by Lexi C. Foss
“Everything,” she repeated. “The way they skinned me alive over and over again. Sometimes they burned my flesh. Sometimes they let Ghouls feast on me just to watch me regenerate. Always awake. Always alive. Always remembering.”
More of that incessant tapping. She clearly wasn’t all there anymore. The way her eyes drifted upward, downward, to the side…
“They liked me aware, Eve. To feel. So many experiments. Eventually this became my permanent state.” She gestured to her face. “It took a while, but as you know, time moves slowly in Hell.” Another cock of her head, this one slightly eerier than before. Demented.
“How many Earth hours before Xai is healed, you think?” she asked softly. “Twenty-four? Forty-eight? It took you nearly a hundred Hell hours, which isn’t even one Earth hour. Just think of the amount of time we’ll have together while he recovers.” She leaned in closer. “And then it’ll take him far longer to ever find you. That leaves us plenty of years, hopefully decades, for me to demonstrate some of my most tormented memories. On you.”
I stared at her, unfazed, waiting for more. If she thought I would weep or beg, then she’d caught the wrong woman. And the whole Xai-finding-me nonsense? As if I’d wait for him. I was the Daughter of Death, not a damsel in distress.
“Evangeline doesn’t appear to be understanding me, Grant. Can you fetch me a blade?”
I glanced at the familiar male paired with the name. Still nothing. He left the room with a swagger in his step, his tailored pants and silk woven sweater denoting wealth.
Why do I know you, Grant?
And what kind of demon are you?
“I’ve dreamed of this for several millennia,” Kalida mused. “Ripping you apart piece by piece, watching you mend, and doing it all over again. Scarring that flawless skin permanently, etching my initials into your face so Xai thinks of me every time he looks at you, burning your—”
“I’m just going to cut in and say that you probably need to seek some mental help, K. Seems like you’re harboring a lot of pent-up anger toward the wrong person, when perhaps you should be looking in the mirror.” I cringed mockingly. “Actually, on second thought, maybe not. You might break it.”
Her fist connected with my jaw, shooting stars behind my eyes.
I laughed, genuinely amused. “You’re right, K. We’re going to need all the years you can get down here.” Another meeting of her knuckles against the side of my head had me laughing harder. Not because I enjoyed being punched, but because it provoked her to hit me again and each jostle served as a chance to test my restraints.
By the time Grant returned, Kalida had hit me five times, causing my lip to bleed and my face to ache.
He watched as the warm liquid slid down my chin and dropped to my chest, his hazel eyes heating. “You look better in a bikini.”
I stopped testing the bindings around my wrist and met his hazel eyes.
Bikini? Was that some kind of hint as to why I recognized him, or just an offhanded comment?
“Who are you?” No, that wasn’t the right question. Who he was didn’t matter. “What are you?” I clarified. Because he clearly wasn’t human, but I sensed nothing demonic about him either.
His lips twitched. “Having a problem seeing my aura, babe?”
It dawned on me then, the missing piece of the puzzle we never actually solved about Kalida. I hadn’t thought much of it after we caught her, had assumed the demons would figure it out, but no one had ever mentioned it again. “You’re the reason Kalida’s aura disappeared.” I had no idea how that was possible, but the spark in his gaze confirmed it.
He performed an extravagant bow. “At your service.”
“How?”
“Are you really that blind?” Kalida asked, her voice still holding that raspy quality to it.
The scarring extended to her insides, I realized. Ouch.
“I’ve been told your kind can’t sense me, something that was proven when no one came after me a few decades back.” Grant smiled. “One of the only gifts of my birthright.”
“You’re not a Halfling,” I said, scrutinizing him. Because even a partial demon would have an aura. Only angels… Oh. My eyes widened. “A Nephilim?”
“Ding, ding, ding!” He actually clapped with excitement. Dipshit was clearly the better name for him. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was too busy frowning.
A Nephilim. In Hell.
Impossible.
Xai was the only heavenly being I knew who could survive down here, and that was a result of him being the Son of Chaos. Our bonded souls—his essence—was what kept me aware here, but my inability to figure out these damn handcuffs proved how Hell weakened me.
It’s just metal. I should be able to shatter it, but I could hardly move my arms, let alone yank them.
This is not looking good.
“Care to reward her, sweetheart?” Grant handed a sharp instrument to Kalida that more or less resembled a razor blade.
“Why?” I asked, ignoring the scarred Succubus and focusing on the child of Heaven.
“Why what, babe?”
My teeth ground together at the stupid nickname. He could at least be more inventive. I called him Dipshit, after all. Swallowing the urge to reprimand his lack of creativity, I asked, “Why are you down here?”
“Ah, that’s a question for your precious Dark Provenance,” he replied. “Which, sadly, I don’t think you’ll get to ask them. How disappointing for you.”
The metal edge touched my thigh, scraping downward sharply as Kalida ripped my flesh without warning. And fuck, it hurt, but I didn’t even give her the satisfaction of a grimace. As the Daughter of Death, pain was an old mistress, and she was going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that to garner a reaction from me.
“You’ve both lost your fucking minds,” I said, my voice far calmer than the one cursing inside my head.
Another strip of my skin was added to the pile below, followed by a maniacal laugh from Kalida. “Prep the surgical room, Grant.”
“Planning to give yourself a new face?” I asked sweetly while continuing to fidget with the metal encasing my wrists.
Why can’t I find a weakness? Maybe when they move me— Fuck! She’d run the razor down my breast, snagging my… I couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t even look down.
Okay.
No, this wasn’t working.
I needed a new plan.
Something to distract them, keep them talking, a way to break—
Fire licked down my abdomen as she started running the razor repeatedly over my skin. My nails bit into my palms, my mouth forcefully closed, refusing to give in to the scream clogging my airway.
That would only grant her more satisfaction.
Kalida cackled, her face contorting terrifyingly into what probably used to be a smile. She started swiping at my skin at a rapid pace, slicing me open for her enjoyment.
“You’re a sadistic bitch,” I growled.
I hadn’t deemed her worthy of my blade before.
I sure as fuck did now.
Electricity revved in the air as Grant reappeared with the tool Kalida requested—a bone saw. “Here, entertain yourself with this while I prep the other room.”
She stood and kissed him soundly on the mouth, which he accepted far too greedily. As if they did this often.
That’s not pretty.
And neither was the look she gave me as she returned with the very sharp surgical toy poised in her right hand.
Oh, shit.
“Now we can begin,” she said, lowering the moving blade to hover above my sternum. “Try not to pass out on me, or we’ll have to start over.”
“Give me your worst, Kalida.”
Her gruesome mouth twisted again. “I thought you’d never ask.”
4
I’ll Find You, Evangeline
I grabbed a pillow and pulled it over my head, needing the ringing to stop. It was incessant and repetitive and fucking annoying. Evangeline m
ust have hit me hard during our sparring session. I would have been proud if it weren’t for the headache she left behind.
Paying her back would be fun, though.
“Xai.” The voice wasn’t the one I desired, so I ignored it. Remy would bugger off when he realized I didn’t feel like chatting. I typically enjoyed the Portal Dweller, but he really needed to call first.
“Xai,” he said again, this time with a shake of my shoulder.
Clearly, he didn’t receive the subtle message. “Fuck off.”
Where’s Evangeline? I half expected her to hit him with a blade, just for interrupting us in the bedroom.
My brow furrowed at the thought, my hand removing the pillow so I could glance around the bed.
All white.
Cotton, not satin.
With a balcony overlooking the beach.
I sat up. “What the fuck?”
“He’s up!” Remy yelled, causing me to flinch and throw a pillow at him.
“For fuck’s sake, keep it down.”
“Keep it down,” he repeated. “Seriously? Someone shoots you in the head and takes off with Evangeline, and you want me to be quiet? Sure. Let me know when I can speak.”
I blinked as Tax walked into the room with an electronic device and a coffee. He set the mug on the nightstand without looking at me, his focus on the screen.
“Someone shot me,” I said slowly, trying to recall the last thing I remembered. Evangeline in a dress. The lobby of the hotel. Beyond that was a bit fuzzy. “Did you say someone took her?”
“Yeah.” Tax seemed to be scrolling through information while he spoke. “And that ring your Nephilim made? The one I used to be able to sense an aura from? Nada.”
I prodded the tender place between my eyes. “What?”
“Disappeared.” He made a hand gesture while saying, “Poof. Gone.”
Remy leaned against the wall across from the bed and folded his arms. “We’ve been trying to find her for the last three days while you recovered.”
My eyebrows lifted. “Three days?” From a gunshot wound?
Tax finally lifted his gaze from the screen. “The bullet they put through your brain was one of those fragmenting kinds that poison your blood. Remy had to call Lord Zebulon for help.”
“Yes, imagine my surprise to learn you all were searching for my dead-to-me daughter,” a dark voice said from the doorway. The Demonic Lord of North America sauntered into the room wearing one of his trademark tailored suits. “Good to see you awake, Xai. Oh, and you’re welcome.”
Shit. Now I owed Zebulon a favor, which was never a good thing where Demonic Lords were concerned. Still, I managed a “Thank you” because it was warranted. “Tell me what happened.”
“Someone shot you in the head,” Remy supplied helpfully.
“This guy,” Tax growled, turning the screen my way to show me a surveillance image of a man with dark hair.
I frowned. “I have no idea who that is.”
“We didn’t either.” Tax hit another button, bringing up a document, and handed me the device to read. “But we do now. Or an alias, anyway.”
I scanned the details, noting the records were over twenty years old. Grant McDowell, minor criminal in the Miami scene with no priors of arrest, just an extensive record of aiding others in the crime syndicate. More photos were attached to the file, along with a list of known accomplices and several familiar names. I swapped back to the surveillance footage and zoomed in on his face.
“Try the next image,” Tax suggested.
I swiped over and growled. “He was at the pool that day with Streator.” I didn’t even recognize him, my focus at the time having been on Evangeline and our mark. “How is that possible? He hasn’t aged a day.”
Tax ran his fingers through his messy blond spikes. He really needed to consider a different hairstyle. “Yeah, we’re working on that part. He’s not human, nor is he a demon.”
“That we know,” Zebulon clarified. “It’s possible he’s from another territory or even the realms, but doubtful.”
“Have you shown Ashmedai?” I rolled out of the bed, ignoring my headache. We had a lot to do and little time to do it. “And do you have any lead on where this thing took Evangeline?”
“No to both,” Remy replied. “After Grant shot you—from close range, by the way—Eve dove out of the car and sort of froze. He took advantage of the moment and shot her too. Then an unmarked car with tinted windows pulled up and he disappeared, with Eve.”
I noted the point about an accomplice but focused on the more important statement. “Evangeline froze?” I paused in my pursuit of clothes from my suitcase and turned to look at Remy. “That’s not like her.”
“Nor is it like you to miss a threat right in front of your face,” Tax muttered. “But here we are.”
I cocked a brow at the Tracker demon. “Are you blaming me for this situation?”
Tax had the good grace to appear contrite. “I’m just pointing out that you both have been a little preoccupied.”
“He means distracted,” Zebulon said. “Which isn’t the point, or relevant. Shall I contact Ashmedai’s Royal Guard to request an audience?”
I almost scoffed at the notion but instead replied, “Yes.” As if I cared about demonic formalities. The Archdemon showed up on my doorstep without notice. Why shouldn’t I repay the favor?
I picked out a new shirt, jeans, and boots and went into the bathroom without a word to the peanut gallery.
Evangeline froze?
And how had I allowed someone to sneak up on me with a gun?
He means distracted.
I pondered that statement while rinsing the blood from my hair and scalp and washing away the grime of spending three days in bed after being shot.
Were they right? Had my relationship with Evangeline put us both in jeopardy?
No, we’re stronger together.
I knew that. She knew that. Three millennia of fighting our passion for each other had proven that we needed each other. I was only ever alive in her presence.
Where are you? I thought, reaching through our celestial connection, searching for my other half. A lingering hum of energy served as the only confirmation of her being alive.
I’ll find you, I promised. You’re never alone.
I shut off the water, dried off, and dressed.
Evangeline could take care of herself; that I knew. But Tax’s inability to sense the aura we laced into her ring was troubling. The gift served two functions—a weapon and a beacon device for situations such as this.
“Is the ring destroyed?” I asked as I walked back into the main bedroom.
Tax had taken up residence on the bed, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He glanced up from the device in his hands and shook his head. “No. I would have felt that since we tied it to my aura.”
“So she still has it?”
He considered, his lips pursing to the side. “It’s possible someone removed it and put it somewhere, but that wouldn’t explain why I can’t track it. Like, I can’t even sense the ring, almost as if it somehow died. But again, I didn’t feel the destruction.”
“Does it feel as if the life energy just disappeared without a trace?” Zebulon asked, his expression darkly curious.
“Yeah, like it just never existed,” Tax agreed. “Weird, right?”
“No, that’s what happened to Kalida.” His chocolate gaze met mine. “Her aura came back after her capture, as if it had never left. We never determined the cause.”
“Ashmedai had her in custody for how many thousands of Hell years and never asked?”
“He was more concerned with punishment.”
Of course he was; all demons enjoyed a good bout of torture. Ashmedai probably thought it was irrelevant since she came back with her aura, or perhaps even forgot about it with all that ancient history clouding his thoughts. “Well, I’d say this is all related and Kalida was the one driving that car.”
“
Clearly,” Zebulon replied, his voice bored. “She set it all up.”
He said it with such finality that I had to raise a brow. “You have sufficient proof?”
“Aside from common sense?” he countered, matching my expression. I didn’t respond, merely held his gaze and waited for him to elaborate. His lips twitched, the only indication that he enjoyed this old game between us. I requested more information, not a rhetorical response.
“Yes,” Zebulon finally said. “Tax informed me you followed Sharon’s aura here. I’ve already had a debriefing with her, and she claimed I summoned her to Miami for a meeting.” He scoffed at that last part. “As if I would ever find her worthy.”
“Someone used your protocols to contact her,” I inferred. “And Kalida would be familiar with them.”
“Right, she lured you into a trap and you all fell for it.” Zebulon’s voice held a disappointed edge that was more than deserved.
“We should have been more careful,” I admitted, irritated. It had been too obvious—something Evangeline had even commented on—and I hadn’t bothered considering the potential for it to be on purpose. I would not be making that mistake again.
Zebulon’s focus shifted to his wrist as he hit a button on his watch. “Ashmedai has just agreed to see us.”
I snorted. “How generous of him.”
Remy pushed off the wall, while Tax remained on the bed. “I need to check something else,” he said, that screen holding his fascination. “I have a program running to track Grant’s images, trying to pinpoint his location, but he keeps disappearing. In this day and age of surveillance, that shouldn’t be possible. I want to do some more digging while you talk to Ashmedai.”
“You’re avoiding the Archdemon,” I translated.
“He scares the shit out of me.” Tax flipped his screen to me again, displaying a convoluted map with pins. “But this is why you want me to stay here. I want to check these places for portal points, so I need to borrow Remy too.”
“Taxi driver, at your service,” the Portal Dweller deadpanned.
I ignored the banter and focused on the display of paths. “Are these all places where he disappeared from surveillance?” There were four consistent ones and a handful of outliers.