Zander stared down the rosewood table in his dining room. His night had gone into the shitter. He’d beat the streets with no leads on Kyrian, Danel had been hijacked from his internet search by a walk-in downstairs, and when he’d returned home, he found that Austin and Stetson had moved into the spare room across the hall for the night.
“What do we know for sure?” he snapped. He avoided a glance to the empty chair to his left. The faces staring back at him looked just as frayed and frustrated as he felt. “Any luck with Drake at the RedRum?”
Phoenix scowled and raised his hands to speak. That guy is one paranoid asshole. He came to us looking like Hannibal Lecter. I guess we were supposed to fear that if we crossed him, he’d have us for dinner or some shit.
Bo laughed. “Like with some Chianti and fava beans?”
Brennus pointed to Seth, shaking his head. “You’d be boot leather, lad. The arsehole would have to marinate ye both for a century first.”
Seth raised his middle finger. “Regardless, we explained the situation with Kyrian, and the guy said he’d make it his mission to search the Hell Realm for info. Apparently, the night Kyrian disappeared, Drake met him at the Rum and told him that he thought Shedim were behind the Eaton Centre shooting. Gave us another interesting tidbit too.”
Zander leaned his elbows onto the table. “Do tell.”
“Apparently, the baddest of the bad are having a sit down later this week, in Purgatory’s neutral zone. The heads of all the worst Darkworld races gathered in one shiny temple.”
“Nice.” Zander looked to Danel’s empty chair and cursed. “Can we wrangle an invitation to the ball? Anyone know our rights here? “
“None,” Danel said. The Persian stepped through the stained glass doors and pointed to an empty chair down the table. A gawky Asian kid, weighed down by a black backpack, shuffled to the spot and sat down without a word. Wide-eyed, the kid wrapped his skinny arms around his bag like it was a life preserver and he’d just been thrown in the deep end. “Our presence at a private function held by the Dark Prince could be considered an act of insubordination. If he found it an offense in any way, he’d be within his power to pink slip the lot of us.”
“But if there’s an organized meeting of Dark leaders, shouldn’t we be allowed to see what’s going on? We’re the fucking policing force here.”
Danel scowled. “I’d say no, but I’ll do some digging.”
“You do that,” Zander said, thoroughly distracted by the kid at the end of the table. “But before you hurry off, would you like to share what you brought for Show and Tell?”
“Boys, meet Ringo, he’s here to help us find, Kyrian.” As the bodies in the room shifted in their seats, Danel nodded. “I’ll let him fill you in. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
The boy ran a tentative hand over the shaved side of his head and flipped his bangs from his face. His gaze ping-ponged from one warrior to the next as his freak-out ratcheted. A gathering of Nephilim could be intimidating but they didn’t have time to inspire a Hallmark moment.
“So, yeah . . . hi. I, uh, well, it all started last year in my grade nine art class. I go to Brockview Tech in upstate New York, where I live with my aunt and uncle. So, there I am, in class, and we’re supposed to draw a comic strip. You know, like thought bubbles and action scenes, and stuff . . . so, I’m drawing and drawing and, well, this happened.”
He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a stack of hand drawn and illustrated comic books. Walking up the length of the table, he tossed them in front of the men. “This one was my first, but then I got on a roll. See, this one is Seth-tastic and has this wicked scene where the hero fights a Djinn and falls from a rooftop. He smashes through the top of an old, creepy, greenhouse and breaks his ass. It’s hysterical.”
“Coccyx,” Seth corrected snatching the book and scanning the pages. “And not so hysterical.”
Brennus leaned forward and picked up another with a fiery Celt brandishing his dagger on the front cover. “Fuck, we’re all in here. How—?”
Zander stood and fingered through the stack. Yep. He was there. Tanek. Colt. Shit, this was their lives and battles, recorded and lain out for anyone to see. He turned his sights on the walking exposure and the only thing that kept him from strangling the kid was the shade of pale whiskey-gold eyes staring up at him.
“How is this possible,” he asked, turning to Danel. “How could he possibly know this shit and come find us?”
“He’s a scribe, Z, like me. But instead of language and history, he’s a precog. He’s been dreaming about us since he hit puberty and the closer he gets to his age of transformation, the stronger the pull to his brothers.”
Shit. He’d never met a Nephilim before his transition. They’d all battled to survive, scraping their way through dangerous lives until the Powers came to collect them at fifteen. This kid was ahead of the curve. “So, how’d you figure it out? How’d you get here?”
“Oh,” the kid said. “So, a few months ago, I was surfing the dark web.” He looked up, his mouth hanging open. “Uh, don’t tell my uncle about that. He already hates me. Anyway, I’m scrolling along and see this gnarly video of one of my characters getting dissected. I almost pissed my pants. It was Tanek, my Tanek, getting diced in real time. I got wondering—if I wasn’t totally crazy—if maybe it was real. I knew about O-Zone, so I looked you up.”
Seth grabbed another book and handed it off to his brother. “Is this kid for reals? He’s tapped into his gift two years before transition? Damn, he’s going to be a fricken force once his juice gets flowing.”
No doubt. “So, fast forward to the part about Kyrian.”
Ringo looked up at him, his eyes dancing with excitement. “So, this is real, right? I’m part of this, somehow?”
“We’ll discuss all that later. Right now, I need to know about Kyrian.”
Ringo dug back into his pack and brought out a pad of artist paper. “This is a work in progress, so don’t judge.” He flipped the cover up and over the back, and handed Zander the unfinished drawings.
Zander stared at the penciled image of Kyrian wall-banging a leggy brunette in one of the private bathrooms at the RedRum. In the next frames, he was starfished down on the tile. Good Night Kiss, he read in the bubble.
On the next page, Kyrian hung from those bloody wrists, but wasn’t too bad off.
Not a brunette, I see.
That was for your benefit. I learned you have a particular affection for brunettes.
His beast surged forward at the implication and he had to turn the page. This wasn’t about Austin. Or his jealousy. This was about saving his BFF.
On the last page, Kyrian hung by stumpy, bloody wrists, dagger hilts and syringes sticking out of his body at odd angles like he was a human porcupine. His face was battered, his eyes swollen shut. Annnd that was it. He flipped the page. The next one. Nothing but blank ivory paper. “Where’s the rest? Shit, kid, where in Hell is he? Who’s got him? When was this? Is he dead or alive?”
Ringo shrugged. “He was alive last night. That ginger-haired woman with the yellow eyes left him to be tortured by the guy Kyrian calls the Hulk. She’s the one who ordered the shooting on your wife too. She lives in an old-fashioned castle in Hell somewhere—calls it Castle Wandread.”
Zander squeezed the kid’s shoulder and handed him back the pad. “You did well, son. This is a big help. Excuse us, and go sit on the couch for a bit.”
“Lad,” Brennus piped in. “Take a wee nap, will ye? See what else ye can find out.”
When the doors bumped closed, Zander turned his attention back to his men. “Danel, you vet the kid’s story. I believe him, but if he’s going to be in this apartment with Austin, I want every detail of his life. And on that note, Hark, summon the Choir. I want two members tending to Austin full-time. A male to guard her and a female to help around the loft. I can’t keep taking you off patrol to watch over her when I’m on the streets. She needs a designated bodyguard.”
Seth laughed. “Oh, she’s gonna love this. Can I be there when you tell her?”
Zander growled. “No, you can get back in touch with Drake and tell him what Ringo said about the Shedim female and the castle where she has Kyrian.”
“Okee dokee.”
“Danel, you start asking around. I want to be on the guest list of that party in Hell, and I want to know what’s on the table. If this Shedim bitch is picking up where Stryker left off, she might just be solidifying her coo. I want to know where this castle is, so we can pay them a visit.”
“Done deal.”
As a grumble of male approval filled the room, Zander gestured to the Celt next. “Brennus, what did you and Bo find out about the weapons from Azazel?”
The warrior sat forward, the light catching the long red braid swinging beside his bristled cheek. “He has something in the works—something wicked lethal that he’s putting the final touches on. It’s going to cost us, but he said when we were outfitted properly, he’d be changing the balance back to us driving the herd.”
“Did he elaborate on the ‘cost us’ part of that scenario?”
Bo lowered his cigarette and exhaled. “Yeah, said he wants a ‘get out of jail free’ card, plus two trips past Go. That angel is one shifty motherfucker. Who knows what that translates into.”
“Well, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. What about who’s forging the Demon-steel blades. Did the fallen have any insights into that?”
Bo shrugged, his jaw muscles clenching. “Azazel studied the samples we took him and said that by the craftsmanship, he’d guess that it was one of the ancient Blood Dwarves.”
The room broke out into a raucous of speculation at the mention of Blood Dwarves.
“One of? How many are we talking about?”
Bo shrugged. “They’re a secretive species. Could be dozens. Could be thousands.”
Zander cursed and scanned the kid’s notebook. Kyrian looked bad. And since the Shedim were the ones with the All Access pass to Watcher killing weapons, he’d bet every one of those hilts sticking out of him was a red alloy dagger.
Heaven and Hell, what a mess. Keep your head down, Adelphos, we’re coming.
Cassiane squeezed the bloody cloth over the basin and resumed her ministrations. The Watcher was unconscious or perhaps sleeping, she couldn’t be sure. The shallow stutter and hitch of his chest assured her only that he lived. In the mere twelve hours since she’d taken responsibility for the prisoner, she marveled at his body’s ability to regenerate. The whipping weals had scabbed, and then scabs had fallen. The only puncture wounds remaining stemmed from where Dougal had removed those strange red daggers.
Those still oozed a milky, bloody goo.
There were injuries inside him as well, she suspected. During the moments he’d emerged to consciousness, he tried not to show weakness but with each wince and grimace, she sensed his pain. That connection unsettled her more than what she’d been party to in the name of vengeance. How could she possibly feel anything beyond hatred for the man who killed her father? Was it his blood warming her veins? Guilt for her part in an act of torture?
“Here you are, Mistress,” said Edmund, a leaner, less worn version of his father, Dougal. She nodded to the table in the corner and the boy set down the tray of broth. “Is there anything more I can fetch for you? You must be famished yourself.”
Actually, she wasn’t. Though Nephilim blood was said to be poison corroding their rotten insides, the call of his blood had overwhelmed her in that moment of passion. It was a reckless impulse, which could have made her very ill, but she’d never felt stronger. She stepped over to the table, exchanging the bathing basin for a bowl of broth. “Nothing for me, thank you. Go now, dine with your family and come back afterward. If you could bring clean water and a fresh cloth with you then, I would appreciate it.”
Edmund picked up the blood-soaked fabric and scarlet water, eyeing the Watcher lying deathly still on the cot. “Is it safe, Mistress? Should I send a soldier down?”
Cassiane shook her head and tapped the inhibitor collar now clamped around his neck. “The prisoner can’t access any Otherworldly power or dematerialize while this collar is in place. He is no threat in this condition. Now, do as I ask.”
Edmund bowed his head and stepped into the outer cell. After a last worried glance, he frowned and took his leave.
Shifting her skirt beneath her shins, she settled onto the stone floor beside the cot. The surface of the broth sloshed in an easy golden tide and then settled once the bowl and spoon were laid on the low stool. She stroked the contour of his arm and her skin tingled warm.
“Watcher, will you rouse to eat?”
Sweet Prince, the heavens had chiseled the fighter with the precision of a master sculpture. From the rounds of his broad shoulders to his thighs and calves banded and cut with granite hard muscles. He didn’t possess the colossal physique of Devious or some of her other hunters. Instead, he had grace. The lines and ridges of his body drew an appraising eye over every olive-skinned, taut inch.
His body ran warmer than she was accustomed to. Whether that was the biology of Nephilim or fever, she knew not. Her fingers ran an exploratory path down his chest, over the definition of his abdominal muscles, to the fine hair that disappeared beneath the sheet covering his hips.
“If you’re playing naughty nurse, the payoff is a few inches further down.”
She gasped and withdrew her hand. “I, uh . . . you’re awake. I have sustenance for you.”
He blinked a few times, as if clearing his vision. “Pass. Laced with poison, I’m sure.”
She couldn’t blame him for the hostility. “It is a simple broth, I give you my word.” She rose to her knees and swirled the spoon in the clear, gold liquid. Lifting the spoon to her own mouth, she sipped a spoonful. “Nothing to fear, Watcher.”
He shifted a hand across his belly and winced. “Kyrian. Call me Kyrian. Watcher is my designation, not who I am.”
She stared at his clenched jaw, his dark brown brows crimped into a harsh line. She too tired of people calling her Mistress. It made her feel isolated in a castle filled with more than a hundred people. “Here, let me feed you.”
He turned his head and struggled to sit. The effort didn’t last long. He was far too weak to lift the heft of his warrior frame. He growled a low, menacing sound vibrating from his chest. It resonated inside her, tightening her insides. “I’m not a child.”
“No, but with your hands secured to those boards, you can’t hold a spoon.”
He glanced down to the splinting boards Dougal used to secure his fingers and hands. “At least you left me with both my hands. I suppose I should thank you for that.”
Cassiane didn’t understand his tone, but wasn’t interested in sussing out his every thought. Dipping the spoon into the broth once again, she held it to his lips. He glared at her and something violent flashed briefly in his pale green gaze. A moment later, it was gone.
“What is your name?” he asked, accepting what she offered.
They fell into a rhythm then, her dipping the spoon and him relenting on his scowl long enough to open his mouth. “My name is irrelevant. I am Mistress of this castle, and you are my prisoner.”
“You aren’t my Mistress—” Amusement rocked his chest and belly, his muscles tightening and releasing as he chuckled. “Well, technically you are, if we count what went down in that bathroom.”
Having him laugh at the most shameful moment in her life struck her as sharply as a slap to her face. She focused on the bowl in her lap and fought back the tears stinging her eyes. He could destroy her, destroy everything her father built and wanted for her. All because she had lost control. Let his raw, carnal sexuality overwhelm her.
“Hey there,” he said, his voice husky and low. “Look at me. Please.”
She lifted her head and his eyes burned with emotion. “I don’t remember everything clearly about what happened between us. Maybe it was the drug in my system, the gallon of booze I downed before you got there, or maybe it was the days of torture since—but I remember the look on your face afterward. You accused me of taking more than I had right to.”
She swallowed and blinked quickly. “Yes, well, there’s naught to do about it now.”
They sat there, the world outside their gazes dissolving into a great, silent void. He lifted his hand, but then seemed to remember the board and cursed. “I understand regret but friend, foe, or complete stranger, I have never—would never—violate a female for any reason. My memory recalls things differently, but if you feel violated by me . . . shit, I am so very sorry.”
“Do you intend to use it against me? Threaten to expose my humiliation in exchange for your freedom?”
Hurt flashed in his pale green eyes. “You think that’s what this is about—what I’m about? Despite anything you’ve been told or concocted in that head of yours, I’m not a monster. I stand for a great many things, the abuse and blackmailing of females appears nowhere on the list. What happened between us was private. Whether we regret it or not, it’s nobody else’s business.”
She brushed the moisture from her cheek. “You almost sound sincere.”
In the past week, she’d thought of little else but those moments in that bar. What she could have done differently. She’d set the tone of their meeting and drugged an already drunken male. She knew what condition he’d been in. She wouldn’t deny there was fault on both sides. “If you swear never to use it against me, I shall accept your apology.”
He shook his head and pegged her with an agonized glare. “On my honor, I do so swear.”
Cassiane wiped her cheek with her sleeve and swallowed. Her throat was too thick to speak, so she focused on breathing.
He slammed his head back against his pillow a few times and exhaled. “Christ, this is such a fucking mess.”
She set the bowl down before she wore the soup in her lap. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
They stayed like that a long while, him tense and refusing to face her, and her crying silent tears. Though she thought it wrong to use her abilities on those not of her race, she reached out with her darker side and violated his privacy. The chaos of his emotional matrix confused her more than his words. Sadness and pain intertwined with regret and physical exhaustion, doubling and doubling again, folding in on itself until she wondered how he could breathe with the crushing weight of it. Yes. He deeply regretted their situation and though it wouldn’t help her if Devious or one of the others found out he’d taken her, it did help her.
Tugging the ties of his braces, she freed his hands from the splints and set them on the floor. As he flexed and stretched his fingers, she stood and made her way to the cell door. After swinging the iron gate shut, she tested it’s hold.
At the threshold to the corridor, she paused. Without looking back, she spoke over her shoulder. “Cassiane. My name is Cassiane Elizabet Thomasine. Now, eat your soup. I want you standing tall and healthy for your execution.”
Kyrian followed the sound of her steps dissolving into the distance above. Cassiane. Fitting, he thought, considering the color of her hair. The origin of the name was Greek and meant cinnamon. He envisioned her warm, ginger-brown tresses bouncing around the cherubic face of a newborn child. She must have been the pride of her people when she arrived. Before being groomed to poison and torture people, of course.
Meh, nature versus nurture and all that.
He shifted and regretted the relocation of his limbs. Every muscle, bone, and cell hurt. Even his bruises were bruised. He reached up and gave the collar biting into his Adam’s apple a tug. Stupid. Fucking. Shedim. The collar would not only keep him trapped, it would also block his ability to heal at any rate beyond a snail’s pace.
He shifted his legs beneath the sheet at his hips. Stiff. Sore. Nothing he hadn’t felt ten thousand times before. He swung his legs to the side of the cot and set them on the warm, stone floor. At least having a dungeon in the Hell Realm ensured you never needed bunny slippers to keep your feet toasty.
The broth was cool, bland, and rather salty, but he tipped the bowl and gulped it down. The female was right. He needed to regain his strength and ready for his next battle. Somehow though, he doubted his greatest conflict would have anything to do with daggers and fighting daemons. If he was right, the hum buzzing like an airliner in his head and the pulsing of his cock meant he had fucked himself into one hell of a predicament.
Stand tall for his execution. His beast paced within him, anxious and on edge. Could she really exact her pound of flesh from him? This Nephilim bonding insanity was new, but didn’t it mean she suffered the same pull as him?
He chuckled. Just his luck that his beast bonded with a hater who wanted him dead. Maybe he could fuck someone else and get a mulligan. If he lived that long.
If he didn’t, Zander would set things right. He’d see beyond their falling out and put Cassiane and her entire band of Shedim bastards down for what they’d done to Austin and now to him. He almost felt sorry for the bitch.