by Sylvia Day
“I don’t like this,” she said aloud, figuring the proximity to the church couldn’t hurt her chances of being heard by someone upstairs.
A drop of water hit her cheek. Then another splattered on the end of her nose. Frowning, she looked up at the cloudless blue sky. A droplet hit her smack in the eye and stung.
“Ow! Damn it.”
High pitched chortling turned her gaze back to the church. She rubbed her eyes and searched for the source. Just as her vision cleared, a stream of liquid hit her dead center on the forehead.
Eve jumped back and swiped the back of her hand across her face. Her gaze lifted to the archway above her.
“Ha-ha!” cried a gleeful voice.
Her eyes widened when she found the source, then narrowed defensively when she realized the water spraying her was urine.
Gargoyle urine.
The little cement beast was about the size of a gallon of milk. He sported tiny wings and a broad grin. Dancing with joy, he hopped from foot to foot in a frenetic circle that should have toppled him to the ground.
“Joey marked the Mark! Joey marked the Mark!” he chanted, pissing all the while.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, pinching herself.
A sharp whack to the back of her head knocked the bag from her hands and confirmed that she wasn’t having a nightmare.
“Shame on you!”
Clutching her skull, Eve turned to face her attacker—a stooped el der ly woman brandishing a very heavy handbag.
“It’s not what you think,” Eve complained, rubbing at a rapidly swelling knot.
“Whack her again, Granny,” suggested the angelic-looking heathen at her side.
“Beat it!” the woman ordered with a menacing shake of her bag.
Eve debated the merits of laughing . . . or bawling. “Give me a break, lady.”
“Sinner,” the heathen child said.
“I am not a sinner! This is not my fault.”
A large, warm hand touched Eve’s shoulder, then the dropped bag came into her line of vision. “Here.”
Father Riesgo. The voice was unmistakable.
Eve glanced at the archway behind them. The gargoyle was gone. The Gothic creature had been out of place on the modern exterior of the church.
“Father,” the purse-wielding woman greeted sweetly.
“I see you’ve met Ms. Hollis.” He glanced at Eve. “Don’t give up on her yet, Mrs. Bradley. I have high hopes.”
Accepting the bag, Eve stepped away in a rush. “Thanks. Bye.”
As she hurried to her car, she ignored the fulminating glare from Mrs. Bradley that was burning a hole in the back of her head. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched by a darker, more malevolent force.
The sensation scared the hell out of her.
After sliding into the driver’s seat, Eve locked the doors and released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“I’m getting out of this,” she promised whoever might be listening. She reached into her purse and withdrew the hand wipes her mother, a retired nurse, insisted she carry.
After she scrubbed her face and hands, Eve turned the ignition. Then she drove around the block, looking for “Joey.” She had no idea what she’d do when she found him, but damned if she’d let herself get pissed on and not track the little shit down.
CHAPTER 8
An hour of fruitless searching later, Eve parked her car in her assigned spot in her condominium complex’s parking garage. With her hands wrapped around the steering wheel, she refused to look at the empty space where Alec’s Harley had been when she left. He might be gone for five minutes or five years or forever.
The first time they made love, he’d disappeared before she awoke. She’d waited in their hotel room all morning. Tired. Sore. Madly, stupidly in love. She had believed he intended to come back for her. No man could hold a woman as he’d held her and not return.
In the end, she’d left only when the maid told her she would have to pay for another night if she didn’t vacate.
Days of waiting and hoping and heartbreak followed. Weeks passed, then years. She wanted to kick herself for being in the same spot, feeling the same pain ten years later. Smart people learned from their mistakes; they didn’t keep making the same ones.
A sudden rapping on her car window jolted her out of her musings. Frightened, she looked out the window and found Mrs. Basso leaning over with a frown.
“Eve? Are you okay?”
Her tense shoulders sagged with relief. She pushed open the door. “You scared me.”
“You’re jumpy today.” Mrs. Basso held mail and keys in her frail hands. The mailboxes were all located on the ground floor, just a few feet away from the parking garage.
Climbing out of her car, Eve managed a reassuring smile. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“I bet part of it is six foot two and around two hundred pounds.”
Eve blinked.
“He was looking for you,” Mrs. Basso said. “Seemed really concerned that you were gone.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Or if he’d be back?
“No. He had a duffel bag with him though. Don’t fret. If he’s got a brain, he’ll be back. You’re worth it.”
Touching Mrs. Basso’s shoulder gently, Eve kissed her wrinkled cheek. “Thank you.”
“Come on, I’ll walk up with you.”
Depressed by the prospect of returning to her empty condo, Eve briefly considered heading to her parents’ place but didn’t think she could deal with her mother at the moment. Some days, her mom’s quirkiness was just what the doctor ordered. Most days, however, it drove her nuts. Since she was already on the edge of insanity, she thought it best to keep her distance for now.
Eve shook her head. “I think I need to walk a bit and clear my mind.”
“I would feel better if you came upstairs. You’ve had a rough week.”
Eve laughed softly, without humor. She wished she could explain. Part of her believed her friend would understand. “I won’t be gone long. Just a few minutes.”
Mrs. Basso sighed. “Okay. We still on for the movies?”
“You betcha.”
She watched Mrs. Basso head to the elevators, then left the building through the garage’s pedestrian gate.
It was a beautiful day and the number of sunbathers on the beach gave her a feeling of security. Too many witnesses. Which was both good and bad. The exposure that kept her safe also exposed her when she most wished to be private.
As she walked the length of the beach, she kept her head down to discourage interaction. She was too busy thinking to be interested in casual conversation. If she wanted out of this mark business, she’d need something of value to bargain with.
The wind whipped loose strands of her hair across her face and throat. Her heightened senses magnified the sensation until it was almost unbearable. Not in an uncomfortable way, just alien. Disconcerting.
She’d always controlled every aspect of her life, even as a kid. Her mom, a native of Japan, was an eclectic mix of old-world Bushido and 1970s hippy nonchalance, and her Alabama-native dad was so mellow, she wondered if he was awake half the time. A twenty-year employee of the phone company, Darrel Hollis’s normal tone of voice was that of a terminally bored telephone operator. In response to her parents’ loving indifference, Eve had become self-reliant and responsible to an extreme degree. Everything had its place and could be neatly compartmentalized. Interior design fit beautifully within that structured way of thinking. Assassinating monsters for God didn’t.
“Hey, baby.”
The catcall drifted across the breeze along with a vile stench. As her nose wrinkled in protest, her head turned to find the heckler. Some were easily ignored, others bolder. She needed to know which class of annoyance this guy was.
She found him sitting in the sand on a black towel, his legs stretched out before him, propped up by canted arms. He was fair haired and blue eyed, and spor
ted arms sleeved in tattoos. His face bore a foreign cast, and his irises were hard and glittered like sapphires. He wore only makeshift shorts cut off crudely below the knee and a leer that made her skin crawl.
“Come sit with me,” he cajoled in a gutturally accented voice. He patted the spot next to him in a gesture that was anything but inviting. An indigo teardrop stained the skin at the corner of his eye, distinguishing him as a felon. She was about to look away when he flicked his tongue at her in a lewd gesture.
“Jesus!” she cried, stumbling backward into the lapping water. She was so horrified by the impossibly long and slender forked appendage that had slithered out of his mouth, she barely registered the mark burning her deltoid in chastisement.
A red slash appeared across the demon’s face and he hissed like the snake his tongue resembled. “Du Miststück!” he spat.
She had no idea what that meant, but it didn’t sound good.
As he leaped to his feet, Eve sidestepped to avoid him. “Stay away from me.”
“Make me.”
The menacing tone with which the words were spoken made her hackles rise. It also sent a surge of heat and animosity through her veins. “Christ, you’re a real piece of work.”
His head jerked to the side as if struck, and when he looked at her again, his eyes were unnatural. Brilliant and intensely, inhumanly blue. He lunged. She shrieked and pivoted to run, crashing into something warm and rock-hard.
“Leave her alone,” a dark voice warned. Masculine arms wrapped around her and Eve struggled briefly before absorbing the familiar scent of his skin into her lungs. It was heaven compared to the stench in the air and she gulped with relief.
“Reed.” Her hands fisted in his expensive dress shirt.
“You can’t intercede,” her tormenter said smugly.
“You’d risk the wrath of your brethren for her?” Reed asked.
“She cut me first.”
“I did no—” Eve began, only to find her face pressed brutally into Reed’s chest. She briefly considered biting him, but her overactive libido kicked in with a vengeance, mingling with the hair-trigger aggressiveness pumping from the throbbing mark. It was like PMS multiplied by a million.
“She was toying with you,” Reed drawled. “Assuming you were big enough to take it.”
“Is she big enough to take it?”
“Can you take me?” Reed retorted. “You’re not in the queue; I’m not barred from stepping in.”
A stream of unintelligible words that sounded German poured from her antagonist, and Eve wrenched free to face him. She could feel the evil radiating off him, and his tattoos writhed sinuously over his unmoving skin, as if they were alive.
Wondering if she was the only one aware of the man, her gaze surveyed the area around them. The proliferation of beachgoers hadn’t diminished, yet no one paid any attention to the tense scene taking place in their midst.
Reed’s hand settled at the small of her back, giving her much needed support in a madly spinning world.
“Go away,” Reed said. “Let’s just forget this happened.”
“I won’t forget.” The man crossed his arms. “We’ll meet again,” he told Eve.
“You cross that line,” Reed warned, “and you’ll start a war none of us wants.”
“You don’t want it.”
Eve’s gaze shot back and forth between the two bristling men, trying to grasp the undercurrent arcing between them. They were doing some kind of manly staring thing, then the blond sank back onto his towel and sprawled in a pose so relaxed it was clearly meant to insult.
You’re no threat to me, his posture said.
Reed exhaled slowly and carefully, deliberately stemming his rising ire. Backing down from a challenge wasn’t in his nature, but he didn’t have a choice. Any offensive move on his part would put the blame for this unauthorized confrontation firmly on his shoulders. He didn’t need any more heat right now, not after the upbraiding he’d endured for his most recent fight with Cain.
Cain the hero. Cain the fearless. Cain the invincible. No matter how often he broke the rules, Cain always emerged unscathed, his reputation strengthened by his sheer audacity.
Now Cain had been given his heart’s desire and Reed’s sampling of her charms was rebuked, his protestations of her willingness disregarded. He, who had always toed the line without question, had rarely been given anything he truly desired.
Hands off Evangeline, he’d been told.
Tightening his jaw, Reed reached for Eve’s elbow and pulled her away. Damned if he would toe the line in this. If he had to reap his own rewards, he’d start with her.
“What the hell is going on?” Eve queried on a hiss of breath.
“A major fuck-up,” he snapped. “Where’s Cain?”
“Sleeping. And why do you two have different names? It’s confusing.”
“Eventually, you will have to change names, too. It looks suspicious if you don’t die.”
“Screw that.”
He led her up the beach. At the last minute, he directed her toward the patio of a Mexican restaurant and cantina. Festive music blared from hidden speakers and the spice-laden scent of food teased his nostrils. He heard Eve’s stomach growl and shook his head. “You haven’t eaten?”
“I haven’t thought about it. By the way, I don’t have any cash and the patio is closed to noncustomers.”
He shot her an arch glance. “I don’t expect my dates to pay when they’re with me.”
“This is a date?”
“It is now.”
“I’m not feeling it. Not after that creep on the beach.”
“He was a Nix,” Reed corrected. “And you need to watch your mouth. If I hadn’t shown up when I did, you’d be dead right now.”
“I didn’t say anything!” Eve sank into the plastic patio chair he pulled out for her. Their table was in the corner formed by two Plexiglas panels. It afforded them a view of the beach while shielding their food from the ocean breeze and sand.
“You used the Lord’s name,” he explained, taking the chair opposite her. “It’s a weapon against demons. Rarely deadly but always painful.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that? He was heckling me. If he’d left me alone, none of that would have happened.”
“You’re ripe for the picking. An untried, clueless Mark. I could kill Cain for falling asleep on the job.”
He snorted. “Irresponsible, as usual.”
“What’s a Nix?”
He noticed she chose to ignore the dig about Cain, and he smiled inwardly. The first time he saw her, Eve had been dressed for business. Her unbound hair had been the only hint of softness about her. Her “look but don’t touch” air had stirred him, but it was the moment their eyes met that his interest went beyond merely pissing off Cain. Whoever said Asian women were shy and reserved had been smoking something at the time.
“A water demon.” Reed gestured to a waiter. “The Nix used to be concentrated in Europe, but they’ve since spread to most coastal cities.”
“He didn’t look like a demon,” she muttered.
“What does a demon look like?”
“Not like that. Aside from the freaky tattoos, he reminded me of a ski instructor, like he should be wearing a turtleneck and sitting near a stone fireplace at a lodge.”
“You’ve got a vivid imagination.” His mouth curved. “But those weren’t tattoos. They were details—markings that tell us about his affiliations and his status within those affiliations.”
“Like gang markings?”
“Exactly. Even in Hell there’s a hierarchy and it’s constantly under threat by warring factions. Infernals most likely passed on the practice of marking symbols into flesh to mortals.” Reed looked at the approaching waiter, a young Latino wearing Oakley shades, hoop earings, and an El Gordito apron tied around his jeans-covered hips. “Two Modelos,” he ordered.
“And two shots of tequila,” Eve added.
“That’s no
t going—”
“To get me buzzed? I don’t care.” She managed a brief smile at the waiter. “And a taco plate, please. With lots of salsa. The hot kind.”
“Make that two,” Reed said.
Eve waited until they were alone again before speaking. “The guy’s details were moving. Writhing.”
“He was trying to intimidate you.” And it hadn’t worked well, something Reed noted and admired. “Infernals can move them at will, and only others of their kind and Marks can see the show.”
“That’s why no one paid much attention to him on the beach?”
“Exactly. Some Infernals prefer to keep their details as visible as possible, especially if they’re higher ranking. Others prefer to keep them out of sight to maintain a low profile. They can’t remove them, but they can put them in places no one wants to look.” He shrugged elegantly. “Pointless, really, because they stink so bad you can smell them coming. And when their number’s up, it’s up. Hidden details or not, once they’re in the queue, it’s only a matter of time.”
“Is that what that smell was? It reeked like a sewer.”
“Rotting soul. You can’t miss it.”
Her eyes widened with such horror, Reed felt a sharp tinge of sympathy . . . even as he appreciated how her inevitable resentment would create a rift between her and Cain.
Eve leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table and staring at him with a grimly determined gaze. “How do I get out of this gig?”
“There’s no way—”
“I don’t believe that. There has to be a way.”
Leaning back, he settled more comfortably into his chair. “Why?”
“Because I feel like a victim, that’s why.” Her jaw hardened. “And I’m not the type to take it lying down.”
“A victim.” He stilled at that.
“Wouldn’t you feel the same in my shoes?” she challenged.
Maybe. Probably.
“You’ve been placed in a position of power,” he prevaricated, “and given the tools to change the world and make it safer for others. Can’t you view this as a blessing rather than a curse?”