Watcher Reborn: Dark Angels Paranormal Romance (Watcher of the Gray Book 3)

by JL Madore

  Copyright © 2018 by JL Madore

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  JL Madore

  www.jlmadore.com

  Cover Design: Fiona Jayde Media

  Copy Edit: Jenn Wood, All About the Edits

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Note: The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Watcher Reborn/ JL Madore -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-7752332-2-0

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Large coffee, double-double, and a plain bagel, lightly toasted, with herb and garlic cream cheese, right?”

  Danel glanced up from the wad of bills in his fist and forced himself not to roll his eyes. The blonde barista at this place was always way too perky for the hour of the night . . . or morning, as the case may be. Annnnd she was staring.

  What the fuck was she staring at?

  Right, she’d asked him a question. “Yeah, right.”

  With his order confirmed, she sprang into action and he tossed a five on the stainless-steel counter. He would never understand it. These stupid sheep led unimportant, mundane lives, yet most of them didn’t seem to notice. Some of them, like barista-Barbie here, actually seemed joyous to wear her sad poly-cotton uniform, scrape together minimum wage, and serve Toronto’s night-crawlers.

  It made Danel’s balls knot.

  Nothing worse than being bombarded with sunshine when you felt like death. Ignoring the idle chatter-babble splattering over him, he accepted the takeout tray she slid toward his good hand and made a break for it.

  “Have a nice night.”

  Yeah, Fan-fucking-tastic. In three long strides, he was face to face with the way out. Annnnd that’s when his shitkickers stalled dead. Damn. He couldn’t face his brothers coming in from patrol tonight. They’d be hyped about the demons they’d taken down and he’d be all . . . “Good stuff, sorry I missed it.”

  Deciding to put off the awkward nightly ritual, he hung a louie and headed for a booth in the back corner. He bypassed the rows of empty tables and eyed the only other customer in the place. A homeless guy sat reading yesterday’s news, ass-planted in the shadows.

  A man who liked his privacy. He respected that.

  With his back to the brick wall and a good line of sight into both the coffee house and the street outside, Danel slid his tray onto the table and got down to business.

  He fought to free his caffeine salvation, but his cardboard cup sat wedged tight. He had to lay his useless stump of an arm on the tray to leverage it free. God, if he wasn’t such a java-whore, he’d never put himself through the humiliation of public display. After liberating his mug, he set the thing on the table and tugged the black bandana back over what was left of his dominant dagger hand.

  A large swallow of liquid ambrosia didn’t dampen the anger that festered inside him. Yep, being maimed was his retirement gift after thousands of years of battling evil. Bound into servitude, he lived only to save the lives of mindless humans.

  Screw the gold watch . . . it would just slip off his stump anyway. Yep, get your hand lopped off at the wrist, and it’s instant retirement and removal from rotation. Indefinitely.

  Fuck-you-very-much.

  He tossed his bagel back onto the waxed paper, his appetite lost. The question that brain-fried him now . . . if he wasn't a warrior, who in the three realms was he? Anger management poster boy? A DIY project waiting to happen? Or just some unlucky asshole who’d given a hundred and ten percent and been left a cripple. His brothers couldn’t even look him square in the eye. That was a ball-gnasher on both sides.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket and the hum broke through his wallowing. He set down his coffee and checked the ID.

  “Hey, Cop.”

  “Danel, you forgot to say goodbye. I’m hurt.”

  “You’ll survive.”

  “What happened? One minute, I’m changing the targets and the next, you’re vapor.”

  “I had enough target practice for one night. End of.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone gave Danel the scratch. He trapped his phone between his ear and his shoulder and took a long haul on his coffee. Didn’t help.

  Colt cursed under his breath and when the guy spoke again, his tone rang far too reasonable. “It’ll come, D. You hit the mark every time. In another few sessions, you’ll be as deadly as a southpaw as you ever were. Give it time.”

  Danel flexed the blistered and bloodied fingers. Man, his digits numbed up during the hours of abuse he put it through. “With the rebellion gaining ground, the squad can’t afford me to be on the disabled list. Tanek’s dead, Kyrian spends most of his time doting on his Darkworld female and, with Austin’s pregnancy advancing, Zander is only half-focused on the streets. With me off rotation, that leaves us down four. The front lines are thin, Cop.”

  “I get that but give yourself a break. You can’t expect—”

  “—No offense, Colt, but fuck the pep talk.”

  “Danel—”

  “It doesn’t matter how well I shoot with the hand I’ve got left. Zander will never put me back on rotation. I’m done.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I don’t blame the guy. Nobody wants a wingman with a handicap. They’d say it doesn't matter, but the doubt will be there. Hesitation in the field gets men killed. Z knows that as well as I do.”

  Colt exhaled heavy on the other end of the phone. “Look, give me another week at the range and we’ll see where we are. I swear you’re almost—”

  “Don’t sweat it, my friend. It is what it is. I’m sure Zander can use me for intel or in-house tactical or some shit.”

  “D, come on—”

  “Fuck it, I’m finishing my bagel and then going home to bed. If I’m still wound when I get there, I’ll light a candle and invite a female to come work off my stress. That’s all I want to think about for tonight.”

  “Fair enough. Just don’t throw in the towel yet, Persian. We’ve still got time.”

  “Cop, all I’ve got is time. I’m staring down an immortal life of nothing but empty, useless nights.”

  While that little ray of merry-fucking-sunshine hung in the air, the neon ‘open’ light in the front window flickered off and the ‘closed’ began to glow. Perfect. “Look, this place is shutting down. I gotta beat feet. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Good deal. You do that.”

  Danel slipped his phone back into the pocket of his leather trench and stuffed his garbage into the neares
t bin. Coffee in hand, he made his way back to the door.

  He brushed past Homeless Guy, who now lingered on the front stoop. What back alley would the guy sack out in tonight? Not that he cared, but as an expert in all things that went bump in the night, he knew alleys could be dangerous. Daemons of all sorts roamed in the wee hours: Serpentine demons. Spirits. Shades. Djinn.

  He discretely eyed the guy and gave him a onceover. Underneath the ratty Army jacket, knit cap, and baggie-ass pants, he sported a pretty strong frame. He could probably take care of himself. Good. One less sheep in the flock to worry about.

  Danel tipped the last of his coffee down his throat and tossed his cup in the garbage outside the shop. After turning up his collar, he patted his pockets and felt the small comfort that an arsenal of weapons could offer. He may not be fighting these nights, but habits formed over millennia weren’t broken in a few months.

  With a curse, he disengaged from thoughts of his warrior life and decided to just bag the evening and face the music. Slipping around the side of the building, he scanned the scene. His gaze bounced off dumpsters, grime, and a dead-end alley.

  He began to dematerialize.

  The creak of a steel door brought the blonde smack into the mix. He dropped the celestial transport and inhaled another lungful of stale and dingy. Damn, two seconds later, and his barista fangirl would’ve gotten an eyeful of him dissolving into nothing. Shit. Can you say Otherworld exposure?

  He was a wreck. A mangled jumble of derailed locomotive crashing down an embankment kind of a wreck.

  While she headed toward the dumpster to toss her Hefty bags, he took his leave. On foot. Head down, shoulders rolled against the February wind, he pulled a quick 180 and shot off the way he’d come. Hopefully, he’d vacated, before she noticed him lurking in the alley like some kind of criminal or better yet . . . a pervert.

  His Otherworld hearing picked up the soft rhythm of footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to look back to know who it was. He’d heard the rhythm of her gait almost every night for the past year. Great. Was she following him or just headed in the same direction? He quickened his pace and took the next right. Yep, still there, back a ways, but still coming. He took the next side street, jogged ahead, and ducked into the shadows of an apartment alcove. Why did he care?

  He breathed shallow and pressed back as his human stalker passed him, unaware. He held his position and watched her go by. A riot of blonde waves framed an innocent face, five-foot-two—despite the chunky wedge boots—nice ass. Ignoring that she was round in all the right places, he wouldn’t sully himself to have sex with a human.

  He held no need for the breed. No taste for the race.

  With the coast clear, he was about to step out and head on home when a second set of footsteps moved past. Army jacket, baggie pants . . . huh, Homeless Guy was on the move and seemed mighty interested in the woman.

  Danel’s Otherworld Spidey-senses tingled at the back of his neck and he stepped out to follow. He might be benched, but he still served as a fucking protector of the innocent.

  And something here didn’t feel right.

  Danel reassessed. The man’s gait was too strong for a street-rat, his focus too sharp. Instincts honed by millennia of forced servitude screamed this guy wasn’t homeless at all. As if to prove his point, the man in vagabond clothes pulled off his knit cap and exposed a tattooed scalp.

  Shit. Despite the possibility that he was simply a human tailing a pretty girl home at night, the inked, skinhead routine shouted Serpentine demon from the rooftops.

  Stupid female. These sheep couldn’t stay out of trouble if their lives depended on it . . . and all too often, it did.

  Alone in the dark, oblivious to her seedy surroundings, the woman flounced herself smack into the dark and dangerous. Wearing chunky platform boots—which were a broken ankle waiting to happen—the checklist of what-not-to-do stretched on and on—walking alone at 3 a.m., headphones . . .

  Come on, sunshine, don’t you have warning bells going off in your head? Now two strange men tailed her, and she didn’t seem to notice. Would he be able to grab the guy and pull him off the hunt without drawing attention from the woman?

  Likely not.

  The faintest hope of ending this without a scene torpedoed to hell when two more Serpentine skinheads stepped off a covered stoop at the far end of the alley.

  Yep. Now she was boxed in.

  When two men blocked her way, Ronnie stopped so abruptly, her purse flew off her shoulder. Reacting to catch it, she turned back the way she’d come. Two more men took up the rear.

  Yep. She was in trouble.

  Adjusting her purse against her hip, she backed against the brick wall of the alley and slid a gloved hand inside for pepper spray. Mace was so much more potent, but Canadians were so dang polite, they prohibited it as an illegal weapon.

  The irony of that was not lost on her.

  Men moved in from both sides. She pressed back against the brick, trying to remember what her father’s bodyguards had taught her about self-defense. Get loud and push back. Eyes. Nose. Neck. And knees.

  But there were four of them.

  “All right, boys, let’s not get any big ideas.”

  Ronnie’s knees almost gave way as Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody stepped into the mix. Okay, so three bad guys and one she hoped was as good as she always daydreamed.

  The three turned and he smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. More a “pee your pants ’cause you’re about to have your spleen ripped out your butt” kinda expression.

  Her soldier crush eyed up the three and nodded. “Does Daddy know you’re out causing trouble tonight, boys? Weren’t you supposed to be grounded or something, after those college girls and our visit to your warehouse? Gregor swore he’d take care of the discipline side of things. I took him at his word.”

  “Step off, Watcher,” said the man who’d come from behind. She recognized him from the coffee shop. He’d ordered a caramel latte and nursed it for an hour. The mass of tattoos covering his chestnut skin and sharp cheekbones made him appear menacing, but his eyes were worse. They seemed to almost glow with evil intent. “This isn’t that kind of business, Watcher. Nothing here falls under your jurisdiction.”

  Broody extended his hand to her and she almost sagged in relief. She shifted along the building and ran to him, tucking herself neatly behind his coat. He pulled her tight to his back and she gripped the leather of his jacket with both hands.

  Gawd. He seemed even bigger up close than she’d thought. And she’d thought he was pretty much a mountain of hotness.

  By her estimation, three against one would’ve been child’s play for him four months ago, but now that he’d have to fight one-handed . . . she just didn’t know.

  “Daylight approaches, boys. How about you scurry on back to your shadowed corners and we’ll call this a wash. I’ll escort the lady home.”

  An excellent idea, Ronnie thought. She peeked out to see if maybe it might be that easy.

  Sir Latte shook his shiny, bald head. “Again, Watcher, you have no place here. The woman stays.”

  “That’s not an option.” He reached beneath the heavy leather of his slicker and his hand remained hidden. “Do you not get what you’re risking here? Can you say exposure in front of an innocent?”

  What were they talking about? Honestly, if he could get them to back off and go away, she didn’t care.

  Baldy checked his watch and sidestepped, as if he planned to get around her living shield. “It’s not us stepping outside the lines, here. Give us the girl and we’ll be on our way. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

  When the other two changed position to move in, her protector lunged. He caught two of the three in his attack and swung them against the brick alley wall, clearing a path. “Beat feet, Coffee Girl. Go!”

  Despite the insane pull to stay rooted at his side, she tore off toward the main street ahead. The third attacker grabbed her coat and spun her around. Her instinct
s kicked in. With her pulse thundering in her ears, she purse-whacked him in the face and kneed him as hard as she could in the groin.

  Pulling free from his hold, she bolted for the lit street ahead.

  With their target on the move, Danel’s opponents got their boxers in a bunch and let the Darkworld veil fall. Hissing with their fangs extended, a stream of venom sprayed from their mouths. He dodged the line of fire, shoulder-rolling before coming back with his Crystalline dagger drawn. The stench of singed leather pissed him off even more, and he elbowed the demon in the mouth.

  “That’s disgusting. You know that, right?”

  Horky’s eyes glowed red as his true nature surfaced. Danel’s missing hand left him with a handicap, true, but he was still a Nephilim warrior. He’d be damned if he couldn’t take on three low-life demons. Loosening the tether leash on his inner animal, he let the beast fly.

  All the anger and resentment he’d tamped down since the Shedim lopped off his dagger hand . . . all the frustration of losing Tanek and having to fall in line under Zandros of Kish . . . all the psycho-testosterone, pussyfooting bullshit he’d ignored to keep Z and Kyrian steady since they’d paired off with mates . . .

  Violence hemorrhaged out of his every cell and pounded through his veins. Danel wielded his Crystalline dagger in his left hand, gutted the prince’s bestie, rammed his blade through the throat of Gregor’s son, and let the shits fall where they may.

  Covered in black ichor, he straightened. The shrill scream of a woman in the distance had him pounding the asphalt on the warpath of dropping Serpentine number three.

  Danel’s shitkickers thumped out an angry rhythm as he bolted to the mouth of the alley. Three a.m. didn’t offer up many humans to witness the Otherworld happenings, but the strictest edict of their lives ensured the existence of preternatural stayed hush-hush. If any night-owl humans or insomniacs were pacing the floors, he’d lose his edge on this demon PDQ.

  As he arrived at the main street, he dropped his dagger to his side and did a quick look-see around the corner. Across the street, the target struggled with his java server, dragging her kicking and clawing between two buildings.