by JL Madore
“So, what?” Zander said. “Will we wait here until our host comes back?”
That was no answer either. She tugged at the hem of the vest where it kissed her thighs. What were her options? “Promise me you are one of the good guys.”
“On my honor, I swear it,” he said. As ridiculous as it was to put stock in that sentiment, the way he spoke sounded reverent. “I give you my word, we’ll talk to the police and get free of these cuffs as soon as possible. You can report what you saw and get back to your life.”
“I didn’t see a thing.”
“Well, you’ll have to give a statement if you expect the police to find who did this to you. You may know something and not realize it. If you’re afraid to speak out—”
“No. I honestly didn’t see a thing. I’m blind, Mr. Ambrose, so if your intent is to lead us to safety, I’ll need a little help.”
Stryker remained invisible against the night sky. The tumultuous clouds of the breaking storm shrouded the moon, the dull sheen of night pierced by few stars. Perched on a flat rooftop, he watched as the Nephilim warriors ceased their verminous scurry a moment before their mighty brother-in-arms exited with the human puzzle he’d left him to solve.
The legendary Zandros of Kish. The Sumerian powerhouse. Feared in battle. Renowned as a soulless killer and mindless soldier of the heavens. Legendary indeed.
Stryker crouched behind a rusty vent stack, the bitter stench of tar burning his sinuses. So many sensations. His cells tingled. His blood pumped. His muscles filled with a kinetic anticipation he thought lost to him after his only son was slaughtered.
He blinked against the eastern sky. Darkness retained its hold for the moment, but the power of daylight was building. This would be the dawning of a new day. The beginning of the end for the Sumerian. For all Watchers.
Those repugnant puppets policed edicts of control and cared nothing for those deemed beneath them. They slaughtered any who dared contest. He licked his lips and relished the acidic burn of blood on his tongue and throat. He dared.
Zandros removed the human from the scene and Stryker raised a brow. The half-breed bastard’s mark glowed blue against the night. Each intertwining symbol represented an essence hunted and expired with single-minded violence. His boy was there somewhere, highlighted on the roadmap of his killer like a sick reward.
Nephilim were bred to end lives. No matter how precious.
He brushed a thumb over his signet ring and let his thirst for vengeance grow.
Energy prickled his skin as a portal between worlds opened. The air in front of him wavered and warped, and Devious’ hulking frame breached the opening. His apprentice stepped onto the roof and bowed his head. “It is done, Master. The female taken from the Watcher’s nightclub has been delivered and received.”
“And is our peculiar friend happy with his payment?”
“Quite.”
Stryker stroked the hilt of his new red-bladed weapon and smiled. His plan was perfect. Perfectly executed. Perfectly anonymous. Perfect.
“Gone are the centuries cowering in apology for being who we are born by nature. Life shall be more than living in decayed tombs of buildings that once were. No longer will Darkworld children weaken and die, rationed to starvation.”
Stryker squinted at the gray haze threatening the Toronto cityscape. “Humankind no longer trains for battle or carries weapons of consequence. We needn’t battle to survive. A new world order is on the horizon, Devious, one where daemons seduce any mortal stupid enough to follow—to feast on blood, body or soul.”
Law of the jungle, after all, ensured survival of the fittest.
Stryker’s head spun with details, each phase of his plan more deliciously gruesome and torturous than the last. He may have failed his son, but his beautiful Cassiane would one day rule the Shedim in a world of safety and abundance.
Zandros of Kish had no idea what awaited him, and wouldn’t . . . until too late.
Zander’s shitkickers ate at the industrial parking lots and parched brown grass as he backtracked his way through the shadows toward Spadina. Four hours. He couldn’t believe that in just four hours, what started out a normal night at his club, had taken a header into the shitter. A female snatched from his club. Getting shanked and knocked-out in a warehouse of horrors. Niobe’s death cracking him in the balls.
And then there was this woman.
What good was he to his squad with a blind human attached to his wrist? His hands were tied. Literally. He stormed across a loading area and came out on a deserted street. Sticking to the few trees edging the properties, he kept them out of sight.
He’d check in on the corpse cleanup as soon as he got home. One way or another he and his boys would get these night crawlers. They’d send them back to Hell, with Nephilim calling cards shoved up their asses. Way up.
That thought fueled the wildfire burning beneath his skin.
Crack. The streetlamp across the road rained sparks on the pavement. He ducked behind the next building. The energy vibrating from him had a life of its own tonight.
The woman stumbled over cracked pavement and cried out.
He had a hold on her arm, but with their momentum, he couldn’t keep her on her feet. Tumbling forward, he curled around her the best he could. It was an awkward fall. Stone and glass bits embedded into his shoulder. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs, her soft curves sprawled over him.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he panted.
She pushed him away. “I don’t need an apology. I need the police. And I need my dog.”
Her pained expression and the heave of her bosom stabbed him in the gut. The raw flesh of her foot made the churn worse. An impressive flap of skin hung off the side of her heel. What was wrong with him? She’d been kidnapped, shackled and stoned and he’d been careless with her. Safeguard humanity. Protect the innocent.
When had he forgotten his primary duty?
He knew how stones hurt and still, he’d raced through the shadows like his ass was on fire. “I wasn’t thinking. My apologies.”
“I’m blind, Mr. Ambrose, not weak. If you’re apologizing because you’re brusque and rude, I accept, but don’t go feelin’ sorry for me.”
He hadn’t been rude. Had he? He picked glass from his shoulder and wiped his hand on his jeans. “Catch your breath. My truck’s not far.”
She brushed debris from her nicked feet and winced.
“Does that hurt as bad as it looks?”
She jutted her chin out and blinked. “I’ll live.”
Considering the aftermath of evil in that warehouse, a cut heel was getting off easy. He ripped the sleeve off his t-shirt and lifted her foot into his lap. “How did you end up in this mess? Can you tell me what happened before I found you?”
She wet her lips. “No, I’m afraid not.”
The smoky scent of deceit singed his nostrils. The fact that she didn’t trust him pissed him off more than the exposure threat. Why couldn’t she just answer his questions? He had no time to inspire a Hallmark moment.
He wrapped her wound and sighed. “How about your name. Could you tell me that?”
She scowled so fiercely he had to bite back a smile. “My name is Austin.”
Right. With her country twang, Austin was more likely her hometown rather than her name, but it had been a tough night and he’d take it as a win.
He scanned the abandoned street. No obvious points of sentry. No indication of a tail. Thing was, his instincts disagreed. His internal switchboard lit up for the second time tonight. He helped her to her feet, but this time, instead of grabbing her cuffed wrist he held her hand.
Lightning cracked over Lake Ontario. A succession of strobes illuminated a long line of two-story factories. She stiffened and squeezed his fingers. Her fear filled the air. His desire to ease her peaked. He didn’t understand the impulse, couldn’t explain its origin, but he couldn’t ignore it. So much like Niobe. He’d kill the Shedim who did this to her. He’d find them and c
ut them to shreds.
His mark burned. It radiated a brilliant shade of blue.
This is wrong. The energy bolt that struck him must have scrambled his synapses. Or the woman had bewitched him. Or maybe it was a sign of the freakin’ apocalypse. He had no clue. All he knew was emotions raged like a twister within him, and she—all flushed, bedraggled and covered in filth—stood smack in the eye of the storm.
He swallowed hard and inhaled. Her feminine scent filled his lungs and images of her silky tanned flesh flooded his mind. Long legs. Rounded hips. Slight waist. Perfect ass—
Goddamn it. He scrubbed a rough hand over his face and got them moving again. He didn’t do humans. Never had a taste for the race. He kept his sexual encounters to Otherworld females—Light for a simple release, Dark for a night of punishment. Otherworlders knew who and what he was on sight and didn’t expect anything beyond a workout.
Never human. They couldn’t see his mark and had no idea who or what they accepted into their fragile bodies. He would never be like the bastard archangel who sired him. Never sentence an innocent child to a warrior army with no thought to the women left to die in the process. It wasn’t right.
He glanced at Austin. This woman, tough and suspicious, yet so vulnerable, stirred something in him. And yes—more than what stirred in his jeans. Such a bastard.
His self-loathing reached an impressive new high by the time they rounded the raccoon corner. He relished the end of this little backstreet tour and fished his keys from his pocket.
“Was she your girlfriend?” Austin asked. “The woman you tried to help?”
Why did she care? Testing his story? Filling awkward silence? Checking his relationship status? Get a grip. “No. A buddy and I saw her get snatched from a parking lot and took chase.”
Not that it did her any good. This slayer either had gonads the size of bowling balls or a brain the size of a pea to think he’d let an innocent be harvested from his property. His club was an established Otherworld safe zone. Everyone knew that.
“And where’s your friend now?”
Zander exhaled hard. “Knowing Tanek, still chasing down the bad guy.”
CHAPTER THREE
As the truck lurched from the curb, Austin reveled in the growl of the engine and the pull of their departure. Zander hit the gas and, though her muscles protested, she gripped the leather armrest to keep from pitching sideways into his lap. They might be handcuffed together, but at least they were away from that horrible place.
To trust him was a gamble. Given the choice between him and those men with evil voices, she’d take the escape and hope she lived long enough to leave it all behind her. She let her head fall back against the headrest and closed her eyes. The leather interior held the same musky cologne that lingered on his vest. She flexed her hands to lessen the tingle under her skin. “What day is it?”
“It’s almost five a.m., Saturday morning.”
Saturday. She’d been grabbed and held for over thirty hours. She dug her fingernails into her palms and steeled herself. She’d suffered trauma before. She had the coping strategies. Knew each stage of recovery. Nothing had been done that wouldn’t heal in a few days. She hadn’t been raped or killed. She’d been roughed up some, frightened and drugged but could get beyond that.
Unwelcome, images of monsters filled her head. Bile rose fast in her throat and she swallowed against the bitter burn. She fumbled with the buttons on the armrest but got nowhere . . . until the glass hummed descent on its own.
She let the warm, misty rain spritz her face and focused on Freddie Mercury singing Don’t Stop Me Now. “Thank you.”
The truck swung around the corner and she sensed the world outside: the tires hissed on wet pavement, humidity hung thick on the stale, damp breeze, the hum of the air changed as they passed more and more buildings.
Civilization.
She blinked back the sting of tears, her emotions a whirl of contradictions. The streets were quiet. Peaceful. She wanted to scream. How dare the city drone on, oblivious to what happened?
“You all right?” Zander asked.
Despite the air of menace he exuded, his question seemed genuine. Did it matter? He’d gotten them away from the warehouse and back to his vehicle. Now she needed to get away from him. “Are we headed to the police station?”
He shifted beside her and the ringing of a phone replaced Bahamian Rhapsody coming through the speakers. On the fifth ring, a muffled curse came over the line. “Zander, you better be fucking dying to call me while—”
“Colt, hold that thought. I’m hands-free in my truck with a woman who doesn’t need to be exposed to the intimacies of your lifestyle. We clear?”
Austin watched as Zander’s aura outlined strong, chiseled features. His voice resonated in the most mesmerizing way. Her heart rate slowed and a balmy rush bloomed through her insides. The musical cadence of his words soothed her, strengthened her somehow.
On the other end of the line, a lighter flared and then the speaker exhaled. “Yeah, crystal. What can I do for you?”
“We need to report two kidnappings.” He turned to her. “This is Detective Colt Creed out of the 51st Division. He’s a friend. Will you at least tell him your real name?”
The wipers whispered a slow sweep across the windshield.
Ha, he didn’t trust her either. “Austin is my name. Austin Navarro.”
“Colt, I’m taking Miss Navarro home. Can you meet us at her place to take our statements?”
Austin’s heart leaped. She’d been taken from the front breezeway of her apartment building. Those monsters knew where she lived and when they found her gone from the warehouse, they might come back. “How about we meet at the station.”
Zander hissed. “And traipse you through a precinct full of criminals and perverts wearing only my vest and these handcuffs? Unacceptable.”
She flattened the leather against her thighs.
After a long pause, Zander hit his indicator and they turned the corner. “Colt, meet us at the club. I’ll be there in two.”
“On my way.”
The call cut out before Austin could question the decision. The club? The fact that she had no say in the matter ticked her off. She wanted her life back. Her control. Her dog. She rubbed the ache in her chest. The first step to shaking off this whole nightmare was to find Stetson, healthy and well. It wasn’t to go to a club with a bad-boy white knight.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something you stepped in and you’re trying to figure out how to scuff me off the bottom of your shoe.”
The brilliant blue of his silhouette dimmed as he fell quiet. Who was this guy? Not a civilian or a cop. Criminal? Drug dealer? Mercenary? Mafia maybe? As they’d skulked through the night, she’d felt the tension ease in his muscles. He moved with smooth, sure strides. Unafraid. His confidence helped to dissolve her fears, but why wasn’t he afraid? Any normal man would have been shaken.
Zander—the massive mysterious unknown in her already complicated life.
The engine’s hum slowed, and her heart tripped into a full gallop as they arrived.
Sweet Texas, what could she do now?
Zander pulled into his parking spot outside the club. When the engine silenced, he turned and met Austin’s glare. Blind or not, she could peg him with a look. He’d seen that same look outside the warehouse, a flash of fire, a promise she would lay him out regardless of his size, strength, or the fact that she’d probably never made a fist in her life.
“Where are we? What club did you bring us to?”
The disorientation in her voice made his blood boil. She hated being at a stranger’s mercy. He didn’t blame her but didn’t appreciate the hostility aimed at him either. “I own a nightclub, O-Zone.”
Her expression hardened. “After bein’ tortured and humiliated you thought you’d bring me to a swinger’s club?” Her southern accent thickened as her temper fla
red. “I’m not some depraved, sex-craved—”
“Careful, cowgirl,” he said, breathing in her smoldering hostility and making a mental note to keep her pissed at him. “We’re here to meet my cop friend, not for me to throw you over the hood of my truck and get inside you.”
Damn. The moment the words left his lips the image of her breathless beneath him seared into his mind. What an image. He sprung the keys free and shifted in his seat. “Think what you like about me, but we’re faced with bigger issues than whether or not my nightclub is clothing optional.”
Her jaw dropped as a glimmer flashed in her eyes. “Is it?”
He groaned. Man, so not the time. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Not bloody likely.”
His interest peaked. The scents of fear, exhaustion and the feminine essence of her skin mixed. The olfactory triple-threat set off his dominant warrior. “Tell me, Miss Navarro, does everything with you have to be an argument?”
Flat-out pissed with an emotional fall-apart just around the corner, the woman needed to get inside before they created a scene. She thrust her jaw. “Tell me, Mr. Ambrose, what is the protocol when the man who escorts you from hell takes you to his sex club? Should I be grateful?”
Well, shit. The more she met him head on, the more he liked her. The fact that she was not on board with getting skin-to-skin with him just proved her intelligence. He needed air. He cranked his door open, swung his legs out, and let his cuffed arm stretch behind him. After he sucked back a lungful of nature’s stale and unrefreshing, he swiveled back into his seat.
“Let’s try this again. Miss Navarro, I’m going inside to speak with Detective Creed. Would you care to join me?”
“Go to hell.”
He bound his temper. Did she think she could refuse him? His inner beast rose, his dark side enjoying this game of cat and mouse. He didn’t have time for it. “Excuse me?”