by Misty Evans
There was only one thing I wanted, and no one, not even God Himself, could give that to me. Once a demon, always a demon.
I stopped in the doorway. “My name is Kali Sweet.” Holding up two fingers, I made snipping motions. “Don’t forget it or I’ll tattoo it into your skin when I cut off your balls.”
I moved quickly into the hallway, my nerves jangling as loud as the music in the walls, and continued to back toward the stairs. Threatening a vampire king was stupid, but running a human blood slave business was unforgivable, and if it had been me making the call, I would have staked him on the spot. The Council, however, existed for this very reason. Vigilante justice created more problems than it solved.
No surprise, Nudra’s minions darted out of the office after me a few seconds later, weapons drawn. Vampire king bluster, check. Guns won’t kill me, but bullets will slow me down. And they hurt like hell.
Adrenaline pumping, I hit the bar of the stairway’s door hard with my backside to push it open. I didn’t want to engage the minions, but I reached for my trusty whip—named Volante because she could fly—curled around my left arm like a bracelet, anyway.
I’d just turned to run down the stairs when I smacked into a solid wall.
Where did that come from, my brain screamed as the impact sent me backwards on my butt, back hitting the cold concrete wall and knocking the wind out of me. A guitar landed at my feet, making an odd twanging noise as if someone had run unskilled fingers over the strings.
A vaguely familiar, surprised sounding voice said, “Kali?” and I looked up to see my daily nightmare standing there in the flesh.
Radison Beaumont, in too-worn jeans and a too-tight black T-shirt, gave me a slow once-over with his beautiful gold colored eyes before his lips quirked to one side in a smile that sent my already hammering heart into overdrive. Beating like a battering ram inside my chest, it rang in my ears and drowned out the bass drum echoing in the stairwell.
My skirt had flipped up to reveal an expanse of skin between the top of my boots and my underwear and Rad’s gaze lingered between my legs a second too long before lifting to meet mine. Dozens of warnings went off in my head, but damn if I could find my voice or my extensive repertoire of Italian curse words. I couldn’t even find my breath. He looked a little older than the last time I’d seen him, but still perfect to me in every way. Thick black hair, a little too long and mussed, those gorgeous eyes, flawless skin and teeth. Not to mention faultless proportions. Like they’d done every other time I was in the near vicinity of him, my body, mind and heart staged a coup. Traitors.
While it seemed like an eternity before he spoke, it was in reality only another beat of my heart. He held out one long, perfect hand and in his eyes I saw it was more than just an offer to help me to my feet. It was an olive branch. A peace treaty. “I can’t believe you’re here. Did you come to see m—” He caught himself, thought better of it. “Did you come for the concert?”
It would have been easy, so easy, to slip my hand into his. To forget the past under the spell of those mesmerizing eyes and allow him to help me up. Instead, I pushed myself off the ground, keeping my back against the wall and shoved my skirt back into place.
Before I could answer, Nudra’s minions barreled through the door and nearly knocked Rad and me both down the stairs. As the first one reached for me, Rad snapped his fingers and the guitar on the ground jerked upward, tripping the demon and sending him flying face first onto the top stair. Being half-chaos demon, causing trouble was as easy as breathing to Rad.
He turned on the second bodyguard, the clean ocean smell of a summer squall rising in the stairwell, and the demon held up his hands and stepped back. Smart. He must have known Rad could bring the entire building down on him if he wanted to. The demon disappeared through the door, a soft clicking sound resonating in the now silent stairwell as the latch snapped into place. My breathing sounded too loud in my ears. The demon at my feet moaned, but didn’t move.
As if nothing had happened, Rad turned to me, a smile tugging the skin over the fine bones of his cheeks. Two dimples sprang to life. “Your hair. It’s…different.”
“Seriously?” I righted my cape, which had twisted to the left when I fell. I kicked the demon on the stairs out of the way. “That’s the best you’ve got after standing me up at the altar three-hundred years ago? My hair is different?”
“It was two-hundred eighty-five years and three days ago.” His golden eyes darkened and he grabbed me around the waist, jerking me up against his rock-hard body. The summer squall smell intensified. His gaze dropped to my lips and I was suddenly seventeen again. “And this is the best way I can think of to say I’m sorry.”
Before I understood what he was about to do, il pistolino lowered his half-demon, half-human lips to mine and kissed me.
Chapter Three
Bam, bam, bam. A pounding on my front door woke me the next morning. I’d made Neve’s party, given the birthday girl the latest tech gadget on the market, laid a vengeance spell on a lowlife trickster demon, and managed to be on the rooftop of my place in time to watch the sunrise and mentally curse Rad and his lips in my native Italian as well as American lexicon.
Peeling open one eye, I checked the digital clock on the nightstand. Nine a.m. Who the hell would be at my door on Sunday morning at nine frickin a.m.? Anyone who knew me, knew I was DND—do not disturb—until noon at the earliest, and only then for an emergency. Especially on Sunday, my only day off.
Bam, bam, bam. Persistent, I’d give them that. Whoever stood at my front door didn’t know me or didn’t like me and wanted to piss me off. Either way, my day was off to a bad start. And their day? Their day was about to go straight to hell. Literally. Rule number one when dealing with a vengeance demon: don’t mess with her beauty sleep. I wasn’t sure what rule number two was, but the early draft had something about not kissing her after you’d ripped her heart to shreds and thinking bygones were bygones.
Even without caffeine to aid my thinking, I wasn’t taking chances on who might be on my doorstep. My run-in with Nudra had him at the top of my list. Like the demon bodyguards last night, not all of his minions were Undead. They could walk around in the daytime just like I could, even if they preferred not to. Reaching under the bed, I removed a stake from my extensive weapons stash. Stakes are effective at chasing off everything—the living, the Undead, door-to-door salesman, bill collectors—you name it. Must be that whole Buffy thing, and really, I have to give the girl credit. Supernaturals and humans alike see a stake and run the other way.
As I treaded down the marbled steps from my loft to the front foyer, I ran one hand through my tangled hair and shoved the stake into the waistband at the small of my back. At the enormous French doors, I rose on tiptoe to look through the peephole I’d installed when I moved in.
A man stood on the other side, head bowed in what looked like defeat over a drink carrier. Twin paper coffee cups, stamped with my favorite green and black logo, rested in the drink carrier in one hand. In his other hand was a box with a bright red lid. The dark hair, broad shoulders, and callused fingers caused my heart to pick up its pace. At the same time, irritation burned in my suddenly queasy stomach.
What the hell was Rad doing here? Of more concern, how did he know where I lived?
I dropped back flat-footed, the smell of full-bodied coffee with just the right amount of cream filtering through the doorway. For a second, I leaned my forehead against the solid wooden door and told myself to ignore him and go back to bed. Pretend I wasn’t there. Hope he was defeated enough never to come back.
Bam, bam, bam.
Startled, I jumped back, hand flying to the spot over my heart. Persistent SOB. No wonder the pounding sounded so loud. He wasn’t knocking on the door with his fist, he was kicking it with a booted foot.
No defeat there. Rad had always loved a challenge, and right now that’s what I represented. He wasn’t going to give up.
Hell’s blood. Just what I need
ed. Rad Beaumont deciding I was his new challenge.
The deadbolt made a loud thunk as I slid it back. Rad’s head snapped up, face bright with expectation as I swung the door open. Both dimples locked in as he smiled so big, he looked like a frickin lottery winner.
I fingered the stake, still hidden in my waistband. You’re about to win the lottery all right, buddy boy, but not the one you think.
That smile of his, though, could melt icebergs. My lips tingled, remembering his kiss in the stairwell. It had been soft and sweet, like a makeup kiss should be, and I’d had trouble remembering my name at one point.
But I’d ended it with a flick of my whip to his ankles, jerking him off his feet before walking away. His voice, calling me back, had echoed down the stairs after me and followed me the rest of the night, trailing its way into my damn dreams, along with him and his silver dagger.
I pursed my traitorous lips. “What do you want, Rad?”
If he was surprised by my Goth Hello Kitty pajamas or my bed-head appearance, he didn’t show it. “How is it you live on consecrated ground?”
My loft sat inside an old abandoned church. A big showdown between good and evil had happened in this church around the time of the Civil War. Evil had won, the church had been abandoned, and the lone ground still consecrated was the sanctuary, which I steered clear of. Now, the only evil on the premise was me, and I was only evil in that nice-demon sort of way. “I’m special.”
Rad gave me a look that told me he knew I was lying, but wouldn’t pursue the subject further. He held out his offerings. “Sorry about last night. You... surprised me. I brought coffee in hopes we could talk, you know, about...stuff.”
Right. Stuff. Not going there, no way, no how. “What’s in the red box?” I was hoping it was chocolates. Or pastries. Something good to go with the coffee.
“Kings in the Corner. It’s a card game like we used to play at Court. The one you liked so much.”
The Italian Court in the heart of the Roman Empire. I hadn’t thought about that in centuries. An unbidden memory of Rad in his scarlet and black court clothes and jaunty French hat flitted across my mind. He’d been the scandal of the Queen’s entire inner circle when he’d come to Rome as the French ambassador, flirting tirelessly with all of us. He’d taught me a dozen different ways to cheat at cards, and even though I refused to cheat my friends, I admired his ability to cheat my court enemies. It wasn’t the only thing I’d admired about him.
But like his ability to cheat at cards and get away with it, he’d cheated me out of the life I’d dreamed about. Reaching out, I snagged one of the coffees, raised it in salute, and slammed the door in his face.
For the next five days, he showed up every morning with two coffees and some sort of gift. One day it was a vampire hunter video game he thought I would like, then a puzzle depicting the coast of Italy. On Saturday, he offered me tickets to his Milwaukee concert that night. Every morning, I took the coffee and shut the door in his face.
To my horror, I started anticipating his knock. I told myself it was only because I was determined to be more bullheaded, more resolute and dogged then he was. I wasn’t one to play games, but this one became addictive and I found myself looking forward to our next sparring match as well as a gigante cup of coffee hand-delivered to my door.
Di, my best friend and traitor straordinario, informed him about my work/sleep schedule and he’d been coming later every day, so by the time the next Sunday afternoon rolled around and he hadn’t shown up, I wasn’t concerned. He’d probably been up all night after the concert and then had the bus trip back to Chicago. Maybe getting a taste of his own medicine would cure him from waking me up before two p.m.
It was four when I finally heard a knock. A part of me was relieved. He’d finally come. And that’s when I knew, this had to stop. Rad was a cheat, a liar and a heart breaker. Hadn’t I learned my lesson the first time?
I peered through the peephole, disgusted with myself for letting him get a toe-hold in my life again. But it wasn’t Rad on the step, it was Di and her latest boyfriend, a young grad student from one of the universities. She was dressed in jeans and a cute double-breasted jacket. Her boyfriend was dressed like a Harvard professor.
I opened the door. “Hey, what are you two doing here?”
Aphrodite tugged the professor-wannabe across the threshold. “We’re going antiquing at Navy Pier. There’s a Halloween theme this weekend. Want to come?”
Professor stared blankly at the wall, obviously not interested in my company. The Goddess of Love had a fear of commitment and men came and went like a boyfriend version of Netflix. This was only the second time I’d seen him with Di, and like most of her boy toys, the professor didn’t like me.
Whatever. “Wow, that sounds like fun, but I have...” I fell back on my usual excuse for being antisocial, “Bridge business to take care of this afternoon.”
Di studied me for a second. “Rad hasn’t shown up yet, has he?”
Definitely had to stop playing his stupid game. “Rad who?” Without waiting for her usual tirade about my lack of a love life, I shoved her and the professor out the door. “Go, enjoy antiquing. I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”
Shutting the door on her protests, I leaned against it, lost in thoughts of Rad. So stupid to let him get back under my skin and mess with my head. Sloppy of me. And sloppy was one thing I couldn’t afford. I’d learned that the night my family died at the hands of The Slayers, the Roman Church’s demon hunters.
The Slayers official name was a bastardized Latin term, The Noctifectors. A literal translation had to do with night and bringers of night (or death in this case). Most supernaturals simplified Noctifector to Noct and American supers called them The Slayers, again probably because of Buffy.
The biggest reason I’d been so effective at staying alive all these years, even with the Noctifectors slaying supernaturals all around me, was because I didn’t do sloppy. I didn’t let anyone, especially not Rad Beaumont, get under my skin.
After another minute of berating myself, I started back to my living area to watch TV and stew. Two steps from the door, a knock, hard and persistent, stopped me in my tracks.
Rad.
Knowing it was a bad idea, I threw the door open anyway, ready to tell him to take a long hike off Navy Pier, but again, it wasn’t il pistolino waiting for me on the stoop with that iceberg-melting grin on his face.
Two men, dressed in black from head to toe, filled the entryway, necks thick as the church bell tower’s support beams, bodies massive as the benches inside the sanctuary.
The metallic vinegar stench of demon mercenaries filled my nose, and I jerked back, ready to slam the door and run for my weapons stash. Logic, however, took over.
Mercenaries didn’t come to the front door in daylight. They didn’t knock politely and stand at relaxed attention on your front stoop. Maybe they were out of work and looking for me to hire them. I tried not to freak, but my pulse flipped the bird at logic and raced as if I were sprinting. “Can I help you?”
The front merc flashed a strained smile. He held a flashlight in his right hand and thumped it against his leg as if bored or striving for patience. “King Nudra requests your presence tonight at his home.”
There was so much wrong with this picture, it took my brain two seconds longer than it should have to backtrack to the flashlight. I reached for the stake out of habit, realized I didn’t have it.
Merde.
Still, there was no reason to panic. The mercs were playing nice.
I touched one of my ring fingers to one of my thumbs, ready to raise my defensive powers anyway. I never play nice when dealing with blood suckers who violated Bridge law. “Well, you can tell Nudra to pack sand.”
I started to shut the door when Merc No. 1 jammed his free hand against it. Instantly, my magic formed a protective shield around me, but he raised the flashlight and a bright arc of silver light danced between two prongs on the end of it.
&
nbsp; Not a flashlight. Stun gun.
Correction, stun baton. “He said you’d be difficult.”
A crackling noise filled the air and a million volts of specialized silver electricity hit me at once, knocking me ass over hellhounds to the ground. Not even my protection magic could repel that. Pain seared my nerve endings, muscles contracting into a solid, rigid mass. My eyes rolled up in my head and my brain hula danced inside my skull. The last cognizant thought I had wasn’t about Nudra or mercs or dying at the hands of a vampire king.
My last thought before I passed out was, Where the hell is Rad?
Chapter Four
When I woke, my brain cells were still scrambled and it took several minutes for them to come online. Even then, I wasn’t sure they hadn’t sustained permanent damage from the stun baton’s silver wattage, because for some reason, they were convinced I was in an eighteenth-century torture chamber.
I took inventory again. Dim light from sconces bolted to stone walls. Check. Assorted chains, whips and saws hanging from hooks. Check. The coppery smell of dried blood and the sharp smell of disinfectant. Under both, the lingering taint of fear.
Check and check.
A stainless steel surgical tray, draped with a white cloth, stood beside me.
Yep, it had been awhile since I’d been in one, but this was definitely straight out of my Old World past. The shelves lined with quart jars of blood were a nice touch, though. Queen Maria would have been impressed.
Not a big fan of torture, nausea cramped my stomach. I tried to move, but my body—from forehead to ankles—was belted to a bumpy, wooden table by leather straps. The rough leather chafed my skin and the wood, bulging and rippling underneath me, bruised it. Cool, damp air sucked at the visible skin between the straps, so while I couldn’t lift my head to look down at myself, I surmised I was naked.
Even my fingers were individually secured to the table, splayed apart so I couldn’t touch any of them together. No touch, no magic.
