by Nya Rayne
“I’m never taking it off,” he reiterated as he lay back down, pulling her with him. “Now, get some sleep. You’ve had a long day.”
“Fury?”
“Go to sleep.”
“I don’t blame you for my family. I could never blame you for what happened to them.”
“And I could never blame you, so that leaves only one being responsible for their deaths—the Yazaron, right?”
“Right,” she agreed.
Fury pulled her closer and kissed the crown of her head. “Good night, Ambrosia.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, she replied, “Good night, Son of Anubis.” She didn’t miss the contented rumble that built in his chest just before sleep’s fingers dragged her down onto slumber’s bosom.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Stormy had said she wanted to stop by her motel to officially check out before they went back to the compound, Fury hadn’t expected the location she pictured in her mind to be in the vicinity of the hotel where he’d taken Luzivius, but it was.
The scene was as repugnant as it had been the first time he had been there. Everything was the same, right down to the whores lining the street.
He’d thought they would have disappeared during the day, like roaches tended to do, but to his embarrassment they still littered the streets, smelling of dried semen. The strip club still hadn’t gotten its neon sign fixed, and it appeared yet another letter had gone out. The sign now read, “irls, Girls, Gi s” and below it in smaller, not-so white letters, “All ude, our fi st lap dan e f ee.”
“Since we’re having the things we bought yesterday delivered, it wouldn’t be much of a problem to have your bags delivered too,” he suggested.
“We’re already here, and I promise you it’s not a lot of stuff. There are just a couple of things I have to get.”
“Whatever.” Fury looked around again. “You seriously couldn’t find a better place to stay?” He sidestepped a puddle of a yellow fluid on the faded black and white checkered floor. I’d bet a century’s savings that’s not Mello Yello.
Stormy shrugged as she moved in front of him, her hips swaying, causing the hem of her dress to swish back and forth in a slow, sensuous dance around her shapely legs. He made a mental note to take her back to the little boutique in South Beach to buy more of those dresses once they were settled.
“When I got here, I didn’t have much money. Besides, it’s better than sleeping on the street, isn’t it?”
“Not by much.” Fury eyed a dozing bum in the far corner, gripping a bottle of Strawberry Wild Irish Rose, scratching his nuts, and snoring all at once. “Personally, I would prefer to sleep on the street.”
As Stormy stepped up to the front desk to retrieve a copy of her key card, he turned to the smudged plate-glass window in time to see an overweight middle-aged white man ride by on a bicycle that had to belong to his ten-year-old son. He wore a too-small black and gray backpack, a dingy white T-shirt that showed off the underside of his hairy potbelly, and had his yellowish-orange hair cut in a mohawk. That was garish enough, but what caught Fury’s attention and held it was the bald spot in the center of the mohawk.
Was he trying to hide the fact that he was going bald?
It befuddled Fury how humans could do some of the most off-the-wall things and think they were okay. Of course, he had seen much crazier things throughout his lifetime, but still, they never ceased to amaze him.
The touch of Stormy’s hand to his elbow drew him away from the idiot with the mohawk. “Did you get the key?”
“Yeah. We’ll be in and out of here before you know it.”
“Too late,” he quipped as he climbed the stairs behind her.
“You know everyone can’t be as well off as you appear to be.”
“Who said anything about being well off? It’s about having an ounce of dignity.”
“Well, you’re kind of rich aren’t you? You own a damn island, for heaven’s sake.” She leered at him over her shoulder, her green eyes melting his heart and stealing his breath. “You talking about this place is like Donald Trump talking about a Holiday Inn.”
“I’ve been walking this earth since before Egypt was Egypt. I would have to be a complete jackass not to have accumulated a fortune by now, don’t you think? Wait, who’s Donald Trump?”
Stormy tossed her head back and laughed, the sound carrying through the stairwell as if on the wings of heavenly beings. “Have you been living in an iron box all your life? Who doesn’t know about the Trump and his famous toupee?” She turned to face him and pointed her finger in his face. “You’re…fired!”
Fury stared at her. “Is that supposed to tell me who he is? Or are you under the impression that I work for you in some shape or form?”
Stormy stomped up the stairs with a growl. “Jesus, Fury, you’re clueless. He had one of the hottest television shows a few years ago and he’s one of the richest men in the world. He practically owns New York and Las Vegas. How could you not know who he is?”
Fury shrugged and turned his attention to the ceiling of the stairwell. “I don’t own a television, remember?”
She stopped dead in her tracks and spun on her heel. “If this is going to work, that’s going to have to be the first thing we buy.”
Stormy turned a corner in front of him and started up another flight of stairs, her ass looking like a pound of succulent meat. Fury tugged at the front of his pants, adjusting his swelling member and smiled to himself as he glanced down at the bracelet she’d given him. It was cheap; there wasn’t a doubt about that. However, the moment she gave it to him, next to her, it became his most valuable possession. “So, if I buy you a television, you’ll stay with me?”
She peered over her shoulder at him, her cheeks pinking. With an impish shrug of her shoulders, she replied, “Maybe. If you’re a good boy, I might consider it.”
“I’m always good. I thought you knew that.”
“Good is not a word I would use to describe you. Obnoxious, maybe. Infuriating, perhaps. The devil in disguise, definitely. But good? Never.”
Fury chuckled. “This isn’t about me. It’s about the size of the television your trading your heart to me for. Thirty-, forty-, or fifty-two inches, or should I go bigger?”
With a roll of her eyes, Stormy stopped at room number 47, slipped the key card in the slider, and pulled it out. “You can’t think I’m that easy.”
The moment she opened the door the stench of rotting flesh accosted Fury, forcing him forward. He grasped Stormy’s arm, yanked her back, and shoved her down the hall.
“Move!” he shouted. The door splintered off its hinges, sharp wooden stakes flying into the walls, narrowly missing them.
A woman screamed obscenities from one of the other rooms and a burly man opened his door and yelled, “Shut the fuck up, dick face!” then slammed the door closed.
Fury scanned the hallway, looking for a way out. He didn’t want to risk fighting and hurting a bystander, but by the looks of it, he wasn’t going to have a choice. He could feel the evil pouring from the room, and hear the harsh breathing just over the threshold, hidden in shadows.
“What was that?” Stormy asked, running up behind him.
He shoved her back away from him and the door. “It’s a Yazaron, more than likely the one that has been tracking you.”
“But it’s not night time. You said they only come out at night.”
“Which means he’s probably close to regaining his true form.” Fury backed against the wall on the side nearest the open door. Get out of here, Ambrosia, and take as many people as you can with you. Tell them there’s a fire, a bomb, something.
I’m not leaving you. Her voice was so adamant he had to turn and look at her. We’ll fight him together. She looked like she meant every word. Her fists were clenched, her face set, and her feet planted. He killed my family and has hunted me for ten years, Fury. I should be here. I’m tired of running.
I know, but if you stay
, you’re going to do more harm than good.
She stood there, staring at him for what seemed like forever before she nodded her head and turned away. Her pride kept her still as a statue, but common sense was surely telling her this wasn’t a fight meant for her.
Promise me, you’ll come for me. Promise me like you did before, that wherever I am you’ll come for me.
Holy hell, he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she couldn’t see, but he didn’t have time for that now. He didn’t know exactly what she was thinking, but he knew what her words meant. She was going to stay with him, and if she had a choice, she would never be apart from him again.
She had accepted him.
Fury tried to swallow past the emotions rising inside, and inched closer to the door without taking his eyes off of her. Wherever you go, I’ll find you. I’ll come for you.
You didn’t promise.
I promise. I’ll always come for you, Ambrosia.
You better. Stormy didn’t spare another minute. She broke into a run down the hall, screaming, “Fire! Fire! Fire!” At some point, she must have pulled an alarm, because a siren sounded and red lights affixed to the ceiling at the ends of the hall began flashing.
The fire department would be en route in moments. He didn’t have a minute to waste.
Fury vanished and reappeared in the room behind the Yazaron.
The room was destroyed. The cheap pastel curtain covering the one filthy window hung in shreds. The bed was flipped, mattress ripped open and the insides scattered across the floor. Stormy’s clothes were thrown all over the room, some in tattered shreds, others bunched and rolled in the far corners. A ripped weekend bag was suspended from the broken light fixture hanging by a solitary wire from the ceiling. A lamp was embedded in the wall above the dresser, and the bathroom door hung off its hinges.
It took Fury less than a second to take it all in and to wonder, Surely, the other occupants heard this taking place. Why the hell wouldn’t they have reported it? He shook off his thoughts and turned his attention to the matter at hand. “Aren’t you out a bit early?”
The Yazaron spun around, its grotesque form staggering as it did so. The four horns jutting up out of its scalp scraped against the ceiling, leaving long, circular carvings. It opened its mouth into a wide gaping snarl, revealing jagged broken pieces of what were once teeth.
“Was that a roar?” He didn’t expect an answer. Yazaron couldn’t talk. At one time they had had melodic voices that were used to lull Anput to sleep. But a part of their curse was that their tongues be removed and their larynxes turned to stone.
As Fury took a cautious half-step back from the creature, he deduced that though it had the ability to move during daylight hours, it couldn’t move with much freedom. By the way it hugged the shadowy corners of the room, it appeared to still be somewhat sensitive to the light. Another dose of Anubis’s blood, however, specifically from Stormy or from him, would bring it fully back to its true form.
The macabre creature was caught somewhere in the middle, leaving it uglier and more grotesque looking than usual. It was a conflation of festering wounds, animal fur, and slips of human flesh. Its head was severely deformed, the eye sockets black as night with the exception of two burning red taillights set far back into its skull. One side of its neck was covered in scabs and sparse dark fur. The other side was a gaping wound, complete with larvae, maggots, and flies. Its chest bone heaved beneath a thin layer of decaying skin, ribs rattling like fine china. Through the cracks of its ribs, Fury could see the dried and bloodless lungs, stomach, and what was left of the intestines.
The creature took a weak step forward, its body rocking in a slow, almost hypnotizing fashion, reaching out to Fury with one clawed hand as drool trickled from the side of its mouth. In a sudden, clumsy motion, it half fell, half dived at him.
Fury dodged the swipe of its claws, leapt back, and then dove forward as the Yazaron threw itself at him again. It crashed through the cheap wallboard and tumbled into the room next door, which thankfully was empty. Not a second passed before the monster was on its feet again and facing Fury.
Fire engines wailed, coming closer, and human footsteps pounded down the stairs. Fury leapt up and over the creature, landing on its back. He raised his right fist high over his head and sank his elongated claws into the monster’s neck and left shoulder.
The creature bucked, trying to throw Fury off, but he held on. Its head fell back, so it was staring up at Fury, mouth gaped wide as if its goal was to swallow Fury whole.
Leaning closer, Fury plunged his fist into the crook of the Yazaron’s neck and deeper through the rotting flesh, digging for the putrid heart, buried deep within the bastard. He noticed the hot breath on his chest a quarter of a second before pain explode through him.
Razor-sharp teeth sank deep into his chest. Still, he burrowed his hand deeper into the monster through bone, fetid tissue, and blistering black pus. He fought through the pain as the Yazaron’s jaws began a hungry sucking motion, certainly an attempt to bleed Fury dry.
The Yazaron staggered back clumsily, his claws raking down Fury’s side.
Fury dug a little deeper, breaking through bone and cartilage. It was like grasping a dried shriveled orange. The outer surface was course, like knotted leather left out in the sun too long. He yanked the heart up and out, spitting the chant to turn the organ to stone as he pulled back, wrapping his other arm around the Yazaron’s neck. He pulled and twisted until its head dislodged from its body with a sickening crunch and a pop.
Leaping to the far corner of the room, Fury watched with satisfaction as the body exploded into a billion particles like the finest sand. Every object the dust landed on burned, leaving minuscule holes. He staggered back until he was leaning against the wall and slid down to a seated position, the monster’s head still clasped in his hands.
Fury set it down beside him. One hand was balled into a tight fist resting on the crown, while his other clutched his sternum in an attempt to stifle the flow of blood.
“Son of a bitch!”
He’d had gotten a little careless and a lot cocky. Fatigue swam over and through him, grasping his consciousness and dragging it down into a lake of blackness. He needed to hibernate, to rest for just a moment.
“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it.” Fury drove his fist through the head of the dead Yazaron as he caught the faint sound of feet padding up the stairs and in his direction. “Shit.”
He pushed to his feet, called up a ball of fire so hot it would char on contact, and hurled it at the corner where his blood had pooled. Leaving evidence—any kind of evidence—of the Anubi for humans to find was an absolute no-no.
The corner, the floor, the nightstand, and the bed exploded in a blaze as he staggered toward the window leading to the alley, and crashed through it head first.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Stormy shielded her eyes from the sun slowly dipping behind the row of buildings facing her. She peered up at the seven-story motel through the reddish, gold glow of early twilight from across the street, where the first police officer on the scene had directed her and the other evacuees to stand. Other people were gathering now, onlookers wondering what all the excitement was about, but she didn’t pay them any attention as she continuously tried to connect with Fury, but failed.
He better not be hurt. Because if he is, I swear the minute he heals, I’m going to kill him.
“What the hell is going on in there?” a twenty-something white guy with stark black hair asked whoever was listening. The eyeliner under his eyes was layered on so heavy Stormy wondered if he was in an underground grunge band or if he’d been in the middle of removing his drag queen make-up when she pulled the alarm.
“They said there’s a fire up on the fourth floor, but I don’t smell no damn smoke,” a black guy who looked like he was in his late thirties said, as he ran his hand over his shaved head. “Now we’re going to be stuck out here the rest of the fucking day.”
Damn it, Fury, where are you?
She entertained reaching out to Tempest and Crul for assistance, but in the end decided to give Fury a few more minutes to handle the situation on his own. You’ve got ten minutes, Fury. Get it done and get your ass out here.
“What’s up, girl, where you been hiding?”
Stormy turned to the voice and immediately recognized Shea-Shea, the first person who had befriended her when she got to the strip here. She forced a smile, annoyed by the interruption. “Here and there,” she said with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. “What you been up to?”
“Same shit, you know? Dodging Pedro. How many different ways do I have to tell him I don’t need a fucking pimp?” She rolled her eyes, her long acrylic nails fanning out before her. “Did you hear what he did to Charmaine?”
“Can’t say I have. What happened?”
“Girl.” Shea-Shea dragged the word out as if it was spelled with twenty Rs. “He branded her with a wire hanger. The bastard spelled his name out ’cross her back, and then he beat the shit out of her. Licorice said, ‘literally.’”
Stormy stared on in astonishment. “Are you serious? Is she okay?”
“As okay as she can be, but he had her back on the strip that same night, cuts and bruises and all. He’s a prick of a pimp.” She sighed, forlornly. “What happened to the days when pimps treated their girls like ladies?”
Stormy stared up at the motel again. Maybe when Fury’s done here, I’ll have him pay Pedro a little visit. In jackal form, of course. That would damn sure teach that bastard a lesson.