It had been a hellish night.

Blaéz pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled roughly. The guffaws of laughter, sounds of chatter, and balls clashing on the pool table in Dante’s Bar grew, adding to the cacophony in his head.

He sank deeper into his seat in the shadowed corner of the bikers’ hangout, his back to the wall, and frowned at the bit of whiskey left in his glass. His mind still on the deadly battle that occurred earlier in the night between his fellow Guardian, Dagan, and a Fallen who’d dared to claim the warrior’s mate. It had been brutal, but Dagan had finally taken care of the insane bastard.

Blaéz’s jaw hardened. Apparently, not even the sanctity of a mate-bond was safe with arseholes like the Fallen around. If anyone came after Darci, he’d detonate the fucker in a heartbeat.

The door chimed and swung opened, and as if the icy air had rushed in and froze every atom of noise, the dead silence that followed, pulled him out of his dark thought. He didn’t need to look to know who had walked inside, despite the familiar scent of bergamot and green pine drifting to him. The effect of Týr’s outrageously good looks on the unsuspecting masses was a tad amusing, considering it slid straight off him.

As the warrior strode across the cracked linoleum floor to where he sat, the din restarted.

Týr’s eyebrow rose. “Now this is strange, Celt, you idling about here since we knocked off from patrol five minutes ago.” He dragged out a chair.

“Hardly. Just needed a little time to assimilate after all the shit that happened.” He sucked back the rest of his drink, savoring the fiery trail it left in its wake.

“Hmm, there is that…” The former Norse god sprawled in his chair like some big cat, his dark eyes glinting with humor. “But, this isn’t like you. Usually, you’d be high-tailing it off to the castle and your mate.”

True. But Blaéz didn’t respond as a dark-haired waitress in heels sashayed over to them. Any more tilt on the hip-jut, and she’d probably topple over. She set another shot of whiskey near his elbow and turned to Týr. “Hey, handsome, what—”

Her eyes glazed over. Her brain had probably shut off. It took several blinks, as if to make sure what she saw was indeed real, before her cognitive skills appeared to reboot. She breathed, “Can I get ya anything?”

“Bottled water,” Týr said, frowning at the pool players on the opposite side of the bar placing their bets.

“Spring or still?”

“Still.”

“Ice or no?”

Blaéz snorted, which was lost on the dazed girl. Týr’s attention remained fixed on the biker who’d tossed a coin to start the game. “Just get me the water.”

“Okay.” She tripped off.

“Chickens, the lot of them,” he muttered. “Playing for change. I mean, a single bike? I’d bet my millennia earnings against all their bikes and win the damn things.”

Blaéz’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. That was a serious pile of dough. The ancient goddess, Gaia, to whom they’d sworn their fealty, had indeed been generous in her compensation for signing on as her Guardians. Just as well Týr picked his battles when it came to bets. He wouldn’t dare do so with any of the Guardians, he’d probably be an immortal pauper then.

Apparently, no longer interested in the bikers’ game, Týr pulled out a pack of M&M’s from his jacket pocket, dropped the candies into his palm, and looked up again. “So?”

Blaéz shrugged and leaned back in his seat. “Needed a drink. It’s been quite a night.”

“Yeah…” Týr popped the selected orange candies into his mouth and chewed, putting the package back into his jacket pocket. “It’s been a brutal one. Glad for Dag it’s all over, but bull on the excuse, man. Seriously, what’s going on with you?”

And that brought his thoughts right back to why he’d stopped off at Dante’s for a drink.

Blaéz met those rarely unamused, toffee-colored irises nailing him with a serious stare. How did he explain about the uneasiness that had been plaguing him for the last two days? Týr would probably think he was about to be hauled back to Hell again.

He asked instead, “You and Dagan good now?”

Something dark flashed in those pale brown eyes, an emotion Blaéz couldn’t quite decipher. Hell, the warriors all had personal demons they’d tried to shut off after their escape from Tartarus—he, more than anyone, knew that.

Týr didn’t respond as the waitress with the hip-tilt reappeared. She set his bottled water in front of him. “Thanks.” He dropped a ten on the table, then opened the frosty bottle and swallowed some. Finally, the snail-moving waitress trudged off.

“Yeah, we talked…” He plucked at the damp label on the bottle. “Dag and I. We’re finally back on par. Yeah…we’re good.”

Yes, both warriors seemed more at ease these days. However, neither Dagan nor Týr had volunteered any information regarding what had caused the rift between them. Blaéz didn’t ask.

“So. How goes the wedding plans?” Týr set the denuded bottle aside, squashing the wet sticker.

Blaéz frowned, moving the empty glass to another spot on the table. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing—about the wedding, I mean. It’s something I want Darci to have. But…”

“But what?”

“Hell, her brother barely tolerates me. He probably thinks with no signed document claiming us as mated, it isn’t real.”

Even though Declan had plugged his dislike and undoubtedly still thought Blaéz was too dangerous, an uneasy accord existed between them now since it made the one person they both loved happy.

“You’re soul-joined. The woman’s yours. If he’s an obstacle, then change his mind—you have the ability.”

“Right.” Blaéz grunted, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the overnight stubble on his jaw. “You obviously haven’t given thought to the fact that Darci would probably never speak to me again.” Before Týr uttered another illogical solution, he added, “Her sister-in-law, Grace, told me about the wedding scrapbook Darci kept as a young girl. I want her to have her dream, and that I can do. I don’t want to take away her humanity and make her life like ours—where small yet important matters are forgotten. Do you recall when your birthday is?”

Týr’s eyebrows drew together in a V. “I was born in the summer…I think.”

“Same. And we don’t even know the dates. You get my point?” He pushed to his feet. Ignoring his new drink, he pulled out three twenties and dropped the bills on the table. “Later.”

“I’m done here, too.” Týr joined him. They headed outside.

As they passed the bikers hanging near the motorcycles and puffing up a pungent storm of smoke, Blaéz slowed down, scanning the side street. At the sudden prickles coasting his skin, he changed direction and headed deeper into the alley instead of finding a darkened place to dematerialize back home. Away from the humans, he moved in preternatural speed, skirting the dumpsters and several fallen crates spilled in his path.

“O-kay, so we’re heading for Club Anarchy instead of the castle.” Týr’s droll tone drifted to him. “You need…entertaining?”

“Not at all.” Blaéz halted, the itch bearing down his back intensifying. He searched the dark alley with its looming warehouses. “Something doesn’t feel right, and hasn’t for a while.”

“Well, then, let’s find out what shit’s stirring and clean it out.” A dark grin appeared. “It’s been my kinda week. Blood, gore, and chances of more decapitation? Perfect.”

He shook his head at Týr’s penchant for bloody violence and surveyed the rooftops of the warehouses. “You sure have a way with words. Hallmark should be grateful they don’t have you on their team.”

“Maybe I’ll compose a sonnet for the wedding.”

Blaéz heard the smirk in his tone. “Like I want to hear your drivel.”

“Don’t knock my verse ‘til you’ve heard it, you uneducated SOB,” he retorted, and cheerfully strolled where even angels feared to tread. “Roses are red, violets are blue—”

For fuck’s sakes! “They’re bloody purple.”

“Stop with the interruptions. Don’t care if they’re pink, it’s how the damn rhyme goes. Roses are red, violets are blue, Darci’s so lovely, how in the hell did she end up with a fucker like you—” His amused gaze shifted to Blaéz. “Okay, it needs some fine-tuning, but I should be good to go on the big day.”

“Not if you want to keep your head.” His attention slid farther up the alley to the throng of people lumbering out of Club Anarchy. A flash of light hair caught his gaze and an eerily familiar sensation skated over his psyche. “Shit.”

“What?” Týr asked, scanning the crowd, too.

Without answering, Blaéz took off across the street. Since the demon bouncers knew the Guardians, he sprinted into the club, avoiding the partygoers in the dimly lit corridor, and shoved the metal door open. The pounding rock music reverberating against the walls barely made an impact as he dodged bodies fumbling about in the darkened club, skidding to a halt on the landing. He scanned the interior. Despite the imminent arrival of closing time, the place still swarmed with revelers.

“Fuck, Celt, who the hell are we chasing? At least then I know whom to kill,” Týr growled from his side.

“I’m not sure…I think I saw Finnén.”

Týr cut him a sharp look. “Your twin?”

His expression grim, Blaéz nodded, probing the upper VIP level with his mind for his kin’s familiar vibe.

“Perhaps you saw someone else who looks like him?”

“Perhaps. He wouldn’t dare show his face in this realm knowing I wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he came after us again.”

Blaéz continued searching the dim club, but with the annoying laser lights bouncing about like buzzing insects, it was damn hard to pinpoint anything. He let his senses drift through the rowdy mass, seeking the familiar smell which always made his stomach roil—one of bitter chocolate and harsh spice. His gaze arrowed in on a tall male standing amidst the crowd, near the packed dance floor. He tore down the stairs. People scattered out of his path, and he grabbed the guy by his arm.

The blond spun around, his blue eyes sparking in irritation. “What the hell, man?”

Blaéz stared at the human. Dammit! Not Finnén.

He’d been so bloody sure. He pivoted and headed for the stairs.

“Damn dickhead!” the man’s annoyed voice drifted to him despite the noise.

“Guess that was a bust,” Týr said as they headed outside.

“Indeed.” A little relieved that his kin wasn’t around and had probably heeded his warning, Blaéz headed up the alley.

Yet the sense of impending doom lingered.

Hell, it could be anything. In his long life, he’d made enemies, most of them demonkind. If only his damn precognition would reveal to him a hint of what the fuck was coming his way. At least then he’d be prepared if shit did fly.