Watcher Redeemed: Dark Angels Paranormal Romance (Watchers of the Gray Book 2)

by JL Madore

  Zander clasped her hand in his. “I’m sorry, baby, I—”

  She pulled her hand from his and the withdrawal slapped him harder than the strike to his face. She strode into the ensuite. Before she closed the door, she pegged him with a look of disappointment he’d never scour from his heart. “Don’t die out there, Zander. I may need you gone, but I need you safe.”

  Well, congratulations, he’d royally fucked that up.

  Rubbing the ache in his chest, he strode through the loft and down the opposite hallway. He knocked on another bedroom door before his mind caught up with reality. Damn. He wished for the millionth time Kyrian was home. He should be here, sharing this moment with them, helping him make this right with Austin. His beast clawed inside him. Yeah, well, it was his beast’s fault Kyrian was missing in the first place.

  Damn he missed him.

  Kyrian, my brother, where the fuck are you?

  Kyrian felt like heap of flayed pulp, beaten and set ablaze. He didn’t care. He could shut off the pain if he chose to, but he didn’t. If he couldn’t feel his injuries, he couldn’t feel her touch tingle over the surface of his skin. And, at that moment, the stroke of her fingers through his hair and washing his body ignited a pleasure he’d never experienced.

  It was a gentle touch magnified a thousand times.

  He had no clue what madness had taken him over. PTSD. Maybe shell shock after weeks of brutality. No. Despite how he felt, it must be only days here in Purgatory. Long, endless days.

  He shifted his hips against the rough fibers beneath him and groaned. How could he be aroused when every part of him reeled in agony? And why would Mr. Big Idea down there be weighing in anyway? He officially hated the Shedim bitch. Because of her, both he and Austin had been shot. Then, she’d come back to drug him, drag him to Purgatory, and give the thumbs up for him to be savaged by her daemon Fight Club.

  He’d played the part of the cop sent to prison and left in gen pop. He’d even been shivved a dozen times to drive the theme home. So why was his cock straining to override his sanity? His skin was alive. His head pounding. His beast pacing inside him.

  Did it matter? She meant nothing to him. She’d either kill him or he would escape and hand her over to Zander for the attempted murder of his Ishah.

  “Watcher?” Her voice seared through him and he groaned. His hips pressed deeper into the bed. “You’re growling again. How can I ease you?”

  Fuck. He could think of a dozen things.

  As her hands tightened on his shoulder to roll him, he snapped awake PDQ. What was happening below his waist was nothing she needed to be aware of. Forcing his upper body onto his elbows, he pressed his erection onto the cot. His back screamed in protest and he couldn’t help the hiss that escaped his lungs.

  “More whiskey.” He barked the words out of his raw, dry throat, and she abandoned the roll-over. Thank fuck.

  In a flurry of skirts, she turned her back and withdrew to the table by the corner. The tink of glass and splash of liquid preceded another round of proactive boozing. He downed the amber offering without hesitation or meeting her gaze.

  “Drink deep, Watcher. You are badly hurt.”

  He focused his one working eye and tried to get a look at her. “Are you serious? There’s probably only eight inches on my body that escaped violence, and that precious landscape is all between my legs.”

  “Don’t be crude.”

  He lowered himself back down, the pain of his movement excruciating. With the red-metal blades removed from his body, his healing force had come back on-line. He felt more himself, but it would be hours or days before he’d be a hundred-percent. “Well, Miss Manners, perhaps if every bit of your body was shot, whipped, bludgeoned, burned, or stabbed, you’d have an edge too. No shit. I’m badly hurt.”

  A weighty hand, the size of a snow shovel, pressed on his shoulder. Kyrian looked into the wary gaze of the man who, judging by the steady strength of calm while tending to his wounds, was unmistakably a warrior himself. “We’ve done what can be done back here, warrior. This next bit will sting.”

  “Oh? And what am I looking forward to?”

  “A wash of antiseptic over your weals.” The man unscrewed the lid of a wide-mouthed jar and set it down beside the cot while he peeled back some bandaging. The gunk congealed inside was calf-shit yellow and made Kyrian’s eyes burn, like someone just shoved sliced onions under his eyelids. His warrior-caregiver came to him with a length of tough leather. “Bite down on this. We’ll get things over with quickly.”

  Kyrian fought the rising gag choking his throat. “That smells like festering assholes.”

  “And your frame of reference is what exactly?”

  Kyrian eyed the multitude of overlapping semi-circular bite marks and fang punctures worn along its edges. Nice. Pass. He dropped back onto his belly to await the—

  Cassiane exhaled as Dougal smeared the foul-smelling concoction of antiseptic over the open wounds of the Watcher and his mighty body went slack. Unconscious was far better for him. Despite his injuries and her efforts to allow him a measure of modesty, her gaze swept across his naked form. He was a beautifully sculpted male; his shoulders broad, his waist lean, his thighs and arms corded with muscle. Lying there, his body covered with the curlicues and flourishes of his tattooed mark, he looked every bit the deadly assassin he most surely was.

  Sabine and Dougal worked to finish cleansing the wounds and left his skin shimmering with lotion. Then, they took to splinting each finger and strapping his hands flat to two boards.

  She smiled as she watched them work. “There is nothing more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends.”

  Sabine rested her hands on her hips, stretched, and straightened her back. “What a lovely thing to say, Mistress.”

  “Homer, isn’t it, Mistress?” Dougal wiped his hands clean on a towel and tossed it onto the mound of used linen in Sabine’s now overflowing, laundry basket. “The Odyssey, I believe.”

  Cassiane nodded. “Thank you both, so much, for your help. I realize asking you to aid a Nephilim goes far beyond your loyalties to me, or to this castle, but I—”

  “You did the right thing, Mistress,” Dougal said, holding his finger up as he recited words from memory. “It is easy enough to be friendly to one’s friends. But to befriend the one who regards himself as your enemy is the quintessence of true religion. The other is mere business.”

  Cassiane nodded a second time. “I never knew you were such a scholar, Dougal.”

  He scratched the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “Your father and I sat up many nights, drinking his best brandy and discussing philosophy of the three realms. I will miss those moments most of all.”

  She swallowed, unwilling to think of her father while helping the man who slew him. “I’m not familiar with that quote. Who is it?”

  “Mahatma Gandhi.”

  The beastly growl of Dougal’s stomach reminded her the day was passing them by. “Apologies. Go, you two. I’m sure I dragged you away from a million things awaiting your attention. Perhaps you could ask Cook to prepare a broth later and send it down for him. I’m not certain what Nephilim warriors eat—human food, do you think? I wouldn’t expect anything from our tables would be palatable to him.”

  “Mistress, we can’t just leave you—”

  She gestured toward the door. “He’ll be out for hours and if anyone needs me, you know where I am.”

  “You cannot keep watch on him day and night, Mistress. You’ll exhaust what little strength you have.”

  Her chest tightened. Nephilim blood ran in her veins and fed her cells. She thrived strong while he lay crippled. She wanted him hurt, but facing the result of vengeance turned her stomach. She hated the conflict warring inside her, but soon it would be over. In a day, or possibly two at the most, he’d be strong enough to stand like the enemy he was, to face judgment. “It must seem silly
to mend the male solely to have him executed.”

  “Not at all, Mistress. It is honorable to allow him a warrior’s death. Let him stand to face his end. It’s what I would wish for myself. And you’ll see, in a few days, he’ll be on his feet and on the mend.” He caught her glance toward the fallen warrior and raised a bushy brow. “Now, if you insist on staying, I’ll send young Edmund down. He’s got a good hand with a blade, and will mind you as well as he would his mother or me.”

  Before she had time to argue, Dougal scooped up the linen basket and ushered his wife up the stairs.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Zander stared down the rosewood table in his dining room. His night had gone into the shitter. He’d beat the streets with no leads on Kyrian, Danel had been hijacked from his internet search by a walk-in downstairs, and when he’d returned home, he found that Austin and Stetson had moved into the spare room across the hall for the night.

  “What do we know for sure?” he snapped. He avoided a glance to the empty chair to his left. The faces staring back at him looked just as frayed and frustrated as he felt. “Any luck with Drake at the RedRum?”

  Phoenix scowled and raised his hands to speak. That guy is one paranoid asshole. He came to us looking like Hannibal Lecter. I guess we were supposed to fear that if we crossed him, he’d have us for dinner or some shit.

  Bo laughed. “Like with some Chianti and fava beans?”

  Brennus pointed to Seth, shaking his head. “You’d be boot leather, lad. The arsehole would have to marinate ye both for a century first.”

  Seth raised his middle finger. “Regardless, we explained the situation with Kyrian, and the guy said he’d make it his mission to search the Hell Realm for info. Apparently, the night Kyrian disappeared, Drake met him at the Rum and told him that he thought Shedim were behind the Eaton Centre shooting. Gave us another interesting tidbit too.”

  Zander leaned his elbows onto the table. “Do tell.”

  “Apparently, the baddest of the bad are having a sit down later this week, in Purgatory’s neutral zone. The heads of all the worst Darkworld races gathered in one shiny temple.”

  “Nice.” Zander looked to Danel’s empty chair and cursed. “Can we wrangle an invitation to the ball? Anyone know our rights here? “

  “None,” Danel said. The Persian stepped through the stained glass doors and pointed to an empty chair down the table. A gawky Asian kid, weighed down by a black backpack, shuffled to the spot and sat down without a word. Wide-eyed, the kid wrapped his skinny arms around his bag like it was a life preserver and he’d just been thrown in the deep end. “Our presence at a private function held by the Dark Prince could be considered an act of insubordination. If he found it an offense in any way, he’d be within his power to pink slip the lot of us.”

  “But if there’s an organized meeting of Dark leaders, shouldn’t we be allowed to see what’s going on? We’re the fucking policing force here.”

  Danel scowled. “I’d say no, but I’ll do some digging.”

  “You do that,” Zander said, thoroughly distracted by the kid at the end of the table. “But before you hurry off, would you like to share what you brought for Show and Tell?”

  “Boys, meet Ringo, he’s here to help us find, Kyrian.” As the bodies in the room shifted in their seats, Danel nodded. “I’ll let him fill you in. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  The boy ran a tentative hand over the shaved side of his head and flipped his bangs from his face. His gaze ping-ponged from one warrior to the next as his freak-out ratcheted. A gathering of Nephilim could be intimidating but they didn’t have time to inspire a Hallmark moment.

  “So, yeah . . . hi. I, uh, well, it all started last year in my grade nine art class. I go to Brockview Tech in upstate New York, where I live with my aunt and uncle. So, there I am, in class, and we’re supposed to draw a comic strip. You know, like thought bubbles and action scenes, and stuff . . . so, I’m drawing and drawing and, well, this happened.”

  He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a stack of hand drawn and illustrated comic books. Walking up the length of the table, he tossed them in front of the men. “This one was my first, but then I got on a roll. See, this one is Seth-tastic and has this wicked scene where the hero fights a Djinn and falls from a rooftop. He smashes through the top of an old, creepy, greenhouse and breaks his ass. It’s hysterical.”

  “Coccyx,” Seth corrected snatching the book and scanning the pages. “And not so hysterical.”

  Brennus leaned forward and picked up another with a fiery Celt brandishing his dagger on the front cover. “Fuck, we’re all in here. How—?”

  Zander stood and fingered through the stack. Yep. He was there. Tanek. Colt. Shit, this was their lives and battles, recorded and lain out for anyone to see. He turned his sights on the walking exposure and the only thing that kept him from strangling the kid was the shade of pale whiskey-gold eyes staring up at him.

  “How is this possible,” he asked, turning to Danel. “How could he possibly know this shit and come find us?”

  “He’s a scribe, Z, like me. But instead of language and history, he’s a precog. He’s been dreaming about us since he hit puberty and the closer he gets to his age of transformation, the stronger the pull to his brothers.”

  Shit. He’d never met a Nephilim before his transition. They’d all battled to survive, scraping their way through dangerous lives until the Powers came to collect them at fifteen. This kid was ahead of the curve. “So, how’d you figure it out? How’d you get here?”

  “Oh,” the kid said. “So, a few months ago, I was surfing the dark web.” He looked up, his mouth hanging open. “Uh, don’t tell my uncle about that. He already hates me. Anyway, I’m scrolling along and see this gnarly video of one of my characters getting dissected. I almost pissed my pants. It was Tanek, my Tanek, getting diced in real time. I got wondering—if I wasn’t totally crazy—if maybe it was real. I knew about O-Zone, so I looked you up.”

  Seth grabbed another book and handed it off to his brother. “Is this kid for reals? He’s tapped into his gift two years before transition? Damn, he’s going to be a fricken force once his juice gets flowing.”

  No doubt. “So, fast forward to the part about Kyrian.”

  Ringo looked up at him, his eyes dancing with excitement. “So, this is real, right? I’m part of this, somehow?”

  “We’ll discuss all that later. Right now, I need to know about Kyrian.”

  Ringo dug back into his pack and brought out a pad of artist paper. “This is a work in progress, so don’t judge.” He flipped the cover up and over the back, and handed Zander the unfinished drawings.

  Zander stared at the penciled image of Kyrian wall-banging a leggy brunette in one of the private bathrooms at the RedRum. In the next frames, he was starfished down on the tile. Good Night Kiss, he read in the bubble.

  On the next page, Kyrian hung from those bloody wrists, but wasn’t too bad off.

  Not a brunette, I see.

  That was for your benefit. I learned you have a particular affection for brunettes.

  His beast surged forward at the implication and he had to turn the page. This wasn’t about Austin. Or his jealousy. This was about saving his BFF.

  On the last page, Kyrian hung by stumpy, bloody wrists, dagger hilts and syringes sticking out of his body at odd angles like he was a human porcupine. His face was battered, his eyes swollen shut. Annnd that was it. He flipped the page. The next one. Nothing but blank ivory paper. “Where’s the rest? Shit, kid, where in Hell is he? Who’s got him? When was this? Is he dead or alive?”

  Ringo shrugged. “He was alive last night. That ginger-haired woman with the yellow eyes left him to be tortured by the guy Kyrian calls the Hulk. She’s the one who ordered the shooting on your wife too. She lives in an old-fashioned castle in Hell somewhere—calls it Castle Wandread.”

  Zander squeezed the kid’s shoulder and handed him back the pad. “You did well, son. This is a big
help. Excuse us, and go sit on the couch for a bit.”

  “Lad,” Brennus piped in. “Take a wee nap, will ye? See what else ye can find out.”

  When the doors bumped closed, Zander turned his attention back to his men. “Danel, you vet the kid’s story. I believe him, but if he’s going to be in this apartment with Austin, I want every detail of his life. And on that note, Hark, summon the Choir. I want two members tending to Austin full-time. A male to guard her and a female to help around the loft. I can’t keep taking you off patrol to watch over her when I’m on the streets. She needs a designated bodyguard.”

  Seth laughed. “Oh, she’s gonna love this. Can I be there when you tell her?”

  Zander growled. “No, you can get back in touch with Drake and tell him what Ringo said about the Shedim female and the castle where she has Kyrian.”

  “Okee dokee.”

  “Danel, you start asking around. I want to be on the guest list of that party in Hell, and I want to know what’s on the table. If this Shedim bitch is picking up where Stryker left off, she might just be solidifying her coo. I want to know where this castle is, so we can pay them a visit.”

  “Done deal.”

  As a grumble of male approval filled the room, Zander gestured to the Celt next. “Brennus, what did you and Bo find out about the weapons from Azazel?”

  The warrior sat forward, the light catching the long red braid swinging beside his bristled cheek. “He has something in the works—something wicked lethal that he’s putting the final touches on. It’s going to cost us, but he said when we were outfitted properly, he’d be changing the balance back to us driving the herd.”

  “Did he elaborate on the ‘cost us’ part of that scenario?”

  Bo lowered his cigarette and exhaled. “Yeah, said he wants a ‘get out of jail free’ card, plus two trips past Go. That angel is one shifty motherfucker. Who knows what that translates into.”

  “Well, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. What about who’s forging the Demon-steel blades. Did the fallen have any insights into that?”