“Damn.”
I rolled in a panic to get him off me and wound up straddling him. That spiked my adrenaline more, his warm bare torso heating through my jean-clad thighs. Scrambling off of him and the bed, I blew out a deep breath. He remained unconscious and unfazed by this badass demoness’s panicked reaction to being trapped in bed with a man.
Laughing, I shook my head, hands on hips. It’s not like I hadn’t been in bed with men before. Something about this hunter’s proximity sent my senses into a spiral. I’ll just have to stay as far away from him as possible.
Get him well. Then get him out of my house.
Yes, that’s what I needed to do.
Marching back into my workroom and to the blade that still needed finishing, I shut the door behind me.
“And definitely out of my bed.”
Chapter Two
Xander
I was certainly not in my own bed when I roused to the smell of lavender in the sheets and the crooning sound of a sinfully beautiful voice coming from—I pushed up onto an elbow, peering through an open door and catching sight of a dripping showerhead—a bathroom?
Then I remembered. Looking down at my bare chest, I was shocked to find my body whole and my heart still beating inside my chest beneath a rather hideous and lengthy scar. I traced the raised, red welt with my forefinger. That bloody demon had gotten me good. Last thing I remembered was calling George on my mobile before I collapsed, sure I was dying.
This room was definitely not one in George’s townhouse in Chelsea, or one in his estate outside London. It was stark in its lack of color. White sheets, black velvet comforter, white walls, black dresser. And that extraordinary, haunting voice coming from the open door to the bathroom wasn’t that of any creature I knew to be associated with my cousin. When the siren who owned the voice walked into the dimly lit room in nothing but a towel—black, of course—and crossed to the dresser, I knew damn well that my heart was still working. A bit too hard, I might have said.
Then, a miracle happened. She dropped the towel. I bloody swear, I heard angels sing. Neither her tangled locks of wet black hair nor her full-torso tattoos could hide the exquisiteness of her body or all of her tawny, silken skin. Swimming up the hip, waist, and rib cage of her left side was a finely detailed mermaid, the green hair fanning over her shoulder blade and around the other side, swirling in a circle around her left breast. My, how I wanted to see that tattoo closer. Much closer.
So lovely. I should look away. She obviously didn’t know a naked man was ogling her from what must be her own bed, but good God, I was only human. Superhuman, maybe, but…bloody hell. She pulled out a pair of panties and bent over to slide them on. Apparently, my whole body was working just fine after my injury. Quite well. Then, I found myself mesmerized by her full-back tattoo. The angel of death—a woman with ghostly white hair, her face half skeleton and half angelic beauty—peered over a pale shoulder where her cloak had slipped free. Rather than holding a scythe, she held a red rose. A long dagger was harnessed at Death’s voluptuous thigh. Beneath the tattoo, scrawled across the small of this siren’s back, were the Latin words, “Mors pulchrum est.”
If this woman would be the instrument of my death, then I was wholeheartedly ready to cross over. She snapped on a bra—damn shame, that—then pulled on a black tank top, covering the artwork and the splendor of her body. I’d played the peeping Tom long enough.
“This isn’t what I imagined heaven to look like.”
She gasped and spun, somehow pulling a blade from her open drawer without me seeing. Her wide, catlike eyes narrowed.
“This isn’t heaven, hunter.”
I leaned back and clasped my hands behind my head, tenting the sheets with my bent knee so she wouldn’t see the other tent forming. No need to terrify the siren.
“Lovely, darling.” I smiled. “If this is hell, let the tortures begin.”
She pulled on a pair of ratty, torn jeans, grumbling, “This isn’t hell, either.”
I shrugged, still relaxed while watching my siren move around the room.
“I still wouldn’t mind a little torture if you’re willing.”
Those feline eyes cut me as she marched closer, picked up a dark pair of jeans and a gray cashmere pullover, then tossed them on the bed. They were my clothes, but not the ones I was wearing when I fought the red priests.
“Your cousin George brought these.”
She busied herself near her dresser, sitting on a low stool and pulling on black combat boots. Swiveling my legs out of bed, I pulled the jeans on, then stood to hike them up. The sudden movement blurred my vision as I snapped the fly and paused.
“Whoa.”
She was there, steadying me with her hands on my biceps.
“Sit,” she urged without the ice that was in her voice a moment before. Couldn’t blame her, really. I’d been a bit of a wanker, not making my presence known, but to be honest, I hadn’t been quite sure I was awake or in some splendid dream. With the near loss of consciousness, it was clear how awake I was. And how weak.
“I just stood up too quickly.”
“Sit.” She pushed me back onto the bed with more strength than I expected from her small frame.
“If you insist.”
I kept my voice light, but the jolt of attraction put me more off balance than the near-blackout. Once I was seated, her left hand gripped my bare shoulder while she placed the palm of her other warm hand over the scar. That’s when I took a good, long look at her.
Definitely an otherworldly being. Magic reeked from her in waves of ethereal energy, humming sweetly over umber-gold skin. Hazel-green eyes swept over my injury. There was more gold than green there, but the forest-at-night outer ring of the iris gave her a predatory gleam. Her tattooed, hard edge was an obvious rebellion against the angel she once was. I sat before a demoness. A wickedly beautiful demoness.
My pulse quickened as she whispered something, pressing her palm firmly to my chest. My heart answered her call, pumping hard at her will.
“You healed me.”
Those almond eyes flicked to mine. Bloody hell. Stunning, intense, captivating.
“I did.”
“A demoness who heals demon hunters. That’s something new.”
She stepped back, taking her warm touch with her. Swallowing hard, she met my gaze. “Dommiel asked me to. It’s the only reason you’re alive.”
How could I not know who she was from the second I saw her? Actually, Dommiel had never described her. When he talked of the magic-wielding gun and bladesmith, I never imagined this. A dark goddess with a witch’s body and a siren’s song.
“You’re Bone.”
With a stiff nod, she marched back to her dresser and brushed angrily through her long, curly hair, a streak of fuchsia running down the front left side.
“Your heart has accepted the alloy, it seems. It’s safe for you to go home. I’ll call Dommiel.”
Chuckling, I stood—this time without the girly fainting spell—and pulled on the cashmere, then paused.
“Wait. What alloy?”
She’d completed two braids on each side of her head and now tied them back into a ponytail with the rest of her loose hair, still damp. She looked like a Viking shield maiden, readying for battle. All she needed was blue war paint. Propping both hands on her hips, she squared off with me, as if I had any intention of attacking. Perhaps she was just always ready for a fight. Mmm…I liked that.
“I have the ability to manipulate metal. I can…” She paused, looking up to find the words. “I can persuade it to meld with the flesh. So I used a special alloy to reconnect your heart to the arteries that had been severed.”
Placing a palm over my heart, I found the soft cashmere no barrier to the thudding of that organ at the thought of dark magic having invaded my body.
“You did what? You put demon magic inside me?”
Her pretty brow furrowed. “Demoness, to be more precise.”
She buttoned
on a long-sleeved denim shirt—stained and well-worn—as she opened a door and walked out into some sort of workroom. I followed. She stopped at a tall table attached to the wall, with camera monitors lined up above it, and picked up a cell phone.
“You actually put your essence inside me?”
Yes, I sounded like a royal prick, but I knew what the influence of demon magic could do. I’d felt it before, and I didn’t want it inside my bloody body. Never again.
She swiveled, one hand on her hip, the other with the phone to her ear. “Yes. He’s awake…and not happy.”
Combing both hands through my hair, I locked them at the back of my head, scanning the room, fully realizing who this demoness was. The reason I’d never come to her for assistance with weapons was that I knew she armed the enemy as well as our allies. My stubborn principles had kept me from ever meeting the famous Bone because she sold weapons to the same demons I hunted day and night.
“I can’t believe George would let this happen,” I mumbled, marching back into her bedroom to find my goddamn boots.
There they were, lined up next to the bed. I grabbed them, sat on the bed, and shoved one on, not giving a damn there were no socks in sight.
“What’s your problem?” She stood in the open doorway.
“George should’ve known better.” I pulled on the second boot, tying the laces quickly.
“Should’ve known better about what?”
“He knows what happened—”
I stopped myself, not about to give this bewitching, gorgeous-as-fuck demoness any more information. Standing, I moved for the exit where she still stood. She stopped me with a hand to my chest, my heart tripping faster, responding to her pull. Her essence. She could twist me into whatever monster she wanted me to be.
“I saved your life.” Her words were hard, but her eyes were soft.
I placed my hand on top of hers and removed it. “You should’ve let me die.”
Not stopping to regret the look of pain on her face, I barreled across the small workroom and into a larger warehouse area, shelves lined with ammunition of every possible kind.
“Wait for Dommiel,” she urged behind me. “He’s on his way.”
“No, thank you, darling.” I tossed a wave over my shoulder. “Thanks for the heart. And the demon essence embedded in my flesh and blood. I’ll figure out a way to repay you somehow.”
Bloody bastard as ever, I didn’t even stop when I heard a silent ping from her inner workroom.
“Wait,” she hissed quietly.
Turning, I saw her glance at the camera monitor, then sift in a nanosecond to stand in front of me. She flung her arms around my waist and sifted through the Void, a gray blur, then landed in her bedroom.
“Don’t. Make. A sound.”
Fear, bright and hot, lit her electric eyes. She closed the door, then I heard the second workshop door closing to keep whoever had just entered the basement corridor from seeing who she was hiding. I rarely, if ever, did what I was told, so I crept—stealthily, mind you—into the inner workroom. She’d doused the lights, but the monitors were still on.
“Bloody hell,” I whispered.
Stepping closer to the monitor broadcasting the entrance to this underground warehouse, I glared at the figure I hated most in this savage, apocalyptic world, sauntering closer to my siren. The demon prince, Rook.
Chapter Three
Bone
Having sifted to my ammo table, I pretended to tinker with a cartridge as Rook walked through my door. Of all the times for him to come waltzing into my place, it had to be now. If he caught Xander, most wanted demon hunter in London, hiding in my bedroom, he wouldn’t just kill the hunter quickly. No, he’d assume he was my lover and would begin an agonizingly long series of horrific tortures.
Many people thought his twin brother Simian was the more dangerous of the two. They were so wrong. Simian was a loose cannon. A volatile piece of work I couldn’t stomach for more than five seconds at a time. But Rook…he was calm, calculating, and ruthlessly lethal. Or not. Depended on whether he wanted his victims to feel centuries of pain—and I do mean centuries—or if he just wanted them wiped into oblivion.
What I hated most about Rook was the way he looked at me. Like we were still together. I’d been trying to rid myself of those memories for decades now. Just because I slipped in the roaring twenties and had an erotic, and neurotic, affair with a demon prince, didn’t mean I should be reminded every time I saw him.
But I was. His penetrating, black eyes stirred memories—memories of being cherished, adored, worshipped—by a powerful demon prince. The affair was intoxicating. So much so that I nearly traded my soul for the heady pleasure he gave me. I saw his wishful thinking in the tilted smirk on his beautiful, severe face. He wanted it back. Wanted me back. It would never happen. Not after I realized what a true monster he was.
“You’re looking lovely as ever, sweetheart.”
Behind him trailed six of his red priests, who fanned around him and kept still. Vigilant. Black-clad with the exception of their red collars, an abominable mimicry of the priesthood. They were nothing more than demon assassins of innocents.
Crossing my arms, I propped a hip against the worktable.
“And why am I receiving such an honor? Was my last shipment not up to your standards?”
“Oh, no.”
He ambled closer. In black, fitted leather pants and a skin-tight shirt the same jetty darkness as his hair, he looked like a Goth rocker who modeled on the side. Because who could ignore the beauty of his flawless bone structure and the perfect set of his dark eyes? I’d seen the monster beneath the immaculate veneer. The nightmares still woke me sometimes. He stopped within arms’ reach, but he didn’t reach. Spidery, inky veins shadowed his temples and his jaw, the only true physical sign that he was a demon of the darkest order. Nothing but pitch-black filth pumped through his blood, his mind, and his soulless heart. That, I learned the hard way. After I’d given him my body—and a chunk of my soul, too.
“So what brings you here? More ether ammo?”
“No.” He smiled. My skin crawled. “We’re all set for now. I have a new request.”
He held out his hand, palm up, to his side. One of the red priests placed a cork-topped glass vial in his hand. Swirling within was obsidian smoke. I gulped.
“Your essence?”
“Mine and my brother’s,” he corrected, setting it on the worktable beside me.
“And what am I to do with it?”
“I’ve seen you inject your own essence into metal. Blades and ammunition. I’d like you to meld our essence into a replica of this.”
He withdrew from his pocket a folded piece of paper and held it out to me. I paused, staring at it.
“Come on, Bone. I won’t bite.” He leaned an inch forward. “Unless you want me to.”
I gave him a die-now look. He laughed, of course. He loved to make me angry. That’s when he liked to fuck the most. After I’d gotten good and angry about something. Back when I let him touch me.
Without replying, I snatched the piece of paper from him and stared at the page, ripped from some book, like an encyclopedia or a National Geographic. I recognized the object from my own memories of living with the Pictish tribes ages ago.
“You want me to embed your essence into a torque? A crown?”
For that’s what a torque was to the Celtic tribes who’d used this ornament once.
“Yes.”
Staring at the photograph, I remembered the blacksmith who’d first taught me to forge making one that was like this out of bronze of a similar shade.
“I’ve never tried my craft with someone else’s essence. I don’t think I can do this.”
He was there, cupping my jaw, his other hand gripping my hip, the paper crumpled between our bodies.
“You can, sweetheart,” he whispered too close to my lips, his iron grip reminding me of his unquestionable power. “I’ve seen you wield your song.” His breath
ghosted across my lips, the temperature dropping with his icy essence swirling like mist in my basement warehouse.
Without trying to resist, for I knew it was futile, I met his lust-filled gaze. “Let me go, Rook.”
“You will do this for me, Bone. Do you understand?”
“If you let me go. Right now.”
Immediately, he was several feet away, my body swaying with his sudden leave of me.
“How long will it take?”
I stared down at the crumpled piece of paper, shaking my head, knowing whatever this was, it wasn’t meant to be a crown. It was meant for something horrifying. Something terrible.
“I don’t know. A month, perhaps.”
He scoffed, his breath a white puff in the frigid temperature he’d created in the room.
“Two weeks.”
“I have other jobs, Rook. A business to run.”
“Yes. And I’m sure business is booming.”
He snapped his fingers. The same red priest, with a gaunt, unreadable expression, dropped a big leather pouch on the table, which jingled heavily.
“A thousand drakuls should do it.”
A thousand? No one knew how or by whom the otherworldly currency was created, for each coin held power to strengthen its owner. The fact this demon prince had a thousand to toss at me without hesitation made me wonder, more than idly, where it was coming from.
“Keep this confidential, beautiful.” He walked for the door, the priests dividing for him. “And if any of your customers should have any problems, please send them my way.” He spun and pinned me with his obsidian gaze. “Especially any hunters you happen to cater to.”
My pulse lurched, but I kept my expression cold and unfeeling as always.
“I take no sides, Rook. You know that.”
He and his brother could’ve shut me down long ago for selling weapons to his enemy. But then I would’ve stopped selling to demons as well.
“I know.” He smiled, and the lover I once was drawn to like a bloom to the sun peered back at me. “You always had a bleeding heart for everyone, didn’t you?” He tapped on the doorframe with long fingers. “We’ll have to fix that, sweetheart.”
Hardest Fall (Dominion series) Page 2
