by RS Black
Pandora
“You smell like him,” Dean whispered into my ear as we stepped through one of Boston’s local watering holes, The Drunken Horse.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I glared at Death. “Let’s not pretend like you don’t know why, you freak.”
Snickering, he grabbed my hand, bringing my palm to his lips and giving it a sensuous nip.
I lifted a brow. Not entirely unaffected, my nipples were currently shoving against my thin cotton shirt like twin pebbles.
“I taste his blood on you.”
“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes, yanking my hand out of his hold. “Try not to sound so turned on by it. Dick told me to run him off, I did.”
Shaking his head, Dean turned and scanned the interior of the low-lit bar.
The place had a comfy, down-on-your-luck kind of vibe to it. The mahogany bar gleamed a rich shade of brown, the stools were black and utilitarian, and there were dartboards and billiards, a small dance floor, and an Irish love fest of neon signs hanging from every wall.
This place didn’t serve food, or try putting on airs. They did one thing and they did it well. They exported the finest Irish whiskey and beer straight from the motherland.
My kind of place.
Grunting, Dean watched as a blonde bimbo sauntered by in a too-tight pair of jeans and leather halter top.
I sniffed as the stench of way too much cheap perfume smacked me in the nose.
“Unless you want a truckload of STD’s, I’d give that one a wide berth.” I jerked my chin in the direction of Blondie, who also happened to be giving me a thorough once-over.
“Yeah, but”—Dean grinned—“she’s been an awfully naughty girl. I’m thinking she might need a little...punishment for it. And besides, I can’t get sick.”
I grimaced. Having sex with a diseased “thing” just didn’t do it for me, but apparently it made not a bit of difference to him.
Dean was a perverted freak. But his sexual habits were none of my business. Gesturing toward her, I shrugged. “Then be my guest; just play nice with your food this time. The mess last time just about turned my stomach.”
There’d been blood. Guts. And a very naked Dean sitting all alone on his bed, wearing nothing but red and a satisfied smile. There’d also been a madness in his eyes that let me know if I stepped one foot closer he’d have me for his own. First time in ever that I’d turned and run away from an offer like that.
He shook his head. “The sooner you admit you want me, the sooner we can get this out of our system.”
Chuckling, his warm breath fanned the shell of my ear and made me shiver. But not just with need or want.
For months he’d been making moves on me, but...I don’t know, intuition, knowledge, something told me that he didn’t really want me. He certainly didn’t love me. No, what Dean was doing was testing me.
I couldn’t really explain why I believed that, other than I did.
“Don’t you wish.”
Snapping his fingers at the all-too-human bartender who glided by, Dean ordered us both whiskey on the rocks—he’d developed an annoying habit lately of studying my food likes and dislikes and then ordering for me. Death was one giant source of confusion for me.
Leaning against the bar, he turned to me. But I knew he was listening to the world around him. Was aware of the three female coeds slipping out of the bathroom, laughing and tripping over themselves as they made their way to the front door.
Of the man two seats down, half-asleep and with his head in his hands.
Of the woman at the booth closest to the dance floor who was playing footsie with the man seated in front of her, who in all likelihood was not her husband.
Dean and I had spent the night walking the black market, looking and asking questions. Showing the dead doc’s pic to vendors and asking about a Scotsman with jacked-up teeth.
Eventually we’d hit pay dirt.
Ansel Bruce had been seen in the company of one Dr. Patrick Smith just two nights ago. And Ansel’s favorite place in the whole wide world? Why, The Drunken Horse, of course. Where he’d spent forty percent of his life and where he could be found most nights. The vendor had even been so sweet as to provide us with a picture of the gentleman.
Of course I’d had to shove a claw through his belly to make him so compliant, but that was just semantics.
And now we knew exactly who to look for.
I didn’t know what exactly Ansel knew, but I knew he knew something and I wasn’t leaving here until I discovered just what that something was.
The bartender slid two glasses our way. I latched onto the cool glass, bringing it slowly to my lips and taking my first sip. It was earthy and hot, and it delivered a wicked kick to the gut when it landed in my belly.
Dean’s gaze had returned to the hussy.
“You think you might divine the essence of life between her thighs?”
“Hm?” He frowned, and then snorted as he took a sip of his whiskey, inhaling deeply after his swallow. “You jealous, my little Dorrie girl?”
I really hated his nicknames for me.
“Not really. Though”—I shrugged—“I am bored. We’ve got time to kill until we find our friend, so tell me, what is it about that blonde that’s got you all hot and bothered? Lust is just dying to know,” I purred and then ran my finger up the column of his throat.
From the corner of my eye I saw Blondie’s nostrils flare. Hm...already proprietary, was she? How fun.
Dean grabbed onto my fingers, giving them a squeeze and holding my gaze for three heartbeats before answering. “You don’t think she’s my type?”
I laughed, leaning over him as if flirting with him. Okay, yeah, I was totally trying to get on the bitch’s nerves, not because I wanted Dean—I didn’t—but I hadn’t lied; I was totally bored and right now this was making me smile.
“No, my skeletal friend.” I nipped onto the lobe of his ear with my teeth, hard enough to make him flinch in response. “I don’t.”
When I pulled back, there was a dark glitter burning through his gaze.
It always astounded me that Dean never tried to hide his eyes. I mean, neither did I or any of my family, but we thralled mortals to forget about it after the fact. Dean never did. He simply was who he was and the strange part was, though the mortals noticed, they never seemed to freak out about it.
I wonder what that must feel like. The freedom to simply be.
“You think you know me, Dorrie,” he chuckled, tipping his head back and swallowing the rest of the whiskey in one final swig, then belching, he said, “but you don’t.”
Twisting around so that my arms were braced against the bar, giving me a bird’s-eye view of the only point of egress, I shrugged. “Does anyone?”
Tapping the bar top for another drink, he shook his head. “So you want to get to know me?”
“Not especially. But I figure since I’m stuck with you, at least until I figure out whatever Ansel has or knows, I may as well kill some time.”
The bartender swapped glasses with him. Drinking the next shot straight, he set the glass down and wiped his mouth. “I’m old. That’s all you need to know.”
“Yup.” I shot a glance at the increasingly drunk bimbo still glaring hotly at us. “But I do know you well enough to know that tonight you’ll be feasting between those size eight thighs.”
Leaning his head on his fist, he grinned. “You just love giving me hell about that, don’t you? What’s the matter? Lust feeling ignored lately?”
Snorting, I drank the last bit of my shot, shaking my head at the bartender when he tried to swoop in for a refill.
I was just about to give Dean a pithy reply when a familiar face entered the bar.
Ansel was maybe five foot ten, thin for a man, with a freakishly long and angular face. His skin wasn’t just white, it was pale white. Almost bluish, and there was a sheen of sweat that gleamed under the bar lights. Brown hair with gray at the temples that he combed back into a ponyta
il. Dressed in green khaki pants and a burnt orange Big Country ringer T, the man was hard to overlook.
His hands were in his pockets and even as he moved toward the bar, a few seats down from where we sat, I could tell he was fidgety and nervous.
Standing straight, I waited until he’d taken a seat to say, “Something’s not right here.”
Dean, who normally loved to contradict me, for once said nothing.
Just to make certain we had our boy, I waited until Ansel made his order. The moment he opened his mouth there was no mistaking the buck teeth. We had our boy, all right.
Dean was already moving to take a seat on Ansel’s right. I took the left.
The moment we sat, Ansel squeezed his eyes shut. “You’ve come.”
Okay, the guy might be as ugly as homemade soap, but that accent had always done a number on me. Lust perked up at the sound of the scratchy Scottish burr. What a shallow little wench she was.
“Hi.” I smiled and held out my hand. “Who are you?”
Turning to me, ignoring Death completely, his green eyes were unflinching as they studied me. “I think you know who I am, demon. And I know who you are.”
“That’s nice. Yeah.” I nodded, winking at Dean, who was drilling Ansel’s skull with a gimlet eye. “Good. Glad we’re not going to pretend that you don’t know who I am. It’s going to make this process so much easier. Now”—I turned my hand over—“give me the map and this time I might actually let one of you live.”
I don’t know if I was more surprised that Ansel had the thing on him, or that he actually handed it over to me without a word of protest to be had. It didn’t escape me that his skin felt disgustingly clammy. He didn’t look sick—pale, yes, but not sick.
Staring dumbly at the metal disk in my hand, I couldn’t stop frowning. That’d been too easy. Way too easy.
The disk was a thin sheet of hammered bronze with etchings marked on it. Not words, and not really symbols I could make sense of, but judging by the faint pulse of power emanating off it, this was the real deal.
“Why’d you give this to me?”
“Because you asked.” He sighed, took his beer, and took a long pull from it before coming back up for air.
I cocked my head.
“Ah, now I get it.” Dean smirked.
Well, I didn’t get it. I glared at him. “Get what?”
Clamping his hand on Ansel’s shoulder, Dean squeezed just slightly. “You work for the other side, don’t you, rat?”
Other side?
It took my sluggish brain time to process what Dean was talking about. What other side? Surely not the Order. So who...
But the second I asked it, I knew.
“Clever.” I nodded. “How long have you been a double mole?” I lifted a brow in question.
Taking his time swallowing before he answered, Ansel glanced at me. “Feels like forever.”
There was a tremulous ache to his words that caught me off guard. This was a man in way over his head and only just coming to the realization of it. A sentiment I understood all too well.
I tapped my fingers on the bar as Dean grabbed Ansel’s hand and turned it over, exposing the tiny tattooed F on the inside of his pinky finger. It was in a place easily overlooked, small enough that it could have passed for a birthmark, but also obvious enough to the trained eye.
Here was a man who supposedly worked for the FF—he even wore their mark—but he actually worked for the Triad.
I knew there were moles—there were always moles—but this one just wasn’t making sense to me.
“What in the world could possibly be incentive enough to go against four of the fiercest demon lords? Was it just a whim?” I snapped my fingers.
Ansel licked his front teeth in a nervous gesture and glanced off to the left.
“Ugh.” A feminine voice cut through my interrogation. It was the Bimbo. Sidling up next to Dean, she curled her fingers through his hair, giving it a tiny jerk. Which judging by Dean’s grimace, might have actually stung a little.
Okay.
I waited for Dean to go all kung-fu ninja on her ass, so when he didn’t, I found myself more confused than ever.
“And you are?” I asked.
She looked at me but did not deign to answer; instead she continued running her fingers through Dean’s hair. “Death. So good to see you again, sexy. Have you packed on a little muscle or what?” Her very human, very mundane brown eyes danced with amusement.
Thoroughly confused now, I planted a hand on my hip and waited for someone to clue me in here.
Inhaling deeply, Dean looked at me. “Pandora, meet War. War, Pandora.” He gestured between us, then turned back to the bar, reached over and grabbed a bottle of fine malt scotch and poured himself another shot.
“War? As in the War?”
Blondie popped a piece of gum. The Marilyn Monroe piercing on her upper lip winked as it caught the light. “The one and only.”
Shaking his head, Dean swallowed his shot and poured another. It wasn’t slipping my notice that Dean was definitely not himself right now. Obviously he and Horseman number two had some serious history between them.
Crazy, but even knowing what I did, I couldn’t peg her as anything other than mortal. The woman had a muffin top, plastic boobs, raccoon eyes, and a chipped front tooth. I mean, she was a wreck. Just a typical barfly.
As she took a seat, the golden belly chain she wore jingled with her movements. “So you wanna know why he’s handing over the keys to the kingdom? Well, I can tell ya. Can’t I, Ansey?” she cooed at him, slapping him on the back hard enough to make his beer slosh out of the bottle.
Then, finally turning to me, she gave me a curt smile. “’Cause I told him to, demon. And, well”—she scrunched her nose—“he kind of didn’t have a choice.” Lifting his shirt, she exposed a gaping wound spreading like cancer on his side.
The thing was gnarly. There were blisters lining the sides and green veins of pus running through it, and it was weeping a clear fluid.
Shuddering, Ansel’s hands trembled as he brought the bottle to his lips, taking a long pull. Now I knew why he’d looked so pale.
Smiling, War covered him back up. “Can’t let the mortals see that. They might freak!”
Her laughter was obnoxious, like the braying of a donkey.
“Lilith, you never cease to amaze me.” Dean rolled his eyes. “So why’d you turn him, and most importantly, why the hell are you here?”
“Dean”—she tapped her chest with long press-on nails—“honestly, as if you don’t know.” Cocking her head, she glanced at me, wearing a devilish little grin. “You mean to tell me you haven’t told your protégé all about me? About us? I’m offended. Truly.”
Forgoing the use of the tumbler at this point, Dean began to drink straight from the bottle. In the time I’d known him, I’d never seen him so rattled. It actually was starting to make me nervous.
The bartender gave him the side eye, but wisely choose to say nothing.
“Okay, okay, fine.” War nodded. “Neither one of has time to stroll down memory lane, though it would be so much fun.”
Dean snorted.
“Fact is, demon”—she turned her brown eyes my way and in them I finally saw a glint of the ancientness I always felt when staring at Dean—“we, all of us”—she pointed to the three of us—“have our parts to play in this game. Do we not, Death?”
“And your part is what exactly?” I asked when it became obvious Dean had no intentions of helping me out with this interview.
She shrugged. “Oh, you know, a little bit of this. A little bit of that.”
“Chaos?”
Giggling, she nodded. “I suppose if you want to get it down to brass tacks, then sure, chaos. My endgame is to thwart his.” She pointed at Dean, who merely shrugged his brows.
“Okay.”
Good to know. I wasn’t devastated by this newest player, because, let’s get real, my life hadn’t exactly been roses late
ly; this was just par for the course far as I was concerned. But War seemed much more willing to talk than Dean did, which meant I was getting answers.
“So why hand me the key?” I snapped my fingers. “Just like that.”
“Because you, my dear, need to be activated. And he’s moving like a snail.” She glared at Dean.
He opened his mouth, clearly to say something back, but I held up a finger to silence him. Which he reluctantly did. He knew he owed me and I wasn’t taking no for an answer, not this time.
“Oh, Dean, snap!” War chortled. “Did she really just shush you that way? And you let her?”
She did the weird braying thing again. I really didn’t like this Horseman. Like, not even a little.
“Gah.” She glared at us both when neither one of us joined in the laughter. “When did you become such a freaking killjoy?” Slapping her palm down on the bar, she shook her head. “Fine. Whatever. You want answers, here’s the short and skinny, honey. You’re not just looking for the ‘Gates’”—she finger quoted—“what you’re actually looking for is the starting line.”
Ansel grunted.
Smiling sweetly, she punched his side, bowling him over and making him wheeze in pain.
Not that I really cared, but she gave new meaning to “kicking them when they’re down.”
“What?” she snapped at me.
I held up my hands and shrugged. “Nuthin.”
“Yeah. Nothing.” Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she smeared her red lipstick, but hardly seemed to care about it. “It’s a scavenger hunt, demon, and that’s what the Opposition doesn’t want you to find. You see”—she jerked on Ansel’s collar, making his hands immediately reach for his throat as he tried to get her to unhand him—“there’ve been a couple of naughty boys lately jumping sides, trying to hide things they shouldn’t be hiding.”
I glanced at Dean, who was staring down at the bar, grinding his front teeth together, looking barely leashed and a second away from becoming unhinged. His fingers kept curling into a fist. Yeah, he was pissed.
I snorted.
“What’s the matter, Dean, baby, did I throw a wrench in your immaculate plans?” War crowed. “Tell your little homey too much? Did you honestly think it would be this easy, Death?”