by Jenn Stark
Warrick sank back to his heels, his lungs heaving. His face wet with blood and soot.
And, unaccountably…tears.
“It’s done,” he whispered, though no one could hear him above the screams. “It’s done.”
Chapter Twenty
Maria watched Warrick out of the corner of her eye as the detectives and federal agents continued to work the scene. He appeared beaten and broken, but she knew that was how he was supposed to appear. Takio and Serena had apparently fled in the madness that had followed the gas release, which had resulted in a few patrons hyperventilating, but no other issue. Takio’s lieutenants had been rounded up and, sure enough, carried enough illegal drugs on them to warrant their arrest. Maria had no doubt they’d be flipping on each other within the hour.
The spawn and other demons that had been on the premises had not all been blasted to kingdom come, but those that were left had fled on foot at the first opportunity. No humans had died. Other than Warrick, no one had been seriously injured. He looked exactly like the role he was playing, a special operative who’d been charged with taking down a known felon. To anyone else, he’d been beaten, physically and mentally, by the exchange. Because Takio still walked free. A BOLO would be issued for both him and Serena, but the official assessment was that the head of La Noche had been cut off the snake. Even if it grew another one, it wouldn’t be growing one here.
Eventually, Maria worked her way over to him. “You okay?”
Warrick visibly flinched as she touched him, and she scowled, frustration knotting her stomach. His glamour was now firmly back in place, and she’d blocked the image of what he’d looked like before out of her mind. Almost.
“Here,” he grunted. He held up a bloody hand in offering to her, something held tight in his fist. She obligingly held out her own hand, and her cross and chain dropped into it. Warrick’s palm where he’d gripped the medal had been burned to a bloody mass.
“Warrick,” Maria muttered, shaking her head.
“Put it on,” he commanded, his voice low, though he wouldn’t lift his head to look at her. “I don’t…” He shuddered. “It helps you tolerate my presence, it would appear.”
Maria blinked, then glanced around the room. Sure enough, the demons and spawn who still remained in the room looked more demon than human to her, their glamour now more like loose-fitting clothes if she looked at them longer than a few seconds, probably because the adrenaline spike of the fight was still racing through her blood. But Warrick…
“It’s not like that with you,” she said, infusing her voice with as much confidence as she could manage. “You’re—back to looking like you always look. Exactly the same. Well…” She smiled as he glanced up, the look in his eyes almost heartbreaking. “You’re a little more banged up than I’m used to seeing you, I’ll give you that.”
“We’ve got medics.” A brusque detective walked up as Warrick struggled to his feet.
“I’m all right,” he said, waving off the hovering EMT who stood behind the detective. “I look bad, but it’s all pretty superficial. At least Takio didn’t have a gun.”
“Didn’t gut anyone on the way out, either, which is his usual MO.” The detective shrugged. “Makes my job easier. We’re going to need to question you, sir. Are you up for that now?”
Warrick was, of course, and Maria submitted to a second round of questioning as well, and a call from Stan, who tightly informed her that he could find absolutely no one to corroborate Warrick’s story of his clandestine unit within the DEA.
“He’s going to have a target on his back for a while, but no one is arguing about the assistance he’s provided the unit, and no one can say for sure he isn’t telling the truth about being in some sort of black ops unit—at least not yet. But he’s going to be expected to come clean sooner rather than later. He probably shouldn’t plan on leaving the city.”
“Uh-huh. You want to be the one to tell him that?” When Stan didn’t reply, she sighed. “Kidding, Stan, kidding. I’ll let him know. How’s Jack?”
“Somewhere in Oklahoma by now. And Maria, we checked on your aunt in Santa Ana, as you asked. She’s fine—well, almost fine. She suffered a fall, she said, and we checked that too. Earlier this afternoon, EMTs were called to her villa because of a fall she sustained in her kitchen. She was cooking and became overwhelmed with the spices or something like that. She passed out, and when she came to, she called for help.”
“She…passed out.” Maria closed her eyes, her hand stealing to her pocket where she’d stuffed Cara’s necklace. “That’s all she remembers?”
“That’s all that was reported. EMTs noted delusional statements consistent with a concussion, called a cousin who said they’d go with her to the hospital, bring her home. But she suffered some lacerations to her leg, a banged-up knee. Nothing more than that.”
Nothing more than that. Maria didn’t know if that were true or not, but her aunt was an honest woman. “You got a copy of those delusional ramblings, by any chance? In case there’s more to it?”
Stan paused, and she winced, regretting the question. The last thing she needed was for her handler to think she’d gone around the bend. “You know what, never mind,” Maria said. “I’ll check on her myself later. Anything new with the Citadel?”
She glanced over to where Warrick was sitting, answering another round of questions with two agents. He’d consented to some first aid, apparently, because his face had been cleared of blood, and a bandage was applied to his temple. He looked angrier now, less defeated, and as he spoke, he gestured in violent surges. Both agents hung on his every word, and Maria smiled. He’d probably done this sort of thing thousands of times over the past several hundred years, explaining the disappearance of a bad person to people who were used to finding bodies at the scene of a crime.
“We’re getting more by the hour,” Stan informed her with grim satisfaction. “First, there were the assholes at the Citadel, who were so shell-shocked by the place blowing up that they couldn’t confess fast enough. Apparently, they were convinced that the explosion had let something free, something that was after them.” He chuckled. “Whatever works. We did our best to agree that there were several unaccounted-for predators at the complex, and our descriptions matches the stories that the La Noche guards are spitting out. We haven’t found anyone that fits those descriptions, fortunately. The residents were harder to nail down. Family services is there now, and it’s an absolute mess. But while the adults won’t talk, the kids are, for once. And though the shit they’re saying went down sounds too weird to be true, there’s too many of them all saying the same thing. It’s going to keep us busy for a while.”
“But it’s a good bet I’m done with this job.”
He snorted. “That would be a good bet. It’s likely a good bet you’re done with undercover work in the city, you want my take on it. Your face is known now. Especially with the media circus at Morpheus. You can go back to being a cop…but not an undercover one.”
A cop. Maria realized again that she’d not given nearly enough thought to what she would do next, after this job was done. There was always—only—finding Cara’s killer. Bringing him to justice. Nothing ever mattered, other than that. Nothing could matter.
So now that Takio was as close to dead as she could ever understand him to be…who was she?
“Thanks, Stan. I’ll check in when I’m back in Sylmar. Or when I’m down here again for more questioning.”
“Do both.” The call ended, and Maria pocketed her phone, striding quickly to where Warrick now stood, shaking hands and accepting cards. The agents let them go a short while later, and they left the club, walking through a corridor of plate glass windows. She peered down. Several stories below at street level, a ring of news vans circled the hotel.
“We’re not leaving tonight,” Maria said firmly, but Warrick didn’t respond. He also, thank God, didn’t object when she guided him to the elevator and hit the button for their floor. They made th
e short drop to the Emperor’s level, exited, and managed not to bleed on anything as they returned to their room.
Warrick roused himself when they reached the door. “I’ll check first.”
“Of course,” Maria murmured, keying open the door and pushing it open. Warrick passed by her, and for a moment, she thought he was going to slam the door shut, locking her out. But he didn’t. He padded into the sitting room, then the bedroom, then finally, the bath.
“Clear,” he said, his tone muffled.
“Good.” She stepped inside the room, closed and locked the door, throwing the extra bolt. She didn’t know if hotel locks would keep demons at bay, but she wasn’t interested in being disturbed.
When Warrick strode back out of the bathroom, however, his face haggard, she pointed him toward the sitting area.
“We gotta talk,” she said.
Warrick winced. He didn’t want to have this conversation with Maria, didn’t want to have any conversation, really, but he couldn’t avoid it. She’d held up her end of the bargain. Holkeri was banished, and all Warrick’s rage had emptied out of him in the wake of Holkeri’s and Serena’s departures from this plane. It’d left a blank hole behind, and that was something he was going to have to live with. He rubbed his chest, a move Maria didn’t miss.
“What’s wrong?” she asked sharply, coming up to him, but he shook his head.
“Nothing. Tired.”
Her brows went up, and she peered at him as she pushed him gently backward until he sank into the overstuffed chair. Not the couch, he noticed. He rather liked the couch.
Instead, Maria took up position on the low coffee table, regarding him intently as she settled her elbows on her knees. “Demons get tired?”
The question was so unexpected, Warrick barked a laugh, then winced again, hiding the reaction from Maria before she demanded that he strip. His body would heal. It needed time. The glamour, of course, could usually heal immediately. He’d gotten used to appearing beat up enough so that medical professionals, such as the EMTs upstairs, didn’t ask too many questions—they saw what they expected to see, until he was released from their care. Then he healed himself in short order. He’d done so on the way down to this floor in the elevator, and even now looked almost normal. But the flesh and muscle beneath—he did have a physical form, as horrific as it appeared. That form had been ripped to shreds by Takio’s talons, Serena’s barbs. It would take…a while for him to recover from that, though he would, he knew, eventually heal.
He resisted the urge to rub his chest again, over his heart. Mostly heal, anyway.
When Maria didn’t say anything further, Warrick glanced at her, frowned. “You’re still not wearing the cross.”
“The chain broke.” She shrugged, and when he moved to hold out his hand for it, she waved him off. “No, you can’t solder it together with your pinky fingers, but thanks,” she said. “I’ll put it back together. I don’t need it right now. It did its job. It found you.”
He blinked at her, and the empty space in his chest ached worse. “I came because you called me. Because of your strength and the strength of Cara’s faith.”
She nodded. “And you did what I needed you to do. You…banished, or whatever you want to call it, Takio, and as a bonus, took out the female demon as well, Serena or whatever.” She shook her head, the look in her eyes going distant. “I know you said they existed, but I confess I didn’t really believe in the idea of female demons. That’s totally sexist, I know.”
His lips quirked into a grim smile. “You should probably check out some sensitivity training.”
“Noted. But she was about a million times uglier than Takio was, I gotta tell you. She looked like someone had been in a particularly bad mood when she was hatched.”
Warrick sighed. “The demonic form isn’t something that you’re cursed with, it’s the form you believe you deserve to take. The more powerful you feel you are, the worthier of attention, respect—the more horrific you become as a demon.”
“As punishment?”
“Not at all. As reward. Even demons remain God’s children, and they have a pecking order. The uglier you are by human standards, the more humans cannot help but fear you. Serena craved that fear as much as she craved attention. Her form was designed to inspire the worst of nightmares. She got her wish—but found she no longer wanted it in time, as most demons do who cannot stay wrapped in the protective thrall of their outrage. By then, of course, it was too late. So yes, you could say she was cursed, but she was cursed by her own hand.”
“No wonder you guys are messed up,” Maria muttered, and he brought his attention back to her.
“You saw what I truly am,” he said simply. She shook her head.
“No. I see what you truly are. And for a few minutes when you were busy saving the planet from two of the worst scourges of humanity, I saw what you had to become in order to do your job. And, yes, it scared me.”
Warrick tightened his jaw, his throat unaccountably working. “I know.”
“See, I don’t think you do,” Maria said. She reached out and took his hands, her own seeming impossibly frail in his as she held on to him tightly. “I wasn’t scared because of your enormous shoulders and your hairy body or your freakishly long, double-jointed arms and legs. I wasn’t scared because your hands were as big as boulders and your head looked like something out of a monster magazine. I saw all that, Warrick. I saw it. I saw you.”
He held himself rock steady, the hole in his chest gaping larger. “I know.”
“You keep saying that, but you’re still not getting it.” Maria’s eyes were wide now, glistening with a sheen that hadn’t been there before. “All those things—that wasn’t the problem. The problem was every time Takio took a swipe at you—you bled. Every time Serena pumped that godforsaken tail forward, catching you with her barb, you jerked like you’d been struck with an electric cattle prod. They hurt you, Warrick. They took chunks out of your flesh and sliced you all the way to the bone. They burned your skin and singed your hair and gouged pieces from your arms, your legs, your”—she gripped his hand more tightly—“paws. I was scared because I not only didn’t want you to die, I didn’t want you to be hurt. I don’t care what body you inhabit, you idiot. To me, you are Warrick. You came into my life to save me, to protect me and protect the girl who died in my lap fifteen years ago, and from the moment you first touched me, you pledged to keep me safe and whole. And I…” She shook her head hard, and the tears slipped free of her lashes to trail down her face. “I can’t keep you whole, Warrick. I’m not strong enough. Even with Cara’s cross, I am good for like one punch—that’s it. I’m useless.”
The anger in her voice at this last admission rang so deep that Warrick found himself lifting his own hands to Maria’s face, pressing his thumbs to her cheeks to brush the tears away. “You’re not useless, Maria,” he whispered. “You’re not even close. You are a child of God. You walk in His grace.”
“Well, I would rather walk next to you,” she said softly.
“No!” The anger returned then, quick and hot, and Warrick jerked himself away from Maria, clearly shocking her.
“Are you even listening to yourself?” he asked, hating that he’d brought the quick rush of surprise and embarrassment to her face. “Humans have been saying such things to demons for millennia. It is exactly that sentiment that keeps humans in our thrall. You seek out the other, the expression of all that is not you. Demons scratch that itch.”
“What are you talking about?” Maria stared at him, clearly shocked. “I couldn’t give a shit about a bunch of demons. I don’t care about them. I care about you.”
“They are who and what I am. They are all of who and what I am. I can aspire to nothing more than that heaving, bleeding, raging freak you saw in the dance club upstairs. That’s as good as it’s going to get.”
“And I say you’re wrong. Full stop,” Maria said. She stood then, briskly, and moved over to the couch, settling back on
it and grabbing the remote.
Warrick frowned at her, nonplussed. “What…what are you doing?”
“Trying not to beat the shit out of you,” she growled. She gestured toward the back of the hotel suite with her hand. “You’re going to play the martyr card, I can feel it coming on, and I am so pissed off at you right now, I want to wallop you with my well-warded fist. So you take your sorry-ass, heaving, bleeding, raging freak body back to the bathroom, and you take a shower and throw yourself in bed. And maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll wake up from my nap in the middle of the night and join you.”
“I’ll take the couch,” Warrick said stiffly, automatically, and Maria rolled her eyes.
“And you have spent way too long on the other side of the shroud.”
He blinked. “The veil.”
“The veil, whatever,” she said, waving the remote again. This time, she hit a button, and the screen flashed to life. Warrick winced at the noise of it, his ears still burned to a crisp from Serena’s poison.
“Go, Warrick,” Maria said again, her voice flat and angry. “You try to move me from this couch, and there will be hell to pay.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Maria awoke curled in a heavy layer of luxurious hotel sheets topped by a pillowy white comforter and immediately knew she was alone. Warrick had also moved her from the couch to the bed without her ever knowing it. Ass.
She sighed, rolling over to peer at the clock. 7:00 a.m. Bright sunlight trickled in past the heavy blackout shades, but otherwise, the room was still plunged in darkness. The TV was off in the main area of the suite too. She didn’t remember turning it off, didn’t remember Warrick emerging from the bedroom to pick her up and carry her in here. She doubted he’d slept at all. Her gaze drifted to the wingback chair opposite the bed.