by Jenn Stark
Table of Contents
Copyright
Other Books by Jenn Stark
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Is this the end?
Demon Unbound: Chapter One
A Note From Jenn
The Emperor
The Five of Swords
The Ace of Pentacles
Acknowledgments
About Jenn Stark
WILDE FIRE
Immortal Vegas, Book 10
JENN STARK
Copyright © 2018 by Jenn Stark
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-943768-35-6
Cover design and Photography Gene Mollica
Formatting by Spark Creative Partners
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase/Download only authorized editions.
Other Books by Jenn Stark
Getting Wilde
Wilde Card
Born To Be Wilde
Wicked And Wilde
Aces Wilde
Forever Wilde
Wilde Child
Call of the Wilde
Running Wilde
One Wilde Night (prequel novella)
For you.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Chapter One
“This wasn’t in my contract.” Nigel Friedman’s clipped British accent dripped indignation as he shifted in the gloom beside me, the warm scent of his skin so much more noticeable, given how much of it was exposed.
“We’ve expanded your contract. Underwear too.” I held out my hand. “Besides, I know for a personal fact that running around in the altogether is a specialty of yours, and you agreed to the terms before we got here. You want me to call Ma-Singh for the job, I can totally do that.”
“The coven would never recover.”
I didn’t even try to hide my grin. As nervous as I was about what we might learn tonight, there was something almost nostalgic about Nigel and me working a job where at least one of us was naked. The last time had been in Rio de Janeiro, almost two years ago…which had, in many ways, been the start of everything for me.
Had it really been less than two years since I’d met the Magician of the Arcana Council, since I’d first stepped foot upon the path that had led me tonight to a witch’s door, on the eve of Armageddon? It didn’t seem possible.
Nigel was clearly less interested in a walk down memory lane, at least one without socks. “This is completely unnecessary,” he muttered. “We’re going into the witch’s basement. The moon couldn’t reach us if it wanted to.”
His annoyed gaze flashed to me again. “Remind me why you get to keep your clothes on?”
“I’m not going to be part of the circle. I’m nothing more than a voice in your ear for this.”
“At least tell me you’re sneaking in your phone.”
“Wouldn’t help. Danae’s got a double-layer dead zone going here. No cell service, no psychic connection. Nothing to stand between us and the sky—other than all the concrete and stone, of course.”
“Skyclad,” Nigel grumbled. “Without actual sky. We’ll be clad in canned air.”
Still, a moment later, his BVDs safely stowed in our go bag and tucked beneath one of the ornate benches that lined the hallway, I moved forward with the Ace of Swords, who served as my highly competent jack-of-all-covert-trades. For our current op, Nigel was also a required player. Danae was summoning an informant, and as it turned out, said informant was somewhat less than politically correct. He wanted to talk with a warrior. In his mind, that meant a man.
Fortunately, Nigel was very much a man. Tonight, more obviously so than usual, though he still managed to look dignified while bare-assed naked. I wasn’t sure how he did that, but it was impressive.
We followed plush Persian carpet runners deeper into the elegant mansion at the heart of Chicago’s East Lincoln Park neighborhood. True to my word to Danae, we’d left almost everything behind in the go bag, ensuring that we didn’t defile her sacred subterranean space. My only concession to modern conveniences, other than clothing, was the small pouch on a long cord that now bumped against my right hip as I walked. I needed my cards for this particular party, and I didn’t feel like carrying them.
“Where is everybody?” Nigel asked.
That surprised me too. There’d been no one to greet us at the door of the venerable house, which we’d reached on foot, both of us still clothed, of course. Our driver had dropped us at the nearest park, and we’d mingled through several groups of pedestrians enjoying the unusually warm November night before slipping into the poshest end of the neighborhood, always keeping to the shadows.
As promised, the heavy wooden gate of Danae’s residence had opened at our approach, then locked securely behind us after we slipped through. But there’d been no one to greet us at the front door, no instructions of any type other than what Danae had sent me days ago on an expensive-looking card of stiff cream-colored stock. As a witch from one of Chicago’s oldest covens, she had her own particular style.
Now that we were inside Danae’s home and suitably attired—and unattired—Nigel and I kept advancing without any further conversation, our steps quiet inside the mansion despite its soaring ceilings and oversized rooms. An elevator stood at the end of the hallway, but Nigel scowled at it. “There have to be stairs.”
I nodded and pointed to a doorway to the right of the unit. “Seven flights, give or take. But she’s expecting us to come down in the box.”
“Fair enough.”
I punched the button for the elevator, and the doors shooshed open. Nigel and I stepped inside, and my Ace scanned the elevator with thin-lipped censure. I hit the button for “B,” and the doors slid shut.
“This is recently installed,” he said, laying a hand on the stainless-steel wall. “Recently installed and…exceptionally clean.”
I glanced around the space as the elevator headed down. He was right. The walls and floor of the elevator could have been taken straight from a meatpacking plant—all of it industrial-grade steel and smelling faintly of disinfectant. It was also much colder in the unit, a fact made more noticeable by our swift descent into the bowels of the old house. I was grateful for my extra layer of clothes, and stifled another apology to Nigel. He’d more than proven himself
willing to take on any job, no matter how difficult. To make more of a fuss about it would insult his well-trained sensibilities.
“Has to be a bat cave,” I said as the elevator finally slowed. “We’ve gone too deep for it to be a legit subbasement.”
Nigel didn’t have time to respond to that as the elevator doors opened again, onto a space that was decidedly not a rec room.
Easily a dozen oil torches stood in huge planters on either side of the elevator, creating a runway effect toward the center of the chamber, where more torches awaited. And these weren’t environmentally friendly torches either. Real fire blazed from their tips, warming the space and casting wildly leaping shadows on the walls and ceilings.
Bat cave wasn’t far off. We stepped onto a smooth rock floor, and Nigel craned his neck as he stared. The chamber was about thirty feet wide. The door to the stairs stood next to the elevator bay, apparently hewn out of solid rock. The stone itself looked vaguely sand colored, but it was impossible to tell its true color in the firelight.
A man strode forward between the torches, as naked as Nigel was. I’d never seen him before, but he dwarfed Nigel and myself, standing easily six foot four.
“Welcome,” he said gravely, crossing both hands over his heart, which I assumed lay somewhere beneath the mounds of muscle that passed as his pecs. He didn’t extend a hand in greeting but turned, and the rear view of him was every bit as impressive as anticipated.
“Ridiculous,” my intrepid Ace muttered again.
I didn’t feel too badly for him. The strongest members of Danae’s coven were female, and she’d have the best of the best on hand for tonight’s meet and greet. Nigel would have plenty to look at while the witches got down to the business of their summons.
We emerged from the corridor of torches a few moments later, and my presumption proved bountifully correct. A dozen of the faithful stood in a loose circle around a thickly drawn pentagram on the stone floor, all of them breathtakingly beautiful. Most had skin as dark as Danae’s, and they practically gleamed in the firelight, as if the coven members themselves were creatures of light instead of death.
I knew differently, of course.
“Welcome, Mistress of the House of Swords.”
Danae’s voice rang out over the open space, as exotic and fierce as I recalled from early summer, when she and her clan had come to Las Vegas to help us with a small god containment problem that had relied on Sin City’s ley lines holding fast. If there was anyone in the country who was an expert on ley lines, both those known and those hidden, it was Danae. Her coven wasn’t immortal, but its members carried down through their line the wisdom of thousands of years of the most powerful witches to walk the earth.
Which was why I was here. These days, I needed all the wisdom I could get.
We stopped at the edge of the circle, our escort leaving us to take his position a few feet away. Danae was not part of the circle, and as such, she was also dressed—in a long black robe bound at the center with an ornate belt. Easily one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met, Danae presided over her coven with a regal grace that perfectly matched her rich dark skin, deep gray eyes, exquisite bone structure, and luxurious fall of ebony hair. She wore no makeup and didn’t need any. The woman could turn heads from a hundred feet away.
Danae sat on a wooden chair atop a low stone dais at the far end of the room. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the underground space, I could see that the cavern was not entirely closed off. Deeper shadows beckoned, indicating additional chambers that flowed out of the room, and, nearer to us, another one-time exit appeared to have been sealed with a steel door.
I frowned, putting together the pieces. “Was this part of Chicago’s tunnel system?” I asked. “I thought that all got flooded.”
“It was, and it did,” Danae said gravely. She watched me take the room’s measure, a smile softening the exquisitely carved features of her face as she pointed to the steel door. “This section was quickly deemed unnecessary by the early builders, so they sealed it off there. The other entries are blocked by lead bars. If you got through those, you’d eventually find your way to the surface. There are openings to the area near the lily pond in Lincoln Park, as well as other small ravines. Impassable for people, of course.”
I swung my gaze back to the pentagram sketched out on the floor in heavy chalk. Danae’s coven was known by those who mattered as the Deathwalkers. There was a reason for the name. “People,” I said, trying to imagine what the dead might look like as they appeared within her sacred circle. And how big.
She smiled. “Dead people included. Spirits could travel through such small spaces, but they would balk at the lead bars. I assure you, we’ve had years of opportunity to test the security of this chamber. You’ll be safe here to learn what you need.”
I blew out a long breath. “I appreciate your assistance.”
She spread her hands. “The war on magic, the potential return of the gods to this earth, is a pressure that is felt by all the Connected. Your message to me was not unexpected. Had you delayed much longer, I’d have contacted you.” Her smoky gaze drifted over me. “The Arcana Council is not prepared for the strength that is amassing beyond the veil. Their destruction is all but assured if they do not grasp the full scope of what is coming.”
“Yeah, I got that part,” I said stiffly. Danae and I weren’t besties, but the Council thought highly of her, and she was an old and revered witch when there weren’t nearly enough of those around anymore, much like hot dog stands and scrupulous politicians. “If you’ve found a guy who can help…”
Her smile was arch. “We’ve found a guy.” Her gaze shifted to Nigel. “And fortunately, you’ve brought a guy as well, since that was the requirement.”
Nigel remained impassive beside me. Even if he hadn’t been British and impossibly polite, he still wouldn’t have smirked, because the parameters of this meeting were clear. The ancient source that Danae was tapping was happy to speak of war to a warrior—but not to a witch, and not a woman. Asshat.
Still, Nigel qualified, and I trusted him with my life. So here we were.
“The summons will be quick. The resource is eager to meet. Too eager, perhaps. Ordinarily, I would wait for a few days more, until the moon is truly new. But all my castings have urged me to act now. To not wait for the solar eclipse that is coming, which is an ideal time for such a summons…or it will already be too late to use for the information we seek. There is a deep, abiding fear in the earth. It cries out to us.” Danae gestured back to the circle, and for the first time, I realized that while the witches standing at attention around the space were dutifully naked, they were not unarmed. Each held a wicked, curved athame, the usually ceremonial knives looking decidedly ready for business. “We are well prepared. The ley lines that run beneath this property are very ancient and very strong. There is no earthly power that can disrupt them when we hold the circle. And as long as the circle holds, the spirit cannot pass into this earth.”
“As long as the circle holds.” Nigel surveyed the thick chalk lines with deep suspicion. “You’ve done this before.”
Danae’s laugh was mirthless. “Countless times. Do not mock what you don’t understand.”
He shrugged, unperturbed by her retort. “Fair enough. Then let’s get on with it.”
I pulled the cards out of my pouch and knelt on the stone floor beside him as Danae watched me, then I glanced back at the witch.
“You’re sure you’re good me reading during the summons?” I asked. “I need honesty. I don’t want to do anything that will disrupt your concentration during the whole hold-the-circle routine.”
Danae shook her head. “Anything outside the circle cannot pierce it unless it crosses the line with sufficient force of magic. Your cards do not qualify.”
I frowned down at the worn deck. I’d gotten it for eight dollars at a used book store, but that was no reason to get all judgey. “And if something happens and they blow around and smudg
e the line or whatever?” I’d seen my share of horror movies. I knew how precarious those circles could be.
Danae gave another low chuckle. “That’s not precisely how it works, I’m afraid. It is less about the chalk than the members of my coven when we make a circle of this much power. The chalk could completely wash away and the circle would hold. It is only the witches who must remain strong.” Her gaze hardened as she looked out over her people. “I assure you, the witches will remain strong.”
“Works for me.” I spread the cards in two arcs, then held my hands out, almost protectively, over them. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Warrior?” Danae prompted.
Nigel nodded, his gaze trained on the center of the circle. Nigel was about as magical as my right ankle, but he’d seen enough in his time hunting artifacts to have a healthy respect for all that was woo in the world.
“Then we shall begin,” intoned Danae.
Somewhere in the shadows, a gong sounded once, then twice more. The rich, vibrant tones filled the space and seemed to build into a physical presence. At the same time, the men and women forming the circle began a chant in a language I didn’t recognize. Though I’d recently come to understand that I could interpret foreign tongues at will, that wasn’t my focus here. I knew Nigel would be conversing with the summoned spirit in the center of the circle, and he spoke English. So the ancient warrior, or whatever it was who was going to pop in for a chat, needed to speak English as well. I had a feeling that was something Danae had worked out ahead of time.
We didn’t have long to wait. As the chanting grew louder and the cadence changed, a small wind squall started whirling in the center of the circle, kicking up the dust and sand I hadn’t realized was there—probably wasn’t actually there. Still, the illusion of it billowed up and out, straining the edges of the circle, eventually growing to the height of a man. Within it, a creature slowly unfurled itself, standing tall and fierce in the whipping wind.
“Warrior!” it bellowed, and beside me, Nigel squared his shoulders.
“I’m here,” he said curtly, sounding assured and unflapped in his uniquely British way.
