by JL Madore
The Amazon virtual assistant lit up on her entertainment system and then electric guitars and drums filled the room. She searched his cool caramel-colored eyes as recognition started to take hold. “Wake up, D. That’s right. You’re in there.”
Danel broke from the groping hands that held him prisoner. The unwelcome grip still fresh on his skin. He stood crouched in a ready stance, with his nine-millimeter locked on the blonde from last night. Shit. What the hell happened? He dropped his aim and set the gun on the coffee table. Stepping back, he raised his hands in the air.
“I don’t know . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”
She’d been pale last night, but now, her complexion stood a stark white against her turquoise slip of a nightgown. She remained still, the bulky chair between them like a shield. Shit. Shit. She’d brought home a stray and he’d turned rabid on her, in her own home.
What kind of a monster was he? He snatched his clean shirt off the couch and shrugged it on. Then, he stomped his feet into his jeans and slid his gun against the small of his back. Once his slicker was retrieved from the floor, he headed for the door. “I won’t bother you again. And damn . . . I’m so fucking sorry.”
Ronnie rounded the seating area and blocked his way. “That wasn’t you. That was a nightmare.”
“Knowing that wouldn’t fill the holes I almost put through your chest. Obviously, there is something seriously wrong with me. What sane man draws a gun on a defenseless woman?”
Damn, saying that aloud gave him a case of the quakes.
“You were upset. It’s fine.”
He faltered back. “It’s not fine. I attacked you!”
She rolled her eyes and crossed her thin arms around her waist. “You weren’t conscious. It’s not your fault.”
His gaze skittered around the open space. He felt like a caged animal. Something inside paced, trying to escape. “Don’t make excuses for me. You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“Bullshit, Florence Nightingale. I’m not sure what savior complex you’re sporting but find another patient. I’m out.”
She shook her head and tapped the security panel inside the door. Three sharp beeps sounded and then she took his jacket and carried it with her over to the kitchen. “You’re staying. Sit and I’ll make you a coffee.”
He growled. “You can’t hold me. Don’t even try.”
She waved away his fury and propped her hands on her hips. “One thing I know for sure about you is how you like your coffee. You’re obsessed.”
He stood there, his insides reeling. Fuck, he hated her. Why? She’d been decent to him. The darkness inside him expanded with such a potent anger his vision blurred.
She got things started in the kitchen and turned to where his feet had rooted to the floor. With a steady hand, she pointed to the closest stool. “You. Sit.”
He bristled at the command. A small part of him respected that this tiny human thought she could bear the weight of his world for a while. Human? A weird way to think of her.
“Stop scowling and sit. You’ll feel better after a bagel.”
She was wrong, but he relented and took a seat.
She pulled a butter knife from the drawer and smiled over her shoulder at him. “Fake it till you make it, baby. It always works for me.”
He tried to lock down whatever his dream had belched up. It was panic and fury and shame and fury . . . oh, and did he mention fury?
Ronnie cut, toasted, buttered, dressed, and plated his bagel. She reached into the cupboard for mugs and despite himself, he eyed the rounds of her butt and thighs. She was way too thin. And pale. If she were his woman, he’d make sure she took better care of herself.
“Here.” She set his breakfast in front of him and her fingers brushed his hand in a whisper of a touch.
His insides raged, and he pulled them out of reach.
“That will be $4.46, please.”
He glared and the sparkle in her baby-blue eyes dimmed.
“Sorry, that’s pretty much the only conversation we had up until last night . . . but you don’t remember that.”
He took a bite. The knot in his stomach made it hard to swallow. “I don’t buy this fucking sunshine and smiles act you’re fronting. It’s obvious you’re hiding shit, and hey, that’s none of my biz, but enough with the Mary Poppins act. I can’t take it right now. I’m barely hanging on here.”
“I liked you better when you didn’t speak.” She pulled a large bottle of sport-drink out of the fridge door and poured herself a glass. Half a bagel popped in the toaster and she heaped a pile of cream cheese on it like he’d never seen. The creamy mountain reached twice the height of the bagel itself. She took a small bite and wiped the corner of her mouth with her finger. “You’re right—my life is none of your business—but you’re wrong too. I’m not acting happy. I am happy. You’re just too miserable to recognize the emotion.”
He leaned back on the stool and swallowed. “Last night, three men penned you into an alley. And then, this morning, I held a gun on you.”
She turned back to the fridge and bent to return the cream cheese container to the nearly empty, middle shelf. The hem of that nightgown lifted indecently high and flashed the silk of her underpants. “Your point?”
“My point is that when a person witnesses or experiences a traumatic event, like a car collision, a physical assault, or any event which causes said individual to fear for their personal wellbeing, a normal reaction is to display signs of anxiety, withdrawal, flashback, nightmares, repression, irritability, or hyper-arousal. You display none of those. You’re fronting. I don’t know much about myself, but I know I hate liars.”
Ronnie chewed another tiny bite of bagel and glared at him. The look hit him with a strength well beyond her size and, for the first time, he saw the fighter within that frail package. “And I hate arrogant assholes who think they know me. Shit happens. If I walk away from it and am graced with another day on this earth, I’m thankful. Not everyone is a mean, broody jerk.”
He took a long swallow of coffee and absorbed the cues of her response. Odd, he actually smelled her emotions. She was pissed, granted, but she was wholly uncomfortable with him questioning her reaction. “Or maybe, you’ve experienced things like that before and it’s not that traumatic.”
After chugging the bright red liquid in her mug, she picked up her plate and headed back to her room. “If you want a poster-child for PTSD, look in the mirror. Anxiety, withdrawal, nightmares, repression, irritability . . . ring any bells, big man?”
The slam of her bedroom door echoed throughout the industrial shell of the loft. He was impressed by the strength of it, considering how fragile she seemed.
“Well, that bridge is well and truly burned, and look, I’ve only been awake for fifteen minutes.” Reclaiming his jacket, D shrugged it on and headed to the security pad.
Ringo’s ink pens scratched and filled the ivory page like they had a life of their own. His heart raced as the scene unfolded on his drawing pad. Danel looked battered but whole. The Nephilim gift of healing would get him back on his feet.
The speech bubbles pretty much filled themselves.
An hour ago, I was a stranger covered in blood and wearing enough weapons to rob an armored truck.
True story. The skinny blonde opened the doors to a wall-unit and pulled out a blanket. But you got bloody protecting me from getting mugged . . . or worse. I trust you.
“Guys,” he called, running up the hall. “I got something.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Colt’s desk chair creaked as he leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, and stared out at the winter sky. Patches of dark and dismal shifted and swirled over the precinct, the outside world in a state of constant motion. How much of the looming weather pattern was nature, and how much was a certain Sumerian Watcher stewing over a lost brother?
Zander’s connection to electrical charge had been cool as a party trick, but since his transition, it wa
s downright dangerous.
“Feet off the ledge, Creed. And why are you here? Your shift doesn’t start for another eight hours.”
Colt dropped his boots to the floor and swiveled his chair to face his desk. “Paperwork.”
“Uh-huh, that’s what you always say.”
To say that he was on standby in case preternatural bodies start popping up after an Otherworld slaughter wouldn’t help. “I’m just that kind of committed.”
“Or fit to be committed. Finish the paperwork tonight. I don’t want to see you until dark.”
Colt would have replied, but his Superintendent was halfway across the room and on to the next topic. The man was a paunchy, whirling dervish. He never stood still unless there were media cameras pointing at him. Otherwise, he was a shark darting from one point to the next, always snapping at the little fish who got in his way. Helluva good cop, though.
Locking his gloved fingers, he stretched his palms away from his body and got back into the game. The human game, anyway, or what he considered his side-hustle with benefits. His real income and excitement came from the Otherworld contracts, cleanup, and control his position allowed. That side of his profession had heated up and threatened to boil over with the Darkworld rebellion gaining popularity.
He rolled his mouse to life and clicked open the morning Metro alerts. Who did CSIS and the RCMP think would be of interest today? Blah, blah, drug dealer . . . scroll, scroll, arms activist, blah, blah . . .
Oh, the glamor of detective work.
Gregor the Ancient One watched his son’s body submerge into the black waters of the cavern pool. The youngest of his twenty-seven children, Duxel held a special place in his cold, dark heart. Impetuous—yes. Short-sighted—no question. But the boy lived in the moment like no other, he had never reined in his hunger or his passion.
Duxel lived like Gregor always wished he himself could— and he would live again.
“Are you very certain, milord?” his attendant said.
Gregor nodded. “The time of Serpentines living and dying in first phase is over. From now on, we embrace the ways of our ancestry and transform to second phase.”
“It is forbidden by the accords.”
Gregor breathed deep and inhaled the acrid burn of sulfuric tar. “Otherworld accords are imaginary bands which constrict around our throat with words, rules, and edicts. They bind us to obscurity when we were meant for far more. Stryker, that Shedim bastard—may the Prince raise his evil soul—recognized that and showed the Darkworld that we need not bow to the Choir or their pet guard dogs.”
The shrill scream of a tortured beast quickened the thick chug of sludge in Gregor’s veins. The slurry of the cavern pool rippled and rolled as a great creature circled within its depths. “Come, Duxel. Rise and reap, my son.”
In a powerful lunge, Duxel breached the surface and landed in a fighting stance, dripping with tar. He blinked, his glowing red eyes now black. He was taller than before, broader, and emitted an energy far more treacherous. The confusion in his expression was normal and would pass.
“Welcome back, son. Welcome to the dawn of a new day. Tell me boy, who sent you to your death? Who shall we rain the fury of Hell upon?”
D tipped back the last drops of his third double-double and closed his eyes. His cells were alive, and his blood pumped in his veins. Ronnie was right. He really was obsessed. He spun the cardboard cup on the table and sighed. She was right about another thing too. Men in glass houses shouldn’t throw rocks. He certainly wouldn’t be asked to speak on mental health anytime soon, so he shouldn’t have spouted off about how she handled her mental housekeeping.
Yeah, well, he had a sense that wearing his welcome thin was a specialty of his.
He adjusted his position in the back booth of the coffee shop. The leather of his trench squeaked on the plastic bench. For over an hour, he’d watched the world go by and was more confused than ever. The place felt familiar, yet he had no memory. The world felt out of sync, yet maybe he was out of sync with the world.
Why couldn’t he remember? It wasn’t like he forgot how to tie his shoes or function in society. That shit was crystal. He just couldn’t grasp details about his own life. Even the details he knew about . . . like getting run over by a truck and beaten with a bat.
And who goes through that one day and doesn’t have bruises the next? Who wears a vest stocked with a medieval collection of weapons and draws a loaded gun on an innocent human? And why did he think of her like that?
He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
The truth would suck ass. He knew that down to the foul marrow of his bones. He was a career criminal or mercenary or something. It was the only scenario that made sense.
Hell, the first thing he’d done when he sat down was catch the sightlines of the entrance and map out the exits. Without consciously thinking about it, he knew the waitress was a lefty and used lavender perfume to cover the smell of pot, the man at the counter favored his right leg and could handle himself, and if trouble broke out, there wasn’t one person in this place that he couldn’t drop, restrain, or kill.
Who the fuck thought like that?
And that was just the crazy train chugging in his head. There was also the world of crazy all around him. One woman saw him on her way to the loo, hung a panicked U-turn, and all but ran from the coffee shop. His tats, the missing hand, and goth vampire hunter ensemble was fearsome, sure, but bolting was a bit much. Wasn’t it?
“Watcher,” a man said, nodding as he passed.
D missed the reply nod, his hamster taking a moment to gain traction in its wheel. Was it that obvious he was eyeballing people? Before he got arrested as a skeevy stalker, he’d better skedaddle.
Gathering his garbage, he cleaned his table and . . . stalled out. Where the fuck would he go?
Maybe he’d stroll the streets and see if he could jog anything loose in his head. What’s the worst that could happen?
Phoenix waited until Austin tapped the wooden spoon on the pitcher of sweet tea before he handed it to Seth. The platter of fig squares and cheesecake bars, he carried himself. If Seth had those, he’d eat them all on the way to the war room and they’d all be shit outta luck. Austin grabbed the stack of little plates and even though he protested her carrying anything, he respected her right to not be wrapped in cotton.
Stepping back to let her lead the way, they followed from the kitchen, through the stained-glass doors, and into the loft dining room.
Zander turned from his convo with the Greek, eyed up their procession, and shook his head. “You’ll make us all fat and slow, cowgirl. Nephilim are revered killing machines.”
She winked. “Machines need fuel, and when things don’t run properly, there’s no harm in revving the engine to blow out the carbon. You boys deserve a little comfort food while you plan your next move. All y’all have been gettin’ the wire-brush treatment lately.”
Zander sighed but wasn’t really annoyed. He liked it when she spoiled them. They liked it too.
She stepped over to the buffet and poured out glasses of sweet tea. Phoenix laughed as Z accepted his and gulped it down. The stuff was nasty, but Austin made it by the gallons these days and they all kept drinking it. He supposed they’d down anything to keep that smile on her face. “Besides, I don’t wanna be the only one gettin’ fat.”
“You are not fat, cowgirl,” Seth said, shoving two squares into his mouth while heaping another five on his plate. “You’re making a warrior from scratch. That’s hard work.”
Austin rubbed the growing mound of her belly and laughed. “A warrior, huh? What if she wants to be a doctor or a chef?”
“Weapons training still applies.” Kyrian finished his glass of tea and quickly followed up with a Bourbon chaser. “Being skilled with a blade is invaluable, whether in the operating room, the kitchen, or in self-defense.”
“Especially when she starts dating,” Seth added.
Zander’s beast let off a rumble that fillet
the room. “There will be no dating. No talk of dating. No thoughts of dating. As far as my daughter goes, there is no need for any male to be alone with her. Ever.”
“Simmer down, angelman. She might—” Austin hissed and grabbed her belly.
They moved in like a strike squad, surrounding her on all sides. Phoenix steadied her by the elbow as Kyrian took the jug from her hand.
“It’s okay.” She straightened and patted his arm. “Just a big ole heave-ho on one of my internal organs. I swear she thinks my insides are her playground.”
“Or she protests her father’s stance on dating,” Seth said.
Phoenix watched Austin’s thin blouse shift. The baby girl undulated underneath, shifting positions. What might that feel like? Damn, Lady Divinity had truly blessed them.
What the fuck are you doing? Seth asked into his mind.
Phoenix clenched his fingers, fighting the urge to ask to touch the baby.
Z will freak.
No, he won’t.
His beast will. Give your head a shake, asshole. Do you want to get struck by lightning?
“Yo, Mike and Ike.” Kyrian chuckled as Austin gave Zander a second glass of sweet tea. “What’s the cranium convo over there? Wanna let us in?”
Phoenix glared at Seth and sent him the ocular version of his middle finger. His brother was a runaway train when he got hold of something. He would think nothing of outing a moment of weakness for a laugh.
Kyrian’s phone went off and Phoenix threw a wave of appreciation up to Lady Divinity for the save. “Yeah, Drake, you got something for me? . . . You rock, my man. The next time I see you, be a sexy blonde ’cause I’m kissing you on the mouth.” He hung up and beamed at them. “Gentlemen . . . we have a witness.”
Giving up all thought of babies and things warm and fuzzy, Phoenix turned on his heel and they all beat feet.
Zander parked the Navigator in the alley two blocks from where Colt found the bodies the night before. He cut the engine and cranked on the door handle. He’d wanted the truck in case their witness was human, and they needed to move quickly. Kyrian bailed out from the shotgun seat and they rounded his vehicle, the two of them perfectly in sync once again.