by JL Madore
Very Metrosexual. High-end industrialism.
He hated everything about it.
Along the back wall, there were two doors. One open to the washroom, the other closed. He assumed the closed one led to the bedroom. Set between the doors, a ten-foot mirror stretched from the floor to well over his head . . . and that was saying something. “Fuck, I’m tall.”
She nodded. “Your friends too.”
He eased his jacket off his shoulders and stared at himself. Black jeans. Black, non-descript t-shirt, under a vest filled with weapons. Kick-ass black boots. He waited for a moment of recognition to unlock in his head.
He worked out. Beyond buff, he was fucking ripped in all the right places. His deep olive skin, suggested northern European maybe?
He stared at the bright whiskey-color of his eyes and blinked to feel if he wore contacts. Didn’t feel like it. Weird. It was an unusual color. Or was it? What the fuck did he know? He didn’t even remember his name.
Short, dark hair. Goatee. Chiseled jaw. One thing for sure; he was a mean-looking bastard. His skin was inked from his neck down in a solid design of ancient black fretwork. He froze and attempted to grasp the wisp of something just beyond his memory. Somewhere inside himself, he had a strong sense that the tattoos meant something important . . .
“Anything?” the woman asked.
He tugged the neck of his shirt down and then lifted the hem to reveal his abs. There was a serious chunk out of his hip. He was covered in blood and a strange black tar. That shit he could wash away. “What’s with the tattoos? Over the top, don’t you think?”
He watched her reflection as her gaze narrowed on him. “I see nothing but a handsome, muscular guy.”
He dropped the shirt and rolled his eyes. He hated placating bullshit. To each their own, he supposed. To him—this him, right now, anyway—this kind of ink coverage seemed less like an artistic statement and more like angry wallpaper covering every inch of him.
Whatevs. He didn’t have much say in it.
A stuttered hum buzzed from where he’d tossed his jacket on the floor and he dropped to search the pockets. He grabbed the phone and, after a bit of a fumble with his stump, hauled it out. The glass was smashed and pieces hung loose off the case. He slid the symbol across the shattered screen and sliced his finger open.
“Yeah? Hello?” Nothing. He pulled the piece of shit cell back from his ear and glared at it. He tried again. The screen went black. Pressing the side and bottom buttons did diddly to revive the dead tech. “Fuck you.”
It hit the concrete and slid, breaking apart on its travels. Whatever threads held the POS together after being run over and beaten with a bat, severed. He stared at the bits of his mysterious life scattered thirty feet away, and stalled out on what to do next.
“Did you see who called? Maybe, with a name, we—”
D’s frustration burst out of his chest in a futile laugh as his headache cracked him with a stunning full-comeback. He pressed his hand to his skull. What did an aneurysm feel like?
“First off, there is no we. And second, yeah, I saw. Someone named Z called me. Z called D. What the fuck is it with people not using real names?”
He closed his eyes, his temper hot in his veins. Something dark inside him liked the frayed control, wanted to lash out. To hurt. Maybe even kill. He he struggled to control the anger.
And there was a lot of it.
Why was he so consumed?
He didn’t know but it seemed to freak out blondie too. She put some solid distance between them. Smart girl.
When he’d reined in his tantrum, he joined her at the raised cage by the bookshelves of the reading area. He put his hand out, and one of the two rats vying for her attention ran over to sniff his fingers. “Who are these guys?”
She rubbed the cheek of the one that climbed onto her hand. “The hooded is Sam and the solid brown one is Dean. Get it?”
“Am I supposed to?”
The sparkle in her eyes dimmed. “I guess you’re not a Supernatural fan. Or maybe you don’t remember, and you are.”
He had no idea what she babbled on about and honestly, didn’t give a shit. “And what’s your name?”
“Ronnie,” she said. “Call me Ronnie.”
Funny. She seemed like a force of nature. He was expecting her to say Storm or Tempest or something new aged. “Question . . . do you mind if I shower? Not sure what I rolled in tonight, but I reek.”
She ushered him into the bathroom and flicked on the lights. “A bath might do you more good. You know . . . soak all those muscles in a tub. You were hit by an SUV a few hours ago. I’m actually surprised you’re vertical. Weird, don’t you think?”
D moved his neck from side to side and stretched his arms. As his vertebrae popped, he inventoried what was doin’ with his body. He felt okay, other than one hell of a screamer of a headache. Better even than he had when he came to twenty minutes ago. “I seem to have a strong constitution.”
A strange look flashed across the woman’s face before she turned to the tub and opened the faucets. “Take your time and toss your dirty clothes out. I’ll wash them and check what I have in the food department.”
Eating. Good. He was starving. “Yeah. Good deal.”
When she went to leave, he reached to touch her arm but recoiled before his finger brushed her skin. “Look. Ronnie. I appreciate you giving a shit.”
Ronnie’s heart rate doubled, and a feminine scent hit him like a gale. “I’ll . . . uh, be right out there if you need anything.”
He blinked, nausea hitting him hard and fast.
Left on his own, he wondered how he sensed those things about her? And why the thought of touching her or smelling her attraction made him want to throw up and kill someone. Maybe he had serious damage to his noggin. He latched the door, withdrew his gun, and set it next to the tub. Then, he stripped down and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Yeah, he turned tail and hit the shower first. No sense soaking in filth.
He’d shower off this black sludge first.
Then, maybe he’d figure out who the hell Z was.
CHAPTER THREE
Zander had lost his mind somewhere in the frigid alley. His insides were as cold as his outsides, his blood a stream of ice. After Tanek’s murder last August, the garrison faced a range of new emotions that had left them unsteady. Mortality. Mating. Mentoring Ringo. Hands down, the one thing that melted the steel of their marrow to a puddle of useless iron was the prospect of losing another brother.
Kyrian’s disappearance took its toll. Danel missing? Yeah, they were walking a fine line of being scared.
Warriors shouldn’t be scared. Warriors couldn’t be scared.
Evil smelled that shit. With the Hell Realm in revolt, fear signaled the beginning of the end for them. It exposed their weakness in a world where they needed to not only appear invincible—but believe it.
Colt held up Danel’s dagger. He tipped it back and forth and the blue Seraph blood/holy water mixture ebbed and flowed within its center chamber. “I wish I had answers but there’s no way to know for sure who took him. Maybe nobody took him. Maybe he got his ass out of here and is tucked away somewhere to lick his wounds.”
“You and I both know D would never leave bodies or his weapon if he’d walked away.”
Seth and Phoenix joined them. The Egyptian twins looked as grim as Zander felt. “Anything?”
“Nothing worth writing home about,” Seth said. “We picked up a blood trail that led us around the corner, but it ended. He either got stuffed into a car or dragged through a portal.”
Colt lit up a cigarette and cursed. “Maybe it was his car. Maybe he hauled himself to his Mustang and drove away.”
Phoenix raised his hands and joined the convo. Without his right hand, he can’t shift. He hasn’t driven since August. We’ve taken him out a few times, but it only pisses him off more.
Colt nodded and rolled his eyes. “Shit. How many ways does one guy have to ge
t slammed in the balls before his luck starts to change?”
Zander sighed. “Well, to find out if the Serpentines have him, we have to make a house call.”
Colt cursed. “And offer yourselves up to the enemy for quick execution? As plans go, that sucks ass, Z.”
Zander looked at the expressions of his men and knew without asking that they were right and tight. “If there’s a chance we can get the Persian back, we risk it. If Gregor doesn’t know about his son, he soon will. Better we gauge his reaction at the big reveal, then find out during a retaliatory strike that we needed to be worried about Serpentines.”
Seth scoffed. “You’re trippin’, Z. Gregor’s son is gutted in an alley and you think we can walk in and talk to them?”
Zander’s wings tensed, and he fought not to let them flare open. “If Gregor, or his people, knew about this, the body of the Serpentine prince wouldn’t still lay here to rot. Don’t jump to conclusions. It’ll only make things worse.”
Seth eyed his brother and nodded. Always up for a fight, the Egyptian twins were likely speaking cranium to cranium about what they wanted to do to Gregor and his men.
“We keep things tight, or you two sit out.” Zander pegged them both with a serious stare. “Until we’re sure what went down, we don’t declare war on one of the nastiest species of the Darkworld. Despite how it looks, our goal is to find and rescue Danel from whatever hell he’s been forced to endure.”
“You’re killing me.” Danel grabbed the last slice of pizza and bit off the tip. He’d tried the barbeque sauce, the blue cheese, and the ranch dressing—but she’d gone too far. “Messing with pizza is sacrilege. The fact that you cooked from frozen is bad enough . . . but honey?”
“Spicy honey.” She broke her crust in two and offered it to Sam and Dean running loose on the couch. “It’s a phenomenon, trust me.”
He didn’t trust her. But he also didn’t know where else to go or what to do at the moment, so he played along. “I’ll try it if you change the music. This shit makes me ill.”
Ronnie swiped off the techno-pop and cast country to the speakers. He made a face and that too got replaced. She was fronting. She knew more about tonight than she let on and he didn’t appreciate the evasion.
On the next selection, he let the heavy bass and killer guitar seep under his skin. “Yeah, this I like.”
Ronnie set down her phone and gathered the empty box, glasses, and used paper towels. “Classic rock. How cliché. You’re probably into muscle cars and beers with bros till you drop too.”
D leaned over to read the band on the screen. Rush. “Your guess is as good as mine. So, what now? Do I go to the police station? Put up posters? Internet search ‘what to do when your nut gets cracked?’”
Ronnie set the dishes in the sink and yawned. “Well, since you didn’t have a wallet, that’s a dead end. If someone looks for you, they can’t file a report until you’re missing twenty-four hours. I say, we hit the sheets and look at things with fresh eyes after some sleep.”
A whorl of anxiety gripped his insides. “Hit the sheets?”
The blush that hit her cheeks was the first real color she’d had all night. “I meant, I’d hit the sheets. If you promise not to die in your sleep from internal injury or a concussion, you can take the couch.”
He didn’t belong there. He knew that to the depths of his angry soul. “Why?” he asked, again. “An hour ago, I was a stranger covered in blood and wearing enough weapons to rob an armored truck.”
“True story, but you got bloody protecting me from getting mugged . . . or worse. I trust you.” She opened the bottom doors of her wall-unit and selected a spare pillow. He already had a blanket to cover his lap while his clothes were in the dryer.
Danel stiffened, his insides raging with a violence he didn’t understand. “Trust is for fools and dead pharaohs. And you shouldn’t—trust me, I mean.”
Ronnie locked herself in her bedroom and watched her house guest settle. Well, not settle, exactly. He was restless. Anxious. Quite cranky. But he’d saved her tonight. There was no doubt in her mind that if D hadn’t stepped in, her night would’ve ended on a very different note.
Clicking through the six security screens on the monitor, she ensured the loft was locked down and that no one followed them home. She had no idea who those men were, or what they knew about her—or her father.
She had to be more careful. Dialing the coffee shop, she left a vague message for her boss and gave her notice.
Sad. She liked that job too.
She checked the time and dialed again. It rang twice before he picked up. “Morning, Daddy.”
The silence on the other end spoke volumes. “If you’re calling me this early, you either haven’t been to bed yet or aren’t feeling well and can’t sleep.”
“I’m off to bed now, and I’ll get double the sleep you did. How late did you work? Have you been to bed or are you heading out on the heels of an all-nighter?”
“Do as I say, not as I do, Ronnie. You promised you’d take care of yourself. I’m holding you to your word.”
Ronnie chuckled, tipping her head back to administer her eyedrops. “’Kay, well, I just called for my check-in and to wish you a good day. Have you got the numbers behind you?”
“Not yet, but we’re close. I’m definitely poking the bear.”
She yawned again. “I have faith. Night, Dad.”
“Sleep tight, kitten.”
After hanging up, she clicked back to the start of the security cycle. The man in the next room filled the screen. He more than filled it. He consumed it. She bit her bottom lip. With an economy of grace, he straightened the blanket over the couch and made his bed.
In only cotton boxers, she got a new appreciation for physically fit. Her adrenal glands got pumping and her heart went wild in her chest. It was just a biological appreciation for the opposite sex, right? Somehow, she couldn’t even convince herself. She’d been hooked by this guy since the moment her gaze first met his.
D adjusted his blanket and laid back with his gun in his hand. Sweet. A ballistic teddy bear.
She continued to watch him as she changed into her pajamas and took her meds.
The man was too good to be real He wasn’t just beautiful. He was . . . captivating. Enthralling.
And not because only the smallest square of black cotton kept him from full-monte status in her private space. Not that she’d complain about that. No. She was drawn to the pain in his eyes. There was an animalistic edge to his dismissal, like the way a rogue wolf might snarl and snap at the pack from the shadows. Like he wanted to be part of something but couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t trust it.
He flipped the blanket over his legs and winced. Gawd, she hated the bruises. His shoulder was black, his ribs and sides a patchwork of purple. That hip looked like chewed hamburger.
He must be in so much pain. No wonder he was cranky.
Tomorrow would be even worse.
She stroked a finger over the screen. What would it be like to have access to his body? She laughed at the wanton images that flooded her mind. She wouldn’t know what to do with a man like that. She wouldn’t have the strength or stamina to keep up with him.
Man, what she wouldn’t give to be healthy for one amazing go at him. No inhibitions. No restrictions.
Deciding to explore that thought in her dreams, she strode over to her bed and slipped between the sheet. For the first time in ages, she was excited to see what life would bring.
Kyrian had a sinking feeling this convo with the Ancient One would bite them all in the ass. The King of Serpentines commanded a powerful force of dark and despicable followers. The demon might just kill the messengers. If they knew Danel killed him, it wouldn’t matter the reason, it was now open season on Nephilim.
He glanced to his left to check on Zander. His brother was locked down and resigned. It was smart to make Seth and Phoenix carry the corpse. The gesture of returning the body might win them some points and ke
eping the twins’ hands full was a strategic bonus.
As the seven of them strode up to the side door of the industrial warehouse, Kyrian eyed the deadly nightshade inked above the door. Painted with an iridescent purple pigment that only Otherworld eyes could detect, the warning, loosely translated to: Fuck off or die.
He studied the stylized purple flower and hoped for the former of those two options. “We’re cool, right, my brothers? We handle this with care and we live to fight another night.”
“Aye.” Brennus patted his vest as if soothing a child. “We’ve taken our make-nice pills, Greek. Let’s git in there and git on with it, eh lads? The longer we dally, the longer it takes to find the Persian, ye ken?”
Seth adjusted the weight of his load. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Kyrian’s guts twisted. When Seth and Phoenix smelled a fight, it never ended peacefully. The two of them were UFC behemoths in battle. They seized any opportunity to stretch their muscles and let their beasts loose.
It never bothered him before. It bothered him now. A lot.
“We’re diplomats,” he said in their ancient tongue, so only they would hear. “Gregor’s son is dead. We’re enforcers of the laws, here to pay our respects.”
Zander exhaled and knocked. The echo of knuckle to metal announced their arrival to all. When the small window slid open, Z bowed his head. “We bring grievous news to your king. Allow us entry to deliver our message and we shall leave you to your evening.”
Kyrian stroked the runes on his Moonstone and spoke the words to bring it to life. An enchanted beacon of light burst from his palm and he took point as the door opened.
Bo fired his Moonstone up and took the rear.
They entered, single file, the stench of bonfire and death singeing Kyrian’s nostrils. He strode straight into the den as Serpentines hissed and recoiled from the cast circle of light. Red, lidless lizard eyes reflected back at them a hundred times over as he and his brothers moved deep into the demon den.
