Bishop (New Vampire Disorder Book 3)

by Marie Johnston

  “I’ve run into Malachim and Bita. You work for Rancor. Who else is there?”

  “Unless you’re willing to pony up on your end of the deal, I don’t think so.” This Calli must think she was foolish. “But I’ll tell you about Rancor. He’s big and ugly and has to compensate for not being as savvy as the others by being the baddest thug in the realm.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “A demon.” Duh.

  “But you’re a demon…”

  “Second-tier. Means at some point my ancestors diddled with another species.”

  Calli stilled and stared at her.

  Fyra rolled her eyes. “Come on. Did you think that wasn’t possible? Draken’s goal was to hit it with you and have a few cute little nightmares.”

  “Yes, but,” Calli frowned, “I assumed the child would live in this realm and that they wouldn’t survive in the underworld.”

  “You know what assumptions make.”

  From the set in Calli’s lips, Fyra had offended her.

  Fyra flopped on the bed. Calli only wanted information, not to paint their nails, talk about boys, or gush over the latest trend in leggings with skulls all over them, yet she was affronted when Fyra pointed out the obvious.

  But Fyra couldn’t ignore the sting of guilt. When had she gotten so soft? “Without a bond, we demons can’t roam freely unless we’re in a host. So most of the time, any other species are imprisoned down below wherever the parents are. Easy access. Not that they last long.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Sure is.” Imagine if it’s your home.

  “Why Bishop?”

  “Why not?” Fyra rolled onto her side with her back to Calli. “It’s been a long day, long night, into a long day. I’m gonna get some shut-eye.”

  Calli scooted her chair back to the wall, and then there was a series of clicks before the door opened and shut.

  At least this realm was slightly less cruel than home.

  ***

  Bishop’s bed called him. His demon was contained under the same roof and for once in many weeks, he thought he could gather some decent sleep. Demetrius wasn’t going to let him go that easily. In the conference room, D and Zoey formed a triangle around the big table that dominated the room. Zoey on his left, Demetrius on his right.

  “Think her pee is lighter fluid?” Demetrius asked. At Bishop’s dropped jaw, he shrugged. “I’m not joking. She mentioned the bathroom issue and since she’s a fire starter, I need to know if we have to take precautions with her bodily fluids. I don’t need our sewer pipes blowing up.”

  Zoey nodded in understanding and Bishop had no compulsion to talk about anyone’s bodily fluids.

  “I haven’t been exposed to her excretions.” Except her tears. “I don’t know what they’d do.”

  “Haven’t been exposed?” Zoey spoke up. “Haven’t you two…”

  What’s worse than talking about pee? Discussing his sex life with someone who was the closest thing to a sister he had.

  “Not with the real her.” He wouldn’t admit to the kiss because her saliva had done nothing to his mouth or his…yeah, nothing negative, anyway.

  “Oookay.” Zoey adjusted in her seat, like she was as uncomfortable as he was. “Then what’d you find out?”

  That you’re banging Creed. “She watched us, studied us, to decide which one to target. I don’t think she knows details, but she’s incredibly astute at reading people. She mentioned Stryke.”

  Demetrius’s head popped up. “From the cult leader’s house?”

  “Yes, but they call them ‘brokers.’”

  “Huh,” Zoey said. “Makes sense. What about this Stryke?”

  “He can get in and out of our realm without a broker.”

  Demetrius whistled. “That’s a serious advantage.”

  The speaker system crackled and Creed’s voice rang out. “Get down here and bring extra fire extinguishers.”

  Bishop was out the door first. He snagged three extinguishers as he went and cursed the wards that prevented him from flashing within the building.

  Demetrius and Zoey were close behind, but Bishop beat them by seconds. The picture he walked into brought him to an abrupt halt.

  The cell door hung open with Rourke blocking the opening. He held a red canister pointed toward Fyra. White powder with yellow tint covered the floor and grew thicker closer to the cot on the far wall. Smoke rose from the smoldering mattress. A bedraggled and thoroughly saturated Fyra knelt on the floor, coughing.

  She must’ve sensed him because her bright eyes found his. “Tell him to quit spraying me!” Another fit of coughing ensued.

  Rourke raised the extinguisher like he expected her to combust any moment. “I think she’s done and then she starts steaming again.”

  “Was she trying to escape?” Bishop asked.

  Fyra’s coughing died down. “You always think the best of me. No, I was sleeping.”

  Why hadn’t he considered the issues that arose when she slept? “Nightmare?”

  Her gaze darted away.

  “Why would nightmares bother a demon?” Demetrius pushed past him to inspect the damage. “Do you dream of someone getting a massage and winning the lotto?”

  “D.” Bishop censored himself before he called his friend an insensitive bastard.

  “Yes, D.” Fyra glared at Demetrius. “Shit happens to demons, too, and probably more often than your spoiled ass.”

  Demetrius blew her off. “You can’t control your fire when you sleep?”

  Fyra’s mouth snapped shut and she toed the powder at her feet. “I can control it.”

  Her long, curvy leg swung in an arc with her foot cleaning a half circle around her.

  “All the time?” Zoey asked.

  She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Sleep can be a little distracting to my focus.”

  Demetrius swung to him. “Are we supposed to keep her awake twenty-four hours a day?”

  Bishop had to tear his gaze off her bare flesh where her skirt hung in rags. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “How?”

  Rourke snorted and jutted his chin to their load. “You’re going to need more extinguishers than those.”

  His stance hadn’t changed. If Fyra blew out a smoke ring, Bishop feared she’d get nailed with powder.

  “I’ll keep these,” Bishop snapped at his partner. “And I’ll watch her at my place.”

  Demetrius looked between him and Fyra. “Do you want to give her a key, too? Let her call her friends and tell them exactly how to find us?”

  “Then I’ll stay in here with her.” Bishop shifted his load. Fyra staying with him was the best and worst idea ever—and please don’t say no.

  Fyra folded her hands in her lap to listen to their bartering. If she was the demon everyone thought, she’d likely try to escape or signal her people, like Demetrius had accused. But…Bishop wasn’t confident.

  “She’s a demon,” Bishop said slowly, “but I’ve not seen enough to determine that she’s evil.”

  “Other than starting fires that could’ve killed hundreds. The humans she’s used as hosts. And the human she killed.” Demetrius rattled off her indiscretions and it should’ve made Bishop more compliant, but instead it raised his defenses.

  Fyra huffed and stood, her nipples jutting out. She’d win grand champion in a wet-sweater contest. Bishop set his extinguishers down and yanked his shirt off and covered the distance between them in only a few strides to block her from his friends’ view. She wasn’t wet, just saturated in powdered chemical, but the force of the spray was enough to plaster her seen-better-days shirt to her ample figure. She frowned at him as he draped it over her head and tugged it down.

  “Can I help you?” she purred, knowing exactly why he’d reacted. She stood on her tiptoes to holler over his shoulder. “When did vampires become so whiney? How exactly have you used the human race to survive? Blood anyone? Are you the only ones who get to make life and death decisions abou
t who’s attacking you?”

  Demetrius crossed his arms, his expression pure skepticism. “You couldn’t take the human man who was smaller than you? He was a danger to you?”

  Bishop stepped to the side to let the two hash it out. Demetrius could hear for himself Fyra’s rationale.

  “Other than germs and a fire hazard from his greasy hair? No. But not all of the women he helped fought him off.”

  “Could your hosts fight you off?” Demetrius pressed. “Were you up front with Bishop about bonding him against his will?”

  Her full mouth curved into a sweet smile and her husky voice dropped low. “Oh, he was willing. And my hosts were more than willing, hoped for it, fought over me.”

  “Release Bishop.” Demetrius played the trump card.

  Fyra sucked in a breath.

  Smug triumph glazed D’s expression. “If you’re so altruistic and selfless, then prove it and release Bishop from his bond.”

  Bishop’s being rebelled against the idea. Free from his demon? Not yet. He wasn’t done with her.

  “Do you have a bow?” she asked sweetly. “Because I might as well gift wrap myself for Rancor before I get sent straight back home. And I don’t feel like being raped and mutilated. Or mutilated and raped. He’s not picky on the order and most of the time, he does them simultaneously.”

  Demetrius’s hand went to his hip where a sinister knife was strapped. “If you won’t release him, then we will.”

  Bishop shouldered her behind him and it didn’t miss D’s notice. His friend fell back, but his hand stayed in place. Bishop’s actions earned a raised eyebrow from Rourke.

  “So that’s how it is?” Demetrius’s words were barely audible.

  Bishop put his hands up to placate Demetrius. “We’re not senseless murderers. I’m not in any danger,” he threw a look over his shoulder, “yet. Without the bond, we lose her. We have a demon in our possession.”

  “And let’s see how we can use her; imagine that,” she muttered.

  Bishop twisted toward her. “Wasn’t that your original goal with me?”

  “Have you been used your whole life?” she retorted.

  “Aw, poor wittle demon, feeling sorry for yourself?”

  Bishop bristled at Demetrius’s mocking statement. It was the bond making him overprotective. It was the only explanation for how and why he was challenging Demetrius.

  “She saved me, D.”

  “You wouldn’t have been in jeopardy in the first place if it wasn’t for her.” D dropped his hand away from the weapon, apparently putting stake in Bishop’s insistence he could handle it. “Fine. Keep her with you at all times. But no fucking around, Bishop. Whatever she does, I want to be informed.”

  “I’ll bring you five more fire extinguishers.” Rourke finally set his down and left.

  “Notify me immediately. About anything.” Disappointment oozed from Demetrius. “If you pull anything like what you did when you jetted without a word, I swear, Bishop, you will be in this cell instead.”

  He spun and marched out, and Zoey followed him without a backward glance. Bishop dropped his head to stare at the floor. Why’d he feel like he’d chosen the deceitful manipulator behind him over a male he’d followed for decades?

  “Duuude,” Creed said over the intercom.

  Bishop flipped off the camera as he said to Fyra, “Follow me.”

  He grabbed her elbow and dragged her along. The trek to his suite seemed to take only seconds because he dreaded how the rest of the night would go. A car ride together had been mental agony. It might be better in his place, where he could put a wall or something between them.

  No.

  Aw, hellfire. He had to make sure she didn’t burn anything down. Same room for them.

  He began to be suspicious of her quietness, but her face was open curiosity.

  “This is how the mighty live.” She scanned herself. “I’m a hot mess.” A laugh with a snort that dissolved into a fit of coughing. “Get it. Hot mess. Point me toward the shower. This shit’s burning my lungs.”

  While she showered, he concentrated on finding her some clothes to wear. His stuff would work, but it’d be way too big, even for a female with her proportions. Lovely, soft proportions.

  He snapped his phone out and called Rourke. “Got any sweats?”

  “I won’t get them back, will I?”

  “They might have holes singed in them. I haven’t seen her wear anything that doesn’t get scorched.”

  “What are they, naked in the underworld?”

  Rourke might as well have kicked him in the gut. What’d she look like naked? Others had seen her naked?

  His fangs throbbed with the need to tear out any eyeballs that had spied his demon in the buff.

  “Probably,” he grunted as an answer.

  “I’ll bring a pair to you.”

  Bishop leaned against his door to wait, tapping a rhythm against the frame. If Rourke didn’t drop off the clothing soon, Fyra might wander out naked. Bishop didn’t think he could survive the sight.

  “Knock, knock,” Rourke deadpanned on the other side of the door.

  Bishop cracked the door and snaked a hand out because if Fyra strutted out, he didn’t want to have to rip out Rourke’s peepers. Not that the male would care if a million females swarmed him naked. He was complete with his mate, Grace.

  Rourke pulled his bundle back. “What’s going on?”

  “Not you, too.”

  “Yeah, fucking me, Bishop. We’re tight but you go and pull dumbass move after dumbass move without telling me. Without reaching out for help?” Rourke shoved the clothes through the crack. “But you call for fucking sweats.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “No. It’s not. You’re making it complicated.”

  Bishop laid his forehead on the edge of the door. “I’ve always been the reliable one. I just… I wanted to clean up my own mess.”

  Instead, it had spilled open a memory box of impossible revelations. His mam’s warnings. His pap’s accusations. The cold, the icicles, the freaking snow. Sometime soon, Bishop would have to face what he’d come to realize.

  But not now.

  “I get that,” Rourke wouldn’t give up, “but you’re also more levelheaded than that. There’s something else.”

  Bishop squeezed his eyes shut and said in a ragged whisper, “She confuses me. I should hate her with every fiber of my being, should plot to behead her, but I just can’t forget,” so many things, “when I refused to give you all up. When I wouldn’t tell her what we know or where the tome is, it wasn’t disgust I saw, but astonishment. Like she couldn’t comprehend that level of loyalty for vampires she thought just worked together.”

  “Most demons wouldn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t they?” He rose and drew his shoulders back. “What would you do to not get done to you what Rancor would’ve done to her?”

  Rourke stared at him.

  Bishop recalled the male’s history of being a blood slave, a secret he’d kept up until a few weeks ago. “Aw shit, dude. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s actually…enlightening. I think I understand a little more now. I’ll await judgment, but Bishop, you’re my priority, not her.”

  “Got it.”

  He let the door swing shut and a cloud of breath was visible with his exhale. What a friggin’ mess.

  The water was no longer running. He hurried to the bathroom door and dropped the clothes.

  “There’s sweats out here for you.”

  He didn’t wait for a response but sped to the kitchen. Hunger wasn’t first on his mind, but it was a logical next step in what to do with a sexy demon in his home.

  Pulling items out of the fridge and cupboards, he planned the meal. The bathroom door clicked open and shut again. He almost dislodged a drawer when he got a butter knife out. He plopped a wad of butter on a slice of bread and half-heartedly spread it around. The whole loaf was buttered before Fyra sauntered out.

 
An electric bolt shot through him. He jerked and the knife fell out of his hand. Fyra, with damp tendrils of flame hair and smelling like his shampoo, fired him up. The longer he watched her, the stronger the current running through his body became. A zip line that ran between them. Was their bond strengthening?

  She approached and he morphed into a sandwich-making machine.

  “Let’s see…bread, butter, cheese, and tomato soup. Grilled cheese?”

  “Yep.” He spun away to turn on the stove. Should’ve done that first. Fyra frazzled his thinking. He plopped a pan on the burner and loomed over it while waiting for it to heat.

  “Can I help?”

  “You know how to cook?”

  “I can cook meat—with my fingertips.”

  He’d wondered about her life in the underworld, but he was extremely curious about her everyday life. Two sandwiches landed in the skillet with a satisfying sizzle.

  “What do you eat down there?”

  “Meat. Don’t ask where it comes from. The tastiest frost berries grow by the ice caves.”

  “Like a fruit?”

  She slid onto a barstool and rested her elbows on the counter. “A fruit that drinks blood. We have things that grow in the underworld. Your kind would find their different tastes deplorable,” her eyes flashed with yellow fire, “like they do me.”

  “Ah, Fyra.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Our experiences with your kind haven’t been positive.”

  “Likewise.”

  Point made. He flipped the sandwiches and tossed the soup in the microwave. “Demons weren’t created to be good creatures.”

  “And the pure ones aren’t.”

  He turned slowly toward her. “Pure ones?”

  Her sigh was big and theatrical. “Do I have to give you the birds and bees talk, too? I had to explain this to Calli. When one demon covets another being, they steal them and make babies.”

  More sandwiches to cook. “Do they ever live up here?”

  “To get executed by vampires? Sorry, most pass, unless they’re useful to the underworld, like spies and stuff. Otherwise, the Circle’s little minions find them.” She shuddered and fell quiet.

  He flipped the sandwiches, didn’t want to ask but had to. “Minions like you?”