Breaking Fate

by Georgia Lyn Hunter

  BREAKING FATE

  A Fallen Guardian novel

  Georgia Lyn Hunter

  GENRE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Breaking Fate

  Copyright © 2015 by Georgia Lyn Hunter

  First Edition: September 2015

  Editor: Chelle Olsen

  All cover art copyright © 2015 by Georgia Lyn Hunter

  Cover artist: Montana Jade

  Images: ©123rf.com, Obsidian Dawn

  All Rights Reserved

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  BLURB:

  An immortal without a soul is bad enough. But when his only tether to remaining honorable is his addiction to bone-crushing pain, it makes Blaéz a dangerously loose cannon.

  A Guardian sworn to protect mortals from supernatural evil, Blaéz straddles the edge of darkness as his needs grow. When a good deed brings him to the doorstep of a female unlike any other, one whose touch ignites emotions long lost in the hellish pits of Tartarus, he’s determined not to lose her. She belongs to him. But she’s human. Forbidden. And bringing her into his life may just destroy them both.

  Darci Callahan has given up on love.

  When a lethally handsome stranger suddenly appears late one night, she finds herself inexplicably drawn to the captivating man with the pale, empty eyes — a man who awakens in her a desire she never believed possible. Except Blaéz brings more than unexpected passion to her life, he brings danger.

  In this treacherous new world of gods and demons, Darci soon discovers a heart-shattering truth and the twisted games the gods play. Caught in the crosshairs, she’s forced to accept that, sometimes, no matter how much you love someone, you have to love them enough to let them go…

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To my amazing CPs Celia Breslin, Nancy Corrigan and Anna Katmore, thank you for your tremendous feedback in making this story come alive.

  My wonderful beta readers, Joceline, Sara and Carolyn, you guys rock!

  *

  Montana Jade: Thanks darling girl for all the “either or” and for letting me nit-pick your brain. I'm so in love with your breathtaking cover.

  *

  Most of all to my wonderfully patient family, thank you for giving me the time to write.

  I love you guys.

  Especially you, Tyke.

  DEDICATION

  Mom,

  because you love him.

  Prologue

  “You're a goddamn menace, Celt!”

  “Scared?” Blaéz taunted. His body, his knuckles were bruised to the bone and yet he felt nothing. Remained detached from it all. “You must be. You're fighting like a pansy—”

  Týr’s granite fist crashed into Blaéz’s face, stopping the words. Stars exploded. A brutal kick followed and sent Blaéz slamming into one of the trees surrounding them in the forest clearing. His lungs flattened. Pain sang its way up his spine. But the sensation dissipated far too soon.

  Pushing away from the tree, Blaéz swiped at the warm blood flowing from his brow. And smirked. Having lost his emotions while incarcerated in Tartarus, he excelled at emulating them. But it sure triggered Týr’s scowl.

  “This mixed martial arts crap of yours is a pain in the ass! Why the hell can't we use swords?”

  “They don’t cut it for me.” Blaéz slowly circled him. “You want your Harley back? Win it. A thirty-minute no holds barred fight. Or I’ll sell the Easy Rider on eBay for fifty bucks.”

  The warrior had lost the bike to him in a game of foosball a few weeks ago.

  “You’re fucking insane, man.” Týr glared at him, fingers clenching and unclenching. “A screw short somewhere in that damn head of yours. The Harley cost a mil. Sell it. Whatever. I’m not kicking your ass.”

  “What have we been doing for the last hour? Dancing?” Blaéz cocked a brow. “I guess my way’s too risky, could bruise that pretty face of yours. Maybe take up knitting, something safe—”

  In a blur, Týr moved then stopped dead, yanking back his fist. He shoved back his damp, pale hair from a sweaty and pissed-off face. “I’m done with this shit. Find someone else to beat the crap outta you!”

  He stormed off into the trees, his black Gi’s riding low on his hips.

  Týr’s anger sliding off him, Blaéz turned away. The training session from the last hour had barely made an impact. He needed more than a short fight session to haul him on the straight, and see him through patrolling tonight.

  I can give you what you want…

  The sly voices slithered into his head, tugging at him. The strain on his psyche was growing stronger, the pull inexorable. He had nothing to ground him in this place, to keep the ominous call at bay. Save one.

  He dematerialized to the northern parts of the Guardian’s island estate, just off Manhasset Bay, where the treacherous cliffs reigned and took form on the precarious edge. He cared little for his life. The only reason he still existed was because Michael saw something in him worth saving.

  Far below, the sounds of the furious collision of waves against the rock face drenched the air.

  Come to me…

  With no way of shutting out the voices and trying to hang on to an oath taken several millennia ago, he dove off the precipice, hitting the jagged rocks just below the churning waterline.

  Bones shattered. Pain exploded. A red haze filled his mind. The voices faded. Finally.

  He let the waves carry him back and toss his agonized body onto the rugged shore. And closed his eyes…

  Chapter 1

  The street’s drier than the desert tonight.

  After hours of trawling downtown, Blaéz drew to a halt at the East River. A couple of gulls screeched over the horn of a tugboat in the distance. Not even the sulfuric whiff of demoniis fouled the briny, humid air of late July.

  The turned brethren of demons usually hunted at night, needing new souls to prolong their own decaying lives. Tonight. Nothing. With no fight in sight, restlessness crawled through Blaéz again, and had him straddling a blade's edge into darkness. Only a slight twinge remained from breaking his ribs and cracking his ulna earlier that day. He was healing too fast. The ache that had been grounding him was slowly fading and like an addict, he needed more.

  Blaéz dematerialized to a backstreet in the Bowery. The stench of rotting fish was a familiar welcome. From the shadows, he eyed the scarred, dingy building opposite with crude graffiti scrawled across the brick walls and metal door.

  Headlights flashed, brightening the narrow alley. A cab crept to a halt and spewed out its contents of adrenaline-jacked humans and their demon pal. Their excitement stirring the air as they scurried to the graffitied entrance. The heavy metal door opened then clanged shut behind them, releasing the scent of copper, sweat, and something more.

  A whisper of seduction, it brushed Blaéz’s senses and took ahold of him in a hypnotic lure, drawing him across the grimy asphalt.

  He shoved the steel door open and headed down the stairs to the basement beneath the warehouse. The place operated as a fish market during the day, but at night, something darker took place. Two burly human guards at the foot of the stairs manned the entrance through a camera and computer.

  Ignoring them, Blaéz made his way through the dank,
narrow passage snaking deeper into the bowels of New York, and into a brightly lit arena swamped with humans and demons. A multitude of sensations stroked his mind, along with the smell of cold cement, sweat, blood, and agony. He inhaled harshly, absorbing just one.

  The sweet, brutal song of pain.

  It seeped into him and saturated his being. A shuddering breath wracked his body, a momentary touch of sheer, overwhelming feelings, once again gone too fast.

  There, in the center of the floor, spotlighted with daylight intensity bulbs, stood a thirty-foot circular, steel mesh cage, four feet above the ground. The thinly padded bars were a mockery at safety. He ought to know. Inside, two males fought, the thud of fists striking flesh echoing in the quiet.

  Blaéz scanned the crowd, keeping to the edges. His skin prickled with a familiar itch. His babysitter had arrived. Maybe he’d have cursed if he gave a damn. He didn’t. If Michael thought to send Dagan to babysit him, they were wasting their time. Not like their leader could kick Blaéz out of his job as a Guardian.

  As a warrior of Gaia, he remained as such for eternity, no matter what he did to himself. This was his great life; to protect this fragile species that didn't give a rat’s furry arse about the dangers of the activities they pursued. Like fighting for money in this hellhole.

  On the upside, the fact the fights had no rules suited him. Brutal. Deadly. Precisely how he preferred his fights.

  A body hit the cage bars hard, making them shudder.

  A bald, tattooed, heavy-set demon with beefy arms and thighs pounded a human foolish enough to be trapped with him.

  Demons lived among mortals on this realm, and while most preferred a quiet life, there were those ones drawn to these brutal activities. They never lost a fight, unless he showed up. But recently, he didn't care about the wins, cared only for what the fights gave him — a way to fill the emptiness inside and stop the voices from completely pulling him down under.

  As the cheers grew, Blaéz narrowed his eyes, his mind registering something else.

  The demon fought not a full grown male, but a teen — a boy, too tall and too foolish for his own good. The demon hammered the lad. Chances were he wouldn’t last long.

  Another vicious punch and the boy went flying back, crashing into the bars again. A pained grunt escaped him. He pushed up, holding his arm at an awkward angle. Blood gushed from his nose. Two minutes tops, Blaéz wagered, before the lad went horizontal. The kid was going to be in a body cast for the next couple of months… if he were that lucky.

  Blaéz usually preferred the last fight. Then he could go to the castle and crash in his quarters. No dreams, no voices, just unending pain that kept him locked in place.

  A familiar brush of potent power — though tamped down — zinged him. Followed by a tinge of annoyance. Humans wouldn’t sense the approaching male, but Blaéz sure did.

  “Get him outta there.”

  At the direct order, Blaéz glanced at the stone-cold features of the Guardians’ leader.

  Aviator shades concealed eyes Michael never revealed to mortals. Ebony strands escaped his haphazardly tied hair and hung around his unshaven jaw. Clad in black jeans and a faded black tee with ripped-off sleeves, his biceps bulged as he folded his arms over a wide chest, his attention on the fight.

  None would suspect an all-powerful archangel stood among them. With his roughed up biker appearance, he appeared in dire need of some serious crib downtime.

  Blaéz turned back to the fight. “Why? He chose this.”

  “You’re a slip away from going off rotation and into a session with Lore,” Michael warned, his tone flat.

  At mention of the pain-in-the-arse angel, who probably waited to poke into their heads, Blaéz got moving. Psychobabble bullshit wasn’t his deal. As if he’d ever spew out his life story to anyone. He pushed through the masses and headed toward the cage. A touch of his hand and the door unlocked and squeaked opened. The roars of excitement rocked the arena when the crowd spotted him. Their chants grew, “Kill him, Warrior. Kill him. Kill the Demolisher!”

  Warrior? Yes, that’s what he was. A warrior of Gaia’s and an unacknowledged champion of these foolish, bloodthirsty mortals. And to think he had to protect them.

  The demon grinned, recognizing him. “You want to take me on, warrior?”

  Blaéz ignored the derision as he pulled off his tee and tossed it aside. If Michael wanted him to save the lad, then it would be on his terms. It was the reason he was here anyway.

  He glanced at the boy on the cement floor, sliding in and out of consciousness. Swollen eyes flickered open and suddenly widened, darting behind Blaéz. His mouth worked, but only a garbled sound escaped.

  Blaéz didn't need the warning, his senses tuned to the demon that came at him like a Mack truck. He sidestepped, spun around, and elbowed him in the belly. A brutal kick followed, the force sending the Demolisher flying into the bars. The cage shuddered. The crowd cheers amplified. Furious, the demon shot up.

  “Seriously?” Blaéz taunted. “Did you learn nothing yet? I’m going wipe the floor with your arse.”

  It was all he needed, a trigger, and the demon rushed him like a mad bull. He head-butted Blaéz in the abs, knocked the air flat out of his lungs. Blaéz wheezed. Blessed pain sang through his gut. Good thing, he didn't have to hold back his punches with this piece of crap. He went in hard so he’d get all the pounding he wanted…

  Time passed. Blaéz had no idea how much, only knew he was in a shitload of agony. And he was losing, his mind gone a thick, hazy red. Maybe this way he could blank out his personal hell, too. The innocent lives he’d taken. The punishment he’d meted out, only to do it all over again in a never-ending cycle.

  Rip open his belly, you’ll get more of what you crave…

  Blaéz shook his head at the sly voices prodding him. He wanted to hurt, he needed pain.

  A fist smashed into his face. Blood sprayed. Agony exploded in a starburst of colors. Perfect.

  What the hell are you doing? Michael snapped in his head.

  At the unwanted mental intrusion, Blaéz shut down his mind-link and ignored his leader as another blow in the belly sent him reeling into the metal bars. This was his penance, his cross to bear.

  Then the very air around him froze. All went still. As did his opponent.

  Well, fuck. Playtime’s over.

  Michael strode through the statue-like crowd toward the cage. The gate flung open. He entered and crouched near the unconscious lad. His expression grim, he laid an open palm on the boy’s chest. A silvery healing light emerged from Michael, encompassing the human’s entire being.

  Moments later, Michael dropped his hand and rose to his feet. “He’ll live. I’ll see you back at the castle.”

  Which meant time for a one-on-one chat. Yeah, something he really looked forward to. Not. Blaéz pushed away from the bars and shook his head to clear the fog. Chest heaving, he picked up his shirt. Pain rippled across his ribs. He had to have fractured some.

  Michael strode out from the cage. Seconds later, the din resumed as his hold on the crowd vanished. The demon stumbled several feet. Eyes flaring, irises sparking red, he attacked. Blaéz shoved into the demon’s mind and knocked him out cold. “Playtime’s over, dumbass.”

  Pulling on his tee, he turned. The boy’s eyelids flickered open, his disoriented gaze settling on Blaéz.

  Michael, it appeared, had only healed his more serious wounds. Bruises remained around his right eye and jaw. With his mind, Blaéz pushed into the lad's memories, cleared out the last two hours and instructed him to leave the arena then he followed. The boy staggered down the corridor. Using his tee, he wiped the blood from his nose. As he took the stairs to the exit, he missed one and stumbled back, knocking into Blaéz.

  At the contact, a timeless haze took hold of Blaéz. He could do little to stop his precognition from kicking in. The mist parted, images formed…

  Shadowy figures… a body crumpling into a heap, blood seeping from a tor
n throat… a rock group…

  The vision faded. He always got these short flashes a few minutes before things happened. Instantly, Blaéz scanned, but he got no whiff of demoniis, and the mystical tattoo on his biceps remained still. What was with the rock group?

  His gaze locked on the fair-haired boy lurching up the alley with the Metallica logo emblazoned on the back of his tee. Right. He’d just saved the little idiot’s life. He wasn’t going to let those dead scourges take it.

  ***

  Darci Callahan rubbed her tired eyes and forced her achy limbs downstairs to her sparkling kitchen.

  When she was upset, she cleaned. And watching one of her much younger coworkers get hitched the day before was a guaranteed way to get her brownstone in a tip-top, shiny-clean condition. More, it drove home the fact that she was almost twenty-seven, single, and fast on her way to acquiring a litter of cats at her impending spinster state.

  At the thought, she blew out a disgusted breath.

  Looping her hair into a topknot, she secured the heavy, curly strands with a chopstick she found in a drawer then put some milk on the stove. While she waited for it to heat, she leaned against the counter and gazed through the window.

  The neighbor’s cat slinked past the flowerpots in the small courtyard. Insects buzzed in a frenzy around the single garden light… Life as a moth must be far more interesting than hers, she mused. The only thing in the plus column of her life, she had a job she adored, but on the personal side? It remained as empty as her heart with several big, fat zeros at her failed relationships. She sighed. It wasn’t as if she hadn't tried.

  Her last one had ended because she couldn’t “commit.” Ben had flung that word at her before he’d walked out. Two years later, it still stung because she’d thought it so often. It left an achy pit in her stomach. She’d cared about Ben, but as much as she tried, she just couldn’t connect on that necessary, intimate level in their relationship — from her heart. She’d felt so removed from it all.