by Heather Long
The tease edging around the address pulled a chuckle from him. “I thought I was your asshole.” As incensed as the insult in that word had been in the beginning, he’d grown rather fond of it, especially when she got possessive.
“You’ll always be my asshole, don’t worry!” Laughter eddied up out of her, but she sobered nearly as swiftly as she looked out through the hole in the wall. “I just wish…”
When she shook her head and didn’t finish the thought, he frowned. “What do you wish, Hellion?”
“If Heaven is a real place, then so is Hell…and I kind of wish I’d been born in the other instead of where I was, I guess. I mean, I’m pretty sure I was born here on Earth…but it makes ya think maybe things would be easier for everyone if I’d been born something else.”
“You were born perfect,” he informed her, even as he closed a hand on her nape and pulled her around to face him. He pivoted in order to shield her so her back would not be facing the approaching army, and the flex of his wings brought them forward, as much to shield her brilliant light as to surround her with his own dark fire. “Hellion, Heaven and Hell are human concepts. Yes, there are demons and angels, but they come from different planes not primordial concepts such as you might have been taught. If anything, the fact that you think that tells me you are of this Earth, this place, as much as Maddox or Fin or Rogue.”
Her nose wrinkled. “But you still call me Hellion.”
“And you call me Asshole.”
The spark in her green eyes grew brighter, and she pulled herself up, fisting his open shirt. The brush of her armor against his chest was hot and cool in equal measures, as supple and teasing as the woman it protected. “I love you,” she told him fiercely, as if reminding him.
“I love you too,” he promised. The words seemed paltry in the face of the torrent of emotion she unleashed in him. No more would he be distant from this world. Not with how she tethered him. The sound of the approaching army grew in volume. Maddox released another roar, and fire scorched the horizon as he cut a swath across the front of their lines.
Whistling of projectiles sailing through the air cut into his focus, but he kept his gaze fixed on hers. He needed her to believe him.
“I’ll stay with you. I’ll be right by your side,” she swore, and something deep inside of him unlocked. She didn’t just mean the battle. “And later…when we get this mess cleaned up…we’re going to talk about decorating.”
He chuckled. “Anything you want, Hellion.”
Another whistle split through the air. They were trying to bring Maddox down. The moment it dawned on Fiona though, her expression turned violent and ferocious. She swiveled to face the opening, but he didn’t release her nape. He trusted her and believed her, but her need to defend them was so damn powerful that he wanted to make sure she didn’t give in to impulse.
“Maddox is fine,” he assured her. The army had broken into disarray. Not that organizing that many vampires and whipping them into a frenzy served much purpose. The frenzy would shatter their control. The older ones might be able to stand up to the pressure, but not the younger. “He’s playing with them, and the more frustrated they become, the more they break their own lines.” With one thumb, he stroked the column of her neck. “See how they are turning back on each other and splitting apart?”
“Fin,” she exhaled his name.
“Precisely, and soon, the screaming will start in the rear.”
“Rogue.”
He smiled. “We all play our parts well, Hellion. Trust them. They know what they are doing.”
“And we’re waiting for the others of the Six?”
It still pained him on some level that what was Seven had now become Six. Not that he had any regrets beyond wishing his kin had not acted so hastily. They’d fallen with him, following his lead. They’d formed cadres here, established themselves, and he’d always opened his home to them and refused to compete in their power politics.
With few exceptions, it had worked.
“Exactly.”
And they were coming. He could feel it in his bones. All the noise and fanfare outside was a distraction.
“They’re coming, Hellion,” he murmured. His awareness of them growing by the second. “Stay close.”
Her eyes widened a fraction, and for a moment, the pupils dilated. At first, he thought in fear, but then her expression hardened as she scowled. “We’re gonna kick their asses.”
“Yes,” he said with a chuckle. “We are.” He squeezed her nape once more, then shifted so he faced the doors at the far end of the library. They were coming up the stairs. As much as he wanted to continue holding her, he had to ready himself for the first onslaught. “They will target me first, Hellion, not to kill, but to wound and push out of the way. Do not react to my injuries. Protect yourself, but stay behind me as much as possible.”
“That’s not fighting,” she challenged. “That’s hiding.”
“You say potato,” he tossed at her, and her sudden laughter made him grin. Fin had been using that one a lot lately, and he rather enjoyed it.
The doors at the end of the hall burst inward, even as the floor behind them exploded upward. Shattered wood and stone flew like projectiles. Something sliced along his leg, even as he faced Cyril and Eamon. Cyril definitely looked worse for wear, his face still reddened and blistered as though even his healing had been slowed.
Like Alfred, they were both armed, and he blocked the first swing of Eamon’s blade. Cyril thrust forward, and only a circular parry kept the blade from finding purchase against his skin. The dark fire he’d been coiling within unleashed, dancing down his arms and off the tip of his blade. A shriek from behind him beckoned for him to turn, but he didn’t dare expose his back.
Eamon slid to a stop as the room brightened behind Alfred, and it just seemed to intensify his shadow. His wings extended, and Cyril spit. Another shriek, and then…
“Do you want me to keep this one alive? Or can I kiss her into shutting the fuck up?” Fiona sounded aggravated, and she moved up beside him with Gemma in a head lock, her eyes dazzled as Fiona blazed brightly.
Wyman sauntered into the library behind Eamon and Cyril. “Oh, those are new,” he commented as though a battle wasn’t being waged in here or out there. Unlike their brothers, he was still dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt over a T-shirt that read Hogs are life.
Yeah, Alfred wasn’t going to ask.
“H-How do you have wings?” Eamon’s voice stuttered, a sound Alfred hadn’t heard in centuries either. Dark to Cyril’s light skin, Eamon wore his strength like a badge of pride. He’d scarred himself over the long years—lines for every war and battle he’d fought, burns scalded into his flesh until it puckered and twisted.
The self-mutilation had always been an expression of his own self-loathing, but Alfred had hoped that someday he would make peace with it. He and Cyril had built, destroyed, then rebuilt vast empires several times over. Maybe that had always been the problem. They repeated a pattern that brought them no satisfaction.
Much has Alfred had—or had he? Limiting who he turned, he’d only chosen those who had meaning, who could help deepen his life. Each connection he forged had cost him in some measure—with Rogue, he’d nearly lost his closest friend, and with Maddox, it had never seemed enough to make up for the loss of his kind. With Fin?
Fin settled all of that. He grounded them in the now, and though Alfred would still sleep some decades and centuries away, Fin was always a half-thought away and brought stories that he would tell. Half-remembered dreams to keep Alfred company. Ultimately, he’d seen what they needed most of all.
“Because he’s a badass,” Fiona announced when Alfred failed to answer. There was a great swell of pity within him because there could be no other outcome to this conflict. Eamon and Cyril had to die. Likely, Gemma as well.
And it grieved him as it had all those years before when he’d been forced to slay others of their brethren to stop their madness.
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Would he someday ultimately go as mad and need his family to slay him?
Cyril flicked his gaze at her. “You’re the slut demon.”
“You’re the crispy fried jackass. Glad we could clear that up.”
Sharp laughter escaped Alfred at her response. That earned him one reproachful look and another that verged on shock. “She must be a demon,” Wyman drawled. “She got Alfred to laugh.”
“It’s not so hard,” she replied. “Maybe the rest of you suck.” Fiona paused a beat, then glanced down at the trapped Gemma, who wore an almost terrified expression.
Alfred barely spared the woman a thought, he kept his attention on Cyril and Eamon. They weren’t moving, but that didn’t mean the threat was done.
“Actually, let me rephrase that, you all definitely suck. Which one of you fuck nuggets had my ass sent to prison and then sicced a shadow demon on me?”
The smirk on Wyman’s face promised he found Fiona amusing, but he wasn’t looking at her so much as focusing on Cyril. Fine. If he wanted Cyril, Alfred would take Eamon. The latter was far better with his blades anyway.
“She’s not a demon anymore,” Eamon said rather unceremoniously, as though he hadn’t even registered her question. “Look at her.”
“Look at him,” Cyril countered. “He’s corrupted. Look at the wings and the dark fire.”
“Now, boys,” Wyman said. “To be fair, Al has always had that last bit. Just because you were always behind him in battle instead of at his side doesn’t excuse you that lack of knowledge.”
A snarl twisted Cyril’s lips, but Eamon flicked a look to Fiona. “You should never have become one of us.”
“On that we totally agree,” Fiona said. “I’m definitely not one of you. Just look at me. Really? I’m in a class by myself. And my asshole is a hell of a lot better looking.” She bumped her hip to Alfred’s, and another soft laugh escaped him. “Also, the ex-chickie here is kind of heavy. Can I snap her neck, or is this more catch and release?”
“Snap her neck,” Alfred agreed. It wouldn’t kill her, but it would incapacitate her. Fiona wrenched Gemma’s neck and then dropped her motionless body to the floor.
“Oh, much better. Thank you.” Then she focused on their audience. “Also, I’m still waiting for an answer, boys.”
“How dare you speak to us,” Cyril began, then a blade slammed into him from behind. Alfred had barely seen Wyman move, but Cyril’s whole body seized up and his eyes turned murderous as he half-twisted to face Wyman, who just waved all jovial like as Alfred shook his head.
Maybe letting Wyman hang out around Fiona had been a mistake. Then again, he’d always been something of a wild one. Cyril dropped.
Then it was just Eamon. Like Gemma, Cyril wasn’t dead. Yet.
They had a few minutes before either would regain themselves.
“Answer my queen’s question,” he ordered Eamon, drawing the former angel and his once brother-in-arms’ attention back to him. “Which of you ordered it?”
“Does it matter?” Eamon asked. “And you no longer command me, Captain. You gave up that right when you abandoned us.”
“I did not abandon you,” Alfred countered. “You chose to follow me. I would not have faulted you if you hadn’t, but once we were here, we had a chance to be other. To build a different life. If I had led, you would have followed and we would be forever the same.”
“So instead, you abandon us…”
“No,” Alfred told him. “I treated you as equals. I respected your choices.”
“Not all of them.” Eamon rolled his head from side to side as he moved to keep Wyman in his line of sight. “And apparently, now you make deals behind our backs.”
“Stop pissing like a little baby. You three were in cahoots. What, it’s all right if you do, but not if he does?” Fiona challenged, and Alfred tilted his head to press a kiss to her temple without ever taking his gaze off Eamon. “Yeah, I know. I’ll hush.”
“Not at all, but he must pontificate and bluster for a bit longer if we want him to answer. Though if he has given shelter to Isaac and Dimitri, killing him will also open them up to our reprisals. Whatever my queen wishes…”
“You really have tied yourself to her.” Eamon spit out the words as though he couldn’t believe it.
“Yes,” Alfred told him. “And you should understand that I will always defend what is mine. You should never have gone near her.” Ever. But he left that last bit unspoken. Locking eyes with a man who had once been a brother to him, a comrade, a companion on this journey, Alfred let himself see all the things he had never wanted to before.
The sadness.
The loneliness.
The loss.
The greed.
“Keeley is dead,” he told him. “As so many others were before her. We’ve been Seven for a long time. Now we are Six.” A part of him truly wished his brothers would not push him to this, but there had been no other choice. From the moment they’d gone after Fiona in that prison, it had only been a matter of when, not if.
She was theirs.
“Then I suppose one more won’t cost us anything.” Eamon hadn’t even finished his last word before he lunged. Alfred had expected it, and he countered immediately, one blade flashing up to block as he struck Eamon’s right knee with the other.
Blood fountained from the wound. Fire licked along Alfred’s arms as he met Eamon’s furious strikes. Where Alfred had trained for efficiency, Eamon had always favored brutality. The clash of their blades sparked blue fire, even as the dark fire raced down his arms to engulf his blades. His opponent managed to land one blow to his shoulder and that sent one blade skittering free, but Alfred only needed the one he had left.
Back and forth, they waged the battle, and twice, Alfred went airborne as muscle memory dictated and he landed swift kicks to Eamon’s face and sternum. They were both bleeding, Eamon more heavily than he, but blades were unforgiving and the punishment of this fight was something Alfred hadn’t realized he craved.
He and the others should have been faster to get to her. He should have taken more interest in his people. In turn, they should have come to him before they decided to assassinate her. Worse, to consign her to life as a shadow demon. Fiona had done them no harm. In the reckoning of things, it was Alfred who had done the injuries.
Alfred.
Eamon.
Cyril.
Gemma.
Keeley.
Wyman.
Even Synove.
They were the Seven. It was on them to leave this world better than they had found it, even if all they did was not interfere. Caught up in the self-recrimination, he realized almost too late Eamon’s strategy. He couldn’t beat Alfred, and Alfred had held back out of pity. In maneuvering him through the fight, Eamon had gotten Alfred to move and left Fiona exposed. He knew what would happen a single second before he struck.
Eamon lunged for her. That blade would go through Fiona’s armor just as his blades could pierce Maddox’s scaled body. Alfred swung his sword and released the dark fire, but the sickening thud of a blade sinking into flesh and Fiona’s startled shout echoed in his ears, even as Eamon’s head flew off his shoulders and rebounded across the floor.
CHAPTER 19
“You know what, this is my story so I’m gonna make my own quotes, and it starts with, ‘Guys are assholes, but they can also be awesome.’” - Fiona
FIONA
T he clash of blades colliding against each other echoed through the nearly demolished library. I wasn’t looking at the big ass hole in the floor bitch-kitty had created when she launched through it. Seriously, scared the shit out of me for a second there until I got a good fistful of her hair. She was all clawed fingers and stab-happy with her play blade.
Fun fact, the armor deflected the little knife. Well, mostly. And I only called it little because Alfred and the other asshole had huge fucking swords. Still, despite my dragon-scale armor—I was not thinking about how they got the scales of
f Maddox and if he shed. There were just some things a mate didn’t need to know. That definitely fell under ‘don’t need to know and really didn’t want to find out in case it was gross and icky.’
Anyway, back to that original thought… Despite the armor, her blade had bitten into my wrist, but she got me at the wrong angle to open a vein.
Still stung like a bitch.
I wrapped around her in a choke hold because the minute my hands fixed on her, she’d gotten all crazy shaky. The guys didn’t want kissing unless I killed them, and granted, I wasn’t a fan right now, but I didn’t think I should make the call on whether these guys died or not.
The crispy fried fucker? Him I had no problems killing. He’d dumped Maddox and Fin in the prison where they whipped Fin and tortured them. So yeah, he could go. I didn’t know bitch-kitty, so I’d reserve it and besides, she was being all docile now. Don’t ask me why. I kept my focus on Alfred and staying close to him.
I’d promised.
When Cyril insulted me, he hit the ground a second later, a quivering blade in his back. Man, how fucking hard did you have to throw a knife to do that—okay, wait. That was a lot bigger than a knife. Maybe a short sword.
Wyman shot me a cocky grin, and I considered flipping him off. But he had kind of done us a solid, so I settled for mouthing ‘fuck off’ at him, and he grinned even wider. The nutjob was kind of growing on me, or bitch-kitty had hit me a little too hard in the head.
I half-tuned out of Alfred’s conversation with Eamon. The guy was a raging bag of dicks. When they let me break the bitch-kitty’s neck, that was extremely satisfying. Wyman watched the interplay between Eamon and Alfred as though he couldn’t make up his mind what he wanted to do. I got that, because Eamon, really? Whine, whine, whine. How annoying was that?
But then it was Alfred and Eamon sword fighting, and I had to admit, I might have swooned a little. Alfred had moves, and with his shirt open, I got to enjoy the ripple of muscle along his chest and shoulders. I might have even fist pumped when he leapt into the air and kicked Eamon in the face.