Dark and Deadly: Eight Bad Boys of Paranormal Romance

by Ashley Jennifer

  “Dude, I have no idea who or what you’re talking about. I think you have the wrong man.” The tip of the guy’s tongue darted out and ran nervously along the bottom edge of his mustache.

  The distant wail of sirens pierced the night air. Asher glanced to where his dog, a deerhound named Conry, was standing guard at the mouth of the alley. If the authorities were coming here, they were still a ways off.

  “Come on,” Toryn said from behind. “Let’s go. The bloke doesn’t know anything. Look, he just pissed his knickers.”

  Asher ignored his friend’s plea, although he did smell the urine. He’d thought it was the natural aroma of the alley mixed with the smell of beer and rotting garbage. It better not have fucked up his boots. He’d won them fair and square down at Reckless Motor Sports, his home away from home on this side of the portal. The former owner of the lug-soled ass kickers had not been happy, but that was too damn bad. They fit his feet as though they’d been custom made by one of the cobblers back home.

  “Need me to refresh your memory?” Asher asked. “Not long ago you met a guy you suspected was from Cascadia, so you turned him in. And for what? A couple of bucks?” Asher poked the tip of the blade upward into the soft spot under the guy’s chin. Nothing like a little gentle persuasion to get a bloke talking.

  “Okay, okay,” the man said, standing on his toes and cranking his chin up in an attempt to get away from the blade. “I’m not saying I did or didn’t, but the army does offer rewards.”

  “So you have turned people in?” His fingers itched to push the blade again. How many of his people had died because of this guy?

  “What was I supposed to do? Let someone else get the money? I’ve got an ex-wife and three kids to support, and they ain’t cheap.”

  “And it was easy money to offer up a guy for the army to kill.”

  “Kill? What are you talking about? They interrogate them. You know, find out what targets they’re planning on bombing next.”

  Asher and Toryn both bristled. The Pacifican army liked to spread the rumor that Cascadians were responsible for terrorist activities in New Seattle, but it wasn’t true. Iron Guild warriors did not kill innocent people. They only killed army soldiers searching for portal locations into Cascadia.

  “They did interrogate him,” Asher replied. “Right before they forced him to take weapons through the Iron Portal to be used against my people. He died from iron sickness on the other side.”

  “That’s too bad,” the man said flatly. His utter lack of conviction made Asher seethe with anger. “But how do you know it was me? Most people I know wouldn’t hesitate to turn in a Cascadian.”

  “How stupid do you think I am? You’re Eddie, right? And—” He twisted the guy’s arm, making him howl in agony. “You’ve got a broken wrist that hasn’t healed yet, right?”

  “Fuckin’ A.” The guy jerked his arm away.

  “My friend wasn’t quite dead when I found him.”

  Asher tried to keep the memory of Fallon curled up on the cold floor of the antechamber out of his head, but it was no use. After Fallon hadn’t shown up at the rendezvous point, he’d known something was wrong, so he stepped through the portal and that’s when he found him. He’d held his friend’s hand as he slowly died. Having suffered minor bouts of iron sickness himself, he knew Fallon was in terrible pain, but there was nothing he could do about it. He’d felt so helpless.

  “He told me he broke your arm, when he realized it was a setup. So you do the math. Chances are, I’d say you’re exactly the person I’m looking for.”

  The guy’s mustache twitched and resignation dawned in his expression. “So what if I am? What are you going to do about it?”

  Asher counted to three under his breath in an attempt to keep his anger in check. At least for a few more minutes. “Who’s your army contact?”

  “I don’t know his name,” Eddie replied.

  In one motion, Asher sliced through the buttons on the man’s shirt, exposing a hairy chest ready to be splayed open.

  “Eeaahh! Hold on. I…I remember. They call him the Fixer. Hangs out at the Apocalypse Tonight Club. He’s one scary motherfucker, though. Half his face is scarred.”

  The sirens were louder. Someone in this crappy neighborhood had called the Night Patrol.

  Toryn cleared his throat. “Hey, man, we got to go.”

  Asher twisted the knife point. Just one little shove was all it would take.

  “Please, mister.” The guy’s voice went all high-pitched and whiny again. “I didn’t know they were going to kill him. I swear. You gotta believe me. Like I said, I got kids who depend on me.”

  Fuck. Seriously?

  Asher’s conscience began to kick in. If he did what he wanted to do and wasted this bloke, he’d leave some kids fatherless.

  What poor luck to have this weasel as a father. But would it be worse if the guy died? And where would that leave the ex-wife? She probably had the kids—he couldn’t imagine this loser being responsible enough to have custody. Asher’s life was definitely worse because his father had died and his mother had remarried. His father, a former Iron Guild warrior, hadn’t been perfect, but his stepfather had turned out to be the asshole of all assholes.

  As much as he’d love to drive this thing home now, he just couldn’t. He’d killed many men, and some were probably fathers. But that was in battle and they were soldiers.

  “If your name comes up or I even hear you mentioning Cascadia again, you’re going to wish I’d ended your life today. The agony I’ll put you through will make your broken wrist feel like a fucking splinter.”

  Conry gave two quick warning barks.

  Fine. He had what he’d come for. He’d save his wrath for the scar-faced army sonofabitch.

  Asher gave the guy one last shove, then he and Toryn sprinted down the alley toward Conry. They hadn’t gone more than a few steps when gunshots rang out, hitting the nearby garbage cans.

  He dove behind a Dumpster. “What the fuck?”

  “That little shit,” Toryn said, scrambling after him. “Didn’t you check him for weapons?”

  In his haste to find out what had happened to Fallon, he hadn’t thought about it. He pulled out his crossbow and peered around the corner. The asshole was fumbling with the clip on his gun. Asher took aim and released an arrow. It caught the guy in the throat, dropping him to his knees.

  The two Iron Guild warriors stepped back out into the open. Gurgling sounds came from the guy as they approached. He was clutching his neck as blood dripped over his fingers to the wet pavement.

  “Sorry, asshole.” Asher pulled out the pencil-sized arrow and wiped it on his sleeve. “That’s gotta hurt.”

  The man collapsed to the ground in the fetal position, not unlike the way Fallon had looked when he died.

  The sirens were louder now. Only a block or two away.

  “Ash, come on.”

  He tucked the arrow under his coat and strode down the alley. “That will teach him not to fuck with a Cascadian assassin.”

  ***

  “Happy anniversary, beautiful.”

  Olivia Crawford poured the wine, taking care not to drip any down the neck of the bottle. The man in the Elvis Costello glasses waited until she was done, then leaned over the table and kissed his date seated on the opposite side.

  “Aw, baby, thank you. Here’s to many more.” The woman had a small gap between her front teeth, just wide enough to be noticeable and draw attention to the fact that she was smiling and happy.

  Olivia grabbed a rag and began wiping down tables. She could get used to working around people who were in love. Sure, it was corny and maybe it would get old, but angry, aggressive people with something to prove could make your life a miserable mess.

  Except for the owner and this couple, the Grape and Bean Wine Bar was empty now. Not that the place had been busy to begin with. In an attempt to take advantage of the late-night club goers in this part of New Seattle, Marco had recently extended the
hours, which was how Olivia got the job. But it hadn’t caught on yet. People seemed more interested in dancing and getting drunk across the street than sipping on fine wine here. Marco was an optimist, though, saying it was only a matter of time before the place was packed.

  Olivia liked that about the man. In the three weeks she’d been here, she hadn’t once seen him lose his temper. Quite unlike her last employer. And unlike many of the other places where she’d applied since she moved here, he hadn’t insisted on a detailed employment history, either. He’d taken her at her word that she was a hard worker and reliable, and for that she was grateful. He might be too trusting to be a savvy businessperson, but it was perfect for her situation.

  The neon sign of the Apocalypse Tonight Club across the street flashed a cheery pink and blue. Seemed the whole city was filled with optimists—or at least people with a twisted sense of humor. Businesses with names like The Big One, Richter 9.0, and The Shimmy Shake were everywhere. The city had embraced its cataclysmic history and turned it into something positive.

  Many years ago, Seattle survived a devastating earthquake that had killed thousands and destroyed the infrastructure. Looters and petty criminals rushed into the city like herds of sewer rats, followed later by organized crime. To restore peace, the military was called in. The crime rate dropped as the city got back on its feet, but the army never left. The earthquake had opened up new, secret portals, and Cascadians, they said, were to blame for the majority of the crime. Because their world was poor and backward, these barbarians would slip through the portals to steal and rape and kill. It was only the heavy presence of the Pacifican Army that prevented things from turning into chaos again.

  She was bending to pick up an empty wine glass that someone had left near the window when movement outside caught her eye. A large, wiry-haired dog sat in the middle of the sidewalk and stared across the street. He glanced at her when she opened the door.

  “Hey buddy, what are you doing here?” He sniffed her hand, gave it a little lick, then turned his attention back to the flashing lights of the club. “Don’t tell me your owner is over there?”

  She looked up and down both sides of the street. Who would take their dog out partying in the city and leave him sitting here all by himself? An irresponsible person, that’s who.

  She returned a few minutes later with a bowl of water and a few dog biscuits that Marco kept behind the counter for the people who liked to bring their dogs wine tasting with them. Apparently, it was the thing to do, so he liked to be accommodating.

  “Are you hungry?” She held out a biscuit and the dog carefully took it from her. “What a good boy,” she said, stroking his coat as he ate. His tail thumped on the ground. When he finished, she bent down and scratched his ears. Although he had no collar, he smelled good, like herbal shampoo. He edged closer, his muzzle tickling her neck, and she laughed. “Someone definitely loves you, even if they are irresponsible. If you’re still here when we close, I’m leaving a note on the door and taking you home with me. Deal?” She gave him one last pat, then headed back inside.

  As she washed her hands behind the bar, she watched Marco on the top of a rickety ladder on the far side of the tasting room. The beautiful wine rack he was polishing was from an old villa in Italy and had arrived just this afternoon. Given that he was buffing the very top, she could tell he didn’t want to miss a spot.

  “Guess how long we’ve been together?” the woman asked when she topped off their wine glasses a few moments later.

  Olivia pursed her lips. The woman looked a little older than she was, but not by much. Maybe twenty-nine or thirty. “Five years?”

  The man laughed. “Try ten. We met during our junior year in college.”

  “Wow, congratulations.”

  The woman grabbed the man’s hand, and Olivia noticed her sparkly ring. A Tiffany blue box sat on the table between them. “It was the happiest day of my life the day David walked into it.”

  David. She cringed. That was the name of her ex. Boyfriend and boss. But her David wasn’t nearly as nice as this one. In fact, the last time she’d seen him, he’d been furious with her.

  “It was love at first sight,” this David said, pushing up his glasses. “Rhonda was sitting on the other side of the bar with a group of her girlfriends. And the minute I saw her, I knew she was the one.”

  Rhonda punched him playfully on the arm. “You did not. You and your friends were drinking and playing pool. You got up and we thought you were leaving, so we took your table.” She looked at Olivia as if she were in on the conspiracy. “Turns out he and his friends weren’t leaving. They were all going to the bathroom together.”

  Olivia laughed. “Like a bunch of girlfriends?”

  “Yes,” Rhonda said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Can you believe it? Turns out they were having an actual pissing contest.”

  “What can I say?” A sheepish grin spread across David’s face. “It was a frat brother thing. Whoever peed the longest didn’t have to pay. We were all poor, so this was a big deal.”

  “Did I hear someone say anniversary a few minutes ago?” Marco said, coming up from behind. He had a pencil tucked behind his ear and a bar rag hanging over one shoulder.

  “Ten years,” David said proudly.

  “Holy cow! That calls for a celebration. Olivia, do you remember where I put that bottle of reserve Cab the distributor wanted us to try? She says it’s fantastic.”

  “I think it’s down in the cellar,” she replied. “Do you want me to get it?”

  “That would be stellar.”

  She got a kick out of the way he enunciated his words, as though he’d done voice-over work or been a stage actor. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

  As she headed down the narrow steps, she thought about how much she liked this place. And who wouldn’t? She got to pour and taste great wine, chat with friendly people, and work for a decent man. The pay and the hours weren’t half bad, either.

  Her only hope was that she’d be able to stay awhile this time. It would be a shame if she had to go on the run again.

  CHAPTER 2

  To the casual observer at the Apocalypse Tonight Club, Asher looked like he belonged. Two women sat beside him in the high-backed booth, laughing animatedly at jokes that weren’t all that funny. With a pitcher of beer and a collection of empties, he seemed no different from any other guy in the place hoping to score some action tonight.

  But on the inside, he was ready to kill.

  He scanned the crowd again. New Seattle’s soccer team had just won an important match that qualified them for the World Games, and the city’s residents were well on their way to getting collectively drunk. Young men clustered around the video screens near the bar, singing an off-key version of what he assumed was the team’s theme song. Several females with red-stained lips, black lacy dresses, and spike-heeled boots pulled a businessman out of his seat and hauled him to the dance floor. An unlikely combination, but the man seemed more than eager. An androgynous couple sat at a nearby table, drinking identical purple cocktails in long-stemmed glasses as they looked at the screen of a handheld. Game highlights, he guessed, when they said, “Yes!” in unison and gave each other a subdued high-five.

  Normally he enjoyed places like this because it reminded him of the things he liked best about home, even though he didn’t spend much time there anymore. The music, the drinking, the women just as eager as he was for a roll in the sack or the occasional hook-up in the back that wasn’t quite out of sight. But tonight, it made him sick.

  When you lose someone you care about, it’s hard to accept that the universe doesn’t notice the huge void. That people don’t look around, confused, wondering what had suddenly gone missing. But no. They still laugh. They still party with their friends. They still watch a black and white ball being kicked up and down a field by grown men and use it as an excuse to get blottered. Like a stone plunked into a moving river, Fallon’s death hadn’t even made a ripple.
<
br />   And if that person’s death was partially your fault, it made things even worse.

  When Toryn had left a few days ago, he’d tried to get Asher to head back with him. “You going after Scar Face isn’t an official mission,” he said. “We need to run it past Rickert first.”

  How was tracking down the killer of an Iron Guild warrior not official when they had taken an oath of justice and honor? And if by some screwed-up interpretation it wasn’t sanctioned, well then, too bad. It was a rogue mission already and he wasn’t about to stop.

  “By the time I do that,” he’d told Toryn, “the trail will be cold. Besides, Rickert is facing sanctions. Who knows if and when he’ll be put in charge again? Right now, we’re on our own here.”

  Their leader had brought an enemy soldier through the portal and lied about it. Even though Rickert had fallen in love with her, her presence had caused all sorts of trouble. He’d been ordered to destroy the Crestenfahl portal and was temporarily banished. He and Neyla planned to open a secret safe house for warriors on this side, but as far as Asher knew, they hadn’t found a suitable location yet.

  Asher, however, did have a place to stay and he wasn’t about to wait for justice. Reckless Motor Sports was a legit garage with a not-so-legit chop shop on the side, employing ex-cons, misfits, and losers who hated the army almost as much as he did. He often stayed there when many of his fellow warriors headed back home to Cascadia.

  He gripped his glass with white-knuckled fingers. Unfortunately, he’d been here for several hours now and there was still no sign of his target. Fine. He was a patient man. He’d come back night after night if he had to. He owed Fallon that much.

  Careful of his hidden weapons, he grabbed the pitcher, refilled his glass, and downed the contents in a couple of gulps. Compared to the ogappa ale he’d grown up on, this stuff was like water.

  The redhead on his left ran a manicured finger around the rim of her glass. “You haven’t told us where you’re from.” Her eyes were framed by unrealistically long lashes with tiny rhinestones on the ends, and the careful way she smiled gave him the distinct impression that she was trying hard not to disturb her lipstick. She was attractive, but in a deliberate sort of way.