Hell's Chapel (Shapeshifter Urban Fantasy) (Caith Morningstar Book 1)

by Celia Kyle

  “No, I’m fine.” She pushed away from Sam and reached for her swords, intent on her destination. “C’mon.”

  Sam immediately released her and stepped back, following in her wake. At least for now. She knew when blood started flying he’d be in the thick of things and protecting her back. She approached the double doors and growled at the hellfire still lurking inside her body.

  “You sealed us in here.” Sam’s patronizing drawl hit her and she didn’t bother to answer him.

  She approached the double doors that the led to the entryway and without slowing, she lifted her leg and planted her boot over the handle. She kicked hard, sending the panels flinging open so they could return to where they’d started.

  “If it’s that easy to leave the room maybe this isn’t the best place for the…” His words trailed off when she turned to face him.

  Fire filled her veins, turning her into molten flesh, and her eyes were filled with the flicker flames. The heat wasn’t too keen on being called easy. “Oh, it wasn’t easy.” She gestured for him to leave the living room. “Now, c’mon.”

  It definitely wasn’t. No one else would get through a hellfire sealed door but her and Uncle Luc. Not even Mom could break the seal since she was too concerned with enjoying her demonic life rather than destroying everyone who threatened that happiness.

  When the panels ricocheted toward her, she nudged first one door and then the other closed. Rubbing her fingers together, she brought a wavering spark to the tips and then let them flick her lips as she whispered to them. “No one enters. No one leaves.”

  Caith flung those sparks at the closed doors and knew her order would be followed. The handles glowed red before settling into a deep, charred black and her name was engraved on the panels. Whoever drew near would know who they were dealing with. And if they were smart, they’d run.

  “C’mon, Dead Nettle knows we’re here. He’s waiting and I don’t want to be rude.” The blades sang as they slid free of their scabbards.

  Sam’s did the same, the angel of destruction taking up arms against a tweener. She knew what mating her cost him. She wondered how much more he’d lose by helping her.

  Too much, Caith. You know that, dumbass.

  Save for the tick-tock of an ageless clock, the house was silent, and they didn’t destroy that quiet with their presence. She carefully padded through the house, her boots silent on the tile. Her swords were ready, already craving the blood of her enemies.

  She bypassed the stairs and headed toward the left, ignoring door after door as they made their way down the narrow corridor. Sam followed, movements just as quiet. He didn’t question her direction which was a good thing since she’d hate to bludgeon her mate during their first official battle.

  Eventually they came abreast of a single, ornately carved door. She knew what lay on the other side, what they’d face once she kicked it in and gave themselves access to the ballroom. Just on the other side of the decorated panel was the catalyst for her rage and she’d do everything she could to end the life of each and every being that helped Dead Nettle.

  Compassion was not on the day’s menu.

  She shared a look with Sam, one that said she was about to bust open the gates of Hell. She wasn’t being symbolic or anything either. Once that door vanished, her hellfire, her wolf’s rage, her soul’s fury… She was rocking out with her fur out and nothing would stop her.

  Her mate jerked his head in a quick nod.

  Okay then.

  Caith didn’t hesitate any longer. She slammed a boot heel into the lock and the door flew open so hard the chunk of wood spiraled into the room, sliding across the floor to be stopped by…

  The heavy boot of a dark elf.

  “Aw, fuck me,” she groaned.

  The elf in question smiled widely, exposing his pointed teeth with their white tips and midnight base. The male was as she remembered—tall and muscular with angled cheekbones and a strong jaw. His skin was still smooth as cream, pale and gleaming in the light. His midnight clothes, leather, encased his large body.

  Not just a dark elf. The dark elf. And the label didn’t come from the color of his clothes. No, it slid like a wisp of smoke from his soul.

  An elf that’d made a deal with the devil and had his ass spat back out by Uncle Luc.

  “Caith,” he smiled wider. “Interesting to see you here. Anxious to revisit our relationship?”

  Sam growled and Caith echoed the sound. How had she ever found this asshole attractive? Oh. Right. She’d been barely a hundred when she’d come across Glaener.

  “Nice to see you, Glaen. How long’s it been?” She tightened her grip on the sword.

  “Too long, sweet wolf. Miss me?” That smile turned sensual.

  “No.” She let her gaze wander over the room, taking in the immaculate condition of the flooring and decorations. Another dozen dark elves littered the space, their glittering, delicious looks doing nothing to hide the evil in their souls. “It seems Nettle has been keeping up appearances at least. It looks lovely.” Her attention finally returned to their band’s leader. “So, why are you here, Glaen? Muscle? Because I sure as hell know it’s not brains.” Another elf snorted and Glaen shot the male a glare but didn’t verbally respond. “Nothing to say?” She shrugged. “That’s okay. I know you’re the muscle. Even when we were together you didn’t have this kind of dedication, this kind of foresight. You’re very hack and slash,” she smirked. “Might be why you enjoy video games so much. Fairly mindless while this… was delicate in its own way.”

  There wasn’t a single flutter of fabric, no rustle to tell her whether her quarry listened.

  Glaen silently glared.

  “So, we’ve established you’re the protector for this band of fuckholes. The question becomes, will you die for them?” Caith lowered the tip of one sword to the marble tile and dragged it across the surface, the point leaving a deep furrow in its wake.

  She kept her metal honed to a razor’s edge and nothing was stronger than a weapon formed by her own hands from the fires of Hell. She may get her ass knocked down, but the moment the blade struck flesh, her opponent was gone. It sang when blood stroked its length and the sword practically vibrated in anticipation.

  “I think you’re overestimating your abilities, sweet wolf.” Glaen pushed away from the wall, taking a step toward her.

  As he moved nearer, Sam took up a spot at her side, his large arms crossed over his chest. A dark shimmer rippled in the air around him, throwing off glimmers of dark light, and the elf paused and focused on Sam.

  “Oh, I know your pussy is good, Caith, but I don’t think it’s worth falling for.” Glaen smirked. “Do you enjoy the way she whimpers? Her wolf likes that little spot just beneath—”

  Sam didn’t tense further or even twitch in displeasure at hearing of her past. No, the asshole smiled. What was up with that? He should at least be jealous. Lips spread to reveal pure white teeth, the gel took a step toward Glaen, a swagger in his movements.

  Cocky.

  Sure of himself.

  Arrogant.

  “That area just beneath her left breast? A nice little mark that begs for a kiss?” Sam chuckled and Caith began counting the number of ways she could kick her mate’s ass.

  One, cut off his left ball.

  Two, cut off his right ball.

  Glaen chuckled. “That’s the one. Maybe she is worth falling for. The way she mewls—”

  Glaen didn’t have a chance to say much more. Sam was a blur of deadly movement. He dove through the air, slicing into the distance between him and Glaen. The gel didn’t just attack the dark elf, he destroyed him. A single strike sent the male slamming into the wall and cracking the drywall, sending a shower of white dancing through the air. From there, Sam’s bulk blocked his actions from Caith’s view, but the screams… Well, the screams made her smile. And then the seductive scent of elven blood reached her nose and her wolf practically purred.


  It remembered those flavors. It remembered the male who’d first shared them with her. It also remembered how badly she wanted to rip off his balls with her teeth when he’d dumped her.

  Caith had a bit of an anger management issue.

  The remaining elves jumped into motion, the group heading toward Sam with deadly intent in their gazes. No way that was gonna happen. She still had a use for the gel.

  She tumbled through the air, launching herself upward and flipping over the approaching males. The flip had her landing in a crouch at Sam’s back, her sword singing and begging to be coated in blood. Elf blood.

  Caith managed to take out two as her feet met marble, boots thumping on the stone floor, her wicked blade severing heads. Those large bodies collapsed, skulls rolling and tripping up two others as they tried to avoid stomping on them. Huh. Dark elves with a conscience. Weird.

  A girly scream sounded behind her, telling her Sam was causing a bit of pain of his own. Well, the guy could get things done and help her already. Her annoyance, of course, distracted her and allowed one of the males to land a punch to her side. She grunted with the impact and then made a horizontal slice through the air. It laid open his chest, splitting ribs, pouring his heart and lungs onto the once pale surface.

  “You shouldn’t hit girls, asshole.”

  A glitter of silver caught her eye and she reacted without thought, raising her left sword to block another attack. She returned it with her right, sinking the metal deep into his gut. He fell to his knees, fingers reaching for the shining blade. “You shouldn’t touch—” No one listened when she said they were sharp. He wrapped his hand around the thin metal and… lost his fingers in the process. “That one’s gonna hurt tomorrow.”

  She placed her boot on his shoulder and kicked, sending him sliding off her weapon, leaving her free to tackle others. And tackle them, she did. Block, thrust, parry even though parry sounded so damned lame, followed by the occasional kick or two. What good was having kick-ass boots if she didn’t use them?

  Now, if only Fluevog made custom soles and she could have “Caith kicked my ass” emblazoned for all to see. That would be awesome.

  She didn’t have time to worry about branding her name on anyone’s ass because the elves decided one-on-one wasn’t getting the job done. They all rushed forward, sharpened teeth bared and the fires of Hell burning in their eyes. What was so pretty only moments ago now reeked with the evil that permeated her uncle’s home.

  The man had yet to hear of scented candles.

  Caith focused on the battle, on Sam’s presence as he made Glaen whimper and whine. Her vision became filled with whipping blood, flashing swords and glimmering knives. Bits and pieces of her opponents tumbled to the ground, her movements smooth and sure as she cut them into tiny bits.

  Her mind was feverish as she counted the number of disabled and dead dark elves. Was that ten? Or eleven? Dammit, she couldn’t remember. It was just like when she used guns. She never remembered to count the rounds as she shot them off and then being out of bullets was such a surprise…

  Caith didn’t know she was in trouble until the high-pitched whistle of a sword slicing through air pierced her ears. She jerked her head right in enough time to see the end of her life coming near. The largest of the elves, the one she assumed would be slow and dull-witted, was heartbeats from ending her life.

  But then Sam was there, hacking at her opponent with his pristine white sword that sparked violet when touched by an evil weapon. The blade now glowed a deep purple with the evil that coated the surface. He battled the last of the dark elves, body moving with fluid grace, and his sword an extension of his arm. Sam’s opponent didn’t have a chance, not against the Angel of Destruction. He should probably lead with his title when they went into battle.

  I’m Caith and this is the Angel of Destruction. Please place your weapons carefully on the ground…

  It seemed like no time passed before Sam was victorious, severing the elf’s head with a single swipe and the massive male collapsed. She paused to look at their destruction. Blood coated every surface. What was once white now glowed an eerie red. Uncle Luc would be recalling his elves at any moment. At least he’d take care of the bodies and once she got the brownies under control, they’d handle the hard scrubbing. She looked down at her clothing. Maybe laundry too. A quick peek at Sam revealed he was just as stained. Okay, laundry for two.

  Panting, Sam turned toward her and their gazes locked. The pale blue she enjoyed so much now flared red, proof of On High’s continued disapproval. Which, really, seemed dumb. The gel just took out a whole dozen of Uncle Luc’s minions. That had to count for something.

  His lips kicked up in a half smile and he shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “What way?” She furrowed her brow.

  “I can practically read your thoughts, and things with On High are… complicated. Killing, in general, is frowned upon no matter the target.”

  “But—” A low groan to her right had her spinning and raising her swords, ready to chop up something else. And she found… a very sliced and diced Glaen.

  Caith tilted her head, staring at her ex-lover. One eye was missing and part of a lip and, she bent down, and his tongue, too. “Yeah, I can see how On High would think you’d gone a little murder-ery versus do-gooder protective here.” She glanced at Sam. “Good work, though.” She crouched and leaned forward. “Did you take the whole tongue or just a little?”

  “Morbid much, Caith?” Sam chuckled.

  “If I give Momma R a dark elf’s tongue for the annual holiday that is not Christmas, I am set for the next hundred years. Plus, this would be fresh.” So, yeah, the answer to Sam’s question would be yes.

  “If he’s still here when we’re done, you can take all of the bits and pieces you’d like.” Sam’s words caught her attention.

  “I assume you got information from him, then?”

  “I didn’t cut him to pieces for the fun of it,” he drawled.

  Caith shrugged. “I would have. He wasn’t very nice when he dumped me.” If there was dirt nearby, she would have kicked it on him. “Why isn’t he moving?”

  And would he stay still long enough for her to find dirt, get a priest to bless it and then grind it into his wounds.

  Caith was not one of those “good” ex-girlfriends. If cars had existed all those years ago, she would have carved his like a pumpkin.

  “Is he dead? Why didn’t you kill him?”

  Yes, she was officially a very bad ex-girlfriend.

  “A promise from On High to Hell.” Sam’s murmured words were hardly more than a whisper.

  “What—”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Dead Nettle’s entrance to the dungeon is here.”

  Sam spun on his heel and headed toward the center of the room. He brushed his hand over the center of the massive mosaic that decorated the floor and two rows separated to expose a stairway below.

  She peered into the darkness. “Smart.”

  Who would think to look for a dungeon’s entrance in the middle of a sparkling ballroom? Off in a hidden corner, sure. But dead center? Nope.

  “What else did you get off Glaener?” She sought to see through the blackness.

  “These guys were it in terms of protection though he thinks there might be a few more annoying brownie-based spells drifting around down there.” His voice was low. “Otherwise, it’s clear between us and Dead Nettle.”

  “What about the other brownies?” she whispered in return.

  She wasn’t sure why they’d adopted quiet after the cacophony of their battle, but she followed Sam’s lead.

  “He doesn’t think there are any.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Caith eased forward, intent on padding down the stairs, but Sam stepped in front of her and blocked her path. His blazing red eyes collided with hers, revealing his rapid slip from an angel welcome in On Hig
h and one that was forever banned. She’d done that to him. No, she didn’t steal control of his arm or force his hand, but knowing her—mating her—caused this racing tumble out of favor.

  “Sam?”

  “You’re not going down there when we don’t know what we’re gonna face.” His lips were firm, jaw tilted in a way that said he wasn’t about to change his mind.

  TFB. That’s right, it was too fucking bad.

  “So it’s okay for you to sacrifice the rest of your soul to this?” She narrowed her eyes. “You know you’re balancing on the edge, Sam. How many more unsanctioned deaths will it take before you’re here forever?”

  “I’m already here forever, Caith.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “On High, for all his bluster, is a forgiving deity. He would have gotten over our mating—eventually. All of this death…”

  “We have an agreement of sorts. It’s fine,” he snapped and she wondered how much of his soul he’d sacrificed to be with her while reaching some sort of “agreement” with On High.

  “It’s not fine. What’d you have to give up, Sam?”

  “It’s doesn’t—”

  The ground rumbled and shook beneath their feet, sending pictures on the wall swaying and antiques falling to the ground. Sam lost his balance and took a tiny step back. The small quake was just what Caith needed. She jumped past her mate, intent on saving him from himself. Her feet rapidly thumped down the slick stone steps. Her pounding run echoed off the moldy walls and she ignored Sam’s curse.

  “So much for sneaking in,” he hissed, and Caith brushed off his admonishment.

  Dead Nettle had to know they’d arrived. She didn’t imagine he’d miss the fact that his entire security force was dead-slash-dying.

  So she made a mad dash into the darkness and her hellfire was quick to react to the sudden lack of light. It flared, coating her skin and casting a red glow over her surroundings. She didn’t miss Sam’s hurried pursuit, but rather than race ahead, she waited for his approach. She had to because her body was… frozen. Not truly held captive, but she couldn’t wrap her head around the scene before her.