Table of Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more Amara titles… The Rogue King
Night’s Kiss
Shifter Planet: The Return
The Curse
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by N.J. Walters. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Candace Havens
Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover photography by MRBIG_PHOTOGRAPHY/iStock
Wings Created in Daz3D
ISBN 978-1-68281-547-2
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition March 2020
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Author’s Note
The world is rich in mythology. Every culture in the history of time has left a legacy—written and unwritten—for those of us who came after. As a writer, I draw on those myths, legends, and beliefs and twist them to create something totally new. So, while you may recognize many familiar creatures, gods, or belief systems in this series, this world is something totally new. Expect the unexpected. It can, and will, happen. This is a work of fiction, as told to me by the characters portrayed within the pages.
Prologue
Maccus Fury stared dispassionately at the rogue werewolf he’d just beheaded. The creature lay at his feet in pieces, the snarl still on his face exposing razor-sharp fangs. Compassion was a foreign emotion. Satisfaction for a job well done was all he needed.
That and money in his bank account.
He was one of the Forgotten Brotherhood. They weren’t the monsters lurking under the bed. They were the ones who killed them.
Stone-cold killers, they were men who had nothing left to lose. Men holding on to what little remained of their honor and sanity. Some days they failed.
The Forgotten weren’t exactly a sociable group. Like him, they’d all been betrayed by people close to them. It had left them all with a shitload of trust issues.
But they all lived by a code. Kill only those that truly deserved it and let their gods sort them out. Kill them before they killed you. Never, ever betray a fellow assassin.
Simple and easy, with little room for discussion. Because once one of the Brotherhood accepted a contract, they carried it out. There was no other option. And if someone tried to hire one of them to execute an innocent? Well, that never ended well for the one trying to secure the contract.
And whenever the urge to kill came upon him—and it always did—there was always someone in need of dying.
Chapter One
Maccus’s eyes snapped open. He was completely awake and aware. His bedroom was pitch black, but he didn’t fear the dark. It welcomed him, enshrouded him in anonymity and silence. It was where he was most at home.
It was the light he shunned.
That and company of any kind, especially the unwanted variety, like the archangel standing in his bedroom. A bright light erupted from the corner, getting brighter with each passing second. “You want to turn down the glow. I don’t need a fucking nightlight.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slowly stood, rolling his neck and shoulders to work out the kinks. “What the hell do you want?”
Once, the brilliance radiating from the archangel would have been blinding. Now, all it did was annoy him. He stared straight at the man who’d been his commander and closest friend and felt…nothing—not anger or sorrow and certainly nothing resembling affection.
His emotions had been burned away after being cast from Heaven and spending five thousand years in the bowels of Hell. He’d eventually escaped, been thrust out by Lucifer himself.
His soul? That was all but gone.
The light gradually dimmed until it dissipated completely. “You’ve changed.” Gabriel’s voice was still the same—deep and melodic. With his gold hair and blue eyes, he fit the conventional image of an angel, complete with pure white wings. What wasn’t stereotypical was the faded jeans and bright blue shirt he wore.
Maccus snorted in derision and strolled into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open while he took a piss. When he was done, he washed his hands and made his way back to the bedroom. It was early, but there would be no getting back to sleep for him now.
Naked, he made his way to the kitchen of his New York City penthouse apartment. Once, he would have feared to have such a powerful angel at his back. Now, he no longer cared. Gabriel could do nothing to him that had not already been done.
Death wasn’t something he feared. They were old friends.
I need coffee. He turned on the pot he’d set the night before. As it brewed, he leaned against the counter and crossed his arms.
The angel was perturbed. Probably because Maccus wasn’t cowering at his feet. But Maccus was one of the fallen. He no longer played by Heaven’s rules but made his own.
“I have a proposition.”
“Not interested.” Anything to do with angels or Heaven or demons and Hell were priorities on his Not-To-Do list. He’d had his fill of both.
“That tattoo on your back says otherwise.”
Maccus’s jaw tightened the slightest bit. In a weak moment, he’d had a pair of wings inked—one on each side of his spine—as a reminder of who he’d been. They also covered the scars from where his real wings had been ripped from him. But unlike the glorious white and gold wings Gabriel had hacked away, these were midnight black.
“I want you to kill someone,” the angel continued. “Isn’t that what you do now? Assassin for hire to anyone who has enough money to afford your services. The Forgotten. How melodramatic.” A sneer marred his perfect features. “You don’t even kill for a cause.”
“Not interested.” After an eternity of fighting, first for Heaven and then in Hell, he was tired. All he wanted was to live his life in peace.
Gabriel sauntered over to the kitchen counter
and sat at one of the stools that ranged along the peninsula. “Come now. Killing is who you are. It’s an easy job, really. Kill one pesky human. I’ll pay you well and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I’ll make sure you get your wings back.”
A faint hope flared inside him, but he ruthlessly squashed it. “Don’t need them.” He poured himself a large mug of coffee but offered none to his uninvited guest.
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. “I can make sure you’re off Heaven’s Most Wanted list. No more young angels trying to be the heroes of Heaven by taking you out.”
Like that would happen. He’d killed dozens of those young punks who were too stupid to realize they weren’t anywhere nearly as powerful as they believed themselves to be.
“If it’s so important, why don’t you kill the human yourself?” In spite of himself, he was mildly interested. What human could be giving the archangel such problems? Maccus wouldn’t mind meeting the man and shaking his hand.
“Humans are untouchable to angels.”
Ah, there was the truth. Maccus could kill a human without dire repercussions. Or could he? “Forgive me if I don’t trust your generous offer.” Yeah, the sarcasm was deep. So sue him. He didn’t trust the archangel any farther than he could throw him.
Gabriel reached into the pocket of jeans. Maccus manifested two knives and threw them. They slammed home with accuracy, pinning the paper he’d withdrawn to his palm.
“A little extreme, don’t you think?” The angel tried to yank the blades free, but they wouldn’t budge. When he frowned, Maccus held up his hands, and the weapons flew back to him.
“Cute trick.” He carefully opened the now bloodstained paper. “This is a contract stating that no angels are to touch you if you kill the person named here.” He laid the document on the granite countertop and flicked his hand over it, splattering it with even more blood. “It has my blood, my seal on it now, so it’s legal. All it needs is yours to be binding.” The wound on Gabriel’s hand closed.
Yeah, like that was going to happen. Still, he was curious. “Leave it, and I’ll peruse the contract when I have time.”
Gabriel’s shoulders bunched, and a bright glow emanated from inside him. Never a good sign. Maccus sighed and set down his mug. The day never started right when his first cup of coffee was disturbed.
A flaming sword came crashing toward his head. Long blades shot from his hands, the hilts settling into his palm. Muscles flexing in his arms, he blocked the attack and shoved the angel back. Gabriel flew through the air, slamming into the wall. The plaster crumbled.
Damn, it was going to take more than a coat of paint to fix the damage—another annoyance to add to the archangel’s list of transgressions.
Gabriel shook himself and stared. His former friend was used to being the strongest in any confrontation.
Maccus set down his swords, picked up his mug, and continued to sip.
The flaming sword disappeared when Gabriel returned it to the invisible sheath. He rolled his shoulders, strode back to the counter, and tapped the document. “Think about it. I’ll be in touch.” In the blink of an eye, he disappeared, leaving Maccus alone once again.
Using the tip of one of his daggers—he wasn’t stupid enough to touch it, as a paper cut could lead to a binding agreement—he turned the page toward him and read the angelic language, pausing when he got to the name of his intended victim.
“Morrigan Quill.” Not a man, but a woman. “What have you done, Morrigan Quill, to piss off an archangel?”
…
Someone had invaded her space. Morrigan didn’t call it home. She didn’t have one of those, hadn’t in a long time. These days she lived in ratty motel rooms or in short-term efficiency apartments that rented by the week.
She surged out of bed, a gun in one hand and a knife in the other.
“Glad to see you’re not slipping, Morrigan. Still as sharp as ever.” The voice was cultured and smooth, and every fine hair on her body stood on end.
“Sir.” This was Lucifer himself, ruler of Hell, and her boss. As one of Hell’s bounty hunters, she was tasked with capturing any wayward demons and dragging them back.
Even Hell had rules.
She didn’t lower her weapons but motioned to the chair. “Please sit. What can I do for you?” Very early on in her career, she’d learned it was better to be polite to the Lord of the Underworld. Her stomach churned, and bile burned her throat. The times he’d been displeased with her were the stuff of nightmares and something to never be repeated.
He was a good-looking devil, with dark hair and a lean build, and favored three-piece suits. Custom, of course. After giving the chair with duct tape patching the cushion a dubious glance, he sat and waved his hand to the empty seat across from him.
Keeping a tight grip on her weapons, she sat. Not that a knife or gun would do her much good against him, but it was better than nothing.
“I have a job for you.”
This was highly unusual. Her work details came from her immediate supervisor, Emmett, not from the big guy himself. “Sir?” The drapes were open a crack in the center, and sunlight seeped in, allowing her to see him better. He frowned. Never a good sign. Of course, it was no better when he smiled.
He tapped his fingers on the table. As he continued to beat out a rhythm, his fingernails elongated. The tapping became more like scratching. Morrigan swallowed heavily and stayed still, not wanting to draw his anger.
“You will find and kill this man.” He snapped his fingers, and a picture appeared on the table. She glanced at it but quickly brought her attention back to Lucifer. He didn’t like to be ignored for even a second.
“Not return to Hell?” Her job wasn’t to kill but to capture demons and have them deported from the world. If he was a human who’d made a deal with the devil but was trying to weasel out, then her job was the same—capture and deport. In her ten years on the job, she’d never killed anyone. Injured, sure. Maim, she’d give him that. But she was a bounty hunter, not an assassin.
Lucifer drove his hand down hard on the photo, skewering the image with one of his sharp nails. “Not this one.”
Morrigan swallowed heavily, fighting hard not to heave the contents of her stomach. “Sir, I’m not an assassin.” Capturing a demon was one thing; killing on command was quite another.
He smiled, and her blood ran cold. “You are now, my dear. Do this, and your contract is complete.”
He reached out and caught her face in his hand. Her skin burned on contact, but she didn’t dare pull away. The stink of scorched flesh stung her nostrils, and she trembled.
“Kill this man, and you’re a free woman.”
When she’d signed on for twenty-five years as a bounty hunter, she’d never believed she’d live long enough to complete her contract. And if she died on the job, she forfeited her life and would spend eternity in Hell.
Now here was a way out. It seemed too good to be true. And if she’d learned one thing when it came to working with the devil and dealing with demons, it was that if it seemed too good to be true, then it usually was. There was always a loophole or some detail omitted.
He slowly released her and stood. “Fail, and you’ll spend the remaining fifteen years of your contract in Hell.” The smile he gave her chilled her blood. “And if you’re still alive at the end of those fifteen years, you’ll be free.”
Yeah, like she’d be able to stay alive for a week on her own in Hell. Not with all those bounties she’d returned over the years actively hunting her. No, if she failed, she’d spend eternity being tortured.
“Do whatever it takes to get close to him.” He pointed at the picture and then ran his gaze over her body. She wanted to pull her legs up and curl into a ball. But he’d only make her stand, maybe even strip her naked so she would be even more vulnerable. “Anything,” he repeated.
&
nbsp; After making his position crystal clear, he disappeared in a puff of smoke. Coughing, she sheathed her weapons and waved her hand in front of her face, gagged a couple of times, and swallowed heavily to keep from throwing up. Oh, she understood completely. She was to sleep with the guy in the picture if it allowed her to get close enough to kill him.
Not willing to look into the face of the man she was supposed to kill, she picked up the photo and turned it over first. There was only a name on the back—Maccus Fury.
She slowly flipped the picture around and studied him. Black eyes glared back at her as if he was already fully aware of what she’d been ordered to do. Jet black hair was cut short on the sides, with the top long and pulled back into a short tail. The image was only of his upper body, but peeking out from beneath his shirt were several tattoos. She picked up the photo and brought it closer but couldn’t quite tell what the images were.
“What have you done to piss off Lucifer?” He wouldn’t win any prizes for beauty. His features were too rough, too rugged for that. But there was something so compelling about him, and she took a second and then a third look.
She was going to die.
A sense of inevitability filled her. This man was no easy mark, no demon drunk on a furlough to earth so he could enjoy all its forbidden pleasures, no scared human trying to hide from the devil.
He’s a warrior. It was written in every line of his body.
I’m totally fucked.
Morrigan sucked in a deep breath. She didn’t cry, had lost that ability ten years ago when she’d given up her humanity to save the only person she’d ever truly loved—her baby sister. Everything she’d been through had been worth it to save the then misguided eighteen-year-old. Kayley was now twenty-eight and out there somewhere living her life. That was enough. It had to be. It was all she had.
The picture burned her fingers, and she dropped it on the table. The paper curled as fire licked over the edges. When it disappeared, there was writing burned into the table. “New York.” As soon as she said the words, the letters faded. She had her starting point.
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