Nightsoul

by McKenzie Hunter

  Clayton’s deep melodious voice made the spell like a rhythmic stanza, making the lost language sound poetic. Enthralling to the point my skin felt like it was being singed, making me gasp in pain. The raven flashed on my arm, then disappeared, only to reappear, sending more shocking aches throughout my arm. Clayton continued with the spell and I gulped more air, tears welling in my eyes. The concerned look on Mephisto’s face made me wonder if my tears were similar to the sanguineous ones that Madison shed. Then clear droplets fell onto my arms.

  Mephisto’s jaw clenched before he looked away from me. The slab in my hand disintegrated into ash and the raven made one more appearance, pain pulsing around it like needle pricks until it formed a red circle and disappeared.

  “What the hell?”

  Kai’s bellowing drew our attention to Clayton, who was gaping at an empty page.

  Mephisto rushed to the book and both he and Clayton let out a string of curses, flipping through the book and letting out sighs of relief when they found that only that page had disappeared.

  After giving each other knowing glances, their attention turned to me. They didn’t say it, but I could see the apprehension on their faces.

  I needed to find my father.

  CHAPTER 3

  The motorcade of Clayton and Kai on the motorcycles and Simeon bringing up the rear wasn’t as dramatic as the elaborate light show performance they were putting on in my apartment. Wisps of dark smoke and striking light interwove throughout the room. It became dense with magic, powerful, omnipotent, and arcane. I remained awestruck, watching them move in unison, magic twirling, merging, twining, and twisting as it formed a magical grid to create obstacles and complicated wards, barriers to prevent anyone using my home as an exit from the Veil and also to prevent Wynding. It also meant I couldn’t go through the Veil from here, either. It was a necessary trade-off to prevent Malific from just popping into my home.

  Focusing on the magic being performed, I used it as an excuse to not look at Mephisto. To ignore the furtive glances he kept casting in my direction. When it was done, the magic-drenched room was hard to tolerate. Room stuffiness or an odor could be improved by opening a window, but not the remnants of strong magic. I’d have to wait until it settled. Knowing what these Others were, the type of magic they possessed and the sheer power of it, should have been a deterrent.

  After using every distraction possible to keep from looking at them, I lifted my eyes, taking in what and who they were. Immortals tasked with apprehending and punishing gods and the worst of the worst in the supernatural world. The Huntsmen of Hell.

  My lips twisted but soon faltered at the absurdity of me calling Mephisto “Satan.” It wasn’t a misnomer. In a way, that’s what they were. Warriors by duty. Bounty hunters by necessity. But in the end, they were the guardians of hell.

  Kai looked bored but not in need of burning off stored energy. He didn’t seem frenzied but subdued, as much as someone like him could be.

  “We’re done,” he said, not above pointing out the obvious. He looked at the other three.

  Clayton kept a considerate but seemingly cautious eye on me. I suspected he was wondering about the other Mystic Souls or recalling what had happened earlier.

  Mephisto’s eyes moved in the direction of the bottle of vodka and the glass I put on the counter. I brought out more glasses; we could all drink.

  Instead of coming to the kitchen, Simeon, Kai, and Clayton offered me faint smiles laden with apprehension and intrigue. They tossed another look in Mephisto’s direction then at the glasses on the counter before leaving.

  Don’t judge me.

  Mephisto lingered. Slipping the drink from my hand, he brushed strands of hair from my face, his finger brushing delicately across my skin. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Do I want to get so drunk I forget I died four days ago, released my mother from a prison that she rightfully deserved to be in, and discovered that the magic I don’t really have use of has been magically restricted? A restriction that you and the other super-gods can’t remove, which means it was put in place by someone stronger than you all combined.” I took the drink from him. “Yes, I want to do this. I want to finish this bottle and then possibly work on another and figure out what I’m going to do tomorrow. I’ll find a way to fix this.” I lifted the glass to him. “But today, I drink.”

  Mephisto didn’t deserve my anger or my frustration, but with each moment, it was harder to contain my emotions. Taking the bottle from me, he poured a little into one of the glasses and tossed back the contents. It was cheap vodka, a brand he’d never drink.

  He didn’t comment on it. Instead, he removed the distance that remained between us. His vodka-laced breath brushed lightly against my cheek. Not quite a kiss. Just a gentle brush against my skin. Then he pressed his lips to mine, the vodka lingering on his lips and tongue. His mouth was exploring mine, deep and passionate, and for a moment, all the drama of the past few days escaped as his fingers splayed against my back, pulling me closer to him. When we broke apart, we stayed close, shallow pants escaping us both, heat radiating. I didn’t want to move to break the connection.

  “We’ll figure this out. I’ll remove your magical restriction,” he vowed. He backed away, his dark eyes fixed on mine, until he made it to the door. Then he left me to my day drinking. Or more. I took a mental inventory of my stash: weed, Oxy, powder in my drawer. All had been tried or sampled as a way to manage the magic cravings. I took a sip from my drug of choice. I wanted to forget, just for today. Tomorrow, I’d handle things.

  I didn’t drink the bottle. Not even a glass. I had been nursing the same glass for the past hour. Being drunk or so high my thoughts were clouded wasn’t going to help my disaster of a problem. I needed magic. If Mommy Dearest was in fact coming after me, I needed magic—a lot of it. Strong magic. An Obitus blade or whatever else killed gods. Bile crept up my throat. I might have to kill my mother. What the hell type of torrid Greek tragedy had my life become?

  My inappropriate boom of laughter filled the room.

  “Can I get in on the joke?” said Asher’s voice from the other side of the door.

  I groaned.

  “I can hear that, too.”

  Still seated on the sofa, I held my breath and turned my ear toward the door to hear if he was still there.

  “Erin, do you think when you hold your breath, I think you disappeared?” he asked, humor in his voice.

  Glass still in hand, I answered the door. His deep-gray eyes dropped to the glass and then roved leisurely over every inch of me, from my fluffy socked feet to my leggings to my fitted V-neck t-shirt. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  No, just died and had to be brought back to life. How was your day?

  “No, I’m fine.”

  His attention fixed on something behind me. I looked over my shoulder. The network of magical webs, lines, and wards that remained visible for a few minutes after the Huntsmen had left was now gone. Could he still see the fragments?

  Drawing his attention back to me, he asked, “May I come in?”

  I nodded and stepped aside. He kept looking around the room, brow furrowed, eyes scanning over everything, then moved to the sofa and sat. “Is Mephisto still here?”

  “What did I tell you about smelling people and things?”

  “It’s not intentional. I can’t help that I’m hyperaware of things. Like the erratic beat of your heart and your ragged breathing.”

  He made a face. “The heart doesn’t change much when you hold your breath. Stop doing that, it’s weird hearing your breath just cut off.”

  “Most people don’t hear any of that!” I plopped down next to him. “Want a drink?”

  Before I could object, he took my glass from me and sipped. Then he handed it back to me.

  “I meant from your own glass.”

  Flashing me a devilish smile, he relaxed back. “I don’t mind sharing.” He stopped smiling. “Your drink.” He took another look around
the room and frowned. “What’s going on, Erin? You leave with Mephisto, go missing for days, and come back smelling”—he leaned in and inhaled—“different.”

  “Stop smelling me.”

  “Your eyes look different, too. I can’t figure out what it is.”

  “Stop looking at me.”

  “Really? Stop looking at you? What should I look at?” he asked, humor in his voice.

  “Don’t listen to me. I’m being terrible. Sorry.”

  “Your words, not mine.” He slipped the glass from me and took another sip.

  “So…we’re just drinking from the same glass now.”

  Taking another draw from it, he flashed me a wicked look. “Seems that way.” Then he placed the glass on the table in front of us. “You were gone for three days. Ms. Harp was convinced Mephisto had abducted you. Her story changed, becoming more elaborate with each retelling. And things are different with you. What’s happening with you, Erin?” The concern in his voice matched his eyes and was hard to bear. Was the weight bogging me down that apparent? Did my eyes look vacant? Was I some type of revenant?

  Throat tightening at the thought of answering, I sank back into the sofa with a sigh. When I laid my head on his shoulder, he reached for my hand and stroked it.

  “I can’t talk about it right now.” Or maybe ever. How much of this was mine to tell? I culled through all the information for something I could tell him, hoping it would offer some relief.

  “I’m adopted,” I said.

  He remained quiet, then, “There’s more, isn’t there?” His voice was so soft I could barely hear him. He must have forgotten I wasn’t a shifter.

  Feeling the weight of his chin resting on my head, I sighed. You don’t know the half of it.

  The need to distract myself became more urgent. Surprising both of us, I suddenly moved, sitting bestride him, resting my head on his chest. He stilled. Part of him stilled. One very prominent part of him was awake. Very awake.

  I cleared my throat and looked down, and he shifted a little and looked away. A light flush of color swept over his cheeks. “You surprised me,” he explained.

  “Hmm.” I rested my head in the crook of his neck. I’d shocked myself. At that moment, I understood the complexity of an Alpha’s existence. When his arms encircled me, I realized why the people in his pack found such comfort in the Alpha’s touch. His excessive heat was like being wrapped in an electric blanket. His fingers caressing my back was as soothing as hot chocolate on a snowy day. The feel of the mug’s warmth against cold fingers. I closed my eyes and melted into him with a sigh.

  Asher ran a comforting hand over my back. Was it just Asher who made me feel like this, or did every Alpha possess the innate ability to soothe and invoke such calm? I found myself pondering how I could test this with Sherrie, the Lion Pack’s Alpha.

  How would I test my theory? Did I just walk up to her, jump into her arms, and bury my face in her neck, forcing her to cuddle me? The image brought a smile to my face even though I knew that situation would end up with me on the ground, her teeth bared and her claws at my throat.

  “You have a devious look on your face. What are you thinking about?” Asher asked.

  I contemplated whether to tell him. It helped with my effort to distract myself from the events of the last few days.

  “I’m just wondering if Sherrie’s as cuddly as you are because she’s an Alpha, or is that just an Asher thing?”

  “I’m cuddly, despite the claws, teeth, predator tendencies, and the thrill of the hunt?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted, sighing against him. “That’s just the useless part I ignore.”

  A chuckle reverberated in his chest, causing my body to vibrate.

  “Being with me, like this, makes you think of Sherrie?” He laughed again. “Erin, you are such a peculiar woman.”

  “What do you think she’d do in that situation?”

  “You’re not part of her pack and I doubt she cares whether or not you are uneasy or in need of comfort,” he finally admitted after several minutes of deliberation. Despite the time, shifters tended to be direct to a fault.

  “She doesn’t like me,” I said. It didn’t bother me, but I liked to know my enemies or potential enemies.

  “She believes you’re a wildcard and questions your loyalty to my pack.”

  “Sherrie thinks I should be loyal to your pack? I’m not a shifter.”

  “You’re not, but she assumes there’s something going on between the two of us and because of it, your loyalty should be to me and my pack.”

  “What do you think?”

  His hand ran idly over my skin, gentle and attentive. “I think,” he said softly, “that you have your own pack and it consists of Madison and Cory. That’s where your loyalty lies. The two of us will always have split allegiances.”

  I’d returned to my position pressed against him, my face cradled in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent, considering what he said. A pack wasn’t what I’d call us. Cory was my friend and Madison was the closest thing I had to a sister. I’d protect them as vehemently as I knew they’d protect me.

  After several minutes, he eased me away, his arms resting on my waist. “Tell me the part you can tell me,” he urged. “There’s something bigger going on and it has something to do with Mephisto.” He stopped abruptly and made a face and I suspected that somehow I had confirmed it. My heart rate? “I realize you have to keep a great number of confidences if he’s involved. Tell me what you can and let me help.”

  I frowned.

  “Please.” He pulled me to him, his voice warm and entreating, his touch liquid and soothing.

  “I’m adopted. Or, rather, I was just left on a doorstep. I can’t believe that happened. That should only happen in the movies,” I said. His arms tightened around me. “And I found out that my mother is a psychopathic god in the Veil, who was imprisoned for killing another god. Apparently she wants to kill me, too.”

  I recounted the stories I’d read and had been told about her. Her violence against shifters, attacking them mid-change, while they were answering the call of the moon. Killing the witches who’d aligned themselves with the shifters. Her goal to take over the Veil, forcing all the other supernaturals to live under the gods rule. Abruptly I stopped, astonished that I’d revealed that much. My mind raced over everything I knew of shifters.

  “Shifters can’t compel, can they?”

  His finger brushed against my cheek. “No, Erin, I’m just that alluring.” His lips curved into the overly assured Asher smile.

  “Well that just broke the spell,” I countered, rolling my eyes.

  I don’t think they did. Tentatively, he pressed his lips against mine, coaxing a response from me. And I responded. Kissing him, my fingers tangled in his hair, pulling me closer to him. Tasting him and the alcohol, the warmth of his tongue sensually caressing mine. Firm fingers kneading into my skin. I wanted a distraction and Asher delivered.

  He kissed me more fervently. Nails grazing my back sent a shiver through me. Desperately wanting more, my hand slid down over the defined muscles of his arm, the corded muscles of his chest, the definition of his abs. Before I could unbutton his shirt, he pulled away. Panting, he pressed one finger against my lips and looked at the door. His thumbs continued to glide gently and rhythmically over my stomach—and my new scar.

  Someone knocked.

  “Erin,” said Ms. Harp’s wan voice. We remained silent. Motionless on the sofa, I tried to ignore the finger on one hand lazily stroking my scar and the other spanned across my back, toward the clasp of my bra.

  “Asher.” Her voice was rough and distressed. Within seconds, Asher was on his feet, his hands cupped under my butt. He lowered me to the sofa and quickly headed for the door. Not even taking the time to fix his disheveled hair or his clothing, he opened it.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked in a concern-drenched voice.

  I never thought I’d have to share a man with a septuagenarian woma
n, but there I was. My life was never simple. She kept moving her head, ducking and weaving, trying to get a better view behind him. I could just see her gray bun bobbing in and out and slight glimpses of her face.

  “Is she okay? Did he do anything? She goes out with him one night and is missing for three days. She travels clear across the country with you and returns that same day unharmed. He’s dangerous to her,” she said in a stage whisper.

  Unharmed? Trees kicked my ass, I thought, recalling our visit to Dante’s Forest.

  “She’s fine. He didn’t take her. She chose to stay with him.”

  “Did she tell you that? Then why are you here? Who says something like that? I told you things aren’t right with her.”

  I’m still here.

  She was talking loud enough for me to hear; I might as well join the conversation. Inching in closer to Asher, I ducked under the arm blocking the door.

  “I was sick,” I told her, hoping she wasn’t as good as detecting a lie as Asher.

  “For three days?”

  “Yes.”

  Her lips twisted to the side. She fixed me with her skeptical topaz eyes. “And the three other men who left your house with him this morning, were they doctors to address your ailment?”

  Now who’s the Chatty Cathy, you gossip?

  She pulled a look of innocence when my eyes narrowed on her. Patiently, she waited for an answer.

  “No, they weren’t.”

  Her inquiring brow hitched. “Who are they? I’m sure Asher’s curious, too. He was quite worried.” Then she looked at Asher and beckoned him to lean down. She brushed his mussed waves. “And your hair, what on earth happened to it? You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

  I’d be damned if I was going to let her interrogate me. Placing a big smile on my face, I said, “Well, you wanted to discuss something with Asher, so let me leave you to it.”

  Taking my cue, he asked, “What do you need, Evelyn?”