by Larissa Ione
He did trust the system. But when he’d flashed into that parking lot and saw that his Primori was about to abduct a woman, Hawkyn had instinctively tried to prevent it. Now he was left with one burning question: Was Ms. Mercer fated to die at Drayger’s hands...or had Hawkyn’s presence prevented the escape she’d been meant to make?
Hell, maybe Drayger’s fate had been to die from the blast that Hawkyn had taken instead. If so, Hawk’s interference had changed history. And, if so, he was in a lot of trouble. He could kiss membership in the Memitim Council goodbye... And that was assuming he was even allowed to Ascend and become a true angel in the first place.
“Thanks, Idess,” he mumbled.
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you later.” She narrowed her eyes, going all big sister on him. “And don’t do anything stupid.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Except that was a lie. He had to find Aurora before Drayger killed her, and he could only pray that he’d taken her to one of the places Hawk knew about. The guy seemed to have an unusual number of dungeons, and according to Drayger’s previous Memitim guardian, he moved his victims around, rarely keeping them in one place for more than a couple of days. If he held true to his pattern, Aurora would be kept alive for two weeks in three different locations.
Hawk just had to hope Drayger didn’t deviate from his usual routine as he’d done a couple of times in the past.
Cursing softly, Hawkyn stepped out into the underground parking lot, which wasn’t protected by Underworld General’s ward preventing entry and exit via any means but the ER doors and the Harrowgate. Once outside, he squared his shoulders and released his wings, shadowy appendages that made him unique amongst his wingless siblings and which allowed him to cloak himself in a bubble of invisibility.
His brothers and sisters could also make themselves invisible, but they didn’t look as cool doing it.
Wings fully extended and invisibility cloak engaged, he brushed his fingers over Drayger’s mark on his wrist and was instantly transported to his Primori’s location, an office building in downtown Portland.
Drayger was at Interim, a computer software company where he worked as a database developer. It was both good news and bad that he was here. It meant he wasn’t harming anyone, but it also meant that Aurora would be harder to find.
The human looked so non-threatening sitting at his desk in khakis and a green company polo, his I <3 Computers mug filled with steaming coffee, knickknacks and a photo of his mom nearby. All an attempt to appear normal. Psychopaths were often surprisingly adept at fitting in. Drayger was a chameleon, and he was good at it.
But Hawkyn had seen the real Drayger. He’d seen what was under the face Drayger wore in public and when he was playing with his victims. The true man beneath the mask still appeared human, but the humanity was gone. His eyes were cold and dead, his posture erect with the kind of deranged confidence that only those who didn’t fear pain or death possessed. A dark energy surrounded him, the seductive kind that drew other evil beings.
And he could turn it on and off in a heartbeat.
Hawkyn despised the bastard, was sickened that someone like him rated angelic protection. But Hawk would be first in line to kill the fucker once the protection was no longer needed. Angels were forbidden to kill humans no matter how evil they were, but every once in a while permission to do so was granted, and Hawkyn intended to secure authorization to rid the planet of one Jason Drayger no matter the cost.
Satisfied that Drayger was occupied, Hawk flashed to the first of several hideouts, an old cellar at an abandoned country farmhouse. It was empty of everything but a filthy mattress, bloodstains, and nasty tools he used for his gruesome hobby.
Same results in Drayger’s residence, the shed on the property Drayger cared for while his brother, Ben, was overseas doing contract work for an oil company, and the cave hidden deep in the Mt. Hood National Forest.
The weird thing about the cave was the lack of obvious torture tools and a mattress. Only a hammer, a rusty hand saw, a hatchet, and a few ropes lay in neat coils on the cave floor, nothing that would be suspicious for anyone stumbling upon the place.
Well, shit. Those spots were the only ones Hawkyn knew about.
Where was she? What had Drayger done to her already? And what was Hawkyn going to do once he found her?
Maybe there was a way to find out if his Primori’s fate was still on track...which would mean that Hawkyn hadn’t screwed up. But it would also mean that Aurora Mercer was exactly where she was supposed to be.
And while that would be good news for Hawkyn’s future, it would be very, very bad for hers.
Chapter Four
Hawkyn’s gut was churning as he paced back and forth at the Summoning Stone, a football-sized rose quartz placed in the center of a newly-built gazebo at the edge of the Memitim training center in Sheoul-gra. With any luck, someone from the Memitim embassy in Heaven would pop down here to see him, but in his experience, there only seemed to be a 50/50 chance of that happening...which was still far better odds than getting someone from the Memitim Council to show up. If they had ever visited Sheoul-gra, he wasn’t aware of it.
He’d give the embassy fifteen more minutes, and then he was out of here.
Footsteps behind him had him spinning around in relief, but when he saw his father standing there in black slacks and a button-down shirt, intense green eyes blazing like hot emeralds, Hawkyn’s gut dropped to his booted feet.
“Hawkyn.” Azagoth’s deep voice sent a shimmer of dread through Hawk’s very marrow. His father was intimidating on the best of days, but lately his mood had been as black as his hair and clothes.
Steeling himself, Hawkyn inclined his head in greeting. “Yes, sir.”
“I heard you were injured.”
“I was, but I’m fine now.” He gestured in the direction of the armory, where he was in charge of inventory and acquisitions. “If you’re wondering about that report you asked for, I sent it to your desk yesterday—”
Azagoth waved his hand. “I’ll get to it this afternoon.” He stared at Hawkyn long enough to make him begin to sweat, and just as Hawk started to fidget, his father spoke. “You’ve never told me about your childhood.”
Hawk swallowed, remembering that Darien had told him Azagoth had been asking weird personal questions. “No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Tell me.”
“I really don’t think it’s important—”
The breeze turned chilly, mirroring Azagoth’s voice, and Hawkyn resisted the urge to shiver. “Would I ask if it wasn’t important?”
Hawkyn ignored the rhetorical question. “My childhood was no different than any other Memitim’s.” Except Suzanne, who had led a charmed existence before her first Memitim mentor had plucked her from her human life. “It sucked.” At Azagoth’s cocked eyebrow, Hawkyn knew he wasn’t going to get away with a vague explanation. His father wanted details, and only a moron denied Azagoth what he wanted. “I grew up in a workhouse in London. The people who ran it said I was left on the doorstep as a newborn.”
“No one adopted you?”
He laughed. “Children who were ‘adopted’ back then were often taken to be used as slaves or apprentices.”
“Children who lived in the workhouses and orphanages weren’t treated any better, no?”
Not really, no. And why the hell were they talking about this? Reluctantly, he answered his father’s question before he became impatient. An impatient Azagoth was a scary Azagoth.
Then again, so was a patient Azagoth.
“As soon as we were able, we were forced to pay for our care. We got money however we could. Begging, stealing, doing odd jobs, prostitution.”
Azagoth’s expression didn’t change, and yet Hawk could feel the anger billowing off him. But why? As far as Hawk knew, Azagoth didn’t give a shit about how his children had grown up. He’d always said that now was what mattered. They’d grown up the way they had in order to shape them into
warriors. It had all been for the greater good and all that standard issue bullshit.
“Was there ever a time when it wasn’t bad? When you were happy?”
Happy? Was Azagoth fucking kidding?
The memories he’d thought were long buried came rushing back at him, and with it, the anger. The feelings of abandonment. Back then he’d thought he was human and that his human parents, probably devastatingly poor, had given him up as a last resort.
Now, knowing his parents were powerful beyond imagining and had intentionally left him in a shitty situation, he was even angrier. Yes, he knew why they’d done it. And he’d always been able to conceal his emotions. But he could no longer deny that those emotions, that fury and hurt, had been seething just below the surface of his mind for centuries.
“No, Father, it was always bad.” Hawk’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I don’t remember ever having a full belly or being clean. I was never happy. Not once. Not ever. Not until the day my Memitim mentor arrived to rescue me from the hell that was my life. He might even have saved my life. I was about to lose a hand for stealing a crust of bread.”
For a long time, Azagoth said nothing. He merely stood there, his eyes glinting like green glass as he stared at Hawkyn.
Finally, he gestured over Hawkyn’s shoulder. “You have company.”
Hawk wheeled around to find Jacob, a Memitim who had Ascended nearly a century ago, standing near the Summoning Stone. His mink brown wings that matched his hair and eyes were fully extended, probably to show them off to his lowly, un-Ascended half-brother.
“What do you want?” he asked in a snooty tone.
“I—” Hawkyn turned to Azagoth, but their father had disappeared. Well, that was one less thing to worry about.
“You what?”
Damn, but Jacob was annoying. But then, he’d been annoying even before he’d been given his wings and a cushy job at the Memitim embassy, which was really more of a regulatory agency, but whatever.
“I know we aren’t supposed to be privy to our Primoris’ futures, but would we know if their futures have gone off track?”
Jacob adjusted the crimson sash that kept his embassy-issued metallic silver and bronze robes closed. “Why are you asking?”
“I dunno,” Hawkyn said casually. “I’m just curious.”
“I see.” Jacob put away his wings in a whoosh of air that ruffled Hawkyn’s hair. “You wouldn’t know. We would.”
Hawkyn’s breath backed up in his lungs like cement, and he couldn’t move any air for half a dozen thudding heartbeats. Had Drayger’s fate line gone off track, and did the embassy assholes know?
Stay calm. “How?”
Jacob studied his nails, dragging this out, clearly enjoying the power he wielded. The weasel.
Finally, he folded his arms across his chest, making his robes swing around his bare feet. “Every Primori has a file of sorts,” he explained. “These files are monitored, and if anything goes awry or the Primori dies before his time, we get an alert.”
“What happens after you get an alert?”
Jacob huffed as if irritated with the conversation. “It varies. Sometimes we let the situation sort itself out. Sometimes we warn the Primori’s Memitim guardian that they’d better rectify the situation, and sometimes there’s nothing we can do but try to mitigate the damage by rearranging the lives of others to get the results we need.” He paused, locking gazes with Hawk. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Not at all.” Hawkyn smiled, hoping Jacob bought his bullshit. “I’m just hoping to join the Memitim Council one day, so I’m trying to learn all the behind-the-scenes stuff now.”
Jacob laughed. “You think that’ll give you an edge? Idiot. I’ve been a full angel for decades now, and I’m not even on the waiting list to merely apply to join the Council.”
“Maybe you should have been asking questions before you Ascended,” Hawkyn offered. “Like I am.” Jacob had always been a slacker, doing the bare minimum of work needed to get the job done.
“Fuck you.” Baring his teeth, Jacob flared his wings again. “I spoke with your mother the other day. Did you know she’s on the Council? She joined recently. Introduced me to her mate and three beautiful children. Most of our mothers never had families because of the guilt they feel for giving us up. But not yours. She dotes on her children. Loves them like crazy.” His smile turned malevolent. “Have you ever even met her? Where did she leave you as a baby, I wonder...”
Hawkyn decked the asshole. Just slammed his fist into Jacob’s perfect face. The crunch of bone was the most satisfying thing Hawkyn had felt in years. Didn’t matter that Jacob’s bones mended in an instant and that the blood vanished without a trace. It felt good.
“You,” Jacob snarled, “are lucky I have someplace to be right now. But watch your back, little brother.”
Jacob flashed out of Sheoul-gra before Hawkyn could respond. Lucky for Jacob, since Hawk’s response would have been a lot more painful than a punch in the face.
Chapter Five
Within seconds of Jacob flashing out of Sheoul-gra, Hawkyn did the same. Then he spent nearly every minute of the next thirty-six hours shadowing Jason Drayger...with nothing to show for it.
Hawkyn had left Drayger alone only twice. The first time was during a four-hour period when one of his other five Primori was in danger—danger that never materialized. But when Hawk returned to Drayger, the guy had been driving home, blood spattered on his shirt and pants.
It had been Aurora’s blood, and Hawk knew it. He’d felt sick to his stomach and furious that he’d missed an opportunity to locate her. Guilt had weighed him down like a wet shroud, and out of guilt, he’d left Drayger to shower and go to bed, and Hawk had gone to Aurora’s house to see who she was.
To see who Drayger was hurting.
As Hawkyn had wandered through her little one-bedroom house in Portland’s quirky Pearl District, he couldn’t help but smile at her cheery ‘50s retro decor and the delicate spun glass and stained glass ornaments hanging in her windows. Hedgehog figurines and scented candles lined a couple of small shelves, and, while she had a few framed family photos on the walls, there were far more artsy pictures of Portland and the surrounding area.
Her place was cozy and warm, and he got the impression that this was more than a home for Aurora; it was a sanctuary. From her overstuffed furniture to the yoga mat in the corner, the gurgling water fountain in the entryway, and the Japanese rock garden that filled her tiny outdoor space out back, her house was a soothing retreat.
Which made sense when he discovered that she was a masseuse at an exclusive nearby spa.
Every discovery Hawkyn made only strengthened his resolve to help her. He just needed to find her first.
Hopefully, that was going to happen now.
Drayger was on the move again. This was it. Hawk knew it.
You can’t interfere.
No, technically he couldn’t. But he had to do something. Aurora’s magic had been wasted on Hawk when she could have used it on Drayger. What if she was supposed to have gotten away? What if his interference had caused her capture? By saving her he’d be righting a wrong. Setting Drayger’s future back on course. Maybe. Hopefully.
Sounded good to him.
Shadow wings out and the shrowd engaged, Hawkyn sat in the backseat of Drayger’s unassuming beige Ford Escort and listened to the too-loud, incoherent screech of some heavy metal band as they navigated the streets of one of Portland’s industrial areas. Drayger had picked up some cheap fast-food burgers and had eaten one, but the others sat next to him in a bag, the greasy stench filling the interior. Finally, Drayger pulled into a junkyard, unlocked the gate, and parked the car near a shipping crate tucked in a rear corner of the lot.
Hawkyn’s pulse quickened with anticipation as Drayger opened the creaky door and stepped inside.
And there, huddled in a corner on a filthy mattress, was Aurora, her long blond hair tangled and matted.
She reminded Hawkyn of a chained, neglected animal, and his hands clenched in fists of hot rage. She was naked except for panties and a ratty, stained AC/DC T-shirt Drayger must have given her, and her exposed skin was bruised and crusted with dried blood. Her bloodshot eyes were bright with fear, but also defiance. Hawk had seen that look so many times over the centuries, from soldiers who knew they were cornered by the enemy but were determined to go down fighting, to abused women who had had enough.
Fierce respect swelled inside Hawkyn’s chest, and he found himself torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to fight beside her.
“Hope you’re hungry today,” Drayger said as he held up the bag of food.
“Fuck you,” she rasped, and Hawkyn couldn’t help but admire her spirit. “I’m not playing the puke game with you again.”
“You either eat the food so I can watch you throw it up from the pain, or I gut punch you until you throw up bile. Your choice. Personally, I think it’s better to be able to puke something up, but whatever. Dry heaves are a choice, I guess.”
Hawk’s own stomach turned over. How could he have forgotten that Drayger loved to watch his victims vomit while being tortured?
You know how.
Yes, he did. Like most of his brethren, he was capable of compartmentalizing, separating his feelings from his job and locking the bad shit in a virtual box that rarely had to be opened. Because opening that box could wreck even the most callous of warriors and destroy the vital objectivity and distance required to do one’s duty.