by Harley James
“I’m sorry to have unwittingly brought your family to the attention of that man. And I’m very sorry that this is going to sound absurd, but your family will need to stay home under a security detail that I will pay for, for the duration of three weeks and one day.”
Until Winter Solstice when the veil between Earth and Hell was likely to reopen.
The amount of time Baal had given him to turn over his relic.
He could only imagine how ridiculous his instructions sounded, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. Baal would direct the nephilim, and quite possibly the rephaim, two classes of fallen angels, to help obtain Spencer’s relic.
And now Baal had discovered his new weakness…Sydney.
He’d cocked up dreadfully.
Spencer scrubbed his jaw. How was he going to explain? He would wipe all the Ashby’s memories as needed, but that wouldn’t change the fact that Baal would use them against him.
Sydney was laughing. “Could you be any more delusional? You come in here and—”
Her phone rang in her pocket. Checking the screen, she answered it right away. Whoever was talking didn’t give her much chance to respond.
Her face paled, the knuckles of her uninjured hand whitening on the phone. “What do you mean, you can’t wait for me? You promised the entire building was available. I plan to expand—”
Her gaze found Spencer’s as she continued to listen to what was apparently bad news.
Spencer didn’t have to know the details to guess what was underway.
Baal’s plan to squeeze him had already begun.
Chapter 13
Sydney’s hands twisted on the steering wheel, speeding up the 101, then eastbound to the Marina District where Torque had called home for the last two years.
Lee Miller, the little man with a big ego who owned the building Torque leased, was trying to renege on his agreement with her because someone had offered twice the rent she was currently paying. A potential tenant with enough money to hire a pack of sleazy lawyers who could make her contract null and void.
As if she didn’t have enough to worry about right now.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, pursing her lips. Guess who was following her? At least he’s not still at Mom and Dad’s.
The instant she had a moment, she was calling the police to put a restraining order on him. She’d fix this, and she’d fix dad’s employment problem, and she’d fix the financing for Joaquin’s medicine.
One crisis at a time.
This asshat first.
She pulled in front of the second car bay at Torque, first noticing Lee, because how could you not—he was wearing a yellow and raspberry colored Hawaiian shirt—but then…
She frowned, looking at the well-dressed man whose back was to her, talking to Lee. Something about him was vaguely familiar.
Spencer spilled out of his sports car and dashed to the pair of men loitering by Torque’s glass, iron-barred front door. Her pulse knocked in her throat. She grabbed her phone.
The man in the suit turned as Sydney stepped from her car.
“You gave me until the Solstice, you sodding bastard!” Spencer roared, bristling with that same level of aggression he had outside her parents’ house.
It was the mobster.
Sydney called the police, the fingers of her free hand curling around the edge of her car door as she waited for the operator to answer. The mobster was dressed as impeccably as Spencer, she thought inanely. “What the hell is going on?” she hollered.
None of the three men paid her any attention, which buried some of the fear under a layer of anger which she somehow tamped down as she told the police she was being stalked at her workplace. Please hurry.
Mob Man locked his hands behind his back like he was preparing to lecture a classroom of eager students. Spencer, on the other hand, looked ready to deliver a thrashing.
Or dump Mob Man’s body in a barrel of acid.
The dude didn’t look worried, however. “This has nothing to do with you, Jameson, or the lovely Ms. Ashby. I just need a new location to set up headquarters.”
Sydney’s slamming car door and subsequent approach were anything but mild. “There are dozens of other buildings in this district, probably nicer ones!” She turned to Lee. “After I took a chance on you in this neighborhood, you’re turning your back on me?”
Lee fingered his salt and pepper mustache, his shrug giving her vertigo simply by looking at his loud-patterned shirt. “It ain’t personal, Sydney. I got kids who wanna go to UCLA. That ain’t cheap, ya know? Mr. Baalor here offered a chunk of that tuition up front.”
Spencer moved his body between her and Mob Man. He turned his head to the side, pitching his voice so only she could hear him. “My offer to fund your expansion stands.”
“I’m not taking your blood money,” she hissed.
“What?” He angled his body further, but seemed reluctant to take his eyes off Mob Man.
“You’re part of the mob. Maybe even the Don himself.” Please let the cops be here soon.
Spencer grabbed her arm and pulled her aside. “Whatever you think of me, I am no mobster.”
His damn eyes. They were blue with a patch of brown on one of the irises. Don’t look at them. “Tell me this isn’t your fault!”
Something in his beautiful eyes flickered. Guilt? If it was, she felt no better for it. In fact, it made her feel worse.
“All I can say is that I am committed to helping you sort this out,” he finally said. “How much will the expansion cost?”
Clara would call this avoidance of culpability. It wasn’t a glowing character trait. Mom probably wouldn’t offer him cookies next time.
Yeah, ‘next time’ over my dead body. “My expansion is estimated at three hundred eighty thousand.” That should shut him up.
He didn’t bat an eye. “And your rent?”
“Ten thousand per month,” she spit out, loud enough to remind Lee—AKA: Hawaiian Shirt Scuzzbag—of his faithless corruption.
“That would be twenty grand if she wants to compete with Mr. Baalor,” Lee called back.
Damn. There was no way she could pay that. She’d have to move. Start over in a new location, God knew where. She’d lose most of her clients. Her shoulders sagged, and her throat tightened. “I can’t believe this.”
Spencer wrapped his hands around her shoulders. “If this went to court—” she shoved his hands off—“if this went to court,” he continued, nonplussed, “and you lost, could your business sustain the new rent at twenty grand, pay your staff, and still turn a profit?”
She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know,” she said miserably.
“Think, Sydney. You’re a businesswoman, you need to know this type of data.”
Facts, figures, projections. Tangibles. Yes, those things were easy.
She quickly calculated. “I could do it, but it would be difficult, and I probably wouldn’t be able to reinvest at a rate that would allow us to expand anytime in the next decade.”
He nodded, glancing over at Lee and Mob Man with narrowed eyes like he could actually hear what they were discussing before he looked back at her. “How much longer is your lease?”
“Six months.”
“Even if you lost in court and had to start paying the higher monthly rate, you should be able to renegotiate a lower rent in six months because, by then, I promise Mr. Baalor will no longer be in the picture.”
Oh my God, he planned to kill him.
She backed away from Spencer, looking down the street. Where the hell were the cops? “I don’t want any part of this.”
Spencer’s mouth opened, then shut. He frowned and shoved a hand through his hair. “No, it isn’t what you think. This has nothing to do with the mob or any other criminal activity.”
She continued to move toward the building. Please don’t let him follow me. “Whatever. Just leave me the hell alone.”
“Yeah, Spencer, jus’ leave her the hell alone.” Mr.
Baalor smiled like this was the best entertainment he’d had in ages.
Spencer fell into step beside her. She reached in her purse for her phone. I am never going to a nightclub again.
Of all the things she hated and feared in life, feeling like she didn’t have a choice—not having control—was the worst.
Sydney unlocked Torque’s front door, turning around to face Spencer before he could enter with her. “Please, I really want to be alone right now.”
Spencer had been watching Mob Man, but his eyes softened, the lines bracketing his mouth smoothing out when his gaze returned to hers. “You don’t have any other option if you want your brother to stay on his medicine and prevent a business setback. I’ll do whatever I can to reassure you that I’m not the mob.”
“Why would you even do this? It doesn’t make any sense.”
He raised an eyebrow, one side of his lips curving up seductively, though he didn’t seem relaxed. “Because I’m bored, and…it would be a lark.”
Huh. She shook her head, not sure what to make of that it was so preposterous. She looked down at his expensive shoes, then gave him the side eye. “You need help.”
“On the contrary. I want to offer you my aid. If Lee tries to evict you and your case goes to court, it shall degenerate into a battle royale when Baal—ah, Baalor’s—league of high-profile attorneys attack your contract, no?”
Sydney’s bravado flagged. She’d heard of other businesses who’d lost what should have been easy cases because of their opponents’ access to hot shot lawyers. In the end, they’d lost more than market share, they’d lost thousands in legal fees.
If she moved the business, she’d not only have to find a big enough location, she’d have to retrofit it with all her lifts and equipment. That would be an enormous expense, not to mention the time and customer attrition the business would suffer. And her staff all lived within fifteen minutes of here, so it was a convenient location for them.
She looked around the space that had become so much a part of her, then finally at Spencer, who couldn’t stop looking at Mr. Baalor like he was waiting for the mobster to pull a Tommy Gun out of his suit coat.
Just get rid of them. She needed some time to think.
“Fine. I accept your offer, Spencer, but I don’t want any part of you. We can communicate via text or email. Starting tomorrow.” Hopefully the court could issue restraining orders in a few hours, and she’d never have to deal with him face-to-face again.
Spencer shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be that simple.”
Her stomach tumbled. Of course it wouldn’t be.
Lee walked up to them, picking something out of his teeth. “Hey kids, I gotta go. What’s your answer, Ms. Ashby? Can you cough up the extra ten grand?”
“You can wait thirty freaking minutes.”
“My wife—”
“Thirty minutes!” she bellowed. She was acting like a banshee, but Lord, she was one heartbeat away from a meltdown.
“Call me in fifteen!” Lee left in a huff.
The son of a bitch wanted to take Baalor’s offer whether she had the money or not.
Why? She’d been a model tenant. Paid the rent on time. Took care of the building and grounds. Her business was respectable and legitimate. Who the hell knew what shell company Baalor would put in here to launder his piles of dirty money?
Interestingly, the mobster didn’t look quite as happy or at ease as before. Why did he want the place so much? Was this about Spencer, or did he legitimately want the building?
When Baalor took a step toward her, Spencer tensed, moving his hands in front of him like a shield. She wanted them both gone, but if she were forced to throw in with one of them, she’d have to pick Spencer. For all of Baalor’s easy smiles, his shifty eyes made her want to continually check behind her.
Like there was something waiting to hurt her.
Spencer had shown aggression toward another aggressor, but he didn’t seem sociopathic, or the type who’d hurt innocent people.
Yeah, right, her crime-documentary-traumatized-left-brain mocked.
Yes. Believe it, her intuitive right brain counseled.
“I have a black belt in Taekwondo and sarcasm. Move outta my way,” she whispered to Spencer’s broad back.
“Neither could save you from one such as this,” he shot back over his shoulder.
“But...you can, obviously.” She tried to step around him, but he only let her get so far.
“If I can’t protect you, Sydney, I’ll go down trying.”
Well then.
That was, without a doubt, the sappiest (some might say swoon-worthy) thing any man had ever said to her. Of course, it was also massively inappropriate considering they’d only spent a couple of hours together.
It was just a line. Stupid hormones. And stupid holes he was starting to illuminate in her life.
She was not lonely. Just busy. Building a dream meant sacrificing in other areas. She accepted that.
“Ms. Ashby, I’d only trust this fella as far as you can throw’em.” Baalor put a hand on his chest like he was making a plea. “I don’t mean no disrespect for your womanly strength, but this wiseguy lacks scruples in all his business dealings—as you may have seen earlier today when he chased me off your parents’ property.”
“We care not for those who lie with impunity. Leave this place now, Baal.”
Baal? The low, dangerous way Spencer said the name made the hairs raise on the back of Sydney’s neck.
“Or what, Guardian? You tempted to show the pretty lady what you’re made of? Go on, I dare ya.”
Guardian? If it was a mob nickname, it didn’t imply contract killer status like Iceman or The Butcher. That was something at least.
See? sassed her right brain.
Don’t let your guard down, scolded her left brain.
Where were the damn cops?
CRACK!
Baalor’s car exploded into flames, the hood flying into the air like a bottle rocket.
“Jesus!” she screamed.
“Get back!” Spencer growled, his rear end pressing her inside the building, his hands raised in front of him as shrapnel zinged past Sydney’s ears and embedded in the building’s concrete block exterior.
Spencer shielded her as she collapsed into a ball on the floor, the car hood crashing down with another wallop that sent plastic and metallic parts flying everywhere.
Sydney gasped for air and turned her head to the side, her arms curled protectively over her skull. She opened her eyes. Baalor hadn’t moved. He’d slipped his hands in his slacks’ pockets like exploding car hoods were an everyday occurrence.
Sydney licked her lips and pushed up to her knees. “C-c-call 911,” she tried, but it didn’t come out. Her throat was too dry. And Baalor was standing too close to the burning car. Close enough to burn a man.
It should.
It would.
Why wasn’t it?
Instead, he was staring intently at Spencer. His voice carried, amplified in the heated atmosphere. “Well, ain’t that something? I’d heard, but I wasn’t sure you were capable. But remember, I know all about fire, pal.”
Baalor walked away, leaving his burning car belching black smoke. Sydney’s kneecaps ached from crouching on Torque’s concrete floor, but she felt paralyzed, watching the mobster until his form disappeared around the block.
Finally, help arrived, sirens blaring. First, the SF Fire Department. Then the police. She unfolded, accepting Spencer’s hand to rise shakily to her feet.
Spencer couldn’t have caused that explosion, though Baalor implied that he had. How? Humans couldn’t start fires with their minds.
It must have been a gas leak in the engine compartment or the exhaust manifold. Or an electrical short causing a spark. Or a mis-routed battery cable, or an ignition switch glitch in the steering column?
Her mind tumbled through the possibilities, but none of the probable causes could explain the cool, detach
ed humor of the man who’d stood by while his car burned.
Baalor’s skin should’ve melted off his bones from the proximity.
Suddenly he was scarier than the tall, handsome old-world Brit shielding her from the blaze the firefighters were trying to extinguish.
She took a deep breath and looked Spencer in the eye. “What just happened here, and who are you people? No bullshit.”
Spencer’s eyes were like a darkened doorway she wasn’t so sure she should cross.
He sighed, long, slow, deep. Okay, make that really sure she shouldn’t cross.
Fuck though. Her entire family was already involved. “I need the truth, Spencer.”
“Baal—or Baalor as he is apparently going by—is a very powerful demon, Sydney. And while I am not, what I am is not so easy to explain either.”
Chapter 14
Spencer had anticipated disbelief from Sydney. Anger. Fear. Even a form of regret (like his own about getting her and her family involved, which manifested in the slightly mortifying need to retch).
What he hadn’t expected was laughter.
Laughter.
Was this why he’d been so cautious all these centuries not to share the secret of his existence? To spare himself the humiliation of being laughed at? Or had he simply not cared enough about anyone to deal with whatever the fallout might be?
Whatever the case, the little chit was still cackling.
Laughing so hard she bent over at the waist, hands on her knees to support herself, wiggling like she needed to relieve herself.
Insulting. “If you are half as religious as your Roman Catholic parents purport to be, you’d realize demons are not that outside the realm of possibility.”
She only laughed harder.
She straightened, wiping her eyes as the first officer on the scene began to walk toward them. “Thank you. Nothing like humor to relieve stress, huh?” She shook her head with a show-stopper of a smile, “Man, though, you ought to gamble. You have a badass poker face.”
He closed his gaping mouth, fortuitously spared further humiliation when the middle-aged, pot-bellied police officer pulled a miniature notebook and pen from his front shirt pocket. His name badge said DIXON.
