Breaking Fate

by Georgia Lyn Hunter

  After he’d left Club Anarchy in the early hours of the morning, he’d gone back to her brownstone. The place had been in darkness, and she’d been asleep. Instead of knocking on her door and awakening her — that wouldn’t have gone down too well, considering he’d probably shocked the life out of her with his actions — he’d chosen to wait, despite wanting to experience that extraordinary moment again.

  He, however, never played to lose. Patience. He was good at that. He would get what he wanted. Her. Over the passing years, he’d amassed more than enough mementos from the other Guardians. His latest acquisition — Týr’s vintage Harley from a game of foosball — pissed off the warrior to no end.

  But she was more. She made him feel.

  Increasing the speed on the treadmill, he ran faster and tried to understand.

  Why her? Why now?

  Nothing made sense.

  One needed a soul to feel, and he didn't possess that any longer.

  The door opened. Michael strode inside, circled the heavy equipment, and sat across from Blaéz on a workout bench. The old tee he wore looked like the moths had had a great time feasting on it. It didn't surprise Blaéz that the archangel was still here when he rarely stayed at the castle. It was expected after Blaéz had missed the “chat” last night.

  Well, he’d been busy… stalking. He couldn’t make the meet.

  Michael’s eerie blue eyes settled on him. They appeared like shattered sapphires, as if he’d lived through a brutal torture. The jagged pieces never quite fit anymore, allowing a strange silvery glow through.

  “What’s going on?”

  Time for his grilling. With no way to escape this one-on-one with the snarly male, Blaéz said, “You know what I am. Why the questions now?”

  Michael picked up a three hundred pound weight and began his arm curls. “For centuries, every few months you disappear for days at a time. I gave you space, understood you needed it. But that time in Tartarus has long passed. You’re losing all your cognitive skills, ones that make you a Guardian. Sure, you do the job, but there’s a lack of care now.”

  Blaéz heard the unasked question. Maybe he should have felt guilty that he cared so little about his own health, his life. After all, Michael had given up more than his status as the leader of the archangels, lost something irreplaceable to free him — free all of them from that hellish hole. And he’d chosen to stay on as their leader. Why anyone would want to take charge of moody, temperamental fallen ex-gods, Blaéz had no idea.

  Still, he could never reveal the reality of what he’d done… still did, or where he disappeared to every few months. Days he could never speak off. The truth would crush the warriors.

  He functioned on autopilot in his role as a Guardian. Nothing more than an automaton. It’s why meeting Darci, and the emotions that had unfurled so briefly, yanked him by the balls.

  “You're becoming self-destructive,” Michael snapped.

  He was way past self-destructive.

  He reeked of Hell.

  Couldn’t the Arc smell it on him?

  Blaéz brushed the sweat from his brow and pounded harder on the fast moving belt. A slow burn started in his thigh muscles, followed by a trickle of pain. “It’s been three and a half millennia, you think I'm a loose cannon, then take me out.”

  Those silvery fissures in Michael’s blue gaze flared at his blunt words. Jaw rigid, the archangel switched the free weight to his other hand. “You're seriously pissing me off, Celt. Get your shit together, fast. We work because of anonymity. Those cage fights will bring us notice. We go viral, all hell’s going to fly. And I don’t mean by me.”

  “So noted.”

  Gaia, the Being they’d sworn their allegiance to as Protector of Earth, of all mankind… No, he didn't imagine she’d be pleased. They were supposed to remain a myth — beings that didn't exist. Indeed. The sweat dripping down his abs felt very, very real, as did the female who, for one breathless moment, had him feeling again.

  He stepped down from the treadmill, pulled off his tee, and swiped his damp face. Picking up his cell, he left the gym with Michael’s gaze boring holes into him. At times, he just wished the Arc would take him out. And end it all.

  Shower finished, Blaéz walked into his dressing room, checked through his clothes then decided to skip the leathers. He pulled on black pants and glanced at the time on his cell phone as he shrugged on a shirt and buttoned up. 3:44 P.M.

  He was done waiting. Snagging the Veyron keys from the bureau, he left his quarters and headed down the long corridor toward the circular gallery with its hoard of paintings and armored figures.

  Afternoon sunlight poured into the foyer through the floor-to-ceiling stained glass window. It bathed the grand staircase and dappled the marble statues watching over the several tall potted plants in a kaleidoscope of colors.

  “Yo, Celt, where are you off to this early?” Týr called out, coming in from the direction of the kitchen and tearing open a packet of M&M’s. Once from the titanic pantheon of the Norse gods and now a fellow Guardian, the warrior’s disarrayed blond hair framed a face that had the females panting to get into his leathers.

  “I have something to take care of. Later.”

  Týr’s gaze dropped to the car keys in Blaéz’s hand. An eyebrow shot up. “You're taking the Veyron? I thought it was just another showpiece like all the other stuff you accumulate?”

  Blaéz let a goading smile take shape. He should give himself a medal for aping emotions. “I feel like a ride. I'm heading for the library.”

  “Why?” Týr’s brow furrowed. “We have one right here with a shitload of reading material.”

  “That we do. But it doesn’t have what I want… a rare edition.”

  Týr popped more of the candies into his mouth, crunched on the sweets and shrugged. “Whatever. But I'm getting the Harley back.”

  “You can try.” Blaéz headed for the door.

  Týr snorted then yelled after him. “I will, you tricky bastard.”

  ***

  The chill from the air conditioning blasted Blaéz in the face as he pushed open the door to the Renaissance styled library in East Village. Beneath the coldness, the musty odor of books wafted in the air. Black steel and mahogany shelves surrounded him and rose to the ceiling, crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers.

  A hush descended as he stepped into the library. The shocked silence had little impact on him. He checked out the queue waiting at the front desk. Three people manned the square mahogany counter, a male, an older, dark-haired female, and a younger blonde one, but no sign of her.

  He ignored the cautious but appreciative looks he received from the patrons and speculated with morbid reflection if they would continue admiring him if they knew what he was. A damned male who killed with no remorse, a being on a set course straight back to the very place that had made him what he was today. They’d definitely run screaming in the opposite direction.

  A sudden explosion of excited childish voices hit his ears. Blaéz stepped aside as a flurry of tiny feet stampeded his way and halted. Little faces stared up at him. Two young, female adults ushered them on but sent him coy smiles while trying to keep their charges in line. Seconds later, the door closed on their excited chatter.

  Blaéz brought his attention back to scanning for her. He tried to pick up on her elusive lilac scent and wondered at the state of his mind that he’d actually found out the name of the flower whose fragrance haunted him. Hedori hadn’t blinked an eyelid at his question — guess the butler was used to all their weirdness.

  Then the world around him slowed. His gaze fastened on the muttering female coming toward him from the far end of the library, carrying several hardcover volumes.

  Even with the distance, her scent reached out and yanked him by the chest. As if he’d awoken after a long sleep, warmth flowed through him like the rising sun. Greedily, he absorbed everything about her.

  A tight, black skirt an inch or so above her knees revealed long, tanne
d legs he wanted wrapped around his hips, his head — he really didn't care where, as long as they were around him. A simple, white, button-front top hugged her upper body and molded to her lush breasts. She’d put her curly hair up in a knot anchored with a pencil this time. Several strands had escaped their prison to frame a heart-shaped face he wanted to caress with his hands as he tasted her tempting mouth.

  She looked up and went utterly still. Unforgettable sunflower eyes met his. Impossible desire heated his blood and flowed to his groin. With sheer will alone, he tempered his needs.

  Then her eyes narrowed.

  The little spitfire didn't look happy. Good thing he had a thick hide. He wasn't leaving without what he’d come for.

  Her.

  ***

  Darci stumbled to a halt at the sight of Daniel’s rescuer standing just off the library’s entrance. Her stomach fluttered at his intense, pale-eyed perusal. Jeez, butterflies at her age? Pulling herself together, she gave him a cool look.

  What was he doing here? He certainly didn’t seem the type to indulge in reading — more like he’d be at home with thugs and assassins checking out guns, grenades, or whatever it was they used.

  Come on, Dars, just because the man wears black doesn’t make him a candidate for the mafia. For all she knew, he could be headed for the seminary.

  Still, she couldn’t look away. No leathers today. He looked like he’d stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Black tailored pants covered his muscled legs. The rolled up sleeves of his matching button down shirt revealed lightly tanned and powerful forearms. No matter the semi-formal attire, he couldn’t contain the air of peril he wore like a sexy second skin.

  And she was ogling a possible would-be priest. Wonderful.

  With heavy books weighing her arms down, she took a deep breath and got moving again.

  Darci set the hardcovers on the counter and met her co-workers’ curious gazes. Maria, older and unflappable, merely watched, but Irina, the new girl who’d started a few weeks ago to replace Wendy, who’d gotten married, gave her the thumbs up sign.

  Frowning, Darci turned. Her heart nearly leaped out of her chest to find him standing right behind her. Hastily, she stepped back. Darn, he smelled incredible, like a cool night’s breeze with a hint of leather. His bruises from yesterday had disappeared. Not a mark remained. How odd.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His cool gaze traveled leisurely over her face. He didn't seem bothered at her belligerence. “Testing a theory.”

  “What? That I'm difficult and bad-tempered?” she shot back.

  “No.” A hint of humor warmed his gaze. He reached out and stroked her bare arm with a warm, callused finger, shocking the life out of her. A tingle zapped through her like wildfire.

  She jerked free, hissed. “What the heck did you do?”

  His fingers balled, his pearlescent eyes swirling into a darker blue. Lines bracketed his sensual mouth as if in agony. A tick pulsed fiercely in his jaw. He looked shaken.

  Concern replaced her ire. “Are you okay?”

  A nod.

  Darci narrowed her eyes. He’d been hurting. She’d seen it. His stricken expression touched something inside her. She softened her tone. “You sure you're all right?”

  “Define ‘all right’,” he said, the pain lines around his mouth easing.

  She cocked an eyebrow and nodded to the thousands of books around them. “Since you're in the right place, how about a dictionary? While you're at it, look up “macho-bullcrap” — should be right next to all right.”

  A smile ghosted his mouth. It rearranged the hard lines of his face into something breathtaking. The man was utterly gorgeous. She had a feeling he rarely smiled. His gaze lingered on her lips. Her thoughts rushed right back to last night, of him trapping her against her door. Heat seeped through her and headed south as desired stirred. She swallowed, trapped by that knowing stare.

  “Darci?” Her boss’s voice snapped her out of her hypnosis. Hastily, she spun around and met the head librarian’s annoyed expression. And sighed.

  An inch taller than her, stocky, and with graying brown hair, Lester Barret disliked the staff socializing with patrons — or what he regarded as socializing. He persisted in running the library like boot camp.

  She faked a sweet smile. “Yes, Lester?”

  A low growl emitted from behind her. She shot a puzzled glance over her shoulder. Mr. Dark and Dangerous nailed Lester with a black look. So, he didn’t like anyone cutting in when he was talking? Then he stepped closer. He didn't touch her, but that possessive move had her heart skipping a beat.

  Darci quickly faced front and found her boss smoothing his gray tie with a jerky hand.

  “Get the rest of the new books from storage,” Lester rasped, suddenly sounding like he badly needed a drink of water. “They need to be catalogued and shelved. Today.”

  Dammit. Another late night. One day soon, she consoled herself, she’d run this place and Lester would be packing books. She didn't get her degree in library science to do this. She was his assistant, not a damn skivvy. Stuffing away her annoyance, Darci turned to her lethal visitor. “Can I help you with something, a book perhaps?” she asked, heading for the storeroom again.

  “What time do you finish here?” He followed her down the aisle. For such a big man, he moved silently, reminding her of a stalking jungle cat.

  “Why?”

  “So I can meet you.”

  He was straightforward; she’d give him that. “I'm sure a guy who looks like you must have women queuing at your doorstep, why me?”

  “For that very reason.”

  What? That she resisted instead of running to him? She snorted but was darn grateful he had no idea of how her pulse raced at his candid response. Not even with her ex had she experienced this stirring expectancy.

  “And you think I want you to come back?”

  “Absolutely.”

  That startled a laugh from her. “As you’ve heard, we’re working late.”

  He grasped her wrist, surprising her, and pulled her into an aisle between the shelves. “Give me a time.”

  His scent crowded her, urging her to agree. Darci fought to get her scattered wits to function. She pulled her hand free and stepped back, trying to rub away the prickling awareness his touch caused. Her gaze drifted over his chiseled features and settled on his far too tempting lips. Hurriedly, she looked away. Said off-handedly, “Eight, nine, midnight — with Lester in this mood, who knows?”

  “I don’t imagine you want me sitting in this library, little sun, but I will. A time.”

  Little sun? That threw her off. She met his resolute stare and realized he was deadly serious. The time was wrenched free from a suddenly dry throat. “Nine.”

  “Good.” He closed the space between them. Slowly, he trailed his finger along her jaw to caress her lower lip. “Until nine, then.”

  The next minute, he was gone, leaving her with only the books on the shelves as witness to how a simple touch of his hand had left her stunned stupid.

  Shaking the lassitude from her limbs, Darci hurried to the aisle to find him halfway across the library. How on earth did he move so fast? She touched her tingling mouth, her heart pounding in anticipation.

  Until nine.

  Chapter 3

  Blaéz hunkered on the rooftop of a warehouse in Lower Manhattan. Arms braced on his thighs, he scanned the backstreet. The stench drifting from the dumpsters lining the grimy walls several feet down ripened the muggy air.

  Another quiet night… No, not quite. The muffled beat of music and the conversation from the bar farther up the alley floated to him along with the murmur of traffic. The faint odor of sulfur lingered in the air at this known demonii hunting ground.

  No, evil never rested. He ought to know. It just regrouped to cause more destruction.

  A cloud drifted over the silvery gleam of the moon, shadowing the alley.

  Come, warrior…

  H
e shut his mental shields tight at the voices clawing for obedience. Evil may be taking a break tonight, but for him, his nightmare never ceased. He didn't want to think about what rejecting the call would do.

  Blaéz retrieved his cell phone and glanced at the display. Nine o’clock was minutes away. Time to make tracks. He’d parked the Veyron in one of the underground parking lot so he didn't have to worry about it. The memory of Darci made him recall the smile that she’d so easily brought to his face. Macho-bullcrap indeed. He’d sensed her reluctance to meet him. Too bad, he wasn't letting her go.

  Blaéz tapped his cell against his palm — as usual, anticipation was just a word in the dictionary. He was a moving, living block of nothing. The only part of him that had any fun was the tattooed sword on his biceps. Right then, it stirred in warning. Pulsed in demand for his summons, for the bloodthirsty glide of decapitation. The mark of Gaia never failed to remind him when evil trolled.

  The biting sensation of unadulterated malevolence crawled over his skin. They sure timed their arrival. He rose and slid his cell back into his pocket.

  “Keep your knickers on,” he murmured, not inclined to cooperate with his pulsing weapon. With humans farther up the street, loitering outside a busy bar, an audience was definite if he summoned his sword.

  He examined the shadows. A terrified whimper reached him. There. Against the looming building, three demoniis had cornered a human with his zipper undone. Idiot probably thought it safe to take a leak.

  Blaéz leaped off the tall building and landed on his feet. His gaze trained on the trio. Their sulfuric stink overtook the reek of the narrow lane. Like most New Yorkers, shades concealed their eyes, but he knew the truth of what lay behind. Glowing red eyes, evidence of the human souls they consumed. The scourges deserved nothing less than death.

  In a blur, their hands moved, stealing the earth’s natural energies and turning them into deadly bolts, and fired it at him. Blaéz dodged. They may have lost their abilities at their true death, but they still found a way to compensate. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Before your next one hits me, I’ll have you coating the asphalt in dust.”