by Addison Fox
“Who, darling. Who. I’m an immortal Warrior and I’ve got a bone to pick with your best gal pal.”
Jackson gritted his teeth, willing the pain to subside. Willing himself to stay conscious. “Why her? She’s an angel. Surely you know that.”
“She’s a threat. One I aim to erase.”
Oh man, this guy was off. And Montana was in danger because the asshole thought he knew something. “How can she be a threat? She’s the head of a global company, not an immortal. You’ve been in meetings with her. You’re going to be on her board of directors.”
“Ah, but you know so little. So very little.”
Oh shit, this was bad. Jackson’s eyes darted around the room, searching for something—anything—that could help him warn her. To make Montana understand what was happening around her.
As his body sank lower in the leather chair, his frame no longer able to fully support him, Jackson’s gaze alighted on a small button, visible on the underside of the desk.
An alarm?
He tried—desperately tried—to remember Montana’s instructions the first time she showed him the room. The first time she trusted him into her inner sanctuary.
No. Not an alarm.
Something even better.
As the reality of what he had to do filled him, Jackson knew he had to keep Arturo talking. “I’ve known Montana Grant for a long time. She’s not a fucking immortal.”
Arturo raised his hands and Jackson leaned forward, swiveling the chair as he went. He had one shot at this. One try to let his bound hands at the back of the chair hit the button.
As the chair swiveled, Jackson braced himself for the pain. Instead, the shot of electricity he expected to light up his body erupted in a shower of sparks against the wall near his head.
And as he marveled at the avoided electric charge, his fingers hit the button, depressing it as they flew past, powered by the momentum of the chair.
Arturo reached forward and spun the chair to complete Jackson’s rotation, his face mere inches away. “She is a fucking immortal. Or will be when her mother breathes her last breath. And you. Will. Look. At. Me. When. I. Talk. To. You.”
Jackson knew he was losing precious seconds. He could only hope the tape would give Montana what she needed to know. “She’s innocent.”
“She’s innocent of nothing. And I will not rest until she is dead.”
Another round of electricity slammed into his body, and Jackson blindly heard the bleak sounds that fell from his lips.
The sound of death, he thought abstractly. Those moans were the sound of death.
Before Jackson could say anything in response—could even think of any words—a large bull rose up behind Arturo.
What the fuck?
The scream lodged in his throat as light exploded before his eyes, a shower of sparks that could rival the Fourth of July on the Hudson.
As if on cue, the bull leaped over the desk even as the sparks still rained down over all of them, his enormous body crumbling the old varnished wood of the desk.
And then there was darkness.
Montana was on her second cup of tea when people began reappearing in the kitchen. The tense knots in her body loosened as she counted arrivals.
Ilsa and Kane, wrapped around each other like two long-lost lovers. Brody and Ava in almost the same position. Drake. Grey. And finally, Quinn.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” Montana leaped toward Quinn, reaching for him so she could run her fingers down his chest even as her gaze roved over the ravages of battle. The pristine white dress shirt he’d worn under his tuxedo sported several rips, two patches of blood, a very odd spatter of green stains and so much dirt he looked like he’d rolled in a mud pit.
Quinn laid his large hands over top of hers. “I’m fine. We’re all fine.”
“What happened to you?”
“We kicked ass!” came a resounding cry from over her shoulder.
The lot of them looked beyond tired, but aside from that, none the worse for wear. Everyone had spots of blood on them and a few had those odd green blotches that matched Quinn’s shirt, but no one was broken or bleeding.
“And you’re all okay?” Montana whispered, unable to fully find her voice in the face of whatever battle they’d all just fought.
Callie had given her some clues—how the Warriors fought their archenemy, Enyo, and her soulless minions, Destroyers—but it was an entirely different sensation to see the evidence standing before her.
“You fought Destroyers, right?”
“We sure did.” Quinn’s victorious smile was broad and infectious. In fact, as she gave him an answering smile in return, she had to acknowledge she’d never seen him so carefree.
So joyful.
“We fought and destroyed eighteen of them, to be precise,” Drake offered up.
“Our girls can kick some ass,” Kane added, giving Ilsa another squeeze.
Montana took her stool and stared into her half-drunk mug of tea. “Where did they all come from? And why were they after me?”
The easy camaraderie and boisterous comments faded in the face of her question.
“You know…,” Brody started, then faded off.
Montana didn’t miss the pointed stare he shot Quinn, or the fact that the Taurus took the seat next to her, placing his hand over hers again. Although she felt comforted, it couldn’t fully erase the creeping knot of worry that quickly reasserted itself in her stomach. “We’re trying to figure that out.”
“No. Really. What would this Enyo person want with me?” At the questions that filled Quinn’s dark gaze, she added, “Callie told me all about her.”
Montana saw the speculative look rise in Quinn’s eyes and she cut it off. The steady fire that had simmered under her nerves for the past hour leaped to life. She wouldn’t sit back and be talked about.
Damn it all, she would not. They might have left her behind, but she was an active participant in what was happening, whether she liked it or not. They’d damn well start giving her that baseline of respect.
Waving a hand in Callie’s direction, Montana didn’t give Quinn a chance to say anything. “And before you go shooting Callie dirty looks, you can just stop it right now. I have a right to know what’s happening to me. You all went out and fought on my behalf and left me here to sit and wonder if you would all be okay. If you’d even survive. I have a right to know.”
“She’s got a point, Quinn.” Drake offered, taking a seat on the opposite side of the butcher block. Callie had already laid out a huge platter from the fridge and Drake had a piece of friend chicken in his hand. “We need to tell her what we know.”
“We know fucking little. Still,” Quinn growled. Even as she wanted to snap back at him in anger, Montana had spent enough time with the stubborn man to know that the lack of information frustrated him.
And in that frustration came the anger.
Calming her tone, Montana reached for her mug and took a fortifying sip, willing the warm brew to soothe the increasing tension that refused to settle. “So tell me what you do know and we’ll take it from there.”
The rest of the Warriors took seats at the large, square counter as Callie bustled around grabbing various drinks—clearly favorites—for each of them. Brody had already snagged another large platter of fried chicken from the fridge so that each end of the table had a platter. Grey was the only one who made his apologies and then disappeared to his nightclub.
Once everyone was settled, Montana began her line of questions. Funny, the lot of them sitting around the table reminded her far too much of her weekly staff meetings.
Which immediately made her think of Jackson. A distracted glance at her BlackBerry still showed no message.
Where was he?
Laying the device down once again, Montana took a deep breath and applied her best work tone and manner to the discussion.
“You killed off a horde of Destroyers this evening. I can only assume, by the vague descriptions y
ou’ve provided of them, these are also the same creatures who’ve gone after me four times now.”
“Yes. Although, we still don’t know if that was a Destroyer in the park earlier today. It could have been something else,” Quinn added. “But yes. If we count the park and twice last night—at the benefit and then afterward—and then this evening outside the car, it’s four times.”
“And you think Enyo’s behind it.” Montana shot a glance toward Callie. “She’s the goddess of war, right?”
Callie nodded as the assembled table offered up a varied set of “yeses.”
“Although…” Ilsa’s unfinished statement hung over the middle of the table, like a thunderstorm ready to produce rain.
“What, babe?” Kane reached over and rubbed her back, the motion so simple—so easy—Montana felt a nasty swipe of envy strike at the very center of her stomach.
What must it be like to be that in tune with someone?
That comfortable.
Before she could dwell on it any further, Ilsa continued her point. “Six months ago. The night I found you.” Kane nodded. “I was attacked by Destroyers. We never did figure out why.”
“I’ve fought off more than a few in random attacks over the last several months,” Drake added. “One went after Emerson a few weeks back, too.”
Montana saw the quick gazes of the women at the mention of Emerson’s name, whoever that was, but the moment faded as quickly as it arrived.
Hmmmm…clearly there was a story there. Or some really good gossip.
“How’d she know it was a Destroyer?” Quinn questioned. “And why are they randomly going after mortals?”
Drake shook his head as he stared into a now-empty glass of scotch. “The electricity. She knew enough from what we’ve told her to put two and two together and got herself over here before the asshole could do any damage.”
“Yeah. I bet that’s the only reason she showed up.” Brody added before Ava slammed an elbow into his gut.
Oh yeah, Montana thought, definitely something going on there.
Quinn drained the last of his scotch and, in a move that mirrored Drake’s, he stared into the bottom of the glass before glancing at each person surrounding the table. “Look. We can sit and wonder about this all day. It doesn’t change the fact that a horde of Destroyers methodically attacked Montana’s limo and then another group added to their numbers and attempted a surprise attack on Ilsa, Ava and me. The shit-storm of the century’s going on and we need to figure out what the hell it is and why Queen Bitch has her nasty paws all over it.”
“Is it possible she’s helping someone?”
Seven pairs of eyes turned to look at her in unison.
“I’m serious. That’s an awfully large distraction. Is it possible she’s taking your attention away from the main event?”
“Like what?”
Montana wasn’t sure what brought it on, but in that moment, a series of thoughts clicked into place with frightening clarity.
The random nature of the attacks showed no rhyme or reason.
The Warriors protecting her were just distracted for several hours, on top of a completely nonexistent threat at the evening’s event.
And she had no BlackBerry message telling her good night.
“My house. Oh my God. They’re at my house.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Hold on to my arm and don’t let go.” Montana reached for Quinn’s outstretched arm. Five minutes of arguing that she needed to stay behind didn’t change her mind, so here they were.
Wasting precious time.
What he did make her stay back for was the quick ports in and out of her apartment, ensuring the other Warriors ended up in the right place. A muttered explanation of a needed visual barely held her back from grabbing on to his arm, but ultimately she acquiesced.
Montana knew every second counted and these men could do a hell of a lot of damage if necessary.
“Come on, darling. Hang on.”
That heavy sense of gravity, like all of her weight was centered in her feet and then she was flying. The sensation would have been dizzying if it had lasted longer, but in no more than a heartbeat, she and Quinn stood in the front hallway of her apartment.
Without even seeing the carnage, she knew her home had been violated.
“Where is it?”
Montana appreciated Quinn didn’t play dumb or try to hide what she was about to see. “Most of it is in your office. Come on.”
“But my office was locked.”
“Locked to a mortal, maybe. But immortals have a way.”
“But you said you needed a visual to port.”
Why she could even say that—why that simple point stuck out in her mind—was a mystery. But Quinn stopped and turned toward her. “Yes. You’re right. Who’s been in your office?”
“Just the staff. Jackson.” A harsh sob choked her throat. “It’s Jackson, isn’t it?”
Quinn nodded, his jaw hard as granite, his eyes dark, fathomless pools of black. “You don’t have to see this, darling. The guys have secured the place.”
“I have to.”
Quinn stopped her, his hand on her forearm to hold her still. “What if I don’t want you to?”
The dark pools of his eyes changed in that moment. Softened as he looked down on her with so much compassion it made her ache.
But she needed to see what was in the other room.
Needed to know.
Reaching up, Montana twined her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his chest. The heavy, steady thud of his heart reassured and comforted her.
The solid tempo of his pulse—quiet strength in the face of what she was to endure—offered the serenity she desperately needed to go on.
Fortified emotionally, she pulled back to look up at him. “I have to do this. He’s one of mine. Can you understand that?”
“Yes.”
Quinn reached down and pressed his lips to hers. It was a silent offering, simple and somehow pure, in the midst of a whirling storm of evil and madness.
When he lifted his lips from hers, his gaze stayed steadfast on her. “Are you ready?”
She nodded and linked her fingers with his.
As they walked down the hallway toward her office, the only home she’d ever known suddenly looked horrifyingly foreign.
Separate. Cold. And she knew she’d never live here again.
As Quinn held her hand, they approached the door to her office. The heavy door was open, the light from the hallway spilling into the room. She saw Quinn’s brothers first, where they moved about the room, looking for God knew what in the sheer disaster that covered the floor.
As Montana stepped across the threshold, she saw where they’d laid Jackson on the couch, his body battered and nearly bruised beyond recognition. The men had wrapped a blanket around his body like a shroud and Montana could only imagine the damage underneath.
Montana ran to him, dropping to her knees next to the couch. Everything from smashed wood chips from the destroyed bookcases to randomly strewn papers crunched under her knees, but Montana paid them no mind.
Gently laying her hands over Jackson’s where they folded under the blanket, she leaned forward and wept.
“Quinn. You need to see this,” Brody whispered in his ear.
Quinn glanced briefly at Brody before shifting all his focus back on Montana. He didn’t know how to help her cope as she lay with her head pillowed on her friend.
Brody kept his voice low, but the insistence wasn’t lost on Quinn. “I need you to see this and we can’t do it with her here.”
Reluctant to leave her, but even more reluctant to cause her any further pain if he could avoid it, Quinn followed Brody to a small room next to the office.
“What is it?”
“The guy was smart enough to turn on video.”
“The attacker?”
“No. Jackson. He didn’t get much, but what he got tells one helluva a story.”
&n
bsp; Quinn followed Brody to a security system that could rival NASA and sat down in front of the various sets of equipment. The security system was so like his own that he lost no time in navigating through the film of Jackson’s last moments.
Quinn had to admit that the entire apartment, and Montana’s office especially, really did have some slick security. In the office alone, four cameras caught all the detail from different angles, so there wasn’t an inch of the room that was missed.
On his first viewing he watched the camera focused on Jackson. The man was strung to the desk chair, his hands bound behind his back, his face dripping with blood. Quinn was reminded of the proud way the man had looked out for Montana in her office earlier that day. His respect grew immeasurably as he watched Jackson question his attacker before thousands of volts of electricity slammed through him.
“Fuck,” Quinn muttered. “Would you look at that? It’s got to be a Destroyer.”
“That’s my guess,” Brody agreed.
“What the fuck?” The tape continued, but Quinn felt the absolute bottom fall out of his stomach.
“Is that what I think it is?” Brody leaned closer to the screen, reaching for the toggle to rewind the film.
Quinn didn’t need to see it again. He knew what it was that leaped on Jackson.
It was an exact match for the bull that rode on his shoulder and lived within his skin.
Montana huddled in a blanket on the couch in the sitting room off her bedroom. Ava, Ilsa and Callie continued to check on her, but for the most part kept their distance by staying in her bedroom.
Abstractly, Montana played with a tassel on the end of the blanket. The entire evening—hell, the last forty-eight hours—felt like a nightmare within a nightmare. The attacks directed at her had been bad enough, but this?
Jackson?
And the horrible person who got him also killed Laura in the kitchen and Tony earlier in the park.
These people had depended on her, were loyal to her, and what had it gotten them?
Death.
Grisly murders, all three.
Oh God, what was this horrible curse? What could anyone possibly want with her that they’d do this evil thing to innocent people?