by Misty Evans
The moment the heavy hotel door closed behind me, cutting off Rad’s voice, I regained a small amount of composure. I half-ran, half-jumped down six flights of stairs, thankfully not coming into contact with anyone else. Once I was sure he wasn’t following me, I slowed. The adrenaline overload nailed me, along with the emotions tied up in my chest, and I sank onto a stair, back against the wall, and gritted my teeth.
There was only one thing left to do. One place left to go. I’d screwed my career over, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Rad was a demon hunter, working for The Church, the Bridge Council’s long-standing arch enemy. The supernatural world had its own justice system and didn’t appreciate the human world interfering, especially since the Roman Catholic Church saw everything in black and white. A demon was evil, no matter what, and that’s why they’d instituted the Noctifector unit. To kill all forms of evil.
So why recruit Rad into their leagues? It went against everything they stood for.
Except The Church was smart. And Rad was half human. Maybe they thought they could save his soul while he infiltrated places their all-human assassins couldn’t. He could insert himself into demon organizations, demon families, and all the while, planning to kill them as soon they trusted him.
Like my family.
Black rage coiled inside me. I gripped the stair railing and hauled myself off the step. It was time to go see the Council and salvage my career.
Radison Beaumont was going to hell.
And I was the one going to send him there.
Chapter Seven
My first code as a vengeance demon is don’t take anything personally. My second code is don’t get emotional. Speeding through downtown Chicago, I broke both codes. This was personal and I was highly emotional.
I punched in Rebel Radio on my Audi’s stereo, needing to blank out the emotions and stop reliving the past. Beating myself up over my failure then and now wasn’t going to keep me alive or salvage my job as enforcer. Beating someone else up…well, that was a horse—or in this case, demon—of a different color.
AC/DC thumped the speakers as I raced the TT out of downtown and south along the lake. Traffic was light, as light as it usually got on Lakeshore Drive, and I could have topped a hundred easily without having to weave much, but a few verses of Highway To hell and my controlled calculating side resurrected itself. It was Halloween after all, bringing out the Chicago’s finest along with the looney and deranged. A speeding ticket would be the icing on the suckfest of my evening.
Besides, code number three, don’t call attention to yourself, seemed especially important tonight since my emotions were close to the surface. Any time my emotions got the better of me, my demon surfaced, and that was never a good thing.
The Bridge Institute was glamoured. To the human eye, it looked like nothing more than a large shipping warehouse sitting on Lake Michigan’s edge. The glamour included bays of semi-trucks, several multi-storied buildings with skywalks running between them, enormous diesel fuel tankers and assorted parking lots dotting the buildings’ perimeters. Between the frontage road and the Institute, a large chunk of open ground, complete with park-like grass and trees, obscured the view. The entire area was gated off, increasing security.
Seconds after I drove up to the entrance, the gate swung open. Good sign. The Council hadn’t deemed me an enemy yet and revoked my access. Damon, Yasmin, and Kirill had no doubt given up on me attending the meeting by now, and were probably furious, but they had yet to figure out I was no longer qualified to walk on Institute ground.
I raced the TT past the green park, the unglamoured Institute rising before my demon eyes. The building’s footprint equaled that of the shipping warehouse but this was more Spanish castle than sparse metal structure. Younger than me by a few centuries, the Institute was technically Chicago’s oldest building, although it would never receive landmark designation or be included in any human history books.
After parking the car behind the main building, I pressed my hand to the stone carving next to the entrance door. The usual emanations of the occupants inside vibrated into my skin. Nothing alarming or out of place. As a demon, my magic originates with the Earth, so by placing my hand on the stone, I could hear and feel what was happening inside. The stone, in turn, recognized my identity and granted me access. The door’s locks and charms released and I entered the building.
Inside, a long, semi-dark hallway, lit only by wall sconces, greeted me. This entrance wasn’t for guests so there was no grand foyer, no chandeliers, no sweeping stairs to the second floor like there was in the front. Just a blood red carpet runner that needed vacuuming and a dozen matching closed doors on either side of the hall. At the other end was an enormous bay window, looking out over the lake, and a functional set of stairs.
The Council’s conference room was on the third floor, but as I stood looking at the stairs leading up, my fingers shook. I was too keyed up to face the heads of the Council and I’d be damned if I’d let Damon or Yasmin see me wearing my cape as a skirt. No need to scream incompetent with my clothes as well as my actions.
So I headed down to the basement training rooms.
Cole, the warrior demon in charge of US Bridge Security and Defense, was working with three young demons. Really young. Twelve or thirteen at most. Pubescent demons had the hardest time adjusting to the human world. Some were sent by their parents to tame their wild side. Others were recruited by the Institute because they had unique powers or combinations of powers. The minority were scooped up off the streets. Typically their parents had been killed by the Noctifectors or possibly by other demons. There were always wars waging inside the supernatural community as well as the human one. Occasionally, kids got caught in the crossfire. Those who couldn’t be placed with demon families were adopted by the Bridge Council and trained to fight.
The kids Cole was training had a desperate look in their eyes. A desperation I’d once had. The Institute had trained me, too, years after my family was wiped out. I was too old to need parents, but I had skills Damon wanted to capitalize on. And I had a bone-deep desire to keep humans safe from true evil. Combined with a hatred of the Nocts, I was the perfect student.
Cole was showing one boy a choke-hold position when I entered. He took one look at me and released the boy. “Work on your palm strikes,” he commanded, not even glancing at them as he made his way to me.
His dark brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. He was bare-chested, the normal smattering of dark curls there shaved off and showing his beefy upper body and ridged six-pack to full benefit. If rage hadn’t still been percolating in my blood, I might have said something cute and flirty to him. As it was, I didn’t have to say anything for him to pick up on my mood.
His low-slung cargo pants and bare feet made alternating slapping-swishing noises on the gym floor. His gray eyes narrowed, taking in the placement of my cape and his energy tightened in response to mine. “Slummin’ again with the wrong people?”
“I need to burn off some energy.”
His lips tilted down, questions running amok behind his eyes, but he knew me. Knew I didn’t interrupt his training sessions unless I was at the emotional breaking point. My demon needed release. The rest of me did too.
“No weapons. Hand to hand.”
I nodded, terms accepted, and went to the locker room to change.
When I returned, the kids were gone. Cole punched a punching bag bare-knuckled. Poor thing. The punching bag, not Cole.
He didn’t look at me. “If I win, you tell me what happened.”
“And if I win?”
“You take me to Outback for dinner and then tell me what happened.”
Men and their steaks. “Confessions aren’t my style. You know that. Too ugly.”
Cole stopped the swinging punching bag with one hand and met my gaze. “There is nothing ugly about you.”
There was nothing ugly about him either. His once-straight classic Roman nose ran in a crooked l
ine from one too many breaks that even his demon blood couldn’t heal. Various bullet wounds and knives had left marks on his shoulders, arms, chest and stomach. Across his back, fat silver scars laced up his spine. Those were the worst. Not ugly to me, but a symbol of survival. To others outside the Institute, the ragged scars crisscrossing his skin labeled him damaged goods. He’d been caught and tortured by Tonya, an arrogant Erinyes who used her brass-studded scourge to turn Cole’s back into hamburger. Tonya’d poured holy water into the wounds, disfiguring his gorgeous back and nearly killing him.
In the end, I’d killed her slow and sweet, and doctored him back to health. Since then, he’d been head of the Bridge’s security and defense department, his capture and torture at Tonya’s hands turning the warrior who’d once been a gladiator into an unstoppable force of nature. I credited him for saving my ass once or twice as payback.
Barefoot now, I stood several inches shorter than him. He knew facts about me, but not all of them. Nothing about Rad or my penchant for letting il pistolino screw up my life. “We gonna fight or what?”
“That bad, huh?” He sniffed the air, narrowed his eyes. “You smell like Chaos demon.”
My nerves buzzed. I flexed my hands into fists. “If I don’t get release in the next minute or two, I’m going to wipe Chicago off the hell-forsaken map.”
He stepped closer and ran a finger down the side of my face. That close, I could see flecks of sapphire dotting his gray eyes. “There are better ways to release pent-up emotion, Kali.”
This from the man who lived to fight.
On any another night, I might have taken him up on his offer. But when it came to my demon, the only cure for rage was violence.
So I punched him in the stomach.
Chapter Eight
Cole was faster than me, but only by a millisecond. He sucked in his stomach and my fist connected with his rock hard abs. My knuckles lost that fight, burning with pain.
For the next half hour, we feinted, wrestled and knocked each other silly. I took out my frustrations with Rad, Nudra, and with myself on Cole, and he loved every minute of it, giving as good as he got. It was the best damned time I’d had in a while.
My demon was happy too. I let the bitch out of her cage, but kept her on a leash. I never, ever gave her total freedom, even when fighting Cole for grins and giggles. Doing so would be akin to turning a setting off a hurricane in the Madhouse on Madison. I wouldn’t just destroy a few things, I’d obliterate them. People too. The demon inside me was a bomb waiting to go off.
Cole didn’t know I kept my demon on a leash when we fought. Nobody knew my daily struggle with her. That’s the way I preferred it. Like a dog, she needed regular exercise and the constant training and steam-releasing sessions with Cole were part of her care and feeding.
He pinned me against the stone wall of the gym, one hand restraining both my wrists over my head. We were breathing hard, his chest pressed against mine, his lower body still inviting me to take my aggression out in a more naked manner, when the gym door rumbled open behind us.
A man cleared his throat. Loudly. Amazing how much Damon, our boss, could convey in such a simple sound. Irritation. Disappointment. Impatience.
I peeked over Cole’s shoulder. Damon stood in front of the door, one hand in the pocket of his dress pants. The other loose at his side. He looked fresh-from-the-shower crisp, and probably smelled like it too. “Crap,” I murmured.
Cole released me, took a step backward and bowed. Our session was over, and in the warrior’s world, that meant showing respect to your opponent. He’d spent half a dozen centuries fighting in coliseums, dojos and back alleys, but he was still a gentleman.
In my line of work, contrary to popular belief, I rarely engaged in hand-to-hand combat. I relied on my magic if I needed to stop someone or protect myself. Cole had told me on many occasions that I relied on it too much. That someday I’d run into a supernatural whose magic was stronger and more skilled than mine. He was right, which was one of the reasons—outside of keeping my demon under control—I continued to train with him. He was the best at his job.
Rubbing my shoulder—Cole had practically dislocated it—I bowed back. Our faces were close together again and he whispered, “You owe me dinner.”
After our showdown, I owed him more than that. “You’re on. If Damon doesn’t kill me first.”
“Kali.” Damon’s voice echoed in the gym, commanding as always.
I rose, nodded at Cole, and slowly sauntered over to my boss, gaze on the floor. Stopping a few feet in front of him, I wiped sweat off my forehead and glanced at his face.
His intense dark eyes were almost black as he sized up my sweat-soaked and bloody T-shirt—I’d smashed Cole’s nose and he’d fattened my lip, so the stains were a mix of both—ripped pants and bare feet. He was dressed in a gunmetal gray Italian silk suit, white dress shirt and merlot-colored tie. Black calfskin shoes peeked out under the perfectly pressed hem of his pant legs.
It was hard not to admire his style.
When our eyes met, he gave me an eat-your-heart-out look. Lust swirled around us and a lump formed in my throat. Like most demons, lust is my greatest vice. Flirting, and the sex act itself, embody pride and gluttony, the desire to covet, the insatiable yearning to satisfy that which can never be truly satisfied.
Thanks to Rad, it had been a damn long time since I’d been satisfied.
I licked my fattened lip. If I could combine Damon and Cole into one being, I might find a way to quench my darkest cravings. No Chaos demon necessary.
Damon’s power was as sexy as his Italian suit. He used that fact, as he used all his superior Archdemon skills, to full advantage. Sensing my desire, he studied me with smug satisfaction, but his eyes said, never gonna happen. “Do you have presentable clothes in your locker?”
“Presentable?”
“Business attire.”
Thanks to going three rounds with Cole, I was less emotional and back in control of my demon as well as the rest of me. Nevertheless, plunking my neck on the chopping block, even if I did have an ace up my sleeve, was unappealing. “It’s after midnight. Can we reschedule the debriefing for tomorrow?”
He flicked his wrist, glanced at his Rolex. “You’ve got ten minutes to clean up and get your ass in my office. And no wearing your cape for a skirt.”
Busted. He’d been watching for me, had seen me sneak in.
Turning on his calf-skinned heel, he shoved the gym door open, then turned back, nose twitching. “Take a shower while you’re at it. You smell like a bloody Chaos demon.”
He walked out and the door slammed shut behind him. Cole’s voice sing-songed to me across the floor. “Told you so.”
Running past him, I cuffed his shoulder. “Shut up or no Outback for you.”
He chuckled and I sprinted on to the locker room.
Ten minutes, hell.
I’d be spit, shined and sitting in Damon’s office in five.
Chapter Nine
Damon didn’t look up from the file he was reading when I knocked on his open door. “Seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds.” He flipped a page over. “And no red cape in sight.”
So I hadn’t made it in five minutes but I’d still come in under ten. I stood in the doorway, waiting for him to motion me in. He kept reading the file.
Fine. Two could play that game. I stood there, expressionless, emotionless, and wondering what the hell he was up to.
A minute ticked by as my boss, who’d been in such a damned hurry to get me there, ignored me. I let my gaze drift over the cool, calm interior of his office. After getting rid of all my rage at Rad, my head was clearer, my demon nicely suppressed. I was prepared to take my punishment, and if necessary, make a deal.
Finally, Damon glanced up. His eyes skimmed me from head to toe. My hair was scraped back in a high ponytail. I was wearing my best black pencil skirt, white shirt and a jaunty red and yellow scarf around my neck. Italian flair, check.
&
nbsp; He leaned back in his chair, his gaze landing first on my badge which I’d hung on my skirt’s high waistband and then on my four-inch red platforms. The shoes were a little over the top for business attire, but conservative black pumps didn’t exist in my wardrobe at home or at work.
Plus, the red matched the scarf.
“Let your hair down,” he said. “You look like a child playing dress up.”
Annoyed he wasn’t more impressed with my outfit, I reached up and removed the hairband, letting my wet hair fall around my face. I stuck the hairband on my wrist, right under my Volante bracelet. “Does it matter?”
“Appearance always matters.” He pointed one sturdy finger at a chair across from him. “Sit.”
I eased into the chair, the tight skirt hindering my movements slightly. “Yasmin and Kirill skipping the debriefing?”
Damon retrieved the file. “Tell me about Arman and Victoria.”
I blinked my surprise. Held my breath. How did he know?
He glanced at me, saw my hesitation. “Your blood slaves. What do know about them?”
“Not much,” I stammered, awed by his ability to find out my mother of all secrets in less time than I could spit. He was worse than my mother had been when I started dating boys. That woman had had eyes in the back of her head, and spies on every street corner, building and room within Rome’s city limits.
“Why did Nudra pick these two to be your blood slaves?”
I swallowed, called up what the vamp king had told me. “Arman is a shifter who can’t control his shapeshifting. Victoria is a witch. Leader of the Satrina Arcanum. She wants to raise Lilith from hell. Nudra convinced them that with my blood, they could both get what they wanted.”
Damon nodded once, making a note on the file. “Shouldn’t be hard to track them down.”