Octavian's Undoing (Sons of Judgment)

by Airicka Phoenix

  With a smile, Riley waved and started out the door. She shut it quietly behind her and exhaled.

  “Did you quit?”

  Riley squeaked, and whipped around to face the owner of the voice. Octavian stood against the side of the building, arms crossed, expression sour. His shadowed gaze roamed over her once before locking with hers.

  “What is with you guys?” she snapped, clutching the front of her shirt with white knuckles. “I’m getting you all bells for Christmas!”

  Octavian snorted, shoved off the wall and sauntered towards her. “You don’t belong here.”

  She sucked in a deep breath, as anger sparked behind her eyes. “Well, I’m not quitting.” Her chin shot up, a self-satisfied smirk lingered around her lips. “In fact, I start tonight so you’re just going to have to get used to me.”

  The overpowering scent of wilderness blanketed her, suffocated her in the rich fragrance, and made her aware of just how close he stood, practically on her toes. At that distance, she was eyelevel with his chest, which forced her head back as far as possible to meet his dark gaze.

  His eyes were the most beautiful shade of gray, she thought, mesmerized by the unusual swirl of colors. The overlapping grays reminded her of thunderclouds rolling through uncharted skies, varying in colors and tones, but always unpredictable and dangerous. She wondered if it was the light splintering through the knotted branches canopying them, or if eyes could really change like that.

  “You don’t want to be here,” he told her quietly, his tone firm, but coaxing. “You know you should leave and never come back.”

  Riley stared, bewitched by the low, hypnotic hum of his baritone voice pouring softly over her. The colors in his eyes darkened, the beginning of an approaching storm. The irises pulsed, expanding until it was as though she were summersaulting into the ends of time and space.

  “Leave, Riley,” he wheedled. “Go now.”

  He was right. She didn’t want to be there. She did want to leave. She should go. But… why? Why do I need to leave? She needed this job so it stood to reason that she needed to stay.

  “No.” She squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head free of the heavy fog drowning her thoughts. “No, I’m not going.”

  Disbelief painted his tone. “What?”

  She forced her own eyes open and lifted them to his face. “I’m not going!” she repeated more firmly. “You can’t make me.”

  He continued to gawk at her as though she’d grown another head, possibly two more. His eyes kept darting over her face, roaming and searching for something he couldn’t seem to find and the more it eluded him, the more confused he seemed to get. Finally, he straightened. His nostrils flared as he glowered down at her.

  “Quit,” he said slowly, tightly.

  “No,” she murmured definitely.

  His jaw clenched. “You’re an idiot!” He shoved past her towards the doors.

  Riley turned to watch him go. “It was nice to meet you, too!” she shot after him. “And you’re welcome!”

  He ignored her, throwing open the heavy doors, but he didn’t go through. He paused with his head down and his expression thunderous.

  “If you have an ounce of self-preservation, you won’t come back.” Then he was gone.

  Chapter 3

  With a near steady hand, Riley added the final touch to her makeup. It didn’t do overly much in the way of dimming the glow to her Irish complexion and the speckle of freckles that came with it, but it emphasized her eyes, which in her opinion, were the best feature on her face. Her mother hadn’t given her much in the last nineteen years, except life and a set of really elegant eyes. That’s what her grandmother used to call the deep, almond shaped contours with their wide, dark lashes. They’d always appeared a bit cartoonish when she’d been younger, much too big for her small face, but like the rest of her, she’d grown into them. If only the remainder of her face had followed suit.

  Her nose was a bit on the wide side, a hand-me-down from her grandfather, and her chin was a tad too pointy on her oval face, another gift from her grandfather. Then there were the freckles, which she never minded unlike some girls. They didn’t so much take over her face as sprinkle across her cheeks and over her nose. Most of the time, she could cover them with foundation so it was never a big deal. Then you got to her lips and suddenly her face went from semi-average to what the hell just happened? On the scale of things, it could have been worse, but as it stood, it was as though someone had snipped a set of lips from a magazine and slapped it onto her face. Her mouth was too full, a bit on the wide side so against the rest of her face, it seemed out of place and disproportioned.

  Nevertheless, she added a coat of gloss, set the tube aside and took a step back to get a better look at the rest of her five-five structure.

  She never really considered herself average, because in her mind average meant someone like everyone else. Her shape had never really been normal in her mind. There was just too much going on for it to really be considered a real silhouette, but Stan — her college boyfriend and the only guy she’d ever dated — had once called her athletic, so she’d always gone with that when describing herself, although, she had never been overly athletic. In reality, she hated anything that made her sweaty and tired. She wasn’t so much lazy as uninspired to feel the burn. Besides, working out meant having time to workout, which she didn’t have and didn’t care to make time for.

  “Well, you’re as dressed up as you’re going to get,” she told her reflection, tugging on the hem of her black turtle neck sweater. She smoothed a hand down her front, dusting away invisible particles from her black pencil skirt.

  It was a bit fancy for a bar, but as outfits went, beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially when it was either this or jeans and she really didn’t want to start off her first day wearing something wrong. Plus, the outfit was reasonably comfortable, even if it made her complexion practically glow an eerie white. She wondered if she should change, wear something with colors. But one glance at the alarm clock on her nightstand and the idea was pushed aside. She snatched up her coat from her closet and left the room.

  Her father was in the kitchen, bent over a bowl of cereal despite the late hour. He held a tattered copy of AutoTRADERS in one hand while he shoveled colored O’s into his mouth with the other. Brown strands fell over his brow, covering the puckered strip of flesh underneath where he’d injured himself at work several years back running into a forklift. That single disfiguration was the only reason they hadn’t starved all those years. Between worker’s compensation, unemployment checks and income assistance, they’d just made it by on the skins of their teeth. Her father was a thin man, almost gangly with a mop of unruly curls that always seemed to need cutting. They hung in tendrils over his green eyes. He wore his flannel shirt over a white shirt and jeans. There was a healthy growth of stubble across his jaw that looked like a moving carpet when he chewed. He glanced up when Riley walked in and hurried to the fridge.

  “You’re dressed pretty,” he commented. “Going out?”

  Riley grabbed the orange juice from the fridge, shook it, and sighed when only a mouthful sloshed at the bottom of the container. “I got a job.” She muttered, turning. “I told you to throw the box away when it was empty.”

  “Sorry.” He muttered. “A job where?”

  “A diner down the road. Final Judgment.” She tossed the container into the trash bin. “As a waitress.”

  Her father frowned over his elevated spoon. “I didn’t know there was anything down the road. Never heard of Final Judgment.”

  Riley fiddled with the buttons on her jacket. “Me neither, but it’s close to home and the pay’s good.”

  Her father continued to frown quizzically at her. “Final Judgment,” he mused slowly as though if he said it enough times, memory would click and he’d remember. “Nope.” He finally decided, giving up and returning to his late — or early, depending on how you saw it — breakfast. “A bit late isn’t it? Aren�
��t most places closed at this time?”

  She closed the last snap and faced her father. “They also have a bar that runs late.”

  “Not a biker bar, is it?”

  She met her father’s surprised gaze with a bit more disgust than she meant. “Does it matter? We need the money.”

  He stabbed a pink O with the end of his spoon “We don’t need the money that badly.”

  Riley grabbed her bag, slung the strap over her shoulder. “Yes, we actually do. We’re late a full month of rent and in two weeks, we’ll be late two months. There’s nothing in the fridge but a brick of butter and you need new socks. That’s not including those.” She jerked a chin towards the stack of bills on the counter. “We need the money.” She softened her tone when her father’s shoulders slouched. She hated having this argument with him. It never did much good and it definitely never changed anything. Her father was just built the way he was and she’d given up all thought of changing him years ago. “It’s just until you find something, okay?” She fidgeted with the strap on her purse, not really good at comforting people. “I’ll be home a little after midnight, all right?”

  Not waiting for his reply, she slipped out of the apartment and hurried down three flights of stairs to the lobby. The air was cool with the lingering scent of autumn as she pushed through the glass door into the night. Silence draped a heavy cloak about her as she padded quickly down the uneven sidewalk. Her senses jumped and flickered to every sound and whisper as the nocturnal world awoke.

  The winding road alongside her wove through miles of uncharted brush, broken only by a handful shops and residences. Her apartment was one of the few built along the truck route. The city had started to clear away the forestry and had even installed sidewalks along some of the curved road, but only half had been done while the rest remained dirt and gravel. She wasn’t sure if the city had run out of money to continue or if it was just not that important, but there hadn’t been a new business or house built on that road in five years. They were at the end of civilization, she liked to think. Very few people ever commuted the road, making it nearly deserted at all hours, which was why she was so surprised by Final Judgment’s mysterious appearance. There was never any sign that there had ever been a dirt road turning into the middle of nowhere and a restaurant. How did they make business when no one knew they existed? Clearly they were doing something right because hadn’t Liam said Final Judgment had been in the family for years? Ah well, she wasn’t there to be their marketing manager.

  Inwardly, Riley sighed, grinding her fingertips into the pulse at her temple. She had no illusion that this was a life she wanted forever. She still had dreams of going back to school and getting her degree in bio chemistry. She just needed to get through reality first.

  Final Judgment loomed, a sprawling structure against a blanket of black. The trees enclosing it like a lover’s arms shielded it from the eyes of the moon. Gold light shone from the bay windows. Shadows splashed across the glass as bodies moved restlessly inside. Yet the gravel parking had no more cars then there had been that morning. Bemused, Riley jogged up the steps to the door and wrenched it open.

  Gone was the desertion, the empty tables and chairs. Shadows painted over figures, obscuring faces, except for where halos of light stamped through the darkness. It illuminated just enough to prevent chaos. Riley let the door close behind her as she edged deeper into the unfamiliar. Her gaze wandered the room, taking in the single room dwelling with its litter of tables, chairs and bodies. Every spot was occupied now, brimming with unmoving lumps sulking into glasses. Candlelight flickered over drawn faces and reflected over sharp, glassy eyes that lifted and pinned her to the entry way. Some even raised their heads and sniffed the air, the way zombies in movies did at the scent of human flesh. The sight sent a chill down Riley’s spine. Yeah, so not creepy. What was even creepier was the fact that everyone seemed so normal. True, no one was gnawing on anyone else so she took that as a good sign that she hadn’t just stumbled into a zombie apocalypse, but their reaction was still way strange. Then, one by one, they dropped their gazes, forgetting all about her.

  Relieved, Riley unclasped the buttons on her coat and ventured deeper into the room. She noticed for the first time the small, triangular stage erected in the far corner next to the bar. Three women in long, flowing dresses in stark white stood on top, playing something that drifted over her like a caress. It wove through the sultry air, heavy with promise of things that made her cheeks flush even has her body tightened in all the right places to make her squirm. The faint light glinted off the gold frames of their instruments, a harp, a flute and a violin. Riley watched them sway to the stream of their own magic and felt the pull propelling her forward in the direction of the women and the things they promised before sense prevailed and she gave herself a mental shake

  “Focus!” she scolded herself, turning in the direction of the bar and the man behind it.

  Even in the dim light, she recognized Octavian immediately. It was impossible not to. The man was unbearably beautiful, but more than that, he radiated danger the way most men exuded cologne. It seemed to halo around him, a sharp, crackling black that warned the approaching soul to fuck off. He wasn’t the nicest of people, she decided, but he was certainly very nice to look at, from a far distance. Kind of the way one would study a feral wolf, beautiful from behind fences and many miles between them, but too dangerous to approach.

  Yet, her feet were moving, closing all that safe distance until she stood facing the beast head on like an idiot. She wondered if it was rational to be so utterly fascinated by a complete stranger, even if he had the face of a condemned angel with its sharp angles, hard contours and rugged curves beneath taut, olive-toned skin. There was just something wicked about studying him when he had no knowledge of it. To just stand there in one of the shadowy corners and trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones and watch the lights reflect off his cold, hard eyes. He would never know.

  The thought made her bite back a giggle. She felt like such a pervert, spying on a man like some peeping tom. The only things missing were binoculars and forehead grease smearing his bedroom window.

  Her gaze wandered over his broad shoulders and that wide expense of chest made especially to pillow a woman’s head, and sighed. The man was all kinds of trouble. But he wasn’t a man, she thought, studying him, trying hard to gauge his age through the haze. Yet, in the same dim light, he was. His age seemed to shift the harder she tried to pin it down. Maybe it was his height, his massive build, his scowl, but he appeared both old and young. She pushed away the urge to ask. Something told her he wouldn’t tell her anyway. Plus, did she really need to know? It wasn’t as though they were ever going to get past the whole him wanting her gone and her refusing thing. Why did the hot ones always wind up being the assholes? Was it written somewhere? Or, while the girls were being taught about their period and birth control during health class, were the boys pulled into another room and told the one-o-ones of asshole-ism?

  You’re not here to worry about that, a bossy little voice at the back of her head reminded her. And it was right. She wasn’t there to ogle hot men — that was just an added bonus with a family like the Maxwells who seemed seriously blessed with the hot gene.

  Possible or not, she made up her mind to simply ignore the man behind the bar, or rather, ignore the tug she felt whenever she looked at him. It was crazy anyway. She would do her job and prove that his parents hadn’t made a mistake hiring her. It seemed like a rational, safe thing to do anyway.

  He seemed preoccupied when she crept closer. His hands were busy drying shot glasses with a white rag, but his eyes were fixed unseeingly across the room, a forlorn gleam in them that made her wonder what he was thinking that had his guard so completely down. It was almost a shame to disturb his reverie.

  “Hello,” she whispered, stopping at the bar.

  Octavian blinked. His hands stilled in their task as his gaze dropped to hers and for that heartbeat of a se
cond there was no annoyance or frustration, only a mild curiosity as he searched her eyes, seemingly trying to read something there that puzzled him. Then, as quickly as it happened, it was all sucked into some invisible vortex and the scowl was back.

  “You came.” The accusation mirrored the annoyance in his eyes as they bore into her.

  Riley cleared her throat before speaking. “I said I would.”

  He set the shot glass down with enough force that the resounding clank splintered through the ruckus around them. “So you did.” He stared hard at her, picking at her consciousness until she wondered if he was trying to read her soul. “There’s still time to change your mind,” he told her. “Just go.”

  “I won’t,” she replied.

  He muttered something she was sure it wasn’t pleasant, then, “Reggie!” he shouted without taking his eyes off her.

  Reggie turned from where he stood at the far end of the bar, flirting with a trio of women old enough to be his mother. “You rang, Boss?”

  Octavian stuffed the rag into the front pocket of his black cargo pants, still watching Riley. “Our guest has arrived.” The way he spat out guest, nearly made her wince as though he’d thrown an insult at her. It also brought to surface the urge to smack him.