by Celia Kyle
She snorted.
He ignored her and kept going. “And because I’m going to be hunting in it.”
That got her attention. “Excuse me? I keep the peace, and if needed, hunt.”
“It’s needed.”
“Fuck you.” She knew what was needed.
His expression clouded for a brief moment and then he brought two fingers to his temple in a mock salute. “Wonderful offer, but it’ll have to wait until later. Seems I’m needed elsewhere. Rain check on the drink.”
He disappeared in a swirl of gray smoke, the pristine white of a gel nowhere to be seen.
Fuckity-fucker-fuck.
Chapter Two
The house was quiet as Caith passed over the threshold. The familiar tension of Jezebeth’s wards weren’t charging the air. At their kindest, they were meant to set a trespasser’s nerves on edge and encourage them to turn away. At their worst, the intruder was turned into barbecue for the brownies to take out with the trash.
With them gone, Caith’s nerves pricked at her.
Someone was in her house.
Someone powerful enough to banish Jezebeth’s wards.
Didn’t matter though. If it could bleed, it could die, and she was sure a river of blood would run by night’s end.
She dropped her bag and motorcycle helmet by the door, flexing her fingers after relieving herself of the burden. Acting as if nothing were amiss, she tromped through the house, the sound of her footfalls echoing off the walls. Her first stop was always the kitchen, her body craving food nearly as much as it craved air at the end of a night at Hell’s Chapel.
Passing through the dining room, she palmed the knife she hid behind the buffet and slid it into place beneath her leather jacket sleeve with ease.
Caith kept walking, listening for the telltale heartbeat or whisper of breath, something to let her know what hid amongst her rooms.
She silently toed open the swinging door to the kitchen and flicked on the lights. “Mother fucker.”
At least twenty of the damned things filled her kitchen, gnawing on each other, what food they could find, and Caith’s housekeeper, Mrs. Jenkins. While her brownies kept things clean, Mrs. Jenkins kept things running smoothly. And now she’d become dinner. Dammit.
She hated zombies.
Hated. Them.
Forty-ish eyes (some hanging from their sockets and she wasn’t sure if they counted) zeroed in on her, their growls transforming into groans as they all turned toward her, shuffling along. Ha! Like she’d let herself become their midnight snack.
She backed from the room, letting the door swing shut before she spun and dashed for the stairs. She had several hideaways filled with things meant to make others bleed. The one she wanted was on the second floor, right where the stairs dumped her onto the landing.
She scaled those stairs with ease and when she reached the top, she slammed her fist against the wall. The wood paneling slid aside to reveal her weapons, and she smiled wide. She could have gone to one of the others, but the stairs would create a tight channel for them to trudge through, making it easier to slice off their pretty, rotted heads.
She shoved a Glock into the back of her leathers, a blade in each boot and snagged her favorite set of swords. They were perfectly balanced and created with her own hands a few hundred years ago. She molded them from hunks of metal with fire-coated fingers and had used them more than once to slice and dice.
A growl sounded behind her on the steps and she spun, arm outstretched. That simple movement had the zombie’s head rolling away as an eerie groan sounded from the neck of the thing.
“One down, nineteen-ish to go.” She slid to the edge of the stairs, swords still in hand, one blade shining, the other dripping wet. “Come on, bad boys. Let’s see what momma’s got for you.”
Quite a few followed the first guy, heads rolling, bodies slumping and tumbling back the way they’d come. Black-as-night blood coated her steel, but she couldn’t clean up just yet. Another ten or so waited for her, staring at her from the first floor.
She kept her gaze focused on them, watching them watching her. She was a morsel, a tasty treat ripe for the plucking and they weren’t doing a fucking thing about it.
“Come on, guys. You want a bit of mutt to snack on?” She twirled her blades, droplets of blood flying in every direction until the tips were mostly clean. Zombies shouldn’t need tempting, they craved blood and brains after all, but she was too tired to spend much time on the why.
Caith stuck the tip of one blade into her arm, piercing her flesh, and blood welled to the surface. It’d heal in moments, but this hint of coppery fluid would be enough to get their attention.
Caith focused on the largest of the group. He flared his nostrils and his eyes widened, but not a peep or whisper came from him or his friends. Nope, they simply paced at the base of the stairs, focusing on her but not making any move to come at her.
“Don’t you want a little snack?” She rolled her shoulders and bounced on the balls of her feet. Adrenaline still hummed through her veins, but dissipated with each passing second.
Annoyed, she stepped over a body littering the steps and then another, wanting to see their reaction as she eased closer and thumped down the stairs. She wasn’t a pussy to avoid a fight. If they weren’t coming to her, she’d go to them and finish this bullshit.
The group froze, bodies turning toward her and their eyes blazed an eerie bright green.
Green. Not black from a priestess’ dark magic or red from a dem’s toying with things they didn’t understand. The first group she destroyed had been normal, eyes like midnight, lifeless and hungry.
This group calculated and waited. They eyed her like an adversary and not just a snack. Someone had obviously dipped their hand in the forbidden honey pot.
The wound on her arm had already healed thanks to her inner wolf. Droplets of dried blood marred the pristine white of her skin and the prick of pain was all but forgotten. She was too focused on the zombies now. It had to have taken a hell of a lot of mojo to make a sentient zombie that could resist the temptation of blood. In all honesty, she didn’t even know if a tweener could pull it off.
The leader—big fucking guy wearing combat boots, chest as wide as a freight train and arms thicker than tree trunks—pulled out a blade of his own. He whipped it around with ease, pointed to her and flicked his fingers in a “come here” motion. The creator of these fuckers obviously had a thing for the Matrix movies.
Caith continued tromping down the stairs, slowly taking them one at a time. She reached the bottom and continued until she stood amongst the frozen zombies.
She remained still, taking stock of the beings around her. Three in front, badass in the middle. Two to her right. Another two on the left. That made three behind her.
She kept her attention focused on the leader, the thing taunting her, beckoning her forward while the others were prepped to close in on her. Fuck if she was going to play into their plans.
One of the guys to her right blinked first, stepping forward, getting just close enough to…
A quick dip and slice, and the idiot became a legless idiot. His partner, christened Idiot Two, followed, getting severed in two at the waist. Their comrades down, the rest took that as an invitation to dog pile her ass. Good thing that’s what she wanted.
Milliseconds ticked by and the instant they drew close enough, she stretched out her arms, pulled in a bit of power from her dear old uncle and spun, her heated blades sinking through flesh and bone with ease. Head after head thumped to the ground, bodies immediately after.
Death march complete, she slowed her turn, dropping the tips of her weapons to the floor, using the friction of steel on wood to ease her to a stop. A perfect circle surrounded her.
Raising her stare from the carnage, she met the leader’s gaze. “Still want to play, Papa Bear?” He narrowed his eyes, muscles in his jaw ticking. “Tut, tut. Musn’t let your anger
get the best of you.”
The zombie dove for her, leaping across the path of bodies, but she didn’t give him the chance to come closer. A quick push of power and drawing on her physical strength had her airborne, flipping backward and landing six feet away, path clear of debris. “Now, that wasn’t very nice.”
Then again, she wasn’t either.
Leader guy stomped forward, feet moving faster than the other zombies but not quite quickly enough. She blocked his initial strike, deflecting it with ease and taking an opening, sending a blade right through his abdomen.
Fucker didn’t even blink.
Zombie. Right.
He struck again. Block. Deflect. Thrust. Block. Block. Block the mother fucking piece of shit.
On and on it went, ’round and ’round. Dining room, kitchen (where she saw Mrs. Jenkins hadn’t quite been “reborn” yet), living room and den. He was good with the piece of metal he carried. Wielded it like a pro.
She was better.
Had to be.
Again he came at her, not a bit fatigued, steel against steel, sparks flying as they collided and she pitted her strength against his. Power pulsed and pushed behind her strikes, but he seemed to drink it in and slam it back toward her tenfold.
The pattern of the house flowed through her mind, the placement of the furniture, each twist and turn of the halls, even the type of flooring in the rooms. Any advantage she could get, she’d take.
Around another corner, back in the entryway, front door to her left, which meant the stairway was coming up on her rig—
Fuck.
A damned body part tripped her, sending her to her ass, black blood oozing over her leathers. She didn’t even want to think of the dry cleaning bill.
She almost didn’t get to. A razor sharp blade came flying at her, courtesy of the green-eyed zombie and she crossed her swords, holding him off with all her strength. He inched closer, putting his muscle and weight behind the push, inching the edge closer to her face.
Caith could smell his breath, the putrid stench mirrored by the black and green teeth he exposed when he smiled. Fucker smiled at her, eyes flashing brighter, glowing neon green in the darkness as if the prospect of killing her got him off.
She pulled and tugged at her power, reaching into Hell and coaxing bits and pieces forward. Except, it seemed Uncle Luc had enough of her stealing from him. Most dems got to pull from the realm as needed. Then again, she wasn’t most dems.
“I’m not gonna let you eat me, mother fucker,” she ground out between clenched teeth, using whatever she had to defeat this piece of garbage. Papa Al was a werewolf and Papa Finn was a unicorn at heart. Those genetics had to give her some extra oomph somewhere, right? And Papa Eron had the whole Father Earth thing going on. Trees were strong. It’d be great to have a little of that right about then.
Muscles bunched, pulse pounding through her temples, veins stretched to the limit and bulging beneath her skin… One of her fathers’ powers had to help her, right? Anytime now, dads…
The razor-honed metal eased closer, aimed for her vulnerable throat and a sting invaded her body, telling her the bastard drew blood. More evil glee slid over his features and his smile grew. His weight seemed to increase, pushing the weapon deeper into her skin and she dug deep, fighting for the strength to save her own ass.
Suddenly the pressing hatred vanished, replaced by a headless, lax body as said head smacked her in the face before tumbling away. “What the—”
“What about me, baby? Do I get to eat you?” She knew that fucking fuckery voice.
“Fucking gel,” she growled, pushing the lifeless body from her. She rolled to her feet, hands still gripping her steel and she lunged, pressing the tip of a blade to the angel’s neck. “What the fuck?”
He smiled, a small quirk of his lips, and she swore his eyes managed to sparkle. “No appreciation?”
“Appreciate that I haven’t killed you. Yet.” She eased the blade from his throat and let her gaze travel through the house to survey the damage. The place hadn’t been fancy, but it’d been hers. “I’ll have to pay the brownies a lot for this.”
“True. For now, though, we should go.” He reached for her, fingertips almost connecting, but she stepped out of his reach.
“Fuck you, and where? Better yet, why?”
He didn’t answer right away, and instead, grabbed a handful of her curtains and wiped his steel clean. She had to like a guy who took care of his weapons. Even if he was an angel.
“Anytime, baby, anytime. As for where… I’ve got a place to lie low while I do some recon.” He dropped the curtain and sheathed his blade, the silver disappearing behind his back. “And because these guys aren’t the first, won’t be the last, and they were simply a test. I’ve heard things…” He shook his head. “This was a cakewalk, baby. You want the big bad banging down your door right now?”
Really? Not so much. And she did need help. She just hated telling him that. Instead she said, “Whatever. You take down Mrs. Jenkins. I’ll grab my gear and meet you outside.”
She stepped over the torso of Idiot Two and jogged up the stairs. Was it a stupid idea to go with him? Probably. But all that leather… Yum.
Underneath her stash were two bags always ready and waiting. One for weapons and the other for clothes.
Caith was a fucking boy scout with tits.
Chapter Three
Caith looked from the gel to the hotel and back again. “Mouse House Hotel? Seriously? This is laying low?”
The man shrugged, leather creaking with the movement. They really needed to get their clothing dry cleaned. It was too pretty to be ruined by zombie blood. “If I’m going to be half-fallen, I might as well take advantage of the benefits.”
“Benefits?”
“Of course. A dash of glutton and a pinch of greed and here we are.” His gaze settled on her, the irises flaring brighter. “There’s also more than a handful of lust.”
She shuddered and it wasn’t her demon half that responded to his words. No, it was those other parts. The purity from her unicorn father urged her to step away, but her inner wolf whimpered and whined, urging her to go to him. Ever since she hit six hundred, the animal’s biological clock began tick, tick, ticking. The beast decided the half-fallen angel seemed like the perfect male to father her pups.
Bad furball. Bad. She mentally flicked it on the nose and the wolf snapped at her. Dammit, she should have made time for a shift and run lately. The animal was edgy not just from craving babies but also because it wanted to feel the wind in its fur. But knowing that didn’t negate her desire for the angel with no name. A fact she’d rectify as soon as they got off the street.
“An-ee-way.” She stepped off the curb, boots thumping against the asphalt as she strode toward the door. “I’m assuming you have a room, then?”
The gel jogged to catch up to her and paced at her side. A gentle glow came from his hand and then a slim, credit-card sized room key appeared in his hand. “Something like that.”
They walked into the hotel, pretending they weren’t covered in zombie blood and stank of their rotted flesh. The only shining light in this whole bullshit cluster fuck was the fact they both wore black. Though the gel did have a little hunk of gray brain on his shoulder… If she pretended it wasn’t there, maybe no one would notice.
They ceased their travels in front of a bank of elevators, and she stared at her reflection in the polished doors. Damn, she was caked with gore and… she pressed her palms flat against her skull, exposing her roots more fully. She so needed a dye job. Bad. Maybe she could have the concierge run out and grab her some black and red colors from the shop down the stree—
The low ding of the elevator announced its arrival. A quick press of a button, slide of a key card, and the lift rose, finally depositing them on one of the upper floors. There were only two doors, two suites, on their level and she followed the gel when he turned right.
An
other slip of the card granted them entrance. Once the door thumped shut behind them, Caith turned toward the solid panel of wood and metal that kept the world out. It was thick and heavy, she’d give the hotel that, but it wouldn’t stand up against one of those green-eyed freaks. She fingered the brass lock. The hotel shouldn’t have even bothered installing a lock at all.
She knew Uncle Luc was probably pissed at her, but she’d try to tug a little hellfire free anyway. Just a tiny bit. Hardly a breath, really. Her fingers tingled, the warmth heating her heart as well as her hand, and she reached for the lock. She’d give the metal a nice boost to give it a little strength and then they’d at least have a warning thud or two when someone tried to get in.
She ghosted her touch over the cool metal, getting a feel for the barrier, and took a low breath, ready… to… relea—
“What do you think you’re doing?” the gel hissed in her ear, his voice low and filled with disbelief as he grasped her wrist to halt her progress.
“I’m protecting us.” She tugged against his hold, but he didn’t budge.
“I don’t need you to pull on Hell and—”
“I don’t need you interfering with—”
“Do you really want—”
“Yes, I really want—”
An all too familiar voice cut them both off.
“And I really want,” the deep, sophisticated male’s words slid through the air and a warm breeze followed in his wake, “to know who you are and why you’re touching my niece.”
Caith squeezed her eyes shut and scrunched her nose. “Dammit,” she huffed. “You should let go.” She jerked her head toward the newcomer. “He’s cut me off anyway.”
“He?” The moist, heated breath against her ear sent a sliver of need down her spine.
She really, really wanted this gel. Really.
“Me.” The single syllable hit her and then the gel was gone, his body ripped away and then a deep thump reached her.
