Rule Breakers, Soul Takers (Hell Runners Book 1)

by Jacqueline Jayne

  “Dude does everything straight up. You’d think he’s smart. Nope. Just lucky. Until the stress kills him at forty-five—massive heart attack. The bastard dies instantly. But instead of jumping into the light from Heaven, he gets distracted by an illusion of his office.” Zane’s voice rose. “His office? See? Stupid navel gazer. Now he’s trading punches with demons instead of stocks.” He shook his head. “Sometimes it pisses me off. Makes me want to pack it in.”

  At moments when he got outraged, she wondered if Zane regretted leaving his parents’ Montana ranch for their complicated lives in the big city, or if he simply needed a boost.

  “People aren’t perfect, Zane. That’s why we’re gifted.” She leaned forward, forcing him to look her in the eye. “He’s still lucky. The best and kindest Runner I know is gonna pull him out. And don’t go all oh-shucks on me.” She winked. “You know it’s true.”

  His twin dimples buttonholed deep into his cheeks, and his lips parted, exposing perfect teeth. “Thanks. I was counting on you for a boost.”

  A little ego stroking went a long way with Zane.

  But he was right. Free will wasn’t a blessing for some folks. Once a person died, Hell had one second to sell a spirit on the wrong eternity before Heaven’s light snatched them away.

  And what better way to dupe the newly-passed than with a mirage of a life they couldn’t release. Charming picket fences, high-rise offices, or the rich smell of comfort foods—that single, fleeting moment preyed upon their uncertainty. Way too many fell for it.

  “It might be wrong to admit this,” he said as his smile faded, “but the whole setup’s pretty ingenious.”

  “Tell me about it.” Prudence shuddered. Chances were good, if she hadn’t been born a gifted human, Hell would ensnare her for as little as a chocolate bar.

  “Ever wonder how Soul Savers entered Hell before Rodin sculpted the Gates?” He tossed the pack of papers onto her desk. “Do you think we’d have another way into Hell? Do you think we’d know we were gifted?”

  Prudence pinched her bottom lip between her teeth and pondered. It was an interesting question, one she’d never considered before.

  Thanks to Auguste Rodin, a worldwide network of fully functioning Hell’s Gates had been constructed on earth, each one cast exactly the same in bronze. For a man who claimed his opus wasn’t finished, the surface was jam-packed, almost entirely with depictions of humans in states of suffering—but not all. Most prominent were miniatures of his more famous works, The Thinker, who oversaw the disturbing mass, and The Three Shades, standing at the top ledge, heads bowed as if in deep sorrow.

  Twenty feet tall, thirteen feet wide, and more than three feet thick, the entryways into Hell had been erected in Paris, Zurich, Tokyo, Seoul, Stanford, California, and most importantly, Prudence’s home base, Philadelphia. While tourists oohed and ahhed overhead at the master’s handiwork, they secretly plotted spirit liberations below.

  “Nah, or we’d know about it. The Society’s nothing, if not thorough. Rodin was the first.”

  “I don’t agree.” He shook his head. “Rodin organized the Society and got the financial backing in place. In fact, the Deschamps clan still signs our checks.”

  “How could we forget? Astor Deschamps sticks his nose in all the time.”

  “Money people like to see how it’s spent.”

  She huffed, knowing how much her dad disliked Astor, with his fake smile and constant judgment on how he ran the branch.

  Focused, Zane ignored her obvious distaste. “But no way was Rodin the first. If the fissure between dimensions existed, then it was being used by someone.”

  “Then who, smarty-pants?”

  “Don’t know, but I bet if we tracked the path of Julian Eymard through France, we’d find a journal along the way. Maybe with an ancestor. He’d definitely have known of other fissures. Man, I’d love to go on an expedition and—”

  “Julian who?”

  “Shit, P. Did you sleep through all the history classes?”

  “Of course not, but I can’t retain everything. Especially something as obscure as Julian whatshisname. Besides, history’s a waste—”

  “No. It’s not. Everything’s connected. Understanding the past influences decisions in the present which shape the future.” He sighed, and she knew a full-on professorial lecture was coming. Ignoring her blatant eye roll, he continued. “Eymard is part of it, either indirectly as believed in the texts, or more directly, as I do.”

  “Okay. I’ll ask. How?”

  He leaned forward, totally engaged. “When Rodin was young, he’d joined the Congregation of the Blessed Sacrament.”

  “Priesthood? Seriously?” She wrinkled her nose. “Why’d he want to do that? Or think he was capable of giving up his art?”

  “Self-imposed penance because he’d introduced his sister to some asshole. The guy turned out to be a player. Bad news for a nice girl in those days. You get married or get a bad reputation.”

  “If all the people who set me up with losers chose priesthood, I wouldn’t have any friends left.” She leaned back and shot him a you’re-so-guilty glare.

  “Don’t be glib.” He chucked a paperclip at her. “She died of an infection at only twenty-four years old. Rodin carried the guilt.”

  She groaned with sympathy. “That’s awful.” Only a year shy of twenty-four herself, she realized how short the woman’s sad life had been. “And totally explains his motivation.”

  “Yep. But all his past choices, good and bad, shaped his future.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “And don’t think this little story will stop me from setting you up on dates.”

  “Zane, I wish—”

  “You can’t admit you need help in that department.”

  As much as she didn’t want a history lesson, she wanted to talk about her lack of a love life even less.

  “Stay on topic, professor, or you’ll lose me.”

  “Fine.” Easily guided back to his passion, Zane continued. “Rodin believed the founder of the congregation, St. Peter Julian Eymard, could see into his soul. And predict his future. According to Rodin’s diary, Eymard laid hands on him and actually saw Rodin walking through a portal into Hell and then returning where Heaven’s light shown upon him.”

  This tidbit had her sitting upright. “Heaven’s light? So his first trip in, he saved a soul?”

  “Yep. Hard to say if Eymard set the gift free or gave it to him, but it was up to Rodin to make a choice—become a complete man or only a shadow of one.”

  “He wasn’t exactly young when he sculpted the Gates.” She leaned forward and pointed at him with her envelope. “He fought his destiny, didn’t he?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he wasn’t destined to find the Gates until he was in a position of power.”

  “Power? He never got rich.”

  “But he did make connections with people of great wealth. At least one helped him organize the society.”

  “Deschamps.”

  He nodded. “Either way, it was suggested he leave the Order and go back to his art. And his future. The rest you know.”

  “I hope you’re right. I wouldn’t mind another way into Hell. But without the Society’s Big-Brother-Eye. And I’d like a snazzy aboveground office.”

  The Society notwithstanding, she never understood why God allowed Hell one more shot at the righteous. The inequity nagged at her and conflicted with her belief in a benevolent creator.

  She wasn’t looking for an out. On the contrary, it gave her a rush to imagine sneaking into the lower world and snatching souls from the clutches of evil.

  But she couldn’t imagine a good reason why God allowed Satan another shot. And the system seemed broken—their system. There were too many rules keeping those blessed by Heaven from helping the accidentally damned.

  She lifted her new orders to eye level. At least now, she could finally make a difference.

  “Who’s your partner?” Zane swung his legs off the desk, and the chair groan
ed in relief.

  “I haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I didn’t want to open it upstairs where everyone could see. And with Jesse in the elevator I—”

  “Well, I’m here now. Come on.” He eased out of the chair. “I already blew off two flights to the Cali office so I could make sure you had a decent partner.”

  “Blew off flights? Are you trying to get benched?”

  “They won’t bench me. Not after the incident. And we need you, too. Nobody’s ever deserved a promotion more. Every single Runner has been rooting for you.”

  Knowing her peers accepted her and wanted her by their side boosted her excitement into the stratosphere. She ripped the sheet of paper from the envelope and then caught a lapful of paperclips. “Hey!” she hollered, looking up at Zane.

  “Promise me you won’t let the job change you. Okay?”

  “Big Sky”—she flashed him her brightest smile— “I’m as unchangeable as history.” Without further delay, she unfolded the page with shaking fingers.

  Her breath sealed in her chest and her needy heart pounded as she skimmed over the perfunctory paragraph.

  The single line, buried in the final section, stopped her heart cold. “There has to be some mistake.”

  “What do you mean, mistake?” He stood and extended his hand to take the letter.

  Instead, she gripped it firmer and read aloud. “Congratulations, on your promotion.” She swallowed hard as if working a fishbone splinter from her throat and then raised her gaze to his. “To Research Desk—Manager.”

  The last hint of Zane’s dimples disappeared.

  “Manager? Shit. You’re probably the fastest and sneakiest Runner we’ve ever had.” His indignant tone did little to assuage the injustice. “Have they gone batshit crazy?” He flung up his hands and walked around to her, parking his ass on the front of her desk.

  She scanned the page again while he fumed, her eyes dropping to the simple signature block. Her heart flash-froze.

  Sincerely–Jack Luckett, Chancellor.

  “Not they. Him.” She popped out of her chair and held her orders up for Zane to see, pointing at the bottom line.

  Anger churned hot beneath her icy disappointment. Her father never signed the promotion letters. He was sending her a clear message. Her dream was unattainable.

  Zane placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I don’t know what to say. I’m as shocked as you are.”

  She raised her sights, ready to rant, but her gaze drifted over his shoulder, landing on the lithograph hanging on the wall behind him. In it, a lone female cherubim battled half a dozen demons midflight. With her spread wings backlit by the sun, she wielded a broadsword in each hand.

  Angels never backed down. Even against the odds.

  “I refuse to accept this.” She waggled the sheet, meeting Zane’s sympathetic gaze. “And he’s not going to get away with it. Not this time. Not ever again.”

  His heavy brow furrowed deeply over his summer blue eyes. “What’re you gonna do?”

  Prudence half-folded, half-crumpled the offending page and backed out of her office door. Her heart beat like she’d run a thousand-mile marathon.

  “Fight. Like. An angel.”

  Chapter Two

  Prudence speed-walked through the empty conference room and flung open the door behind the head of the table, using the private entrance to her father’s chambers. The auxiliary passage through the back was supposed to be reserved for emergencies.

  A knock-down-drag-out with her old man definitely rated as an emergency.

  Well trained in the art of sneak, she removed her sneakers and dangled them from the fingers of one hand. It wasn’t an ambush if the enemy heard you coming. Sock-footed, focused, and full of steam, she dashed, like a skater on clean ice, down the linoleum-covered hallway.

  Her mind reeled, sorting through all the words she wanted to say. All the grievances she’d bottled up for years. Without the one thing she truly wanted, she had nothing to lose.

  The passage hooked left. She slid wide to avoid the corner, and then her sights honed in on the unexpected. So did her ears. Pulling up short, she butted into the opposite wall, her shoulder taking the brunt of the landing.

  The back door to her father’s office stood ajar as if he’d already left for the day, but a familiar voice resonated, full and baritone-deep, from the paneled inner chamber.

  Her heart dropped into her stomach.

  Dammit. Jesse. Could her day get any worse?

  Though his words were unclear from that distance, she couldn’t resist listening any more than she could stop the sweet, head-to-toe tickle of goose bumps lighting up her skin. His rich accent flowed around her, his southern drawl strumming the air like a lonesome guitar. Her neglected libido awakened, shooting happy endorphins into her bloodstream.

  It had been way too long since she’d invited a man into her bed. But she’d never seduce such an arrogant cuss. Not even if his voice could liquefy bronze.

  Today, her future was at stake, and a smart warrior-angel knew when to delay a battle. She tiptoed a step backward, intending a quiet retreat.

  Then Jesse’s voice rose in either anger or insistence, turning her feet to stone.

  He’d said her name. Jesse Thorne said her name.

  And not nicely.

  That changed everything.

  Eavesdropping was abhorrent behavior, unless accidental, which this was. And unintentionally overhearing your name could be considered an opportunity of circumstance. Opportunities deserved research, and research was an important part of the job. Shoot, it had its own department.

  A department she now managed.

  Duty before honor.

  She crept forward and stood in the shadow of the cracked door.

  “You’re being an idiot,” her father said. “Take the job in Mission Planning. It’s a sin not to apply your talents to other positions.”

  “I’m not a desk jockey. I’m not like you.”

  Mission Planning? Not Hell Runner? She crimped the paper in her hand tighter. Had Jesse been dealt a bombshell, too?

  “You have to face the truth, Jesse. No one, and I mean. No. One. Wants to be your partner anymore. Every runner believes you gave up and left Swift behind. They believe you lost your partner in Hell, and suspect you’ve lost your edge. They don’t want to suffer the same fate.” He paused. “Some say it was on purpose.”

  Silence hung between them for half a dozen beats, and Prudence held her breath.

  “Well? Was it?” Her father’s voice intoned blame.

  The accusation was absurd. Jesse had dedicated his life to saving souls. And he and Swift were as close as brothers.

  She urged him with her heart. Come on, Jesse. Talk.

  “Tell me.” Her father beat his desk, and his powerful voice rose in anger. “Where’s your partner? Where’s Swift?”

  She strained to see through the slim crack where the door didn’t meet the jamb. A reedy breath couldn’t squeeze through it, let alone allow her to spy. Wagering no one would notice, she inched the door back by the knob. The crevice widened by half an inch.

  With one eye closed, she squinted with the other, her scope of vision narrowed and consumed by Jesse.

  Jaw as rigid as his shoulders, he answered through tight lips. “You know as much as I do. Sir.”

  “No. I. Do. Not.” Her father’s voice escalated with each syllable. She envisioned Jack Luckett’s stony stare. “We used to be friends. Why won’t you tell me what happened that night?” His voice dropped from restrained anger to the upper edge of normal. “All this can be cleared up with a simple explanation, and then I’m sure you can get back in the field where you belong.”

  “I doubt it.” Jesse’s voice held a haunting tone. “You have my resignation.”

  Resignation?

  Prudence rocked back against the wall as if gut punched, clenching shoes and letter close to her body. Dad couldn’t let h
im quit. Hell Runners without Jesse would be like an angel without wings. If she was willing to break the rules and use her empathetic gift on another Hell Runner, she could read his emotional state. She wouldn’t uncover the exact truth—she couldn’t read minds—yet if she could get a handle on his feelings, it might open the door to his confidence. After all, who didn’t want to be understood?

  But she held an individual’s privacy in high regard. Her gifts were meant for lost souls and demons, no one else.

  “May I be dismissed?” Jesse stepped back out of her sight.

  Her father heaved a sigh wrought with exasperation, and she heard the castors on his chair curse the wooden floor. Paper rustled. “Once I give your resignation to the council, it’s done. I’m going to do you a favor and hold it. Promise me you’ll sleep on it,” her father said.

  “I won’t.”

  “You’re being foolish and irrational. The minute you resign, you have to pack your bags. Where will you go?”

  “Wherever the road dumps me. I’ll be out of the apartment by tonight.”

  “And what will you do? How will you make a living?”

  “I’ll manage.” Jesse’s voice was low and restrained. “I came to you with nothing. I can do it again.”

  “Jesse—”

  “Am I dismissed?”

  Her father muttered oaths unbecoming to any man employed by Heaven and dropped something hard on his desktop.

  “Am I dis—?”

  “Yes.” Her father’s curt reply released Jesse at last.

  The outer door closed with a thud, and her father groaned. “Pigheaded bastard.”

  She heard the quick slosh of liquid in glass. Scotch straight up, one finger, and no girly lime twist. Dad needed alone time. An argument with his daughter on the heels of Jesse’s resignation wouldn’t do either of them any good.

  A quick glance back down the hall confirmed her suspicions. Thanks to her sleuthy-snooping, the open door would expose her the minute she breached the shadow. But she needed to sneak back. And by sneak she meant run-like-the-devil-heard-you-laughing.

  With a sudden whoosh, the door flung toward her, pushing the knob into her stomach. Dad stormed down the hallway without the slightest reaction to her soft moan. His favorite Lucchese cowboy boots clacked angrily against the tile.