Seven Seals, Books 1 & 2

by Traci Douglass

  The munchkin—at least six inches taller than Mira herself—rolled her eyes and fell into step. The curvaceous brunette clutched a steaming cup of chai between mitten-covered hands. “Damn, it’s freezing out here.”

  “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.” Mira looked both ways before crossing against the light. She stopped on the opposite corner and waited, arms akimbo. “C’mon, Zoe. We’re going to be late.”

  Zoe pursed her lips and stepped into the lane. A taxi screeched to a halt inches from striking her and honked. Tea flew everywhere. Mira shook her head while Zoe bustled across the street, patted the front of her red wool coat with a napkin and scowled, the remains of her decimated cup landing in the nearby trashcan. “Remind me again why you’re my best friend?”

  Mira studied her, then locked arms with Zoe and took off toward the club. “Because, Zoe girl, you’re all I’ve got.”

  Once they arrived, Zoe slipped away into the kitchen with a wave. Mira shrugged out of her coat and scanned the clipboard work schedule to confirm her evening assignment. Security and . . . Oh, Hell No! Not cover again. Second time this week, dammit, and tonight’s open mike night too. She’d be out there forever.

  She complained to the buxom bartender polishing glasses. “Shit, Bebe. It’s ten degrees outside. I’ll be a human popsicle by the end of the night!”

  Bebe ran an assessing look over Mira’s outfit and returned to her barware. “Girl, you know they’d let you serve if you dressed up. Showed some skin.”

  “Whatever.” Mira gave a dismissive wave, covertly eyeing Bebe’s skin-tight shirt and painted-on denims. She could have shown some skin. Hell, she had shown some skin, before the attack, before her innocence was shredded by trusted hands, before she’d realized the hard truth of vulnerability. Her mind screeched to a halt. Snippet memories of sticky vinyl seats, groping invasions, and brutal violations bombarded her psyche. Eyes squeezed shut, Mira forced the memories back into containment. Bebe shrugged at Mira’s silence and tossed her long blonde hair over a shoulder, shifting her attention when one of the male bouncers walked in. Mira took a deep breath and checked her watch. Showtime.

  “I’m heading outside now,” she called and rewrapped her winter layers. Mira shoved her hair under the enormous hood and peeked out the entrance at the area set up for collecting cover. Dusk descended, and she still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she was being stalked. The brisk wind churned and Mira failed to suppress a shiver. One of the bouncers brought out a stool and the cashbox and took up his position by the door. With a last glance at her surroundings, Mira climbed up on the tall seat and pulled her gloves on before the first partiers arrived.

  • • •

  Kagan reclined against a streetlight across from The G Spot, hidden in shadow while observing the line now snaking down the block. Brutal frigid air smacked him in the face and he huddled inside his wool coat. For all its appeal, the Windy City was too far on the polar side for his taste. A century living in the remote Tuscan countryside had transformed the ancient Latin of his mortal Roman life into a fluent tide of Italian and rekindled his love of the sun and sand and heat. Chicago lacked all of the above. Here chill invaded his bones and people struggled with his accent. Kagan was now a man without a country, without a home. He ignored the slow burn of loneliness eating at his gut and flipped up the collar of his coat, squinting through watery eyes at the gathered crowd.

  The weather didn’t seem to affect the odd assortment of people waiting to enter the non-descript club attached to the liquor store. Mini-skirted women with no coats at all flirted with the bouncer and guys in the latest designer hip-hop wear talked on their cell phones. Goth rockers waited next to men in suits who’d finished up a hard day on the financial markets while the ever-present college horde laughed and carried on, out to party.

  Kagan shuffled to increase his circulation and surveyed his target. Whatever he’d expected, Mira Herald wasn’t it. Though difficult to see exact details, her legs dangling high off the ground from atop the not so lofty perch of her stool hinted at a petite frame. Otherwise the girl remained a complete mystery, well barricaded within her voluminous outfit. No, voluminous was too polite a description. The mass of fabric surrounding her was nothing short of a circus-tent monstrosity—all funhouse shapes and baggy clown flounces. Except for her feet. The shapeless jeans were shoved deep inside a pair of boots more inclined to kick some ass than walk away.

  Suspicion niggled as he eyed her footwear. This target may not prove as easy to secure as he’d first anticipated. Merda! Kagan’s gloved hands bunched and the wind howled. The fact he’d practically begged for a summons, any summons, did nothing to improve his temper. Divinity’s words echoed in his head. The most important summons of your career. Kagan snorted, kicking ice chunks down the curb with his frozen toes. Not likely.

  A gust caught the edge of his target’s craterous hood and tipped it backward. Chestnut curls tumbled out in riotous chaos. The long strands blew wild, and his mind dredged up a line from a favorite Yeats poem: Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams. Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round. Kagan shook his head and snorted. Cristo! He was getting senile. A strange tingle drifted through his gut and his lips pursed. Not the buzz of another immortal. Something different. Odd.

  His mood darkened as the bouncer to Mira’s side leaned closer to help pull up her hood while she stuffed her hair inside. The bouncer’s hand lingered a second longer than Kagan deemed necessary and a muscle began to tick near his eye. Dai! Must be hypothermia. Another blast of arctic wind gusted, and Kagan decided now was the time to get his damn mission over and done. First order of business—make contact with the target.

  He pushed off the light pole and jogged across the busy street, dodging cars along the way to approach the end of the line. Kagan kept an eye on Ms. Herald from under lowered lashes and pulled money from his wallet. Despite his best efforts, his gaze continued to stray toward the long, errant strands still swirling out of her hood. No matter how viciously she crammed them back inside, they continued to dart out, defiant. With a glance at her boots, Kagan smiled in spite of his foul attitude. Brave hair.

  • • •

  From the entrance, Mira glanced across the street while she collected cover and released her pent-up a breath. After two hours, he was gone. She blew on her fleece-covered hands, desperate to generate some warmth. Fatigue assaulted her mind, and she huddled inside the huge down jacket. Her emotions always rode closer to the surface when she was exhausted. Crankiness boiled full-tilt in the pit of her stomach, and with each passing hour, she longed for the end of her shift and an escape from the pre-holiday craze.

  “Ciao, piccola.” A deep male voice, vaguely accented, brushed over her. Money was thrust under her nose. Mira reached for the bill, her gaze ticking upward to lock with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Mesmerizing eyes. Probing eyes. Recognition dawned. Shit! Her pseudo-stalker continued to study her, expectant.

  Up close, the guy was taller than she’d expected—at least six and a half feet if she judged by the enormous bouncer at her side. The bulky winter clothes did nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders, and the heavy material cleaved to his brawny arms testified to the power contained therein. A loose, easy smile spread across the planes of his tan face, revealing even white teeth behind lips full of sensual promise. It was the smile of a man used to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. The casual ease of an alpha predator at the top of his game.

  Mira’s mouth went arid. An odd flutter tickled through the pit of her stomach, making her squirm. Fight or flight. Flight was the normal, reasonable response in this situation, but the last twelve years had changed her. Now Mira fought. She snapped the money from the guy’s long fingers, flashed him a don’t-fuck-with-me glare, and jerked her head toward the club entrance. The guy had the nerve to wink at her before he disappeared. Mira battled the urge to kick him in the shin.

  Her imaginary Bitchy Meter clicked another
notch closer to the red zone as fatigue threatened to obliterate her defenses. Mira’s thoughts raced faster than a customized Corvette. So what if the guy was gorgeous, his smoky voice an invitation to climb aboard the Got Sex train? Who cared if his mussed-sheets smile curled her toes inside her steel-toed boots? And what difference did it make if he might be big enough, strong enough to fight her most vile demons?

  A tap on the shoulder made her thoughts jump the rails. Another bouncer came out to relieve her. Mira headed into the warm indoors with a bone-weary sigh. Her numb fingers fumbled to undue the zipper on her parka and her cheeks tingled beneath the hot air blowing down from the ceiling vents. She hung her coat on the hook behind the bar and straightened her shirt then attempted to tame her feral mane.

  “Hey, Mira,” Bebe called over the pounding music. “Can you go downstairs and get some more rum? We’re almost out with these drink specials.”

  Mira gave a reluctant nod and yanked the keys off the wall. She trudged to the far end of the area and unlocked the basement stockroom. As she stuffed the key ring into her back pocket, Mira’s gaze hooked once more with the man uppermost in her recent thoughts. There he sat, draped in a corner booth, longneck in hand, observing her with undisguised interest. The damn flutter blossomed anew.

  Mira turned away and slammed the door behind her, clicking on the lights before starting down the rickety stairs. Get through tonight then a whole blessed week off. I’ll make it, dammit!

  She punched an inflatable bottle of beer out of the way and finished her trek to the dank basement and pulled the chain on the bare bulb above. Silencing her futile wish to burrow into her nice warm bed and sleep for days, Mira rummaged through the plethora of filthy containers, searching for a damn crate of rum.

  A skitter of claws echoed from behind, and Mira whirled toward the sound. She squinted into the dark, but spotted nothing. She returned to the crates only to hear a distant, off-key whistle issue from the far corner. The tune dissolved into one etched on her mind and her heart rate skyrocketed. It was the melody she heard every time she slept. A sinister chuckle near her ear had her leaping for the exit. The lights flickered. The smell of sulfur overwhelmed. Mira charged for the stairs and the lights went out. Pitch black hell. The nightmare had arrived.

  Chapter 2

  The former body of Norman McClaine closed the file on the desk. He reposed in the leather office chair, hands folded atop his bulbous stomach, and glanced at the picture frames across from him. The glass reflected flat gray eyes sparking orange from the demon now residing inside him. Argus stretched inside his new form and assessed the status of his metamorphosis. He’d been forced to make the takeover fast. Fast wasn’t his preferred method. Still, once the simplest of human functions turned malevolent, he knew his transformation was complete.

  He scanned the awards with a sneer. Each one testified to a fine, upstanding citizen, an exulted humanitarian, presented for assisting countless forgotten children find their forever homes. Centered in a place of honor was a photo of the new department head at her appointment ceremony. She shook hands with McClaine, her eyes wide and full of innocence. The shutter had captured a phantom darkness skittering through Norman McClaine’s expression. A premonition of things to come.

  Pathetic fucks, the lot of ’em.

  Argus spit into the trashcan. A sizzle sounded from the metal container as his acidic saliva ate through the bottom and into the carpet below. Good thing his plans opted for a quick, clean theft. Too long in his current form and things would start to deteriorate.

  The phone on the desk buzzed to life, red lights flashing. Argus recognized the number on the caller ID and glanced at the clock before he answered, assuring sufficient time before the office’s owner returned. With a sigh, Argus pushed the speakerphone button.

  “Any problems with the possession?” An ominous, monotone voice crept along the line.

  Sweat beaded on the human’s upper lip. Argus swiped the moisture away. Perspiration remained the one unchanged function during any demon-human transmutation, a filthy reminder of his human carcass hideout. He hated sweat. Demons didn’t perspire. “Nope. The pussy barely put up a fight when I took him.” Argus leaned forward to rip leaves off a nearby houseplant plant, seeking an outlet for his burgeoning violence. He tossed the fragments into an ever-growing molehill of herbicidal slaughter.

  “Do you have the information?” The caller wasn’t big on small talk.

  “Got it right here.” He reopened the battered manila folder, the contents overflowing.

  “Read the last entry.”

  Argus mopped his now drenched face, cursing his host’s emotions. He’d eliminate the problem soon enough. “Says the girl ran away from her final placement twelve years ago, on her sixteenth birthday. At last report, she’s still here in Chicago.”

  “Nothing else?” A hint of distrust tinged the cold tone reverberating in the room.

  “No.” Argus’s concealed claws itched. He was so tired of lesser beings questioning his goddamn integrity. He was a Son of El, for fuck’s sake! Nobody questioned him. Even Lucifer left the Sons alone. He wasn’t about to let these pussy half-breeds start, either. He sank back in the cushy office chair and kicked his feet up on the desk. Time for some recon of his own. “You know this McClaine’s a real perverted shit. He’s been sampling the goods for years, not including the sales.”

  “Stick to the assignment, Argus. We don’t care about McClaine. Not anymore.”

  Argus smiled. He had a pretty good idea why they’d insisted he use this host. He glanced at the discolored file, at the torn edges and the faded Polaroid stapled to its front, and grimaced. The girl’s eyes glared with defiance, her curly hair in disarray around her shoulders, finger-shaped bruises barely visible under the pale skin of her throat. Bingo. “Are you sure she’s the one you want? She doesn’t look very pliable.”

  “Our reasons are not your concern.” The lethal precision in the monotone voice could cut granite. A low-pitched hum droned. Argus leaned away as the noise grew louder and gave an exaggerated yawn while the voice yammered. “If we suspect betrayal, Argus, I guarantee you won’t like the results. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.” Argus smirked. They had no idea what he was capable of. What he could endure. Shit, what he had endured. Fuck the girl. He had bigger stakes in mind. “And transport?”

  “Just get her. We’ll arrange pickup.” Muffled murmurs echoed behind the caller’s voice. “And we expect her whole.”

  Argus gave a closed-lipped half smile at the girl’s picture. Hostile was not a turn on. He preferred females with less spine, more cushion. Not a problem. But smart of them to clarify. Pieces were always easier. Argus shifted his attention to the wall calendar and pinpointed the tiny circles dotting certain squares. “Fine. I’ll need a week.”

  “Seven days, Argus. We’ll be watching.” The call disconnected, and Argus stared at the file for a few moments before replacing the receiver. He exhaled, scattering his accumulated pile of shredded houseplant remains like confetti. The plan was underway.

  Argus opened a cheap expand-a-file and shoved the girl’s folder inside along with the massive contact list he’d printed. He exhaled a long breath at the nearby smoke detector. Black smoke spewed from his lungs in a column to blast toward the sensor. Moments later, the alarm triggered and the sirens blared. Argus dumped the contents of the candy dish into his already overstuffed holder then cracked the door open, pleased to find the chaos he’d counted on. He slipped out undetected and weaved his way through the maze of cubicles to the entrance. Once out in the sunny atrium, he hustled down the staircases to the lobby with the bag clutched to his side and humans crowded around him.

  He exited the building and walked out into the chilly Chicago dusk. Argus squinted at the waxing moon with its trio of surrounding stars. The holiday crowds jostled, but he didn’t notice. One week and it would all change. One week and he’d own this damned place. Hell, one week and he’d own the whol
e fucking planet. Argus gave a slow grin and took off through the crowds.

  • • •

  Mira released her death grip on the wooden railing and opened her eyes. Lights on. Reality returned. She forced her muscles to relax. This time had been the worst so far. No one else saw the terrors, smelled the rotten eggs, felt the icy fingers tracing their flesh. No one except Mira.

  “What’s the holdup?” Bebe’s shout carried downstairs, breaking the maze of her thoughts and kick-starting her mind. Rum. Mira picked up her cumbersome load and trudged her way up the stairs. She emerged into the club and plopped the heavy container behind the bar before securing the door.

  “About time you got up here.” Bebe brushed past her to deliver drinks to a kid with colorful spiked hair.

  “Sorry. I had . . . ” Mira remembered the imagined terrors below. She blinked several times and swallowed her fear. Not going there again. “I couldn’t find the rum.”

  “Whatever, honey.” The bartender gave a dismissive wave and bustled about. “Just get that rum open. The last bottle’s dry.”

  Mira grabbed a screwdriver and crouched to pry off the lid. Bebe’s overtly seductive tone with customers grated on her nerves, and now her co-worker’s voice grew positively hoarse with the next patron. Must be male. Mira popped open the crate and dug out the bottles. And a hottie too, if Bebe’s thick layer of innuendo was any indication. After three years, Mira knew all the bartender’s tricks. “Hey, gorgeous. You looking for a refill or a date? Either way, I got you covered.”

  Without turning to be sure, Mira pictured Bebe’s huge knockers in the guy’s grill. The deep male rumble confirmed her suspicions. Too easy.

  “You want any help stowing those bottles, piccola?” The same rumble now moved closer to Mira’s location as she knelt behind the bar. “Ciao?”

  Mira whipped around to find her pseudo-stalker grinning from above the counter. She returned his smile with a frown; her breath hitched and warning bells sounded in her mind. With a flip of her hair, she dismissed him. “No, thanks.”