Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  “Nothing else?” A hint of distrust tinged the cold tone reverberating in the room.

  “No.” Argus’s concealed claws itched. He was so tired of lesser beings questioning his goddamn integrity. He was a Son of El, for fuck’s sake! Nobody questioned him. Even Lucifer left the Sons alone. He wasn’t about to let these pussy half-breeds start, either. He sank back in the cushy office chair and kicked his feet up on the desk. Time for some recon of his own. “You know this McClaine’s a real perverted shit. He’s been sampling the goods for years, not including the sales.”

  “Stick to the assignment, Argus. We don’t care about McClaine. Not anymore.”

  Argus smiled. He had a pretty good idea why they’d insisted he use this host. He glanced at the discolored file, at the torn edges and the faded Polaroid stapled to its front, and grimaced. The girl’s eyes glared with defiance, her curly hair in disarray around her shoulders, finger-shaped bruises barely visible under the pale skin of her throat. Bingo. “Are you sure she’s the one you want? She doesn’t look very pliable.”

  “Our reasons are not your concern.” The lethal precision in the monotone voice could cut granite. A low-pitched hum droned. Argus leaned away as the noise grew louder and gave an exaggerated yawn while the voice yammered. “If we suspect betrayal, Argus, I guarantee you won’t like the results. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.” Argus smirked. They had no idea what he was capable of. What he could endure. Shit, what he had endured. Fuck the girl. He had bigger stakes in mind. “And transport?”

  “Just get her. We’ll arrange pickup.” Muffled murmurs echoed behind the caller’s voice. “And we expect her whole.”

  Argus gave a closed-lipped half smile at the girl’s picture. Hostile was not a turn on. He preferred females with less spine, more cushion. Not a problem. But smart of them to clarify. Pieces were always easier. Argus shifted his attention to the wall calendar and pinpointed the tiny circles dotting certain squares. “Fine. I’ll need a week.”

  “Seven days, Argus. We’ll be watching.” The call disconnected, and Argus stared at the file for a few moments before replacing the receiver. He exhaled, scattering his accumulated pile of shredded houseplant remains like confetti. The plan was underway.

  Argus opened a cheap expand-a-file and shoved the girl’s folder inside along with the massive contact list he’d printed. He exhaled a long breath at the nearby smoke detector. Black smoke spewed from his lungs in a column to blast toward the sensor. Moments later, the alarm triggered and the sirens blared. Argus dumped the contents of the candy dish into his already overstuffed holder then cracked the door open, pleased to find the chaos he’d counted on. He slipped out undetected and weaved his way through the maze of cubicles to the entrance. Once out in the sunny atrium, he hustled down the staircases to the lobby with the bag clutched to his side and humans crowded around him.

  He exited the building and walked out into the chilly Chicago dusk. Argus squinted at the waxing moon with its trio of surrounding stars. The holiday crowds jostled, but he didn’t notice. One week and it would all change. One week and he’d own this damned place. Hell, one week and he’d own the whole fucking planet. Argus gave a slow grin and took off through the crowds.

  • • •

  Mira released her death grip on the wooden railing and opened her eyes. Lights on. Reality returned. She forced her muscles to relax. This time had been the worst so far. No one else saw the terrors, smelled the rotten eggs, felt the icy fingers tracing their flesh. No one except Mira.

  “What’s the holdup?” Bebe’s shout carried downstairs, breaking the maze of her thoughts and kick-starting her mind. Rum. Mira picked up her cumbersome load and trudged her way up the stairs. She emerged into the club and plopped the heavy container behind the bar before securing the door.

  “About time you got up here.” Bebe brushed past her to deliver drinks to a kid with colorful spiked hair.

  “Sorry. I had … ” Mira remembered the imagined terrors below. She blinked several times and swallowed her fear. Not going there again. “I couldn’t find the rum.”

  “Whatever, honey.” The bartender gave a dismissive wave and bustled about. “Just get that rum open. The last bottle’s dry.”

  Mira grabbed a screwdriver and crouched to pry off the lid. Bebe’s overtly seductive tone with customers grated on her nerves, and now her co-worker’s voice grew positively hoarse with the next patron. Must be male. Mira popped open the crate and dug out the bottles. And a hottie too, if Bebe’s thick layer of innuendo was any indication. After three years, Mira knew all the bartender’s tricks. “Hey, gorgeous. You looking for a refill or a date? Either way, I got you covered.”

  Without turning to be sure, Mira pictured Bebe’s huge knockers in the guy’s grill. The deep male rumble confirmed her suspicions. Too easy.

  “You want any help stowing those bottles, piccola?” The same rumble now moved closer to Mira’s location as she knelt behind the bar. “Ciao?”

  Mira whipped around to find her pseudo-stalker grinning from above the counter. She returned his smile with a frown; her breath hitched and warning bells sounded in her mind. With a flip of her hair, she dismissed him. “No, thanks.”

  She placed the bottles under the bar while Bebe changed tactics. “Oh, I love the accent. What’s your name, sugar?”

  “Kagan.”

  The low timbre of his voice slipped over Mira like a silken shroud, lulling her jitters. She glanced up, finding his gaze still locked on her. Shit. The annoying tingle moved from her abdomen straight up her spinal column. This guy messed with her head. He reminded her of things best forgotten. Dangerous things. Distracted, Mira stood and tripped over the box. Out of sorts and more exhausted than she could ever remember, Mira pitched a small fit, kicking the crate. Wood splintered and shards flew beneath her steel-toed fury.

  “Hmm. Somebody’s got a temper.” Kagan’s amused tone struck her from behind.

  Fuck him. Mira whirled and flipped him off. Kagan tipped his beer in salute.

  Cheeks heating, Mira cleaned up the broken shards of her outburst before hazarding a second glance in his vicinity. Now he faced away from her, and she took the opportunity for a closer inspection. His broad shoulders and muscular arms were relaxed, his weight supported on his elbows. The hint of a tattoo peeked out from below the short sleeve of his taut black T-shirt, and Mira tried to imagine the rest of the intricate inkwork.

  “Hey, Mira! Some help, please!” Her head shot around. One of the male bouncers waved to her from the dance floor. Mira pushed through the tight circle of onlookers and spotted two men mid-brawl. One of the guys was a regular, a college kid dressed in a Blackhawks jersey with a linebacker body the size of a refrigerator. His opponent: a skinny Goth who’d apparently insulted his favorite hockey team. Two bouncers struggled to pull the fighters apart, but the behemoth’s strength and bulk made him difficult to maneuver.

  Mira winced when the giant let his massive fist fly. He struck a bouncer instead of his opponent and broke the bouncer’s nose. Blood flew, and Mira opted for a more peaceful approach. Her petite size always waylaid the heavyweights. And she wasn’t about to be arrested for an unprovoked ass-whooping. Not tonight.

  “Excuse me. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Mira’s clear tone cut through the noise of the crowd, her tap insistent on the refrigerator’s shoulder. All action ceased. The brawlers turned in her direction. Things looked optimistic when the outsized Goth used the distraction to scramble away.

  No such luck with Bulk. He turned on unsteady feet and swayed, towering above her. His gaze roved before landing on her crotch. “I want me a piece of that.”

  Mira’s patronizing smile faded to a darkening frown. “I’m not on the menu, asshole.”

  The guy stepped forward. Mira issued a final warning. “Don’t. Do. It.”

&
nbsp; He wasn’t coherent enough to heed the alert. She flicked her gaze to the other, uninjured bouncer and nodded. Bulk took advantage, grabbing Mira around the neck. One instant, he was twisting her into a bear hug and the next, she braced against his attack, her elbows whacking into his face and her knees whomping repeatedly into his groin. He staggered and fell to his knees. Mira made quick work of any resistance by twisting his arm behind him until he smacked the ground, belly down, while her booted foot pressed his cheek into the sticky floor.

  “Told you.” Mira tossed her hair over her shoulder. The crowd widened. She stepped off his face to straddle his back, pinning both his arms to the ground with her knees to the backs of his elbows and her palms pressed into his shoulder joints.

  “Get off me, bitch!” The linebacker bucked beneath her.

  Mira leaned closer. “What’d you call me?”

  “Bitch!” he roared.

  “Yep. That’s what I thought you said.” She pressed her fingers against the nerves surrounding his carotid. Soon he was unconscious.

  She rose up and dusted her hands on her jeans. “Hey, Bebe, call for a cleanup in the loser aisle, will ya?”

  Applause erupted. Bebe gave Mira a thumbs-up and reached for the phone.

  • • •

  Kagan righted his toppled stool and sat down. He grabbed his beer and took a long swig from the bottle, forcing his tense muscles to relax. Threat eliminated.

  He’d watched the dance floor skirmish escalate until the violence erupted into a brawl the bouncers were ineffectual in terminating. When they’d summoned the girl to handle the oversized oaf, his hackles rose. Women were to be protected, not thrust into battle. Still, she’d handled the problem with the skill of a seasoned defender.

  Mira strutted past him without so much as a glance. He read the rear of her hot pink T-shirt after she passed, its black glitter letters sparkling in the dim neon light: Skills sharper than a backstabber’s dagger. Kagan raised his beer bottle in another silent salute to her retreating form. Si, the girl’s combat skills had been excellent. He tracked her movements, noting the cool distance she kept from others around her. She remained a loner, an isolated island, in the midst of the throng. Mission aside, her contradictions were intriguing. Kagan turned his attention to the safer realm of the dance floor, and concentrated on the best plan to isolate his target.

  The loud crash of glasses beside him snapped his head around. Mira glared up at him, her arms crossed and legs braced, ready for a fight. “Okay, buddy. Who the hell are you and why are you watching me?”

  Kagan held up an innocent hand accompanied by a wary smile, his beer bottle dangling between his fingers. “How about one question at a time?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re slow.” She presented him with the same patronizing mini-smile she’d given the oaf. “Okay, let me break this down for you, caveman. Who-are-you-and — ”

  “Basta!” Kagan grabbed her by the arm and twisted slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to let her know he meant business as he directed her to a corner booth. He ignored the half-full beverages and coats scattered on the seats and shoved Mira into the confined space. When the booth’s original owners took issue with his hostile takeover, Kagan dispatched them with a lethal glare. He wasn’t sure where the girl had gotten the idea his mind was damaged, but he was damn sure he didn’t like it. He moved in behind her to block her escape.

  “Oh, hell, no!” After several unsuccessful strikes to his muscled physique, Mira tried to slide out beneath the table. The angle proved too awkward. Defeated, she shoved as far away as she could into the corner and propped those killer boots on the seat in front of her in warning. “You better let me out of here, asshole, before I call the cops! I caught you stalking me, pervert!”

  Kagan took a deep breath. He never lost his cool in battle, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Pervert? You’re of age, si?”

  Mira glared. Kagan ticked through their earlier interactions, searching for a reason behind her intense hostility. His preternatural instincts sensed her intention before her hand reached his carotid. He blocked her quickly, locking her small hand within his and forcing it to the table beneath his own. Her pulse raced against his palm. He took another swig of beer then flashed his most endearing grin. “Let’s start over.” He released his bottle and extended his hand. “I’m Kagan.”

  She refused to acquiesce. Kagan dropped his hand and spoke in quiet tones meant to calm, to reassure. “I know I’m a stranger, but we have things to discuss.” He glanced around the crowded club, at the bodies packed tight. “We can’t do it here, though — no privacy. My apartment is close. Why don’t we go there and talk?”

  Mira kicked him hard in the thigh.

  “Merda!” Kagan grabbed his throbbing leg. “What’s in those damn boots? Marble?”

  “Let me out of here, jackass, before I sideline your baby-maker!” Mira struggled within the tight confines of the booth. As she squirmed, the spicy scent of her shampoo wafted, and he was overcome with the strangest urge to plunge his hands into the riotous mass of her hair, to feel it curl around his fingers. She tugged on the hand pinned beneath his, and his thumb traced over her thudding veins. He leaned back, his gaze narrowed, and his heart pounding along with hers. The odd tingle sped through his torso, and his mouth turned to cotton. Her gaze blazed up at him, a swirling mix of green and golden brown. He noted the dark smudges below and wondered what kept her from slumber.

  Dolce Cristo! Kagan looked away, fought for control. This was getting way out of hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bedded a woman, but apparently it had been far too long.

  Kagan drank while the girl continued her rather half-hearted struggle, unseen behind his large frame. From the way she’d easily toppled the oaf, he’d expected more of a fight, yet she seemed to be pulling her punches. He stopped to consider why, then shook his head. Didn’t matter, anyway. To admire a beautiful woman was one thing. To care about said woman’s personal life was something else entirely. Especially when the woman in question was his target.

  A sudden electric jolt tore through Kagan, and his gaze shot toward the entrance of the club. This jolt he recognized. Another immortal had arrived.

  Chapter 3

  A rotund balding man shoved to the bar. The smell of sulfur stung Kagan’s heightened senses. This is no mortal. The added stench of rancid meat identified the culprit more clearly to him than a nametag. Argus. An unnatural twitch twisted the demon’s neck to the side, a sign the body’s previous occupant still struggled to resurface. The possession must have been completed in a hurry, without full eradication. Odd choice. A shared body was an unstable body.

  With one hand kept secure on his target, Kagan slipped his coat on then reached to loosen the bulb in the fixture above the table, dousing them in shadows. Impromptu cover complete, he stretched his legs into the aisle and angled further to block his target behind him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Mira punched him hard in the back. “I do like to breathe, asshole.”

  Once more, her fingers shot over his shoulder going for his carotid — she was nothing if not persistent — and once more, Kagan caught her hand. This time he brought it to his waist. “Try that once more, piccola, and I won’t be so congenial. Che palle! I’m saving your life, here!”

  Mira stiffened when the heavy weight of his Glock brushed against her arm. He reached in and clicked off the safety. Her fists clenched against his side and her tone turned virulent. “You’re certifiable.”

  Her words ghosted warm across the cotton of his shirt, and the damn tingle returned to charge his nerves despite her snippy comment. He forced himself to relax and, beer in hand, waited for the demon to attack. “No, piccola. I’m prepared.”

  • • •

  Electricity tore through Argus the moment he’d entered. He scoped out the room and sea
rched for its source, ignoring the stares. The strength of the current meant only one thing: Divinity had sent one of her Scion pussies to protect the girl. His hunches were never wrong.

  Still dressed in his host’s hideous polyester work suit, Argus stood out like a boil amidst the club goers around him. He didn’t give a shit. He shoved his way to the bar and took a seat, the stool creaking beneath him when he settled and leaned forward. “Beer. Now!”

  Eyes closed, Argus deployed an invisible pulse of energy to disable the electronic devices in the room, including the DJ booth. The crowded dance floor heaved a collective groan as the music screeched to a halt. A muscle convulsed in his neck, and Argus’s head jerked to the side. Fucking human. A brutal mental smackdown forced McClaine’s weak spirit beneath the river of darkness now raging inside him.

  Argus eyed the woman who delivered his beer. His gaze locked on the huge knockers tucked in her tight white T-shirt, the words Let’s Get Drunk and Screw scrawled across her chest. His smile spread as he sensed the shiver through her body, and his hand snaked out to grip her wrist. “What’s your name, bitch?”

  “B-Bebe.”

  “Where’s Mira Herald?” Argus increased the pressure on the blonde’s arm, jerking her forward into the bar. She shook her head. He squeezed harder. The bones crunched and Bebe cried out. Argus savored the sound, his pleasure mounting as her pain escalated.

  “Tell me now or I’ll put a bullet in your pretty head.” He pulled out his newly acquired weapon — a gift from the punk who’d tried to mug him. Argus chuckled, remembering the satisfying snap of the thug’s neck as he’d twisted. Good times.

  He pointed the barrel of the Walther between the blonde’s eyes and cocked the hammer with a sinister snick. Patrons scattered while one brave — or incredibly stupid — bouncer edged toward the phone behind the bar. Argus fired a warning shot into the phone. The human stopped in his tracks. Argus returned the weapon to the bartender’s forehead. His finger danced over the trigger, itching to pull. “Where the fuck is she?”