Hope For More (Trinity Book 3)

by Devin Fontaine

  Giving in with a sigh, Thomas closed the thick tome and pushed it aside. Before answering Dom, he took a long, blissful sip of the dark brew. “Fates, that’s good.”

  “Answer the question.” Thomas stared at Justice who pulled out a chair and dropped into it. Justice folded his hands on the table and stared right at Thomas, using his best courtroom face—the one Justice favored whilst questioning witnesses. Silently cursing, Thomas knew his coworkers didn’t come to make small talk. Justice was pissed. Dom was… Thomas looked at the other ADA, whose face was unreadable. Okay, he didn’t know what Dom thought.

  “A while,” Thomas admitted, dropping his gaze to the steaming paper cup. Instead of saying more, he made a big production of opening the sack of food. In the quiet records room the crinkle of paper was as loud as a shotgun.

  “You’re not supposed to eat in here,” Dom pointed out. Both Thomas and Justice scowled and raised a brow.

  “You brought the food, not me.”

  “No, Hélory did.” Dom jerked a thumb at Justice. “Why don’t we go to the kitchen? You look like mayhap you could use a break,” Dom offered.

  “And a shower,” Justice added under his breath.

  Thomas’s first instinct was to tell the two ADA’s to fuck right on off. Then, thinking better of it, he took a deep breath and really looked at his coworkers… and felt like a total jackass. For two weeks, Dominic and Justice picked up Thomas’s slack, taking on his cases and doing his work whilst he spent every day and night right where he was, in the Trinity records room, desperately searching for documents to tie someone, anyone, to the property which held the humans captive.

  “Fine.” Thomas rose, grabbed the coffee and breakfast sandwich, taking huge bites as they descended to the first floor of the mansion and sat around the enormous kitchen table. Every room they passed sat empty. Thomas checked the time and smothered a sarcastic laugh. Four in the morning. No wonder the place was deserted.

  Justice got busy making a pot of coffee whilst Dom sat next to Thomas. The saint leaned on his elbow and propped his head on his hand, facing Thomas’s direction. Mid-chew, Thomas turned to find Dom staring.

  “Do you mind?” He asked around a mouthful of food. “I’m eating.”

  “Oh, I know,” Dom replied. “I know exactly what you’ve been doing.” Justice let out a snort and Thomas glared at the male’s back, suddenly wishing he had laser vision so he could burn holes in that asshole, Hélory’s, perfectly pressed shirt.

  Who looked that good at four in the morning? An asshole, that’s who.

  “Butt out,” Thomas snapped whilst he kept his eyes on Justice.

  The lawyer’s shoulders tensed and having worked with Justice for so many years, Thomas knew the ADA wanted to turn around and tear into him. Then Thomas dropped his gaze. Justice had his hands fisted on the countertop. Fates, mayhap Justice wanted to give Thomas a beat down instead of a verbal lashing. Not that Thomas gave a shit. He welcomed the physical pain. Anything to distract him from the insufferable pain in his soul. That was why he buried himself in this case.

  No one would stop him. He must needs find the Unknown, the bastard behind everything. The one who got Hope killed. Proof or not, Thomas knew in his gut this Unknown immortal was someone big, and whoever it turned out to be had to be behind the djinn’s attack at the courthouse. Thomas already ruled out the Horseman. It wasn’t Famine’s style to use a djinn to kill. Besides, they all knew full well both a djinn’s residence and evidence of a pack of Hellhounds were found at that damnable compound, yet not a trace of a Horseman. Figuring out who owned the property was the key to solving everything.

  “You’re willing to go through fire and back to figure this mess out, and I get it,” Dominic said. “I get that you want revenge, but Thomas, you can’t spend all your time here. And once you do figure it out, the last thing we need is for you to go all half-cocked shouting accusations. Without proper procedure, no one will convict the Unknown for Hope’s death or anything else.”

  “I don’t care,” Thomas shouted, his fragile state of mind snapping, rage boiling over. “You don’t know what it’s like to—”

  A sudden sharp pain took Thomas’s breath away. Piercing agony, like a knife driven into the back of his skull left him screaming whilst he clutched the sides of his head. Thomas fell off the chair and crashed to the tiled floor. The room swayed and bright lights exploded behind his closed eyes. Crying out, Thomas writhed as his dull, green life-force short-circuited and blasted his convulsing body with continuous currents of power.

  “Thomas?”

  Dom’s concerned voice was the last thing Thomas heard as his core spasmed and discharged bolt after bolt of electrified energy, each more painful than the last. He tried to speak, but the torture was so great, he could hardly breathe, let alone move his lips. Mayhap it was minutes or even hours before the pain subsided long enough that Thomas could form a single word.

  “I’m—” Another streak of liquid fire blasted his insides, scorching everything and anything it touched, like the eruption of glowing red magma from a volcano. He held his breath until the episode passed, this time a bit faster. Thomas staggered to his knees and gulped down air. Using his rolled-up sleeve, he mopped his damp brow before his ten-ton head fell back against the table leg.

  Dominic and Justice argued over whether or not to call for help, but that was the extent of Thomas’s awareness of the two immortals, because whilst they bickered, energy from his soul shot off like fireworks, the resulting flames consuming every last bit of his attention. Sharp pains tore violent paths through his Earthly form, whilst white-hot fire spread just under the surface of his skin, reaching every limb. Delicate nerve endings sizzled, as if cooking atop glowing coals. The agony was unbearable. So much so, if he could speak, Thomas would have begged for death.

  “Thomas.” Justice crouched in front of him, the male appearing hazy through the sweat which dripped in Thomas’s eyes and the intense fog of pain. The previously hostile saint looked frightened.

  Whilst taking shallow breaths, Thomas’s swirling green core began to calm. The strength in each subsequent flare becoming less active. Make no mistake, he was still in agony, but at least Thomas could see the end in sight.

  “Wait… Give. Me… A. Minute.” Between each forced word, Thomas sucked in a ragged breath. “Let it finish.” He heard Justice’s harsh curse. A moment later footsteps retreated, then came back, only to retreat again. Just like at work when he puzzled over a particularly troubling problem, Justice was pacing the length of the kitchen.

  Weak and trembling, clothes damp and stuck to his skin, Thomas dropped his hands from his temples and fell forward to rest on all fours. Whilst he continued to steady his hammering heart, his soul released one last burst of energy. Thomas arched his back, closed his eyes, and accepted the pain. The push of power shot out and detonated, a single massive burst of green energy that slammed into his skull like a freight train. He couldn’t help but collapse to the floor, lying on his side, curled in a ball whilst it passed.

  Once again, Justice and Dominic argued over what to do, but they were of no importance to Thomas. All he knew was pain. Then, as abruptly as it began, the storm ended. The last thing Thomas remembered before he sank into the bliss of unconsciousness, was Dom sitting on the floor, cradling Thomas’s head in his lap and whispering that everything would be okay.

  THE SECOND MICHAEL left the conference room Tony was on his feet. The institutional blue cinderblock walls had seemed to close in until Tony felt like a tiger in a cage, ready to lash out.

  And why shouldn’t I?

  Without giving any thought to the others in the room, he reared his foot back and kicked his chair so hard it launched in the air and crashed against that hideous cement wall. Learning from years of various outbursts, Tony knew it wouldn’t chip or damage, but the stupid wall didn’t even have the courtesy to placate him by accepting even a tiny little scuffmark. For some reason, that damned dull but pristine surfa
ce enraged him. Mayhap even more than the meeting that just ended. The one in which Donovan and Tony must needs admit to Michael that in the two weeks since a djinn killed Hope Hartley and a pack of Hellhounds ravaged the streets of Eastlake Falls, they didn’t have a single lead in either case.

  A primal roar tore its way from Tony’s throat and he grabbed another chair, ready to haul off and chuck it at that bastard wall, shot put style, bound and determined to get one up on the stultus cement monstrosity whilst it stood there, mocking and taunting him with its perfect, hideous, pale blue paint.

  “Tony.” Two strong hands clasped around his wrists and wrenched them behind his back. “Calm down.”

  His vision turned red with rage. Nostrils flaring, Tony took a few steady breaths before he spoke, slowly and clearly. “Let go. Now, Donovan.” His voice ground out low and husky and Tony knew without a doubt, he’d have exactly zero issues turning and attacking his temporary partner if the angel didn’t release him from his iron grip. As if reading his mind, then deciding to do the exact opposite, Donovan’s fingers tightened.

  Fuck, bastard was going to leave bruises.

  “Not until you stop acting like a child,” Donovan snarled.

  Tony twisted his neck to see the angel’s face. Donovan stood almost half a foot taller than Tony’s own six-one, so he must needs twist, then tip his head back in order to stare into the male’s icy blue eyes. To his surprise, Donovan didn’t appear furious. Not in the way Tony thought he’d be. Instead, the angel’s eyes were compassionate and understanding.

  Fucking shit, Tony would rather see rage than pity.

  “We all want to catch the bastard, but is destroying a chair going to help us find him?” Donovan asked.

  It kind of pissed Tony off that Donovan could stay so calm and levelheaded. He was the Angel of Protection. The warrior. The one created for battle. And here Tony was, a saint, supposedly kind and peaceful, and he was the one tearing apart the conference room to get revenge on a wall of all things. Why couldn’t Donovan just get angry? Ten minutes ago, the two of them had to admit to Michael that despite working near round the clock, they had absolutely no clue about anything they were investigating. They had no leads. No answers. No suspects. Zip, nothing, nada.

  “Well?” Donovan asked, pulling Tony from his musing. Donovan gave Tony’s arms a sharp tug and his shoulder joints protested with matching streaks of pain.

  “I’m calm,” he ground out. Donovan lifted a single brow and Tony scowled. “I’m fine. Let go.” He released Tony’s wrists and took a step back, fists semi-raised in case Tony decided he wasn’t done. Tony huffed and massaged his aching shoulders. “I’m not going to do anything, so relax.”

  This time, both of the angel’s brows went sky high. “Because you have so much self-control.”

  Sarcastic prick.

  “I do,” he snapped. Shit. “Ugh. Sorry. It’s just… Fates, this case, the not knowing, never having enough information to do anything or find the Unknown, or even simply connect the compound to anyone or any of the recent crimes. Only the unlawful imprisonment of the females we found at the compound and even then, we still don’t know who the Unknown is so there’s no one to charge.” Tony pushed both hands through his hair, unconcerned with his appearance. Especially since he was pretty damn sure he couldn’t look any closer to crap warmed over even if he tried. “Without more proof, even if we find the Unknown, depending who it is, he mayhap shall walk away with naught but a slap on the wrist for the human slavery, and we both know it. “Fuck, we can’t even find Abaddon!”

  Prosecuting someone with high immortal status, which was likely what the Unknown was, proved near impossible. Even with history proving how poorly things went when evil wasn’t kept under control. Centuries of ignoring the crimes of the Daemon Kings was what led directly to the Great Battle.

  Back then, the Daemon Kings ran rampant, breaking rules left and right, treating the Earthly plane, and the humans on it, like their own personal playthings. The Archangels couldn’t control them, and they couldn’t simply arrest the Daemon Kings as they were too powerful to contain. The only answer was war.

  “I know,” Donovan said quietly. “But if we lose control of our emotions, we’re useless. We must needs keep it together.”

  Tony glared at the ginger-haired brute and wondered if Donovan knew how hypocritical he sounded considering he was the one to demand True Harris receive preferential treatment, skirting protocol to get the sorceress a full time Guardian Angel she didn’t qualify to receive. Tony wasn’t blind. He knew the short-tempered Irishman had a thing for True. Not that Tony would ever admit to listening to gossip around the precinct. But he heard from a colleague that Donovan constantly butted heads with True’s Guardian because he was jealous that Tor Jansson, a tall and handsome angel of Viking descent, ended up assigned to watch over True.

  Way to keep control of your emotions, buddy.

  Throwing Donovan’s sanctimonious words back in his face would only start a fight. One Tony hadn’t a sprite’s chance in the Underworld of winning, so he kept his mouth shut. Mayhap Tony was impulsive, but he wasn’t stupid. Donovan was enormous.

  Saint vs. Angel of Protection equaled battered and bruised, and mayhap hospitalized, saint.

  “Let’s canvas the less than civilized daemon hangouts again,” Donovan suggested. As if they hadn’t visited those places a half-dozen times already. Donovan must needs have read Tony’s mind again, because he added, “Mayhap someone will have seen or heard something since the last time we were there.”

  Too exhausted to argue, Tony left the conference room and its stultus blue cement walls, went to his desk, and grabbed his leather jacket off the back of his chair. As they were about to leave the station, Tony’s cell rang. He held up a finger to Donovan and answered.

  “Detective Martins.”

  “Detective, thank the Fates. It’s Cressida. Can you mayhap come by my shop?” Cressida Summers sounded desperate. And worried. The divinator was Dante’s soulmate’s mother, sort of like a mother-in-law he supposed. Tony met Cressida before. The practitioner was always pleasant and smiled a lot, so hearing her voice waver as if she were on the verge of tears unnerved him.

  Inside every immortal from the Hereafter is a glowing core of energy. Their life-force. Their soul. The very essence that keeps them alive. Over the centuries, except for very specific instances, Tony’s own core remained steady and unwavering, to the point that for months at a time, sometimes longer, he paid it no attention. Like breathing, it just was. Whilst Tony told Cressida that he and Donovan would be right over, the dark blue sphere in his chest cavity flared and hissed, throwing out sparks and small bolts of lightning. It made his body vibrate with electricity. It had been so long, he almost didn’t recognize what was happening.

  An episode.

  Tony ended the call and turned to Donovan who was leaned forward, listening to Tony’s end of the conversation with great interest. Donovan squinted. “What’s wrong?”

  “We must needs go. Are you familiar with Otherworld Divination and Sorcery? It’s a shop on Rockford.”

  Donovan nodded. “Since the Regency fired True Harris, she’s been working there.”

  Of course she is, and of course you know about it, you hypocrite. “Keep your emotions out of it, Tony.” Uh-huh. Riiight.

  “Then meet me there.” Irritated, Tony dematerialized without waiting for a response.

  When Tony rematerialized behind the strip mall where the shop was located, Cressida Summers was waiting in an open doorway, shuffling from foot to foot. She swept him up in an incense scented hug, and the tiny female squeezed him tight.

  “Thank you for coming, Detective Martins.” Donovan appeared next to them and Cressida just about shoved Tony to the ground to fling herself into his temporary partner’s arms. “Donovan!”

  “Cressida,” he said as he returned the embrace. “What’s going on? Is True okay?”

  Tony stomped down the urge to roll his eyes.


  “She’s fine. Everyone’s fine.” Cressida bit her lip as she decided what to say. “I think mayhap the two of you should come inside before we discuss anything.” Tony cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at the divinator.

  As if that’s not ominous or anything.

  They followed Cressida through a back door into a cramped and dusty storage room. One entire side of the room was packed to the brim with boxes, each carefully hand labeled in thick black lettering. The rest of the room was cramped, but organized. A small table surrounded by four hideous, unmatched chairs sat in the center of the space. Shelves on one wall held dozens upon dozens of clear jars whose contents Tony preferred remained a mystery. A long black curtain hung across the door to the main floor of the shop. He turned to ask Cressida why she called and found himself completely alone. On the other side of the curtain Tony heard Donovan’s voice along with that of who he assumed to be True Harris. Cressida spoke a few words, as did two males Tony didn’t recognize. One most likely was Tor Janssen, True’s Guardian. As to the other, Tony pushed through the curtain to see for himself.

  “Detective Martins,” True exclaimed. “Good to see you.” His vision narrowed in on True’s midsection, where Donovan had an arm wrapped possessively around her waist. Tony raised his gaze to his partner’s face only to find Donovan scowling deeply. When Tony followed Donovan’s icy glare he discovered Tor Janssen on the receiving end.

  Oh, for the love of—

  They didn’t have time for posturing or dick-measuring contests. Tony turned to True and gave a forced smile. “Call me Tony.” Then he turned to the immortal he hadn’t seen in centuries and his jaw dropped. “Dion?” The last time he laid eyes upon the male, he was a gangly youngster. The sorcerer standing in front of him was tall, wide, and muscular. Tony couldn’t hide his shock.

  “Oh, apologies Detective,” Cressida said, cheeks flushed. “I should have introduced you, but I didn’t realize you knew Dion. He’s the—”

  “Master Sorcerer of Eastlake Falls,” Tony finished for her.