Sinful Magic: A Wing Slayer Novel

by Jennifer Lyon

  “Wait your turn!” demanded a storm trooper.

  “You can’t cut in line!” a slave girl shouted from farther back in the line.

  Key spotted the two troublemakers. They were in their early twenties; one had on a black hoodie and a bulge in his front waistband. Gun. The second man was hauling a duffel bag.

  “Beat it, kid.” Hoodie shoved the approximately thirteen-year-old boy from the front of the line.

  “But I was in line!” The kid was about five foot two and had on a Dyfyr hat over his shaggy brown hair, along with a too-big, black T-shirt, baggy camo pants tucked in sad-looking boots.

  “Get lost.” The other man dropped a stack of comic books on the table. “Do your thing, dude.”

  His tat went hot. The rage wanted to boil up and out of him. It was the kid … Key only had to look at him to see he’d had a life of being pushed around.

  On top of that, he knew what the thugs were doing, getting the comics and graphic books signed to sell online. They were bullying and intimidating all the authors into doing it.

  “The boy was next,” Key said, threading steel into his voice.

  Hoodie lifted his sweatshirt to reveal the gun. “Sign them, asshole.”

  Key dropped his Sharpie on the table. “Can’t. Got a cramp in my hand.” He scanned the line of fans, saw they sensed trouble and moved back a few feet.

  The bigger man with the duffel bag grabbed Key’s wrist and tried to slam his hand onto the desk.

  Key froze his hand in midair, using his hunter strength.

  The man’s dark eyes widened.

  Hoodie pulled out his gun.

  The other guy let go and turned to guard his gunman’s back.

  Key leaped over the table and jerked the gun out of Hoodie’s hand.

  “Knife!” It was the kid’s panicked voice.

  Key slammed his fist into Hoodie’s jaw. His head snapped back, his legs buckled and he went down hard. Key spun, and went still. The second man had yanked the kid in front of him, the knife at his throat. Key looked into the boy’s brown eyes shimmering with tears and helpless fear.

  “Hey!”

  It was Roxy’s voice! She must have run across the room toward the commotion. Key kept his eyes on the knife at the kid’s throat.

  “Let me go!” Roxy yelled.

  “Shut up, bitch!” Then a slap.

  He knew that was Hoodie. He must have gotten up and grabbed Roxy.

  “Umph! Damn!”

  From the sound of it, she was clearly fighting him.

  The man with the knife looked away from Key to see his partner scuffling with Roxy. Key seized the opportunity and lunged, grabbed the forearm holding the knife, and yanked it back. A sickening crack echoed in the room.

  Key put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and moved him out of reach. Then he turned, taking in the entire room in a sweep. Roxy’s bodyguard was in a tussle with two security guys. He’d pulled his gun and they’d assumed he was the problem. Hoodie had hold of Roxy’s ponytail, a small pocketknife at her throat. The man had blood running from his mouth and nose from Key’s earlier punch.

  “You move and I’ll cut her!” Hoodie said, his dark eyes wild with pain and panic.

  Key still held the first thug’s gun in his hand. In a show of cooperation, he ejected the magazine to the ground, then reached over and set the gun on the table.

  The guy watched his movements, his grip on the knife easing as he thought he’d gotten control.

  Key snapped into action, drawing his knife from the holster at the small of his back and throwing it with dead-perfect aim.

  The blade buried in the man’s arm, just above the elbow. His nerveless fingers dropped the little pocket knife. He bellowed in pain and fear, shoved Roxy with his good arm and tried to pull the knife out.

  Key leaped over where Roxy had fallen to her knees, pulled out his knife and yanked the bellowing asshole to his feet. After wiping off his blade on the thug’s pants, Key threw him down next to his buddy.

  Security swarmed around them. Key ignored them, his gaze zeroing in on Roxy. She got to her feet and stood there, shivering, a bruise forming on the left side of her face. He jerked off the light jacket he wore to cover his knife holster. Putting it around her shoulders, he yanked her up to his face. “What the hell were you doing getting close to that scumbag?”

  She glared right back at him. “I had to get that man with the knife to look away from you! He would have cut that kid!”

  A buzz filled his head. He could hear all the chatter going on around them, but his entire focus was on this little witch in front of him. “You did it on purpose?”

  “To give you an opening to save the boy.” She lifted her hand to her cheek.

  A maelstrom of feelings erupted inside him. Pride in her, fear for her, rage that she’d been hit, satisfaction that she believed he’d save the boy, respect that she cared enough about a boy she didn’t know to put herself in danger …

  “I’m sorry.”

  Both he and Roxy turned at the same time to see the boy standing to his right. The kid’s hat had come off, he still clutched his rolled up comic book, and his face was a picture of shame and misery. “For what?” He was so wrapped up in Roxy, he couldn’t get his head around why the kid was apologizing.

  The boy stared down at the book in his hands. “For starting this. I should have moved when the guy told me to, but I wanted to meet you … sorry.” He turned and started to walk away.

  Key let go of Roxy and turned. “Hey kid, what’s your name?”

  The boy stopped and looked back. “Tyler.”

  He walked to the young man, put his hand on his shoulder and felt the sharp bones beneath the kid’s shirt. “This isn’t your fault, Tyler. You tried to stop the guy with the knife, didn’t you?”

  Finally the kid looked up, his face flushing. “I tried to grab his arm, but he’s stronger.” He looked down at his comic book. “I don’t know how to fight or anything.”

  Oh Christ. Key was looking at himself about sixteen years ago. Twelve or thirteen-ish, thin, gangly, and clueless on how to defend himself. No wonder the kid liked Dyfyr, the Dragon of Vengeance. If Dyfyr were here, he’d defend this boy. “Do you still want me to sign your book?”

  “Really?” He looked down again. “It’s kind of messed up. I read it a lot.”

  This kid was the reason he did signings. “That’s why I create them, dude. Not for plastic sleeves and display cases, but to be read.” He took the book from him, hiding his grin at the tattered condition, turned to his table, and grabbed the pen. He wrote, “To Tyler, a man with the bravery of a dragon,” before signing his name. He handed it back when a page slid out.

  Tyler didn’t notice the falling paper as he read the inscription. “Oh. Awesome! Thanks Mr. DeMicca!”

  Key bent down and picked up the page. It was a drawing, a pencil sketch of him at the table, bent over to sign a comic book. Behind his right shoulder, Dyfyr was crouched; his eyes watchful, his spiked tail partway up and he looked ready to explode into action. It was damned good. He looked up. “You drew this?”

  Tyler looked up and flushed a deep red. “Uh, I was, you know, just standing in line, and sketching. Just fooling around.”

  Key said, “Can I keep it?”

  The boy’s mouth dropped open. “Uh, yeah. If you want.”

  Hell, yeah, he wanted it. He’d put this up over his drafting table at the club, another reminder of who his real fans were. He held out the drawing and the pen. “Sign it.”

  Tyler’s eyes grew bigger. “Like an autograph?”

  “Exactly.”

  The boy took the pen and paper, leaned over the table, and wrote across the bottom, Tyler Yandell. Then he turned and held it out.

  Key took the drawing. “Thanks. You interested in learning some self-defense?”

  Tyler stood up straight, his shoulders back. “From you?”

  Key could teach the boy, but he had another idea. “I could show you a
few things, but I know someone even better. She used to be a professional kickboxer. Her name is Ailish, and she’s here in town with me and a friend of mine.”

  He grimaced. “A girl?”

  “Ever hear of the Blind Kickboxer?”

  Recognition rearranged his face into awe. “Oh man, really? You know her?”

  He smiled. “Yep.” He turned to Roxy.

  Gone.

  Looking up, he saw her heading toward the door. Glancing to the kid, he said, “Stay here.” Then he ran over, winding between people, and caught up with her at the door. “Roxy.”

  She turned back to him. “Oh, your jacket.” She slid it off her shoulders and handed it to him.

  Ignoring her outstretched hand, he saw the delicate skin beneath her eye getting dark and puffy. “Damn. Your eye is bruising.”

  “I’ll put ice on it later.” She shoved his jacket into his hand; then both of them turned as police swarmed into the room. They insisted on talking to everyone. “Stay here with your bodyguard,” Key said, then walked over with the police to where security had the two thugs contained, giving his statement as he did so.

  He glanced back over to see a cop taking Roxy’s statement. Tyler was sticking close to him, so Key took out his phone and made the call he’d promised the kid.

  “Yeah,” she answered.

  That got a smile from him. “Ailish, it’s me.”

  “No info on Liam, but I won two hundred bucks!” “On slots!”

  He smiled. “Good, you’re buying dinner. Hey, I have a favor. A friend of mine wants to learn to fight.” He slid behind his table and sat down. “Could you meet us in the signing room?”

  “The fertility witch?”

  He checked on Roxy again, saw her still talking to a cop, her bodyguard next to her. He answered Ailish, “Nope. Name’s Tyler, just met him today.”

  “So mysterious, dragon boy. Okay, we’ll be there in a few.”

  “Later.” He hung up and looked at Tyler standing by him. “She’s on her way.”

  “Thanks, Mr. DeMicca.”

  “Call me Key.” Then he sobered and gave the boy fair warning. “You might not be thanking me after you go one round with her. She won’t go easy on you, but if you really want to learn, Ailish will teach you.”

  His own memory of learning to fight came back to him. Phoenix had found Key on the ground getting the shit kicked out of him and then beaten the hell out of the group of boys and sent them packing. Furious, he’d brutally yanked Key off the dirt and asked him if he was too dumb or too scared to fight.

  Don’t know how. All he knew how to do was not show pain.

  I’ll teach you.

  And he hadn’t been nice about it. But Key learned. No one knew that, not a single soul. Phoenix had his faults, hotheaded, hardheaded, always spoke his mind, but he never told anyone about that scene. Ever. He’d call Key pansy-ass artist, comic boy, dragon lover, all day long, but he’d never humiliate him with that story.

  Tyler looked him directly in the eye. “I want to learn.”

  “Good man,” Key said. They’d find out more about this boy, what his situation was. If he needed real help, they’d get it for him.

  He stowed his phone and walked toward Roxy.

  But she was gone. Again. Damn it, losing her was getting to be a bad habit.

  Roxy was exhausted, and the herb tea she’d sipped hadn’t done anything for the throb in her left cheek and eye. She’d just concluded her last meeting and had a little time to herself. She’d sent her bodyguard, Joel, on a break so he could get something to eat and walk around a bit. She would call him to meet her before she left the café. Her stomach rumbled and she thought about ordering dinner.

  She opened her jaw, winced, and decided to wait. The place was full, but she had the booth, and had paid for several rounds of drinks and food for the people she met with. First she’d had discussions with some key merchandising people about current projects, and she’d just concluded a meeting with Perry and Nina Jenkins, who assured her the dramatic rights were available. She really liked them and loved their series of Eternal Assassins. She could visualize it as a movie, beginning with the murder of the first assassin and Aya, Empress of Shadowland, offering the shocked soul a deal for revenge. The soul would have no idea of the true cost.

  The overarcing story question will be Is there a way out of the eternal contract? Fighting against a trick of nature, or supernatural beings, appealed to her on so many levels. She loved themes like this, where each choice mattered, where the characters played an important role in the universe.

  She picked up her pen, jotting down all the information she’d need for a profit and loss statement to include in her pitch to her dad. Then they’d come up with an offer and contact the agent …

  Someone sat down across from her.

  Looking up, Roxy fought back a groan. It was the man in the Bart Simpson costume. He’d been following her around the signing, repeatedly pitching his “Groundbreaking animated series about a family …”

  She’d told him politely that she wasn’t interested the first two times, then more sternly the third time, and after that her bodyguard had chased him off. She thought he’d gotten the message.

  Apparently not. That plastic head with the frozen cartoon expression was disturbing. His voice came through a hole in the mouth. “Since you’re not busy now, I’ll finish what I was telling you about my project. It’s X-Men meets the Munsters.”

  She’d had enough of this. “I’ve told you no. You need to leave or I’m calling my bodyguard.” She reached for her phone.

  His shoulders snapped back and the head wobbled. “You won’t even give me a chance! You’re all the same, a bunch of stick-up-your-ass cretins who refuse to recognize my talent!” He got up, snatched a full glass of water from the next table and dumped it on her.

  Roxy gasped in shock as the water and ice tumbled over her.

  Everyone in the café went silent, except for the sound of a cellphone ringing somewhere. Bart Simpson stomped out.

  “Hell,” she muttered, feeling hot tears of humiliation, tiredness, frustration, and loneliness fill her throat. She never cried, never gave in to her emotions.

  “You have a lemon slice in your hair.”

  She looked up to see Kieran looming over her, his wide shoulders blocking out the world. His mouth was half-cocked, one side turned up in a smirk, the other side flat. It felt strangely as if it was just the two of them. “It’s my citrus look. You like?” What else was she going to say?

  She could feel his gaze slide over her face, travel along her neck like a warm caress, and catch on the soaked silk shirt molded to her breasts. She felt her nipples tingle and harden.

  He lifted his gaze. Putting one hand on the table, he leaned in. “You have a habit of getting wet.”

  In spite of the cold water, heat bloomed in her belly and in her schema. She was losing her mind, or maybe it drowned in the water. “First you and now Bart Simpson.”

  His grin slid into high voltage as he pulled the slice of lemon from her hair. “The cartoon character? He gets you wet? Kinky.”

  “No!” She picked up a cloth napkin and wiped her face. “I mean—” She was flustered. That voice, his grin, just the solid feel of him leaning into her made her forget her own name. “Bart Simpson’s been stalking me!”

  His dimples appeared. “Where’s your bodyguard? Off at Moe’s Bar?”

  Her mouth twitched. “I gave Joel a break. I didn’t know I’d be accosted by Bart. He had a cutting-edge animated series idea. X-Men meets the Munsters.”

  Key dropped his head and laughed.

  It was too much. Roxy was drenched, humiliated, tired, sore, but she started to laugh, too. Until finally the hot pain in her face got her attention. She cupped her left cheek in her hand. “Could have used the ice in that glass for my face.”

  Key sobered instantly. He reached over, pulled her hand off, and took her chin in his palm. “Hell, woman, why didn’t you
put some ice on this?”

  The sudden touch stunned her. “Uh … I had work.” Business first. She was responsible, not flighty and reckless.

  “The bruising is worse.” He ran one long finger over the tender skin.

  She shivered, a little tremor sliding down her body, touching her nipples and …

  He stood up, slid off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. “Come on.” Using the edges, he pulled her to her feet.

  Chunks of ice clunked on the polished marble floor. She hardly noticed with the feel of his jacket, warm from his body and full of his spicy scent, and Key standing right in front of her. “Thanks.”

  He smiled down at her. “Let’s get you in dry clothes and do something about your face.” He let go of the edges and pressed his hand into the small of her back.

  Waitstaff rushed in behind her to clean up the mess. Diners watched as they walked out into the atrium with the colored water feature in the center. Every step she took with his hand on her back pulsed in her schema. “You don’t need to come with me.” She held up the phone still clutched in her hand. “I’ll call Joel.” She should have done that earlier, but Kieran had a way of distracting her.

  He kept his hand on her, guiding her into the elevator, then gestured to the buttons for her to push her floor and said, “Can’t take a chance with Bart Simpson on the loose. Call your bodyguard from the room.”

  She put her phone away and pushed the button, then she leaned against the elevator wall, and pulled his jacket tighter around her. She’d been watching Kieran in the signing, she couldn’t help it. The man was her Awakening, and she was curious. Then she’d seen the kid shoved aside, the man show his gun, and Kieran explode into action. He’d leaped over that table like he could fly. He’d moved so fast, she could barely track him. He’d looked every bit as fierce and frightening as the dragon he drew.

  She’d reacted when that man put the knife to the boy’s throat, rushing over there, planning to distract the man. She hadn’t anticipated the thug on the floor getting up and grabbing her, but it had worked.

  Even when he’d pressed that knife to her throat, she’d been scared for only an instant. Then Kieran turned around, she’d seen his eyes drain to gray menace, and she’d known he’d free her. She hadn’t expected him to throw a knife that landed two or three inches from her arm. Was his aim that good or had it been luck?