Hell's Gates (Urban Fantasy)

by Celia Kyle

  “Oh,” Jezze glanced around and shrugged. “It’s always like this.”

  “Wonderful taste in men you have here,” I drawled.

  She snorted. “Yeah, okay, Pot.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Are you implying I called you black, Kettle?”

  She shrugged. “All I’m saying is that none of my exes have tried to kill me.”

  “Yet.” It was more or less inevitable. Immortality came with a price and a long line of jilted ex-lovers was part of the bargain. I’d had more than one—okay, a few—run ins with my exes last year. Two of them ended up dead when all was said and done, and the third sorta got his ass beat.

  By me.

  But it wasn’t my fault he got handsy.

  I stabbed the doorbell, cringing with the drawn-out buzz that filled the air. We waited, me keeping an eye on our surroundings while Jezze focused on a swaying Chris. Yeah, no response. I pushed it again, hating the obnoxious sound, and we still didn’t get an answer.

  I sniffed at the air, letting my wolf senses stretch and search for anyone that might be inside. Beyond the stench of beer, old refuse, and mold, I picked up a few human scents. A third ring. When no one answered, I muttered, “Fuck it,” and rammed my boot heel against the lock.

  The old, rotted wood splintered easily, the door slamming open. Once inside, I paused to look around, grimacing in disgust. I’d seen plenty of death in my years, six centuries gave me a glimpse at the worst of life. And, admittedly, I caused a bit of that myself, but what I saw was something else.

  Not just disturbing and disgusting, it was just… uncaring. Neglect.

  Several humans were scattered around the room, clearly stoned out of their minds. Stains littered the carpet and linoleum—vomit, blood, and On High knew what else. I shuddered even imagining what it could all be. It made my wolf whimper and curl up in a ball, hiding from the mess. I could be a slob, no doubt, but this sort of dilapidation came when people had simply given up on life.

  I picked my way into the middle of the room, keeping a nearby hallway in my peripheral vision. I had no idea what else might linger in the shadows, and I really didn’t feel like getting surprised at the moment. One of the teens stared up at me, eyes unfocused. His irises had a faint red glow, something normally a sign of dems. Or someone possessed by a demon.

  “Which one of you is Jacob?” I projected my voice, making sure it pounded through the room and filled the heads of each drugged out human.

  The one in front of me raised his hand and then put a joint to his lips and took a long drag, inhaling something that smelled toxic, something more than pot. He blew a stream of smoke to the side, sparking a cough from the little girl sitting next to him. She looked too young to even be in school and my anger rose a few inches. Her eyes also bore a soft, red glow, no doubt the side effects of a contact high from the others.

  “Jezze,” I didn’t take my eyes off the toking human. “Get the kids outta here.”

  The witch darted forward, scooping up the little girl and then snatching Chris by the hand. I listened as she took them both back out to the car, doors opening and then closing with a solid thud.

  I stared down at Jacob, not hiding my disgust. What people put in their bodies was their business. I’d hit bottom before. I knew what it was like to give up. But not once, not ever, had I gotten so bad I hurt children. I didn’t neglect anyone but myself. That didn’t make my bullshit behavior right, but if things were going to Hell, it was just me dancing Down Below.

  Jacob raised the joint to his lips again and I kicked out, knocking it from his hand. I didn’t want to get too close, not when I had no idea what the fuck he was on. I stomped the blunt, snuffing it out, and then leaned down and picked it up. I waved it in front of my nose, not wanting to inhale too much of the stuff. It held the scent of weed, but there was something just a hint off about it.

  I scanned the room, ignoring the general refuse, and spied a few plastic baggies. I gathered them, noting the “logo” on each one. Yeah, “logo.” I recognized it as a slightly altered demonic rune—a signature from whoever had poisoned my son.

  I opened a baggie and took a sniff, frowning when I couldn’t place the nearly odorless scent. Dammit. It was obvious they’d laced their joints with the stuff and I noticed a few lines tapped out across a mirror on the coffee table.

  Snorting it too, then.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  Jacob and his friends laughed.

  And there went the last of my patience. I kicked him in the ribs, internally frowning when I didn’t hear the tell-tale crack of a rib. Disappointing. “Listen to me, fucknut. This shit is travelling all over town. Where did you get it?”

  “Dude, dude, dude,” Jacob rasped, shaking his head in a daze. “Don’t be so lame. Just chill.”

  I looked around the room, noting each expression. A couple of the teens glared at me, teeth bared. Their breathing came in sharp inhales. Their bodies were tense as if they were ready to pounce. My attention landed on an unconscious pizza boy. The red scratches marring his face matched the bloody stains under the stoned group’s fingernails.

  One of the idiots pounced, movements so sluggish and clumsy that I didn’t even bother glancing his way before throwing out a quick kick. The heel of my boot connected with his head, dropping him to the ground in a lump. He curled up in a whining ball before losing consciousness.

  The other teens laughed and clapped, a couple shouting “Dude!” and “Sweet!” I huffed. It was clear they were too out of it to answer my questions.

  I bent down and hefted the delivery boy over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry. I looked tiny to the average man, but looks were deceiving and all that. I tossed him in the backseat next to the kids.

  Tugging one of the plastic baggies from my pocket, I waved it in Chris’ face. “Did you take some of this, Chris?”

  He frowned, eyebrows drawn together, and stared at the bag for a moment. His eyes struggled to focus, and I knew his thoughts were probably sluggish. “I wanted to show my friends.” His words were slightly slurred. “I thought they’d think it was cool.”

  Of course.

  Jezze pinched the bridge of her nose. “Those kids… they were so young.”

  “And they’re the beginning.” I tossed the baggies in the glove compartment. “If it’s being sold like a normal narcotic, it starts with kids, teens, then college, before it gets to tourists who want to ‘enhance’ their Orlando experience.” While climbing on rides drunk or drugged out sounds fun, no one’s laughing with their head in a garbage can.

  I thought back to my customers who’d been affected. I knew most of ‘em well enough to know that drugs weren’t their thing. Liquor was their vice of choice. So these happy baggies weren’t the only way the drug was getting into town.

  But it was a start.

  I took a deep breath and fought for a little calm. I needed a clear head if I was going to suddenly act like a DEA agent. I was a fighter. I saw bad shit. I ended shit. Done. I didn’t rock this Investigation Discovery TV channel stuff.

  Now I needed to find the dealer so they could lead us to the supplier and also find out how they were getting it into the water.

  Plus, there was the why angle. Selling to willing users was their deal. Poisoning unsuspecting people—tweeners and humans—wasn’t gonna fly.

  “What do we do?”

  “Okay,” I shook my head and tried to clear it of the biggest worries. Like astronauts, I had to “work the problem.” “You take the kids to your mom until we can find their parents. The stoners back there,” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder at the house, “we’ll lock up someplace safe and secure until they come down and we can get information out of them. Right now, they’re dangerous. They attacked this guy.” I tilted my head at the pizza boy. “We can get him patched up and when dark falls, we’ll have Manon come tweak his memory.” Ugh, I’d owe the vampiress another favor.

  “And you?”

  I pulled out my pho
ne. “I’m going to call Bergamot. He hasn’t beaten anyone to shit lately and I’m sure his dem half will enjoy a little game of interrogate the idiots.”

  A sparkle entered Jezze’s eyes. “And when you’re done with the humans?” She gave me a naughty grin and I sighed.

  “No feeding them to the gators unless they’re evil. Plus, we’d have to give them time to detox first.”

  Jezze harrumphed but nodded. “True, we don’t want to poison Franky-baby and his harem.”

  A year later and the death of my own pet gator still stung. Jezebeth still kept trying to drag me out to steal some new pets from zoos, but I hadn’t been able to nut up just yet.

  “You know, Brigitte just laid eggs…”

  I shot her a glare and I knew my eyes glowed red, anger overriding sense for a moment. “No.”

  “Fine,” she snapped, not fazed in the least. That’s what sucked about having best friends. They didn’t take the bullshit.

  Instead, she returned my snarl and then stomped around the car, flopping behind the wheel. While she started the car and roared down the street, I called up Berg and told him to “borrow” a van from my ex, Justin. It was too good a temptation for the brownie-demon. He’d been around when all that crap went down last year and was firmly in the “beat everyone who hurt Caith” camp.

  It didn’t take him long to zip onto pack lands, “borrow” the van and show up at the house. He helped me get the stoners nice and tidy inside, even getting the joy of punching one when he got violent. The rest were too dazed or passed out to care. The drive to the bar was quick, and we tossed them in dry storage in the back, hands and legs tied.

  While we waited for them to sober up, I made a few calls. Momma R reported that Bry was the same, which was a small blessing. I knew being at his side wouldn’t solve anything. I needed to be handling this, but that didn’t take away the need to be near him.

  The rest of my conversations revolved around the drug. My contacts knew nothing, but several had seen the symptoms in their friends—friends who wouldn’t touch drugs, which meant they ingested it through tainted water or something similar. I kept a few samples to give to Papa Finn and then called on one of the deeper rings of hell. I needed a fire that burned so hot there wasn’t even smoke or ash left when it was done.

  Sounds from the back told me the stoners were waking up and I headed back there, laughing when Berg was anxious to join me. Most of them were too groggy and useless to answer questions so I turned to Jacob. It’d been his house, after all.

  I crouched in front of him and slapped him across the face a few times, the last handful with more force than necessary. “Yo. Dipshit. Time to wake up.”

  I smacked him again because it was fun.

  His eyes shot open, the irises blazing red, and filled with pure malevolence. “Go to hell, mongrel bitch.”

  I didn’t let my surprise show, instead tilting my head and quirking a brow. The voice that came from the human’s mouth was deeper—more feral—than the way he’d sounded earlier.

  “Who the fuck are you calling a mongrel, assfuck?” There was the good breeding and manners I’d been raised with. I mentally snorted. Not.

  “I’m going to enjoy taking you down, pretty pretty,” the voice in Jacob’s throat growled. “I bet you beg when you’ve been put in your place. Beg and whine like the good little bitch you are. Aren’t you, puppy?”

  “You fucking.” Punch. “Son.” Slap. “Of a whore.” Punch. I clenched my fists, palms heating with my rage. “Who are you and what are you doing in my town?”

  He laughed, a mad cackle with spittle flying from his lips. “Would you like to know, pretty slut? You will soon enough. Soon, soon, soon…”

  He chuckled again, throwing his head back as the eerie laugh echoed off the walls. I pushed to my feet and gave him a rough kick to the ribs. “Don’t fuck with me, asshole. You clearly don’t get it, do you?” I called on the fires of Hell. It came easier now, jumping to my fingertips now that I’d gotten back into the habit of dipping my toe into the den of evil. I cradled the roiling ball, tossing it back and forth from hand to hand. “I’m the niece of—“

  “Oh, I know who your uncle is.” He poked out his lower lip. “But he can’t help you now, can he? No one can, little girl. No one is going to save you or your little bastard bo—“

  I snarled and whipped out my leg, nailing him square in the jaw. His head snapped back, cracking against the wall, and he slumped forward unconscious. The reaction was instinctual, my wolf pushing me into motion without giving me a chance to think things through. Not that I wouldn’t have sent the kid into la-la land, but I might have questioned him a little more. But he’d mentioned Bry. He’d mentioned Bry and not being saved and…

  At least I hadn’t killed him. Yet.

  “Shit,” I muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.” My wolf didn’t feel the slightest bit contrite. It snapped its jaws and snarled, desperate to hunt, find, and kill. There was a target now, a definite person behind this. They knew me, knew my uncle. And didn’t care. I flexed my fingers, tips aching with the emergence of my wolf’s nails. I wanted—needed—to track this person down and rip their head off before sending them down to Hell.

  Then I’d hire a priestess to bring the fucker back. And then again. And again. And… until my fucking arm got tired and my rage was exhausted.

  I was going to find a way to make that wish come true. I’d track this shit to its source… before it infected all of Orlando.

  8

  I balanced the end of my bat on one finger, the pale ash remaining perfectly in balance while I paced the outer edges of the room. I eyed the Mona Lisa, her secret smile, and noticed the red hue of her eyes. I flicked my attention to the corner, searching for the artist’s signature: L da Vito.

  Lucifer da Vito. Devil’s life. Cute.

  I snorted and moved on to the next painting, The Birth of Venus with more red eyes. This one by S da Parto.

  Satan da Parto. Satan’s birth. Or delivery.

  I circled the entire office, making the rounds with my pretty little bat still in place, ready to be used if needed. The sword hadn’t done anything and two of those strapped to my back were a hell of a lot more conspicuous than a baseball bat. With me in boots, ragged jeans, and a thin shirt, I looked like a grub ready to play ball, not a bitch looking for a reason to swing.

  A door quietly opened and then swung shut, the latch snipping into place.

  “Enjoying the artwork?” Killian’s voice flowed over me, his cultured accent holding a slight purr.

  If only he did something for me. “Pretty.”

  He hummed and I listened to his approach, eight-hundred-dollar dress shoes sinking into the plush carpet. I was sure he paid retail, too. I was a shoe girl. It was a thing. “The human copies are nice,” he paused beside me, “but I prefer the originals myself.”

  I could understand why. Some of my uncle’s evil coated the painted surface, his passion for the art imbued in the canvases. Appealing to lesser demons.

  I shrugged and moved to the next. Or pretended to anyway. Taking two steps away from the lawyer gave me enough space to flip my bat and swing it around, pressing the end to the center of Killian’s chest.

  “As nice as Uncle Luc’s artwork is, that’s not why I’m here.”

  He simply smirked, a tilt of his lips. Yeah, still nothing going on below the belt. If anything, the wolf was acting as an anti-arousal.

  “Then by all means.” He took a step back and slowly strolled to his desk. He lowered himself to the leather chair and placed his folded hands on the shined surface. “Let us discuss the reason you’re here.”

  Bat slung over one shoulder, I dug in my pocket with my free hand and tossed the small baggie onto Killian Howe’s desk. I stared him right in the eye, silently daring him to lie. “What do you know about this? Is Uncle Luc in my sandbox? Is that why he’s not answering me?”

  Killian flicked his attention to the bag and then back to me. If he was surpri
sed to see it, he had a damned good poker face. “I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  I tightened my grip on the bat. My nerves were ragged, scraped raw by the events of the last few days and I knew I’d snap soon.

  Chicago in Orlando. How fun.

  “You…” I whispered the word. “You’re not at liberty? And what, exactly, does that mean?”

  “Confidentiality.” He spread his hands apologetically, but I saw the joy in his eyes. “There are certain issues I can assist you with, and others I cannot discuss. This is one of the latter.”

  Rage burned. It bubbled in my veins, pumping to the beat of my heart and a single tendril of smoke rose from the handle of my bat.

  I wasn’t going to blow up the building. I wasn’t. I spoke through gritted teeth. “Then what the fuck are you at liberty to discuss? Because so far, I’ve gotten jack all from your ass.”

  “I’m at your disposal for any matters that would normally fall under your uncle’s purview.”

  I licked my lips and tilted my head to the side, giving the lawyer a narrow-eyed stare. I rolled his words around in my head, dissecting them and trying to discover Killian’s real message. My uncle was a frustrating man at the best of times, so it wasn’t easy to figure out what I could get out of the attorney.

  Perhaps I’d stormed out of our last meeting too soon. As frustrated as I’d been with Killian, he was probably operating under a certain set of restrictions. Lucifer was all about fine print and carefully worded contracts.

  Contracts signed in blood.

  Hypothetically, Killian could even want to help me, but be unable due to his Hellborne agreement. Something that restricted what he could say or do. Which was totally Uncle Luc’s style. Then there was the other angle; it could be one of Killian’s other clients and he couldn’t exactly reveal that information either. Yet Uncle Luc had sent me Killian Howe for a reason.

  “So, you can help me.”

  Killian nodded, smirk back in place.

  “And my answers are only as good as my questions.”

  “Correct.” He leaned back in his chair, hands steepled, and studied me with his cold, dark eyes. I had a hard time holding his gaze when his eyes went all black. Too much… nothingness there.