by Ivy Asher
And here we go.
I hurry over to the stone mausoleum and press my back against the wall near the door. I try to listen to what’s being said, but I can’t make anything out. It’s just a low murmur of voices speaking back and forth. I don’t know what they did to make that loud noise, but they better not be breaking shit on my first night here. If they are, the cost of damages better not come out of my paycheck, or this Xena reject will be raising hell.
I try to wait for the voices to stop talking, but they just keep going on and on. It’s safe to say at least one of them likes the sound of their own voice. Seriously, who hangs out in a mausoleum? If they’re crazies trying to sacrifice a squirrel to the devil, I’m going to be so pissed.
I can tell that there are at least two of them in there, and they’re both men. That means that I’m outnumbered, but I’m scrappy as fuck, so I got this.
Tired of waiting for the assholes who seem to be taking their sweet time doing whatever they’re doing in there, I move toward the door, tensing and tightening my grip on the walking stick. After counting silently to three, I push the heavy wooden door open. I notice some intricately carved rings on the outside of the polished wood as it smacks loudly against the stone wall inside. I try not to cringe at the intrusive boom of sound that it creates. Although, if the noise scared the squirrel-sacrificing little shits, then I’ll call that a win.
I blink furiously as I try to adjust to the darkness inside the mausoleum, but when I scan the space, I only find that it’s...empty. “What the hell?”
I spin around in confusion, but aside from the closed stone coffin on the left and a pillowed bench on the right with an empty flower holder, there’s no one in here.
Confused, I walk back outside and then circle the whole mausoleum. My gaze sweeps everything around me, but there’s nothing there other than headstones and grass. Not a damn person in sight.
I check the inside of the massive tomb one more time, but it’s just as empty as the first time I checked, and the voices are silent. There isn’t a peep sounding throughout the entire graveyard other than the crickets that are chirping all at once.
I run a hand down my face and blow out a breath. “Get your shit together, Delta,” I chastise myself. It was probably my radio picking up a signal. Or the voices just carried from the event at the estate. Or my lack of sleep lately is fucking me up. That’s one of the downfalls of sleeping during the day—it messes with your natural cycle. Even my dreams are whack.
I don’t believe in ghosts, so that option goes right out the window. If they were real, my dead parents would’ve visited me at least once over the past nine years. It’s possible that there could’ve been some people behind the mausoleum before I checked it out, or my ears just picked up noise in the wrong direction entirely.
I spin slowly in place, my grip still tight on the cumbersome walking stick. Maybe I scared whoever it was away. My terrifying entrance could’ve had trespassers tucking tail and fleeing with all the noise I just made. I put my hand on my hip in thought, and my palm skims the short antenna of the radio.
Wait a minute…
“Iceman,” I grit out with irritation.
Is that fucker pranking me? I ponder that question for a moment, and the more I swish it around my mouth, the more I taste the possibility in the words. That’s gotta be it.
I yank off my radio and click it on. “Aren’t you a little old for practical jokes?” I snap into the speaker.
“What?”
“Instead of trying to scare me, why don’t you go...do whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing other than sitting on your ass and inhaling chips,” I hiss.
“What?” he says again.
I roll my eyes. “I need this job, so I’m not leaving. Over,” I say crisply before shoving the radio back into my holster and turning it to channel six instead of five, like a boss. That was the radio equivalent of blocking him and flipping him the bird, and I feel good about it.
Gripping my walking stick, I get back to work, vigilantly watching the graveyard as I pull out my flashlight to illuminate my way as the shadows creep closer. The air turns cool and quiet, and for the next few hours, I meander around, making this eighty-dollar-an-hour gig my bitch.
That is, until I hear voices in the mausoleum again.
Motherfucker.
4
I’m definitely not hearing things, because my ears are on point, so this must be Iceman or someone else still trying to fuck with me. I am not happy.
The voices get louder as I once again creep my way forward from the back of the mausoleum to the front. I have no idea how these pricks keep sneaking into this place without me seeing them, but I’m going to hand them their balls.
I still can’t tell exactly how many people are in there, but the voices are definitely still male, and this time, judging by their volume, they don’t care if they’re going to get caught. I bet Iceman and his buddies get off on this shit. All I know is, if they’re dressed in some Michael Myers masks, I’m going to junk punch them until they have no doubt about what their ball batter tastes like.
Pissed, I shove my flashlight into my holster and then tightly grip my walking stick in both hands like I’m about to swing at a baseball. I take a deep breath and charge to the door, letting out a piercing warrior cry as I run. On the outside, my don’t fuck with me face is in full effect, but on the inside, I’m cringing because, not only do I look like skirtless Xena, but now I fucking sound like her as I lalalala-scream my way inside.
I bust the door open like a total badass—anticipating the boom this time—and revel in the she-yell that now bounces off the walls of the enclosed space.
I lurch to a stop, staring at the three figures inside the mausoleum. They freeze and whirl around at my entry, and I squint in the dim moonlight as I take in the three men who are very obviously not the prankers or possible punk teenagers I was expecting. These three are all man. Even in the dim lighting, I can see they’re ripped and beefy as hell. They also don’t seem the least bit concerned about little old weapon-wielding me.
“Seriously, why are these Quīnque always so damn dramatic? Wonder how long this one will last?” one of them casually asks, looking me up and down. He has buzzed ghost-white hair and really pale skin, while his tanned blond friend looks like the kind of guy who spends a lot of time at the beach and says dude a lot.
I force myself to blink a couple of times, because I swear, the tattoos on the tall white-haired man’s arms just moved. When I focus on them though, they’re immobile, just like they should be. The lighting in here is messing with my eyes.
“We’re lucky we got anyone,” the surfer guy replies, totally nonplussed by my menacing presence. “Hmm. A female this time? That’s different.”
“Both of you sit still and shut up,” the third man says. He’s beefy with black skin and bright orange hair. And when I say black skin, I mean as dark as onyx and just as smooth. “Is she...does she see us?” he hisses out of the side of his mouth.
I do my best not to get hypnotized by his oddly colored hair. It looks orange, but there’s also some red and yellow streaks in it, and the roots are unusually black. It looks like slow moving lava. His colorist is clearly very skilled.
The white-haired man snorts and looks over at the others. “No, we’re fully warded,” he scoffs. “Quīnque can never see through those. She probably just senses something.”
I don’t understand why he keeps saying kinky, but I’m getting sick of them talking about me like I’m not here.
Surfer dude squints at me. “Wait...she is looking at us like she can see us,” he says, and he starts waving his hand from side to side like he expects me to follow it with my eyes.
I roll them instead. “Of course I can fucking see you, dimwits,” I say.
He looks shocked, his green eyes widening at my declaration. “What?” he asks as he takes a step closer to me and pushes back some long wavy blond strands out of his face.
“I
said I can fucking see you. Obviously. If you were trying to play hide-and-seek, you suck at it,” I retort.
These guys are way too massive to be stuffed into this tight space, but I still can’t piece together how they got in here in the first place. Are they lost party guests or assholes trying to give me a hard time on my first night?
I run my gaze over each of them again. They’re dressed too casually to be hitting up the kind of fancy shindigs a place like Perdition Estate is bound to throw. So my guess would be that they’re Iceman’s friends and they’re trying to fuck with me.
“You assholes are trespassing on private property. I suggest you leave, or I’ll call the cops,” I lie. “Oh, and tell your Iceman friend that this was not cool,” I say, tightening my grip on my walking stick.
The three of them exchange a look of confusion, and for a moment, I can’t help but appreciate how hot they all are. Not in a normal way either. I’ve had hot guys flirt with me all the time at the bar, but none of them looked like this. These three are striking. Their looks scream freaky, but in a hot, I bet they’d rock my world kind of way. Even the more normal looking surfer dude has a certain vibe about him. They’re all over six foot, look like they’re in their late twenties or early thirties, and have this intensity that seems to ripple off their very well-developed muscles.
Surfer guy whistles under his breath. “Well, fuck me. I thought we got another Diluted or a Quīnque. How’d we get an Inner Ring?” he asks the others. “And a Derek Jeter fan,” he adds, nodding to the batter-like stance and grip I have on my walking stick.
The other guys shrug, looking just as confused. I have no idea what the hell they’re talking about, and I’m intimidated as hell as they study me like I’m something they want to shove under a microscope. My grip tightens on the stick, and I back up a step, ready to get the fuck out of here and radio Iceman. “You guys need to get the fuck out of here, or the cops will be on your ass.”
Lava hair snorts and waves me off like he couldn’t care less about the threat, his orange eyes looking at me sardonically. “Now, now, Warrior Princess, calm down. We all know you’re not going to call anyone. Especially not a bunch of mortal cops.”
I narrow my eyes at the nickname and then go still at his words. Iceman must’ve told him the no calling the cops rule. I open my mouth to say something, but he takes a large step toward me.
I react on instinct.
I swing the walking stick at him, aiming right for his side. I doubt it will do much damage, so I mentally prepare myself to run my leather-clad ass away immediately after I give him a good smack, but what I’m not prepared for is for the walking stick to suddenly warm up in my hands, and for a huge curved blade to pop out at the top of it while another shorter dagger pops out of the bottom.
What the fuck?
My walking stick-bat just became a weird ass spear knife...thingy.
So I do the most logical thing a girl can do when something like that happens. I stop the trajectory of the swing by squealing like I just saw a spider, and then I try to chuck the brutal transformer weapon as far away from me as I can. Clearly, this thing has stab-a-man cooties.
Unfortunately, this brilliant move of mine only results in panic from everyone as the blade-tipped stick ricochettes off the ground and then bounces up haphazardly, forcing everyone to scramble away to keep from getting stabbed. The three guys shout at each other about keeping clear of the blade, and luckily, the thing eventually clatters to the ground without so much as nicking anyone.
“What the hell?” I demand, half to them about their presence and half to the walking stick that just betrayed me. I stare at the wickedly sharp, curved blade that sticks out of the end. The thing has to be longer than my arm, and I can’t figure out how the walking stick possibly sheathed that blade. It’s too damn thick, and the wood is too damn thin.
Surfer dude’s bright green eyes go even wider as he runs a hand through his long blond hair. “Did she just activate a scythe?” he asks. “She’s gotta be a Trēs Ring at least, right?”
The tattooed, white-haired man narrows his eyes on me. “Who are you?” he asks, his black eyes bouncing from the curved blade to me. “And which Ring of Hell did you track down that thing in?” he demands.
I draw up my shoulders like I’m not inwardly freaking out and hella confused. “I’m Delta Gates, the new security guard. And if first day on the job counts as a Ring of Hell—and it should—then that’s where I got it from. Who the hell are you?” I retort as I fumble and struggle to get my radio detached from its holster on my belt. This whole thing just quickly went from I got this to red alert, I almost stabbed someone. Over.
“We own this gate. Obviously,” he replies, crossing his arms in front of him.
My eyes widen in alarm. Oh shit, I just accidentally tried to stab my bosses!
Panic surges through me, but I quickly drown it out with anger. “Well, you could’ve warned me that the walking stick was actually a weapon. Really, you only have yourselves to blame,” I growl at him. Since I’m pretty sure they’re about to fire me, I add a cherry on this shitshow sundae. “And what the hell is up with the uniform?” I demand, motioning to my pants and boots.
All three of them instantly drop their eyes to my feet and then do a slow, appreciative perusal of the tight leather pants I’m tucked into. Wow, if they’re reacting like this just to the pants, I wonder how they would’ve looked if they saw my girls trapped in that top.
I clear my throat, not liking the way I get all warm from their attention. I grapple with my good sense and kick away the horny side of me that’s trying to come out to play. Now is not the time.
“If Xena is your kink, you’ll get no complaints from me,” White Hair remarks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smartass smile.
I gape. “You think I picked this out?” I shake my head adamantly. “No. This is your gate, and this uniform was left for me. Clearly labeled,” I add, yanking up the flashlight and showing them the name tag that’s still there. “I just had to forgo the top because it was even worse than the pants.” I won’t even get started on the arm guards.
The three guys smirk, sharing a little inside joke. I’m not amused. “Hmm. That one is ancient. I don’t think we’ve even seen the female uniform in...what is it...ever?” Surfer guy muses to the others, and they nod in agreement. “Yeah, ever,” he confirms. “But the old uniform the males wear is leather too, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t,” I retort. “So was this a test or some kind of initiation?” I ask, motioning around the mausoleum. “Because if you wanted to see if I was alert and doing my job, you could’ve just installed night vision cameras and spied on me like normal people,” I tell them. “You shouldn’t hire employees and then pull this shi—stuff,” I quickly amend.
They aren’t paying any attention to my words anymore though. Instead, they’ve huddled in a boss-only circle and have started murmuring to each other back and forth. I try to listen in, but I realize quickly that they’re actually speaking a different language. German? Russian? No, that’s not right. I strain to listen, trying to pick it up, but I swear it sounds like a mix of Klingon and Orc. Fucking weird.
While they’re doing that, I reach down and grip the walking stick, trying to yank it up where the blade has embedded itself into the floor. The fact that it managed to pierce through the stone is a bit alarming.
I feel like I’m King Arthur trying to pull the sword out of the stone, because even though I try to wrench it free, the thing barely budges. I look over my shoulder at the hot man huddle, making sure they’re not paying attention to me before I grip the blade-tipped, not-a-walking-stick scythe with both hands. I plant my feet and stick my ass out as I try to use all my lower and upper body strength to get the damn thing free.
Gritting my teeth, I pull with all my might until it finally pops out, sending me flying backward on my ass. I land with a jolt, only to realize that the blade has now disappeared again. I star
e at the thing in complete awe and confusion. There is no way in science’s right mind that this stick is somehow hiding the big blades that existed on both ends of this thing just two seconds ago.
I rub my ass as I get back to my feet, looking over the dormant weapon. There’s gotta be a button or something. Maybe it’s like a giant-sized version of a Swiss Army knife, and it’s collapsible somehow. Yet, as much as I search, I can’t find any kind of release button, lever, or shifting metal ring that could act as the trigger for the weapon. I have no idea how I made the blades swing out. Maybe it was the Xena yell.
When the steady murmuring that was slowly leaking out from my hot freakshow bosses comes to a stop, I make a note to circle back to this whole Swiss Army scythe thing.
My bosses all turn to me as one. “So, Delta Gates...” the tattooed, white-haired guy says to me, his eyes dipping down to my name tag like he’s double checking he got it right. Either that, or he’s checking out my rack.
“That’s me, Mr.…” I trail off and lift my eyebrows in question. I wait for him to fill in the blank and supply his name.
“I’m Echo,” he smoothly offers, the corners of his lips tilting up in a self-assured smirk. Yeah, he definitely knows what he’s working with in the looks department.
“Pardon?” I ask demurely.
“Echo,” he repeats again, and I fight off the smile that wants to sneak across my face at making him echo his name.
He quickly catches on and gives me a look that says I’m not amused. Well, that makes one of us.
I turn my attention to the surfer dude. “And…”
“Crux,” the blond quickly supplies, and I try not to let judgment seep into my gaze.
These dudes have weird fucking names.
I look to lava hair, and I swear to fuck if he says his name is Shadow or Twilight Sparkle or some shit like that, I won’t be able to stop myself from laughing, and I’ll probably get fired for insulting him.
“I’m Jerif,” he informs me, his voice a deep rumble. Yep, that one also goes in the unusual column. Then again, my name is Delta, so I guess I can’t really be too judgy.
