Icy gray eyes surveyed Trick with an air of authority. This Mortus demon was used to getting what he wanted.
Man-bun has the same color eyes as Dru and Peony.
Maybe he’s a relative.
Trick sure as Hell hoped not. The guy screamed evil—and Trick knew better than most what that meant in a demon.
Sorry, Dru.
He took a shallow breath, then said clearly, “But I do have a healer.”
“A healer?” Man-bun’s eyebrows rose in amusement.
Shock flared to life on Peony’s face. Her features were so similar to Dru’s, it was like a sucker-punch to his gut. But they were not the same woman, and Trick didn’t owe Peony anything. She was valuable to the guild, he could see that, but if he had to pick his friend’s life over hers...there was no choice to be made.
Plus, Peony had poisonous skin. She’d be at less risk in the Mortus den than Dru.
“She’s right there.” He nodded his head in Peony’s direction.
He ignored the talk that erupted among his assassins. Surely they understood that it wasn’t wise to piss off the Mortus? Annoying them meant annoying Satan.
Man-bun turned and looked at Peony, his expression blank except for a slight smirk. “How wonderful.” He returned his attention to Trick. “How much?”
Too much, was Trick’s instant reaction, but he had no choice. The guild had to survive above all else.
“That’s a really good question,” Trick replied.
He briefly met Peony’s bruised gaze. She’d accept her fate, and make a life for herself with the Mortus, he had no doubt.
If Dru had been there, she would have been spitting fire right now, would have been ready to kill Man-bun and lay waste to the rest of his crew.
Lucky she’s off hunting down a deposed god. Although, said god—Set—might not be feeling the same way, right this minute.
Peony’s shoulders straightened, and she stepped away from Sylvester, who’d tried to shield her with his body.
Interesting.
“I think I’m worth at least five million bucks, wouldn’t you say?” she called out.
Trick fought back a laugh.
He’d done the right thing.
Chapter 14
“Pack what you can, and quickly.” Trick stood in her doorway, arms folded.
Peony wanted to scream at him to leave her alone, to give her this small amount of privacy, but there was no point. He wasn’t going to let her out of his sight, and she knew it.
Not when five million dollars was on the line.
She’d been joking—panicked—when she’d said that amount, not really intending for the Mortus to agree to it straight away. But they had, no negotiation required.
She surveyed her room, wondering what she should take with her. There wasn’t much—the bed, desk, chair and all her furniture were guild-issue and she didn’t have many clothes, aside from her glove collection. Mostly she wore hospital scrubs.
Too bad I can’t take my clinic with me.
And she wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to Z, not with Trick hovering over her like a bad smell. Funny how that hurt more than the loss of her hard-won medical supplies.
Pulling her suitcase from her closet, she quickly assembled a mental list of what she needed to pack. Then she set about shoving her clothes, shoes and gloves into the case. At the end, she grabbed her laptop.
“That’s guild property,” Trick said.
She spun around, clutching the computer to her chest. “No, this is mine.”
He stared at her, his will powerful, trying to force her to back down. But this was a gift from her mother, and she wasn’t about to leave it behind so Trick could poke around in her life. Or what was left of it.
“The clinic’s computer never leaves the clinic. This is my personal property.”
Trick’s lips thinned, but he gave her a curt nod.
She packed the laptop away. Do they even have the Internet where the Mortus live? Peony paused, her hands over the case. “I just need to send a quick email—”
“No.” Trick stepped further into her room. “There’s no time, they’re waiting for you.”
Her posture straightened. “They can wait five minutes.”
“I don’t want the Mortus in my guild for a second longer than they need to be.”
Jerk.
But she kept that thought to herself. Trick was just trying to protect the guild, and he was sacrificing her to do it. Sacrificing her to save Dru, as well, which she could understand even if she didn’t like it. Dru was a more valuable asset, and a lot more hot-tempered than Peony. She’d walk into the Mortus den and start killing first, asking questions second. She’d probably be dead or in chains by the end of the first day, whereas Peony would try and make do as best she could. She didn’t have Dru’s fighting instincts, but she was good at making friends.
Can you really make friends with a Mortus?
That she couldn’t answer. She’d become buddies—of a sort—with a Reynard’s Imp, and they didn’t like anyone, not even each other. The Mortus, however, were on a whole different level when it came to evildoing.
She scanned the room to see if there was anything she’d missed. There—her stethoscope. That had been a gift from her mom as well, when she’d graduated medical school. There was nothing else left. Peony didn’t collect knickknacks, and she hadn’t brought any of her books from home with her when she’d moved, worried they’d get stolen.
Her life really could fit into a single suitcase.
Dru is going to be so mad when she returns...
Well, that was going to be her former slave master’s problem.
Mom is going to freak out if I don’t email her tonight.
They kept in almost daily contact. If Peony missed a check-in, Selene would worry, and bad things happened when her mom worried. But her mother couldn’t spend much time in Hell, since she was trying to keep her own existence a secret from the Hell-lords. So the guild would remain standing.
Hopefully.
Let’s just pray they have Internet in the Mortus’ den.
They had it in Tartarus, so why not Inferno?
She secured the lid on her leather suitcase, then let out a deep breath. Peony was about to meet her own kind for the first time. She was going to live with them, learn about them, and maybe even find a mate, although she doubted that possibility, even hoped that it wouldn’t be the case.
Mortus were evil, and she...well, she wasn’t.
Turning to Trick, she gripped the suitcase handle more tightly. “I’m ready.”
*
It seemed like the whole guild was lining the hallway outside her bedroom door. Opal was closest to her, with Metcalf and Sylvester at the far end of the stone-walled corridor. Even Monica was there, her kitchen apron speckled with dark blood, her slit-pupil eyes focused on them. It looked like she had been cooking ‘mystery meat’ again.
Maybe it’s a good thing I missed going to the mess.
As Peony walked past the assassins, the various demons nodded to her solemnly, as if they were witnessing a funeral. A lump formed in her throat, and she fought back a prickling sensation in her eyes.
She hadn’t realized they all liked her this much.
Sure, Opal had implied it, and most of the demons enjoyed stopping her for a chat, but this was different. It felt like an honor guard. Even Errant was there—and it was hard to pry him away from his bookkeeping, unless he was looking for a treatment for his ‘rash’.
Trick was silent beside her, an ominous shadow that kept the assassins from saying too much to her. When she reached the end of the hallway, she focused on taking deep breaths.
I will not cry.
Metcalf’s shiny black eyes took in her suitcase and her white-knuckled grip. He gave her a smile that almost made her step backward. Reynard’s Imps and smiles were things that really shouldn’t go together.
“
You need anyone killed for you, just call me,” the demon said with a nod.
She choked back a laugh. “Thanks.”
Sylvester stepped forward and wrapped her in a quick but firm hug. Surprise at the physical contact rooted her to the spot; she was careful to keep the exposed skin of her face well away from the other demon. “Keep safe,” he said quietly. “Don’t let those fuckers take you down.”
Before he pulled away, she whispered, “You take care of Z. Don’t kill him, please.”
That earned her a frown, but he didn’t argue. Instead, those baby-blue eyes turned to Trick, darkening with rage.
Trick didn’t seem to the notice the undercurrent of anger in the hall. “The Mortus are waiting.”
Peony looked over her shoulder. “Thank you. All of you.”
Grave nods.
Then she was walking back toward the main hall.
“Say nothing of the angel to the Mortus,” Trick said, his voice low.
She flicked him a sideways glance. “You said you’d kill me if I told anyone.”
“And I meant it. So, don’t say anything, and you get to live.”
She stopped. “You seriously think you’ll be able to infiltrate the Mortus den and kill me?” Peony gave a soft, almost hysterical laugh.
“Not me personally.” Trick’s face was cold.
“I somewhat doubt you’ll find anyone eager to do it for you.”
His brown eyes flashed a warning, which she ignored.
“But don’t worry. I won’t blab.” She shook her head. “You think the Mortus will take kindly to an unfallen angel living in Hell? I protect the people in my care.”
She saw the barb sink home.
Satisfied, she started walking again. “Let’s go; it’s time for me to meet my new master.”
Chapter 15
Careful of his injured wing, Z stretched the appendage up and over his shoulder, marveling at the tiny pin feathers that had emerged. Scabs and abscesses still marred the bones of his wings, but they were trying to regenerate.
I won’t have to have them cut off.
A wave of relief shot through him. Trick’s threat had weighed heavily the past few weeks, to the point where he’d almost begged the little healer to cut his wings off for him. That way Z could move on—drive the self-pity from his mind and focus on healing the rest of his body so he could escape.
He hadn’t been able to make the request, because while there was a possibility they’d grow back, there was also the chance he would lose his wings forever. Z hadn’t been able to fully face that future.
To be fair, he doubted she would have done it, had he managed to voice the words. She’d seemed convinced she could save his wings; and she’d been right. They still had a long way to go, but they were healing, and he was going to be whole again, provided no one else decided to hurt him.
I won’t let them.
He wasn’t sure how he would achieve that, being as weak as a kitten, but he would try.
More accurately, his mind whispered, she won’t let them hurt you.
His little healer.
No, she’d fight for him tooth and nail, he knew it.
He swept his wing back to its resting position, pressing his cheek against the stone floor, welcoming the grittiness of the earth. He missed the skies, the clouds and eddies of Heaven, but at least here he could feel the pulse of the world underneath him. Z knew it was partly because he was sensation-deprived; he needed to feel something.
She said no touching.
And that made him want to touch her all the more.
Maybe that’s why she did it, to try and generate interest.
There were plenty of demons who he could imagine trying to manipulate him like that, but he didn’t think she was one of them. And to do that, she had to know he found her...pretty. Hopefully, he’d never indicated that to her.
You’ve gone crazy because of your head injury. Finding a demon attractive.
No, he thought, being honest with himself. She’s attractive, and I’m male. Sure, she didn’t have the painful perfection that Dina possessed, but he liked that about the healer. She was more real, more...attainable.
The few times he’d been with Dina, it had been a meeting of bodies, nothing more than him scratching an itch for a powerful woman. Or perhaps easing her curiosity more than anything else. He’d been in half in love with her the first time, but her coolness afterward had served as a shock—she’d liked him enough to bed him, but not keep him.
And it had been the right attitude, he could see that now.
They probably should have never been intimate anyway, them both being Darts. If the others had known, they would have not approved. Azrael in particular—he’d lived for the cause. Z had never even heard the angel’s name linked with another’s, just practice, practice and practice. Raziel was secretive, so Z wouldn’t have known even if he had a lover, but Seraphina and Yael had been known to enjoy earthly matters. He’d even heard a rumor that Seraphina had been close to entering an understanding with another angel.
I wonder what they are all doing now.
He hoped searching for him was on the top of their list.
What if they think you’re dead?
His muscles clenched in protest at the thought. Why hadn’t he considered that before? Unless there was any proof he was still alive, they might very well believe him dead, might have already moved on with their lives.
The door to Z’s cell clanged open and the Incubus—Sylvester—stood there wearing a thunderous frown.
Z tried to look past him, for the healer.
“She’s not with me,” Sylvester said, dragging in the torture cart with the familiar sound of rattling glass and clanging metal. The demon’s blue eyes were cold.
“What do you mean?” Z propped himself on his elbows, wincing as his arms shook from the strain. He doubted he could even do one pushup, now.
How the mighty have fallen.
Shush.
He had to concentrate on the demon.
Something like rage flittered across the Incubus’ face. “She’s gone.”
Z frowned.
The little healer wouldn’t have just walked away from him—uh, her job. She was too dedicated.
“What do you mean, ‘She’s gone’?”
Sylvester snapped on a pair of plastic gloves. “My statement was pretty clear. I don’t think it needs clarification.”
Without the healer to smooth things over, Z realized Sylvester did not feel kindly toward him. From the tension in the demon’s muscles and his pursed-mouthed look of distaste, it was clear the Incubus would prefer to be anywhere but here.
“She just left?” Z asked, disbelieving.
Sylvester sighed. “Not exactly.”
He waited. Patience was supposedly a virtue, and he didn’t want the demon knowing he was dying to know the answer.
Bad choice of words.
Sylvester bent over Z’s wings, methodically inspecting them and dabbing on an astringent-smelling liquid from time to time. The medicine stung, but the silence—it burned.
The Incubus was packing up his equipment when he said, “She was sold.”
Truth.
Z’s head whipped toward the demon. “What do you mean?”
“Some demons came looking for someone who fit her description. She was sold to them as a result.”
He growled. “She’s a person, you can’t sell—”
Wait, was he defending a demon?
How the other Darts would have laughed at him...then taken him away for a mental-health check. He—like all angels—had been very much of the opinion that demons were evil, angels were good, and that all demons should die.
Now he’d done a complete turnaround.
But the healer is different.
She was compassionate and genuine, and nothing like what he’d been told demons were like. She deserved more than to be sold like chattel.
Sylvester let out a bitter laugh. “Almost everyone here is a blood slave, yourself included. Slaves are nothing more than commodities to be used or sold. Get used to it. It’s your life now.” His pure blue eyes went cold. “If you survive, that is.”
Truth. All of it.
Including the part where Z was also a blood slave. Trick had said the same, but everything about Trick was a strange mixture of lies and truth, so Z hadn’t really believed him.
I don’t remember signing any documents.
But he’d been barely conscious when he’d arrived, and Trick was a slimy bastard at the best of times. He could have forged Z’s signature easily.
Can demons even hold angels as slaves?
He had no idea.
Raziel would probably be able to answer the question—he’d been a scholar before the silver filaments in his wings had indicated he was warrior caste. But Raziel was as far away as Heaven was from Hell, and he had no way of contacting the other angel now his telepathic connection didn’t seem to work.
After Sylvester left, Z lay with his head on his forearms.
The healer has been sold.
What would happen to her? What kind of demons had purchased her? And how had she ended up in this guild in the first place?
Maybe he should have been wondering that since day one.
You shouldn’t care.
No, he shouldn’t.
It didn’t change the fact that he did, and that he owed her his wings. He had no doubt that, if not for her care, he might have been wingless or dead. Or both.
You owe her a debt.
And so what that he wanted to repay her with more than just his gratitude? That he had a consuming need to know what her skin felt like, to understand what really drove her to help people.
You’re a fool.
He wasn’t going to argue with himself over that.
Z’s eyelids grew heavy, and as he drifted off to sleep, trying work out how to free himself and then help the healer, Sylvester’s words ran through his mind.
Why had the demon’s final statement seemed more like a threat than an explanation?
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