by JL Madore
“Captain!” Her eyes flew wide and she glanced to the boy and back. If the news of a Nephilim being in the dungeon hadn’t spread castle wide yet, there was no need to announce it outright through the civilian ranks. Thankfully Leif had wandered down to inspect the strength of a railing. She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Do you challenge my right to interrogate the man who admits to killing my father?”
“Interrogate, no. But did you bother to ask yourself what fury the Choir will rain down upon us when his people realize he’s here? Devious said he warned you.”
Her hands stung as her nails bit into the flesh of her palms “Devious is not Master of this castle, despite his ambitions. The rank and responsibility of governing falls to me.”
“A girl who has no—”
She drew the dagger from the sheath at her hip and pressed the tip to his chest. “The decision to take the prisoner was mine as Shedim Master. The Nephilim wronged me, my father, and everyone within these walls. I will not stand to have anyone question my judgment.” She tilted the blade and let the growing lights of the sky catch the jeweled hilt. “What would Stryker have done if you spoke to him as you just did me, Captain?”
The flush of the male’s cheeks paled. “Slit my throat, Mistress.”
She nodded. “Then be thankful I am not Stryker. This is your one warning.”
A week. Seven motherfucking days. Zander emptied the large tumbler down his throat and refilled. The energy in the loft was hostile, the atmosphere somber. Since Kyrian’s disappearance, the men of the garrison had gone from texting him their nightly tallies and retiring to their respective homes, to stopping in and drinking his booze, to stalking his halls and staying over.
Morale was low. The lack of progress finding the Greek was a riptide sucking them all down a dangerous drain. Their heads and hearts just weren’t in the daemon game on the streets. And in these topsy-turvy times, a distracted Watcher would soon be a dead Watcher.
He cursed. Regardless of his beast’s objections to Kyrian over the past few months, he wanted his best friend home. To not know where he was or if he’d been brutalized or killed, after thousands of years of them being brothers, was torture. And not just for him.
He glanced across the room and then to the clock. One a.m. “Seth, you and Phoenix head down to the RedRum. Danel circulated a message through the homeless network for Drake. I’m hoping, for once in his neurotic life, that daemon will speak to someone other than Kyrian.”
Seth extracted himself from one of the three leather couches, looking relieved for something to occupy the rest of his night. He stretched the leather of his red slicker across his massive shoulders and concealed the twin Glocks holstered against his vest. When he looked up, those pale blue eyes narrowed. “Drake and Kyrian go way back, Z. He’s never trusted anyone else before. His species is nearly extinct. It’s a lot to risk.”
Zander nodded. “I get that. Extenuating circumstances. I’m hoping he’ll help if he can.”
Phoenix grabbed his gear and fist bumped Zander before the twins headed out.
He turned to the Moor next. “Hark, swing by the docks and meet up with Brennus and the Viking. I want you and the Celt to track down Azazel. That fallen angel is supposed to be revamping our defenses, but so far, I haven’t seen shit beyond the flak vests. Ask him, as a keeper of a forge, who the fuck has the stones and the skills to make this Demon-steel.”
Hark set down the pool cue. His scowl twisted the deep scar stretched across his cheek. “And if Azazel wants to barter? What am I offering?”
Why couldn’t anyone do the right thing just for the sake of doing it? “Express to him that, as a former member of the Choir of Angels, it would do his soul a solid to throw us a good will gesture. Tell him the archangels are involved in this and he could regain some ground.” Zander rubbed at the headache spearing into his frontal lobe. “If that doesn’t work, find out what it will cost us for his help.”
The warrior slung the strap for his compound-bow over his shoulder and was gone.
Next, he texted Brennus, and filled him in. He and the new guy, Bo, a Viking warrior from the Los Angeles garrison, had been patrolling a complaint from a Djinn about a Phoenix’s nest in Chinatown.
Colt has an addy 2 check when u 2 call it a night.
He waited, watching his screen until the reply came back to him. Roger that.
He sent the details and then there was just Danel, sitting with his nose against the computer screen. He tipped back his glass again and stepped over to the living room desk. One-handed, the guy was still an internet phenom. But even D couldn’t find things that weren’t there. Searching the usual Darkworld sites and following endless chat threads, the Persian had taken time out from his self-loathing spiral and stepped up to the plate.
That was the one and only high point to this mess.
“Any luck, D?”
“Nada.” He stretched his neck and scrubbed his palm over his goatee. Zander handed him the half-empty bottle of Scotch. “He’s vapor. It’s like he just fucking disappeared.”
“No. Somebody’s got him tucked in a hole somewhere. One of us will find—”
“Zander?” Austin rounded the corner and knocked him stupid. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing his old Styx t-shirt as a nightie, she stopped his heart. The only precious thing life had given him and him alone. His mate. His lover. His beloved Ishah.
“I’m sorry, cowgirl. Did we wake you? Are you feeling any better?” He straightened from the desk and stepped toward her.
Austin smoothed his cotton tee against her silky thighs and frowned. “I’m fine, but I’d like to know what’s going on. Y’all have been tense and walkin’ on eggshells all week.”
“Just Nephilim business. Nothing for you to worry about.”
She narrowed her gaze at him and frowned. “I may be new on the Nephilim circuit, but I know you, angelman. I know the men too. Something’s brewin’ and y’all are upset.”
Shit. Lying to her, even by omission, had his balls twisted into fucking knots. And it wasn’t like she was stupid. Night after night, she came to him, accepted him inside her. She knew he was holding back. Hiding the truth from her made the agony of Kyrian’s situation a hundred times worse. A thousand times.
When he said nothing more, she wrapped her arms across her stomach and shook her head. “I know who I married, Zandros of Kish. You carry secrets; dark, horrible things y’all do to keep the world safe. I’m not asking you to spill every thought that flashes through your head, but I know the feel of how daemon business affects you, and that’s not what this is.”
He needed to man up and come clean. If she blamed him, then he’d just have to take his lumps. Striding across the living room, he cleared his throat. “Okay, you’re right. The truth of it is . . . Austin? What’s wrong, darlin—”
Her eyes rolled back as she crumpled to the hardwood floor. Zander lunged the last few steps and scooped under her bare knees. Holding her unconscious brought every horrible memory of the cave belching into his brain. “Danel, call Raphael. Get him down here. Now.”
Zander headed for the couches, but before he’d even laid her down, her eyes fluttered open. “Lie still, cowgirl. You fainted.”
He eased her onto the cushions and accepted the blanket Danel handed him at the same time the current in the air announced the arrival of the archangel. “Raphael. I thank you for coming. There’s something wrong with Austin.”
Raphael glided to the edge of the couch and sank to his knees.
Zander’s head was on a slow spin. This was his fault. He’d stressed her out to the point that she’d fainted. Shit he wished he was better at this whole relationship thing.
“I’m fine, angelman.” She reached around Raphael and squeezed his hand.
Over the next few minutes, or it could have been hours, ’cause Zander wasn’t running on all cylinders, he thought of all the mistakes he’d made since Austin came into his life. Too many. He was fucking ever
ything up.
Danel squeezed his shoulder and he marveled at the Persian’s worried face. Was he warming to Austin being a member of their dysfunctional family? God, he hoped so. The two of them had stood on opposite ends of every argument for . . . forever. It would be nice to finally agree on something. Not that he’d hold his breath or anything.
“Be at ease, Zandros,” Raphael said, straightening.
In the next instant, the vibration in the air shifted and yet another white-suited male materialized in the living room. Just how many men needed to see his wife in nothing but a t-shirt and underpants? What the fuck was going on?
“Greetings,” Gabriel said, stepping to Raphael’s side. “How can I be of aid?”
Raphael stepped back and gestured toward the couch as he rolled his silk sleeves down. “Gabriel, would you mind assessing her . . . just to be certain.”
“Certain of what?” Zander’s blood went cold as the Angel of Death, knelt beside Austin. The archangel ran his hands up her bare arms and then cupped her jaw as he looked deep into her eyes. Then, he lowered the blanket down her thighs and tugged at the hem of her t-shirt.
Zander’s wings flared as a growl tore from his chest. “Get your fucking hands off her, Gabriel. Don’t you think of taking her from me. I fucking mean it.”
He mind-stalled mid-thought, his eyes burning, his fingernails aching to break free. His beast roared to the foreground and battled to take control. No. He couldn’t let his alter ego step in when Austin needed him.
Danel faced him and braced his shoulders. Did he honestly think he could hold him back if Gabriel meant to claim Austin for the heavens?
Raphael shrugged his jacket on and tugged his cuffs into place like he was getting ready for an evening out or some shit.
“Remarkable.” Gabriel scrubbed his palm over his smooth angel puss.
“What?” Zander snapped. The lights grew brighter, glowing like a super nova.
Gabriel stared up at him with a look of confusion like he’d never seen on the face of any archangel. “Sumerian, somehow your much better half carries your young. She is a tiny thing, yet growing strong within her mother-to-be.”
Zander staggered. “What? No. Nephilim can’t . . . we don’t . . . the mothers always . . .” His legs took a time-out. His teeth rattled as his knees hit the marble floor. “This can’t happen. Get it out of her!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kyrian’s head lolled loose on his neck as he hung by the two hamburgered stumps he used to call wrists. He inventoried the wreckage and chuckled at the thoroughness of his captors. A dozen soldiers had taken their crack at him. He was a throbbing, swollen mass, but there was one spot, very small, on the right side of his neck—just behind the non-stop ringing in his ear and above the barb of the binding collar they’d harnessed him with—that remained uninjured.
Otherwise, he was thoroughly beaten to shit.
They’d stripped him naked and continued their fun while he was out cold. Apparently, he’d played the Bull’s-eye in their target practice. What felt like a dozen tranq darts remained stuck in his body in various locations. He coughed, wincing at the detonation of muscles and bones that rang in protest to even that slight movement. His skin was on fire.
Inhaling through his nose, the festering stench of burnt flesh, excrement, and sulphur singed his sinuses. The olfactory trifecta triggered his gag reflex and soured his stomach. His arms tensed, and he retched. Fuuuuck.
The convulsive swing as he lurched caused the bindings on his wrists to cut deeper.
Another round of the futile out-you-go dry-heaves of nothingness and he almost blacked out. When his head settled enough to clear, he gave his swollen, watery eyes a try. His left window to the world was one solid contusion, locked tight, but the right let a sliver of his prison in, as he swung round and round in a slow, gentle circle.
Pool of magma eating through the stone floor . . . blood spattered stone wall . . . One. Two. Three corpses of past prisoners hanging dead and soiled . . . More magma spewing through the floor . . . Guard sitting in the shadowed corner . . . Steel door the size of a bank vault . . . And back to the pool of magma eating through the stone.
Look at that. A dungeon in Hell, and him playing the part of the low hanging chandelier. He chuckled at his own joke, but cut that shit out quick. His biggest problem wasn’t the pain of his beat down—what seared him more than the striping of his flesh was the burn in his blood.
Incendiary heat circulated in his veins and pulsed in his cells. His beast was restless and hungry, aggressive and angry. He wanted to kill the Shedim Mistress for this. At the same time, he wanted to do so many other things to her too.
“Why are you growling, Watcher?”
Kyrian shut down the sweats building in his chest and swayed toward the bittersweet sound of his hostess’ voice. He wasn’t really in a conversing mood, but—
“—Oh, mighty Prince.” Dishes clattered as the rustle of skirts took her to the small table in the corner. He tried to follow her movement but couldn’t. The slit opening of his right eye wasn’t enough to track her hurried steps.
“Cut him down this instant,” she snapped.
“Release him?” Graveled disbelief rose from the guard perched in the corner. Kyrian recognized him as the weasel-faced lefty who’d taken a liking to mashing his kidneys the first couple of nights he’d been their guest. “Mistress. This man is a dangerous killer. He’s the Watcher assassin who murdered—”
“I’m devastatingly aware of who he is, Chidiock. Now do as I say.”
There was strength to her order that Kyrian respected. She knew her own mind. She had fire. Feet shuffled against the floor but didn’t approach. He shifted slightly for a visual and fought the wave of blackness thundering in his ears. His sight blurred and his hearing cut out, but he held on to consciousness. The female had challenged a man who held himself without honor. If the guard turned on her . . . what? What could he do?
“—do it myself,” she said, as his hearing came back to him.
The snick of a metal edge sliding free of its sheath had his limited gaze searching frantically for who held the hilt. It was her. He sagged, the bloody ruts in his wrists screaming at the weight of his body.
“Mistress. Let me fetch Devious. He’ll make you see—”
“You overstep, soldier.”
Stomping footsteps moved closer and Kyrian saw the emerald sheen of her dress from where his head hung limp on his shoulders. “If you cannot respect my orders because I was born with breasts instead of a cock, you have no business being in my service. Consider yourself relieved of duty.”
“If you release that monster, he will kill you.”
She cast a ball-withering glance over her shoulder. “No, Chidiock, he won’t. Now get out of my sight.”
The cell door closed with a thunderous slam.
The female came to him. She tilted up his head and met what little gaze he could offer. “I wanted you to hurt, interrogated, even humiliated. This is beyond anything I imagined.”
“Paymen wif interest,” he croaked, his throat raw, his lips cracked with injury and dehydration.
Cassiane worked as quickly as she could while still being exquisitely careful. She needed something to cut him down and glanced around the cell. Nothing. Then, she locked her sights on the dagger hilts sticking out of his body. Sweet Prince, give her strength.
“Brace yourself, Watcher.” Grabbing hold, she eased the blade out of his thigh and wiped the strange red steel with the napkin she’d brought down with his broth. The dirk was wicked sharp, and his muscle twitched and tightened under her fingers. His face, drained pale, sheened with a cold sweat that soaked his ash-brown hair to black, and covered his trembling body.
She assessed his bindings. The plastic of the ties had so deeply embedded in the Watcher’s wrists, she could see the white of bone. She drew a deep breath to steady herself.
The room stank of violence, blood and vomit.
“B
arbaric,” she cursed, her stomach turning.
“What d’you . . . ’spect?” The garbled question rang not of accusation, but seemed to be asked out of genuine curiosity.
She focused once more on the task of cutting him loose. One look at the man and she knew he hadn’t the strength to hold himself up. The moment his bindings were cut, he would topple to the filth and fire of the floor below. She rushed to the far corner and fetched the three-legged stool the guards used. Reaching around him, she set it close behind his bare backside and eased his hips to support his weight on the seat. The moment his flesh touched the smooth surface, he hissed.
Peering around his broad chest to get a better understanding of his difficulties, she gasped. “By Azazel’s rage, they’ve flogged you too?”
She caught a flash of pale green from between his swollen blue eyelid and something inside her stirred. This was her doing. She’d given in to anger and now faced the ugly result. He was obviously dazed, every sculpted line of his body eloquent with pain. And for the first time since she learned of her father’s death, she rethought the course of a vengeful path.
Violence wouldn’t resurrect her father. It wouldn’t feed her people. Killing this man had to be about justice, not revenge. Justice for the sake of justice itself. She wanted her people to see the dangerous warrior he was, not a pathetic, brutalized male. She needed them to understand that his execution was one warrior’s life for another taken.
Her first try at cutting the loop of the binding was too weak and tremulous. The blade glanced off and knicked his forearm. “Oh . . . I apologize.”
She searched for somewhere to grab his arm to support it, but the appendage was near unrecognizable. Grotesquely swollen and now bleeding freely from where she sliced it, his arm displayed seven shades of bruising and crusty layers of dried blood. His hands were worse. Averting her gaze, she worked quickly, and his shoulder slumped.
An inhuman growl tore from his chest. The call rattled inside her. Heart racing, blood pounding, her mind spun with the fear that despite his extensive injuries, he might still kill her.
