Payable On Death: A Jax Rhodes Novel, Book One (The Jax Rhodes Series 1)

by Rachel Rawlings

  I waited for my turn, repeating for the most part what everyone else said. I added a few details about how she seemed to know me, that perhaps she knew my mother. Recognition dawned in the officer's eyes at the mention of my mom. Every cop in the city showed up at our house the night she killed my stepfather.

  I left out the part about demons and the Elioud, because the first he wouldn't believe and the second I didn't know how to explain. And he wouldn't believe it even if I did.

  After what felt like days, we wrote down all of our contact info and were deemed free to leave. Everyone except Dane. His missing person case had become a police investigation and they wanted to know more about the dead woman. Tommy and I walked out with just enough time for me to make my shift at the bar and for him to meet his mom for dinner. I wanted to talk to him about why he'd been acting so weird, but unfortunately it had to wait, along with the conversation about his feelings for me.

  Bad Decisions was, thankfully, uneventful. My tank top, as I figured it would, proved to be a wise choice. The conversation, beer, and tips flowed freely. Any other night, I would have been exhausted after a shift like that. Instead, I felt relieved for the reprieve, for the normalcy after one of the weirdest days of my life. And that was saying something, believe me.

  After the last inebriated patron found his way into an Uber car, I wiped down the bar top and tables, counted down the till, and headed home for what remained of the night.

  I tossed my keys and cell on the nightstand, stripped down to my bra and panties, after I closed the blinds and hit the sheets. Dreams of winged creatures, feather and leather alike, tormented my sleep. Twice I woke screaming, certain I felt something brush my cheek. Another time it was from a backdraft-like breeze despite all the windows being closed.

  I woke the next morning to find down strewn about my room, the small white feathers fluttering across the floor. I must have tossed and turned more than I thought. I smacked the comforter, watching more of its soft filling fluff out. Time for a new one, I supposed, making my way to the bathroom. I caught sight of a larger feather with a strange opalescent sheen and a chill ran down my spine. Someone else might have panicked but my life got weirder and weirder every fucking day that passed.

  I was getting used to it.

  TEN

  The morning flew by without any visits from Lazarus or his friends. He'd haunted my steps for so long I'd grown suspicious of his sudden indifference to my existence. After my third cup of coffee and still no signs of the Devil's favorite tormentor, I decided waiting for a trap to spring was a pretty unproductive way to spend my day.

  Joan's last words were on repeat in my mind. I fired up my laptop and refilled my mug. I'd just settled in to do some hardcore googling when my phone rang. Not recognizing the number, I let it go to voicemail. Before I could figure out how to search Elioud without even knowing how the hell to spell it, my cell rang again.

  "Yeah?"

  "Uh, Jax?"

  "Dane?"

  "Yeah, did I catch you at a bad time?"

  "Huh? Oh no, I'm just trying to look up something Joan said to me before she, before she um, well, you know."

  "Before she committed the ultimate sin."

  "She killed someone?" I found it hard to believe the frail woman would've had the strength to take someone's life.

  "She killed herself. It's the same thing, really. She extinguished a soul that didn't truly belong to her—whether it was someone else's life or her own is actually irrelevant. The end result is the same." Dane cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had gone. "Listen, I wouldn't put too much thought into anything Joan said. The woman had serious mental issues, she was diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic before she managed to escape the hospital."

  "She seemed to know an awful lot about me, Dane."

  "I didn't hear what she said to you. Still, I'm willing to bet it was stuff she could have said to anyone. Like what fortune tellers do. She was crazy, Jax. I chased her for a long time. Believe me."

  "I'm not betting with you again. Ever. I lost the last time."

  Dane's laughter almost distracted me from the ominous thoughts swirling in my head. I wanted to believe Joan performed some cheap parlor trick with every fiber of my being but I couldn't. Dane didn't have a clue about the things which followed me around. Joan did. Joan was about to unlock the secret to saving my soul before something terrifying found her and death was her only escape. If I'd only gotten to her a few minutes sooner.

  "Listen, think about what she said. If you still think it's really about you, we can figure it out together over dinner." Dane filled the silence I'd let grow until it bordered on awkward, lost in my thoughts.

  "Dinner?"

  "Yes, dinner. That meal after lunch and before midnight snack. The one you're supposed to be having with me. Tonight."

  Shit. I'd completely forgotten when that was. So much had happened since I'd seen him the day before. Part of me wanted to back out and stay home with Google and a container of Combination Lo Mein. The other part wanted to take him up on his offer to figure it out. To tell him the truth and see if he'd run.

  "Oh, yeah. Umm, seven o'clock, right?"

  "I can hear the excitement in your voice. Don't worry, Jax, you'll change your tune before dessert. I promise."

  "Don't make promises you can't keep."

  "I never do. See you at seven."

  He hung up before I had a chance to say goodbye. The rarest of genuine smiles crept across my face when I set down my phone. I silently promised myself to tread carefully and not get in over my head with Dane. It seemed we both had our share of secrets. It was time for a little quid pro quo.

  I went back to my quest for answers to the questions Joan raised in my mind about the night I'd sold my soul. My chance encounter with the Devil hadn't been chance at all according to her. She said he sought me out, coveted my soul above all others.

  Why? What made me so special?

  I ran my search on Elioud, scrolling through the links. As usual, Wikipedia was the most reliable source. After a left click, I took a swig of my coffee and waited for the page to load.

  The results brought more questions than answers. Elioud were the children of Nephilim. I'd heard the word somewhere before, but didn't know what it meant, so I followed the blue link to another page on the site. What I found nearly blew my mind. I probably should have paid more attention at Sunday school.

  Of course that meant I would have had to actually go to Sunday school. My mother brought me to church a few times when I was little, though she never took to religion until she ended up in prison.

  Children of angels and mortal women, the Nephilim were only mentioned a handful of times in the Bible, the Elioud fewer than that. According to the Book of Enoch and the Book of Jubilees, the Egregoroi—or Watchers—were the ones who fathered the first race of halflings. From their vantage point in the heavens, they looked down on mortal women and found themselves desiring them. They made a pact and in that moment, two hundred angels became the fallen ones, bedding mortal women and siring the Nephilim. The Egregoroi taught their wives and their children sorcery, incantations, and divination. For a time, they possessed what they had coveted for so long.

  God is omnipresent, all knowing and all powerful. So he cast one-hundred-and-ninety of his fallen firstborns into Tartarus a place of eternal darkness where the wicked received divine punishment. Ten of the Watchers God left to roam the Earth, tempting mankind until the final judgment day. And tempt they did, until darkness consumed them, transforming them until their insides matched their outsides and they became something else entirely.

  Demons.

  Nothing else is mentioned of the Nephilim. And even less of the Elioud. Two lines were all that had been recovered from Qumran amongst the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Elioud are their own race, created by the coupling of Nephilim and mortal women. Part angel, they are exceptional in both ability and wickedness.

  Wickedness? Se
lling one's soul could be considered wicked, I suppose. Up until that moment, I'd avoided the trappings of living in the city. The Devil had been my one temptation. Go big or go home, I guess.

  The Book of Enoch and the Book of Jubilees, along with the vast majority of scrolls and gospels found in Qumran, had not been sanctioned by the church. At least there was one glaring commonality—neither was I. It all sounded like some twisted biblical fairytale, farfetched and impossible to believe. Still, some carnal part of me, buried deep beneath the person I'd been conditioned to become, recognized the words. The story resonated. I felt the truth of Joan's words in the marrow of my bones.

  Elioud. The name for what I was. I'd been tormented by demons all my life, some inside my heart and mind and the rest sent straight from Hell. My mother and I needed to have a serious talk.

  And it was almost visiting day.

  I'd followed link after link until I reached the bottom of the rabbit hole and it was time to get ready for dinner. The closet in my one bedroom apartment was about the size of most hall closets in a standard townhouse and contained more tanks and tees than dresses or skirts. I owned exactly two dresses. Both options were black. The first, a button up with baby doll sleeves, complete with white collar and patent leather belt, was a sixties inspired dress I'd worn to my uncle's funeral a few years ago. Not exactly the look I was going for.

  The second was a short-fitted V-neck that had been part of my sexy witch costume for a Halloween event at the bar which showed entirely too much cleavage and barely covered my ass. Again, not the look I wanted for my first dinner date in over a year. With only enough time to shower and get dressed, shopping for something new was out of the question and just as well since I found the process of finding new clothes to be a horrific form of torture. I laid out a pair of skinny jeans, black ankle boots, a white scoop neck tank, and a cropped black leather jacket. With the right accessories, the perfect urban chic ensemble was strewn across my bed.

  I hit the shower with less than half an hour before Dane was due to arrive. Since I'd cut it so close, I had to make a decision. Shave or blow dry my hair. Uncertain of where the night would go, I opted for a clean landscape and my natural, beachy waved blonde hair. I'd just zipped up my boots when the doorbell rang.

  "Hey, let me just grab my bag and we can go. Dane?" Unnerved by his silence and the awe-filled expression on his face, I grabbed the purple, skull-covered Betsy Johnson makeup bag I'd converted into a purse and stepped out into the hallway, shutting and locking the door behind me.

  "You look amazing." Dane held out his hand, waiting for me to take it.

  "He speaks." Nerves settled in and I reluctantly slipped my hand in his, afraid he would revolt at the touch or figure out what I was before I had the opportunity to tell him.

  "Sorry, I…." Dane cleared his throat. "I don't think I've ever seen you with your hair down. You're absolutely stunning." He reached up with his free hand and brushed a stray strand of hair from my face.

  I fought the urge to flinch at the intimate gesture, succeeding apart from the small twitch of my eyes. Dane had to have caught it. He was too astute not to. A private investigator never missed an important clue in someone's body language.

  "A little lip gloss and mascara can go a long way." I reached the top of the stairs when I felt a little tug on my hand.

  I turned back to look at Dane and he moved in, slipping his right hand around my waist and backing me up against the wall. Before I knew it, his masterful lips were on mine and his hands cupped my face. He kissed and nipped until I finally opened my mouth allowing him to deepen the kiss. He pulled away just before I thought I might melt into a puddle at his feet.

  "Don't do that. Don't brush off my compliment like I'm some guy hitting on you at the bar and you don't believe it. I'll keep saying it until you do. You're beautiful." Dane McDonough was well on his way to winning more than our bet for a date. If he made it through dinner and my sparkling conversation, he just might win the grand prize.

  He kissed me again, softer this time, before resting his forehead against mine. "I've wanted to do that since I found you in the alley the other night."

  "Unable to resist a damsel in distress?" My chest heaved from an intoxicating combination of fear and desire. I wanted him and that scared the shit out of me.

  "I used to think so, until I met you and realized I don't want a woman who needs to be saved all the time. I want a woman who can hold her own."

  "Well, then, I'm your girl because no one can save me." The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them, a verbal bucket of ice dumped on the hottest moment of my life. Smooth, Jax, very smooth.

  Lazarus chose that moment to make his presence known again, lurking in the shadows across the hall from us. His hands caressed his groin while he watched the two of us entangled in an embrace. Four lesser demons crawled out from the darkness swirling around his feet and scaled the walls. Lazarus licked his lips suggestively. I tried to ignore them and the truth that I was terrified to reveal this part of my life to Dane. He hadn't sensed them, couldn't see them scaling the walls outside my apartment.

  My heart sank. I said I would go to dinner and I wasn't backing out, but my expectations for the evening had drastically changed. The dread I'd always felt about letting people in anchored itself to any hopes I'd had. I should have just blown out my hair and gone with the laundry day granny panties.

  Lazarus sneered. "The master will not be happy about this at all. I can't wait to tell him."

  I couldn't wait to figure out exactly what the hell was going on.

  ELEVEN

  People lined the walls inside La Scala, some waiting for a table at the popular Sicilian restaurant while others waited for a turn on the indoor bocce ball court. Nino, the owner, was an Italian's Italian, with a passion for food and an appetite for life. From the moment you walked in, you felt at home and like part of the family.

  Nino waved over the throngs of people crowded around the hostess, motioning toward the swinging kitchen door. I'd eaten in the back more times than I could count. Tending a bar definitely had its perks; the staff here were regulars. One of Nino' nephews, interning for the summer while he finished culinary school, had sort of a thing for me a few years back. It never went anywhere, although I did score a permanent seat at one of the best restaurants in town. I preferred the small table wedged into an out of the way corner, surrounded by the hustle and precision of the busy kitchen, to the clank of silverware against plates and the melded background chatter of the dining area.

  Salvatore set the table, waiting for us to settle in before offering us the menus. I collected both menus from the table before Dane had a chance to open his and politely handed them back to Sal.

  "We'll have the Strangolapretti and il vino della casa."

  "What did you just order?"

  "Pasta and house wine."

  "There's a pasta called strangled priest?"

  "It's Tuscan. Nino still makes it for me even though it’s not on the regular menu." Dane seemed slightly put off by the name so I didn't mention that was what made me want to try it in the first place. "You speak Italian? I only know enough to order off the menu."

  "Italian and Latin, actually."

  "Latin, huh? Impressive."

  Sal returned to the table with a tray holding bread, seasoned oil, and the wine. He set two glasses on the table, pouring for both of us before setting the bottle down, followed by the small basket of warm bread and oil between us. Once we sampled and approved the wine, he left to check on our meal.

  Dane grabbed a piece of bread, breaking off a chunk and dipping it in the oil before placing it in his mouth. I reached for my wine, taking a sip as I watched him repeat the process. When he opened his mouth the second time, I was taken back to the moment he knelt over Joan and placed the wafer in his mouth. He'd done something, performed some sort of ritual, and I planned to find out exactly what.

  "Hey, where'd you go?" Dane waved a hand in my face to get
my attention.

  "What?" I hadn't realized how long I'd disappeared into my thoughts.

  "I was asking about Joan, you wanted to talk about the stuff she said. Not the most romantic dinner conversation but it seems important to you, so I'm all ears. Fire away, let's figure it out together."

  "What did you do to Joan at the shelter?" I found it interesting his thoughts had drifted to the same place as mine.

  "I prayed for her." Dane took a sip of wine and I could tell he wished it was something stronger.

  "That's it. You prayed for her."

  "Yes, something like a last rites."

  "Is this some weird Opus Dei shit?"

  "What?" Dane clearly didn't get the reference.

  "You know Dan Brown, Angels and Demons? Never mind, forget it. So you just carry around oils and what, the holy Eucharist in your coat pockets?" I didn't bother to hide my disbelief. He was holding back—that much was obvious.

  "Look, I'm not a priest or anything. I spent a lot of time in the church growing up, which came in handy when I took Joan's case. The woman was a religious fanatic. I prayed with her for over an hour before I could get her to go to the psych ward. When she took off, I figured it couldn't hurt taking some oil and water in case I needed to bless her or something to get her to go back."

  "You can't bless people. I didn't spend a lot of time in the church but even I know that."

  "According to who? The Church?" Dane held back a laugh. "Besides, she didn't know that."

  "That's cruel." My heart broke for Joan's tormented soul. I hoped she found peace, found her God, and he'd forgiven her for taking her life.

  "Cruel? Try merciful, Jax." Dane played with his fork, spinning it around by the tines on the white table cloth. "The woman was out of her mind. I gave her a little peace and convinced her to come with me to a safe place where she couldn't hurt herself. I have no reservations about doing it again. That doesn't make me cruel or a bad guy."