and me alone. I added, “But please, Belles, not my brother.”

  She winced and paled before composing herself. “At least you left your scythe at home this time.”

  Yes, I owned both a scythe and a putrid green horse. At least the biblical translators had those parts right. “Hey, you’re not my sister, so stop acting like it. I already have two of them I can’t stand. We’re here for a job, not my love life.”

  She crossed her legs and muttered, “Lack thereof.” Belle waved the bartender down and ordered us a refill. “Look, it’s not like we’re swimming in cases. I just thought you might like him enough—”

  “You don’t even know if he’s gay, and I don’t need your help finding a man.” I peeked at my pocket watch, and nudged Belle’s arm.

  She glanced down but only grunted. Mr. Westcott had five minutes before I stormed out the door. The Arcadian Bureau of Demonic Affairs didn’t pay me to sit around and drink. Restless, my legs tapped as I awaited our new mysterious client.

  “Knock that off.” She clamped her hand on my knee.

  I pushed my cigarette pack toward her.

  “I quit.”

  “I don’t like tardiness.” I scratched under my chin and glanced at the door, but a woman entered, rushing toward a table of giggling Eliouds. It took time, but I could usually tell their abilities at a glance. A few baffled me. Being Death presented a unique insight on the soul, but as it turned out, I happened to be a damn good detective. Belle—one day she’d make an even finer agent.

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious, and no one says tardiness. Let’s give him a little more time. He was coming from the other side of town, something about getting off work.”

  “Fine. He has fifteen minutes, and then I’m gone, Belles. You can stay and waste our time.”

  She didn’t argue and nodded. I raised a dark brow, but she said nothing. Despite being her superior, Belles always argued. Sometimes, I swore she did so to crawl beneath my skin, but a spine and thick skin were required to do our job—nobody in the agency wanted to deal with slaves and brothels.

  A heavy ballad whined from the jukebox, and smoke clouded the bar air from the patrons puffing on cigarettes and various herbs. The music carried me away, and if I were to close my eyes, the words would make me forget the hell we called home. But my eyes were open, watching and studying those who stared and whispered behind my back. My glowing jade eyes cast an eerie radiance over the hazy bar. All the Horsemen had reflective, jewel-toned eyes, and I had spent years hiding them under the wide brim of my hat. My stiff fingers tapped along the bar surface to the bass in the song, and I swayed on the stool to the screeching rhythm of the electric guitar, trying to block out everyone’s silent attentions.

  “So this is what Death looks like?” Behind me, a feminine voice purred.

  Frowning, I spun around on my barstool at the husky voice. A redheaded succubus, wearing a black brocade corset and matching hot pants, ran her hand down my chest, and her tail stroked my face. They were the easiest to peg, but I wasn’t one to catalog demons by type. All of them were the same to me until they became Garland’s victims.

  I leaned my back against the bar and puffed out my chest. Women and men liked when I unfolded and stretched my broad shoulders. Guess I seemed more approachable and less Grim Reaper.

  “Move it tramp, you’re not his type,” Belle grumbled.

  “I’ve turned a few in my time.” She slid her pointed tail down my chest.

  On me, her charms were lost. “Afraid so, ma’am.” Anything with boobs and a vagina held no ability to tighten my sack. The door jingled. Stealing a look over the redhead’s shoulder, I smiled. Every hair on my body grew attentive of the newcomer’s sweeping glare.

  My thoughts halted a moment—a millisecond—my gaze locked onto him. The bar door closed, a draft rushed through the heated bar and I shivered. Starting at the bottom, his heavy boots stomped snow onto the mat. Tight jeans hugged his long, lean legs, flexing beneath the denim. A wool pea coat covered his average upper body.

  My sweaty palms tingled, and I wiped them over my trousers. “Cain,” I whispered, and almost pinched myself. Those coppery eyes seared me from the inside out, sending their heated prickle over my skin and leaving perspiration in its wake.

  Death didn’t sweat.

  Before his smooth, angular jaw tilted to the right, I recognized Cain. My heart rate increased, and like lightning had struck, the air departed my lungs. The snake tattoo on his neck uncoiled as he gulped, appearing alive. If my memory served me right, the black serpent slithered along his hard chest and ended somewhere below his belt. How far south did it trail? I licked my lips.

  Everyone had someone they’d loved who had gotten away. Me? I didn’t stick around, not anymore. For me, love and relationships posed a greater risk to those inhabiting the Sundered world. I had yet to meet anyone whom I would break my rules for again.

  No man should possess eyes like Cain with their ability to warm my belly. Light peaked where black should emerge in the center, and it flashed, calling to me. We didn’t have a fling per say, but we had history. My lips quirked at the memory his heated golden eyes. As his lips parted, sucking in breath, his stare traveled over me.

  What did he want? This meeting couldn’t have been a coincidence, even though his wide, attentive eyes said otherwise.

  “Who you staring at?” the redhead asked.

  I shoved her aside, leaning forward but not standing. “Shite,” I said. “Belles, I should go...” Emotional involvement was against my rules.

  Cain winked, and regret stabbed through my chest.

  “He’s yummy,” Belle said, “quite the boy next door, eh? Oh, I do think that’s our client, Mr. Westcott.”

  I couldn’t find the words to surmise an answer, but agreed with my partner’s assessments. After seven months of digging, all evidence pointed toward Cain being a dre
am. Despite the blood and bruises he’d gifted me, I’d searched for him. But what did he need with us? Did he want me? My brow twisted. The succubus stepped away. At least she’d finally taken the hint.

  He nodded, as if answering my thoughts, and my heart raced even faster.

  Sure, I wanted him too. The problem lay in the rules, my rules, but ones that existed to protect the Sundered world. Besides Father, I held the ability to end this broken hunk of rock, and I’d come close once before thanks in part to a broken heart.

  I grabbed for Belle, but missed my chance to cut our losses and flee. She skirted toward him, leaving me to brood on my perch. Business and pleasure never mixed. One irresistible man my life hadn’t needed, but craved in a way that made no more sense than the world.

  He shook Belle’s hand. “How do you know Dorian?” Cain trained his attention on me.

  Wheels seized in my brain and all of my usual flirt tactics stalled. I sat there, powerless to move from my barstool. Music filtered out, and sweat broke on my brow.

  “Dorian’s harmless.” She waved in my direction, but I wasn’t budging. “He’s the one you need to convince.”

  One of the patrons’ turned the jukebox on again, and I strained to make out their words over the rap song.

  “Can I see your SAT phone?”

  Cain reached behind him and withdrew a large device from his back pocket. He handed over his satellite phone, a small bit of technology the world still had from before the Sundering.

  “Fuck this.” I stubbed my cigarette out on the bar’s countertop, not even bothering with the ashtray.

  As Belle spoke to him, her fingers did something to his phone. Typically, we exchanged numbers with clients, but this was Cain. He stood within my grasp, but I still couldn’t move. His curious stare sliced me in two, pinning me down. She ushered him closer to my position at the bar.

  Three options presented themselves to me. I could sit on the bar stool and wait for pretty boy, storm up to him and shove my tongue down his throat, or run away with my proverbial tail covering my balls.

  My glass slid from my shaking hand, shattering on the hardwood floor. Patrons stared at me. I slammed my palm on the counter behind me until my hat brushed my fingertips. Gripping my fedora, I crushed the rim in my fist.