With an unhealthy fascination, I watch as she lightly blows the liquid in the mug before taking a small sip and swallowing. I need something to do for the next five hours and fifty-eight—seven—minutes, other than stare at her like some crazy stalker.
I take out a cigarette and roll it between my fingers.
“Are you going to act like this the entire trip?” Her deep voice rumbles through me.
I level her with a look and abruptly stand. “I need a drink.”
She returns her focus back to the magazine and motions to the back. “Might as well bring the bottle,” she mutters.
Walking to the back of the plane, I wink at the cheerful flight attendant as I approach her. She blushes at my acknowledgment.
I’ll give it to Asher, the plane is nice.
“Mr. Gallagher, what can I get for you?” she asks, bordering on flirting.
“Brandy. Neat.”
With a polite smile, she pours the amber liquid and hands me the crystal tumbler.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” she coos.
With a polite smile of my own, I dip my chin. She’s pretty, but I’m not interested. I turn around and lean against the bar. Glancing at Nassa, I take a long sip of the liquor, allowing the smoky liquid to slide down the back of my throat, taking the edge off.
The sunshine is beaming through the jet’s small oval window, highlighting the purple strands in Nassa’s shiny black hair. I clench my glass and watch her turn the page of the magazine, slowly, with her right hand. The dark purple gemstone ring she always wears on her middle finger catches the light and at the same time something in me twitches.
I feel something; that reminds me I’m still alive.
Still breathing.
Still . . . existing.
With her I’m reminded I’m not rotting in hell. Not yet, anyway. I exhale and try to focus on something good in this miserable dark existence of mine. I inhale. And exhale. And just fucking breathe. Fighting the voices in my head that remind me of my past.
Taking another sip, I walk back over and take my seat across from the sorceress. She doesn’t move, but her eyes peer up at me. The deep emerald color under her long dark lashes is breathtaking.
“Feeling better, Gallagher?” she asks, dropping her gaze to my brandy.
“What kind of stone is in your ring?” I ignore her inquiry.
Nassa’s manicured brows pull together before she lifts her chin. Ignoring the glossy pages of her fashion magazine, she tilts her head, considering me and my odd inquiry.
“After all this time, you’re asking about my ring?”
“I am.”
She pauses for a moment, pondering me, before she answers. “It’s sugilite, known as a goddess crystal. Sometimes you can see the violet-blue veins in the deep purple color.”
Calmness claims me as I stare at the stone, drawn to it. For some reason, I’ve always been pulled to her ring. I’ve never given much thought to it. But just now, when it glinted in the sunshine, the numbness inside me went away, replaced by a warm sense of peace.
“It’s rare,” she continues, filling the silence.
“What makes it rare?”
“It’s a powerful attractor of healing energy. When a sorceress of white magic wears it, it enhances the connection between the well-being of the mind and the well-being of the body. It helps me release emotional stress and protects me against the harshness of the world’s negative energies. The stone lets go of”—she pauses—“um, sorrow and fear. It brings light and love into the darkest of situations.”
“It’s a shield of light?” I surmise.
Nassa nods. “Sort of.”
“Protection from the darkness,” I mutter under my breath.
“It was a gift from the sorceresses of the Black Circle. Every sorceress receives a protective gemstone when they are either born or initiated into the coven,” she adds.
“How does the coven choose the stone?”
She sits back in her chair, placing her full attention on me. “The coven leaders bring in a high priestess, who reads the witch’s divine path. Whatever twists and turns she foresees in your fate helps them decide which stone you will need on your journey.”
I can’t help but wonder if they saw me, saw the darkness coming.
“It’s meant to remind me never to lose sight of light or love,” she finishes.
My eyes find hers. She forgets, I know firsthand it is possible to lose love. To replace it with so much darkness that you can’t see anything else. I know that kind of loss and darkness. I am that kind of darkness.
The kind she needs magical protection from.
“It suits you,” I state, taking another sip.
Frowning, she puts her mug down and places her magazine and blanket on the empty chair next to her. Unbuckling her seatbelt, she slips out of her chair and kneels in front of me. Looking up at me with a hard, firm stare, she grips my shirt and pulls me closer.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Gallagher,” she whispers.
“What?”
“I can practically hear your thoughts,” she sighs.
“That so?”
“I don’t need protection from you.”
“Don’t you?” I challenge. “The harsh reality of our existence is that we aren’t afforded the luxury of love or light. And if you think differently, you’re a fucking fool.”
Her eyes search mine, and I know what she sees: glassy dark circles rimmed beneath my empty gaze. I look straight through her as if I don’t see her, choosing not to.
She leans forward and holds out her hand. I give her my glass and she takes a small sip, wipes her wet lips, and hands it back to me. I fight against the numbness that takes over at our connection. It always does when she reads my thoughts, or understands what I am feeling.
She makes living hard, yet easy.
Then again, everything feels both hard and easy when it comes to the sorceress. Pushing away the numbness, I breathe in her strength—her scent.
“You’re the fool. Especially if you think the world won’t grant you love again.” Her tone is firm with a hint of sadness in it. “If you think you somehow don’t need it. Or deserve it. Everyone needs and deserves both. You’re a prisoner of your own making.”
“I’m nothing more than collateral damage.”
“You’re a casualty,” she quickly counters. “A shadow left when your world crumbled.”
“I walked away from my bloodline. My oaths.” I shake my head, frustrated that she isn’t understanding me. “My identity vanished along with Camilla. And a being without an identity, without a conscience, like me, is dark and dangerous, buttercup,” I warn.
Soft green eyes meet mine. “Given who my father and uncle are, the coven was afraid that I would walk a dark path. Embrace the demon within me. This”—she holds up her ring—“protects me from Hell. From their darkness. Not yours.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not,” I reply. “Either way, when we go back to the Midnight Temple, I’ll be returning as a protector who has accepted his lineage. But not my family. I might be the Paris leader by blood—but I want nothing to fucking do with that blood.”
“You think associating with your father’s blood makes you evil?”
“Associating with him makes me weak. I’ve accepted being the Paris leader, but I’m still shutting out any part of my existence that associates me with him.” A flicker of guilt and grief passes through me at the harshness in my tone. I try hard to hide it from her.
Nassa bows her head, disappointed. “The sins of our fathers are not our burdens to bear. Nor have either one of us turned out to be saints. We are not unscarred by the darkness in our bloodlines; those scars are beautiful. They make us who we are.”
I can feel the tension between us. A heaviness of understanding wraps around me. By denying my father, I’m essentially telling Nassa that her blood is tainted by her lineage.
“If you were smart, you’d walk away from my scars,” I whisper.<
br />
“I am smart,” she argues. “Which is why, despite your best efforts, I’m not going anywhere.”
Her firm resolve makes my chest ache in an unfamiliar way. “The things I fight hard to protect always seem to end up broken and shatter into pieces in the end.”
“Luckily for you, I don’t need your protection,” she argues.
“And when I tear your heart into pieces?”
“I have a magical glue gun.”
My lips twitch at her jest. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Trust me,” she whispers. “I can protect my own heart.”
Having no confidence in my voice, I simply stare at her. Trust is a funny fucking word. I do trust her. With my existence. With my secrets. Just not my dark, broken heart, and this is what I always struggle with when it comes to her. It feels wrong to trust her with everything I have and am, everything except my heart. It’s like I’m using her to soothe the hurt and pain. To replace another being who trusted me, whom I broke beyond all measure. Suddenly it all hits me. With Nassa, I have so much more to lose now. The loss of her would be so much worse. So fucking bad, and that terrifies me to my very core.
“With me, you will burn in all the darkness.” My voice is full of desperation.
“Then, like a phoenix,” she rasps, “we will rise from the ashes, even stronger.”
8
Demon Of Greed
GAGE
The night air is cool. In the inkiness of the alley, I light my cigarette and drag in a long inhale, relaxing my face and shoulders for the first time today.
After landing earlier and getting settled into our hotel, I finally got tired of waiting around for Nassa to return from wherever she ran off to. I told her I’d meet her here. A few hours later, I’m still waiting. Typical.
I’m always fucking waiting for her.
It’s becoming an unwanted habit.
The sound of heels clicking against the wet city concrete has my attention. Turning, I stand, my legs frozen in place when she walks towards me. The petite sorceress is dressed all in black. She’s wearing thigh-high velvet boots with ridiculous heels. Each boot has delicate ties on the tops. My eyes roam over the tight mini skirt, which barely fucking covers her perfect ass and is cut higher in the middle, between her legs.
I growl when I take in the even tighter tank top barely covering her chest. It has a deep V-neck, showing off the perkiness of her cleavage, and a thick piece of material wrapped around her neck. Her long hair is stick straight, parted in the middle. And is it extra shiny and silky tonight? What the hell?
I stare at her like a goddamn horny teenager.
The moonbeams reflecting off the damp concrete cause a faint blueish light to glow around her badassery.
The sorceress is fearless.
And goddamn, it’s going to get her killed.
Seeing my response, Nassa’s dark purple lips twitch in a smart-assed way. I want to smile back because I like what I see—I like her—but I don’t. I hold my cigarette to my mouth and take in another inhale, allowing the nicotine to infuse my lungs and calm me. It doesn’t help.
“Gallagher,” her deep voice rasps.
“Buttercup,” I manage out of a tight jaw.
Everything in me tightens at the sight of her. Images of me grabbing her by her hips and fucking her up against the brick wall next to us skate through my mind.
Unable to take my eyes off her, I step back before I do something that I am going to regret.
“New shoes?” I ask hoarsely.
She looks down at them and then back up at me.
“No. But thanks for asking.”
Emerald eyes lock with mine. As they do, I shake away the images of us entangled and my lifting her skirt, and try to ignore the effect she has on me dressed like that. Or like anything, for that matter. She’s hot. In a T-shirt and Converse, or heels and a skirt. The invisible pull I can’t for the fucking life of me sever between us seems to be always present, like it is now.
I mutter a string of curse words before I snap in frustration at the fact that my chest cavity feels like it’s cracking in half. Christ! What is that feeling?
“You shouldn’t be here—dressed like that.” I blurt out without thinking.
Nassa’s eyes narrow at my comment, and I take another long pull off my cigarette.
“I’m dressed exactly how one should be when one enters Hell,” she bites out.
Her reasoning makes me cringe and then laugh out loud. Yeah, I’m officially losing my shit. This is not going to work—her looking like that while I try to deal with protector shit tonight. This is definitely a bad fucking idea. I take in a sharp breath.
She lets out a long sigh as if she is disappointed in me—as if my presence and mere existence is disappointing to her—before she crosses her arms over her chest, which causes my eyes to focus on the roundness of her breasts peeking out of her shirt.
“We’re walking into the demon’s den. This outfit is me showing humility in the presence of the king of the Nine Hells,” she explains, shifting uncomfortably.
“And why the hell would you do that?”
“Because. The last time I saw my uncle Asmodeus was when I betrayed him by having the light mystic, Aigle, spell a mugglestone with a differing layer. A stone I gave to Eve—a human—to use against him,” she rambles, irritated. “I set him up. Betrayed him, Gage. To end his existence. This is my fucked-up way of apologizing to the demon of lust.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Your uncle is an asshole.”
“Even so, I manipulated the king of the Nine Hells.”
“I happen to find your manipulative side sexy as fuck.”
“Gallagher,” she scolds.
“I do. Especially in jeans and a fucking T-shirt.”
Her jaw clenches. “This is me begging for forgiveness. In a way he’ll appreciate.”
“Um, hell no.” I cock my head at her. “I don’t want to see you ever beg for a demon’s pardon in my presence. Not. Ever. Or in anyone’s presence, for that matter, Nassa!”
“Eve released my uncle from the reversal curse,” she reminds me.
I toss the last of my cigarette onto the ground, stomping on it angrily with the toe of my black shoe. “Free will is a mortal flaw that Eve throws around. It’s her downfall.”
“And look where her free will has gotten us.” She motions toward the building.
“We’re here at Asher’s request,” I yell. “Not Eve’s.”
“Are we?” she snaps back.
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, taken aback by her strange comment.
“It means,” she lowers her voice. “Never make a deal with the devil, because evil always cheats. You were the one who taught me that, Gallagher. Remember?”
“O le a le mea o loʻo e faia iinei?” A deep, Samoan voice interrupts us.
Holding one another’s furious gazes, we remain in a silent stare off before Nassa sighs and walks around me. I watch her sway her fucking hips as she makes her way toward the black-painted steel door and the very large Samoan man in front of it, glaring at us.
Isaac’s thick, tanned arms are covered in tribal tattoos. As always, they’re folded across his heavy body as he guards the doorway.
The low-level demon doesn’t smile. Instead, he just looks as though he’s ready to end my existence at any moment. It’s nice to see some things haven’t changed.
I guess exploding into blue flames the last time we were together didn’t mean death for him, given he’s here, eyeing me angrily.
“We’re here to see my uncle,” Nassa states.
Isaac raises a dark eyebrow. “O oulua uma o loʻo i ai se manaʻoga oti.”
Death wish? Pissed with Isaac’s goddamn attitude, I step around Nassa, raise my fist and swing it in his direction. One blow. That’s all it takes to knock his ass out cold. Guess he isn’t as strong as he was before Eve destroyed his previous existence in front of us.
Nassa gasps and
it hisses through the air as her eyes widen in surprise. I chance a look at her and her face scrunches as she looks between me and the unconscious Samoan. “What the hell?” she whisper-shouts.
“To be fair, I didn’t expect him to go down that quickly,” I admit.
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to—she’s pissed.
“Sorry,” I mutter unapologetically.
“Why would you hit him?”
With one shoulder, I shrug. “I’ve been meaning to do it for a while.”
“Well then. Job well done,” she says sarcastically. “He’s out cold.”
“Can you blame me? He was being disrespectful to you.”
“He’s a demon; it’s what they do.”
“It was rude,” I shout.
“You are—”
“I won’t tolerate other beings’ lack of respect.”
“Everyone is disrespectful to you,” she points out.
“I meant, when it comes to you.”
At my reply, Nassa stands straighter and stares at me, shocked. “Oh.”
“Oh.”
“We should go inside,” she suggests. “Before he wakes up and tries to kill you.”
“Tries being the operative word.” I motion toward the door. “After you.”
Nassa steps past me and whispers, “Thank you.”
I dip my chin. “Anytime, buttercup.”
The minute she steps closer to me, I feel it.
The air charges and jumps between us.
It’s as if the universe is trying to warn me something between us has changed.
Ignoring it, she shoves me in the direction of the door. With a quiet chant in Latin, the door opens, granting us entrance. Once we step inside, it closes behind us, leaving us in a long burgundy-hued hallway.
The stench of sulfur, and Hell, permeates the air as we walk across the thin black carpet, all the way down to the end of the hallway, then up the stairs to the white door, which has Media Nocte In Templo spray-painted across it. I stare at the graffiti, wondering how many times we’ve come here, to the Midnight Temple, her uncle’s club.
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