Soul Fire (The Eden Hunter Trilogy Book 2)

by D. N. Erikson

But I did have one reliable ally.

  Which is why I called Kai next.

  “What happened with Rayna, Eden?” FBI HQ buzzed in the background. All hands on deck.

  “We had a little disagreement,” I said. “Listen—”

  “She’s in jail. The cops are charging her with felony DUI, destruction of property, public intoxication and—damn, Eden, the timing of this is awful.”

  Hmm. Not bad. Guess the Atheas PD didn’t believe in breathalyzers, considering Rayna hadn’t had a drop. But appearances could be so deceiving.

  “That’s a real shame.”

  “We’re in crisis mode.” The ringing phones played an atonal symphony around Kai. “We need her back.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” I checked the clock. “Meet me outside the Players Pad at two.”

  “I can’t. As senior agent, I’m the acting Field Director.”

  Damnit. Maybe Cross was right—I was too clever for my own good. “This is important to the case.”

  “Shit’s hitting the fan, Eden. We have gunmen shooting up the library—”

  “That’s why I need you to meet me at the goddamn Players Pad so we can feed Tamara Marquez a soul lunch.”

  “My hands are tied, Eden.”

  “Just like yesterday, and all that paperwork, huh?” I said. “You know the DSA is hunting me, right?”

  He sighed, as if he should’ve known I’d been involved in the shootout. “I have thirty-seven agents relying on me right now, Eden. It’s the job.”

  Kai. Loyal and honorable to a fault.

  “And how the hell are you going to feel when you’re standing over my corpse?” Guilt him into helping.

  Hey, only one of us was honorable.

  Kai said, “Please come by the headquarters. We’ll keep you safe.”

  “Can’t do that. No time.”

  “Eden, please.” Kai sighed. “I’ll send a unit to the Players Pad to follow-up on Tamara.”

  I wanted to say, But I need you. It sounded corny, and could be construed the wrong way—or maybe the right way—so I held my tongue.

  “Just send a unit out to the villa to make sure Khan doesn’t die.” I mashed my foot to the floor. The convertible’s powerful engine rumbled. “Thanks for nothing.”

  Then I hung up before the agent could respond.

  From the passenger seat, Cross snorted and said, “Chivalry’s dead.”

  “If your life story’s any indication, it died years ago.”

  He grumbled, then slipped back into sleep.

  I weighed my alternatives. Was there a better option than the Players Pad?

  Heading to the villa would be like walking into a minefield. FBI headquarters? Even if the DSA wasn’t watching the Getaway—which they no doubt were—I couldn’t afford to be bogged down in a bureaucratic quagmire.

  I hated to admit it, but I needed Rayna Denton back in action.

  And there was one way to cut through the red tape.

  Talk to the guy who owned the police.

  I dialed Aldric. His assistant answered. “You realize Master Aldric sleeps during the daytime hours.”

  “Had no idea,” I said, acid dripping from my voice. “Go wake his ass up.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “If he hears you cockblocked him on this intel, he’s going to be wearing your intestines as a tie.”

  The assistant let out a deep sigh and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Don’t see. Do.”

  The phone clattered as she set the receiver down on a desk.

  Three minutes later, an icy voice said, “This had better be worth my while, Eden.”

  “Nope, I just wanted to hear your lovely voice,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Your cops have an FBI agent in custody.”

  “Yes, I received word of that news right before I went to sleep.”

  “Yeah, yeah, asshole. I’m not exactly relishing being your wake-up call, either.”

  “My patience is thin during the midday hours, Eden. I have important matters to plan.”

  Yes, of course—the secret bullshit that demanded all those souls twelve hours ahead of schedule. If this were a different conversation, I might’ve grilled him on that.

  But this was triage, and I needed to address the most urgent matters first.

  I jackknifed around a turn, barely staying on the road, and said, “You need to release Rayna Denton from custody.”

  “Miss Denton is a tremendous asset in our litigation against the government.”

  Shit. Hadn’t considered that angle when I’d been busy staging her little bender.

  But I upped the ante with, “Also, I’ll need those security tapes from the waterfront.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is very much so,” I said. “Nothing happens to Kai.”

  “You fail to grasp the concept of leverage. Allow me to—”

  “No, allow me to explain, you fucking undead prick.” I’d probably regret that later, but for now, speaking freely felt good. “I have a dump of the DSA’s servers. Basically every internal document from the last couple years.”

  He inhaled sharply. Someone was excited, midday hours or not. “And all you demand in trade is this agent’s release, and your friend’s security video?”

  “In writing.” I trusted his word about as much as a dog in a butcher shop. “Have Agnes Willsprout draw up a soul-binding contract and meet me at the Players Pad. Two o’clock.”

  “I did not take you for an enthusiast of such establishments.”

  “I’m trying to pick up new hobbies,” I said. “Make it happen.”

  “Perhaps I should—”

  “Or, I give the drive to the FBI,” I said. “Which means they’ll never fuck off, no matter how many laws their agents break here.”

  “If the items on this device are not as you say—”

  “Make sure Agnes has an as-is clause.” I was thinking about the Trojan. Aldric and Lucille had struck an uneasy—and soul-binding—truce after a pitched battle two months back. I wasn’t sure what would happen if Aldric unknowingly broke that agreement.

  But I was certainly game to find out.

  “As-is?”

  “I’m not liable for the contents of the drive. What may or may not be present.”

  “You have looked at the drive, have you not?”

  “I have. It’s impressive, I must say.”

  “And you will still not guarantee its contents?” Aldric sounded perplexed—and suspicious. Hard to put anything past a twenty-five-hundred-year-old vampire.

  But I sure as shit was gonna try. “Did I stutter?”

  “This is not normally how I conduct business, Eden.”

  “Two o’clock.”

  Then I ended the call.

  My heart was beating so fast that I thought it might burst out of my chest.

  Whatever happened, one thing was for damn sure.

  Things were about to get interesting.

  38

  The Players Pad was located on the corner of a street that had seen better days. Other than a boarded-up liquor store, the long boulevard’s primary attraction was the newspaper tumbleweeds rolling across the fissured asphalt.

  No pedestrians were out enjoying the scenery.

  Agnes Willsprout honked twice in her silver Jaguar. Her weathered face did not wear an expression of joy.

  Cross was still out of it, so I left him in the convertible.

  I slipped into Agnes’s sedan and felt the soft leather. The car smelled like stale nicotine. “Nice ride.”

  Agnes glanced at my wrist. The wound was open and angry looking. “Do not bleed on my seats.”

  “No promises.”

  “Our mutual employer sends his regards.” Agnes handed me a single-page document. “Read it and sign.”

  I read it closely. You don’t screw around with a soul-binding contract. That shit is basically unbreakable.

  All the proper details were there: I was off
ering the drive as-is. The tapes of Kai and me at the waterfront would be destroyed, and Rayna would be released from jail.

  “Satisfactory?” Agnes looked like there were a million other places she’d rather be.

  “Very,” I replied, then caught an additional clause at the bottom. “What the fuck is this?”

  Agnes put on her reading glasses and brought the contract a few inches from her craggy nose. “Ah, yes. The dissolution clause.”

  “I can read,” I said. “I’m just wondering why the hell it’s there.”

  The attorney cleared her throat and read aloud: “As the exploration of the drive’s contents shall require the dissolution of a previous agreement forged with Lucille—goddess of rain and Director of the Department of Supernatural Affairs—Eden Hunter agrees to procure one soul containing a god’s essence. Until then, Aldric of Scythia is not obligated to fulfill his part of this contract.”

  I knew why he wanted such a soul, thanks to Deadwood: The soul—or a partial soul—of a god or goddess was the only thing that could shatter a soul-binding contract.

  Otherwise, you were stuck with whatever terms you agreed to.

  “That’s not the damn deal,” I said. “Call Aldric.”

  “Waking our mutual employer twice in one day would be a mistake.” Agnes took out a pack of cigarettes—Marlboro Reds, no less—and put one between her lips. After a long drag, she turned to look at me. “How much do these agents mean to you, Miss Hunter?”

  “Where am I going to get a god’s soul?”

  “You are nothing if not resourceful.” The attorney made it sound like a compliment. “Our mutual employer has signed the documents already. It is your decision.”

  Agnes removed a pen from the cupholder and handed it to me.

  Well, it wasn’t like I needed Anya’s soul to figure out what had happened. Samantha Williams and Thomas Johns had hired Xavier Deadwood to poison the guardian with the Turncoat Curse. Some details—and incriminating evidence—were missing, but I’d just have to get them another way.

  So I signed the contract, then turned the pen. A small blade replaced its point. I sliced my thumb open and pressed it to the bottom of the paper. I felt a small surge of magical energy rush up my arm, signaling that the agreement had been completed.

  “Done,” I said.

  “Procure that soul soon, Miss Hunter.” Agnes tucked the contract into an alligator skin briefcase propped up in the back seat. “You know how our mutual employer gets when forced to wait.”

  “Consider my end fulfilled.” I dug Anya’s twisted soul out along with the USB key and shoved them into the attorney’s wrinkled palm. “Tell that jackass to make the necessary calls.” I reached for the door handle. “And I don’t give a shit if you have to wake him up.”

  Then I got out of the Jag. A minute later, Agnes drove off, leaving me alone on the street.

  Two problems down.

  Only approximately, oh, a billion left.

  No pressure.

  I didn’t have much of a reason to visit Tamara Marquez now that Anya’s soul was Aldric’s property. But I was here, and she knew a thing or two about Cross. Plus, I had to assume she’d been around the block once or twice, which meant she might know something that could help me out.

  Because, truth was, I’d used up all my bargaining chips bailing my not-even-a-frenemy out of jail. I’d just have to take solace in the fact that it also meant a good agent—Kai, not Rayna, just so we’re clear—wouldn’t be taken down by Aldric’s cutthroat legal team.

  I quickly hurried toward the Players Pad. A neon sign hung over the entrance featuring—what else—a scantily clad girl holding an ace of hearts.

  Points for being on the nose.

  Some very sad dudes might call this paradise.

  I entered the club, expecting to be greeted by atrocious rap rock, drunken, balding middle-aged men, and the scent of quiet desperation. Instead, I found myself in a large, empty room. No bartender, no dancers, no music, nothing—just the quiet whisper of the air conditioning.

  “Finally,” a cool voice said from the shadows at the far end of the room. “You have arrived.”

  “Didn’t know there was a guest list,” I said, turning to face the bar.

  A crop of silver hair popped up near the bottles of top-shelf liquor. Then Xavier Deadwood stepped out wearing a smug grin, his pistol aimed squarely at my chest.

  My instincts screamed for me to leave.

  I made a quick step toward the door, and he fired a shot that skimmed my cheek.

  “Next one won’t miss,” the rogue DSA agent said. “Step inside, stay awhile. We have a lot to discuss.”

  “Sure thing,” I said. “Just try not to shoot me again.”

  “Well, that depends on one thing, Eden.” He strode past one of the three stripper poles. His eyes had a feral red tint. No hint of the wolf, but one thing was certain: He was totally unhinged.

  “And that is?”

  “Whether you brought me that guardian’s soul, Eden.”

  “And if I didn’t?” I replied in the brightest, most innocent voice that could possibly be mustered.

  “Then you are a dead woman.”

  39

  “Sit.” Deadwood pointed his pistol toward a worn chair by the nearest stage.

  When I didn’t move, he ratcheted the pistol’s slide.

  I hurried over and sat down.

  The lights inside the Players Pad were dimmed for ambiance, just barely exposing the faded floral-print carpeting and beer-stained walls. Running down the center, spaced about ten yards apart, were three well-maintained poles—about the only things that had been cared for at all, if I had to guess. Fraying chairs surrounded the stages in a semi-circle.

  “Just couldn’t stay away, could you?” Deadwood pulled up a rickety wooden chair and straddled it. Up close, I could see his skin was covered in fresh pink scratches reminiscent of the ones healing on my own body. His eyes had a manic sheen. I flashed to Sierra’s warning back at the Loaded Gun—how creatures didn’t return from the dead the same.

  I wasn’t up on the differences between being brought back from the Elysian Fields and being revived due to a phoenix’s negligence. But from the way the barrel of his pistol tapped a staccato rhythm on the back of the chair, I wasn’t too eager to find out.

  I finally answered him with, “If I’d have known you were here, I would’ve come by sooner.” Then I flashed him a winning smile. “And by sooner, I mean fucking never.”

  “You do not disappoint.” He reached over to wipe the blood from my cheek. When I recoiled, his hand snapped to my chin with an unnatural quickness. Deadwood turned my head toward his. “The woman’s soul.”

  “I didn’t bring it.”

  “Eden, Eden, Eden.” His finger stroked the underside of my chin. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t do anything besides glare at those creepy eyes. “You would not visit a Soul Eater if you did not have something to feed them.”

  Soul Eater. Appropriate name. Should’ve thought of that one myself.

  “I already know it was you, asshole. You confessed.”

  Deadwood scratched his head with the pistol barrel and shrugged, as if to say, Did I?

  I wondered if it was an act, or if he genuinely couldn’t remember.

  “But you have questions about motive. Was it for revenge, or a longer burning plot?”

  “I already figured it out, asshole. Don’t waste your breath.”

  Deadwood’s grip tightened around my chin enough to hurt. “You are a very rude person, Eden.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Without the soul, you are of little use to me.”

  Too bad I’d given Agnes all my bargaining chips.

  If I’d had a crystal ball, I might’ve kept the soul and the drive.

  Actually, I probably would’ve avoided going inside the Players Pad at all.

  Deadwood shoved my head backward in disgust and rose from his chair. “Empty your pockets.”


  “I don’t have—”

  “Do it!” His crazed voice rang in my ears like a gunshot. I hurried to comply, removing my wallet and the Reaper’s Switch.

  Holding them out like sacrificial offerings, I said, “This is all I have.”

  “No, no.” The rogue DSA agent looked distraught by this revelation. “You are hiding it elsewhere.”

  “Fuck off.”

  He tossed the pistol aside and grabbed my arm. “Tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you this.” I flicked the Reaper’s Switch out and stabbed him in the collarbone.

  Deadwood roared as he stumbled backward, trying to remove the knife.

  I sprinted toward the exit.

  “Goddamnit.” The pistol clattered as the wounded wolf tried to pick it up.

  I slammed into the front door, emerging into the daylight. Two government SUVs skittered to a stop at opposite ends of the block. My first thought was FBI—that Kai’s agents had just arrived.

  The first SUV, nearest the Porsche, was the Feds.

  The second one, further up, wasn’t.

  The same hitman from the library stepped out.

  I’d recognize those stupid sunglasses and suit anywhere. This time, he was toting an assault rifle that definitely wasn’t street legal.

  After I’d given them the slip, they must’ve staked out FBI Headquarters, then followed the Feds after they’d left HQ in a hurry. Figured they were headed somewhere important.

  They’d figured correctly.

  Bullets erupted before the agents could even exit their vehicle. The lead dog waved two of his suited goons toward the government’s SUV.

  He and the other guy focused on me.

  I sprinted back to the Players Pad and flung open the door.

  A psychotic, bleeding Xavier Deadwood greeted me, his pistol leveled at my face.

  Deadwood moved and fired right next to my head. I hit the concrete, holding my ears as I watched the lead DSA hitman catch a bullet to the head. He crumpled to the ground, stone dead.

  Up the street, large caliber assault rifles continued to belt out ammunition.

  From the sidewalk, I glanced up at Deadwood.

  His pistol was aimed at me.

  Then his head snapped back, blood spraying the door. An errant shot fired into the sky as his dead hand pulled the trigger harmlessly.