by JL Madore
Yeah. No. Not happening.
Bolting across the two-lane roadway, the Quickening of the two kills hit. His Watcher’s Mark burned as the lives of Gregor’s entitled brat and his pal etched their way into his flesh. The filigree recorded history of kills expanded down his back and across his ribs. He clenched his teeth as vaporous streams of dark energy wormed into his eyes, ears, and nostrils, momentarily blinding him to his surroundings.
He barely registered the acceleration of an engine as someone laid hard on the gas. The impact knocked him up and over the hood like he wasn’t a six-foot-five warrior weighing in at two-forty-five. He tumbled in a rough flail of arms and legs and crashed to the road on his back. His skull cracked hard against the asphalt. Winded, he watched the back end of the vehicle disappear as the run part of the ‘hit and run’ took hold.
Danel blinked up at the WTF stars blocking his vision and rolled onto his knees. Damn, the grill of that SUV had taken a good chunk out of his hip. The continuing screech and scuffle twenty-feet up the road rattled around in his head. His dagger had flung somewhere during his moment of flight, so he drew the 9-millimeter from the holster at the small of his back.
“Back off, asshole. She’s not into you.” Danel shook his head but it did little to clear his vision. A bullet through the guy’s shoulder got his attention. “Whoops, that was supposed to be a warning shot. My bad. You probably shouldn’t test my accuracy after I just got run over by a truck.”
Barista girl grabbed her attacker’s shoulder and thumb fucked him to his knees. Then she hoofed him a solid one in the nuts and took off like her perky little ass was on fire.
Well done, Coffee Girl.
The Serpentine struggled to get a boot beneath himself and Danel nailed him with a one-shot to the back of the head. See, he still had the goods. Incoming sirens meant he needed to get his own ass in gear. Where the fuck was his lighter? He listed to the side as another round of hit-and-run spun in his head.
He ignored the swirl of the world and flicked his Bic. The Darkworlder corpse ignited like dry kindling and in one great whoosh, that body was a heap of ash.
Jogging back toward the alley, he sent up a prayer that the cops had been called for a “sounded like gunshots” and not “saw a guy get shot.” The first would be a random location and give him time to clean up. The latter would have the human police on top of him way too soon.
Danel swiped at the stream of blood gushing from his head and retraced his steps. Two more burn marks and he could go home and self-medicate with a bottle of Jack, or Jim, or Jose . . . in truth, any of his favorite J-buddies would do.
When his Mark started to burn this time, he steadied himself with a hand against the alley wall for the Quickening. The cops were close but hopefully wouldn’t venture down this alley—
His tattoo lit him up as the dark energy bombarded his system. Someone shifted behind him . . . he took a crack to the head and dropped like a stone.
Detective Colt Creed arrived on scene five minutes after the responding patrol car. Some good Samaritan had called in the sound of gunshots and even though it was colder than a witch’s tit outside, here he was. Not that he minded the cold—Ice Demon and all that. Still, he’d prefer to get hot and heavy at home this time of night.
“What do we have, Kendle?” he asked, rounding the front of the cruiser. The senior of the two beat cops straightened from the scorch mark on the snow-covered sidewalk and shrugged. Not sure. Something went up in flame and melted the snow but no clue what.”
Colt saw the scorch mark and knew immediately. The question wasn’t what made that mark but who? “Any sign of a shooter or blood? Anything to support the caller’s claim of gunfire?”
Kendle shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
“Hey, check this.” Marrite, Kendle’s partner, pulled a latex glove from his pocket and picked something up across the road. “It’s not from a shooter but it’s cool.”
Colt caught sight of the Crystalline dagger and cursed to himself in five languages. Z and the boys didn’t just abandon their Otherworld weapons and fuck off to call it a night. Something had gone down here. He breathed deep and smelled death on the night breeze. Crossing the vacant street, he used his demon night vision to check out the alley behind Marrite.
At least one body, maybe two down there.
Ronnie shut off her headlights and let the car idle up the narrow, side street. Before the intersection into the alley where she’d been jumped, she eased to a stop and clicked off the interior light of the car. She told herself this was a retrieval mission of her Kate Spade, black leather tote, and her ID inside it.
She loved that purse—true story—but if she was honest, she also wanted to check on Tall, Dark, and Broody.
Irony sucked. She’d tried to catch his attention for the better part of a year and this was it? Getting nabbed and fighting off three goons—that was their icebreaker moment?
She’d hoped more for a run-in at the local grocery store, where she’d squeeze the bulk of his arm and be all, It must take a lot of carbs to fuel this body. Let me cook for you. You eat, right?
She rolled her eyes. Her game needed serious work, but her daydream was a moot point now. Instead of their hands brushing as they both reached for a package of spaghetti, he’d been dragged into a fight, hit by a truck, and forced to shoot someone in the street.
She appreciated his all-in commitment, but nothing said first date disaster like bloodshed and internal injuries.
Blue and red lights bounced off the city buildings and flashed and flickered up the alley. The window of a quick in and out was closing fast. Getting caught removing something from a crime scene was nothing she wanted to think about. That would be the end of her hard-fought freedom. Her father would swoop in and she’d have no say in the matter.
She peeked around the corner with a quick look and then a more solid glance. Broody was face down on the asphalt next to a discarded bat and two of the three guys who’d penned her in. Damn. He’d gotten all three. Nice work.
Even her father would have been impressed with that.
She’d always guessed Broody was a soldier of some kind. A mercenary, maybe. Apparently, he was good . . . even with one hand. She had no idea who Louisville-sluggered him to unconsciousness but wouldn’t hang around to find out.
She eyed her purse and retrieved it, slinging it over her shoulder before heading back for her rescuer. Voices of cops carried from the main street. She was out of time.
“Come on, big man, we need to get off the street.” She yanked his shoulder but got nowhere. “Little help here,” she grunted, trying again. Or not.
At the crunch of frozen ground, she spun around. The homeless man she brought stale donuts to on her walk home at night came out of the shadows. Outing the twenty bucks from her pocket, she offered it up. “Can you help a girl out?”
The man was a rack of bones under a worn puffy coat, but the added strength was all she needed to get Broody off the ice-crusted ground. She breathed a little easier once they rounded the corner and were out of visual from the cops.
“Okay, big man, in you go.”
If she wasn’t sweating in the February cold, covered in blood and fifty feet from two dead bodies, she would have laughed. The guy filled the back seat to bursting, and that was before she accordioned his legs to get them inside. Careful not to catch his massive boots in the door, she closed him in.
“Thanks,” she said to her scruffy helper. “You’d better go to the shelter tonight. The cops will swarm this place in minutes and you don’t want to be caught up in this.”
The guy nodded and jogged off.
Ronnie dropped into the driver’s seat, her muscles twitching from the workout. It wasn’t the first time she’d wrestled an unconscious man into the back of her car but Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous was a lot more man than most. With both hands on the wheel, she drew a deep breath and adjusted her mirror, so she could keep an eye on him.
Dark hair and go
atee, chiseled jaw, drawn brow. Man, he was still sexy, even all banged up. With the turn of the key, her car hummed to life and she backed down the street. “Don’t you die on me, Broody. I don’t even know your name yet.”
CHAPTER TWO
Colt pulled an evidence baggie from his pocket and held it open for Marrite to drop in the Crystalline dagger. Fuck. Just being near the Choir’s weapon of demon death gave him the shakes.
“You think this is some kind of a cult thing?” Marrite asked. “Maybe ritualistic?”
“Don’t get too excited,” he said, fronting like the pro he’d become over the years. “We see these replica daggers like this during Comicon. They look wicked real, eh?”
Marrite stared at the baggie as Colt wrapped it and started back toward the cruiser. “Hey, Kendle, any blood, casings, or sign of trouble?”
Kendle pulled up his collar to ward off the winter wind. “Not yet. We’ll check the alleys though before we rule it out.”
Colt nodded and subtly checked the alley on this side of the road. Breathing in, he smelled nothing but the smolder of dead demon. “’Kay, you two take this alley and I’ll take that one back there. If we find nothing, you can head back to the station and warm up. I’m off the clock in twenty, so we’ll call it then.”
The men seemed good with that and off they went. Colt moved his car into the mouth of the alley across the road to block entry. He stashed the dagger under his seat and milled around at the front of his car until Marrite and Kendle emerged on the other side of the street.
“You find anything?” he asked.
Kendle held up his fingers and gave him the universal sign of a big fat zero.
“’Kay, head back. I’ll fill out the paperwork and get it to you to sign off tomorrow sometime.”
“Nice. Thanks, Creed.”
“Not a problem. You boys have a good night.” Colt busied himself at the side of his car until the cruiser turned the corner. Pulling out his second phone, he called Zander and jogged up the alley.
“Hey Cop, hold on.” The background noise of Zander’s hedonist club went from deafening to dim before he came back on the line. “Yeah, so, what’s doin’?”
Colt stopped at the two bodies and cursed, this time out loud. “Two things, Z. First, you need to do a roll call on your boys and second, round them up and meet me. You know where the coffee shop is that Danel likes?”
“No, but I think Seth and Phoenix do.”
“Good. Meet me in the back alley two blocks south, almost to the DVP overpass.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
He stared down at the dead Serpentines slain at his feet. “I’ve got two Serpentine skinheads sliced and diced, and one demon scorch mark a block away. A flat-foot found one of your daggers abandoned at the scene. I’d bet my balls D’s in deep trouble, my friend, and it gets worse.”
“Yeah? How much worse?”
“One of the dead is Gregor’s son.”
Zander pinched the bridge of his nose and let Colt’s sunshine and strawberries soak way down deep. Gregor’s get. Fan-fucking-fabulous. The Serpentines were already slithering around the edge of the Hell Realm rebellion; why not kill the Ancient One’s son and get them good and committed to the task? “I’m on my way.”
He flat-palmed the swinging door of the O-Zone’s kitchen and stormed into the club proper. He pressed his finger and thumb together under his tongue and let off a whistle. Bo, Hark, Brennus, and Ringo were quick to fall into line.
“Where are Seth and Phoenix?” he asked.
Ringo grabbed a fry off the tray passing by and winked at Katie. The kid had balls, he’d give him that. “The twins went with Kyrian to the racetrack after rotation. They’re installing new equipment at the clinic for Doc Drina.”
Zander nodded. “Ringo, go up and tell Austin we got called out. Nothing war-related, just regular street-sweeping business. She can reach me on my cell if she needs me. Then call Kyrian and have the three of them meet us at Danel’s java haunt. Seth and Phoenix should know where that is.”
Ringo nodded, and Zander turned to the others. “Anyone know where Danel gets his coffee on the regular?”
Hark nodded.
“Good. Lead the way, Nubian. Colt is waiting for us.”
Ronnie lounged on her couch, stroking Dean ear to tail while she stared at the massive boots dangling out the door of her car. One of her favorite things about this warehouse loft was the drive-in garage door which put her car right in her living space. No worries that her ride would be tracked, tampered with, or worse . . . rigged to explode.
The husky groan of a man surfacing from the depths of unconsciousness had her on her feet and headed over. After a bit of shift and shuffle, he went stone still.
“You’re safe,” she said from a good distance away. “I brought you back to my place.”
She couldn’t make out his reply. Whatever language he was speaking, she didn’t recognize it.
“I, uh . . . didn’t take you to the hospital. I wasn’t sure what kind of trouble that might cause you . . . or me.”
“Feels like I got run over.”
“You did—true story—after the knife fight and before you became the ball in a game of human hardball.”
The cough he let off rattled in his lungs with a wet hack. He eased off his back, propped himself on the edge of the seat, and planted his boots on the concrete floor. He looked like death warmed over, pale and shaky. He hung his head and drew a few deep breaths . . . and a few more.
“If you need the hospital I can take you.”
“I’ll live . . . assuming my gray matter isn’t oozing out my ears. Feels like I might hemorrhage brains onto your floor.”
Ronnie never pegged him for a sense of humor. In the months she’d served him at the coffee shop, he’d done little more than glare, grunt, and grit his teeth at her.
Well, to be fair, at everyone. Not just her.
She drew closer . . . or was drawn closer. The man was the magnet to her iron filings, true story. “As far as I can tell, your insides remain in.”
He prodded the dried blood that covered the back of his close-shaved head—a military cut, no doubt. He had the body of a soldier. He blinked up at her and his gaze flickered like a string of faulty lights. “Got anything for a headache?”
Ronnie set Dean on the top of his cage and strode to the kitchen. “Store variety or medical octane?”
“Octane, if you’re offering.”
She sorted through the orange plastic bottles swimming around in her pill drawer and found the one she wanted. With two in her palm, she grabbed a clean glass from the drying mat beside the sink.
Without regard to what she’d given him, he tossed the tablets into his mouth and washed them down. “What the fuck happened?”
Ronnie eyed him more closely and started to worry. “You don’t remember?”
His face screwed up as if it hurt to access his memory bank. In the end, he shook his head. Then winced and stopped the back and forth. “I got nothing.”
“How far back is the gap? Do you remember the coffee shop tonight? What you did today?”
An eerie look came over his face, haunted and angry. “No, seriously nothing. Name. Place. Year. It’s a fucking blur.” The panic in his voice didn’t suit him. He stood, took a step, and leaned his ass against her car to hold himself up. “Are you my girlfriend?”
Ronnie’s inner butterflies fluttered like wild pinballs against her ribs at the thought. “Until tonight, we hadn’t spoken outside of me getting your coffee order where I work.”
“But you know me, right? Who I am?”
Damn, he was freaking her out. Maybe he needed a CT an MRI or had a brain-bleed or something. Had she sabotaged his recovery by not taking him in for help? “I know you keep late hours and have large friends. Sometimes you buy coffee for them. Twins. Massive, identical twins.”
“Do you know who they are?”
She shook her head. “The one guy calls you, D.
I’ve never heard the other one speak a word.”
“Okay, D . . . David? Dante? Dominic? What did he say?”
“Just D. Like, ‘D, getcha ass out here,’ or ‘D, we gotta beat feet,’ or ‘D, fuck the java, we’re vapor, my brother.’”
He blinked at her, holding his head. “This friend of mine possesses quite a vernacular. Do you know anything else?”
When he spoke in more than mono-syllables, his voice was cultured and smooth. It held a rasp that made her heart race which, in her condition, wasn’t good. She pointed. “You lost your hand about five months ago.”
He raised both arms and stared at the one that ended at the wrist. “It feels like there’s a hand there. That’s so weird.”
She headed to her butler stand and poured them both a fresh glass of water. He probably wanted something stronger, but she didn’t have any alcohol and after taking two pain-killers, he shouldn’t drink anyway. Even if he did have the metabolism of a mammoth.
He accepted his refilled glass and drank deep.
“When I was a kid,” she said, “one of our junior gardeners cut off his fingers, clearing debris from a jammed lawn-mower. The phantom pain of his fingers ached, even though they were gone. Used to drive him crazy. He could never mow the lawn after that. The vibration made it worse.”
He glanced down at himself and frowned. “So, I’m a coffee drinking, one-handed guy, who dresses like Van Helsing, and wears an armory like I’m headed into war.”
She shrugged. “And your name starts with D.”
D—was that really what he was supposed to call himself? He supposed it was all he had to go on at the moment. He scrubbed a hand over his face and brushed his fingers over a goatee. His brain was hazy, like what he needed was just behind a screen of cover, but no matter how he shifted position, he couldn’t quite get a look. “A mirror. Let me see myself.”
“Good idea.” The blonde grabbed the sleeve of his calf-length leather slicker and tugged him through the studio apartment. The place was a refurbished warehouse with exposed metal beams and painted concrete floors. The kitchen, dining, and living areas were open-concept, with carefully decorated vignettes delineated by function.