Prey (The Hunt Book 2)

by Liz Meldon

  The coffee shop had seemed like a safe bet. Crawling with humans, the two-storey building afforded him the ability to study his enemy inconspicuously. Plus, you could smell the delectable baked goods all the way from the Inferno on a good day; Alaric never shut up about them. However, now that he had the baked goods in question before him, he found he didn’t have an appetite.

  Not because he was worried about being so close to the Farrow’s Hollow angel HQ. No, it couldn’t be that. He was just annoyed. Annoyed that she was almost late. Annoyed that Moira fucking Aurelia wasn’t—

  “Hi! I’m here!” A hand ghosted across his back as Moira’s voice, jarring and ethereal as ever, carried from his right side to his left, and Severus tried not to flinch at the intrusion. Seconds later she was seated on the stool beside him, her purse on the thick oak counter that ran the length of the front window, her cheeks bright pink. “Sorry. The bus stopped for like ten minutes on campus for no reason, though I think the driver needed a bathroom break. I…”

  She pressed her lips together, blush deepening when he slowly looked up at her. The two studied one another in a thick, measured silence, before Moira muttered something about getting a coffee and slunk away. He watched her join the short line by the counter, fidgeting with her cap. Beneath it lay a head of pure white hair. Severus both could and couldn’t understand why she bothered to hide it. While it wouldn’t have suited her before, judging by her pre-hybrid-transformation photos, it was just fine now. More than that. Attractive, even.

  His dark eyes wandered her figure, noting the obscene amount of black she’d worn today. Severus snorted and faced the street again, finally picking up his coffee and taking a sip. The liquid had turned downright cold since he bought it almost an hour earlier, but he drank it all the same. Black clothing. Honestly, did she think they’d be sleuthing about today? Sneaking into Seraphim Securities through some exhaust vent so they could crawl through the ducts like spies?

  Humans were so predictable sometimes—even hybrids. All the demon groupies he’d seen over the years dressed in either black or red when they knew they’d be in the company of hellspawn. Black, red, tight, sheer—provocative, and a fuck you to today’s pastel and polyester fashions. From his experience of following her around, Moira tended toward warmer colors: greens, yellows, oranges, plus the occasional bit of purple leaking in from her bedroom color scheme. He almost preferred that—but, really, he needn’t have an opinion on how she styled herself. Her appearance wasn’t the point of this little endeavor; Severus had vowed to keep her safe and assist in the hunt for her father however he could. He planned to see that through, for he had given his word.

  Never mind that his inner demon, currently caged deep within the recesses of his being, was desperate to touch her again. To trail his tongue across her bare skin, to sink his teeth into the swell of her backside and hear her squeal. The inner demon wanted to do all sorts of wonderful, horrific things to her, for her, and Severus had to exercise every ounce of restraint to maintain control. He could do it, restrain himself—but it’d be more fun to give the inner beast free reign. He’d been dormant for so long, fed off the essence of Severus’s escort clients. He deserved a little hybrid treat—but Severus didn’t trust himself not to go overboard.

  He wanted to take her, yet he knew the risks of allowing that to happen.

  What he couldn’t understand was why he desired her so desperately—and it was driving him up the fucking wall.

  So, for now, repression was his best bet. Repression, control. Ignore his dark instincts, his deepest cravings, and wear a mask of indifference in order to get the job done.

  It was rather Catholic of him.

  Ten minutes later, Moira had returned not with a coffee, but a creamy soup that smelled strongly of canned mushrooms, which struck him as an odd choice for such a warm day, and a baguette. Condensation dribbled down the fruit smoothie she set next to his coffee, and his lips thinned as she got herself settled again.

  “So,” she started, running her large spoon through the top layer of her soup, the steam rising in angry swirls, “what’s the plan for today? When are we going inside?”

  At her nod toward the security building, he let out a snort and took another sip of his coffee.

  “We’re not going in there today.”

  “What?” She let her spoon slide into the soup, catching the end before it succumbed to the creamy mess completely. Her frown had a rather charming quality the longer Severus stared at it, and he tried not to grin back in return.

  “You heard me.”

  “I did. My what was for clarification.”

  “Look, we don’t know any of the beings who work there,” he argued, and before she could get a word in edgewise, Severus leaned down to the laptop messenger bag sitting at the foot of his stool. From it, he dug out a sketchpad and a small leather case filled with charcoal drawing tools. “All of your pictures are worthless, and I’d like to start matching faces to names.”

  It would certainly take longer this way, but Severus wanted at least a basic idea of whom he was dealing with, and since he had no personal experience—thank fuck—with the angels working at Seraphim Securities, this was the best approach to start things off.

  Her disbelief was palpable, eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “So, you’re going to…draw them?”

  “Sketch them, yes. From what I’ve heard, they all dress the same,” Severus told her, flipping the sketchpad open to a blank page, then digging into the case for an appropriate tool. “A bit like your legends of the men in black. Suits. Neatly combed hair. Blank, listless expressions.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not one bit,” he said frankly, then set his supplies down and faced her. “Do you have a better idea? One that won’t get me killed on sight? The stories are true, you know. We don’t exactly get along, angels and demons. This is an extreme risk for me to take, so we’re going to do it my way—which is the right way. Am I clear?”

  “But—”

  “It’s a yes or no question.”

  Her glare sharpened. “Don’t speak to me like I’m a child. I’m not.”

  “I’m perfectly aware you’re not,” Severus mused. His gaze wandered up and down her figure, slow and purposeful, and stopped back at her blushing face. “However, in this respect you are a figurative child. You know nothing about this world beyond what I’ve told you.”

  “I’ve been researching,” she protested, and folded her arms across her chest when he snorted again.

  “You think either of our kinds would let the real story be told on the internet?” he drawled. “In books? There’s just enough of the truth out there to make it plausible, but there’s so much more you don’t know. Thus far, you’ve failed at locating your father. I’m taking point here. So, again… Am I clear?”

  He waited, basking in the heat of her glare, before arching an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” she said tersely, then tucked into her soup with a huff. He let her stew for a few moments, preparing himself for the task ahead. Angels would be strolling in and out of the building throughout the day, in their black suits and gleaming cap-toe derbies, the same routine that happened at any of the other corporate mid-rise buildings around them. Severus might not have had personal dealings with any, but the demon community as a whole had a vague knowledge of their habits. They’d break for “lunch,” despite not needing to eat. They’d flock in and out in the early morning and evening, mirroring the start and end times of the workday. In that time, Severus would catch them. They couldn’t be photographed, but they could certainly be sketched.

  Once he and Moira had a face, they would have a name. All he’d need was a demon willing to match the two, provided his sketches were as accurate as possible. No easy feat, given he’d be making them across the street, inside a different building, with Moira grumbling in his ear.

  But Severus happened to be a rather adept artist, a talent honed through years of dreadful solitude—before the era of
Alaric. He’d had much more free time back then.

  He was midway through unraveling the paper wrapping of one of his favourite charcoal pencils when a light flashed brightly beside him. Blinking rapidly, he looked up to find Moira checking her phone with a little smirk on her lips.

  “What was that?”

  “A selfie,” she said, running her finger over her phone screen. “You mentioned my pictures, and it got me thinking about how angels can’t be photographed. I wanted to see if that was the case with demons.”

  “And?” he asked dryly, setting the pencil aside and propping an elbow up on the counter. She studied her phone for a moment, then held it out to him.

  “You look normal. I…have a bit of a glare.” She didn’t sound all that impressed with the idea. “Which is new.”

  Sure enough, there was a hint of light reflecting off her face, though not enough to obscure her features. Severus appeared to be looking away, focused on his pencil, while Moira wore an enormous grin—almost like they really were just two friends goofing around at a coffee shop. As he shifted on the stool, angling his body toward her, he did a quick sweep of his surroundings. Whether she realized it or not, she’d just added to their cover story.

  “Take another one,” he insisted. “This time I’ll smile.”

  She hesitated, as if sensing a trap, but then did as he asked. With a soft clearing of her throat, she leaned into him and lifted her phone to the appropriate selfie angle, then flashed a quick smile as he did the same. They held the pose until she tapped the screen, light flashed, and a small click sounded over the dull roar of coffee shop conversations. When Moira checked the photo, her brow furrowed and her jaw dropped.

  “Oh. Your eyes—”

  “We don’t exactly pose for pictures either,” he noted with a glimpse at the screen. As always, his demon eyes shone through, not a hint of white in sight. “There’s a guy in town we all see to get licenses and photo identification done. Well, most of us. Some don’t really care for human law, which is why the angels are even here in the first place.”

  She nodded somewhat absently, still frowning at the screen.

  “Do they frighten you?” He tapped the top of her phone, and Moira straightened sharply, momentarily startled, the poor little fawn. Severus retracted his hand, resting it on the counter and drumming his fingers. “My eyes. Do they scare you?”

  Her shrug was a dangerous attitude to have. “Not really.”

  “Why? They’re the inner demon.” And you should be frightened of him.

  “I don’t know,” she said, tucking her phone into her purse. “I guess demons just don’t seem so bad. I mean… You’re okay.”

  “Your compliment moves me,” he crooned back wryly. “But you should be frightened, Moira. You should be frightened of all this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are merciless to their enemies,” Severus told her as he grabbed the charcoal pencil and stabbed it toward the stark building across the street, “and you’ve only met one demon.” His mouth twisted into a sinful smile. “And I’ve been on my best behavior.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Stalking me is your best behavior?”

  “The stalking was a necessity, I’m afraid, and it turned out for the best.” He went back to unravelling the pencil’s outer layer, noting it needed a sharpening before he put it to use. “When it comes to my kind, you won’t always be so fortunate.”

  She swallowed hard, and his gaze inadvertently dipped to the delicate bob of her throat before it returned to the pencil.

  “So why then?”

  “Why what?” He knew what she meant—he just wasn’t in the mood to talk about it, especially with her.

  “Why are you on your best behavior with me?”

  He clenched his jaw as he rooted through the pencil case, not stopping until he found the bit of sandpaper sharpening pad he needed to shape the charcoal.

  “Severus?”

  Just hearing her say his name threatened the inner demon’s constraints. It rattled the cage, desperate to respond, but he merely took a deep breath and pressed onward.

  “Does it matter?”

  “To me it does,” she insisted, breaking her baguette in two and offering him half. He waved her off, almost annoyed at her charity. Didn’t she see he had his own fucking scone?

  “I thought,” he started, choosing his words carefully, “that after a lifetime of ill deeds, I ought to do something decent for someone else for a change.”

  Quietly, almost hesitantly, she said, “I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe what you’d like,” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter to me. In the end, I’m helping you. I’m keeping you alive—”

  “Do you have a vendetta against the angels?”

  “All demons do.” He could feel her staring, those unearthly blue eyes piercing right through him. “But I don’t have a personal vendetta against anyone in there, no.”

  “So why—”

  “Oh, look,” he said, jumping at the opportunity to quash the conversation once and for all. “There’s one now.”

  Just as he’d suspected, that got her attention off him in a heartbeat. She faced the building across the street, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted, and they both tracked the angel strolling out the main doors, a lit cigarette in hand. Not once did the creature bring it to his lips. He merely stood there for a moment, head tilted back and eyes closed, basking in the midday sunlight, before strolling down Gabriel Street amidst the rest of the lunch crowd.

  “Did you get…?” She trailed off, no doubt realizing he was already deep in the sketch—outlining the face, rough estimates of the features. Severus felt her study him a few beats longer, the heat of her gaze unyielding, until she finally tucked in to her lunch in a merciful silence.

  Chapter Two

  “Well, don’t you look smart.”

  “Do you think so?” Moira tugged at the slightly too-tight waistline of her black knee-length skirt, one of the few articles of clothing she owned that still kind of fit after her physical changes—a piece she hadn’t been able to wear since the tenth grade, back when it was part of her high school’s uniform. It flared gently around the knees, but the belted area up top was digging into her already-smallish waist like it wanted to lock around her spine.

  “Well, your butt looks good in the skirt,” Severus said after giving her a slow once-over with that brooding black stare of his, and Moira felt her cheeks warm in an instant. Thankfully, they only went a little pink now; two weeks into this working partnership, Moira had almost gotten used to his flirty attempts at making her squirm.

  “And the blouse? Not too frilly, is it?” She’d borrowed it from Ella, since she didn’t have anything that fit the business wear aesthetic Severus had insisted upon as they texted before bed last night. With a plan to go straight into the belly of the beast, he’d wanted them both to look the part. While he was handsome as ever in a tailored grey suit and crisp white dress shirt, the checkered red tie surprisingly fashion forward, Moira felt like an imposter.

  Which was accurate to the situation. In all the time that she and Severus had worked together, she’d never felt smaller than in that very moment, standing across the street from Seraphim Securities. She was a grad student—an art history grad student, at that. She had no business waltzing into any of the corporate buildings downtown like she belonged there.

  But then again, Severus was an escort in his free time, so, really, neither of them had a place here.

  “I think you need a bigger bust to fill it out properly,” he remarked after another painfully long moment of study. He pinched the mustard chiffon between his fingers. The color was always a knock-out on Ella’s darker skin. On Moira, something had seemed off, but she hadn’t had time that morning to scrounge up something better.

  “Cool,” she snapped, swatting his hand away. “Thanks. Great confidence boost.”

  “Your bust is fine,” the demon muttered, rolling his eyes. �
��The perfect size, if I remember correctly.” Her blush darkened. “This just seems a bit big, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’s the best I can do.”

  “Come here.”

  She tried to shuffle away, but he was too quick, catching her wrist and tugging her toward him. Then, as one might with a child, he spun her around, tucked his fingers under that too-tight waistline, and started stuffing fabric into it. Moira bit the insides of her cheeks, stock-still and blushing furiously.

  And here she’d thought she had kicked the habit. Moira had met Severus at the café for breakfast every day for the last two weeks. She would get their meal—whatever that morning’s special was—and he’d reserve their seats at the front counter overlooking the street. For the most part they’d sit in silence, both eating and watching, Severus sketching up a storm. Although she didn’t know much more about him now than she had at the beginning, she had gotten used to him—to the way he purposefully leered and snarked and made comments with the express purpose of making her squirm.

  She should have hated it—his forwardness. She should have put him in his place immediately. But she let it happen. She blushed and sighed and rolled her eyes, all the while battling a burn deep inside her, one she only ever felt around him.

  Moira liked him. She knew she shouldn’t. He seemed to be trying hard to ensure she didn’t, but she did, and there was no denying it any longer. Not only was the guy breathtaking, but he seemed genuinely intent on keeping her safe—despite all the grumbles about her naivety regarding the demon world, which were accurate—and he had proved to be a talented artist. As of today, they had ten near-perfect sketches of the different angels they had seen come and go from Seraphim Securities these last two weeks. The likenesses were uncanny, and Severus intended to approach his demon contacts in the community soon to start matching names to faces.