Hope For More (Trinity Book 3)

by Devin Fontaine

  “I’ll tell you in the car. The boss wants us at a scene like, yesterday.” Joan began to throw things at him from his desk. He scurried to catch his leather jacket, his notepad, and a pen. Before he could get his arms in the sleeves, she turned on her heel and headed for the stairs. “Now, Martins.”

  Jacket hanging off one arm, Tony called out after her. “For fuck’s sake, Joan, give me a second.” Yep, he should have anticipated the smack to the back of his head, but when it came, Tony was too flustered to keep up his guard or duck. “Ow. Dammit, Joan, you have got to stop hitting me.”

  “Then stop cursing, Tony.” His partner’s face flushed red from the base of her throat all the way to her scalp. Crap, she was pissed and they hadn’t even left the precinct. A new record for him.

  He shrugged the jacket over his shoulders and stuffed the pen and notepad in the inside pocket. By the time Tony spun around, Joan was halfway across the bullpen. Fuck. He snatched his badge from the desk drawer and ran.

  “Where to?” Once they were in the car, Tony asked the question then bit his tongue so as to not go off on Joan for her shitty attitude.

  “West St. Paul, at the intersection of Highland Ave.” Joan concentrated on her phone, fingers furiously tapping away at the screen.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is about or is this one of those ‘choose your own adventure’ type crime scenes?”

  He felt more than saw Joan stiffen in the passenger seat. Her fingers froze over the device.

  When will I learn to keep my stultus mouth shut?

  After a long pause, Joan answered. “An immortal was found dead in her apartment.”

  Huh? Tony was so shocked, he nearly lost control of the car. They swerved into oncoming traffic and at the last second, he yanked the wheel hard to prevent a head-on collision.

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Joan’s free hand curled into a fist. Fates, she was dying to lay one on him. Thankfully, ever since the time he ran up on a sidewalk and narrowly missed an elderly lady walking a little puffball dog, she had stopped smacking him when he was driving.

  “There’s more.” He took a hand off the wheel to massage his pulsing temples.

  “Just lay it all on me, Joan. I can’t take the constant surprises.”

  “Fine. Remember the employee Dante Vittorio asked a uni to check on?”

  Oh fuck.

  Tony nodded. “Aye.”

  “She’s dead.”

  Thankfully, they were at the address, because if not, Tony would have had to pull over in order to absorb the news. In truth, very, very few things can kill an immortal. The occurrence was so rare, it almost never happened. As far as he remembered, there hadn’t been one in a long, long time.

  “What the—?” Tony turned off the engine and shook his head to try to gather his thoughts. He parked in the middle of the street, but didn’t care since the area had been taped off by the uniformed patrol cops. “But there hasn’t been a murder of an immortal in over a century,” he said as he got out. Joan joined him from her side of the car. They ducked under the crime scene tape and climbed the stairs of the squat, four-story building.

  “Aye,” Joan said and flashed her badge at the beat cop who stood guard at the front door. Inside, another stood watch by the entry to a first-floor apartment of the fairly nice brownstone.

  They pulled on gloves and foot covers offered by a lab tech and stepped over the threshold. When they took a look inside, Joan and Tony stood rooted to the spot and exchanged looks. This was the most bizarre crime scene Tony had ever worked, and that said a lot. Three CSI’s huddled in a corner, not doing their jobs or saying a word. In truth, no one in the apartment said a thing. A normal crime scene was a bustle of activity and noise. This one was so quiet, when the refrigerator clicked on its cooling cycle, it sounded as loud as the roar of a jet engine. Normally, cops and detectives chatted and the techs gathered evidence as they discussed what they should or shouldn’t bag. No one but the three techs were in the main room, so they headed down the only hall.

  The last door on the left stood open and bright light spilt into the hall, probably from the floodlights set up by either the CSI’s or the coroner if he had arrived. Tony didn’t notice the van out front, so he was certain Joseph wasn’t here yet.

  “Tony, Joan.”

  Speaking of…

  He spun to find the Eastlake Falls Coroner, Joseph Davidson, also known as St. Joseph of Nazareth, walking down the hall, medical kit in hand. Joseph dipped his chin and paused at the entrance to what they assumed was a bedroom.

  “What have you heard?” he asked.

  Joan answered. “Nothing. We just got here. Dead immortal is all we were told.”

  Joseph sighed, his shoulders drooping on the long exhale. “Aye, me too.”

  Joseph was one of the oldest saints on the Earthly plane, over two thousand years old. He’d seen everything, but even the coroner wasn’t immune to emotions brought about by death, especially that of an immortal. As the Patron Saint of the Dying, it was Joseph’s job to ensure the deceased’s soul made it safely to the Hereafter.

  Daemons do not possess souls; therefore, Joseph could do nothing for the deceased female, but the male was still clearly affected by her death. He shifted to look into the room and his dark eyes shimmered. Joseph took a deep breath and Tony recognized the saint’s ‘game face.’

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  They followed the coroner into what was indeed a bedroom.

  “You may take your leave,” Tony said to the uniformed cop who stood just inside the bedroom, stationed to keep the scene uncontaminated. She nodded and wasted no time bolting. As the cop passed, he noted she was an angel. No doubt the angel was greatly disturbed by the sight of a deceased immortal.

  Joseph bent over the body, which lay on the floor between the bed and the wall opposite the door. From where Tony stood, all he could see were a petite pair of bare feet that stuck out past the footboard and its lacy white dust ruffle. His heart hurt when he saw the bright pink polish on her toes. Assistant taking notes, Joseph began his examination. His mouth twitched and his jaw flexed under his well-kept beard as he manipulated the body. Joan and Tony crouched on either side, inspecting the female whilst Joseph did his thing. Both of them gazed around, checking out the floor, and the room around her for clues. Their job was to figure out the who and why. Joseph dealt with the how and when.

  “Do we have a name?” Joseph asked.

  Joan checked her notepad. “If she’s the daemon on the lease, her name is Melora Alvah, an unspecified minor daemon. Two hundred sixty-one years of age.” She met the coroner’s steady gaze. “The female was employed by the Son of Lust, at one of his bars.”

  If Tony hadn’t been looking right at Joseph, he would have missed the coroner wince when Joan mentioned Dante. None of the angels and saints particularly liked to deal with the seven half-daemon cousins. In truth, Tony was pretty much the only one who had anything even close to what could be called a personal relationship with one of them, and he wouldn’t exactly consider what he and Dante had between them a ‘friendship.’

  “I’ll deal with Lust,” Tony said to Joseph. “Can you tell us anything or shall you require bringing her back to the morgue first?”

  Joseph leaned over the body and studied the female’s face. “Look.” He pointed at her mouth.

  Joan and Tony shifted closer and Tony followed the coroner’s finger whilst he gestured at a few very faint spots around her lips.

  “Scorch marks,” Joan whispered.

  “But…” Tony’s brain went on overload. Nothing made sense anymore. “Horsemen can’t consume the soul of an immortal. Besides, as you said, Joseph, daemons don’t even have souls.”

  He stood and glanced around the room, as if mayhap he would find something to miraculously explain the bizarre circumstances with regards to the daemon’s death, all pretty and wrapped in a neat little package. With footnotes.

  “They don’t,�
�� he agreed. Joseph held his hand over the daemon’s chest, palm down. “I don’t sense her life-force, but then, she is dead. I shall have to consult my books to check if that is common with daemons. Typically, there is something, even a small piece, of the deceased’s energy remaining in the body.”

  “There’s nothing common about this,” Tony hissed. His voice rose and his temper flared. “This is bullshit! An immortal cannot be killed. No Archangel would dare use his weapon on a weak female daemon who works as a bartender, for fuck’s sake. And not one of them reported his weapon missing.”

  “The Archangel’s weapons are not the only way to kill an immortal.” He spun and glared at Joan.

  “Don’t even suggest it,” he warned.

  Joan scowled and raised a brow. “I’m not ruling out the fact that mayhap she died by one of the weapons of the Daemon Kings simply because you don’t like the thought of one remaining on this plane, Tony.”

  “Let’s wait until I gathered more information,” Joseph intervened.

  “Fine.” Tony stomped out of the room. As he passed the frightened, useless CSI’s, he barked. “Get in there and start gathering evidence. You’re not here for decoration.”

  He left the apartment and tossed the gloves and foot covers in a nearby trash can.

  Fuck this shit. Between the abused females, not knowing who funded the compound, a Horseman, dealing with Dante, and a dead fucking immortal, Tony was done.

  Without waiting for Joan, he turned the key, revved the engine, and peeled out, eager to get as far away from the crime scene as possible.

  Time for a drink. Or ten.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dinner was amazing. Better than Thomas imagined, and he made use of his vivid imagination dozens of times over the last few months. Mayhap even a hundred since the day he first laid eyes on the stunning Hope Hartley. They walked through Westside Park, a beautiful green space bordered on one side by Hope’s high-rise apartment building, and the River district on the other, a neighborhood which housed many of the city’s best restaurants. Thomas couldn’t take his eyes off Hope. Not from the time they were seated until the second he pulled out her chair to leave. Hope fascinated him in a way that would prove terrifying if it didn’t feel so ridiculously good. Everything about the petite female drew him in, like a sprite to the forest. He was physically unable to resist the invisible pull.

  “Dinner was lovely, thank you.” Hope’s words shook Thomas from his musing.

  “You’re very welcome. I had a wonderful time.”

  He glanced down at Hope and wondered if she would allow him to touch her. All of that creamy pale skin, scattered with coppery freckles, begged Thomas to run his fingertips across the silky surface. Instead of pawing at her like an animal, he shifted his hand closer to hers until their pinky fingers brushed. Hope’s breath hitched and Thomas prayed he interpreted the response correctly. He held his breath and took her hand in his. When she closed her fingers around his, Thomas’s heart tripped and a surge of vivid green electricity flared from his core. Lightning shot down his arm, gathering in the hand that connected him to Hope. He watched, shocked, as the sparks, the very essence of his soul, wound around Hope’s hand and wrist, essentially tying them together.

  “Are you okay? Thomas?”

  Stunned, he flicked his gaze from their bound hands and the amazing light show to which only he could bear witness, to Hope’s face. Her copper brows pulled together, and she squinted her golden eyes. With his free hand, Thomas smoothed my thumb over the tiny wrinkle between her brows.

  “I’m fine. Perfect, actually.”

  Again, Hope’s breath stuttered from his touch. Their eyes met and before he knew what he was doing, his hand slid down from Hope’s face to caress her rosy cheek and he cupped it in his palm. Unable to resist, his gaze dropped to her full mouth and Thomas instinctually licked his lips. Positive Hope didn’t realize she did it, she mimicked his action, her pink tongue darting out to moisten her own ruby red lips. Fates. He moved his hand from her cheek to hold the back of her head and slowly lowered his mouth to hers to allow Hope the opportunity to protest.

  She didn’t.

  What happened next made the crackling energy that surrounded their hands a minor event. Hope’s lips were soft and warm and so fucking addictive, Fates help him, like air, Thomas needed more. A groan rumbled from his chest and he increased the pressure and opened his mouth, his tongue licking the seam of her lips, seeking entry. Putty in his hands, Hope complied, parting her lips to invite him in.

  When their tongues touched, Thomas’s life-force flared like a storm on the sun, jolts and sparks pulsed and arced off the compact nucleus. Tendrils of forest green twisted from the center to wind through his body, seeking out Hope. The blast of energy stoked a fire that roared through his blood, blocking out any and all thoughts save Hope. It pushed and the flames grew, urging Thomas to seek more contact. He dropped Hope’s hand and slid his around her waist. With a quick tug, he pulled Hope closer. She put one hand on his chest, the other on his hip. They both moaned and clutched at one another, pressing until not a sliver of space remained between their bodies. Senses on high alert, Thomas savored everything; her taste, her scent, the swells of her breasts against his torso, the heat that radiated off her skin. He licked every inch of her mouth, mapping it with his tongue. Flares of energy crackled and hissed, igniting tiny storms where they touched; their mouths, her hands on his chest, his on her head and waist, even where their hips joined as they ground together in an erotic dance.

  Hope gasped and broke the kiss, desperate for air. Panting, she opened her eyes and gazed up at him, and Thomas swore to the Fates, he saw a tiny spark of his own green energy in the depths of her brilliant irises. It was breathtaking. She was breathtaking. He never wanted this moment to end, but there were others nearby. They were in a public park, after all. Unable to resist, Thomas stole one last gentle kiss before he stepped back, reluctantly putting space between them. If he didn’t, he’d be too weak to stop from taking more.

  Hope remained where he left her, looking more gorgeous than any female he ever laid eyes upon. She looked disheveled in a seductive way, her ruby lips swollen, the skin around her mouth red from the friction of his stubble, her pupils enormous. She looked like sex. Pure, hot, erotic, sex.

  And he wanted it. Fuck, did he want it. All of it. All of her.

  Taking a deep breath, Thomas shoved his hands in his pockets to adjust his throbbing erection and hopefully, to make it less obvious. He tried, but it was pointless as he held no doubts that Hope already felt the stiff length grind against her, even through layers of clothes.

  “Allow me to walk you home.” He removed a hand from one pocket and held it out.

  “Thank you.” Hope accepted the offer and placed her hand in his. His cock twitched at the sound of her voice, as raspy and breathless as his own.

  Fates, he wanted her. In all his years, decades, centuries even, he never experienced so much lust. So much pure, pulsating, breath-stealing desire. His logical side said he should be ashamed, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be. What he wanted from Hope wasn’t shameful or dirty. It wasn’t sinful.

  It was beautiful and true and right.

  Fates help him, it was love.

  I’m in love. With a human. Shit. I’m so screwed.

  CHAPTER 8

  T homas prepared to dematerialize to the courthouse when his phone rang. It took a minute to dig it out of his messenger bag, packed tight with all sorts of briefs and files and affidavits. By the time his fingers wrapped around it, he had cursed three separate times.

  “What,” Thomas barked to whatever poor soul was on the other end, then cursed again when his bag slipped off his shoulder and jerked his arm down. He hurried to put the phone back to his ear.

  “Thomas?”

  Crap.

  “Joan? I apologize for being short. I’m having… well, let’s just say I couldn’t get to my phone.”

  With his fre
e hand, he massaged his forehead, wanting to smack himself. Out of everyone who could have called, St. Joan of Arc was probably the worst one to be at the receiving end of his temper. The detective did not tolerate rudeness of any sort.

  “Apology accepted.” Thomas found he was somewhat shocked Joan took his social gaffe with such grace. “I must needs ask you to stop by the station. What is your schedule for the day?”

  “Today?” Thomas mentally flipped through his appointments. “I had paperwork to work on until later this morning. Then there is a sentencing at eleven.”

  “Perfect. Mayhap you can swing by now?”

  It meant he would be behind on a few things, but Joan never asked for favors. Usually, her partner Tony called with demands.

  “Not a problem. I shall materialize in the immortal arrivals room in a few seconds. Where shall I meet you?”

  “I’ll come to you. Remain in the lobby outside arrivals.”

  Before he had the chance to respond, the line went dead. Thomas sighed and chucked the phone in his bag. Today was going to be one of those days. He just knew it.

  Joan kept her word. The detective waited outside the arrivals room, an unwarded area where immortals could materialize to and from the station without human lookie-loos. The entrance and exit was guarded by angels to ensure only immortals passed through.

  “Thomas, thanks for coming.” Joan ran her fingers through her short hair. “There’s been a situation. I thought mayhap you should be brought in on it from the beginning.”

  “All right.” Thomas followed Joan through a busy reception area and up two flights of stairs. “Can you give me any sort of idea as to what this pertains?”

  Joan led him down a hall to a conference room. They weren’t within twenty feet of the door when he felt the heavy pressure of powerful wards.

  “A warded conference room? Joan?”

  The detective glanced over her shoulder and he noticed a great deal of concern in her hazel eyes. As long as he’d known her, Joan was rock steady and fearless. Whatever occurred, it was a big deal.