House of Ash & Brimstone

by Megan Starks

  She couldn’t really blame the minotaur for being on edge. She’d left earlier in the evening to interrogate Shade and figure out how best to deal with him, and returned bloodied and unconscious in his arms. She was sure Shade had explained himself—otherwise there was no way she’d have woken with him in her room, guarding her—but that didn’t mean Beast had forgiven him.

  “That night at the Curators of the Cursed. Was that you?” She felt sure she hadn’t hallucinated it. He’d been there, and she wanted to know why. Had it merely been to steal the Mardoll?

  He considered her before replying, “For every question you ask, I get to ask one in return.”

  She bit into her sandwich. “Fine. Was it you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you helping Canaan?”

  He choked on a swig of water. “Christ, no. I didn’t want you to walk out of there with the Mardoll, but that doesn’t mean I wanted you dead.”

  “But you ratted me out to them?” That was how they’d caught her on the way out of the caravan. Of course. Anger heated her cheeks.

  Now he looked cross as he wiped the water from his chin. “No.”

  Okay, maybe she hadn’t been as stealthy as she’d thought. She’d gotten caught all on her own.

  “Why do you swear to God but not any of the sovereigns of Hell?” Each Gate outside of Oblivion had a ruling family with an ancestral head of its line. But she’d never heard Shade swear to Lucifer—or any of the others.

  A hard-edged smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He kept his tone light as he said, “I realized a long time ago, Lucifer wasn’t about to answer my prayers.” But she could hear the heartbreak in his words. “That’s four questions,” he added. “Now it’s my turn.”

  She nodded, waiting. He finished off his first sandwich and moved to the second. “Favorite color,” he asked. “Favorite flower. Food. And favorite memory.”

  What was with the softball questions? She almost refused to answer, but then considered the fact that he might use her refusal to avoid whatever she asked him next. It could be a tactic to trip her up.

  Even so, she pursed her lips together before answering. “Orange. Peonies. Black walnut ice cream. And the only memory I have of my mother. She was singing to me.”

  He winced, and her pulse kicked up.

  “What? What was that for?” She tried to swallow, felt like a toothpick got stuck in her throat. “Are you saying you knew my mother? Is this another lie or the truth? If this whole time, you could’ve told me—”

  “Gigi, I can’t. I swear I would, but I can’t.”

  “There’s nothing you can say about her?”

  Jaw set, he shook his head.

  Another dead end. But his words gave her hope. If he’d known her mother, maybe she hadn’t abandoned Gisele as an infant. Maybe…maybe she just didn’t know where Gisele was.

  The things she really wanted to ask him—about how they might’ve grown up together and why he wore her name on his chest—he couldn’t answer. So instead she blew out a breath and asked, “Were there other times you helped me?”

  That night at the circus, he’d blinded Canaan with a stage light to give her the advantage in their fight. She thought back through every lucky break she’d experienced over the past several months. Every time she could’ve broken a bone but didn’t, every time she could’ve been discovered but her quarry had become distracted. “Ones where I didn’t see you?”

  “You bet there were.” His tone implied that he’d been constantly saving her butt, but she had a feeling he was only teasing her, riling her up.

  Still, it would gnaw at her unless she knew. “How many times?”

  He shrugged. “A handful. Not that many. And even then, you didn’t really need me to step in. You’re capable,” he admitted.

  She owed him another round of questions but he asked her only one. “The dreams you’ve been having…am I in them?”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment he looked hopeful—way too hopeful—as he reached for her across the table, but she pulled her hand out of reach. “How?” he asked, voice thick with need.

  She couldn’t bring herself to explain it—to admit how she loved him in her dreams. So she changed the topic instead. “How’d you see past my concealment spell the day I was chasing Samuel?”

  He curled his fingers against the tabletop before reaching for his plate. His emotions flickered away like a snuffed flame, and he chewed a bite of his sandwich to buy time.

  After a heavy swallow, he fessed up. “Tracking spell. I dropped it in your coffee at work. So I could find you when I needed to. So I always knew where you were.”

  That’s right. He hadn’t had access to drug her since he’d walked out of the office after their fight. That’s why she’d caught him unawares when she’d found his apartment.

  And that was why he’d always stopped by to tease and pester her in the mornings before giving her the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. It pissed her off that she’d been so blind. She must’ve looked so stupid, eagerly awaiting the five minutes he gave to her every morning.

  Of course, if he’d woven it into a charm—bound it to wood or metal—it would’ve lasted longer. But he had to have known she wouldn’t wear whatever he gave her.

  “Do you trust me?” he asked.

  She thought about snapping a definitive ‘no’ out of anger, but bit her tongue, forcing herself to consider the question. She shouldn’t, should she? She’d be a real idiot to. But whether or not she actually did was a different matter.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  He wilted further, seeming to accept her answer—it made sense, but it also clearly wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear.

  “Why were you so insistent I keep my DNA from the Office of the Paranormal? You put yourself in danger.” And it’d gotten him hurt. She’d gotten him hurt. Her chest twinged at the memory.

  “I don’t want to play this game anymore,” he said, shoving his empty plate across the table. “I’m done.”

  “Not done.” Beast was holding a sudsy paring knife. It looked tiny but sharp, deadly in his hand. “Little dragon will answer Half-blood’s question.”

  Lips pressing a mulish line, Shade stared at the table. At length he said, “They might’ve suspected, but now they’ll know for sure what you are. And, no, I can’t tell you. They’ll want to replicate your regenerative abilities. For hospitals or weaponization. Maybe both, I don’t know. But you’ve put yourself on their radar in a bad way. I should’ve never let it happen.”

  “I’m half-human, half-demon. What the hell could my other half be that would be so interesting?”

  He snorted. “Come on, Gigi. You’re mixed blood all right, but you’re not half anything. Who made you believe you had a human mother? Ah, well, I guess I can tell you something about her.”

  No. No, no, no.

  She slammed her fist on the table, so furious that hot tears had sprung in her eyes. “Lies! You liar! Just shut up! I won’t let someone fuck with my memories like they did with Warrick and Susanna.”

  He stood, snarling, chair scraping behind him. “News flash. You’ve already been fucked with, Gigi.”

  She stood too, but didn’t know what she was planning to do.

  These new memories she kept having—they could piss off. All of this had started because of that woman, Felicitisia Luciferes. What game was she playing? What gave her the right to mess with Gisele? Less than a week ago, she’d dreamed of a stained glass portrait of Lucifer—after a Devil of his bloodline had hired her to steal the Mardoll. Then earlier tonight, she’d discovered it was the same woman who’d forced Shade into her life.

  “It was stupid of me to think I could trust you. You keep trying to worm your way into my heart, but we both know you don’t belong there. Whatever you supposedly are to me—it’s not real.”

  The air whooshed out of him, like she’d socked him in the gut. He deflated, palms pressed to the tabletop to hold him
up. “Don’t say that,” he bit out, eyes downcast. “I don’t care if you forgot me. You claimed me.”

  He rubbed at the mark on his chest, fingers pulling the fabric of his shirt taut.

  “Maybe you’re the one with the fake memories,” Gisele taunted, wanting to hurt him.

  “An entire lifetime’s worth with the scars to back it up? No, I don’t think so. Besides, even if they were, I wouldn’t care. I’d still need you.”

  He did look to her then, and his eyes were black as tar.

  20

  “Calm down,” Gisele snapped. “I’m not going to make you break your contract.”

  Even she wasn’t that much of a heartless bitch.

  Shade glowered, looking like he’d bit through the tip of his tongue. “That’s not what I—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, growling into his palm. “Never mind.”

  He paced behind the wide table, tearing a hand through his hair. His eyes were still black, but he hadn’t sprouted wings or a tail, so that was good, right? He wasn’t going to attack them.

  “I need some time to cool off. I’ll get your car and drive it back.”

  “Where the hell is my car?” she burst out, bewildered. He stopped and looked to her, and she understood. When he’d said he’d carried her home, he’d meant that literally. “You flew us back?”

  He shrugged. “It was faster. You were… I was worried.”

  From the way Beast snorted and shook out his mane, she could guess that was an understatement.

  Crap, she couldn’t leave her car in the woods off I95. Besides needing it, there was no surer way to garner the suspicion of the cops.

  “Fine,” she said. “The keys were in my pocket, so I assume you’ve got them.” He’d peeled the blood-soaked pants off her, after all. “But Shade? Make sure you come back. I want this done with.” As Marcel had reminded her, she had a date with an impatient Devil. “I’m taking the Mardoll to Hell tomorrow, with or without you. But I’d rather it be with.”

  If he had a reaction to her words, he didn’t show it, just cracked his neck once before he was gone, pounding down the stairs.

  She ate her fill after that, five sandwiches and a bowl of fruit salad, either out of anger or the need to replenish her energy.

  She and Beast chatted. She filled him in on her side of the evening’s events, and he commented, thoughtful and cryptic as always. Then, tired and aching, she crawled into bed.

  The room was dark and cool, the dimness oppressive, but it felt good, a healing balm slathered against her skin. She dozed in and out of consciousness, honing in on the soothing whir of the floor fan in the corner next to the window. A part of her worried that the elghoul wasn’t really dead, that Vyx would come for her and she’d wake to more nightmares trying to kill her. But another part of her trusted that it was over. That Shade had seen to the demon’s final destruction, had ensured she wouldn’t threaten either of them ever again.

  Shade and Vyx had shared a master. Though it was clear Shade hadn’t liked Vyx. He’d said it was because of the things she’d done to him, that she’d tortured him at their master’s whim. Was it possible their master had tampered with Shade’s memories, made him think—what, that he’d first belonged to Gisele?—then sent him as a sleeper agent to her side?

  Maybe. But Shade had shown up months before she’d stolen the shrunken head, an artifact apparently Rhogan wanted in addition to re-acquiring his missing slave. How could he have known she’d steal it when she hadn’t even known it existed? And wasn’t this mysterious Felicitisia the one who’d really forced them into the current situation? She was the one who’d helped Shade flee Rhogan. Who’d forced him to guard Gisele in exchange, who’d entranced Warrick, hired Gisele, and was maybe planting false memories in her dreams.

  But what if the Mardoll had simply unsealed her memories? Was it foolish of her to wish it was true—that once she’d admired a smiling, dark-winged boy, and he’d cared for her, too?

  Gisele felt like a player in a larger game, one whose rules she didn’t understand.

  The door creaked as someone entered the room, and she didn’t have to look to know who it was. The bed groaned as Shade sank down onto the mattress.

  His hand stroked her back, strong fingers tracing the curve and dip of her spine.

  She twisted on her side to gaze up at him in the darkness.

  He went very still, and her eyes slid to the sword he held.

  “What’s that?” she asked, though she knew.

  It was the banged-up cleaver from the trunk of her car. The one she’d gotten from her evening of entertainment, courtesy of the Curators of the Cursed.

  She waited for her heart to quicken, but it didn’t. He’d brought a blade to her bed, but she wasn’t afraid or worried. He’d never intentionally hurt her in all the time she’d known him, and he’d had plenty of opportunities.

  “A weapon,” he answered, angling it to rest point-down against the leg of the bed. “A good one. You should keep it with you, especially when we’re in Hell.”

  “Looks like a piece of junk to me.”

  “Then you’re not looking at it closely enough.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked, telling her he had a secret she’d want to know, and that it was one he could actually share with her.

  But then his smile waned, and he hurried to add, “I know what you must be thinking. I was going to leave it without waking you, but…”

  But he’d had to touch her.

  He didn’t know she’d already been awake.

  She should have asked more, demanded he explain why he’d brought it to her—what was so special about the dulled, chipped sword?—but at the moment she didn’t care. She was far more interested in him.

  She lifted a hand and curled her fingers behind his neck. Then she pulled him down to her, and his face flooded with relief. He propped himself against the headboard, one hand fisted in her hair as if afraid she’d pull away from him. For a while she was content to drape on top of him, listening to the wild thundering in his chest.

  “I’m sorry, about earlier.” His voice was low, hoarse. He moved his fingers in her hair, rubbing her scalp. “I’m always apologizing lately, always fucking up. I forget that this stuff scares you.”

  “I’m not scared of anything,” she said out of habit, though they both knew it was a lie. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “Beast thinks you should be.”

  She kissed the t-shirt over his chest and ran her hand up the taut muscles in his side. “Beast is an overprotective mother hen.”

  He laughed and pressed his face against the top of her head.

  “I’ll die before I hurt you,” he said, and she believed him.

  She tilted her face toward his, even though it tugged at her hair. Instead of easing up, he pulled harder, filled with need for her, and she gasped, “Kiss me.”

  He did.

  His lips were warm, their pressure on hers stealing her breath and voice. She moaned, and he hooked an arm around her back, pulling her tighter against him, trapping her—but for once, she didn’t mind. Still fisting her hair, he tilted her head, angling her how he wanted her. Then his tongue parted her lips. Probed and stroked. With a groan, he sucked her tongue into his mouth until she whimpered, nipping her bottom lip when she slipped free.

  She wondered who he’d learned it from and felt a surge of jealousy.

  But then he flipped her onto her back, distracting her as he crushed her between his body and the bed. The weight felt good, and she writhed beneath him until he lifted up, panting.

  “Take my shirt off,” she said. “Yours, next.”

  He bunched the fabric of her tank top, easing it up her body to reveal milky, smooth skin. She lifted her arms as he slid it free, past her head. Then he bowed forward, tearing his shirt over his head.

  Both items ended up discarded in different directions on the floor.

  Silent, he stared down at her, drinking her in with such appreciation she shook.


  “God, you’re beautiful.”

  Heat welled in her. She didn’t care anymore if it was stupid of her. She wanted this man.

  She waited for him to move, but he only stared, breath hitched in his throat.

  “Tell me I—” He caught himself, dark eyes flicking to her face as he reconsidered his words.

  He bent close, lips brushing her ear. She closed her eyes as his hot breath puffed against her skin. He was changing his strategy, and she was reminded of how he’d uttered similar words in the woods—Tell me I can. She’d ignored his plea then, and he’d taken it as a rejection. Apparently, he wasn’t going to let that happen again.

  “Tell me what you want.” His voice was husky.

  Muscles low in her body tightened in response.

  “I want you to touch me.”

  Do it already. She was close to begging.

  “Here?” he asked, a hand hovering over her left breast. She could feel the warmth of his palm above her, but he didn’t caress her skin.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  She arched into his hand.

  His fingers traced over the swell of her breast, and he shuddered a breath. He kissed and licked and nipped his way down her throat and clavicle, until his lips found her right breast. He rolled her nipple with his tongue and worked it between his teeth, and she bucked into him.

  “Sweet Lucifer,” she gasped.

  He laughed, giving her a chaste kiss before rising up.

  “Tell me what else you want.”

  Now that he was sitting back and shirtless, she could see the mark of her name on his chest. It looked darker and larger than before, no longer obscured by splotches and scars. And that scared her.

  Somehow it had healed itself. She’d claimed him, and the mark had responded, renewing its strength. It shouldn’t be possible, but it was.

  He ran his hands over her sides as he waited for her next instruction. This man she barely knew—she had a hold on him for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand. Reasons from a past she didn’t remember, that she both wanted and was scared to accept.