by Megan Starks
No. Something was wrong. She didn’t want this.
The thought tapped at her like the pulse fluttering in the back of her throat—a frantic beating of escape, escape, escape. But still she mimicked his affection, unable to wrestle herself from his searing kiss.
“Can’t,” she breathed when he broke for air.
“Let’s go somewhere more private,” he said, nipping teasingly at her bottom lip. “Giseraphel, Giseraphel,” he murmured it like a prayer against her skin.
It wasn’t his accent slurring her name, she realized. When he called her that—Giseraphel—this near, the utterance vibrated down to the depths of her soul.
Marcel slid his hand from her neck, tracing over her collarbone. His fingers dipped lower, and she tensed.
Someone yanked her away. The blond man gagged, a rough hand squeezing his throat.
“Do it again and lose the limb,” Shade growled.
His muscled body pressed hard against her from behind, trapping her between the two demons. His words reverberated through her back, snarled around his fangs, brutalized sounding.
Black claws ripped into Marcel’s neck, streaking it with blood. She felt those same claws harrowing over her chest, scraping at her skin where Shade held her, pinned to him.
Her heart thumped and her face burned as she wondered when he’d found her, how much he’d seen before he’d decided to step in. What was it that had been happening, exactly?
She still felt drawn to Marcel in a way she couldn’t explain. Should she try to wriggle free, to help him?
But no, every muscle in her body protested at the thought of going against Shade, even if it was for some reason that now seemed muddled to her, and even if she was still burning, trembling from her unquenched need.
Wincing, Marcel shifted to grip Shade’s wrist with both hands. He pounded at Shade’s hold, desperate to pry free. And just like that, the spell he’d netted her with popped.
All the heat drained from her body, and she went rigid and cold.
That bastard had rolled her. She wanted to punch his Devil-damned perfect teeth in. But if things got out of hand…
“No bloodshed,” she warned.
For a beat, none of them dared to breathe.
Then, gradually, Shade’s hand slid human again. “Did he hurt you?” he asked, voice guttural in her ear.
“I’m fine. He did something when he touched me.” Her words fumbled on her lips, flustered and ashamed. And angry. “No, even before that. He—he made me—”
Marcel’s green eyes widened with panic. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to provoke Shade into tearing the other demon’s throat right out.
“You know, what? Never mind, it’s fine. Just forget it.” She tried to push for some room, palms planted on Marcel’s chest, but Shade wouldn’t budge. It was like trying to slide a parked freight truck.
Stubborn dragon.
He growled, fierce and low. “Which part should I forget? When you got mad, ran off, or kissed another man?”
For once she was glad she couldn’t see the harsh expression that accompanied his words.
“You know why I got mad.”
Did he? She wasn’t even sure she really did.
A wave of hot lust slammed into her as Marcel bucked and twisted in Shade’s grip, intent to break free. That alone was enough to make her weak in the knees, but he followed it with a stiff kick to the gut that knocked her into Shade and sent them both staggering back. She doubled over, gasping for air around a strange medley of pleasure and pain. It was excruciating, one making the other more intense.
Shade dropped the demon, eyes dark as he tilted her flushed face up to look at him. Then he reared back and clocked Marcel across the jaw so hard she heard bone snap.
The golden demon crumpled, raising his hands in defeat. “Wait, wait.” Cursing, he spat blood and poked at his swelling jaw. “My mistress only wants to talk with her. I was just going to take her upstairs to Tisia. If I don’t—” His words trailed off.
Shade looked like he knew exactly what would happen. “Just sit there. Don’t move, and we’ll follow you in a minute.” He grabbed Gisele around her upper arms. “And you—”
“What?” She hiked her chin up, defiant.
“What do you want, Gigi?” he demanded. His own anger rushed hot around him, a tangible thing. “Want me to apologize for fucking around? It’s not like we were ever a thing. You know, when we were kids. When I thought you were dead, and you didn’t even remember me.”
“No.”
It wasn’t that, painful as it was to think about. But she couldn’t accept it if he’d used those caged women, if he’d added even a shred to their torment. Even now, it had her wanting to punch something. She was one blink from angry tears.
“Want to know about the guys I’ve been with?”
He sneered. “No.”
“None of them were slaves.”
“Want to bet on that?” He pressed her palm to his brand. Held it there when she tried to jerk it away. It was her name, and it hurt to feel it beneath her fingertips.
Lightning jagged in her lungs, shallowing her breaths. She choked on a cry, shaking as she struggled harder to pull away.
“Jesus, calm down, Gigi.” He tangled a hand in her hair to keep her close. “I’ve done some terrible shit, but no, I’ve never bought anyone. I know what it feels like to do things you don’t want to, over and over again. I’d never force anyone to be with me.” He cut her down with a conceited glare. “And it’s not like I’d ever need to.”
She shoved him away, throwing his own words back in his face. “Want to bet on that?”
She’d wanted to sting him, and from the way he flinched, she’d gotten close.
He let her go, but he damn sure didn’t look happy about it.
“So fiery,” Marcel laughed. “And unconventional. You two make a hot couple. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a soul-bound mouth off to his master. And live.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t,” Shade cut her off.
He was right. What was she going to say? Denying it wouldn’t make a difference.
Marcel raised a golden-blond eyebrow, watching her with interest.
Snarling, Shade nudged Marcel with the toe of his boot. “Stand up. And keep your hands to yourself. Where she goes, I go.”
Ah, hearing him say it that way…why did it make her feel so happy? She wiped a palm on the leg of her pants, skin gone sweaty. She’d fallen for this deadly demon, wanted him like she’d never wanted another. Being with him—it felt right. But how? As co-workers turned lovers? Or as a princess and her soul-bound?
As Marcel lumbered to his feet, Shade said, “We’re here to fulfill her contract with Felicitisia, so you might as well lead the way.”
Marcel smiled. It was warm, but small and sly.
And the club went deathly silent.
“Forgive me,” the golden demon said. “But it seems she’s grown tired of waiting.”
And then he lunged for Shade.
A naked blade glinted in Marcel’s hand, and he swiped low for Shade’s ribs.
“Mistress Tisia wishes to speak with Giseraphel. But she has other plans for you, soul-bound,” he said.
Shade grunted as the silvered blade lanced across his skin, riving a clean but shallow cut. Red welled. As the crowd descended on them, he turned to her, gray eyes wide. “Gigi, run!”
Screams tore through the musky-sweet air. Hands ripped at her hair and clothes. She lashed out, but it was like trying to fight off a sex-crazed horde of zombies. She took a punch in the nose that left wet blood seeping down her lip.
Someone was humping her thigh. Strong, calloused fingers wrenched her head back, and a woman moaned in her ear. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t break free.
She writhed as a hand cupped her breast, clenching so firmly, it took her breath away. She ground her teeth to keep from joining the chorus of screams.
Shade kicked Marcel into the brick
wall, and the impact cracked a line from the golden demon’s spine down to the cement foundation. Shade’s wings ripped from his back, notching a wide gap into the crowd around him. Moans kicked up as bodies knocked into each other or toppled down. Arms reached for him, but he beat them back with a snarl.
“Gigi!”
He dove for her and began ripping at the demons who clawed and smothered her, licking and biting at her exposed skin. As soon as her arms were free, she clung to him, burying her face against his chest. He kicked the last of the hands away from her legs, hoisting her higher on his body to hold her safe. He was sweating, and his breath came in harsh pants against her skin.
“I won’t let them hurt you.”
With a harsh swoop of his wings, he tried to launch free of the mob, but found himself snared—tangled under the weight of too many groping, clinging and thrashing bodies. Growling, he flung them aside, but more swarmed forward to take the place of the fallen.
“Little dragon!”
Shade turned toward the sound of the minotaur’s voice, finding him in the crowd. Without a second’s hesitation, he hurled Gisele toward Beast’s outstretched arms.
“No!” she cried, but it was already too late.
Why didn’t they have their weapons? Why couldn’t she do anything to save herself—to help Shade? She flailed and jerked to no avail.
Beast’s massive hands had her under the arms, lifting her over the mindless fracas below. She snapped her heel into one man’s face, and his nose sprayed blood as he fell to his knees. But it wasn’t enough.
She was being pulled to safety and then pushed through an open doorway, and Shade was disappearing under a growing mound of undulating bodies.
“Shade!”
No, no, no! They couldn’t leave him! She gripped the doorframe with both hands, halting Beast from dragging her through.
“Shade!” she screamed.
But he was lost to the writhing darkness. Gasping and shuddering, she tried to remember how to breathe. How to think.
Damn her aunt for playing such a deadly game.
Someone howled in pain from the center of the room. A cacophony of voices rose behind it, a hundred keening pleas. Moans morphed to hissing and gnashing of teeth—the dissonance of chaos, of suffering and damnation. The sound of Legion unleashed.
Then the choked cries gurgled and cut out.
A sensation like electricity popped between her clenched teeth. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled against her skin.
Her fingers ached where they dug into the doorframe. Beast tugged at her, but she couldn’t let go.
The pile of demons on top of Shade exploded outward, and she saw him. For a moment, the area around him was lit blue-bright by his attack, by the arc and pop of his woven spell, and the snapshot of the scene seared into her memory. Feral and snarling, eyes black as tar and scales tracing his cheeks, he was crouched low to the ground, mid-swipe with a blood-soaked talon. Bodies fell around him, glaze-eyed and lifeless, missing chunks of flesh, lower arms or more—some of them still smiling in the throes of ecstasy. The floor bore cavernous gouges, and all four walls had splintered. The ceiling rattled in aftershock, plaster drifting from the rafters like powdered snow.
He’d unleashed a spell of mass destruction. He was planning to bring the whole damn building down.
Then she was heaved from the doorframe, and Beast ripped her out of the room.
They were in a stairwell. Gleaming, white metal risers rose for what seemed like miles above them. She craned her neck, fighting down a sudden wash of vertigo. It was impossibly high for the building they’d entered earlier. Which meant it had to be some kind of magic. A space within a space? Or a connector of time and places—like a Hellmouth, cutting through the veil?
“Only way to go is up,” Beast said, and she realized he was right.
Behind them, the door to the club’s interior had disappeared.
“You still got the Mardoll, big guy?” she asked, pressing her fingers to her lips to keep them from quivering.
Shade was fine. He would survive and find them.
They would be together again.
Beast nodded and patted a lump in the center of his chest, under his shirt. “Have shrunk head still. Also have gift from Rumble.” He grinned.
She raised an eyebrow, the normal act of conversation helping to calm her. “A kiss?” she teased. “You really are shameless, Beast. And how would Cyn feel about that, I wonder?”
He snorted and blushed, rubbing a hand through the back of his mane. “No. Yes. But also besides that. Have something for Half-blood. Something better than kiss.” Turning his side to her, she glimpsed the sword strapped to his back as he pulled the scabbard loose and handed it over. “Use to protect self. Little dragon will be fine. Or so Beast thinks.”
Throat tight, eyes stinging, she nodded, choking down a sob. “You’re right. He’s nothing if not relentless.” The cleaver rattled in its scabbard and she slid it free long enough to examine the words pulsing down its blade.
Feed me flesh and blood. Feed me, Angel. Wield me.
Great. Not only was it greedy, it had resorted to pet names. Cheeky, considering they weren’t even on a first-name basis yet. She slipped it back into its sheath with a soft-sounding schwick before settling it against her back. If it was hungry, it just needed to wait—’til she got her hands on her dear, sweet aunt.
With a determined nod to Beast, they started their ascent, one step after the next.
No door stood at the top of the stairs.
“Well, shit,” Gisele panted, breathless from the twenty-story hike. There’d been no entries onto other floors as they’d climbed, but she’d just assumed a way would be waiting for them, open, at the very top. They couldn’t go back, so they had to go forward. Right?
It was worth a shot, anyhow.
“Make a door?” she asked, drawing her sword and widening her stance.
She didn’t know if the banged-up blade could cut through solid steel and concrete, but the sword was a magical relic with a mind of its own that had been in the possession of the Curators of the Cursed. It had to be good for something.
“Could be dangerous to make own path.”
The cleaver pulsed like a heartbeat in her hands, blade fluttering a scrawl of luminescent words down its length. Gisele crinkled her nose. Of course, it would have an opinion.
Am demon slayer. Same kiln-born as Durendal. Forged for blood and bone. Tempered to kill that which cannot die.
Oh, yeah, she’d pissed it off. This was the most it’d said since it’d been tossed to her like a discarded toy in the Curators’ fighting pit. Using it to cut through a wall must be like drinking Two-Buck Chuck from a Tiffany’s crystal champagne flute. Too bad it’d ended up with a Two-Buck Chuck kind of girl.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “You must’ve been a real looker in your day. Before we do this—you got a name?”
Am Demon Slayer, Mortal Maker, Blade of Charon, The Drinker, Seraph’s Joy, and Righteous Rivener.
“Bit of a mouthful. Joy it is.”
She readied her stance, put her back into it, and swung down as hard as she could. The blade screamed through the metal, rending a gash into the wall. Beast leaned in to peer at the opening, and Gisele felt around the edges, wondering at the cold air that bled in from the darkness beyond.
She heard voices from the other side.
Whispering.
“Did you feel that?” a soft voice breathed.
“What was it?”
“Bite of an angel blade.”
Drawn by curiosity, she slid closer to press her ear to the slit, but Beast grabbed her back.
“Not so close,” he told her.
“What’s out there? It’s not the veil. Is it? Who was that?”
She looked to the sword, but it had gone silent and still in her hand.
Dark, spindly fingers spider-skittered out from the crack, and Gisele leaped back, choking on a curse. A bulbous, yellow
eyeball appeared after, rolling in its socket as it scanned up and down for her.
“Sweet Lucifer,” she yelped.
“Look,” Beast said, drawing her attention.
The metal landing had opened on each side to the left and right, spanning in long, red-carpeted corridors that split into narrower, winding hallways. The space had shifted, opening access to them after she’d tried to cut their way through.
But of course, there were two routes. And she had no idea to which destination either would lead.
“Two paths. Two endings?” Beast mused.
“Don’t tell me you think we should split up.”
Beast snorted and peered off in the other direction. “Half-blood likes to make jokes. Follow Beast, and stick close.”
She nodded, and with her blade still out, they started down the twisting corridor to the right.
The room was as dark and as lush as she’d dreamed it. A perfect memory of a moment plucked from time, even if it was one she hadn’t yet experienced. She smelled the salt and tang of carnal deeds, felt the hundreds of eyes that watched her. And she could see the twisted, wrought iron bed.
Except rather than standing in the center, this time she was on the outside looking in.
Marcel was waiting for her.
As soon as she saw him, she was staggered by a hot wave of desire. The magic he lashed her with pulled and pushed, twining around and licking between her thighs, laving her sex. Goose bumps rippled over her skin, and just like that, he looked brighter, more radiant. Charming.
But it wasn’t quite the same. She’d seen through his compulsion and was prepared to steel herself against it this time.
Plus, the incubus—she was sure that’s what he was—looked a little worse for wear. Even behind the glamour of his spell, she could see the swollen bruises that marred his face and the way he stooped against the doorframe, clutching his ribs. His shirt was rent on one side, revealing deep-gashed claw marks.
“Lay off it,” she snapped, leveling the tip of her sword in his direction. “Or I’ll slit you wide open. And I won’t cry about it either.”
“Incubus,” Beast warned him, bolstering her threat with a single word.
