Shadows and Sorcery: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels

by Adkins, Heather Marie

  Too bad for them, I was tougher than I looked.

  On the other hand, doing a bit of surveillance on Whitman beforehand could possibly save me some grief. Especially since Tiny still lay in his doggie bed recovering, knocked out on painkillers. I was on my own for the time being.

  I left the Black Council’s non-descript offices and took to the skies. I tried to not use my wings often. It was harder to pass as non-threatening when my skinny, five-foot-five body was flanked by five-foot-tall black wings. So I mostly kept them hidden – a neat trick built into the fabric of my being. Hideaway wings.

  But when I did drop the glamor and fly, the freedom was incredible.

  I could find an adjacent skyscraper to Whitman’s office to perch on and watch for him to emerge at the end of his shift. Being high above the street would give me room to spy but not be seen. I picked out a ledge not too high above the front door to Whitman’s law office and sat down to wait.

  I let my legs dangle over the open air and stared out among the skyscrapers. I’d been feeling strange lately – like my insides didn’t match my outsides. I spent the vast majority of every day with this intense sensation that I was living outside my own skin. I didn’t know what to blame for this. I wasn’t depressed. I wasn’t sad. Life in the Barrens wasn’t exactly a cakewalk, but it wasn’t shitty, either. Not for me, anyway, Black Council assassin that I was.

  But something was off. Something in the air. I couldn’t pinpoint it. It didn’t make me nervous. On the contrary, it felt expectant.

  Changing.

  I just hoped it meant salvation rather than mass death.

  A couple hours passed. I watched Whitman’s office building, noting every incoming and outgoing figure as the sun burned passage across the sky. Finally, he emerged.

  I sat up straight, my gaze honing in on the demon as he set out at a brisk pace, heading north.

  He was well-dressed but not extravagant or metrosexual like Blythe. No pink polo and Ralph Lauren loafers here. Whitman wore a black button-up, the sleeves casually rolled to his elbows and exposing forearms corded with muscle. His black hair hung long, barely lengthy enough to be held in the small ponytail at the back of his head. As he took the subway stairs two-at-a-time, he shook his hair out of his face and glanced around with huge, vividly green eyes.

  I followed at a distance, keeping a dozen feet and a group of pedestrians between us as we descended to the subway platform. He boarded the waiting train, and I hopped inside via another door, ducking behind a group of teenagers. Whitman grabbed a seat and whipped out a cell phone as the train pulled away from the station.

  So the demon was rich enough to own a cell phone – which was not a normal commodity in our world – but he traveled by subway. Intriguing.

  We rolled through two stations, gathering more passengers than we let off. Whitman remained immersed in his phone, not even acknowledging the station stops, much less the new passengers. By the third station, all the seats were full.

  An elderly woman shuffled aboard, using the door closest to Whitman, and peered around for an empty seat. With none available, she clutched her giant purse to her stomach and reached for a pole.

  Whitman stood smoothly and held out a hand. “Please. Have my seat.”

  He’d been so lost in his phone, it hadn’t seemed possible he was actually paying attention to his surroundings. But clearly, he was He took the woman’s hand and helped her into the bucket chair, then whipped around to lean a hip on the nearest pole, returning to his phone.

  I was given a rather dashing view of his khaki-clad ass. Demon or not, the man wore his clothes well.

  But what kind of demon gave up his seat to an elderly human? I had never seen one do anything remotely altruistic. It wasn’t exactly demon chic. They were more about the blood and gore of it all.

  This just kept getting weirder.

  Whitman exited at the next station. I waited a beat and leapt out the doors just before they closed, following behind the crowd as they drifted towards the stairs.

  Whitman’s shiny black ponytail was visible up ahead, his lanky frame a good half-a-foot taller than most of the people around him. I kept half an eye on him and half an eye on the stairs as the wave of commuters headed back to ground level.

  The sun had already sunk low enough to disappear behind the city’s buildings. He struck out from the crowd. I lolly-gagged for a minute to give him some lead time, then set out after him.

  I wasn’t familiar with the area, but it was fairly crowded. We passed upscale clothing stores and boutique gift shops, which made me think we hadn’t traveled too far from the downtown district.

  Whitman followed the main thoroughfare for two blocks, then veered right into a quieter part of town. I lagged behind, sticking to the shadows in an effort to not be seen now that we’d moved onto less crowded streets.

  He took me down a side road, then another. The streets grew narrower, the buildings growing shorter and wider. We turned so many corners I had whiplash.

  And then suddenly—I lost sight of him.

  I whirled on the balls of my feet, searching the empty street. How had he disappeared? I was looking right at him.

  I turned down an alley, my footsteps echoing off high brick walls on either side. I traced my gaze over the alley: dumpster, piles of trash, empty crates.

  No Whitman.

  I huffed and swiveled to head back onto the main street.

  Then a dark form loomed over me and a hand latched onto my neck.

  3

  The hand slammed me against the brick wall, pinning me in place. Whitman grinned wolfishly, his green gaze giving me a once-over. “You lost, princess?”

  I threw a punch at his stomach, but he intercepted it with his other hand and jammed my knuckles to the wall above my head. He closed the distance between us, wedging my body against the bricks with his. This demon was strong.

  And also… damn, but that felt nice against me. I hadn’t had a man in ages. Too busy dealing out death and dismemberment.

  “Is this how you would treat a princess?” I asked sweetly.

  “Is it normal for a princess to stalk unassuming men?”

  “You aren’t exactly a prince, sweetheart.”

  Whitman chuckled. “Who says? I could be the crown prince of a foreign country, and you would have no idea.”

  I arched my back so my breasts slid against him. “You aren’t any prince, Topher Whitman. You’re just a two-cent demon with a price tag.”

  His face hardened. He shoved against my windpipe. “Who sent you?”

  I relaxed against the wall and smiled lazily. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  He squeezed my neck, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “You’re testing my patience.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Aw, sweetie. If I cared even a little bit, I’d shed a tear for you.”

  “Damn. You’re beautiful but you’re straight savage.” His gaze traveled over the injured side of my face. “Get in a fight recently because you were stalking someone else?”

  “You should see the other guy.”

  Whitman leaned harder into me. We were so wedged together his pelvis had opened my legs. We touched from breasts to more intimate parts, and I couldn’t pretend it didn’t send a little thrill through me. Coupled with the definitely bleeding knuckles and the painful cut of his fingers in my throat, I was turned the fuck on.

  “You can tell me who sent you,” Whitman said amicably, “Or I’ll knock you out, kidnap you, and lock you away until I’m sure you won’t try to kill me.”

  I bared my teeth. “I’d like to see you try, pretty boy. I eat guys like you for breakfast.”

  “Eat, huh?” A grin spread across his face. “Now you’re just talking dirty to me.”

  I loathed the shiver that raced through my body. I wanted to blame it on forced abstinence and my unfulfilled need for dick, but something told me that wasn’t it. Whitman was magnetic – his grin could set flutters inside a girl, and his fingers on
my skin were so hot I felt like panting under his touch.

  “Look, you seem like a really nice guy,” I told him. I arched again, rolling my body against his. He did exactly what I wanted—pulled his groin away from mine before I could tease his erection awake. “But the unfortunate truth is the Black Council wants you dead. And it’s kinda my job to make that happen.”

  I jammed my other hand between our bodies, latching on to his man-bits as if they were Play-Doh. He grunted, but his grip loosened, giving me the chance I needed to duck out of his grasp. I dropped my ass like it was hot, then executed a roll away from his legs.

  Whitman hit the pavement on his knees, both of his hands cradling his precious groin.

  I leaned on one hand, snapping a leg out behind me. My foot connected with the demon’s shiny black hair, and he pitched forward with another groan.

  I hadn’t come prepared to actually do the hit. My crossbow sat back at home with Tiny, both useless to me. My goal had been to watch Whitman, figure out what made him tick, and then come back with better manpower: ie my dog and my bow.

  I’d only come equipped with the blade I concealed in my boot. And while it wasn’t a butter knife, it wasn’t exactly meant for filet o’demon, either.

  Whitman flipped over and held up a hand. “Whoa! Can we talk?”

  I snapped my leg out, catching him with a heel to the chin. As his head snapped back, I reached for the blade in my boot.

  Whitman recovered way too fast. He launched over the asphalt, his bulk slamming me to the ground. My head bounced on the concrete and stars burst in my vision.

  “Would you just stop and listen?” Whitman hissed.

  Maybe it was the possible concussion, but Whitman’s face wavered, and for a moment, it looked as if his skin were made of obsidian.

  “Are you made of stone?” I asked, my voice sounding far away.

  Whitman raised an eyebrow. “Clearly, I’ve broken you.”

  I flexed my fingers, hoping my knife was still in my grasp. But it wasn’t, nor was it anywhere within patting distance. Which meant in the scuffle, he’d thrown my blade clear of our bodies.

  Asshole.

  My head was already pounding, so I channeled my irritation into a vicious headbutt.

  His head snapped back, but he gripped my face with both hands, shaking his head like a dog. “Stop! I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “The feeling isn’t mutual,” I snapped, clawing at his vice grip on my face.

  “We aren’t enemies, and you know it.”

  “Well, actually, you’re a demon and I’m an angel. By definition, we’re enemies.”

  “By definition, you’re a fallen angel operating as a demon assassin, and I’m a demon working for humans. We can split hairs, if you want. The fact remains you hate the Black Council as much as I do.”

  His declaration hit a little too close to home. I let my hands fall away from his. “What if I don’t?”

  “You like murdering people?”

  “It’s a living.”

  He chuckled. “Right. Tell me – do you actually want to kill me right now?”

  There was something about his knowing gaze that pinged my radar. Whitman knew more than he let on. And something told me he’d know if I was lying.

  “No. I don’t want to kill you right now,” I said, clinging to my surly tone. Did I want to fuck him? Yeah. Punch him? Yeah. Kill? Not so much.

  He grinned. “Knew it.” Getting to his feet, he offered me a hand. “Was admitting that so hard?”

  I ignored his hand and stood under my own accord. “This isn’t over. I still have to kill you. It’s my duty.”

  “I’ll change your mind.” He stopped and swiped my knife off the dirty pavement. “You don’t need this, right?”

  I watched, astonished, as he tucked my blade away in his pocket.

  “Hey. That’s mine!”

  He grinned. “Oh. Is it? Finders keepers.”

  I stomped my boot on the pavement like a petulant child, then turned my back on him. Flustered by the entire situation, I headed for open streets.

  “Hey, princess.”

  I touched the painful bump on the back of my head, happy I wasn’t bleeding but irritated as fuck he had subdued me. Again. “What?” I snapped, whirling on him with what I hoped was a promise of impending doom.

  “Do me a favor.”

  “Why the fuck would I do that? You just stole my knife.”

  “Your book,” Whitman said. He ran the back of his hand across his nose and glanced down—presumably to check for blood. Then he caught my eye again. “The book of death.”

  “You can’t have it.”

  “I don’t want it,” he assured me. “I want you to do something for me. Don’t strike out any names.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “The book doesn’t need me to strike names anymore.”

  “It does,” Whitman said, smoothing a hand back over his messy hair. “Trust me. Stop striking names. Then come find me when you’re ready to talk.”

  4

  I walked home, if only for the grounding effect of being in motion on the solid ground.

  Whitman had thoroughly rattled me. I didn’t like the fucker. I didn’t like the way he’d disarmed me, I didn’t like the way he had seemed to know me and know my secrets.

  And I damn sure didn’t like failing in my mission because some pretty-faced asshole anticipated my thoughts and moves.

  Tiny lifted his head as I slammed through the apartment door. Azri? What’s wrong?

  “Asshole demons are what’s wrong,” I snapped, yanking my black leather jacket off. I tossed it over the couch and headed for the fridge. “All I wanted to do was run surveillance. But nooooo, he just had to be an observant piece of shit.”

  Are you all right?

  “I’m fine. Just pissed.” I opened the fridge and cringed at the lack of food inside. “He knows the council is after him now. I fucked up.”

  You were unable to kill him?

  I reached for the sad remnants of a block of cheese and the mayo. “I didn’t exactly get a chance.”

  Tiny crossed his bandaged front paws and studied me with wise red eyes. What do you mean?

  I slammed open a cabinet and extracted the bread. “He stole my knife.”

  Tiny huffed his canine version of laughter.

  “It’s not funny!” I barked. “I like that knife.”

  Go back and kill him, then recover what is rightfully yours.

  “He’s going to be ready for me this time.”

  And you shall be better prepared for him.

  “I don’t know if your absolute belief in me is a compliment or a curse.” I plopped on the floor next to him with the loaf of bread, mayo, and cheese. “Wanna sandwich?”

  We need to go grocery shopping.

  “Sure, I’ll do that in between all the death.” I slathered a piece of bread with mayo and then slapped a thick slice of cheese on it. “Yes or no, babe?”

  He snatched the sandwich out of my hand and chewed once before swallowing it whole. As I made my own sandwich, he put a paw on my knee. I love you.

  My heart constricted painfully. I let the sandwich rest on my knee and reached out to touch his furry face. “I love you, too.”

  I wish I could touch you.

  “I know. Me too.” I smiled ruefully. “It’s been a really long time, hasn’t it?”

  I didn’t expect an answer. Knowing him, he was hurting just as bad as me.

  That happens when the love of your life is cursed to remain a dog forever.

  “What do you know about the Book?” I asked, kicking off my boots as I bit into my sandwich.

  Not much more than you, I’m afraid. He grabbed a hunk of cheese from the plate.

  “This demon said something weird about the book.”

  He knew you were the angel of death?

  “Hook, line, and sinker.” I slouched against the wall with my sandwich, digging my other hand into Tiny’s soft fur. “He told me to stop
striking names.”

  You haven’t needed to strike names since the Fall.

  “I know. The book just grays them out. But I do go back over them as a matter of habit—striking them after the fact.”

  But surely that isn’t doing anything? It’s habitual.

  “Maybe. Or maybe it is doing something.” I shoved the rest of my sandwich in my mouth and spoke around it. “Maybe even though they’re dead, they aren’t actually dead until I strike them? Like they’re in some kind of limbo or something. But why would Whitman want me to leave people in limbo?”

  He’s a demon, Azrael. You know you mustn’t trust him.

  “I know. There was just something different about him.” I caught Tiny’s eye and brushed a hand over his ears. “Sleep with me tonight?”

  Of course.

  I brushed my teeth and pulled on some sweats, then curled up in my bed beneath the covers. I held the blankets up as Tiny joined me, settling his warm body against mine in the dark.

  Two hundred years ago, we would have been naked, wrapped around each other, laughing at each other’s awful jokes. We would have made love until our bodies couldn’t move anymore, then he would have wrapped his arms around me and sank into sleep, both of us secure in our love for each other.

  It was so long ago. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it in a long time. We’d come to terms with his curse, formed a partnership and friendship, and moved on. But Whitman’s flirtations had dredged up those old memories. Reminded me what I’d lost so permanently.

  I wrapped an arm over my death-hound and dragged him closer, burying my face in his fur as I closed my eyes. I missed the man. My love. I missed Thomas.

  * * *

  The next day dawned rainy, and the weather only deteriorated from there. I looked out the window at noon, hopeful the rain would stop, only to look out again at six pm as lightning lit up the sky.

  As I laced up my boots to leave, Tiny argued for me to stay. Azrael, it is more than a rain storm out there. These are Wild Hunt storms.

  “You say that every time there’s heavy rain and lightning.” I dropped my booted foot to the ground and headed for the closet. “I don’t want to go out in this shit, but Cobalt is gonna strip my flesh off my bones if I put this hit off any longer.”