Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection

by Margo Bond Collins

  “There’s another assignment.” He changed the subject. “This one … well, it’s probably going to be the most important task you’ll ever carry out as a Guardian.”

  Jack perked up at that. “Eligos?”

  Just speaking the name of the Great Duke of Hell sent a shiver down his spine. Eligos— the reason Micah and Jack spent most of their days cleaning demon scum off the streets. That scumbag and his sorcerers had found a way to open unauthorized portals between Hell and Earth using black magic, and now, all the big baddies were coming through and causing all sorts of trouble. Adramelech hadn’t been a minor demon, but he still didn’t come close to the big ten, the ones who, in the end, had to be hunted down and destroyed, so that the ten portals they’d opened could be demolished along with them.

  It had all sounded so simple at first, and Jack could remember being a bit flippant about the mission in the beginning. Michael—the Archangel, himself—had sent Reniel to Earth to gather an elite group of Guardians. The best of the best, with the longest and strongest lineages. As a cocky eighteen-year old, Jack had been looking forward to fighting demons like the hero he’d always thought his father to be. Yet, the more time passed, the less true that became for him.

  “Sorry, podna,” Micah slurred as he stumbled back toward his recliner. “Still workin’ on the last mission you gave us. You know … ten demons, ten scrolls … close the portals … all that.”

  “Think of this as a mission within a mission. And no, it isn’t Eligos,” Reniel added, turning to Jack. “Not one of you is ready to face him.”

  His jaw clenching in annoyance, Jack squared his shoulders. “Another seven years, then?” he spat.

  Like Micah, he’d grown sick of the runaround, tired of trying to understand why this mission seemed to be one ongoing cluster fuck. Hunt demons, dispatch demons to Hell; rinse, repeat.

  Reniel sighed, running a hand through his golden locks. “Listen, I know it has been a rough time for you all, but you’ve performed well. Despite a few hiccups—” he shot Micah a pointed glance, “—you have more than lived up to Father’s expectations. Long is the road, Jack.”

  Jack sank onto the worn loveseat facing the ancient television set that had come with the little storefront apartment. “It would be nice to know what the endgame is here,” he sighed.

  He caught his reflection in the T.V. as he ran a hand over his close-shaved head. A haggard face that looked much older than its twenty-five years. Dark, ebony skin; his father’s slate gray eyes; a prominent brow hooding the depths; lines of fatigue lining his mouth and eyes.

  “Father has a plan,” Reniel insisted. “Even I do not know what it is, but I trust Him. I thought you did, too.”

  “I do,” Jack said, only half lying. Over time, he’d become a bit cynical, despite being a servant of God and all. Hard to trust someone who didn’t seem inclined to share their secret plans with you—plans that ruled your life every minute of every day. “Okay, let’s have it. What’s this mission?”

  “The mission isn’t a just a ‘what’.” Reniel joined him on the couch. “It is also a ‘who’.”

  This caught Micah’s attention. Removing his hat, he sat up in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees.

  “What do you know about the Seal of Solomon?” the angel asked, his gaze flitting from Jack to Micah and back again.

  Jack frowned, trying to remember his religious legends. He’d learned a lot from his stepmother, who knew things about the spiritual world that no one else on Earth ever could. Before she’d been given the privilege of life on Earth as a human, Sarah had been a messenger angel. Falling in love with his father had been enough to make her want to trade in her wings, which Jack never could quite understand. Still, he’d been fortunate to have Sarah there to step in and help raise him when his own mother lost her battle to cancer when he was just seven years old.

  “King Solomon possessed a ring that was said to give its wearer power over demons,” he recited as the memories of Sarah’s stories came rushing back to him. “Sarah used to tell me there are opposing views on the ring. Some believe it was real, and others think it’s only a pagan myth. She told me it did exist, and God did impart the power of dominion over demons onto it, as a gift to Solomon along with the gift of wisdom. When Solomon pissed God off by getting tangled up with the pagan gods of his wives, the power was taken from him.”

  Reniel nodded. “It is true, the ring existed … still exists. Part of your assignment is retrieving the ring. It holds the power that the Guardians need to destroy the ten demons, their scrolls, and the portals.”

  “Convenient,” Micah drawled, rolling his eyes. “Wanna clue us in on why Michael didn’t tell us about this magic ring before now?”

  “Because, it wasn’t—”

  “Part of the plan,” Jack finished for Reniel. “We get it. Why now? Why me and Micah? He’s a drunk who goes rogue on almost every mission, and I …”

  Reniel considered him as he trailed off. “You’re what, Jackson?”

  Tired. Angry. Bitter. Alone.

  He didn’t give voice to any of his true feelings, but he knew Reniel could feel them all. Angels, programmed to be sympathetic, could perceive the emotions of the humans around them. It took a well-disciplined angel to contain all of that and channel it without letting it get the best of him. Reniel had proved one of the strongest, and Jack had met a lot of celestial beings over the years.

  “I am willing to do what has to be done,” he finished, clearing his throat. “If Father chose us to find and bear the ring, then we’ll do it. Won’t we, Micah?”

  “Oh, yeah, podna. But you mentioned somethin’ ’bout a ‘who’, Ren,” he said, turning to the angel. “Who are we talkin’ about here?”

  “You two are not exactly responsible for wielding the ring.”

  Jack frowned. “So the person you’re talking about is the wearer. We have to find the ring and get it to them.”

  Reniel nodded. “Yes. Although, it might be best if you find her first, then take her to the ring. The members of the Order of the Seal of Solomon are going to want to speak with her and they’ll want proof that she’s the one.”

  “I’m no couyon, Ren,” Micah declared. “I know what you’re gettin’ at here. It’s not a ‘who’ we’re after, but a ‘what’. A Naphil, I’m thinkin’.”

  It made sense. Those with the mixed blood of human and either angel or demon possessed special gifts.

  “Yes, Father has commanded that the ring must be borne by a Naphil,” Reniel confirmed. “However, it cannot be just any Naphil. There is one, a young woman. Father has chosen her above all others.”

  “All right, fine,” Jack said with a shrug. “Point us in the right direction. Who’s this girl and where do we find her?”

  “Her name is Addison Monroe, and she lives right here in New Orleans. Finding her won’t be a problem. Convincing her you’re not insane will be.”

  Micah frowned. “Girl don’ know she a Naphil?”

  Reniel shook his head. “No, she is unaware of the battle that rages on between Heaven and Hell, or her place in it.”

  Jack shook his head, downright flabbergasted. This was unprecedented. The Nephilim were some of the key players in this war that took place on the battleground of Earth. Both sides always wanted the Nephilim for their own, but they always had a choice to make. God didn’t mess with free will; Lucifer was not allowed to, either. Even Nephilim with the blood of demons could choose to fight for the side of Heaven—after all, even the devil himself had once been an angel. The reverse proved true for Naphils born of angels. Because of so much competition for the allegiance of the Nephilim, the Guardians had been tasked with protecting them, guarding them, and keeping them away from the influence of either side until they made their choice.

  “That’s impossible,” Jack said. “Isn’t it?”

  Reniel sighed. “It’s kind of a long story, and it’s complicated. The first thing you need to know is that she’s the daught
er of Eligos …”

  3

  Deadly Dancer

  Addison sashayed down the catwalk, her platforms clicking over the stage as she reached for the gleaming pole at the end. The rowdy cheers greeting her passed through one ear and out the other. With a mechanical precision born of experience, she gripped the pole with both hands and wrapped one leg around it. Swinging to gain momentum, she joined the first leg with the other, using her thighs to grip it tight before bending backwards. Reaching behind her head with both hands, she held on as she executed a perfect upside-down split, earning her even more cheers, whistles, and a shower of dollar bills across the stage.

  Sliding down and flipping right side up, she dropped back to her platforms and worked the crowd, though her mind wasn’t focused on the task. She’d danced to “Cherry Pie” so many times, she could do it in her sleep. After two years of working at Temptations on Bourbon Street, she had mastered the art of stripping for tips while her mind wandered elsewhere. Just then, it was on her final semester of college classes, and the English degree waiting for her at the end. It was the sole thing that made her crappy job bearable … hell, the only thing that made her entire existence bearable.

  Someday, she’d pack her stuff and move far, far away from New Orleans and make something of herself. Maybe she could teach, or even pursue her dream of publishing a novel. Anything would be preferable to this. The men—and a few women—in the crowded club didn’t know her. They didn’t see anything other than the size of her breasts and that she knew how to shake her ass. To them, she was nobody … just a piece of flesh to throw dollar bills at. While she had never been ashamed of her job—she made more money in a week than most people with regular nine-to-fives—she had always wanted more. Ever since she’d been a little girl growing up in a dilapidated trailer, Addison had wanted to be someone.

  She would be. Addison Monroe was nothing if not determined.

  She crouched near one corner of the stage, swinging her vibrant red hair as she dropped to her knees in front of a group of young guys crowding that edge. She collected the bills scattered near that side of the platform and tucked them into her G-string without missing a beat. She then reached down to pull a near-non-existent fishnet top over her head, revealing the red leather halter underneath.

  Flashing a friendly smile to the blond jock-looking guy who slid a fiver into the string against her hip, she arched her back in a feline fashion and rolled her hips.

  “What’s your name, gorgeous?” he bellowed to be heard over the music, leaning against the stage.

  Rolling onto her back, Addison struck another provocative pose, parting her legs a bit for the benefit of the people sitting on the other side of the stage. She was going to milk this drunk guy for every dollar he had.

  “Red,” she replied, giving him her stage name. The other dancers had christened her ‘Red’ for obvious reasons. She might be a natural redhead, but the fiery color she sported now came nowhere near what she’d been born with.

  The guy reached toward her and she danced away.

  “Sorry, honey,” she said in a syrupy sweet tone. “Touching’s not allowed. You can look all you want, though.”

  With a wink, she pulled at the strings of the halter at her back, revealing two heart-shaped pasties and round, perky breasts underneath. The drunk blond slid her a ten this time.

  They always made it so easy, like taking candy from a baby. She had the attention of his friends now; they crowded the stage as she went up on her knees, shimmying in a way that made the tassels on her pasties twirl. Another shower of bills, and Addison reminded herself she was working for one more course, one more book, one more month of rent.

  “Screw that, baby. It’s my bachelor night. How much for a private dance?”

  “Forty bucks,” she told him, “for just you. If your friends want to come along, it’s going to cost extra.”

  “That’s not the kind of dance I meant.” He curled his upper lip as he leaned even closer.

  She could smell the beer on his breath and it caused her nose to curl.

  “I’m not a hooker,” she growled between clenched teeth. She stood—this guy’s money wasn’t worth putting up with that kind of talk.

  Lightning-quick, his hand shot out and curled around her wrist in a bruising grip. Addison fell to her knees, the impact rattling her teeth. Fury shot through her so fast, her blood raced hot in her veins before she knew what had happened. The edges of her vision went hazy and her breath sawed in and out of her lungs in rapid drags. Instead of trying to pull away, she leaned closer.

  Her free hand shot up to his throat, her fingers digging into his flesh with savage intent. The black rage causing her head to pound also darkened her vision until she grew almost blind from it. She could feel the blood running through his carotid artery. She could smell his fear, mingling with the odor of sweat running down his temples. It would be so easy to dig in with her fingernails, not stopping until the hot spray of his blood showered over her. The anger consumed her, the feeling not unlike that of being high on drugs. The man’s grip on her wrist loosened as he gurgled and gasped, struggling for air.

  “I said, no touching,” she snarled, giving him a rough shake before throwing him back into his chair. The force of her shove sent him head over heels, overturning the chair and dumping him on the sticky floor.

  Andrew, the bouncer, interceded a little too late, appearing only after the scene she’d caused. Addison shook her head as her vision returned. Now that she’d calmed down, the severity of her actions hit her like a club to the back of the head. Forgetting the rest of the bills strewn across the stage, she gathered up her meager clothing, then turned and fled the stage.

  “Girl, you okay?”

  Addison glanced in the mirror and her eyes met the reflection of Marie, friend and fellow dancer. Her inky black hair had been slicked back and covered by a wig cap, her face made up like a drag queen’s. Her golden skin gleamed from oil and body glitter, and her stage getup left little to the imagination. Unlike Addison, Marie was petite and slender, with an almost boyish frame.

  Around them, the other dancers changed and refreshed their makeup. Where the dressing area behind the stage usually hummed with conversation and laughter, you could have heard a pin drop just then. Addison knew why … they were all staring at her out of the corners of their eyes and wondering what the hell kind of freak she must be.

  “I’m fine,” she answered, avoiding Marie’s gaze and leaning forward on her stool to slide her platforms off.

  “Why don’t you bitches mind your business?” Marie snapped, her scathing glare landing on several of the other girls. A few of them turned away, intimidated. Others rolled their eyes in annoyance, though they eventually looked away, as well.

  Plopping onto the bench beside Addison, she faced the mirror and reached for the blonde wig she wore on stage. She slid it on and began arranging the bangs to her liking.

  “That jerk-off deserved what he got,” she said, pursing her lips at her reflection before touching up her fire-engine red lipstick. “Don’t feel bad about it.”

  “I don’t,” Addison insisted. Retrieving a cleansing cloth from the pouch she carried in her bag, she began the process of removing her makeup. “I just …” she trailed off with a sigh, frowning at the girl staring back at her in the mirror. Smoky eye shadow rimmed her hazel eyes, and a few light freckles made an appearance as she swiped the cloth across her cheekbones and nose. Grabbing another wipe, she tossed the first and used the second to scrub her eyelids. “I don’t know what happens, Marie. When I get angry …”

  She couldn’t explain it, and even if she could, Marie would think her crazy. Sometimes, Addison thought she must be. It would be just the sort of icing on the cake representing her life. Deadbeat dad, drug-addicted mom, boozed-up stepdad, abusive boyfriends, and far too many bad decisions to count … yeah, if she were to be declared insane, it would fit.

  But then, there had to be something more to it than jus
t anger or rage. The intensity of those moments couldn’t be described. Just then, when her hand had been wrapped around that man’s throat, her mind had filled with gruesome images of tearing his head from his shoulders and being doused in his blood and gore. The idea had given her a feeling of euphoria, a high unlike anything a drug or drink could give her.

  She’d endured this her entire life. Since childhood, she’d been tempted with thoughts of violence. She had been horrified by the fantasies of choking her brand-new puppy to death that had filled her mind at the age of five. She’d cried so hard, and for so long, her mother had just taken the puppy away. Addison had been relieved, because even then, the urges proved strong. However, she’d always controlled them. Through the years, she’d always been able to remind herself that the thoughts were wrong and acting on them would be out of character. She was not that person. Wherever the anger came from, she remained determined not to let it rule her life.

  Only once had she lost control … but never again. Just thinking about that day seven years ago made her sick to her stomach. She lowered her head to the table and took a deep breath as the memories assaulted her. The stench of stale cigarettes … the rasp of calloused fingers up her spine …

  You’re stupid … worthless … trash …

  She fought against the emotions that converged on her all at once, shaking her head to dislodge the voice echoing in her head.

  I am not stupid. Someday, I’m going to be something more. I’ll show him. I’ll show them all.

  Marie’s hand was gentle on her shoulder. “Honey, I’m worried about you.” Her voice came out low and sweet. “So is Andrew.”

  The club’s bouncer acted like a big brother to all the dancers at Temptations. She’d known before she’d even left the stage that he’d get his beefy hands on that jerk who tried to manhandle her and toss him out into the alley.

  “I appreciate that you guys care about me,” Addison said as she lifted her head, wiping away a few tears as well as makeup when she confronted the mirror once more. Squaring her shoulders, she forced herself to push the feelings away. No sense in dwelling on them. The moment of rage had passed, her shift over. “I’m fine, I swear. I’m just going to go home, drink a few glasses of wine, and soak in a bubble bath. Tomorrow, I’ll be good as new.”