Demon's Vengeance

by Jocelynn Drake

  I should never have doubted Gideon. Polished black ice. Cool. Smooth. Dangerous.

  “Sounds like some psychotic serial killer who accidentally got a blast of unexpected energy. That’s the realm of the police—­not the Towers.” I frowned, trying to look anywhere but at the dead body, but the death-­strewn apartment wasn’t giving me a lot of options. My only recurring sane thought was that I was a tattoo artist, not one of those hot-­shot CSI detectives with their dark sunglasses and latex gloves. Next Gideon mission, I was stuffing some gloves in my pockets.

  “This wasn’t an accident.” Gideon called from the next room.

  Shaking my head, I tried to brace myself for whatever new horror he had found. I wasn’t ready, but at least it wasn’t another decapitated teenager. The tiny bedroom was empty of furniture, but the overhead light glared down on the four white walls completely covered in strange writing scrawled in black magic marker.

  “What does it say?” I whispered. There was something ominous about the writing, as if the script itself could be evil.

  “I can’t read it.” Gideon replied with some frustration. He walked over to a part that had been scratched out and rewritten slightly different. “But I think these are notes. Trial and error. Look here,” he said pointing to a series of symbols that had been drawn, scratched out, and redrawn over and over again before the killer had decided on a final version. “Methodically experimenting.”

  “At what?”

  “I don’t know, but I think the person achieved the desired results because all personal items are gone. The killer is done with this location and this part of his experiment. He’s moved on to his next target.”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets, my eyes locked on the symbols as my brain strained to put some order or definition to it all. “I’ll give you this is bad, but does it involve the Towers?”

  “I thought you’d jump at the chance to help your fellow man,” Gideon smirked.

  “Yeah, well my life isn’t so great right now and I really don’t need to add this kind of fun to it.”

  Gideon arched one eyebrow at me and I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about it since it was the usual shit, just more of it. We were busy at the shop, Low Town was getting dangerous as the local mafia thugs continued to fight it out after the death of their leader, Reave—­not that any of them actually missed the dark elf. On top of that, Trixie was giving me the cold shoulder, hiding something from me. Of course, I hadn’t told her about the whole Towers/guardian thing, so I wasn’t feeling so hot about that as well. I needed to tell her, but it was a conversation I was dreading since it was something I was just getting a handle on myself.

  “It involves magic so this is a Towers matter,” Gideon said, drawing my thoughts back to the problem at hand. “We need to discover who the killer is and what they are attempting to do.” He stepped up to one of the walls and ran his fingers over the surface. A frown creased his face as he drew his hand back and rubbed his fingers together.

  I took a step closer, looking at his fingers. “What is it?”

  “Soot.”

  “Huh? Phoenix magic is the only one that creates soot.”

  “This wasn’t a phoenix. Different feel entirely.”

  I could almost hear the wheels turning in Gideon’s head as he tried to puzzle out the writing, soot, and the dead.

  “Take pictures of all the walls,” he said with some frustration, and then marched out of the room.

  Grabbing my cell phone, I quickly snapped pictures of each wall before heading back into the living room, but Gideon wasn’t there. I poked my head into the main hall to find the warlock descending the stairs with a look of intense concentration. Stuffing the phone in my pocket, I followed.

  “Should we call the police?” I asked as we reached the first-­floor landing. The warlock halted sharply and looked at me over his shoulder like I had lost my mind. “Right. Towers. Who cares about the rest of the world?” I muttered.

  “We have enough problems.” Gideon continued down to the main floor and out the front door. “The killer is just getting started.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because he’s still experimenting, working toward his ultimate goal.”

  “Which is?” I demanded, getting more frustrated by the second.

  “Nothing good.” He stopped suddenly and turned to look at me. “I need to think. Send me the pictures. Show them to no one else.” And then he disappeared.

  I groaned, feeling tired and dirty. I had no idea where I was and there was a lunatic on the loose who was killing ­people for some magical purpose that I was tasked to uncover for the Towers. But what bothered me the most was that the longer I stood in that apartment, the more the magic started to feel familiar to me. I couldn’t place it yet, but I would, and, as Gideon said, it was nothing good.

  Chapter 2

  “Gage, this is embarrassing,” Trixie complained as she stepped out of the tiny bathroom at Asylum and walked down the short hall toward me. I twisted in the tattooing chair I had been lounging in to look at her as she glared at me with her hands on her slender hips.

  Dressed in green tights and a green-­and-­red tunic, she was the classic image of Santa’s elf, right down to her green shoes with bells on the curled toes. She’d dropped her usual glamour disguise in favor of her true appearance of blonde hair, green eyes, and pointed ears. The outfit might have looked silly, but she was as sexy as hell.

  “You look great!” I shouted, clapping my hands together.

  “I look ridiculous! What idiot got the idea an elf would dress like this? And I’m supposed to live at the North Pole wearing an outfit like this?” She stomped over to where I was sitting, the sound of little bells ringing with her every movement. “I’d freeze my ass off.”

  “And it’s such a cute ass,” I teased, but she didn’t crack a smile. I was seriously pushing my luck. Clearing my throat, I ducked my head, dropping my gaze to the cracked linoleum floor. “It’s an old folktale. Maybe someone from the Winter Court got drunk and was sneaking through a village with a fat man in a red suit.”

  “Doubtful,” she said as the back door opened and shut, announcing that Bronx had finished getting changed in the apartment above the tattoo parlor. The troll appeared a ­couple seconds later in the tattooing room wearing a bright red suit with furry white trim.

  “Whoa,” I said, sitting back to take in his appearance. He was the biggest Santa Claus I had ever seen.

  “Damn, Santa,” Trixie murmured. “You got big.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” Bronx blandly said, looking about as thrilled in his costume as Trixie.

  “Actually, it’s Ho! Ho! Ho!” I corrected.

  The troll turned his narrowed gaze on me. “I can understand how Trixie and I ended up in these outfits, but why aren’t you dressed up, when this was your idea?”

  “Don’t worry, Santa. I’ve got your sack to carry,” I said.

  Bronx hooked his thumbs on the wide black belt wrapped around his pillow-­padded stomach. “I don’t think you’re man enough to handle my sack,” he drawled, his wide grin partially hidden behind a large white beard.

  “Oh, funny,” I said.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Bronx said in his best Santa imitation, which was pretty damn impressive.

  Trixie gave an unexpected snort of laughter and I flipped them both off, which got Bronx truly laughing as well.

  “Now that everyone is in the Christmas spirit, let’s get going. The kids should already be arriving.” Pushing out of the chair, I handed Trixie her coat before we followed Bronx down the hall and out the back door to where I had parked my SUV. Earlier in the afternoon, I had packed it full of toys, food, and clothing donations I had collected from the other shops near Asylum.

  Shortly after All Hallows’ Eve, the Christmas spirit kicked me hard in the gut. It was most likely a need fo
r something positive after I had sold my soul to the Towers in September. I organized a massive collection of food, winter clothes, and toys with all the shops and restaurants near Asylum. Tonight was the Feast of St. Nicholas when Santa Claus would appear at a special dinner to give away the toys.

  “Do you think Bronx’s size will scare the kids?” Trixie asked from behind me once we were in the road.

  I glanced over at the troll beside me dressed in red. He’d initially balked at taking the passenger seat but it was more comfortable for him over the backseat because of his size. My battered SUV just wasn’t made to accommodate trolls. “Maybe some of the really young ones, but most will just see him as a gateway to toys.”

  The drive to James Garfield High School was relatively short and the parking lot was nearly full when we arrived, but we managed to find an open spot behind the school, near the loading docks for the cafeteria. As I walked around to open the trunk, a door to the school opened, throwing down a bright square of light that outlined a thin little man in black.

  “Gage?” the man asked.

  “It’s me, Father Barnes. I’ve got Santa Claus and his helper with me,” I called, stepping into a nearby pool of light from a parking lamp. “I’ve also got another load of donations for you.”

  The little man scurried over to the car, though he paused for a moment at the sight of Bronx. He peered into the trunk and then smiled up at me. “God bless you, son. You’ve been a saint! You’ve nearly doubled our annual haul.”

  “Just trying to spread some good cheer, Father.”

  “Let’s grab the toys and hurry in. I’ll send some volunteers out for the rest. Everyone is nearly done eating and is anxious to see Santa Claus.”

  Bronx shifted a heavy sack of toys over his shoulder and adjusted his beard before heading inside, followed by Trixie. The priest and I grabbed armfuls of donations and went in as well to see all the amused and stunned faces that greeted the troll as he passed through the kitchen to the main dining hall.

  I had barely managed to set my items down on an empty table when Bronx’s loud “Ho! Ho! Ho!” was met with an explosion of cheering. Rushing out of the kitchen, I laughed to see Trixie and Bronx swarmed with kids of every race and species, all vying for just a second of Santa’s time. While Trixie was looking somewhat overwhelmed, Bronx’s eyes shined with joy. He may have looked like a scary troll on the outside, but Bronx was pure marshmallow on the inside.

  After helping them get a line organized to the large throne they had set up for Santa, I dropped off my coat where Trixie had left hers in the kitchen.

  “I thought that was you I saw with Santa Claus,” Gideon said to my back.

  My stomach jerked into a hard knot and I felt my soul shrivel up. He’d found me again—­sought me out for another Towers job. I needed this night of peace and good cheer. Not more blood, death, and violence.

  I was slow to turn around, but the sight of Gideon stopped all thought for a second. Instead of his usual dark suit and black cloak, the warlock was in a pair of faded jeans, a cream-­colored cable-­knit sweater, and loafers. His black hair was in a short ponytail and he wore a pair of trendy, black-­rimmed glasses.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked in a friendly tone for anyone who might have been listening, but there was a cold warning in his eyes.

  “Helping,” I replied dully, my brain still trying to understand what I was seeing.

  “I see that.” Gideon smirked. “Come. I’ll introduce you to my wife.”

  I walked with the warlock out of the kitchen and along the back wall where the crowds were the thinnest.

  “What’s with the glasses, Clark Kent?” I asked as we hit an empty space.

  Gideon shook his head, appearing as if he were trying not to smile. “Ellen says they make me look harmless.”

  “Oh yeah. Like a wet kitten.”

  A soft chuckle escaped him but his mood turned grim when we stopped halfway across the cafeteria and he began to search the crowd in earnest. After several seconds, a pretty blonde’s hand shot up and she waved to us. She steadily made her way through the crowd of parents until she was standing beside Gideon, smiling broadly up at me.

  “Ellen, this is an old friend, Gage Powell. Gage, this is my wife, Ellen,” Gideon said.

  “It’s an honor,” I said and I meant it. No one from the dark side of Gideon’s life had met his wife. It was a gesture of trust and it humbled me after Gideon and I had spent so many years at each other’s throats.

  Ellen switched the large camera she was holding from her right hand to her left before shaking mine. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. After all the stories he’s told me, I feel like we’re old friends.”

  Smiling, I shot a look over at Gideon, who was frowning at his wife. “He’s been telling tales about me?”

  “Only because you’re a walking natural disaster,” Gideon grumbled.

  Ellen hit him in the center of his chest. “Be nice!” she admonished and then smiled. “Better yet, go take pictures of the girls.” She held up the digital SLR in front of his face until he took it. “I’m too tired to wade back through that crowd and the girls are getting close to the front of the line.”

  “Are you okay?” Gideon’s stern expression immediately became a mask of intense concern as he laid a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  She waved her hand at him while keeping her eyes locked on me. “Fine. Fine. Now go. I want pictures of them with Santa.”

  Gideon hesitated, staring at me as if he was uncertain about leaving his wife alone with a walking natural disaster. “Watch over her,” he said and then started to the long line of kids waiting for their turn to speak with Santa.

  “And don’t glare at those boys anymore! Paola is handling them just fine!” Ellen called after her husband, who raised one hand in a halfhearted wave to acknowledge he had heard her. “He’s not listening to me,” she muttered, voicing the very thought running through my head. Her scowl instantly dissolved when she looked up at me again. “Gideon didn’t tell me you were going to be here.”

  “Probably because he didn’t know. I offered to help with the donation drive and then talked some friends into being Santa and his helper.”

  She laughed a loud, joyous sound and I instantly understood why Gideon loved this woman so much. She didn’t take any crap from the warlock and was filled with happiness.

  “I’m guessing you were just as surprised to see Gideon here.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  She giggled softly. “I’m a nurse. I help out here and there with the Shining Hope Foundation when they give some parenting or first-­aid classes. I come to this every year because they like to have a nurse or doctor on hand just in case. I’ve never been needed, but it doesn’t hurt to be safe.”

  I could understand the Foundation’s preference for having a nurse on hand. A werewolf or troll child plays too rough with a human child, and someone is bound for the emergency room.

  “How’s Paola? Is she adjusting?” I asked when my eyes finally tripped over the young woman standing in line next to Gideon’s daughter Bridgette. She was smiling down at the girl, a look of affection on her face. Paola was one of the runaways. She along with four others had escaped from the Ivory Towers, where they were training to be witches and warlocks. It had taken a little bit of arranging, but Gideon and his wife had agreed to take in Paola, while three others were settled in other homes. Alice, one of the five, had been killed before she and her younger brother James could reach a new safe haven.

  “Wonderful. Despite the ten years between her and Bridgette, they’ve really taken to each other. She’s a little quiet at times, but I think she’s homesick and missing Étienne.”

  “Really?” I arched a brow at her in surprise. Étienne was the oldest and had been the leader of the little band. The young Frenchman was now staying w
ith my parents along with Tony.

  Ellen gave a little snort as she looked back toward Paola and her daughter. “You men don’t notice anything.”

  “That’s true. How’s Bridgette? Gideon hasn’t . . . mentioned . . . anything recently,” I said haltingly, trying to be somewhat vague since I was sure this was a potentially sore topic. In September, Gideon admitted that he was concerned that his daughter was going to show a similar magical talent, which would draw the immediate attention of the Ivory Towers.

  The pretty blonde gave a sigh, dropping her voice closer to a whisper. “She’s good. Nothing has happened yet, but we’re all keeping a close watch. Gideon has put some protection over the house so that she can’t be detected, but the concern is if it happens outside of the house.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, feeling bad for her. “If something should happen and you can’t reach Gideon, do you know how to reach me? I can give you my cell—­”

  Ellen laughed and looked up at me with shining eyes. “Oh, Gage. I’ve got your number and address already. Gideon gave it to me years ago, just after we married. He gave me a list of ­people to contact if there was ever trouble and your name has always been at the top of the list.”

  Shock coursed through my veins, tensing all my muscles. Gideon trusted me with his family? Hell, Gideon trusted me? The man had put on a good show of hating me for close to ten years. It was mind numbing to hear that I was the person he trusted to protect his wife and daughter.

  She gently patted me on the arm. “That man has said nothing to you, has he?” I shook my head and Ellen gave a little roll of her eyes. “Stubborn. Gage, he worries about you and he trusts you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sliding her arm through mine, Ellen stepped close but her eyes were on her husband as he snapped pictures of both Bridgette and Paola sitting on Bronx’s lap. “He told me what happened this past fall. I’m very sorry. I know he doesn’t show it, but Gideon has been torn up about it. He feels guilty that he wasn’t able to do more.”