Fate

by Nadine Nightingale

  “I’ll consider it,” the Knight of Hell assures me, sounding as if he actually means it. “But first we have work to do.”

  I cock a brow. “What, you need someone to babysit your minions?” I hope that’s the kind of job he’s talking about. All other options come with blood and death.

  “Not exactly.” He gestures for me to move through another iron door. “C’mon, love. I’ll explain everything on the way.” Everything could be anything.

  God, I’m fucked.

  Chapter 8

  Not sure what’s worse; sitting in a fancy, black Audi RS with a Knight of Hell driving me to my first hellish job, or listening to a demon yodel a Britney freakin’ Spears song. Both, the prospect of what’s to come and the singing Knight, give me a damn headache.

  Resting my head against the hard leather seat, I focus on the scenery sailing past us. We’re literally in the middle of nowhere. White fields and bleak trees. For all I know, we could be driving through the damn Alps. Though, I have a feeling we’re still in the States. This Knight doesn’t strike me as the road-trip-through-Austria type. Shame. Put him in “Lederhosen” and he’d fit in like a boss.

  The pop princess’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time” blends with another terrible pop song when the demon turns the volume down. “Your lack of conversation is slightly irritating, love.”

  I press my forehead against the cool window, gazing at the dense snowflakes falling from the dark sky. “What?” I sigh heavily. “Did you think we’d hit the road Crossroad-style, chirping Shania Twain?”

  “Something like that,” he says, not a trace of humor in his voice.

  I cock a brow. “Thanks, but I’d rather spend the rest of my life in an Ikea free-zone.” No kidding. Pop songs and demons? So much worse than a windowless dungeon in hell. Okay, I wasn’t really in hell. Turns out the Douchebag of Hell held me captive in an abandoned, run down house, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Classic.

  Husky laughter roars through the heated car, bursting my remaining blood vessels. “Not a Britney fan?”

  I say nothing. Anything I would say could be used against me in the court of hell. I hear it’s ruled by injustice.

  “Well.” His all-too-familiar amber eyes gleam with excitement. “I have just the right song for us.” He pushes some buttons on his phone, connecting it with the Bluetooth of his car radio. “You’re going to love this one.”

  I can put a name on it after hearing the first note. “Bonnie and Clyde” by Beyoncé and Jay Z. One of B’s all-time favorites. Don’t ask me why, but my best, and only, friend has dreamed of a love like that of the famous gangster couple since we were kids. I tried to tell her they both died. She waved me off, flashed me a smile and said, “They rode together, they died together. Bad love for life.” I blame her Bad Boys obsession for the misconstrued quote.

  “See, I knew you’d like our song,” he said, grinning self-righteously.

  “Our song?” My head snaps his way. “We are so not going down the Bonnie and Clyde road. Capiche?” The only dude I’d ever die for is now enjoying his hell-free life, thinking he was just another good ride for me. Why? Because I told him so. One of the toughest lies I ever sold.

  Mr. Knight of Hell faces me. “C’mon, love.” He maneuvers the car over the slippery road without looking. “Think about all the damage we could do. An untouchable witch and a Knight of Hell. That’s a match made in—”

  “A place called Never Gonna Happen.” He might own my soul, but I still have my dignity. Sorta.

  He shrugs, nonchalantly. “We’ll see.”

  All right, this is by far more than I can take. “Why don’t you drop the bullshit and tell me where we’re going, and what the fuck it is you want me to do?” I’d love to know—damn, I was gonna say, “for what sin I’ll be burning in hell.” Then I remembered I already am for past ones.

  The demon frowns. “Can’t we just enjoy each other’s company for now?”

  I’d rather be confined to a car with my mother than him. “Sure. Why don’t you grab a bottle and we can play a round of Truth or Dare?”

  “Seriously?”

  Rolling my eyes, I face the window. “No.”

  “That’s a damn shame,” he replies, voice husky and low. “I happen to be the master of wicked dares.”

  Inhale, I send him back to hell.

  Exhale, the deal would be void.

  Inhale, I don’t recall the contract saying anything about me not being allowed to exorcise the asshole.

  Exhale, I can’t unless he happens to spill his real name. “So.” I shift in my seat, facing him. “Since you made me your bitch, you could at least have the decency to tell me your name.”

  One side of his mouth curls up. “Nice try.” He pushes the gas pedal a little harder, angrier. “But I’ve been around for a very long time. Learned a thing or two about your kind over the centuries, and I’m afraid I have no intention of being exorcised.” He looks down at his chest. “I sorta like this vessel.” Who wouldn’t like the body of a Greek god and the face of an Armani model?

  I shrug. “It was worth a shot.”

  He studies me, long and hard. “Why do you despise me, Amanda?”

  I squint. “Is that a rhetorical question?” He pretty much blackmailed me into selling my freakin’ soul. Am I supposed to drop on my knees and thank him for an eternity spent as his whore?

  The demon doesn’t take his eyes off me. He’s sorta driving blind. “I”—he draws a deep breath—“I understand this is awkward for you—”

  “Awkward?” I laugh so hard my belly hurts. “Dude, awkward doesn’t quite cut it. Try fucked up, diabolic, or wicked in the worst sense of the word.”

  He pulls the Audi to the side of the road, killing the engine. “This is no fun, Amanda.”

  Fun? What was he expecting? That I do a happy dance because I’ve been promoted from stab-worthy witch to slave of a freakin’ Knight of Hell? “Fun wasn’t part of our deal, was it?”

  He runs his long fingers through his vessel’s dark hair. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Why?” I shoot back. “Because you forgot to mention the part of the deal where I’m forced to do your bidding no questions asked?”

  “I’m not your enemy,” he blurts out.

  Did I mention my roaring migraine? It just crossed over to someone-cut-off-my-head-pretty-please. “You’re a fucking Knight of Hell, asshole.”

  His remarkable jawline tightens. A fraction of a second later, his face resembles granite. “I know what I am. Yet I saved your sweet ass over and over.” I assume he’s referring to the incident outside Rick’s Cabaret in Nola. You know, the one where I almost got slaughtered in my underwear by a horde of crazy demons.

  “I’ll make sure I send you an Amazon gift card,” I grumble, not in the mood to celebrate my self-proclaimed hero. Gee, what is it with me and dudes who think I need saving? I don’t rock the damsel in distress look, do I?

  His gaze skirts over my face, lingering on my lips. “I can see why the great Alexander Remington couldn’t keep his hunter hands off you.” He bites his lower lip. “You truly are one in a billion.”

  Up until this very moment, I’ve been mostly mad at myself. I signed the deal. I should have known the consequences. Bringing up Alex, however, turns the tables. All my bottled-up anger bursts out of me. “Don’t you dare talk about him. Not after everything you did. You hear me?” I didn’t even realize I’m yelling, but fuck I am. Hey, asshole of hell was the one who made me sign a deal that stated I’m never allowed to see Alex again. Now, he talks about him? Sorry, pal. I don’t do hypocritical.

  I’m ready for an argument that never comes. “As you wish, love.” He taps his slender fingers against the steering wheel, gazing through the windshield. “What I said, however, stands true. I am not your enemy. I never have been.”

  I’m so over this conversation. “Dude.” I shoot him my bitch-I-kill-you look. “If this is going to be one of those frenemy speeches, you ca
n shove it up your—”

  “Amanda.” His inhuman voice thunders through the car like a damn shockwave. “Would you listen to me for a second?”

  “No.”

  Blazing amber eyes pierce through mine. Next thing I know, I’m burning inside out. The heat wave washes through my veins, shaking my very core. Pressure builds in my chest. I can’t breathe. “What—”

  “You might be an untouchable, Amanda.” He balls his fist and my chest feels as if it’s about to implode. “But your soul belongs to me, now.” He shifts closer, his sulfur breath beating against my ear. “I can, literally, unleash hell upon you. Do you understand?”

  Gasping for air, I nod.

  “Good.” He pulls back, slowly opening his hand. “Glad that’s settled,” he says, his iris shade changing back to a more natural amber.

  I fill my lungs with much needed oxygen, rubbing my aching chest. “What the fuck, dude?” Yeah, not very smart after he…I don’t know, strangled my soul?

  He tilts his head, watching me like a hawk. I brace for more pain. The demon sighs instead. “Hurting you doesn’t bring me pleasure. So I suggest you start being a bit more cooperative. For both our sakes.”

  Doesn’t bring him pleasure, my ass.

  Not up to another taste of the creature’s hold on my soul, I change tactics. “Cooperative, huh? I hear it’s a two-way road.”

  He raises a brow. “What do you want?”

  Frustration seeps into my system. What I want he won’t give me. Let’s try something else, then. “Well, you won’t tell me your name. So what am I supposed to call you? Master? Boss? Ass—” He casts me a warning glance and I swallow the “hole” part.

  He thinks it over. “Why don’t you call me Clyde?” He flashes me his brilliant teeth. “You know since ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ is our song?”

  I want to spit in his damn face.

  His grin widens. “But my king would also suffice.”

  “Will you tell me where we’re going, Clyde?” No way I’ll ever call the bastard my king.

  “Washington D.C.”

  “The capital? Why?” Actually, I’m not sure I want an answer to that question.

  He leans back, fiddling with his phone. “We have an appointment at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  Why does that address ring a bell? I could swear I’ve heard it before. Pennsylvania Avenue…935 Pennsylvania Avenue…935—fuck. I know why the address sounds so familiar. That’s the J. Edgar Hoover building. The headquarters of the freakin’ FBI.

  “Are you all right?” He traces my stiff jawline. “You look a bit pale.”

  “W-why?”

  He studies me. “Why do you look pale?”

  Gee, I hate it when they play dumb. “Why are we headed to the FBI headquarters?” Whatever his reasons, they can’t be good.

  “You’re going to get something from the PAU’s secret collection for us,” he explains, matter-of-factly.

  I pray to every god there is I misunderstood him. “You want me to break into the headquarters of the fucking FBI?”

  “Don’t worry.” He starts the engine. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

  Our definition of fun? So not the same. “But what if they catch me?” Appealing to his rationality might be my only way out. I mean, a witch whore in federal prison can’t do his bidding, right?

  Clyde flashes me a half-grin. “You’re a powerful witch. Now more than ever. I’m sure you know how to handle a few agents, don’t you?” Translation: kill them and stop acting like a baby.

  Horror claws my guts. “I…I can’t…I won’t.”

  “Oh yes,” he shoots back. “For ‘the one who shall not be named’ ”—he makes Alex sound like Lord Voldemort—“you can and you will.” He meets my gaze. “Or would you rather I send my hellhound bitch after your lover?”

  I’m fucked. Seriously, I am so fucked it makes the chick gangbanged by a hundred dudes look like a damn saint.

  “That’s what I thought,” he mutters.

  This needs to stop. I need to be stopped. Because Clyde is right about one thing: I’d do anything for Alex. Even if it means breaking into the damn headquarters of the FBI.

  Clyde presses the play button on his phone. Another Britney song blares through the speakers, torturing my ears. Hell really does suck.

  Chapter 9

  Alex

  “Dude.” Jesse shakes me. “Wake up.”

  Blinking my heavy eyelids open, I feel like a damn baseball bat hit me in the head. “What’s up?” I grumble; my mind still trapped inside the creepy dream I just had.

  “I need a break.” The shadows under my little brother’s eyes speak louder than his words. “Can you drive?”

  Someone snores like a sailor. I catch a glimpse of B in the rear-view mirror. She’s tossing and turning. Looks like I’m not the only one having bad dreams.

  I press my elbows into the seat, pushing myself up. Outside, I spot a guy with a flannel shirt. He gases up his white pickup, making googly eyes at some chick with a tight pencil skirt. “Where are we?” The yellow letters say Sunoco gas station, but I have no clue where it’s located.

  “Portsmouth,” Jesse forces out, yawning like a damn lion.

  “Let me stretch my legs,” I say, yanking the door open. “Then, I’ll take over.”

  He nods. “Thanks.”

  “It’s all good.” Secretly, I’m glad he woke me. That dream fucked with me. And not in a good way. “Be right, back.”

  I head to the restrooms. I haven’t opened the door yet when a breeze of urine and other unpleasant stuff crawls up my nostrils. My stomach demands I turn around and move back to the car, but I need to wash those dream images off.

  I’m alone. No one takes a piss or bothers me.

  Walking toward the sink, I focus on the quiet background music. Some pop song. I wouldn’t bet my car on it, but I think it’s Katy Perry singing something about a “Dark Horse.”

  Turning on the faucet, I splash some cold water in my face. It should wake me the fuck up. Except it doesn’t. My brain refuses to come out of the REM-phase. It’s still torturing me with memories turned nightmare.

  I press my hands against the dirty sink, drawing a few, much needed, deep breaths. The radio moderator announces the next song. “It’s been forty years since fate has taken those heroes from us. Let us sit back and remember the lost lives of America’s number one southern rock band Lynyrd Skynyrd with one of their classics. Here’s ‘Simple Man’ for you.”

  Seriously? From all their songs, he plays “Simple Man?” I gotta be the unluckiest son of a bitch in the whole music world.

  The water is still running when the first guitar tunes send chills down my spine. I look up in the mirror. Instead of my reflection, though, I see the green flames blazing in her beautiful eyes. And just like that I’m thrown back into that fucking dream made of memories and fears alike.

  ****

  The instant I laid eyes on Amanda Bishop—in a dark alley, pushed against a wall by a dude the size of Hercules—I knew I was in trouble. She was the girl my dad had warned me about—a beauty queen, from the horror movie scene. No kidding, if hell had a beauty contest, Amanda would have been crowned Miss Underworld. It wasn’t the endless legs, the long blonde thatch, or the sparkling emerald eyes that would have won her the title. Oh, no. Amanda Bishop was the most selfish, reckless, and arrogant chick I’d ever met. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, never considering the consequences of her actions. Long story short: she was everything I didn’t need in my already complicated hunter life. And yet despite all that, I couldn’t keep my damn eyes off of her.

  Jesse slammed a shot glass on the table, spilling the bourbon he’d ordered for us. “You gonna keep staring at her? Or are you finally going to man-up, bro?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I wasn’t the one looking at her like he wanted to be the one for her. Couldn’t say the same about every other guy in this rat-hole they called a bar. The moment Amanda h
ad stepped onto the dance floor, moving her perfect body like a goddamn striper, every head—male and female—turned her way. Dudes watched her every move, dreaming about all the things they wanted to do to her. It made me sick. She, on the contrary, enjoyed every second of it, bathed in the attention of those horny mothers.

  Jesse’s eagle eyes remained on me. No one knew me as well as he did. Didn’t surprise me when he called bullshit. “You do realize she’s only up there”—he points to the dance floor—“to mess with you, right?”

  “She can do whatever the hell she wants.” I downed most of the bourbon. “I. Don’t. Care.” Only, I did care. The girl got under my skin like no one else. She had that certain something that could invoke a fatal mixture between attraction and loathing in me. Been like this since I’d saved her sorry ass from Hercules who tried to…rape? Kill? Or rape and kill her in that alley.

  “If you say so.” My li’l bro didn’t buy my fuck-Amanda-Bishop attitude. “I guess you don’t mind him then?” he said, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

  I followed the direction in which he pointed. Amanda, or Manda—it pissed her off when I called her that, making it all the more fun—shook her hips to “Don’t Cha” by the Pussycat Dolls. Judging by the show she put on, I’d say the girl missed her calling. She was better than any stripper I’d ever laid eyes on. I’d seen my fair share.

  It wasn’t her dancing skills that made my blood boil though. Hell, no. It was the low-life wannabe thug, who put his hands on her, sparking an ugly fire in the pit of my stomach. Unlike the rest of her male audience, he wasn’t satisfied watching her. He wanted to be part of the fun. Correction. He wanted to have fun. With her. Right here in the middle of the fucking bar.

  Jesse’s hand landed on my shoulder. “What’s the matter, bro?” Last time I saw him grin like that, he scored higher on the PAU Assessment Test than I did. I never heard the end of it. “Thought you didn’t care about her that way.”

  “I don’t.” Considering her attitude, I should only ever feel sorry for any dude dumb enough to fall for her crap. Manda was the devil in high heels and faux leather pants. I was a hunter who knew better than to be seduced by evil.