Flame Unleashed
Hell to Pay Book 3
Jillian David
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2015 by Jillian David.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-8949-6
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8949-2
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8950-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8950-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123RF/curaphotography, 123RF/Igor Zhuravlov.
Acknowledgments
As always, thank you to fabulous editors Gwen Hayes and Bev Rosenbaum. Their kindness and support have made all the difference in my growth as a writer. Thanks also to Crimson editor Julie Sturgeon, whose attention to detail and excellence has made this series shine. She’s also very patient with this naive, anxious, and possibly OCD writer. I’ve learned more from her about the business of writing than I could ever have imagined.
I must sincerely apologize to my hubby, who is holding out for a spot on a novel cover. Short, bald guys don’t sell books, at least not yet. But one day, honey, I promise. One day.
Thank you for purchasing a Crimson Romance novel. Please sign up for our [weekly newsletter] for information on new releases, contests, discounts and more.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
More from This Author
Also Available
Chapter 1
Holy hell, she needed to kill someone.
Impractical stiletto leather boots snapped against concrete as she strode up the chipped sidewalk near the Warehouse District of New Orleans. Dilapidated, abandoned buildings clashed with garish bars that depended on sports fans, college students, and tourists. This section of Port Street wasn’t a main road or a well-to-do area of town. Good. That meant fewer tourists but more denizens like her—beings that worked best in the shadows.
Tonight, there must have been a football game or another equally inane reason to imbibe, judging from the amount of people out. Of course, drunkenness was not a crime, despite what she might think of her former husband, God rest his bastard soul. No matter, she would find some kind of louse among the lushes before this night ended.
Farther down the street, the quality of the architecture deteriorated. Dozens of motorcycles were parked outside one raucous establishment. No peppy zydeco tunes here. Instead, tired metal beats drifted into the street. Yes, this area would do nicely for her evening’s goals.
Just another night in a city, obtaining her requisite kills. The macabre had become routine. How sad.
A few men leaned against the cinderblock storefront, faint light illuminating the tips of their cigarettes. When she sauntered by, paused, and pretended to contemplate entering the bar, she had their attention. Let them take note, lulled into a sense of security.
Enjoy the view while you can, boys.
One man caught her knife’s interest—the blade craved criminals. What remained of the man’s bone-straight hair had been pulled into a thin ponytail, and a leather vest strained over his belly. Its fringe was overkill, along with silver detailing that glinted on the new motorcycle boots. He probably owned one of those souped-up custom Harleys parked front and center.
Leather-clad motorcycle guys were generally sexy, but not tonight’s fare. Too bad.
Despite his ridiculous getup, her knife began to pulse on her leg, begging for her to reach into the slit on her leather pants, slide the knife from the sheath beneath her boot, and shove it into ...
Got a criminal. Now to reel him in. Might even get the Meaningful Kill tonight.
Tossing her fake hair back off her shoulders, she reveled in the waist-length blond waves. She rarely wore her natural hair down, so this wig brought her to a whole different state of being. Part of her costume was designed to attract certain types of criminals. Part of the costume freed her spirit. So long, mild-mannered nurse. Welcome back, Ms. Blond Bombshell.
Hell, if she had to spend eternity killing criminals, she might as well look good doing it. She had read all the popular books. Who didn’t love a sexy demon-slaying chick?
Beside the victims, of course.
She caught the man’s eye and licked her lips, a deliberate act that would have been socially unacceptable in her previous life. But this evening’s wardrobe veered away from the taffeta, crinoline, and hoops of antebellum evening soirees. Even her torso confined by the black bustier felt like freedom tonight. In a disguise, she could become any woman. The better the disguise, the faster she could forget her real self.
Cursed to kill for hundreds of years as an Indebted, at least she could dictate her attire and the method of carrying out her job. Small victory, but it provided a modicum of control.
When his friend nudged him, the balding man drained his can of beer, crushed it against the wall, and dropped the crumpled metal on the concrete. Despite his nonchalant stance, the glint in his narrow eyes gave away his lust.
He pushed away from the wall. “What’s a honey like you doing down here?” His voice sounded like nasally gravel and instantly grated on her nerves.
“Seeing if there’s any action.”
She glanced at his groin and raised an eyebrow. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice. With the heels, she topped him by several inches, so his line of sight naturally came to rest on her ample bosom.
Keep looking, nasty guy. It’ll be the last thing you see before this night is over.
“What’d you have in mind, beautiful?” His voice oozed over her like sewage slime.
“Let’s see where the night takes us.” Trailing a hand over her hip, she drew his attention, just like the demon-stalking heroines in the popular novels. Ironic, really, if one considered who was the true demon here.
“I do like a woman who knows what she wants,” he drawled, adjusting his jeans.
“Try to keep up ...”
“Right behind you, babe.”
Babe. Yuck. Anything but “babe.”
She strolled away, giving the man time to contemplate her leather-clad backside. He couldn’t help himself. Her heart pounded in anticipation as she led him down the street for a few minutes in search of a location far enough away from the bar. Spying an open gate between two dilapidated buildings, she slipped in ahead of him, giving her backside enough of a wiggle to complete the seduction.
Summo
ning her best thespian skills, she acted delicate and wilted but still enticing while she leaned against the cement wall inside the abandoned building’s courtyard. The man took the bait and boldly placed one hand on the wall next to her head.
As he leaned forward, she tilted her head away. “What’s your name, big guy?”
He wetted his lips and leered. “Decker.”
She trailed a finger down his chest. “All right, Decker. Now, I’m sure you’re not a good boy. Am I right?”
“Uh, yeah.” He flicked his gaze away and down.
Guilty. Excellent.
“Anything you’ve ever done that’s particularly bad?”
“Like, sexually?”
Good grief. These men thought about nothing else with an attractive woman in front of them. That single-mindedness in her prey was why she excelled at her job, why her disguise helped her accomplish her goals. The possibility of sex worked every time. So predictable, these men.
If not for the need to stay ahead of her quota of kills, she’d have walked away and tried again tomorrow night. This man was that disgusting. But this criminal would do for her knife’s needs.
Twirling a long, flaxen strand of hair around her finger, she giggled. “Oh, Decker, I’m sure you’re into all kinds of kink. But what I’m talking about is other naughty things. You ever been in jail? Or maybe should’ve been in jail?”
He snorted. “You the police?”
“Not even close. I like bad boys. They turn me on.”
He put his hand on the wall on the other side of her head and pressed his groin into hers. She resisted the urge to curl her lip and kick him in that offensive yet small bulge. Even though she might enjoy playing the temptress, she was never tempted, especially by a guy like this.
“What do you want to know?” His chest rose and fell more quickly now.
She batted her eyes. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done in your entire life.”
“You don’t want to hear it, babe.”
Babe. Seriously. “Oh, yes I do. It turns me on—”
She froze.
What was that? A brief flicker of movement high on a nearby building distracted her. Seeing nothing, she dragged her attention back to the balding biker.
“Well, once I ...”
His stale cigarette breath offended as he put his lips to her ear and whispered the sin. Or sins.
The hot air crawled over her neck as he spoke. “... and she might have been fifteen years old, but she acted eighteen. I mean, how was I supposed to know? But her mother, now that lady was tasty ...”
The knife throbbed, hungry, as her intense need to consume criminal blood escalated. Repugnant didn’t even begin to describe this monster. What a delicious feast for the knife.
It might even qualify for the Meaningful Kill, the one act that could release her from the eternal, hated contract. A girl could hope.
As an Indebted, her boss was Satan in human form, Jerahmeel. Such a nasty, horrifying creature. Her life had boiled down to killing felons to feed Jerahmeel’s appetite for the evil amassed in these sinners.
How she would love to be done with this hellish quasi-existence, to be done with disguises and hiding. And was it asking too much to ask to be left alone?
To do what? Rot? Beyond her ever-present duty to kill criminals and her mundane job as personal attendant for Barnaby, an ex-Indebted, she had nothing. No purpose.
She shoved the thought out of her mind and focused on the creep in front of her.
The minute his tongue touched her earlobe, she shoved him away, spun him around, and slammed him into the wall.
“Let me verify what you’ve told me,” she said.
“What the hell?” He struggled against her supernaturally strong grip.
She dug her fingers into his arm, not caring how badly it hurt. Glancing around, she prayed Jerahmeel wouldn’t take this opportunity to pop in. Jerahmeel fixated on people with extra powers, and he already had too keen of an interest in her—a bad combination. If he found out about her additional mind-reading skill, her life would be a living hell. Actually, her life already was a living hell. It would simply become worse than now. Hard to imagine.
Pay attention. Get this job done and get out.
With one more quick glance to ensure no one approached, she steadied the biker’s goateed chin, entered his consciousness, and did something no creature alive today—human or otherwise —knew she could do. She pulled the thoughts from his mind.
Digging past the mental curtains where he thought about sex and beer, she pushed deeper into the glowing ember of his crime. His horror at the inner invasion coated her own thoughts like cold, wet cobwebs. She mentally gripped the image of his crime and dragged it into her own consciousness, while adjusting his perception to reduce his sweaty panic. Good. Now he believed that her exploration of his mind was all part of fabulous foreplay.
“That’s nice, babe,” he murmured, trapped in her thrall.
Forcing a smile, she held him in place as she teased out the details. A few years ago, he had done horrible, unspeakable things. Brutal, drawn-out, bloody torture. His glistening, red hand on the ankle of—oh God, a child. A tiny figure hung from ropes that bit into thin, bruised arms. The grisly images flooding her mind wrenched at her stomach.
This man would suit the knife’s need for a corrupt and tasty soul, to say nothing of her kick-ass alter ego’s desire to deliver vengeance against everything evil. She hated confirming the crimes because of the after-images that remained imprinted on her memories, but her hidden talent was another way she could assert some control over her despised existence as an Indebted killer.
Of course, the knife signaled which criminal to kill, so why bother using her power?
An overabundance of caution, even after all these years. If she accidentally murdered an innocent, she might lose what sanity she had left. So she double-checked her kill. Every single time.
Also, if she picked only the worst sinners, maybe she’d increase her chances of obtaining the Meaningful Kill. Besides, she needed to flog her conscience with the horrible images of the criminals’ deeds, to serve small penance for deserting her own children so many years ago when she became this Indebted killer.
Truth be told, she also enjoyed each small burst of vigilante retribution, bringing the crimes to light. Right before committing a crime herself. Because warped logic was better than no logic.
She shoved him harder into the wall. The idiot thought they were headed for wild sex.
“Oh yeah, baby. You like it rough?” He fumbled with his belt buckle.
You’ve got to be kidding. “You have no idea,” she whispered. “Let me get some protection.”
She bent down and reached for the knife, which rested in the sheath on her lower leg. Her night had gone from routine quota kill to an all-consuming need to kill in the space of mere seconds. Damned Indebted hunger drove her into a frenzy, despite her typical control.
“Yeah, do it, baby.”
Another movement from the rooftop, like a moth passing in front of a light, stole her attention for a split second.
The movement distracted her. At the moment her fingers grasped the handle, Decker kicked her square in the chest. Despite fast reflexes, she didn’t react in time and bent over, coughing. The knife clattered a few feet away, next to Decker. The blade glowed lurid green, hungry. Damn, it physically hurt not to touch her knife.
Thankfully, the damaged muscles and cracked ribs had already begun to knit back together.
“You gonna pull that shit on me?”
She edged toward the blade. Had to reconnect with it. Needed it. Now.
He followed her gaze. “You want this?” He kicked the knife into the depths of the courtyard. Then he pulled a gun from a side holster.
She crouched, ready to bolt over and retrieve her weapon. Longing for the blade threatened to drive her mad.
Before she could act, a dark figure landed in front of her with a heavy thud of boots
on cobblestones and a long trench coat flapping around him, making him appear too large for life.
What in the blazes?
“Step away from the lady, mon ami.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Decker sneered, pointing the gun at the man in black.
“Someone you don’t want to cross.” The man’s voice, a rich tenor with a Cajun lilt, cut through the evening air. Although his voice held lightness, almost humor, he commanded attention, not by his giant frame looming out of the shadows but by a tantalizing charisma when he spoke.
No time to ponder how his voice slid over her like a satin sheet. She needed to get rid of this extra Musketeer, fast. Bless this hapless hero, but she was most certainly not a damsel in distress. Quite the opposite, and she was managing fine before he arrived. Now, if only he would leave her alone to complete her assignment. Then she could wrap this job up and go back to being inconspicuous.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Decker screamed as the gun shook.
When the man in the trench coat didn’t move, the biker pulled the trigger.
The mystery guy moved faster than her eye could follow. The gunshot crack echoed through the courtyard. The sound was sure to draw attention. Not good.
Even though he rocked back a step, the unfortunate gallant remained standing.
No.
Still standing.
He brushed a hand over his chest, like a gnat had bit him.
She ducked into the shadows of the courtyard, found her knife, shoved it in the holster, and raced back. She had to get rid of hero-boy so her biker buddy could feed the blade.
With a gurgled grunt and wheeze, Decker crumpled to the ground.
What in the hell?
The large man stood over Decker’s body as a pool of dark liquid stained the cobblestones beneath his feet. Soul’s blood, wasted.
God, she had needed to let her knife drink that criminal’s blood. Now her compulsion to kill had doubled, threatening to blind her. Ignoring the man, she knelt next to the dead biker. She took a deep breath, fought searing pain in her gut due to her missed kill, and wrestled her base desires back under control. Damn, citizens would be here soon. She had to move.
Flame Unleashed (Hell to Pay) Page 1