by Rhea Watson
“I want to work for you,” I rattled off, once again without much thought, still fixated on my shoeless feet. Seriously, they had left me in the sweaty linens I wore under my armor but nicked my shoes? Fuck’s sake. With a huff, I rolled my shoulders back, ready to deal, and tried my damnedest to force an air of calm. “Take me on as a paid scout. No more finagling in the Ash Court on your part—only payment. A finder’s fee for every one of my prospects admitted, just like the rest.”
Financial compensation over time certainly outweighed the current nothingness.
Lucifer flashed his too-white teeth again, his smile positively brutal. “So, what, you can buy your girl a cottage in the country?” That perfect posh English accent made my gut loop, and the fallen angel settled back against the wall with a scoff, waving me off like I was being absolutely ridiculous. “You’re all the same, aren’t you? Love damns more souls than I do.”
Let him think whatever the fuck he wanted. Whether the Morningstar approved of my reasons or not, they were mine. Alecto deserved a lover who could care for her in good times and bad, and while my Root Rot pay was adequate, I ought to get the same substantial percentage Darkwell doled out to the rest of their scouts.
I could buy a ring worthy of her finger.
A house of our own—with a room for Bjorn and, I suppose, Jack Clemonte.
Something by the sea.
Something far, far from the rest of this realm, a little plot of land where we four could retreat when things got annoying.
It wasn’t all a woman needed from her man, but as a fae borne in literal dirt, who sprouted to manhood in poverty and watched his parents struggle to make every end meet, brawling daily as the strain took its toll, financial security was a damn good start.
“What do you say to the terms?”
His long, drawn-out sigh told me time was of the essence—because the Devil was getting bored.
“I’ll hire you on a trial basis,” he mused, “which means you’ll receive half the going rate. Your candidates have been less than stellar.”
“I work with what I’m given,” I told him with a shrug. Really, Root Rot brats were hardly the crème de la crème of supernatural society. What the fuck did he expect?
“As do I,” Lucifer purred. “Do you accept my terms?”
My pulse quickened. “Yes.”
“Then consider our previous deal null and void.” His hands crashed together like thunder, the cell trembling, as if the world order had shifted ever so slightly. “Now, we seal the contract—”
“This isn’t a deal,” I reasoned lightly, holding up a hand as soon as he started that terrifying demonic crawl across the space. “It’s a job. You tongue-fuck all your new hires?”
Crossroad demons sealed contracts with a kiss.
And I only desired one kiss from Lucifer in my lifetime.
The last tasted of pure hellfire, its burn lingering for months after, my tongue, tonsils, and throat scorched and blistered. In fact, it had delayed my start at Root Rot because I literally couldn’t speak without ripping it all open and oozing blood everywhere, my innate healing abilities useless against… him.
No. Never again.
The inferno blazed back at me, fire flaring, darkness swelling, the heat palpable. Try as I might to look away, I couldn’t, trapped in his eyes again, deep in the pits, men and women screaming, begging for help, cries and wails and horror ringing in my ears—
In a blink, it vanished, replaced by the oppressive quiet of the pitch-black cell—and Lucifer’s extended hand. I all but fell into it, flinching at its heat, a wisp of hellfire in his palm.
“I’ll have HR send the contracts,” the Devil insisted as he settled against the wall beside me, legs outstretched and just a smidgen longer than mine. “Don’t worry—they’ll know where to find you.”
“Right,” I croaked, cradling my hand to my chest, on high alert for another round of weeping blisters. Nothing. The heat lingered, my new part-time gig sealed with Lucifer’s fiery grasp. The implications of working for the Devil hardly mattered, not when there were more pressing issues to contend with. “So, you really think you can talk me out of this?”
“Is that a serious question?” Gone was the ease, the humor, the casual conversation, replaced with a low, simmering wrath, his tone that of a beast. Shit. I held up my hands in acquiescence, then shut the fuck up to let the master work.
Lucifer lashed out, then flipped his hand palm up and curled his fingers in the most alluring come hither crook. The wall across from us shuddered, tiny bits of concrete peeling away and crashing to the floor. He let that carry on for a beat, as if relishing the quakes, before ripping his arm back—and with it, the wall itself. His ethereal magic, raw and skybound, far greater than my own, sizzled like fire dancing down a silk fuse, then boom, an explosive charge pounding through the ether.
I threw my arms up to shield my face, assaulted by rubble and dust, stuck in the midst of a hurricane with nowhere to run. Only when the air cooled did I draw full breath again, and through the settling dust—a hole. The Devil had created a door.
One quickly filled with warlocks in dark red uniforms, reminiscent of the attire worn by security at Root Rot, yet the red gave them… authority?
Bit of a stretch, but okay.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Lucifer drawled as he stood, rising to his full height as obnoxious bright white spilled into the darkness—bathed him, made him even lovelier. Stars above, only the Devil could look attractive under artificial light. After sweeping a hand over his slicked-back curls, that head of pure gold still a shock—for I’d always assumed the master of Hell would be, you know, tall, dark, and handsome—he casually dusted bits of wall from his shoulders, sleeves, and jacket with a sniff.
“Who the hell are you?” one of the warlocks demanded, more of them gathering in the opening, wands raised and flashlights streaking in to fucking blind me. Lucifer chuckled—and the air stilled, all of us feeling that laughter in our souls.
“Lucifer, Lord of Hell, actually.” He offered one of those beautiful, terrifying smiles in the silence that followed and then glanced back at me as if to inquire if he had said something wrong. I rolled my eyes. One step toward his new door had the warlocks retreating, then raising their wands higher—like those little sticks could actually do something against him. Lucifer pressed a hand to his chest, a vision of politeness and gentility as he said, “Formerly the Morningstar? Anyone? No?” He shrugged, then gestured elegantly back to me. “Well, no matter. I’m here on behalf of my client, Gavriel of the Ash Court, to contest this egregious imprisonment. Find your overlords, will you, so we can get this sorted?”
When his eyes found me again, I all but crumbled into the floor, the inferno back and furious, snapping away, raging in his eyes and tainting his thin smile.
“I have far more important things to do today than this, and if I waste another hour on it, my assistant will just…” The Devil grinned. “Well, she’ll have my guts for garters, eh, boys?”
The warlocks scattered as his laughter crashed through the entire building, the walls trembling—and the rest of us yielding to the apex predator.
24
Alecto
“Is that—”
“Gavriel.” I sprinted from Jack’s side across the cobblestone courtyard, skirting a huge fountain in its center topped with iron mermaids—or possibly even sirens—spurting jets of water from their mouths.
Yikes.
That was… something.
Head hanging and shoulders rounded, my fae trudged down the courthouse steps beneath a sunny afternoon sky, wearing the same breezy beige and brown linen shirt-pants combo I’d last seen him in.
And carrying his shoes.
Why the fuck was he carrying his shoes?
Whatever. Didn’t matter. I’d expected to find him in a hole with no windows—not outside, free as a bird, and slowly lifting his tired eyes to mine. Besides the obvious exhaustion, he looked devilishly handsome
as ever, breaking out in a huge grin as soon as recognition touched his features, and I didn’t slow, not even a little, until I tackle-hugged him at the base of the steps.
“Oomph.” He grunted on impact, my arms snapped tight around his neck, and then hugged me back, squeezing the air from my lungs and scooping me onto my tiptoes. Relief quivered through my limbs, made my bare legs shaky and my teeth chatter like a puppy greeting her person at the front door after a long, long day away.
With Jack and his legal squad at my back, we had rolled into Trentmore ready for a fight. Over Gavriel’s shoulder soared the imposing courthouse, all heavy stone and muted neutrals, six ominous marble pillars stamped in front of the main doors at the top of steep stairs. We came here prepared to bust him out of the jailhouse below; while I slept on and off until about noon, nightmares aplenty, Jack summoned his people to the village so he and Bjorn could formulate a strategy to spring Gavriel. By the time I was up and raring to go, still totally destroyed from the last few days but unable to wait a second longer to find my fae, they had a plan.
Or, at least, Jack’s counsel had petitions and documents and whatever other legal mumbo jumbo was required to at least get him out on bail. Helmed by Donovan McCavish, a solicitor juggernaut who ruled the Clemonte coven administration branch with an iron fist, the squad of thirteen meticulously dressed and tediously snooty London warlocks back there were chomping at the bit to unleash judicial hell on the bastards.
But… Apparently not?
“Oh my gods,” I whispered shakily, eyes closed, face to the clear sky and warmed by the relentless sunshine, “I was so worried.”
Gavriel hugged me tighter, even as something crick-cracked in my back, and then buried his face against my neck. Not bothering to brush my curls aside, he just burrowed in and breathed deep.
“Alecto?” he rumbled a few moments later.
“Hmm?”
“Are you wearing Jack Clemonte’s shirt… as a dress?”
Despite struggling to draw a full breath, I grinned. Bjorn and I hadn’t exactly had time to pack a bag before we escaped; Jack’s wardrobe was the best we could do on short notice, and while Bjorn had easily pulled off a classic all-black suit, I drowned in everything offered—but too-big was preferable to the outfit I’d worn for days in the dungeons, still caked in blood and filth.
And style was the absolute last thing on my mind, anyway. If it meant getting to Gavriel sooner, I would have marched into the courthouse naked.
Something neither Bjorn nor Jack approved of.
So, I grabbed a button-up shirt, scrunched the sleeves, then belted it into a dress. Threw on one of his suit jackets and rolled the sleeves to my wrists, swimming in fabric and his mouth-watering cologne, notes of cinnamon and blood mandarin in the air, and called it a day.
Bare legs—because it was spring, damn it.
“Shut up,” I muttered, stroking Gavriel’s silky soft hair, the silver muted and the brown rich and chocolatey in the sunlight. “I look super stylish.”
“What’s this?” a deliciously deep baritone mused, heavy footsteps slowly making their way across the courtyard. “Sprung yourself, have you?”
Shrouded in Jack’s far-reaching shadow, Gavriel and I eased apart, and whether he did it intentionally or not, the fae tucked me into his side the nearer Jack drew, his arm slung low around my hips. Sporting a black suit and trench, plus a silk Root Rot Academy tie, Jack certainly looked the most together of the three of us. His posse, still huddled and chatting heatedly amongst themselves, instantly fell under Gavriel’s scrutiny.
“I see you’ve brought the cavalry.” Mischievous fae fingers curved into my waist, nudging one of my ticklish spots persistently enough that he got an elbow to the ribs. Not once did he break eye contact with Jack, however, squaring off with the much taller warlock as equals. “Or are they here for you?”
“Both,” Jack told him with a quick up-and-down sweep, his hands sliding into his pants pockets. Gavriel pursed his lips and nodded.
“A frontal assault?” His low chuckle did wicked things to my body, the crux of my thighs squirming with interest, every cell gravitating toward him like we hadn’t seen each other in years. Gavriel then patted my hip with a sigh. “I’m surprised, Jack. Took you for more of a flank fighter.”
“And I took you for a better judge of character.”
“Oh.” Gavriel’s grip on me loosened, nostrils flared like he had just scented blood in the water. “Are we dissecting character?”
What the fuck is happening right now? I pressed a firm hand to his chest when he eased forward, his smile toothy and goading, maybe a little wild. Even Jack had risen to his full height, spine aggressively straight, his broad frame daring the fae to take a swing.
“Oh my gods, stop.” I toed at Jack’s shin, scowling between them. “Whatever this pissing contest is—stop. Please.”
Their faces suddenly split into grins—like this was only a game, their back-and-forth, just how Gavriel and Jack had decided to communicate with each other.
Gods. Why were men so fucking weird?
“However did you get out?” Jack asked as the air around us dulled to a simmer, his aura charged but nonconfrontational. Just as subdued, Gavriel shrugged, then jostled me at his side.
“I’ve a rather gifted tongue.”
I crinkled my nose. “Ew.”
“I second that notion,” Jack said with a barely contained eye roll.
“Save your impressive legal jargon for the pricks in there, Clemonte.”
Man, if their thing was to bicker and stab each other’s buttons, it was going to get old real fast. If only we’d done this after sundown; at least Bjorn could have played referee. Unfortunately, without a cloud in the sky as far as the eye could see today, my vampire remained in Jack’s rented pub flat, annoyed to be left behind, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for news.
Jack studied the fae, eyes slightly narrowed—almost like he was trying to see what proof Iris had that got him locked up in the first place. Even though I kept the specifics of Gavriel’s secret, both Jack and Bjorn now knew he had some affiliation with Darkwell, which must have stirred a whole boatload of suspicions that we really didn’t need to deal with right now.
However, right when I expected my Sir to launch into a line of questioning, fast-paced and relentless, just as gifted with his tongue as Gavriel, he smiled again. Not showy or teasing this time—but a look of… acceptance?
Was I reading that right?
Even Gavriel appeared taken aback, frowning, temporarily speechless, and then braced as Jack clapped him hard on the arm.
“I’m glad you’re out,” the warlock admitted, black-and-gold-flecked gaze darting my way briefly, the same cozy affection offered, the kind I felt deep in my soul—like a safety blanket, warm and snug and solid. Peaceful. Until he huffed and smoothed a hand down his maroon tie, expression schooled, sounding more like his legal team than my Dom when he added, “Less work for the rest of us. Excuse me a moment.”
I watched his retreating figure for a few strides, trench coat fluttering, looking so effortlessly masterful as he marched across the courtyard toward his awaiting crew. While I could have easily drooled over Jack Clemonte all day, my warlock soft on the inside with a pure obsidian exterior, I forced myself back to a smirking Gavriel and tugged at his shirt.
“Seriously, did you—”
“D’you wanna meet the Devil?”
He… He had to be fucking with me, right? “What?”
“He stopped by to check on his merchandise,” the fae insisted, his grip turning possessive over my hip. “I think he has a soft spot for me.”
My blood ran cold when he wiggled his eyebrows, then nodded up the stairs. Slowly, I peeked over my shoulder, half expecting to find a massive red-winged monster raging at the courthouse doors.
Instead—a cat.
A black cat, huge and almost sidhe-like in the way it held itself. Sitting upright with perfect feline posture, he tucked
his fluffy tail around what I imagined were massive paws, then blinked a pair of brilliant golden eyes down at me.
“Uh.” Was he… serious? Had Lucifer, Lord of Hell, actually stopped by to get my fae out of jail? “Again—what?”
The cat stood and stretched in the sunshine, then sauntered to the left, tail up and hooked, and disappeared behind a fearsome stone statue of a roaring bear. I blinked hard, hands numb. Had I just…hallucinated the Devil in cat form? Was I still in bed, stuck in yet another nightmare, and Gavriel was still in a hole somewhere, desperate for air and sunlight and water?
“He got me out, anyway,” he remarked casually like it was just another Tuesday. “And told me Benedict organized the invasion—”
“What?”
“Not sure how,” Gavriel pressed on with a shrug, squinting at the fountain and crinkling his nose like he felt the iron embellishments all the way over here. “We didn’t go into details.”
Gods, that was a lot to process. First Lucifer, now this?
“How are you so fucking casual right now?” I motioned back to the courthouse, floundering, brain in refresh mode. “I… What?”
“You said that.” Gavriel braced himself for my smack, which landed on his chest and felt like slapping one of those iron mermaids. “Look, shit moves fast in these situations. Just try to keep up, fury.”
“That’s what I’ve been doing for days—”
“Well, it doesn’t stop now,” he growled, finally easing away so that he could face me head-on. “Look, I’m sure Hammond knows I’m out if he’s keeping tabs on things. It’ll be on to the next stunt in his playbook now.”
Fear spider-walked its cold fingers up my spine, slow and steady, on their way to strangle me. “And… we’re locked out of the academy. He needs to be stopped, and the only people who know anything about who he really is are… here.”