Lilith sighed. “You’d better go.”
“I can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
Because I killed him. I lost control and killed the man I thought was my mate. What if I kill this one, too? The words stuck in her throat, refusing to be spoken. “I gotta go.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
Trina hung up and slipped the phone into her back pocket, pausing to check that her sidearm was holstered at the small of her back. Good luck? There was nothing good about this. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, her hands shook, and she’d been rattled to her core. If that was her mate out there, he was in danger, both from Crowley as well as herself.
Then again, a brief interaction with whoever stood out there wouldn’t send her over the edge. She touched the choker around her neck. It should keep her Magic to a manageable trickle. Besides, he wouldn’t even be able to see her unless she spoke or touched him. She wiped her eyes, straightened her back, lifted her chin, and took a deep breath; it was okay, the guy on her doorstep was not her mate. He couldn’t be; she’d killed her mate.
She opened the door wide.
Her first thought: If Hell needed bouncers, they’d look like this guy. She’d always had a particular type, and this man wasn’t it; he was too big, too everything.
Trina forced her gaze up. He must be in his mid-to-late-thirties. He had the anatomy of a fighter, all hard planes and tight, corded muscles. The color of his eyes was obscured; they simply reflected the lights from the house. His hair had been shorn tight to his scalp, revealing a high forehead, chiseled features, and a scruff-covered square jaw. His nose had been broken, the bump adding to the almost overwhelming character of his features. He wasn’t a handsome man, not in any sense of the word. He was too hard, too rugged. But he had an interesting face to go with an intriguing body.
The slightest frown must make him look downright mean, but now, wearing an amused expression, he appeared roguish. She had the distinct impression that he’d played the field a time or two . . . hundred.
“Is that appreciation in your eyes?” He winked.
He could see her? How long had she spent looking him over thinking he’d never be the wiser? No, damn it. He couldn’t be her mate. He wasn’t her type. She withdrew her Glock from its holster. Pointed it at him. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
His gaze rolled from the crown of her head to the black nail polish on her toes. He didn’t even blink at the gun. “You human? You’re giving off vibes I ain’t never come across before.” He tipped his head to the side.
She stared, taking a moment to shift through the jumbled mess that had come out of his mouth. He had a thick English accent, dropping half the sounds of the words, making him sound less James Bond and more Ray Winstone. She gasped. “Of course I’m human. What else would I be?”
He popped his bottom lip out, appearing to give the matter some thought. “Don’t know, could be like me.” He pulled the collar of his coat down to reveal a scar under his right ear—a jagged oval of webbed tissue. “But your heart’s thrumming right quick.” He cleared his throat. “And you ain’t got the smell of a lycan. So you tell me, love. What are you?”
Slowly, she lowered her gun. The damned thing wouldn’t do any good against a vampire anyway. Still, she was safe. The door shield would keep him out. “You’re on my property. You do the talking.”
“You’re gonna put away your gun, just like that?”
She scoffed. “As if shooting you would do anything more than piss you off. I know you can’t come any closer.”
“Do you, now?” His lips twitched up at the corners. “Seems you know an awful lot. How ’bout this?” He pulled a chain out of his shirt to reveal a silver Guardian pendant. A devil’s eye—an upside down y in a triangle—centered on an infinity symbol—a sideways figure eight. Infinite danger. “You know this?”
Lilith’s mate wore the same symbol. All the Guardians did. He was testing her. The Vampiric Council forbade Guardians from telling humans anything more about daemon kind than they already knew. “You work for the Watchers.”
“Yeah. They sent me.”
Trina’s mind raced. This guy, who, if he was a Guardian worked for both the Watchers and the Council, was throwing his allegiance out there as if it should put her at ease. But Crowley worked for the Council and the Watchers had never done her any favors. Hell, the Watchers didn’t even know she existed according to Lilith, so they couldn’t have sent him. “You know, I thought of how I can prove to you I’m human.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Oh?”
“Something I saw my BFF do to some unwanted company recently.” Lilith had banished Julius Crowley from the house by speaking two words and some force had hurled him off the property and he hadn’t been able to return.
She smiled sweetly while she fisted her hands, drawing energy from the Earth. It danced under her skin, lighting up all her nerves and making her heart race. “Go. Away.”
He slid back a foot, his arms pin-wheeling as he caught his balance. He frowned. “What the hell was that?”
Why hadn’t it worked? Was it her Magic? She narrowed her gaze. No. According to James, any human could banish a vampire from their property by speaking those two words, damn it! “Go away.”
He wobbled a little, but nothing more.
“Go. Leave. Go away. I command you to depart.” She waved her arms, shooing him. “Get off my property!”
He grinned. “Forget to take your meds, love?”
She slammed the door. Leaned back against it.
“Are you going to open up so we can chat?” His deep voice came through the closed door.
She remained silent.
“I can hear your heart beating. I know you’re still there.”
Why wouldn’t he leave?
“All right, then. Nice chat. Good meeting you. Tea tomorrow? I’ll come by around, oh, dusk. Sound good?” Silence stretched until her nerves were ready to shatter. He grumbled something unintelligible. The porch groaned under his weight as he left.
He’d be back. She either needed to relocate or find a way to get him to leave for good. She drew in a deep breath. Maybe if she took off the necklace, when he came tomorrow she could use her chaos Magic to confuse him—she had the ability to manipulate matter at the atomic level, even the energy currents within a mind. She’d send him back to wherever he came from. It’d be simple.
She sighed. The karmic kickback would be severe. She’d be sending him to certain death if he returned to the Council without completing his assignment . . . whatever that might be.
Besides, she couldn’t rely on her Magic, not as haywire as it’d been. If she took the necklace off, she might end up killing him instead of banishing him.
First things first. She needed to get Rowena’s Grimoire. Once she solved her little problem with her Magic, she’d get rid of the big dude, find Crowley and destroy him.
Her legs started to tremble—she wasn’t just leaning against the door, but using her whole body as a barricade. She let out a shaky laugh. This was silly. He’d never get past the door shield.
But she hadn’t been able to banish him and that could only mean one thing.
Dear goddess, he was her mate.
Chapter 5
The Astral Plane
The thick irons clasped around Julius Crowley’s wrists kept him suspended from the ceiling. His ankles, too, were bound, anchoring him to the floor. At one point, this room had been beautiful, with painted walls and sanded hardwoods. Art had hung from sliver hooks and decorated the shelves, like a small, fine-art gallery tucked into one neat little room.
Nothing but rubble remained. Water puddled on the floor. A couple of the lights still worked, which left the room in semi-darkness. Every statue had been smashed, every painting blurred with turpentine, everything was a shadow of what it had once been. Even him.
One item remained intact—a wind chime.
It was a silly, happy thing. Stupid, r
eally. A conglomeration of gossamer strings tied to colorful glass butterflies that clinked with the slightest breeze. He couldn’t remember why it was here, but it gave him something to focus on. Something bright and whole amid all the darkness and destruction.
He’d been focusing on that wind chime for a long fucking time.
Years.
Decades.
Centuries.
This—everything around him—wasn’t real. It was a trick of a broken mind. A refuge from the horror of everyday life. When he couldn’t take anymore reality, he turned inward and came here. But lately, even here had become an exercise in misery.
Except for the butterflies.
Mr. Crowley, we’re going to clean you up and prepare you for a few tests.
Something tugged at him, prodding him. Not here in this room in his mind, but out there in the real world. Someone was doing something to his body. He shied away from the clinical rubber-clad hands, from the frigid slab at his back, the sudden chill on his skin.
Here, in this room in his mind, his skin broke out in gooseflesh as his clothing vanished.
Maybe he should go back. See what they were doing to him. See who they were.
He shook his head. Much more reality and he would break. Better to stay here in this boring, dreary room where nothing was real. Not that here was safe, but it was safer.
Above him, in the main part of the house, the floorboards creaked. Dust trickled down.
His whole body tensed. He wasn’t alone. He hadn’t been alone—even within the confines of his mind—in centuries. Something else roamed in here . . . in him . . . something terrible.
His gaze followed the footsteps across the ceiling. They came down the stairs behind him. They were far too soft to belong to the thing that lived here with him. Was Azazel fucking about? Trying to surprise him from sleep? It would be just like the bastard to force him back to reality. Azazel wanted him broken.
The door at the base of the stairs opened, sending the chimes spinning and tinkling in the resulting breeze. Rainbow lights spiraled across the walls. The scent of cinnamon permeated the air. That couldn’t be Azazel. Not with a scent like that.
The intruder paused. Light footsteps hurried around to his front.
He’d seen her before—Kat was her name. She’d visited him a few weeks ago, but he hadn’t expected to ever see her again. She reminded him of Katherine the Great, his mate, and the high-priestess of the old coven. Except Katherine had been tall, thin, and harsh as hell.
That was the thing about life-mates. It wasn’t all Disney-style singing and googly eyes. Eventually, yes, a life-mate would bring happiness, passion, and love. But a life-mate’s true purpose was to challenge their mate to be better than they were. As such, life-mates, especially when introduced before they were ready, could be brutal. When he’d met Katherine, he’d been ready—he’d fallen ass over tit in love. That’s why he’d never seen her betrayal coming. Still, she’d fulfilled her duty as a life-mate. She’d taught him a lesson, one about trust and loyalty and how neither should be awarded until won in both word and deed. It was a lesson he’d never forget.
The top of this woman’s head only reached mid-chest on him. Her frame was anything but thin—voluptuous would be a more apt word. Gorgeous, another. With wide hips and heavy breasts, she was softness personified. Her red hair stood out in a riot of curls around her head. Katherine would’ve hated her on sight.
He tried shrinking in on himself, he didn’t want her seeing him like this. Didn’t want her seeing all the scars. But there was nothing he could do. Her gaze stroked over him. A blush highlighted her cheeks as she bit her lip.
He felt it in his groin.
Her bright green gaze met his and didn’t waver again. “I discovered your name. It’s easier to find you on the astral now, Julius Crowley.”
He closed his eyes. Yes, she would know his name now. They’d met her in the real world since her last visit. He, or rather the bastard residing in here with him, had ordered her death at one point, which is why he never expected to see her again.
She folded her arms under her breasts. “I think I know your other secret, too.”
He snorted. She couldn’t possibly.
A shiver stole over her. She glanced around as if searching for eavesdroppers. Leaned forward to whisper, “Who’s in here with you?”
The air seemed to congeal in his chest. She was messing with things best left alone. “Don’t.” The single word came out more of a croak than a demand.
“See, my friend Claire, she’s fantastic with dream Magic. I told her about this.” She waved her arm around, indicating everything around them. “The house—how dilapidated and ruined everything is. You, chained-up in the basement surrounded by broken art. You know what she said?”
“Please stop.” Leave me alone. This is all I have.
“She said in dreams, houses represent a person’s body. In this case, yours.”
Broken. Dilapidated. Ruined. “I don’t need to hear this.” She was going to ruin this. Make him think about what was happening out there to his body. To the world.
“And the basement is that person’s last reserves. She fears that if you’ve anchored yourself all the way down here at the bottom, that you must be at the end of your rope. That you’re close to giving up.”
“I don’t want to hear this.” He’d been content, lying to himself for centuries—that he had some control. That he wasn’t broken. That he never would be.
“And the other night . . .?”
He closed his eyes, trying to shut her out.
“Remember? When you ordered that thug to slit my throat. Right after the order left your mouth, you shouted for him to stop.”
Jesus, she had the same tone as if she were telling him about the dress she’d worn that night. He’d ordered her fucking throat slit. “You’re too sweet to die at the hands of an asshole like that.”
“You sounded different when you ordered him to stop. Your voice. Your expression wasn’t so . . . jaded.” She came closer. Put her small hand on the rise of his pec. Her touch, so foreign, too light, almost burned. His breath hissed out.
Those bright green eyes of hers stared up. So trusting. She had no idea what an absolute bastard he was. “So tell me, Julius,” she wet her lips, “are you crazy or are you possessed?”
Both. I’ve been possessed so long, I’ve gone mad.
“To be honest, possessed would be the easier of the two to fix, but either way, I’ll find a way to help you.” She grinned. “I’m a—”
“Why are you doing this?” Why wouldn’t she leave him alone, for Christ’s sake?
Her smile faded. “You’re my mate.”
A startled laugh burst out of him, bitter and strained. “My mate wouldn’t deign to arch her dainty brow if doing so would save my fucked-up life. Try again.”
Her brow arched. She lifted up on her tiptoes—“You shouldn’t cuss.”—and planted her soft lips right against his. All at once, it was far too much stimulation, and not enough. Part of him wanted to lean in. Part wanted to jerk away. Maybe she was his mate. Maybe she was ready now and would help instead of hurt him. Jesus, this was more warmth than he’d experienced in ages. More sweetness than he’d tasted in . . . . God help him, he couldn’t remember. Unwanted tears pricked his eyes. It was so, so good. And it wasn’t real.
This was a fucking dream.
Footsteps, heavy this time, tromped across the floorboards overhead.
He pulled back with a groan. “You have to go.”
She shook her head. “This is your dream. You have control here.”
Footfalls descended the stairs.
“Leave me.” He had no control. Not anywhere. “Get out.”
Her gaze traveled between him and the door at his back. She took a step away, twisting her pinky-finger with the fingers of her other hand. “I think you can make him leave.”
She shouldn’t have faith in him. He didn’t. “You’re wrong.”
Behind him, the door swung open with enough force to send the wind chime into a cacophony of sound. Rainbow lights jerked, streaking across the walls as if in a panic.
He shouted, “Go!”
She jumped. Faded from the Astral as she woke back in the real world.
But he remained.
The heavy footsteps neared from behind. The air grew heavy with the stench of decay. “Who were you talking to?”
“Myself.” He winced. He’d answered too fast.
Behind him, Azazel drew in a long, deep breath. “Someone else was here.”
“In my head?” He scoffed. “Anybody else moves in here, we’ll be tripping over each other.”
“I smell them.” Azazel snorted, sending a burst of hot air over his shoulder. “Someone was here.”
“If so, wouldn’t that be a figment of my imagination?”
“Am I?” Azazel moved, pottery fragments crunching beneath his feet until Azazel stood before him, filling his vision.
Here, in his mind, Azazel never took the same shape and never appeared in his true form. Today was no exception. The fallen angel must have been feeling nostalgic, for he’d chosen the image of an ancient Greek legend—the Minotaur. The horned beast wasn’t anything like how Homer described, though he could imagine this Minotaur as one of the infernal guardians Dante depicted in Inferno. This Minotaur was diseased; the flesh beneath its fur rotting, beginning to peel. Milky-white cataracts glazed over his eyes. Yeah, he looked like something straight out of one of Dante’s hells.
He schooled his features, refusing to flinch. Showing weakness in front of Azazel wasn’t wise. Instead, after giving him a long, insolent stare, he turned his gaze to the butterflies.
“I’ll ask you one last time.”
His putrid façade came so close, sour breath bathed over Julius, making him gag.
“Who was here?”
With nothing but force of will, he laughed in Azazel’s face. Fear made his tone shrill. Made him sound insane.
Without another word, Azazel whipped away. In two strides he stood before the wind chime.
Julius’ laughter came to an abrupt halt as his breath caught. He strained against his chains. He shouldn’t react but that was the last decent thing here. The only thing keeping him somewhat in his right mind.
The Shadow: The Original's Trilogy Page 4